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peachdues · 3 months

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ALL THE THINGS WE LEFT UNSAID — PROLOGUE + TEASER

Tengen’s Bundle of Joy • Secret Pregnancy AU

A/N: surprise! Have a first look at Tengen’s installment of my Bundle of Joy series.

This fic will be multi-part canon-AU. It is a non-linear story (alternating between Then and Now) and double surprise! It will be a slow burn (just because they fuck doesn’t mean they’re in love!)

CW: MDNI • this story features explicit sexual content • secret pregnancy • angst • mentions of injury/head wound • these two are stubborn as fuck lmao

PROLOGUE

“The Sound Hashira is rumored to be in this region. Some mission.”

Your comrade’s off-handed comment freezes you in your step.

“Where.”

Your fellow Kinoe shrugs, unaware of the way your eyes dart anxiously around the clutter of wooden homes and ramshackle shops, as though you half-expect the silver-haired swordsman to leap out from the shadows at any moment.

“It’s not like we get details of the Hashira’s missions shared with us,” he brushes you off with a yawn. His arms fold behind his head, his gait lazy and far too casual for someone of his position as he struts lazily along an uneven path that leads to the small building marked with a fading, painted wisteria crest. “We might be Kinoe, but we’re still bottom feeders compared to them.”

You hum in half-hearted agreement, but your attention to your fellow Slayer — to your mission — flounders as the knowledge you’ve worked desperately ignore explodes out of the mental bottle you’d shoved it into.

Beneath the ever-tightening buttons of your uniform shirt your stomach has begun to swell. Slight; not yet noticeable to the naked eye, but sure as hell prominent when you’re fighting to close the last two buttons or fasten your hakama pants.

You thumb absently at your belt — now loosened two notches. Perhaps you’ll take a cue from the Love Pillar’s book and opt for a skirt. At least the waist would sit higher up, the pleats, offering cover you’ll need while you figure out what the fuck it is you’re going to do. It won’t be long before your secret is exposed; before word inevitably reaches the jewel-crusted ears of the very one you want most to avoid.

You’d be more useful dead.

A callous thing to say to a subordinate, let alone someone who’d risked their neck on more than one occasion to preserve his. And, for all the testiness that had built between you over the years, a resentment born of your mutual inability to confront the other honestly, you hadn’t expected him to resort to that.

You’d known he regretted his words the moment he hurled them your way, but it was too little, too late. And it hadn’t stopped you from leveling his ire with your own, your response a series of poisoned darts you were only happy to launch right back his way.

I look forward to meeting your expectations.

But it was his regret, perhaps, that led him to grab you by the bicep as you’d tried to leave, that yanked you back to face him, breath heavy and pupils dilating.

The crack fissuring across your chest had been dulled by the way his hand swallowed your arm; how his mouth crashed into yours, and the powerful movements of his body. But once he’d collapsed atop you, panting and spent, the wounds he’d inflicted turned raw once more, the salt of his sweat preventing your blood from clotting where he’d torn your chest clean open.

You manage a furtive shake of your head, dispersing the memory of his body and his violence from your mind. This is not the time for you to pick at the scab over your heart, not after you spent the better part of the last two months trying to force it to form. For now, you need to focus on getting the hell out of here; to get as far away from this desolate corner of the earth before the universe decides to throw you back at him.

Before he knows.

Your comrade prattles on, bragging over how he’s been lucky enough to see the Sound Pillar in battle, oblivious to the smirk settling on your lips in spite of yourself. The Kinoe you’ve traveled with seems unaware that in detailing the way the Corp’s great Uzui had appeared out of thin air to save him and the handful of other slayers cornered by a particularly fearsome avian demon, he’s admitting to his own ineptitude in finishing off the beast on his own.

The Hashira don’t come unless hope is lost; the fact Uzui had appeared at all meant they’d been done for. Yet, he wears the boast of having needed his ass saved by one who’d undoubtedly disposed of the demon with a painful swiftness like a badge of honor.

You know better.

For all the ways your fellow swordsman brags over having witnessed the Pillar’s great display of strength, you’ve seen him weak. Not only that, but you’d been the direct cause of such weakness; you’d broken him down, made him give into temptations he believed he’d suppressed.

But that weakness has led you here — chewing on your thumbnail in a fit of anxiety your comrade remains woefully ignorant of as you try banishing the memories of the Sound Pillar’s weakness from your mind.

More, you’d begged him, sweaty and panting and delirious. More.

He’d obliged you — enthusiastically so. And the way you’d fallen apart in his arms showed you that you were just as weak as he.

Not once had he bothered to apologize for what he’d done; what he’d said. And his too casual pronouncement that your death — as gruesome and violent as your profession demanded — would be a better convenience than for him to work through his own bullshit was a slash through your chest even his most fervent apologies wouldn’t be able to stitch back together.

Not that you thought he ever would offer one — but the image of him dropping to his knees and begging you for forgiveness you wouldn’t allow yourself to give was a small comfort to your bitter heart.

Besides, you’d claimed the privilege of having the last word by not saying any at all. Instead, you’d crept away from the inn, leaving him asleep on the discarded heap of his uniform in the room you’d been forced to share.

You’d given him exactly what he’d given you — nothing. And that vindication had been as sweet as it was short-lived. Now, you’re stuck with the consequences of your own pride and weakness without any idea of what to do about it.

Feigning indifference where Tengen Uzui was concerned, however, is your speciality; a skill you’d perfected just as surely as you’d mastered shadow breathing. Thus, the mask of cool neutrality is easy to slip on as you listen to your comrade continue prattling on about skill levels and techniques to improve breathing styles, chiming with a mildly interested nod when necessary.

And you plot; plot your escape from this tiny fishing village, plot how best to guard the secret you know won’t remain such for much longer. Running away from your problems had always been far easier than forcing yourself to choke them down, and this time will be no different. Of that much, you’re certain.

Coward, a voice that sounds suspiciously close to Uzui’s hisses in your head. Coward.

And so, you continue to strategize your best chance at avoiding the storm brimming on your horizon as your fellow Kinoe continues, too consumed by his blustering to notice how your had drifts to your stomach, resting on the hidden curve where the Sound Hashira’s child grows.

—-

BONUS

“The baby — the baby —“

“Where?” Tengen surveys the wreckage scattered around you, ears carefully pricked for any cry, any smaller, weaker heartbeat, but for all his strain, he can discern none. “Was it a village kid?” He jostles you as much as he can, trying to force your eyes into focus. “Where, Y/N?”

But you only keep muttering the baby, your brow furrowed, your head twitching as though in dissent, though it remains limited where it is braced in the crook of Tengen’s massive arm.

He swears under his breath as your eyes roll into your head, your lips straining to form the mantra you cannot stop repeating, even as your breath turns shallow and raspy. Two fingers find the pulse point in your neck, and Tengen swears again at weakened beat of your heart.

“You don’t get to die.” He snaps at you, hand slapping lightly at your bloodied cheek. “You don’t get to run away. Not now. Not again.”

He needs to figure out where else you might be injured — that way he can help, can stabilize you before the Kakushi arrive. You’re not taking the easy way out this time. He would stand at the gates of heaven or hell itself to block your way, ready to haul your ass right back to life so he could chew your ass out the way you so obviously needed. And once he did, he can put this volatile, tempestuous thing between you to rest. He can free himself of the bonds you’d snapped around his wrists the moment you first sized him up and cut him down with a few, caustic words.

Then, he might finally be able to let you go.

Gritting his teeth, Tengen surveys your body. Your head wound is the most prominent, but no matter how much blood mats in your hair and streaks down your face, he knows better than to assume that it’s the worst you’ve sustained.

Gently, his hands smooth along your body, and he notes every odd bend, every lump along your joints that does not belong.

“The ba — baby —“ your voice grows fainter with each word, and Tengen can only see a sliver of white peeking out from between your eyelids.

Beneath the dark crimson of your blood your skin has turned ashen.

“Y/N.” The hoarseness of his voice has nothing to do with the smoldering flames and thick smoke that has burned the village to its skeleton. His hand slides to your abdomen, ready to position you in his arms so he can run with you, can tow you to the nearest Kakushi. You will not die; he forbids it, he forbids you from even trying —

His hand settles on your navel and freezes.

Beneath the flush of his palm is a curve; an outward swelling of your stomach that had been hidden under the loose fit of your uniform shirt, but under his touch, it is unmistakeable.

A bump. A sizeable bump extends from your abdomen.

The grunts and groans of the houses and structures giving way to the crackling flames fall away, his ears filling instant with a high-pitched ring that pulses in time with his thundering heart. The sweat rolling down his neck turns cold, his chest tightening until his lungs burn. Slowly, his eyes drag back up your body until he finds your graying face once more.

For one, brief moment, your eyes flutter open and search wildly before landing on his, wide and frozen in his horror.

“The baby.” You say once more, in explanation and confession. And then your eyes roll back into your skull and you turn limp in Tengen’s trembling arms.

#demon slayer #kimetsu no yaiba #tengen uzui #kny #kny x reader #kny fanfic #kny tengen #kny uzui #tengen x reader #uzui x reader #demon slayer tengen #demon slayer uzui #kny smut #demon slayer smut

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prentissluvr · 3 months

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forget-me-nots — sam winchester

pairing : sam winchester x gn!reader ➖⟢ genre : soulmate!au, fluff, very light angst ➖⟢ cw : light mentions of canon typical death, violence, and monsters, shirtless sam aaaaa, light descriptions of injuries and blood, reader believes in ghosts before knowing about the supernatural, drinking/alcohol mentions, silly criminal minds reference to my gf elle, kissing, poor editing ➖⟢ wc : 5.6K summary : in a world where flowers grow on your skin in the exact places your soulmate is injured, you’re constantly covered in forget-me-nots.

MOVED BLOGS TO @sammyluvr !! no longer active on this blog! all fics can be found there!

heartache is one thing. heartache for someone you don’t know, someone whose face you’ve never seen or who you’ve never met, is another, stranger thing. it’s common for many to feel this heartache before they know their soulmate, but sometimes you feel as though you have to worry much more than most.

you try not to let thoughts of your mystery soulmate consume you, but you seem to have constant reminders of them litered on your skin in the form of tiny blue flowers. admittedly, you find it romantic that forget-me-nots are your soulmate flower, with their symbolism of true love, respect, and fidelity. the flowers themself feel like a good omen, a sweet promise of a steady love waiting for you. but, the frequency with which they appear on your skin feels far less lucky and always feeds you so much worry for this person you’ve yet to meet.

this morning, you wake with new blooms snaking along your left collarbone, peeking out from the seam of your sleep shirt. and when you change into new clothes, you find a few more growing on your bicep and the side of your ribs.

sighing, you stand at the mirror lightly brushing your fingers over the small flowers and wonder what sort of trouble your soulmate got into last night. as always, worry floods your chest, but you do your best to tamp it down considering the fact that you only bear a few new blooms. the more severe the injury, the more flowers appear on your skin. today, your soulmate must only be dealing with small surface cuts.

sometimes, you’re covered in so many forget-me-nots that you’re too worried to do much of anything at all. more than once, you’ve wondered how your soulmate could still be alive, and the continuous flowers on your skin serve as your only proof that they're still around. there were a few years where you barely had any blooms, just the usual flower on a fingertip to signify a papercut or the occasional few because of a small accident. but one night the flowers came in bunches and never stopped.

you imagine what you might say or do when you meet them. maybe you’ll want to check on whatever wounds they have, be sure it’s not too bad, or maybe you’ll scold them for making you worry so much. you’ll certainly ask what they do in their life that gets them so injured so often. maybe you’ll do it all.

but for now, you’ll have to move on and get ready for the day. the flowers always linger, though.

⟢⟢⟢

it’s been a rather strange week. the flowers from last thursday have completely faded, and you’ve gone a day or two without any new forget-me-nots appearing on your skin. the strange part has been at work. on monday night, one of your coworkers died in the building, but you still had to come in to work the next day. one of the rooms was taped off, but that was the only evidence of the misfortune. the same thing happened last night, thursday, and you’re ready to do everything you can to get at least the next several days off of work. you don't want to risk anything.

and now, it seems the goddamn fbi is interested in whatever has happened. you’re not a huge fan of the federal government, but you have to admit that the bureau has sent two of its most attractive agents. normally, you’d keep your head down, but you feel inexplicably drawn to one of them. he’s the taller of the two, which is impressive because the other is already tall, and he has pretty brown hair and dimples that you catch a glimpse of as he talks to one of your coworkers.

he looks away from her as he moves away, seemingly done with the interview. he catches your eye, and your breath gets caught in your throat for a moment. he’s a beautiful man; pretty and sweet looking at the same time as he’s traditionally handsome and slightly imposing. you’ve never loved a stranger’s eyes so much.

he approaches you and you can’t help but watch as he grows closer.

“hi,” he greets with a small smile, “i’m agent greenaway with the fbi. can i ask you a few questions about the deaths from this week?”

“i’m not sure i’ll be much help, but sure,” you nod, folding your arms over your stomach. agent greenaway doesn’t make you uncomfortable, but the topic at hand certainly does.

“that’s alright. sometimes the smallest things can really be helpful,” he reassures, keeping the kind look on his face. “have you noticed anything strange about either of the deceased or the building this past week or so?”

you shake your head. “not really. i mean i didn’t work closely with macy, and i never noticed anything off about lex.”

“and the building? any strange cold spots or flickering lights?”

you find the question sort of odd coming from an fbi agent, but you instintually feel like you should take it seriously. “um, yeah, actually. it was really cold by the bathrooms last night when i left. at first i thought the ac finally got fixed, but it was still sort of warm over here. in this area”

“okay. thank you for your help,” he smiles at you again and for a reason you can't quite place, you don’t want the unusual conversation to end. you have to hide a hint of delight from your expression when he hands you his card. “call me if you think of anything else.” you accept the card with a nod. he looks like he’s about to walk away, but he pauses. “and, uh– be careful. you should go home early tonight.”

“oh. okay, i will.” without knowing why, you trust him. you want to see him again.

⟢⟢⟢

saturday night is the second busiest night at the bar, but you’re glad it’s not as crowded fridays normally are. you walk straight to the bar to order your go-to drink. as you wait for the bartender to make it, you stare at yourself in the mirror behind the counter out of the corner of your eye. today, there’s two little forget-me-nots right on your left cheek. they look sort of cute there, and you guess you should be grateful that it’s such a small wound. there’s no other flowers on your body yet, which feels like a good run for your soulmate. that’s a little over a whole week in between different injuries, even small ones.

the bartender slides you your drink and you thank them. there’s a small red carnation on their thumb, and you wonder if they’ve met their own soulmate yet. you suppose that at the end of the day, you’re scared of what just about everyone else is. without trying, you worry about not meeting your soulmate until you're old and left without much time together. you want to meet them, and you think the sooner the better. the idea’s been particularly stuck in your mind since last night.

agent greenaway’s words echo in your head. “be careful. you should go home early tonight.” he seemed so sweet, so genuine and caring, and all you’ve been able to think about since then is meeting someone like him. finding someone kind with a little red mark on their cheek and a forget-me-not on their right pointer finger to match the papercut you got earlier this afternoon.

and simply, you’ve been feeling a little lonely these days. how nice would it be to have your literal soulmate by your side?

you sip slowly at your drink, and when the cup’s empty, you pay the tab. the bar isn’t quite serving as the distraction you hoped it would. as you head for the door, your gaze snags on a mop of brown hair that wouldn’t be considered familiar for the fact that you’ve only seen it once, but feels that way regardless. quickly, you scan the rest of the bar, and sure enough you catch sight of agent greenaway’s partner, across the way and very obviously flirting with a pretty brunette.

for a moment you pause, wondering if it would be weird or too out-of-the-blue to approach agent greenaway, but the pull you feel towards him overrides all else, taking your hand and guiding it to throw all caution to the wind.

he’s facing away from you, and with a friendly smile, you slide into the seat across from him.

“hi,” you greet over the noise of music and talking, “d’you mind if i sit here?” it takes him a moment to answer, like he’s lagging a little bit.

“uh– no, no i don’t mind,” he flashes a quick smile back at you, but his gaze and attention are clearly stuck somewhere on your face. for just a split-second, you’re confused by what he could be staring at, but it clicks not a moment later. you don’t know how you missed it: the red mark on his left cheek, so small that your eyes glossed over it when you sat down. eagerly, you drop your gaze to his hands, one casually wrapped around his beer bottle and the other resting on the table. and sure enough, so tiny and pretty against his big hand is a single forget-me-not on his right pointer finger, exactly where you have a bandaid wrapped around your own.

you suck in a sharp breath, eyes caught on the delicate flower and unable to drag themselves away to look back at his face. just like everyone else, you’ve thought about it a million times over, what it would feel like to meet your soulmate, what you would do, how you would act. in this moment, you feel frozen, but you feel right and you feel a million questions and urges rise up in your heart and mind. you desperately want to reach out to him, to touch his hand and the little flower and make sure that they’re both real.

but you absolutely cannot keep your gaze away from his face for long at all and when you meet his eyes, an irresistible smile stretches across your face. you look at him with nothing short of wonderment. he’s just stunning and you can’t believe that he’s supposed to be… well, yours.

just staring at each other, you feel a little flustered and awkward, unsure what to say to him. then you realize he should probably know your name, and all you know is his last. so you stick your right hand out and tell him your name. he takes your hand with a smile and repeats it back, saying it carefully and savoring the sound and feel of it on his tongue.

when you touch him for the first time, your breath gets caught in your throat and it feels so right that you never want to let go.

“i’m sam,” he says, only letting his hand fall away from yours after a few moments. even then, your fingertips are merely inches apart now.

“sam greenaway,” you echo, easily remembering how he introduced himself yesterday. then you puzzle at his reaction and the way that the name doesn’t feel quite right as you look at him. he cringes slightly, like he’s done something to be guilty of. “or… not?” for a minute, things were starting to add up to you. the way you felt drawn to him yesterday and his job as an fbi agent finally explaining all of his many injuries. you figured he must be in fights often.

“i– i’m sorry, this is so– i mean if we’re really,” he takes a deep breath, trying to reset and figure out how to say things right. “if we’re really, you know, soulmates… well, there’s just a lot– a lot for me to explain. i’m not an fbi agent and my real name is sam winchester. but i swear, there’s a reason for me lying and i promise that i’ll explain it to you if you’re willing to hear it. which i understand if you don’t–”

“i do,” you say in earnest, finally cutting him off. it took you a second because, for a moment, you were too stuck on him saying the word soulmate aloud in reference to the two of you. it felt special and you were only half paying attention to the things he said after because of that. then all you were thinking about was how endearing he seems when he’s flustered and worried. “it’s okay,” you reassure him, “i want to hear it. i– i mean, sure, it’s sort of strange that you lied about, you know, all that, but… i’m not– i’m not gonna just meet my… my soulmate and not give you a chance.” he still looks a little tense, but his shoulders have dropped a bit in relief and there’s the hint of a grateful smile on his features.

“thank you,” he says, glad for your reassurance but still worried about how you might take the rest of the far weirder explanations that he has left to tell you. “can i maybe get you a drink?”

you smile at the offer, but shake your head a bit. “i was actually just heading out when i saw you. would you maybe wanna get out of here? my apartment’s less than a ten minute walk away.” for a moment, you wonder if that’s too much for just having met, but sam visibly relaxes just a little bit more.

“that would be nice,” he smiles. he’s getting ready to stand when he glances across the bar, seemingly remembering about his partner. or not partner. you’re not quite sure. “my brother, dean,” he explains simply when he catches your gaze on the other man. “i should tell him where i’m going.”

“okay,” you nod, filing the new information away in your mind and watching him weave between tables and flirting couples to reach his brother. the exchange is a bit funny to watch. at first dean looks annoyed at being interrupted by sam. then he glances at you with a sly smirk and makes some comment that is probably less than appropriate judging from his expression. and then his face morphs into one of surprise before it’s taken over by a smile. he claps sam on the shoulder and sends him off. you almost miss the look that dean gives you as sam heads back towards you because you’re so focused on the sweet smile that sam’s now wearing. you only catch dean’s look for a second before sam is back at your side. it’s easy to assume dean as the older brother, with his eyes on you being protective, proud, careful, and happy all at once. and they’re close enough that sam told him about you right away.

walking home with sam at your side is both completely strange and familiar all at once. it’s strange for a number of reasons, the main being that you’d never invite any other unknown man to your apartment, especially not one with a cryptic identity and such an imposing build. and yet, you’re not afraid or worried because of how familiar and safe it feels. it feels familiar because it feels right, it feels like exactly what you should be doing.

on the way over, he asks about you a little bit, trying not to overwhelm you with questions or seem overbearing with how eager he is to hear what you have to say. his kindness and carefulness are clear to you, and you love it. you answer happily, despite knowing he’s partially asking to avoid talking about himself until you settle down.

once inside, sam follows you right to the couch in the living room, sitting when you motion towards it and plop down into a chair across from him. he takes in the space, eyes roaming over your furniture, decor, and every little detail. he wants to know about you, just like you do him.

“it’s really nice in here,” he compliments, sounding so sincere that it’s just sweet.

“thank you,” you respond softly, wondering exactly what parts of the room he likes. you let him look around a second or two more before speaking again. “so… can i ask? you know, about it all, i guess? about you?”

he doesn’t say it aloud, but he thinks the way that you ask is so lovely. half of him wants to make up some silly, somewhat believable explanation to spare you the truth, but he knows that would never work out well. not if you choose to stay together in some way or another. already, that’s what he wants. he doesn’t doubt that you’re indeed his soulmate, the one who he’s been sharing wounds and flowers with for as long as he can remember. sam has both yearned for and dreaded this moment. he tries not to be obvious about it or over do it, but he’s sort of a total romantic. he’s had doubts about how this whole idea of soulmates could really be real or make much sense, but those thoughts are eased with each moment he spends with you. he still wants to get to know you before he does anything with you, but the way that he wants to get to know you is something he’s never felt before. it’s undeniably special.

the dread is because he’s known ever since he got back into hunting that he’d never be able to hide the truth of his world from you. he has no idea how he’s going to get to you to believe him or convince you that he’s not completely insane, but he’s going to tell you the truth anyway. even if you do believe him, he wants to give you a choice. you shouldn’t have to get involved with this life in any way at all if you don’t want to. he’d never force you to try things with him if it’s too strange or too scary or hard or anything. and already, he knows that he’ll never stop thinking about you if you do choose to stay away, but he also knows that he’d never try to change your mind or force you to do anything else other than exactly what you want.

“of course you can ask,” he responds, matching the softness of your own voice. “i, um– i’m honestly not quite sure how to say all of this without sounding totally crazy, and i completely understand that, but just– try to bear with me, i guess. and if you need proof, which i also understand, i’ll do my best to get it for you, it’s just– sort of hard.”

honestly, you’re wildly confused as to what the hell he could possibly say that would make him this anxious. it worries you a little bit too. you don’t want him to feel afraid to tell you anything at all. so, you nod at him in encouragement, trying not to seem nervous yourself.

“my brother and i, we– we hunt monsters. real ones. ghosts, vampires, demons, the works. they’re all real. your coworkers who died, they were– they were killed by an angry spirit. we got rid of it last night,” he says those words like they’re a ten ton weight off of his chest, but he’s still got another ten sitting there as he awaits your response. he looks at you so carefully, trying to gauge any sort of reaction.

you raise your eyebrows in surprise, and probably disbelief and a million other things. “angry spirit? like a ghost?” you’re not sure why that’s the first question that slips out, but you suppose it’s an easier one than are you insane? or what the hell are you talking about?

he nods his head carefully, like he’s waiting for you to freak out or call him crazy and tell him to go. “yeah. the ghost, she had died there, near the bathrooms where you felt the cold spot, in the 90s. she was triggered to kill when the man suspected of her murder was granted parole.”

“okay,” you breathe out, sort of nervously. the craziest thing is that you don’t disbelieve him. you’re not convinced by any stretch, but when you look him in the eye and listen close to his voice, there’s nothing but sincerity there. “i mean… that is sort of a kinda crazy thing to say,” you begin, “but i’ve always sort of believed in ghosts, so i don’t think you’re completely, you know, insane.” you laugh a bit, trying to lighten the mood a little. you don’t want him to stress, however unbelievable his words are. “the rest is a bit… shaky, i guess. it’s a hard thing to believe, i mean… vampires. and– and demons. it’s a lot. and honestly, i’m not sure how much i’ll really, truly believe until i see, i don’t know, something, i guess,” you admit, “but… but i don’t think you’re lying to me either.”

“thank you for that,” he says, voice as sincere as ever, “and i completely understand. honestly, part of me didn’t want to tell you at all, but… it’s sort of my whole entire life at this point and it wouldn’t be fair to hide from you. or– or to not give you a choice right off the bat of whether or not you wanted to be involved. it’s– it’s a lot and it’s dangerous. and if it’s what you want, i promise i’ll try to find a way to prove it to you, it’s just… hard to do that without putting you in danger. and i really don’t want to put you in danger.”

“that’s sweet, sam,” you say, not really bothering to hide the way you feel. “i’m not, you know, eager to meet any monsters anytime soon, but whenever it’s… the least dangerous, i guess, you can show me. until then… i’ll just trust you. and in the meantime maybe we can sort of just get to know each other?” you suggest, surprising yourself with how ready you are to trust him on this.

sam smiles at you sweetly. “that sounds perfect to me. i just– i don’t want to force you into something you don’t want for yourself. i live out of crappy motels and my brother’s car while hunting monsters that shouldn’t be real. i’m just… i’m sorry i’m not someone easier.”

you smile at him sort of sadly. “that’s not your fault, sam. i never asked for someone ‘easy’ anyway. just someone kind and respectful and you seem to be just that so far. besides, there’s gotta be a reason, right? that… we’re soulmates. honestly, if you were anyone else i wouldn’t trust you like this. an–and it’s not like i’m trusting you blindly because of something that we’re supposed to be. we just met. i’m only trusting you because it feels right to. and this whole soulmate thing never made too much sense to me until i met you. now it sort of does, because this feels right so far. at least, it does to me.”

“it feels right to me too,” he quickly assures, not wanting for you to misunderstand that for a second.

⟢⟢⟢

as two people who aren’t quite ready to jump into such a committed relationship with completely different lives, it’s a little bit strange to be soulmates. and yet, nothing about it is anything but honey-sweet to you. the night you met as soulmates for the first time, you ended up talking for hours. all you had to do was sort of ignore the huge and slightly unbelievable bomb he dropped on you within the first hour of talking. oddly enough, that was sort of easy. you learned that sam’s appetite for knowledge is just about insatiable, including when it comes to knowing about you.

he had words rolling off of your tongue, asking the best, most interesting questions and providing such sincere and in-depth responses. that night, he was just lovely, and that’s pretty much all he’s been since. he’s this adorable mix of confident and shy, awkward and knowing just the right thing to say. and he’s incredibly smart, an almost stanford pre-law graduate who was headed for bigger things before he was pulled back into hunting a little over two years ago. this explains the difference in all his injuries from the past two years versus the three beforehand. secretly, you mourn for the life that he, and subsequently you, might have had, but only because he gets a little wistful every time he talks about stanford.

mostly, you talk on the phone, only stopping late in the night when one of you catches the other yawning. he seems to sleep so little, yet he lives such a tiring life. you almost always seem to be the one who gets too tired first. one night, you fell asleep to his voice, and since then, you feel like it’s the single best way to drift into dreams.

sam tries to avoid the topic of the supernatural, but you ask him about it anyway. as you get used to the idea of monsters being real, you find yourself wanting to understand it all better. you want to understand him better. and you don’t want him to feel like he has to hide the biggest parts of his life from you or for him to have trouble fitting you into his world.

he always answers your questions, omitting any extreme gore or death, but it doesn’t take long for you to realize how many people he really saves. that’s his life; saving people.

it takes three weeks for you to see him again since the first night, and three more plus a whole lot of convincing on your end for him to bring you on a hunt with him. he tries to hide it, but he’s so worried for you, despite all the reassurances he’s made that this particular ghost isn’t really all that violent or dangerous. by now, you’ve already come to mostly believe all that he's told you, but to see it in real life is still the final confirmation that you need to be fully convinced.

sam keeps you by his side the whole time, one hand on you every moment that he can afford it. the second the ghost appears, he blasts it with a salt round from his shotgun, and he thinks he could cry when you flinch at the loud noise. yet, he feels comforted that you don’t seem all too scared. and strangely, you really aren’t. sam easily makes you feel safe. luckily, the next time the ghost appears, it bursts into flames moments later thanks to dean burning the bones.

the moment it’s gone, sam drops the gun to the ground and turns to you, accidentally ruining the now unnecessary salt line around you in his rush to check on you.

“are you okay?” he asks gently, a hand on your shoulder and the other cupping your cheek as he looks you up and down.

“i’m alright, sam,” you reassure. it’s true that you’re a little shaky, and just the tiniest bit scared, but to have your confirmation and sam by your side is much more important to you.

“i’m sorry,” he apologizes anyway, pulling you into a hug that’s more for his peace of mind than yours. of course, you don’t complain, easily finding his arms to be your new favorite place in the world.

oddly enough, taking it almost slow works well. he kisses you the next time he sees you, a week and a half later, and you’ve never wanted anything more than to have him keep kissing you, over and over again. he just feels like yours and you feel like his and you’ve barely known him for long, but when he kisses you it’s like there’s stars hung from the ceiling and flowers made from nothing but love and healing growing all over you. when he kisses you it’s sunlight and moonglow bottled up and mixed with sweet, pure maple syrup. his lips on yours feel like lucky four leaf clovers, like it’s possible to taste heaven on someone else’s tongue.

and though it mostly works for him to just visit as often as he can, which sometimes isn’t often at all, and to call him at every moment you can, the yearning only grows. you swear that you’re addicted to his lips, to his big hands cupping your jaw all gentle and sweet or his bulky arms boxing you in as he kisses you so hard that you melt right into the sheets.

and some nights, though he tries to hide it, you can hear him struggling with what seems to be the weight of the world on his shoulders. his job is anything but easy or fruitful. before, you thought that you might worry less when you found out exactly why your soulmate was getting injured so often, but now every time new blooms appear on your skin, you spend all day fretting until you can get him on the phone to make sure he’s alright.

you suppose he gets just as worried as you, despite the fact that you’re never in nearly as much danger as he is. a week ago, a jagged edge on a metal wire fence snagged at your skin, drawing a very shallow, but long line of blood down your forearm. seconds later, you had a frantic sam on the phone, so worried about all the little blue flowers on his arm.

it’s not as hard as he thinks for you to tell how much fear and worry he lives in. you know that he doesn’t tell you the half of it sometimes, even when you ask. all you want is to have him a little closer, to be there for him and provide the sort of comfort that you’re sure he’s never really had before. and though he’s told you that having you to talk to, so receptive and encouraging for him, has been a complete blessing, you still wish for more. you want his arms enveloping you and his lips on yours and his warm body in your bed. really, you just miss him. all the time.

⟢⟢⟢

tonight is one of the glorious nights that you get to have him with you. his broad frame takes up so much space in your bed, and you love it more than just about anything. he props himself up on one elbow and you mirror his pose as you let your eyes roam over each other’s features and take turns rambling about every little thing from this past week. unable to resist, sam kisses you often. he just leans over, swiftly closing the small space between you and pressing his lips to yours. he looks so beautiful like this; at peace, his shirtless body and protective tattoo framed all prettily by clean white sheets.

eventually, comforting words turn into a comforting silence, and you drop your head to your pillow. your eyes droop a little as you play with the idea letting a few more words slip from your tongue. you want to say something to him, but you can’t tell if it’s the right time.

sam settles on his pillow, just like you. “what is it?” he whispers, inviting and respectful. his voice tells you that you’re welcome to say whatever you’re thinking about, but that it’s okay if you don’t want to quite yet.

you smile a little at how well he’s able to read you. since he asked so sweetly, you say it. “i can’t be away from you, sam. i love you, i really do.” this isn’t the first time you’ve said the three special words to each other, but his eyes grow infinitely softer than they were before each time you do.

this time, his eyes do soften, but he cringes a little too, because he feels sorry and because he feels the same exact way. “i can’t make you live like i do. i love you, too, so much. and i hate being away from you, but this? this life, it– it’s sort of awful, and it’s dangerous and hard and–”

you swiftly cut him off with a kiss that he more than willingly melts into. “i know,” you whisper against his lips, barely moving from him to speak. “but– but what if we tried something else? you still go on your hunts and all that, but you and dean can stay here in between. there’s this cabin in the woods i’ve been eyeing, it’s sort of small but it’s isolated and we could ward it. i’ve been looking into protection and warding spells, and i think we could make it work… only, you know, if you wa–”

this time he’s the one to cut you off with a kiss, passionate and sweet all at once. when your lips part, he keeps his forehead pressed against yours like he can’t bear to be any further from you.

“i want to,” he says, voice so sure and sturdy. “i really want to… but how’re we gonna get the house? it’s not like me or dean can buy property, and i can’t make you–”

“i want to,” you echo his words, just as sincerely. “please, sam, let me do this. i’ve been saving money for a long time and it’s a little run down so it’s not too expensive. and i’m getting sick of this apartment.”

“you’re gonna live there?” he asks, not bothering to hide his hope and sparkling joy at that idea.

you grin. “of course. there’s three bedrooms and it’s so pretty and i can’t, you know, pay for that and the apartment at the same time. and i– i wanna be there every time you get home.”

that word gets to him. sam doesn’t really have a solid or normal concept of home—the closest thing he has is the impala. but it sounds so right when it comes out of your mouth. “and– and you’re okay with that?” he asks, still needing to be reassured, “you said it was isolated, and–”

“i’m sure, sam,” you emphasize, “it’s only 20 minutes from town and the roads to and from are never busy. i’ve always wanted to live in the woods, i swear. and if it meant i could be with you more, i’d never ever say no to this. please… can we talk to dean about it?”

“yes,” he gushes. “yes, of course, i– you’re amazing.” he seals the deal with a firm, giddy kiss. “and if dean says he doesn’t like the idea, i don’t care. i’m gonna do this with you.” another kiss and your heart softens infinitely. “besides, he loves the pie from the bakery on morrison street, which means he can’t say no.” he gives you another kiss and pulls away again, and you know that he’s bound to keep rambling if you let him, so you wrap an arm around his neck and thread your fingers through his soft, pretty hair. then you kiss him hard until he can’t breathe. he returns the favor by tenfold, whispering through labored breath how much he loves you and wants you and thinks that you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

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htchnr · 6 months

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♰ thanks sugar ༻ C. HOWARD.*ೃ˚

➻ masterlist. ➻ buy me a coffee!

PAIRING ➻ southern bounty hunter!reader x Cooper Howard.

CW ➻ mention of drugs ⋆ alcohol consumption ⋆ fallout typical violence ⋆ reader sustains a bad injury ⋆ but it's not too explicitly described ⋆ mention of stitching up said injury ⋆ if i missed anything, lmk!

SUMMARY ➻ "Can i request a bounty hunter reader who is always one step ahead of Cooper and he’s fed up with her? Then the reader is in a deadly situation and he decides to rescue her, because even if he’s fed up that she’s always one step ahead of him, he respects her for that." requested by the lovely @likoplays WC ➻ 2,8K.

he didn't know quite what to feel the first time he encountered you..

his hairless brows furrow the moment he lays eyes on you — his bounty, dead, beneath your boot. you look up from the body beneath you, and smile. a disgustingly sweet smile on your shockingly soft looking lips. “heya sugar,” you grin, “it appears you jus’ missed this fella here,” your tone confident and ever so slightly out of breath from the fight he had missed.

he huffs frustratedly, and when his harsh eyes drag down your form the pieces fit together in his head. so you’re the cowgirl bounty hunter that’s been cashing in his bounties.

he can see it now, why’d people mistake him for you sometimes if they can’t see his face — your body clad in tough jeans and a layer of belts draped across your hips. a worn down cowboy hat atop your head with a bullet hole going through the rim on the right side. he could spot a peak of some leather vest and a worn shirt sticking out from it and atop it all a tattered worn duster draped over your shoulders.

huh, he thought to himself. just that, a contemplative ‘huh’. the conversation that followed was less harsh then he thought it’d be now that he can put a face to your name. he still made his points very clear though.

by the third time the pair of you cross paths he’s gotten used to your honey sweet drawl and even sweeter smiles. he wondered since the day he met you why you always smiled so bright, given the world you live in and the job you do.

the bar smells like spilled liquor and blood, the air is sticky and stuffy in the summer’s heat. the people in it probably smell worse, but he’s thankful he’s can’t smell most of it.

the oh so familiar “heya sugar,” sounds from across the bar in Filly. he looked over and saw you sitting a few stools down from him, sipping on something dark. he huffs and nods in your direction before returning his attention to the bourbon in his dirty glass.

he listens to your stool creak and groan before the thuds of your boots follow you to the stool beside him. “any good contracts on the horizon?” you tease with a grin.

he looks up from his glass, watching you down the remainder of yours. his dark eyes follow a stray drop that drips past your lips and down your chin before you catch it with a finger, dipping the finger between your lips to suck up the liquid. he sighs and downs his own glass, wishing he could feel the burn as the alcohol trickled down.

“well, wouldn't you like to know, hm?” he drawls, his eyes slightly squinting at you. he knows damn well that you know what’s on his horizon. seeing as you’ve probably got the same bounties on yours.

you sigh, swirling a stray drop of liquor in your glass around. “you ain’t bein’ fun,” you huff as you tip back your glass to catch that last drop on your tongue. you stretch your shoulders, groaning in the process before shrugging your duster back over your shoulders.

you nod at the bartender and hand him a few caps, thanking him with that same sickly sweet smile before standing up. you turn back to him, tightening your holster belt. “well, i’ll be seein’ you stud.” you tip your hat to him before walking out the bar and into the fresh air.

he hasn't seen you in a while, he thinks to himself, while he walks along the tracks of his latest bounty — some guy who had plundered a large settlement. who in turn wanted the man alive, so they could convict him or some shit. they were paying a hefty heap of caps for the man, and that was all that mattered.

the trail started to head in the direction of the Super Duper Mart he frequents for RadAway, to his surprise. maybe the bounty needs a patch up or some chems, who knows. if the tracks lead there, he might as well pick up some more vials of RadAway, more could never hurt.

the tracks indeed lead to the front doors of the Super Duper Mart, though are soon joined by a second pair, one he’s grown to recognise anywhere. he groans, head dropping back in frustration. he was starting to get a little low on caps and would really fucking like a job to turn out in his favor before he has to turn to the ones he’ll hate doing.

he rummages through his saddlebags, looking for things he could offer in return, when he hears a loud slam against the window on the right side of the building. he knew what went down there, and this kind of commotion was not uncommon, but definitely relatively unusual. he ignores the sounds as his hand touches some Jet, that’ll have to do for now, he thinks to himself.

he grabs the handful of Jet, hitting the button on the speaker. “transaction.” he drawls, dark eyes trying to look through the dirty glass as if he might see his bounty there.

it’s quiet for a second, before the familiar voice of the Handy comes through, “yes?”

“ten vials for fifteen Jet.”

more silence before the speaker crackles again, “the deal can be further discussed inside, the doors will open.”

Cooper sighs, not looking forward to the hassle of making a deal with the idiots inside. the doors squeak open in a few seconds and he makes his way inside. the relatively cool building was a slight relief compared to the harsh sun.

the moment he steps inside the commotion from the room across from him rings crystal clear through the building. he supposed the guys running it are used to it and barely blink at it. he walks past the room, and reaches the guys in charge sat lazily on the couch in front of the tv.

Cooper clears his throat, the two guys looking up immediately. “ten vials for ten Jet, right?” the left guy says, slightly slurring his words.

“uh huh,” Cooper confirms.

and to his surprise the guys are probably so high they didn't hear what the Handy said and the deal seems fine to them as the left guy rummages through the box of chems to pull out ten vials of RadAway. he wonders for a brief second, if he could rip off the guys and give them less Jet and still get the vials — they don’t seem to be in the condition to properly count anything.

the left guy holds out his shaky hand expectantly and Cooper drops eight Jet into his palm, curious about the outcome. and to his surprise the guy takes the Jet, stares at them blankly, then hands Cooper exactly ten vials. huh, he thinks, well done.

he thanks them after stuffing the vials into his box with the last of his other ones and heads back to the entrance. he nears the room where all the commotion is still coming from and almost passes before he hears a familiar voice yell out.

“dagnabbit! you better get ‘ur grimey saws ‘way from me you asshole!”

your southern twang was even more prominent with your anger and panic, but he could recognise your voice anywhere. he stood before the closed door with a war inside him;

with how little contracts you left him it’d be great career wise for him to leave you here, no more stealing his high paying bounties, he’d finally be able to afford a little more supplies — but a side of him also grew to deeply respect your skill. the way you managed to handle bounties that had even him slightly questioning if he could do it. you clearly had great skill to make it this long in the business and in the world.

he groans, head dropping back as he beat himself for what he was about to do. the panic in your voice sounded genuine, it sounded like you were genuinely fighting for your life. he set his saddlebag down by the door and kicked it open, the door slamming into the wall.

he walked into the room, blood splattered across the floor, the usual tools and coolers around. and then his eyes landed on you, strapped down to a gurney with the Handy trying to hack away at you.

guessing by the blood on the floor he had gotten at least one good slice in. at the sound of the door slamming open both you and the Handy turned to him. “no people allowed in this room!” the Handy crackles, though his blades still hovering above you.

“heya sugar,” you pant heavily. “fancy seein’ you ‘ere,” you somehow manage a genuine smile, which catches him a little off guard, given the situation you’re in.

“quite the predicament you’ve found ‘urself in, huh?” he nods, eyes still watching the Handy as the robot hovers still.

you flinch at something and swallow thickly, “nothin’ i ain’t done before,” he can see the pain through your smile now, and it makes him want to kick himself for what it makes him feel inside.

he unholsters his gun, aiming at the Handy, “hey tincan, how’bout you leave the lady alone?” he drawls, eyes squinting at the robot.

“i afraid i cannot do so, she has been prepared for harvesting.” the Handy states.

Cooper sighs, knowing that whatever happens here means the end of his dealings with this place. it takes a mere inch that the Handy moves towards him and Cooper puts a bullet through it. smoke shoots out the side that was shot. “t-t-that was n-no-o-ot friendly-” the Handy malfunctions, fully turning to him now.

he rolls his shoulder before unloading the other three heavy rounds into the Handy round body. the Handy spurts out smoke and steam from everywhere, dropping to the floor with a loud crash. he really hopes the guys out back are too high to notice all this.

Cooper holsters his gun, side stepping around the dying Handy as he makes his way to you. the closer he gets, he can see what caused you to flinch and where all the blood all over the floor came from — a huge gash in your side. not concerningly deep, but still worrisome nonetheless. you had a few cuts across your bare shoulders as well, he guesses from you thrashing around while the Handy tried to cut you open.

your head drops down onto the gurney and you groan in relief. “oh crud muffin’,” you huff, the muscles in your side flexing in pain. Cooper watches carefully as he begins to unbuckle the restraints, making sure to be extra careful with the one around your hips that’s awfully close to your wound.

“what ‘m i glad to see your handsome face ‘ere,” you pant, massaging your wrists the moment they're free.

Cooper steps back from the gurney a little once he’s unbuckled the restraints around your ankles so you can sit up. he squints at your choice of words. handsome. you sit up, a little shaky. “phew,” you huff, reaching a hand to your side. “my knight in shinin’ spurs-” your voice trailing off just before your body goes limp and drops forward.

Cooper hands immediately find your shoulders, pushing you up before you’re able to drop off the gurney. “damnit girl,” he swears as he lays you down, eyes sweeping over the gash in your side. it was significantly worse than he thought, and given the amount of blood on the floor you had been fighting quite a bit.

he huffs, searching around for med supplies. it surprises him that you kept going as long as you did. he dumps whatever supplies he could find in your lap, before turning his full attention to your wound. you were gonna owe him after this..

bright lights and a warm feeling wakes you, eyes painfully peeling open. expecting the ceiling of the Super Duper Mart, your eyes instead are met with the bright sky, the hot sun beating down on you. you shoot up in a panic, though nearly cry out in pain as the stitches in your side constrict. “sugar honey iced tea!” you shout out with your eyes clenched shut, your hand immediately holding the injury.

footsteps come dashing from behind you, the sun suddenly blocked by someone. your eyes shoot open, wild eyes meeting a familiar pair of dark, hollow ones. it takes you a second, before you sigh in relief and drop back down. you’re quiet for a moment as you catch your breath, before speaking. “where are we?” your throat is sore.

Cooper huffs, the sound of your cry still pounding in his heart. “not too far out from the Super Duper,” he drawls, catching his own breath a little.

when you open your eyes again to look at him, you notice something strange — he’s not wearing his duster. and that’s when it clicks, the heavy coat is draped over top of you. your eyes flit across his form, a raggedy denim shirt sticking out from a thick leather vest that has certainly seen better days with a few missing buttons and what are almost certainly knife shaped holes.

your eyes drag down to his scarred forearms that are exposed below his sleeves that're rolled up, your distracted eyes lingering a little longer than they should.

you reluctantly sit up, groaning as you do so. the duster drops into your lap as you lift your shirt up to assess the damage. “ahw shucks, that ain’t lookin’ good..” you huff, brows furrowed in pain and eyes staring at the roughly stitched gash.

Cooper clears his throat, “did the best i could on a whim, hope that’s okay,” and this is the first time you’ve heard him speak without the confidence and strength he usually has.

you shake your head, “don’t worry ‘ur handsome head, this more than i could’ve asked you for and’m thankful for it,” you tip your head at him, a pained but genuine smile on your lips. god, he thought, was there ever a time you didn’t look so sugary sweet?

he nods in return, “you’re welcome,” he walks over to offers you a bottle of what appears to be bourbon, which you gratefully accept with a pained grin. “should ‘elp take the edge off,”

you take a generous swig, a low moan of relief being pulled from your lips as the liquid trickles down. you relish the sweet burn before handing him back the bottle. “i can’t thank you enough,” you smile.

Cooper shakes his head, “don’t worry your pretty head about it,” he copies your words. he takes a swig before shoving the bottle back in his saddlebag. he pauses as he thinks, “well, there is one thing you could do,” he trails off.

you let out a laugh, and he thinks it might be the sweetest thing he’s heard in decades. “out with it, what d’you need?” you chuckle.

he shrugs, tilting his head with a playful smirk on his lipless skin. “you could always leave me some bounties for once?” he drawls, eyes squinted to aid the smirk.

you let out another laugh, this one equally if not even more sweeter sounding then the last. “well i’ll tell you what sugar, why don’t we stop dancin' around, partner up and split the caps instead?” there's a smidge of hopefulness in your tone, yet he also feels as though you’ve left no room for a no from him.

he sucks his teeth, looking up as if contemplating his answer. though, the both of you already know what he’ll say. finally, he tips his hat to you, “alright then, 's long as you rest up till that’s healed enough. got it? don’t want you messin’ up my masterpiece,” he chuckles.

that earns him another strained laugh from you. “can’t promise i’ll stay out of a good fight, but you got it sugar.” you grin and wink.

oh lord, he thinks, he’s in for a looong ride.

TAGLIST @live-logs-and-proper @looonytooons @seeingstarks @thewastelandwriter @lacey-mercylercy

#⋆୨🩷©2024 htchnr #⋆୨⭐️cooper howard #cooper howard x fem!reader #cooper howard oneshot #cooper howard imagine #cooper howard x reader #cooper howard #the ghoul imagine #the ghoul oneshot #the ghoul fallout #fallout tv #fallout tv series #walton goggins #walton ghoulgins

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librababe99 · 21 days

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Vigilante's Lullaby |Part One|

cw: Red Hood, Gender Neutral Reader, Angst, Mentions of violence, blood, injury, medical procedure, hurt no comfort, dark romance, hurt no comfort word count: 1.9K summary: In the shadows of Gotham’s underworld, you run a clinic that caters to those no one else dares to help. One night, Red Hood stumbles in, bloodied and defiant, refusing assistance despite his wounds. As you force him to stay, a strange, electrifying tension fills the air.

A/N: Hello! Just finished up the final edits to the first part of this new series. For the sake of dramatics I really liked the idea of leaving Jason's identity anonymous and sticking with his alias. Also as of now I'm wanting this to be a four part series but of course that can change! If you'd like to be tagged in the next part just let know <3 As always comments and feedback are greatly appreciated - Libra * .♡ *:･ﾟ✧ ⋆ ࣪.* ࣪.⋆

(DC Masterlist) (Marvel Masterlist)

(Synopsis) (Part Two)

The clinic was a small, dimly lit space tucked away in the decaying heart of Gotham’s underbelly. The walls were cracked and worn, the faded paint peeling in corners no one bothered to care about anymore. Shadows lingered in every corner, as thick as the stench of sweat and antiseptic that clung to the air. It was late—well past the time most sane people would be out in Gotham. But sanity was a luxury in a city like this, and you’d long since learned to live without it.

You leaned over the trembling form of a thug, stitching up the gash in his side with quick, practiced movements. He wasn’t important—just some small-time crook who got into a fight he couldn’t win. It wasn’t your job to ask questions. You weren’t paid for that. People came to you because you never asked why, and you never judged. Criminal, vigilante, or something in between, it didn’t matter. In Gotham, everyone bled the same.

The thug winced, muttering a half-hearted complaint, and you hushed him quietly, focusing on the task at hand. It was routine—just another night in a city that never slept, where violence was a constant companion.

Then the door slammed open, hard enough to rattle the rusting hinges.

You looked up, instincts on edge, fingers stilling mid-stitch. A figure loomed in the doorway, casting a long shadow across the floor. The helmet gave him away immediately—Red Hood. His presence dominated the room, his chest heaving, blood dripping onto the worn floorboards.

"Out," his voice growled, distorted through the modulator in his helmet. It wasn’t directed at you.

The thug on the table scrambled up, clutching his side. He didn’t wait for a second warning. As soon as Red Hood stepped into the room, the thug fled into the night, disappearing into Gotham’s shadows.

The vigilante staggered forward, his movements heavy, labored. Blood soaked through his jacket, staining the dark fabric and leaving a trail of crimson in his wake. His breathing was harsh, his body barely holding itself together, but when you moved toward him, his gloved hand shot up.

“I don’t need your help,” he growled, even though his knees almost buckled from the effort of staying upright.

You stopped short, eyeing him carefully. His wounds were bad. Too bad. He wouldn’t last long in this state, not even in Gotham. But you’d seen his type before. The kind who thought they could muscle through the pain, through death itself, out of sheer willpower. Maybe he had cheated death once, but not tonight. Not like this.

“You’ll die if I don’t patch you up,” you said, voice calm but firm. You weren’t afraid of him. That was important. Red Hood’s entire persona thrived on fear. “Sit down. Now.”

His helmet turned slightly, as if sizing you up. There was tension in the way he held himself, every muscle coiled tight, ready for violence even though his body was betraying him. His fingers twitched like they were ready to reach for his gun. But you stood your ground.

“I’m not going to ask twice,” you added, eyes narrowing. “You won’t make it out of this room if you don’t let me help.”

For a long, painful moment, he didn’t move. The silence stretched, thick with tension. Then, with a sharp intake of breath, he let his hand drop to his side. A begrudging acceptance. He stepped forward and sank into the chair, the weight of his injuries catching up to him.

You didn’t hesitate. Moving quickly, you grabbed your supplies and knelt beside him, carefully peeling back his jacket to expose the wound. The gash across his side was deep, and there were other cuts and bruises littering his body, evidence of a fight he barely survived.

As you worked, the room fell into a tense quiet, broken only by the sound of his labored breathing. You could feel the heat radiating off him, the mix of blood and sweat clinging to his skin. Your fingers brushed against his flesh, the contact sending an unexpected jolt through you. The air between you seemed to grow heavier with each passing moment, thick with something unspoken.

He watched you from behind the mask, his eyes hidden but his presence palpable. You didn’t flinch, didn’t show any reaction to the violence he wore so plainly on his skin. You’d seen worse, and you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of thinking he unsettled you. Still, there was something in the way he sat so still now, the way his body surrendered to your touch, that made the space between you feel... electric.

“You don’t ask questions,” Red Hood said after a while, his voice low, almost conversational now. There was a hint of something behind his words, like he was testing you. “Everyone else does.”

“I’m not everyone else,” you replied simply, not looking up from his wounds as you stitched them closed with quick precision.

He made a noise, somewhere between a grunt and a laugh, though there was no humor in it. “No. I guess you’re not.”

Your hands lingered for a moment longer than necessary as you finished up, the tips of your fingers brushing against the edge of his skin. His body tensed slightly, and you could feel the air shift between you. There was a moment—brief, almost imperceptible—where Red Hood’s guard dropped. His gaze softened behind the mask, as if for just a second, he was letting you see past the armor. Past the walls he had built so high.

But then, just as quickly, it was gone.

Red Hood stood abruptly, wincing as he moved, pulling his jacket back into place. He didn’t say thank you—he wasn’t the type. He didn’t have to. The way his eyes lingered on you, just for a heartbeat longer than they should have, told you everything.

“Don’t expect me to come back,” he muttered as he made his way to the door.

You didn’t respond. You didn’t have to.

He disappeared into the night, and you stood in the quiet aftermath, staring at the blood he left behind on the floor. Something about that encounter stuck with you. It was more than just another wounded vigilante passing through your clinic. It felt like the start of something darker. Something deeper.

A week passed, and you tried not to think about him.

But Gotham had a way of bringing people back into your life whether you wanted them or not. The nights were long, the clinic busy as always, but a part of you found yourself glancing at the door more than you cared to admit. You told yourself it was just a matter of curiosity—nothing more.

Until he returned.

This time, Red Hood didn’t burst in with the same dramatic entrance. He slipped through the door quietly, his presence immediately recognizable despite the effort he seemed to make to go unnoticed. He was wounded again, though not as badly as before. His jacket was torn, blood staining his side, but his steps were more measured, less desperate.

You raised an eyebrow as he stepped into the light, crossing your arms over your chest. “I thought you weren’t coming back.”

His lips twisted into something like a smirk, though there was no humor behind it. “Didn’t have a choice.”

Without waiting for your response, he sat down in the chair again, wincing as he moved. You took a deep breath, grabbing your supplies once more. This time, there was less urgency, but the tension between you had only grown in his absence. As you worked, the silence stretched again, but it wasn’t the same. The weight of unspoken words hung in the air.

“You live like this every night?” you asked after a while, breaking the quiet. “Bleeding all over the city?”

He chuckled, though it was dark and hollow. “It’s Gotham. Bleeding’s part of the job description.”

You glanced up at him, instinctively drawn to where his eyes should be beneath the mask, though you still couldn’t see them. The white lenses covering his eyes remained in place, a barrier between the two of you, preventing you from truly seeing the man beneath. But you could feel his gaze on you, sharp and unwavering, as if he were studying you just as closely.

There was always something about that mask—how it made him unreadable, cold, distant. Yet, in moments like this, when the tension in the room grew thick, you could feel the weight of emotions hidden behind it. The silence stretched on for a beat too long, the sound of your steady breathing filling the space as you tried to ignore the electric pull between you.

“And what job is that, exactly?” you asked, your tone carefully measured. You couldn’t let your curiosity get the better of you, but the question slipped out before you could stop it.

He hesitated for a brief moment, his head tilting slightly as if considering his answer, though the visor obscured any hint of where his gaze fell. "Righting wrongs. Settling scores," he finally said, his voice low and cold. "Call it whatever you want."

The cold finality in his voice sent a shiver down your spine. He wasn’t just talking about Gotham’s criminals. No, there was something more personal in his words. He was talking about himself—his own demons, his own darkness.You didn’t push further. It wasn’t your place, and you knew better than to pry into the shadows he carried. But it didn’t stop you from feeling the weight of it, the sheer force of the rage and pain he carried with him.

“I’ve seen plenty of people come through here with wounds like yours,” you said softly, focusing back on the gash you were stitching up, your hands steady despite the tension in the air. “They usually don’t last long. This city eats people alive.”

His head tilted slightly, and though you couldn’t see his eyes, you felt the intensity of his attention shift back to you. For a moment, the air felt heavier, thicker. His voice, when he finally spoke again, was low, rough. “I’m not most people.”

You couldn’t help the small, bitter smile that tugged at your lips. “No. I guess you’re not.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. In fact, it felt charged, like standing on the edge of something dangerous. There was always something about him that made you feel that way, as though you were staring into an abyss and contemplating whether to jump. Maybe you were a danger to each other, a collision waiting to happen.

When you finished patching him up, your fingers lingered, the soft brush of your skin against his as you pulled the gauze into place. This time, he didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. Instead, he remained still, the air between you crackling with something unspoken.You glanced up at him again, meeting the featureless gaze of his mask, your breath catching in your throat. You couldn’t see his eyes, but you could feel them on you, feel the tension simmering beneath the surface.

Something was happening between you two—something inevitable, dangerous, and completely out of your control.

Without a word, he stood, pulling his jacket back over his bandaged torso. The movement was sudden, almost abrupt, as if he needed to break the moment before it went any further. He didn’t say goodbye. Didn’t offer any words of gratitude or reassurance.

But you knew he’d be back.

Even as he left, the heavy door of your clinic closing behind him, the presence of him lingered in the room—dark, dangerous, and unmistakably powerful. The pull between you both was undeniable, and you couldn’t shake the feeling that whatever was happening between you was far from over.

And it was only a matter of time before that tension snapped.

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the-kr8tor · 4 months

Text

Once More to See You

Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! Reader/ Spider-Punk x fem! Reader

Word count: 8.4k

Synopsis: Like Alice in wonderland, you accidentally fall to another universe where everything is different from your universe, including your best friend, Hobie Brown. Will you be able to come home to your best friend before you get ripped apart molecule by molecule? Or will you fail and leave the love of your life wondering where you are for the rest of his life?

Tags: Use of Y/N sparsely, No specific physical description of the reader, CW Blood, CW violence, TW death, CW injury, CW vomit mention. Bestfriends to lovers (speedrun edition), established relationship, Hurt/comfort, Angst.

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Masterlist

Eyes almost crossed, back hunched and aching, you tinker at the tiny components of the inter dimensional watch Hobie started putting together. He brought it to you last night with a paper bag filled with your favourite takeout to bribe you in helping him. “It's for emergencies,” he said, “I don't trust that vampire from the future,” he grumbled in between bites of chips.

The soft music from your record player filters through the dimly lit room, save for your work lamp, the sun is just about setting in the horizon. You have the perfect view of the expansive London skyline just outside your window. It's a foggy day, clouds hanging above like cotton balls, fluffy and grey— rain's coming, you surmise from the unmistakable smell of petrichor. It's already raining somewhere, you think. And you worry immediately for him since he's still on patrol. Did he bring a raincoat with him at least? But knowing him, he'd just swing around while there's a downpour. And when you scold him while he's dripping wet, soaking your carpet, he'd just shrug and say, ‘I looked bloody good at it though’ to which you'd scoff, but secretly agree.

Distracted, you poke at the wrong wire with your metal pliers, a spark from the main power source shocks you, flinching and yelping, you check for any damages on your fingertips.

“Should've worn rubber gloves, love.” Hobie's sudden whisper in your ear makes you jump out of the stool, goosebumps appearing on your arms as he catches you before you land harshly on your back. “Got you. Maybe you should invent seatbelts on barstools, hm? You'd make a fortune from pubs alone. No more drunkards falling face first.” He jokes, arm snaked along your back, hand splayed over your ribs, and face dangerously close to your own.

You decide to quip back as revenge for making you almost fall. “I would invent it if you weren't dropping so many projects on my lap.” Still floating above the floors with the help from his hold, he fakes letting you go. You squeak, hands instinctively flying to his shoulders for support. Maybe you shouldn't have teased him when he's the only one standing between you and a bump on your head. “You little—”

He raises a pierced brow, “what'd you say again, love?” His mischievous smirk tells you that he's about to do it again, so you surrender. How could you fight him when he looks at you like you're the only person in the world that's worthy of his touch?

Lips clamping down, you still glare at him despite the overwhelming fondness for the man holding you in place.

“That's what I thought.” Chuckling, he sits you upright back on the stool, he even fixes your shirt for you. “There, lookin' mighty fit today, why are you all dressed up?”

It's your turn to quirk an eyebrow, “dressed up? Hobs I basically live in this shirt.” He unabashedly roams his eyes over to the old band shirt that he made himself once upon a time. “Bold of you to assume I have some place to go.” You say even with the searing heat from your cheeks, and clammy hands.

“We could go,” Hobie shrugs, hiding his sudden shyness, you have that effect on him. “There's a new building we could swing to, if we go now we could still catch the sunset.” He inches closer, hand smoothing down the goosebumps on your arms.

“It's gonna rain, Hobs.”

“How'd you know? You a weather girl now?”

“I can smell it, and also my knees feel it.”

“What are you eighty?” He says with a laugh. “Does that make you a cradle snatcher?” Half joking, he really wishes that you'd get the hint.

Eleven years of friendship and counting, you still haven't crossed that invisible line between friendship and something more. It's not from the lack of trying from Hobie's end, no, he has told you a few times that he fancied you, more than a best friend would. But you're too afraid to say it back, to say or even scream that you fancy him, or love him is the better way to put it. But you're afraid that it might not work out, that friendship is the best thing for the both of you, that all the longing looks thrown between you, and all the lingering touches were all just attraction because you've known each other for basically forever; and the feeling wouldn't last once you do get together.

You don't want to risk your friendship only for it to end in tears and heartache. No, you love him too much to hurt him like that, and he knows it too.

He was more bold with his feelings for you a few years before, years before he was bitten and was given the heavy responsibilities. But now that he bears the title of Spider-man, he's starting to think having a romantic relationship with you while he's tangled up in all the danger he faces everyday, isn't such a great idea. So his advances are much less now, Hobie just misses you, he suppose, that's probably why he asked for your help with his own batch of watches even though he can handle it on his own while he's blindfolded. An excuse to just see you, an excuse to be in your presence. Because if you can't be together, he'd settle for staying like this forever, just best friends.

Best friends who unequivocally love each other, best friends who are waiting for the right time. Even if it means waiting for forever.

You smile softly, knowing that his joke is a half wish. “That means you're a coffin snatcher then.”

Hobie leans closer, hands on top of your table that's behind you, arms caging you in. You can smell the leather on him, and the usual scent he sports when he's particularly in a good mood. You'd know, you gifted the cologne to him. He thinks you're uncomfortable because of the position, he was about to move away but you remedy that with a smile, and with your hand placed on the back of his elbow. He can feel how your pulse hammers against your skin.

“C’mon, love, the view's pretty up there.” His view right now can't compare though.

“I can see the view from here, besides, I still have work to do.”

He tilts his head, an act he knows you can't resist. “I’ll swing you back home quicker than you can say ‘cougar’” you laugh, eyes crinkling in the corners, and he thinks your smile is better than any sunset he has ever seen. “You've been cooped up in here for too long. When was the last time you've seen the sun—?” You open your mouth for a quip but he beats you to it, “not including seeing it from your windows.” Nodding, he raises both eyebrows, looking at you through his long lashes.

For a moment he thought you'd agree, that you bought into his charms. But you clear your throat, moving away, lips tightly closed like you refuse to spill any secrets. Or spill out a confession. I don't want to ruin this, you think, if I go, what would happen up there? Your mind runs through a thousand scenarios, a consequence of your genius mind. It's not all good, you suppose, and you're sure that whatever happens on top of that skyscraper, you'll never come back from it.

You love him, you really do, but he has a heavy burden to carry. You don't want to add to it. Leaning to the side, still sitting on the stool, he instinctively hovers his hand close to your side, just in case you fall off again.

“I fixed the problem on your watch by the way.” Changing the subject is good, changing the subject means you don't have to face reality.

“Yeah?” He acts nonchalant, yet, there's a lump in his throat that threatens to choke him. It's not all your fault, he thinks. All the tiptoeing around each other, all the heavy side glances aren't all your fault, it's his too. He might've faced a hundred or so dangers but he can't seem to find the courage to finally say those three magic words. Jaw tightening, he's not mad at you, he's mad at himself.

“Your initial power source didn't have enough juice. Hence why it can't generate the right particles for inter dimensional travel.”

Hobie leans on the table, hand still close to your waist, eyes roaming intently at your handiwork. You're good, too good at making these watches, even better than Miguel could be. Or he's just biased. You made it look good too, even with the hodgepodge of materials he gave you.

“You figured that out in less than twenty four hours?” He's in awe of you, he could've thought of that, but it would've taken him a tad longer. “Fuckin' brilliant,” he says under his breath.

You raise your chin proudly, “I did, it was easy-peasy.” It was not, you barely slept because you couldn't sleep not while this huge glaring problem sits at your work table. If it needs fixing, you're gonna get it fixed within the day or you think you'll crumble into dust. Especially if it's Hobie asking for help.

Hobie beams, he's incredibly proud of you, but, “you crossed your lines, love. If you want me to catch on fire then you did it brilliantly.”

“What?” Your smug smile melts, eyes scanning the colourful wires. Shoulders sagging, you glare at him. “No, it's not.”

“Yes it is,” chuckling, he takes your hand to guide and point it out for you. “Right there. Between the cooling system and the red wires.”

Eyes narrowed, nose wrinkling, he smiles at your cute expression. “I can't see— oh.” You see it, the mess of wires lies just under the new power source that you were so proud of. “Fuck.”

“You owe me,” Hobie pokes your side.

“No, I don't. Not all of us have super eyesight.”

“Really? Blamin’ my poor eyes?” Hobie widens his hazel eyes, brilliant swirls of colours mesmerize you.

“Your eyes are far from poor.” You shove his face away from you gently, smiling, you laugh at his fake glare. “Don't you have to patrol, spiderman?”

He surrenders, huffing, he takes his mask from his back pocket to put it back on his head. “Fine, just make sure to fix your wires, I don't want to come back to a crater the next time I visit.”

“I'll uncross them, don't worry. I'm not an amateur, y'know.”

Hobie pats your shoulder for now, maybe he'll pay you a visit again tonight just to make sure your flat didn't turn into ashes. You call him back before he could exit through your fire escape.

“Be careful, please?” Your worried tone makes him turn back around to face you. You imagine that he's at least smiling under his mask. “Just…I have no idea what to do with your watch if you suddenly croak.”

“Always so bloody sweet,” walking back towards you, he grins even though you can't see it. Your worries make you reach towards him. Holding him by the lapels of his leather jacket, you trace the little stitches he made. His spider senses tingle, and he hears how your heart quickens. “I'll be fine, yeah? Don't worry ‘bout me.”

“You know I'll always worry.” You whisper.

“I know, I'm like that too when it comes to you.” Your breath hitches in your throat. He shuts his senses down so he can't hear how fast your pulse thumps, or how you weakly swallow down your nerves. “Why don't I come back here tonight, ease that genius mind of yours.” He pokes your forehead, you nod. “Good, I'll bring takeout, that isn't instant ramen. Seriously, love, that shit ain't good for you.”

“It's tasty though.”

“You'll get kidney stones.” He begins to walk backwards, so he could still see your face as he goes. For some reason, he doesn't want to go. But he suppose that he always has this feeling whenever he visits.

“I've got a clean kidney,” you softly smile, waving goodbye, hoping that he comes back to you in one piece just like always.

“Sure you do,” one leg after the other, he exits from the window until you're staring into your open window and until his lingering scent fades.

“Right,” you sigh, slapping your cheeks to stay in the present, then turning around to continue your work.

For an hour you painstakingly untangle the wires with your tweezers, minutes turn into hours, and your empty stomach grumbles. Lower back aching once again. For a second you're just about finishing it, then a spark lights up, then a blinding explosion of colours.

You should've worn rubber gloves.

—

Hobie swings casually towards your flat, it's a lot harder to swing with one hand while the other holds onto the plastic bag filled with your favourite. Smiling under his mask, wind blowing towards him, buildings whizz past as he increases his speed.

The smell of smoke hits his nose. Then puffs of black tar greets him where your flat used to be.

Heart in his stomach. He lands on the pavement less gracefully, the bag slipping through his trembling fingers.

A crowd watches on at the burning building, pieces of glass lay under his boots, crunching as he stands frozen on the spot. His eyes roam for your familiar face, around the people that watch the blaze, grief curls around his throat when he doesn't find you amidst the throng of strangers. It slowly suffocates him.

Your name spills out of his lips, hoping with every utterance of your name you'll emerge unscathed. He feels dizzy.

A firefighter notices him. Hope blossoms in his chest when Hobie turns towards the uniformed man. But the forlorn face the man sports under the soot covering his skin says it all. “There's no survivors!” He yells above the sirens, Hobie crumbles to his feet. “There's no survivors. You're too late, Spiderman.”

He's too late. His ears ring, he could only hear the crackling of the fire whilst it eats away at you. Charred wood collapses, nose stinging from the smoke, vision blurry as tears silently fall.

You're gone. And all that's left of you are ashes that float down towards him like grotesque snowflakes. Sticking to his suit, heat clinging to his skin.

It's too soon, he had a lifetime with you. A sudden burst of rain pelts at him. You were right, rain was coming.

He should've tried harder to convince you to go out.

—

A swirl of neon colours whizz past as you fall into the kaleidoscope depths. Scream stuck in your throat, hand stinging from how you grip the watch, or what's left of it. It's now in your hand, jagged metal pieces piercing your skin. There's a light at the end of the tunnel, bracing yourself, you fall on the harsh concrete. The portal spits you out feet first, skidding across, body tumbling on the ground. You're otherwise unharmed despite the harsh landing.

Eyes adjusting in the light, you blink rapidly, shielding your eyesight from the intense sun.

Wait, the sun? Wasn't it sunset a few minutes ago?

Sitting up, you roam your eyes around where you landed. The familiar London skyline is to your right, while on your left are buildings you can't seem to recognize no matter how you try to remember.

“I don't think I'm in Kansas anymore.” You say, full of bewilderment. The watch worked, but in the way you wanted it to.

The roof where you landed on is dirty, full of abandoned broken furniture. Pots upon pots of dead plants stacked on top of the other. Good thing there isn't any broken glass or you'd be bleeding.

Propping yourself up, you stand up on two wobbly feet. Stomach churning, vision warbling, you think you're about to be sick. You can't believe Hobie does this on a daily basis.

You inhale sharply, trying to compose yourself and the instant ramen in your stomach. “Oh fuck.” Exhaling, you calm yourself down. Heart finally steadying to a normal rhythm, you sigh before you check the remains of the cracked watch in your hand. “Shit!” The broken pieces fall off from your palm as you look at it. “I'm fucked!”

Like a child throwing a tantrum, you kick a cardboard box, it soars across the roof. Groaning loudly, you stomp on the ground as if it was its fault that you're in another dimension.

You felt it before it happened. Something spreads inside you, like a bolt of lightning has struck you. The sensation starts from the crown of your head to your fingertips, goosebumps appearing on your skin, you glitch for only a second but it's enough to give you motion sickness.

“Oh my fuck—!” A blast from behind you reverberates, wind rushing around you, whipping your searing skin. “What the—?”

If being stuck in an alternative universe wasn't enough, a guy wearing huge mechanical wings is approaching you quickly. Too quickly.

Before you could duck, the cackling vulture grabs you from the roof. Lifting you up, the whiplash from his momentum almost breaks your neck.

“Got you!” He laughs in your ears, metallic claws digging into your biceps. A black slithering blob weaves around his bicep, crawling up to your own like a slimy worm.

“What the hell, old man!” You scream above the noisy exhaust of his wings. “Let me go! I was literally just standing there!”

He clicks his tongue, like he's chastising a child. “No, no, no, not until he gives me what I want. Then I'll think about letting you go, but it's a long drop.”

“Who—?” As he says the word ‘drop’ you look down, vertigo making you nauseous. You must be a hundred feet above the streets. You wish Hobie was here to save you. Tears in your eyes, panic sets in, making your hands tremble and your chest desperately heave in air.

A flash of red and black, a harsh crack of bone, and a splash of something warm on your cheek, you fall from the vulture’s hold.

Gasping, reaching for something, anything to hold onto, you get snatched up before you turn into a bloody street pancake.

A strong arm envelops you as you hug tighter, face hiding away from the harsh winds. Clinging onto the stranger, they seem oddly familiar under your touch. They smell familiar too, like your nose is so used to it that you can recognize it above anything else. Leather and bergamot, the scent he wears when he's in a good mood.

You raise your head to take a peek at your savior. The spikes on his head are dark and swirly, like an evil unicorn's horn. They don't shine in the sunlight anymore, it's the same deep shade as his mask. He no longer bears the resemblance of your Hobie. He feels like him, smells like him, even the warmth spreading to you is the same. There's a deep familiarity, yet, there's something amiss.

“Hobie?” You call, and when he shifts his head to gaze at you, his grip loosens.

Craning his neck down, the eyes of his mask widens. “Y/N?” He breathlessly asks, arm sliding off from shock. “Shit!”

“Hobie!” Briefly falling, he catches you immediately. You both land on a roof, his arms are around you, hand shielding your head from the collision as you both slide across the terracotta roof. Eyes closed, you hide your face on his chest as he bears the impact for you.

Hobie groans, glad that he's wearing leather that helped with lessening his injuries from the awkward fall. Opening his eyes, he thinks he has died when he sees your face look back at him.

Expression etched into worry, you check for any injuries on his body. You get a good look at his suit, it's different, way different than you saw him last. The only thing that stayed the same is his old leather vest, but it looks like it's more well worn than the last time you've seen it. There's marks on the leather, and holes where it's not supposed to be in. You'd mend it for him like always, but there's more pressing matters.

Hobie reaches for you, black cloth enveloping and swirling around his toned arms, showing a bit of his scarred skin. You don't miss how his hands tremble as he holds your face in his calloused hands. It's all familiar to you, yet, his hands are more rugged, rougher, but you know it's him. You could recognize his touch anywhere.

“Did the vulture finally get me?” You raise an eyebrow at his question. The heaviness in his chest slowly fades for the first time in years, he wants to tell you everything, to hold you forever in his arms until all the holes in his heart are filled by you once more. His thumbs wipe the crimson off of your cheek, an instinct of his.

“W-what?” You shake your head, and he relishes at the sound of your voice. The same voice he has only heard in your old voicemails that he plays before going to bed. “I think you have a concussion, Hobs.” Gently, you reach for his mask, he stops you before you could lift it away.

“Hobs,” he chuckles weakly, “I haven't heard of that name in years.”

You know this isn't your Hobie but you can't help but sympathize with him, you can hear the sadness and hurt laced with his deeper tone. You'd ask, but it isn't your place. Literally.

Hobie sits up with a groan, back cracking, the sound making you wince. “Sounds like you need to stretch more.” You joke.

He laughs, his mind tricks him, making him think of all the teasing you've said to him once upon a time.

“I think my back is beyond saving by just stretching.” Head leaning on his elbow, arm propped up by his knee, he still can't wrap his mind around your existence. “Which dimension did you come from?”

You straighten your back, lips curling into a smile. “How'd you know I'm not from here?”

Hobie reaches for his mask, for a moment he pauses. Still, with an apprehensive tug, he takes off his mask. Shock and confusion is evident in your expression. Reminding him of the time when he told you he was Spider-Man all those years ago.

“You're…old.” A hundred questions flood your mind at the sight of his crow’s feet that decorates his eyes. He has smile lines around his mouth, he still has piercings but there's less of them now. His hair is graying, patches of grey that weave around his locs. Under the wear of time on his face, you could recognize that face amidst a thousand faces. It's Hobie, but not your Hobie. “Definitely not in Kansas anymore.”

He chuckles deeply, he misses that humour of yours. “You look how I remember.” he whispers, you could barely hear his words.

You knit your eyebrows together. “Did I travel to the future instead of a different dimension?” The same sensation passes through you, rattling your bones and wracking your senses. You glitch once again. Stomach churning, you cough out harshly.

Shaking his head, Hobie stands up then he gives you a hand. “Not time travel,” you take his hand weakly, lifting you up, he worries for you. “Definitely from another universe. Come with me to the safehouse and we'll fix your watch, yeah?”

Nodding, you trust him completely. “Okay, just to remind you though, don't jostle me around too much—”

“You get motion sick from web swingin’, I know, I remember.” His heart aches, and you can see it hidden behind his hazel eyes.

—

After swinging across the city, and with you fighting the bile rising to your throat, you two finally make it to his safehouse that's masquerading as an old laundromat. You and older Hobie enter from the back door, and another door greets you, all thick steel and seemingly bullet proof.

He enters a set of codes on the numpad that you didn't notice until he was pressing numbers in. You don't bring out the fact that the passcode was your birthday.

The door beeps, an indication that it's unlocked. He looks at you over his shoulder, smiling softly at your nervous eyes.

“Stay behind me, yeah? Don't mind the lads. Or the whispers.”

“Whispers? Why would they gossip about me?”

“Nothin'” he turns back around. “Just stay close to me.”

“Okay, I wasn't planning to wander anyway, it looks like a small house so—” just as you say it, a long staircase leading down to what looks like the abyss makes you think otherwise. “Are you evil Hobie? You planning on bringing me to your little house of horrors to kill me?”

“Are you part of the sinister six?” He asks flatly, slightly enjoying the banter.

“No—”

“Then you've got nothin’ to worry ‘bout.” Hobie continues to walk down the stairs, heavy boots thudding against the concrete with every footstep. Darkness surrounds him quickly, you could only see the outline of him under the dark. He notices the way you stay on top of the stairs, hands wringing together. “I've got a torch if you're scared—”

“Yes!” You exclaim too fast. “I mean, sure, yeah.” He doesn't tease, for that you silently thank him. You hear a click, and then a torch coming from a gadget on his arm lights the way. “Thanks,” you whisper, finally catching up with him.

The stairs lead you down further, with only Hobie's torch guiding the way, you subtly hold the hem of his vest. If he minded, he never said anything. Ears popping, another door greets you at the end.

Hobie knocks, a rhythm that you can't quite place. A panel on the door slides open, a pair of eyes roams over to Hobie's face and then to yours. Brown eyes widening at the sight of you, they close the panel, then they open the metal door with a creak. Light escapes from the opening, and you shield your eyes from the sudden brightness.

“Holy fucking shit,” a female voice exclaims. Their cadence is full of surprise, and somewhat breathless. “W-what— how?”

“She's not from here,” Hobie explains, almost sounding forlorn at his own words.

Your eyes finally adjust, and you see an older Yuri gawking at you. She has aged well and gracefully, you think, as she sports the lighter hair with confidence and wrinkles barely noticeable.

“Yuri?” You still ask even though you're ninety nine percent sure that it's her.

“The one and only, gorgeous.” Without thinking, she drags you inside, pulling you in for a hug. You heard her sniffle, and you felt how her shoulders relaxed just from the hug alone. So you let her embrace you, with your hand awkwardly rubbing in an attempt to soothe her. Pulling away, she holds you at arm's length. She pats your shoulder, smoothing your sleeves, “still gorgeous, and still unfair.” Snorting, she lets you go, turning towards your companion. “Gwen's been waiting for you.”

Hobie gets flung back to the present, the simple sight of Yuri hugging you has brought him to the past, back when everything was better.

You stare at him, and he knows there's a lot of questions swimming in that genius mind of yours. He nods once wordlessly, not trusting his own mouth to form coherent words right now.

You follow him just as he instructed, Yuri reluctantly lets you go. Your nails dig into your sweaty palms, and eyes restlessly looking around the safe house. The place is expansive, walls high up, and when you look down, you see weathered tiles that have cracked from time. There's a train track in the middle, and you realize it's an old metro station. Instead of advertisements and train schedules on the walls, you see several monitors hanging on it, thousands of wires running through all of them, beeping and buzzing coming out of the computers. There's also weapon racks littered around the place, large and something that looks like it came from a sci-fi film.

There's a lot of people running around, all clad in the same style as Hobie. Leather, chains and metal spikes all adorning their forms. You quickly look away whenever you pass a stranger who widens their eyes at the sight of you.

Tugging at Hobie's vest, you peer at him. “Why does everyone give me that same look? And who's Gwen?”

He doesn't stop his strides, “Gwen's a friend, she knows you, kind of.” He decides to tease you. Maybe it's his brain trying to compensate for the time he hasn't done it. “Why? You jealous? Green eyed monster rearing its ugly mug?”

You scoff with a playful smile. “Technically, I don't know you, so…” his smile wavers, “there's no way I'd be jealous. Also you're…old.” His smile returns, there's a question that suddenly pops in your mind. “Are we a thing here?” You suppose you should ask just to get it away, and this isn't even the same Hobie back home so you don't lose anything by asking.

His face flattens, something passes by his eyes and he turns away. “Don't worry ‘bout it.”

“That's not answering my question, or any of my questions—”

“Gwen.” Hobie passes by you without sparing you a glance.

He enters a large open space that is full of computers and screens that blink and beep. There's a dozen or so people that walk around the area, all looking frazzled and tired. It looks like a command center of some sorts. A stranger bumps into you, accidentally shoving you by your shoulder.

“Sorry, I—” The man stops in his tracks, it's Ned, or at least this universe's version of Ned. The wrinkles around his eyes and white hair says that he must've been the same age as this Hobie. The clipboard in his hand falls from his grasp, eyes wide and watery, he gasps. “Y/N—”

Hobie appears next to you, “yeah it's her, Ned.”

“B-but…she's—”

Hobie shakes his head, wordlessly having a conversation with his best friend. “We'll talk later, I promise.” He softens his voice. The interaction has you more confused. They have a stare down with you caught in the middle.

You give Ned an apologetic smile. Crouching, you take the fallen clipboard, giving it back to him. “Here, sorry for bumping into you.”

His hand trembles as he takes it. “It's okay, I gotta go.” Rushing, he leaves you and Hobie.

“Is he okay? Please don't tell me you're working him to the bone.” You scold him.

“No, you know I'll never do that.”

“Just like I said, I technically don't know you.” Exasperated from all the dodging Hobie has done, you walk away and towards the command center where a large table sits in the middle and in-between a huge screen.

Hobie has forgotten has stubborn you can be, following behind you, he can already see Gwen looking furious just standing next to the table, all menacing like.

“Hobie, what the fuck did you do?” The sudden angry tone makes your skin jump, kind of reminding you of your days back in school. “Have you finally lost your damn mind?” The blond woman gestures towards you.

There's red streaks in her braided hair, clothes perfectly suited to her form. She stands out from the rest, she looks sporty in her varsity jacket and white trainers. But of course she wears a pair of leather pants and an old band shirt that says ‘fuck getting fridged!’ You have no idea what that means.

Before she could blow a gasket, you explain yourself. “It's not time travel actually,” you say, voice faltering once you notice all eyes are on you. “It's interdimensional travel— on accident! I didn't mean to.”

Gwen crosses her arms over her chest, “you a spiderperson? Do you answer to Miguel?”

“No, not a spiderperson, just some idiot who made a huge mistake by trying to make her own watch because my best friend asked me to.” You take the broken watch from your pocket to place it on the table. “See? I broke it.”

“Your Hobie asked you to help him?” Older Hobie asks, you nod, his eyes flick over to you and then the bracelet. “Sounds like something I would do.” He whispers to himself.

“Wait, you don't have a watch on you anymore? Then—” Gwen starts but your glitching interrupts her.

It was only two seconds but you felt like your insides were being ripped apart, and your eyeballs were getting scooped out by a spoon. Heaving, hands gripping on the table for balance, you cough loudly as Hobie pats your back.

“Motherfucker—! That one was worse than the last one.” You almost choke on your own spit. “Goddamnit.”

“I was about to ask why you're not glitching, I guess I got my answer.” Gwen hands you a water bottle. “Here.” Turning towards Hobie, who's already picking apart the bracelet, she sternly calls for his attention. “What do you plan with her?”

“Fix her watch then let her stay because she's Y/N.” He nonchalantly says, lying through his teeth to rile up his already mad right hand woman.

“Your real plan, Hobie.” She taps her foot impatiently, you still wonder what his words meant. “We don't have the time or the resources to help her right now. Especially when our little machine still hasn't turned on.”

“Would you rather have her molecules ripped apart or spare a few parts so she could go home?” Hobie places his hands on top of the table, eyes narrowed, challenging Gwen. Whilst you take in his words. “Our main focus still hasn't changed, she's a guest and if we don't help her she will die.” Inhaling, he continues, “you heard her, she has someone to go back too. Someone who's lookin' for her. Do you really want him to experience that kind of—” he stops after feeling your eyes on him. He clears his throat. “We'll help her fix the watch, it'll take me a few hours to finish it and we'll still be on schedule for the attack.”

You set aside your oncoming demise to ask him about ‘the attack’. “Schedule for what?”

Gwen visibly relaxes from your gaze, you surmise that this universe’s you has history with her. “We're gonna take down Osborn once and for all.”

You knit your brows together. “You haven't done that yet?”

Gwen and Hobie blinks in surprise, intrigued, everyone else who wasn't already eavesdropping looks at you expectantly.

“What do you mean ‘haven't?’” Gwen asks, eyebrow raised.

“We already did that in our dimension a few years ago. I still have a few scars from it.”

Hobie cranes his neck towards Gwen, hazel eyes suddenly forlorn, shoulders heavy, and jaw tightening. “You succeeded?”

It all hits you, they've failed in where you and your friends have succeeded. You gained where they've lost, and you feel for their pain, you for*his suffering. You now know why he gave you that look the first time he saw you.

Composing yourself, even though your chest feels heavy, you still act as if their revelation doesn't bother you, when it has impacted you like you're the one who lost. “Y-yeah, I mean everyone helped a lot. I just did the best I can.” You scratch the back of your neck, “we had this thing that can cripple the symbiote inside his men—”

Gwen takes out a small circular device from her pocket. “Like this?”

You shake your head, “no, we just hooked a bunch of amplifiers around the area and Hobie and his band played really fucking loud. My ears ring just thinking about it.”

“Yeah we all know about them hating loud sounds but that didn't work for us before.” Gwen and Hobie's hopes are dashed. “And after all the tries, we stopped trying that method.”

“Why don't you guys ask for help with spider society? I'm sure—”

Hobie cuts you off, scowling at his feet. “I did, I asked for help. And what did that vampire from 2099 say?” He grows frustrated, knuckles shaking, eyes looking away from you. “He refused, saying that no one could intervene. That this was my canon event, and if anybody helped that it'll put the multiverse into dangerous territory.” Shaking his head, the man before shows up, and Hobie turns away from him. “It's bullshit, that's why I left.”

“We did find out why sound doesn't disable the symbiotes. Osborn made some kind of shield around them.” Gwen pipes up, shifting the conversation before Hobie gets angrier from the mere mention of Miguel.

“Like armor?” You ask.

“Yes, it's invisible to the naked eye. Thanks to Hobie, we finally found their Achilles heel. If only we could get this damn device to work then we'll be free of him and his regime.” She continues.

“Maybe I can help—”

“No,” Hobie quickly says, hurt in his eyes, he avoids yours. “No, I'll get your watch fixed up and you can go.”

“But I may be able to help—”

“No,” he emphasizes, with a shaky breath, he calls for Yuri. “Take her to the extra room,” instructing Yuri, she smiles at you apologetically. “Stay there until your watch is fixed.”

“She might be right—” Gwen starts but Hobie ignores her.

You glitch once again, stomach turning inside out, this time you feel like your skin is being ripped away. Eyes rolling on the back of your head, head spiralling. The next thing you know, you're laying on top of a hard mattress. Groaning, vision adjusting, you sit up carefully.

Your eyes adjust to the dim light hanging above, a single light bulb that swings from a draft seeping out of a crack in the wall. The room is small, barely even fitting the single bed. Walls of grey concrete surround you on all sides, there's a few posters on the walls that are tacked lopsidedly. They're all worn down, like they're older than you from the looks of the fading ink. A singular guitar sits at the corner, black and cherry red, hundreds of stickers are placed on it, adding to the roses that are painted all over it. It screams Hobie, but not your Hobie. Just sitting on his bed makes you miss him, even though you know they are not the same.

Stretching your aching neck from awkward angles it was put through because of the glitching, you spot a polaroid picture sticking out from under the pillow. You don't want to be nosy, but seeing your own face smile at you has you reaching for the photograph.

It's you, but not you exactly. Your face is the same, clothes you can't recognize. The only thing you can recognize is the way you hold onto Hobie. This universe's Hobie. Cheek pressed on his own, mirrored smiles on both your lips, his arm around your waist, pulling you close as if you'd fade away. And your arms enveloping around him like you're shielding him from harm. There's one detail that jumps at you with how yellowed the paper is and how crumpled the corners are, you're both incredibly young.

“Oh,” There had been signs, and this now confirms it.

You look at the steel door as if you had x-ray vision, as if you can see through it and see the Hobie that this version of you had loved once upon a dimly lit pub where the polaroid was taken.

Placing the picture back where you found it, you test your shaky legs. You make it two steps before you start glitching out, tumbling towards the door, forehead pressed on the cold steel, you heave dryly.

There's tears in your eyes when you open the door. Silence greets you, the air is cold and stagnant, the lights that were blinking at you earlier are now dim enough that you have to feel your way towards the concrete hallway and out into the warm light. Your hands glide along the almost frozen walls, rough sandy concrete hitting your palms like sandpaper. Footsteps quiet to not rouse the sleeping crew.

Finally making it out, lungs cool, and teeth chattering, you feel sicker by the minute. Hobie stands next to the large console, back towards you. Metals clicking and grinding against each other, Hobie doesn't look over his shoulder from your presence.

You knock on the wall to not startle him and ruin his work. Hobie finally cranes his neck to look at you, shoulders tensed and eyebrows knitted together in either frustration or concentration.

“You okay?” You ask, voice echoing in the vast room.

“I should be askin’ you that.” He goes back to the table, immediately tinkering.

“Well, are you?”

“You're stubborn.”

“My best quality.”

You hear him softly chuckle thanks to the silence hanging in the air. Walking closer, you smile at the sight of his rubber gloves that protect his hands.

“So?” You ask again.

“Never better.” He flatly says, eyes focused on putting your watch together.

“Why'd you leave the society?”

“Thought you were smart?”

“I am, and a consequence of that is being utterly curious.”

Hobie sighs but doesn't stop working. “Creative differences.”

“Ah, I knew it. You and my Hobie would get along well.” Your words trail off when you see the same spherical tech sitting next to him. “Is that the thing you can't figure out?”

He spares it a glance. “Yeah, the bane of my existence.”

You go around him to look at it closely. Eyes narrowed, arms tucked, you lean closer. “I think—” you grab it before Hobie could stop you. The glitching must've taken a toll in your critical thinking because you crack it open like an egg in your hands. “That's your problem.”

“What the fuck?” He says breathlessly, almost yelling, eyes wide, hands already grabbing the tech to fix it. “What is wrong with you?”

“Thin shell.”

“We've established that you have a thin skull—”

“Rude, but I'm talking about that.” You point at the sphere while Hobie's cradling it like a baby. “the shell is too thin,” you take half of it, pointing out its faults. “See? You need to make the shell a bit thicker, put a pressure plate so that—”

Hobie has a growing smile. “When it's thrown it automatically turns on. With the thicker shell it can withstand it and with it helps distribute the energy more evenly. Shutting all the shields down around its vicinity without needing to push a button.” His eyes widen with realization with every word he says that you already know of. “That way we can arm every rebel with a hundred of these and take down Osborn's venoms without risking close combat. Fuckin' brilliant.” He looks at you in wonder. Embarrassment flickers in his eyes, he should've thought of that, yet, he didn't. You might not be his Y/N but you're worthy of her name.

“Sometimes the easier solution is the best.” Your next sentence has your hands shaking, he notices. “Was your Y/N as brilliant as me?” You finally ask.

Hobie's cheery face falls, “She was smart, but not that brilliant. Her bravery makes up for it.”

“I'm sorry.” Tears stick to your lashes, heart aching for the man before you.

“You are curious.” After years without you, he still has no idea how to respond to those exact words. “How you feelin’?”

“Me?”

“Finding out a version of you is dead must be fuckin' weird.”

You shake your head. “I first thought that I'd see an old wrinkly me.” A half joke. You smile at him to make him feel better, but with how forlorn those hazel eyes are, you might've made it all worse. You weren't lying, you wanted to see a glimpse of your future, but finding out the version of you here is long dead doesn't compare to the feeling of losing someone you've known for years, loved even. “It's terrifying, but it doesn't compare to how hurt you must be. Losing her, I mean.”

He didn't see you grow old. He didn't experience growing old with you.

Hobie clears his throat, “I know you're not her.”

“And I know you're not him. But it looks like we both share the same feelings for them respectively.”

“That obvious?”

“Hobie once told me that in every universe there's always someone for Spider-Man. So yes, it's obvious.” You give him an empathetic smile. “How'd you know it's the same for me?” For us?

“You talk about him like how I talk about her. Takes one to know one, love.” He holds your hand briefly, like it was acting on an old instinct. “Have you told him? How much you're bloody smitten? I have a feelin’ you haven't.”

You nervously chuckle, hands fiddling with a loose screw on the table. “Nope.”

“Let me guess, waitin’ for the right time? Scared of what would happen in the long run?” He says knowingly.

You don't look him in the eyes. “Yeah.”

Something flashes behind Hobie's eyes, after a beat of silence, he finally speaks. “She died protectin’ my crew, did you know that? She died protectin' me, and how do I thank her? Years of failing, years of fighting and we've only come close but never winning in the end.” Hobie sniffs, head raised to look at the graffiti painted on the ceiling. “If i just told her that I loved her, I would've had more time with her. Instead, I was a coward, all those years wasted because I'm a coward.” Hobie finally looks at you, the warm light from the lamp lights the trapped tears in his eyes. “Don't wait for the right time.”

You shake your head, heart clenching at the sight. “I don't think all those years were wasted. You loved her quietly, and I think she did too. Time spent together isn't wasted, just like your silent love. Love is never wasted.”

He smiles softly, the resemblance of a younger Hobie is etched under the small smile. “You would know.”

“I would know,” you smile back. Trepidation hangs around your neck like a two ton steel necklace. “How would I know that he feels the same way? What if it doesn't work out? Or worse, reject me?”

“His loss,” Hobie grins, a genuine one that you haven't seen this version of him sport. It's the only thing you need for reassurance. “But I highly doubt that will happen.”

Nodding, you feel determination where the heaviness once resided. “I'll tell him when I get back. I promise.” You say wholeheartedly.

“You better, don't make the same choices I did.” Hobie holds your hands like how someone holds a feather, gentle and kind. “At least I got to see her one last time, eh, love? A bit younger but beggars can't be choosers.” You feel something heavy on your wrist. Looking down, you see a working watch. Hobie slyly put it on you, it even has your dimension already keyed in on the screen. You look back at him, mouth slightly agape. “Too much power, that was the problem. Sometimes the easier solution is the best.” You laugh at him using your own words against you.

“Thank you, do me a favour?”

“Tit for tat, huh?”

You giggle, then you face him seriously. “Crush Osborne. Fucking decimate him. Or I'll come back and bring the cavalry.”

Hobie's finger ghosts above the button. “You know where to find me, love.”

“And you know where I am.” You smile as the portal opens behind you. A gust of air breezes past you, eyelashes fluttering in the wind, a kaleidoscope of colors dancing on Hobie's face, illuminating his hopeful eyes. “I'm serious, if you need help—”

He slides his hands away from yours. “Go home, Y/N, your Hobie is lookin' for you.” With the mention of him, you give him one last smile for him to remember. You take a step back and fall back into the portal.

—

You fall unceremoniously on the wet pavement, body crashing on a pile of discarded boxes and metal trash cans. The crashing sound would've startled anybody and would have their attention, but no one seems to pay you mind as everyone stares at the ashy remnants of your flat. Groaning, you slap your forehead because of your stupidity. You feel relieved because you seem to be home. Everything seems to be in place, and everything seems to be normal.

“Fucking idiot.” You whisper breathlessly at the sight of your charred flat. Your relief gets washed away when you see Hobie in his suit kneeling down in agony whilst bystanders watch on in grief. Your eyes flick over to him and back to your flat, then back to him.

His shoulders are shaking, head in his hands, nails digging into his mask. You'd yell his name if not for the crowd. Instead, you walk to him, legs still wobbly but getting steady with every step. Soon enough, before you could make your presence known with your hand reaching for his shoulder, he moves his head so fast that you're afraid that his neck would snap. The eyes of his mask widens, standing up, he grabs you lightning quick.

Arms holding you close, you feel his warmth as he slides his hand to your pulse. Hobie sighs in relief, even laughing as he slots his face in the crook of your neck.

You mirror him, hands kneading on his back, telling him you're back and you're not going anywhere with the simple touch.

“I thought— where—?” he starts, but you press your lips on his cheek. He practically freezes in place even with his mask acting as a barrier.

“I love you,” you confess, just as promised, and truthfully. “I love you—!” In a half second after the words are uttered, he swings you both effortlessly on a rooftop, away from prying eyes.

Hobie steadies you on your feet, mask discarded in a heartbeat. “You mean it?”

“Of course I do.” You don't miss the sight of his tear stained cheeks. Your hands reach for him, thumbs rubbing softly on each cheek. “I love you, Hobie.”

“Good, then you don't mind me doin' this?” The warmth of his hand seeps through his gloves, that won't do, so he takes his gloves off to feel you. His bare hand is on your nape, the other is placed on your waist, fingers tapping on your skin lovingly.

You already know what he's asking. “Nope, not at all—”

With an inhale, he closes the distance, kissing you, taking your breath away.

You've fulfilled your promise.

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just-some-random-blogger · 1 year

Text

Safe Keeping | 5

Part 1 2 3 4 5 6

What say you, lady? Don't you think the Hound would make a fine husband? He would protect you, yes, and you would bear him many babes." I curtsy again but this time, my voice falters when I speak, "I- I think he would," I turn to my left, "Lord Sandor would make a fine husband... a fine father."

Sandor Clegane x Reader | 6k+ | cw: fem!reader, mentions/depictions of injury/violence/death/trauma, forced marriage, enemies to lovers, slow burn, angst, emotional unavailability, emotional vulnerability, The Hound being abrasive, miscommunication, baby fever, fluff!, typos, etc.

A/N: i said i'd end this on p5 but i think i'll be ending at p7 HAHHAH lol originally posted on ao3 but felt like posting it on here

Tagging: @otteropera @poisonsage808 @glitterandgoldfinds @the-queen-of-sorrows @minttea07 @fluffpudel @j3nn-1

I suck in a sharp breath as I rouse due to the sound of groaning. I sit up from my bed and vaguely hear mewling.

I light the oil lamp by the bedside table and wipe my face, "Sandor?"

I inspect his face but realize he is turned away from me. He is laid on his chest on the edge-most part of the other side of the bed.

He lets out a shaky breath. He sounds like he'd been running when he finally speaks, "fine."

I knit my brows and swivel on my knees. I move to his side and hear his heavy breathing. I ghost a hand over the blankets covering him, "is it your back?"

He hisses shakily, "sss- m'fine!"

I slowly take the blanket in hand and pull it down.

"F-fi-"

The white bounds on his back are bloody red. "You're bleeding."

"Fine," he whispers.

I get up from the bed and run out of the bedroom. I immediately head for maester Yannick's room and knock on his door. The moment the door opens, I tell him Sandor's wounds are bleeding. We immediately go back to our room.

Sandor mutters he's fine as the maester inspects him. He mutters it even though no one is speaking. To say I am worried is a deep understatement.

"His wound has festered," Yannick declares.

A line forms between my brows as Yannick walks off and Sandor continues to mutter he's fine. I follow after him, "what are we to do?"

"We need to burn his wound to stop it from festering any further."

I clench my teeth at the thought.

"Worry not, my lady," he says, "I will give him something for the pain."

I sigh, "is there not another way?" I think about his facial scar, "he's been burned once."

Yannick offers me a look, "yes," he sighs, "but this one is necessary for his health, Lady Clegane."

I walk back to my bedroom to prepare Sandor as maester Yannick prepares the things he will use.

I go to the side of the bed. I kneel in front of the Hound, "my lord."

"M'fine."

I make a face at the sight of the sweat permeating around his forehead and neck. I brush his hair back, "maester Yannick says your wound is festering."

"F-fine-"

"He says we have to burn your wound to stop it from-"

I jolt back when he screams, "NO!"

I fall on my butt and look back at him as he pushes himself up to stand.

"NO FUCKING FIRE!" he growls as he gets on his feet. I half expect him to walk away, I half expect him to do something to me, instead he just stands there. He looks at me then screws his eyes shut, "no fire."

He lets out a deep breath and I stand. I freeze a second when I see him reach out to me. He quickly withdraws his hand when I get on my feet.

"Sandor," I step closer, "if we don't do this, your wounds are--"

"I don't like fire!" he quips.

We stand there in silence.

Maester Yannick walks in with a tray. He looks at his lord and motions with his head, "you needn't stand for this. Please, lie back-"

"NO FIRE!" he snaps, turning around.

The old man stops in his tracks.

The Hound turns to him, and when he does, I get a view of the blood on his back. I make a face, "Sandor."

He looks back at me when I take his arm.

His expression is so unlike him. He looks at me in a way I've never seen before. His eyes stare back at me with the same intensity his scar had in this moment. I feel my throat tighten, "I know this... this procedure makes you feel... hesi-"

"Scared."

My jaw drops. My ears ring at the sound of the word. I step forward and grip both of his arms. My eyes widen in concern and my brows furrow, "Sandor."

"Don't make me do this," he whispers.

My breath hitches when he grips my arms with trembling hands. My eyes dart to maester Yannick, "is there another way, maester?"

Yannick stares at me for a moment and sighs, "I could remove the puss and change the dressings of his wounds, but I fear it might seep through his lungs. We would be risking his life."

I turn back to Sandor, "would you rather risk that?"

He closes his eyes.

Before he can think to answer, I do, "I would not."

He opens his eyes.

I make a sound when I see how his eyes watered. I get on my tip toes and take his cheeks in my hand, "we'll give you something for the pain."

"Yes, my lord," maester Yannick walks towards the bed and places his tray there. He grabs the ewer and the cup on it and hands it to Sandor, "you may have as much as you desire."

"I don't want to do this," he tightens his grip on me and pulls me closer. This is when I realize he was trembling all over.

"Sandor."

He chokes out a sob, "don't make me do this."

"San-" I cut myself off with a gasp.

He drops to his knees and wraps his arms around my waist. He sinks his face into my belly and muffles out, "please."

I bring my hands up in shock, extremely unsure of what to do. I turn to maester Yannick for guidance. He frowns, "my lord, please. We understand your fear. What we wish to do is meant to help you however. We want to help you get better."

Sandor cries into my nightgown.

I finally bring my hands down. I brush his hair back, "it's alright," I hush, "I am here for you, my love. I want to keep you safe. Believe me."

He presses his cheek against me and pulls me closer. I feel his fingers dig into my flesh, "don't make me do it."

I look at maester Yannick. He looks back at me. I sigh, "Lord Clegane does not want to go through with it."

"But my lady-"

"Perhaps he will change his mind in the morning, maester," I raise a hand, "we did take him off-guard."

Yannick sighs. He nods, "of course."

I feel Sandor look up at me. I look down at him and brush his hair back, "will you at least let him change your wounds?"

Sandor stares at me for a long moment before nodding. I nod back and slowly pull away from him.

Maester Yannick undoes Sandor's bandages and I offer him milk of the poppy. He takes a cup from me, and downs it.

Just before he's about to get rewrapped, he turns to Yannick, "wait."

The maester looks down at the kneeled man.

"Will you burn my whole back?"

"Just the worst gash, my lord. There is a large one and a small one."

Sandor turns to me, "I'll do it."

I nod and smile at him.

"But only if you'll hold me," he reaches out a hand.

I nod quicker and take his hand, "of course."

Sandor immediately rips me into him and buries his face into my belly again. He mumbles, "be done with it."

Maester Yannick prepares his tools in haste.

I stroke his head and sing him a lullaby, the one that was sung to me when I was scared. I whisper in between the lyrics, "it'll be alright."

He shudders hotly against me.

Sandor remained kneeled the entire time. He did not make a sound when his wounds were being burned. All he did was embrace me for dear life and sink his face into my side.

When it was done, he would not let me go nor let maester Yannick bind his wounds. He only let up when I promised him he could hold me again after.

And right after he was wrapped up, he stood up and nearly flung himself onto the bed where I had been sitting. He grabs me and begs to hold me until we sleep. I warily wrap my arms around him, making sure not to hit his wounds, and whisper, "you can hold me for as long as you want, my lord."

He lets out a shaky breath, "thank you."

My eyes flutter open. I turn to other side of the bed. Though it's been a three days now, it's still a wonder to see him beside me when I wake. It gave me a strange sense of joy to be around him. I figured it was due to the safety I felt in his presence. I tried not to think about it too much, nor dwell on the fact he's been sleeping in, for I knew it would be short lived.

He hadn't been able to do much for the past days. He was still a long way from recovering from his injuries. Maester Yannick said it would take at least another week for him to be able to walk around again. He got rather dizzy when he did right now.

And as horrible as it is to say, I liked him like this. He could not fight me, for he had no energy to, I didn't have to worry about him, for he was stationed nearby, and I felt no guilt in speaking to him about issues of our house, because he had no choice but to listen if he wanted to be filled in, which he did.

The Hound is flat on his chest, cheek pressed against a pillow, hair covering his face.

I sit up and pull the blanket down, checking his bandages, finding they were exactly how maester Yannick had kept them last night.

Satisfied, I get out of bed and go about my day.

I break fast with Lucy then begin daily rounds of seeing the people. Many of them came to speak out their concerns for their houses, which had been affected by the recent storm, and many others came to give their regards to Lord Clegane for what he has done for them. They were so gracious in giving food and herbs for his recovery.

You can then imagine the stir that happened when the Hound, himself, walked in the room. I nearly jump from my spot when I see him. I dash over and grab his arms, "what's wrong?!"

"LORD CLEGANE!"

"MILORD!"

"MILORD HOUND!"

"Thanks the gods!"

Sandor does not know where to look. He darts back and forth between me and the people calling out to him. His lips twitch, "I'm leaving."

My heart leaps into my mouth. I release him, "what?"

"I'm going outside Brown Wood."

I immediately feel like I'm being choked, "what? Where are you going?" I knit my brows deeply. I feel hurt by his words because it sounds like he means to leave me. Soon enough, irrational rage rises up my stomach. Was he trying to make a scene? Was he trying to upset me in front of everyone?

The Hound's face contorts in confusion, "just outside for a walk..." he peers his eyes up and looks at the faces of the people in the room. He looks back at me, "have they upset you?"

I drop my expression. I clear my throat and shake my head. I step back, "no, I- ... you shouldn't be walking around."

"What good is a caged hound to a pretty squirrel?" he asks.

"You're not caged," I snap and shake my head, "you're in bed rest so to regain your strength!"

I stiffen where I stand when he steps forward and takes my hand. He rubs my knuckles with his thumb then cocoons my one hand in both of his. It was so tiny in his grip. My heart races.

"Do not wait up for me. I want to walk to the Sterling River. With my pace now, it will take me the whole day."

I scowl at his words. How treacherous of him to speak them so softly. I feel a line form between my brows. I shake my head, "if I cannot tell you what to do, you cannot tell me what to do," I pull my hand out of his grip.

I turn away from him, "if you must go, then go. Do not be foolish enough to injure yourself any more than you already have."

Sandor stiffens. He feels embarrassed. He deflates and bows, "no, my lady."

When I look back at him, he is slowly making himself out of his room. I wipe my face in frustration.

Sandor makes his way out of the estate.

He's now walking down the path by the edge of the forest. He finds himself wondering if his wife would mourn him if he was killed by a monster on his walk.

He freezes when he hears a whine by the thicket. He reaches for his hilt.

"Fuck."

He didn't bring his sword.

Sandor stills when a whining sound catches his ears. His instinct to rip his sword out is futile for he had no sword to draw. When his initial reaction of shock and agitation settled, he spots something moving in the bushes.

He bends down as he walks towards the sound. Whatever worry he felt melted away because he soon identified the whimpers as nonthreatening, judging by how high-pitched they were. He gets lower and reaches out to the foliage once he's close. He pushes the bushes apart and sees 3 pups huddled together, spooked by the sudden intrusion.

They run deeper into the bush. That's when he spots a large dog. He pulls away, not expecting to see it. He was glad he saw before it lunged.

It takes him a good few seconds to realize the thing wasn't going to move at all because it was dead.

Sandor sighs.

He doesn't think, he just acts. He looks over his shoulder; he could barely see Brown Wood. He really doesn't want to go back and so he walks off, looks for soft soil, gets on his knees, and begins to dig with his hands. The action is hard on his back, but image of Daisy at the front of his mind won't let him stop.

He was covered in dirt and sweat when he finished. He huffs as he gets up. He goes back to the bushes and grabs the mother first. It was apparent now that she was likely attacked by an animal its size or a bit larger, maybe a fox, a wolf, or even a small bear, judging by the bite mark. Her body was already rigid. He tries not to compare her to Daisy too much.

The pups bark their head off as their mother is taken away from them. Sandor moves as quickly as he can in his state and puts the dog in the grave. He comes back for the puppies and takes them in his arms before covering the grave; he does so with his feet, pushing the dirt into the hole.

Sandor looks at the three pups in his arms. He makes himself believe the dog saved all her babies, that she did not lose one or two and died anyway. He makes himself believe she died knowing all her pups were safe.

He examines his surroundings and spots a blueberry. He stands still for a moment as the puppies in his hands begin to realize their yapping was for naught. Sandor nods, "I'll take care of your pups, Blueberry."

With that, he walks away.

He looks at the warm creatures in his arms. They were all long and dark coated with floppy ears. He wonders how they ended up in the forest. He wonders if they were abandoned. He begins to get angry at the thought.

He huffs and decides to think nothing of it. It wasn't like he could do anything about it anyway. He busies himself instead with thinking of names.

Then he stops.

Literally.

His feet plant him in his place as he wonders if it would even be alright to bring the pups back home with him. His wife, after all, was still mourning the one she lost.

Sandor's face contorts.

He proceeds to then think of the fact that even if she did want a dog, she probably wouldn't want one from him.

The realization stings more than his back did. He sniffles and begins to walk.

He stops again when he's just outside the gates. He knows it's a matter of time before that stable boy, Polly, comes out. He swears that kid could smell him, and ya know, maybe he could.

Sandor finds himself walking to the garden to Daisy. He looks down at the growing daisy bush and sighs, "what do you think, girl? Should I give these pups to the villagers instead?"

He notices the puppies were beginning to fall asleep.

"You actually miss 'er?"

Sandor looks over his shoulder.

Lucy is walking up to him, looking at him like she couldn't believe he cared for Daisy. Yet there was something in her eyes that said otherwise. She crosses her arms, "you shouldn't be walking around, worrying milady like this."

Sandor sighs and looks away. He looks at the lone flower bud before him, "you think she'd feel better if I gave her a gift?"

"What?"

Sandor turns, and in turn, reveals to her the puppies.

Lucy's face falls. She unclasps her arms.

Sandor is filled with dread because of her expression. He shakes his head, "tell her you found these puppies," he hands them to her.

Lucy takes the small creatures, unable to do anything else really, and gives Sandor a look as he continues, "tell her you want to find them homes. If she wants to keep one, good, if she doesn't... well, good as well."

Lucy makes a sound as the puppies stir in her arms. She shushes them as she watches the Hound walk away. She knits her brows when he sees his dirty hands. She looks down at the pups, wondering where her lord found them. She's about to call out to him to ask, up until the little boy, Polly, runs up to her and gleefully cheers, "PUPPIES!"

When Maester Yannick and I finished hearing the last concern for the day, tis I that began to complain to him. It's mostly empty complaints about exhaustion, but he takes it all rather seriously.

Yannick was a sweet old man. His scrawny body and sunken cheeks do not deter him from looking otherwise. He barely had any hair left on his head and yet I would say he was still a handsome elder.

He leads me into the ward to give me another dose of the herbs and medicines I had been consuming as of late.

"This will help you relax," he hands me a cup of tea, "and it is also known to help increase fertility."

I offer him an apprehensive smile as I take the cup from him.

He watches me drink it and sighs, "have you talked to Lord Sandor about it yet?"

I take a sip before I ask, "about me taking tea that aids conception?"

"About how he got on his knees and held you to calm himself," he walks off to clear his table.

I watch the old man fix his things and begin to pace around the room as I drink from my cup. I sigh, "I was too upset about him announcing he would leave for there to be any other conversation."

I stare at my tea as I wait for the maester to rebuke me for doing that. When he doesn't, I turn to him. He walks off to put his herbs away.

"Aren't you going to tell me off, maester?"

"Mmm, perhaps it was uncalled for, objectively speaking," he spares me a glance, "one cannot make any sound or good judgements under a haze of anger," he continues tidying his stuff, "but sometimes we cannot help it. Didn't you tell me he's done that to you many times over?"

He looks back at me, expecting an answer.

I nod.

He shrugs and looks away, "an eye for an eye." Yannick finishes his task, "in fact, you're owed much more eyes, my dear."

I cannot help the chuckle that leaves me. The old man walks over to me, chuckling himself. I smile at him, "I don't want either of us to end up blind."

He smiles back, "and that's what makes a lady different from a hound," he motions, "drink up."

I press my lips into a line. I set my cup down, "Yannick-"

"MILADY!"

Both of us turn to the door just as Lucy bursts in. She grins from ear to ear as she runs inside with three puppies in her arms.

"Lucy!" I gasp, "what have you-"

"IT'S A GIFT!" she excitedly comes up to me. The puppies whine as she hands them to me.

I really was about to protest, but then they begin to lick my face. I am too shocked to do anything but look away in hopes they don't lick my lips or eyes.

Lucy gasps, "sorry, milady," she reaches for them, "I just fed them and they got really rambunctious."

"That's why they smell like that," I mutter.

She takes two from me but stops getting the last one when I begin to laugh. Lucy's lips part and eyes widen. That was a sound she has not heard in a long time.

Maester Yannick takes one of the puppies for himself and immediately chuckles the tiny creature.

I coo at the dark brown colored pup and lightly scratch its round belly, "where on earth did you find these pups, Lucy?"

"Milord wanted you to 'ave 'em."

I blink and freeze.

Lucy shakes her head as she cuddles the pupper in her arms. The maester and I look at her, taken aback by her admission.

She continues, "but 'e told me not to tell you it was from him, and I can't make 'ead or tail as to why."

"He told you not to tell me it was from him?" I furrow my brows.

"Aye. He wanted me to say that it was I that found the pups," Lucy purses her lips, "I couldn't shake that there was something ill about it, so I had Polly-boy go pester his master."

"And what did Polly say?" maester Yannick asks.

"Polly said he told him to go fuck off but eventually the 'ound told him he found the pups in the forest," Lucy kisses the puppy, "their mum was dead so he buried her and took the pups for safe keepin'."

I raise my brows.

Lucy looks at me, "he did that for you. He probably hates the fact he had to kill Daisy."

My cheek twitches, "had to kill Daisy?"

I knit my brows tightly when Lucy speaks my name. I huff as she continues, "I told you what I saw that day our dog was buried. He was heart broken about Daisy. I wasn't just seeing things. It was real."

The puppy in my hand begins to wrangle out of my grip. I put the small thing down and take a deep breath as I straighten up. Yannick and Lucy stare at me.

Upon seeing their sibling on the floor, the other puppies begin to wrangle out of their captors' hands, and soon enough, there are three puppies exploring the ward and playing with each other.

Yannick begins to run after them.

Lucy takes my arm.

I look at her as I feel hot confliction coil up in my belly. I feel the corner of my lips pull downward.

"I can't believe I would be to one to tell you... but I think he cares for you. Truly. Milord wants to do good by you."

The thought overwhelms me. It makes me sick to my stomach. I huff through my nostrils, "Lucy."

"I wouldn't lie to you, milady."

I feel my chest tighten as I look at her.

She rubs my arm.

"No you wouldn't."

She nods.

"I should speak with him."

Lucy nods faster and releases me.

My head was spinning with a thousand thoughts as I walked out of the ward and began looking for Sandor. I search all over for him and end up being told by Polly that he was in our bedroom, and that he had just been there helping his lord change his bandages.

I immediately make my way to the bedroom and halt before the door. I suck in a breath for courage and walk inside.

"Sandor?"

I step into the room and spot a body laid on the bed. I repeat, "Sandor."

He says nothing.

I go up to his side and see him sprawled on his chest. I press my lips as I inspect the handiwork of him and the boy. They did a pretty good job. I gently run my fingertips down the bandages on his back and then cover him with the blankets. I look at his face and watch him exhale. He looked peaceful.

I catch myself reaching out to his face just before I can touch his scar. I pull my hand away and mutter, "sleep well, puppy."

I walk out of the room.

Sandor opens his eyes and watches.

It took me a whole day to decide what to call the new members of the Clegane clan, and I settled with Rose, Lilac, and Sage, keeping them on theme with Daisy's name.

Rose was the biggest of the three, which was why I assume she's the oldest of the pack. She was really excitable and loved roughhousing with her siblings.

Lilac was second in size. She was also the loudest, as she made it a point to bark at literally everything that moved, including herself.

Sage was the smallest and lone boy of the group. For what he lacked in size, excitability, and vocal prowess, he made up for affection. He was the sweetest boy in the whole world and loved snuggling with his sisters, and with any person wanting to hold him.

I had let them sleep in our bedroom, in a basket with blankets, but then I realized it was not the best idea as I was awoken by three puppies barking for my attention.

I had no choice but to attend to them. I was glad Sandor was a heavy sleeper, and slightly envious of him in all honesty.

Envy aside, I didn't regret waking up though, as the pups and I spent the entire early morning together. We ate together, played together, and when they tired out, they sprawled on my belly as I read in the living area. I was now halfway through my book.

I straighten up when I hear a gruff voice speak up.

"Mornin'."

I watch as Sandor walks over while scratching his eye. I raise my brows when it dawns that he going to sit beside me. I begin to panic, "Sandor- my lord- I-" I scoop the puppies closer to me and quip, "good morn."

Sandor comes in front of me then stops when he sees the puppies. He stares at them for a moment then looks at me. He parts his lips then points, "where..."

I look down at he puppies. I look up at him and begin to tense under his gaze, "hmm?"

Sandor drops his finger and blinks rapidly for a moment. His lips twitch, "where'd you find those... fucks?"

I furrow my brows tightly, "what?"

The Hound clenches his jaws and whispers, "where'd you find the fucking puppies?"

I raise a brow in confusion of his words. Was he... pretending to be cross? Is he actually about to act like these puppies where not the ones he chose to save in the forest?

I open my mouth, "Lucy... Lucy gave them to me..."

The Hound makes a sound and speaks with no conviction, "keep them in line."

I tilt my head and slowly push the puppies off me. I do my best not to rattle them, as they were on the precipice of falling asleep.

Sandor watches me as I gently move them off my lap. He instinctively reaches out to me. I look at his hand, confused and curious, then slowly take it. He helps me stand up. I am wholly puzzled. Do I look like I need help standing from my seat?

I call out his name with uncertainty.

He speaks mine in a tender manner.

I look at our joined hands. His hand is massive, rough, and warm against mine. I wonder why he hasn't let me go. My body burns when he rubs my knuckles. I stutter, "a-are you al-right?"

I finally look at Sandor. He was already looking at me. I catch how his lips twitch. He releases a deep breath, "I am," he cocks his head side to side, "my back is still fucked up."

I turn to our joined hands again.

He finally releases me, as if he'd forgotten he was holding me in the first place. He wipes his hand on his trousers. He clears his throat then wipes his face.

I am baffled when his ears begin to grow red. I knit my brows, "did you need something from me, husband?"

Sandor freezes. He clenches his fists. He points behind him. He stares at me for a moment, finding the words to say. He opens his mouth then closes it. He looks at the puppies then lowers his hand. He closes his mouth then huffs through his nostrils.

I raise my brows, "is it something in the bedroom?"

"If... I..." Sandor starts, "it's just my back."

I nod and look at him expectantly.

"I... I need help... changing."

I straighten up and furrow my brows, "are you going to leave ag-"

"No," he quickly blurts, "I'm going to continue training those scrawny boys. It's been too long since the last time I did."

I relax at his words. I tilt my head, "why do you have to change?" I eye his dress shirt and pants, "is this uncomfortable to train in?"

Sandor mirrors my head tilt, "... I figured I... should dress like a lord."

"You are dressed like a lord," I shake my head, "you are a lord."

Sandor takes a moment to respond. When he does, he speaks softly again, "I'm normally in my armor when I train them because I'd go on rounds after."

I part my lips in realization of his sentiment. It was a matter of his pride. I'm about to tell him I will help him dress, but he dismisses the thought altogether.

"It's probably better for my back not to wear something so constricting anyway," Sandor says.

With not another word, he turns around and walks away.

"Wait!"

He immediately stops and looks back at me, "yes?"

I realize then what I've just done. I am overcome with embarrassment for I really had nothing to say, "I just... Forgive me. I was taken aback by... how you just walked away."

Sandor visibly tenses.

I smile at him, raise my hand, and stop him before he speaks, "it's alright. It's my mistake."

"It's not," he retorts. He turns to his feet and back to me. He shrugs, "I'm just an arsehole."

Taken off guard, I chortle. I slap my hand on my mouth and clear my throat, "I beg your pard-"

"S'fine," he speaks through a breath, "it's funny cos it's true."

He and I look at each other for a moment. I notice how his lips curved upward.

I rub my arms when I begin to feel the weight of his gaze.

"I'll be... going then," he says.

I gulp and step forward, "may I watch you?"

He blinks.

I bite my lip in agitation.

"You want to watch?"

I slowly shrug, "the book I'm reading is not very interesting."

Sandor turns to the couch, looking at the dogs sleeping next to said not-very-intresting book. He looks back at me with a solemn expression, "I'd never be one to deny you."

My stomach drops at his words.

He cautiously motions with his head then walks off. I follow after him.

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stareaterau · 1 year

Text

Chapter 1 episode 1

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Index

---

Let's start with a familiar face, shall we!

CW: violence And the mention of blood and injury

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The heat is unbearable. Scar wakes, wheezing out a hot breath that circles in his sealed helmet, fogged by the last of his moisture. A building headache pulses behind his eyes. He reaches up to rub the soreness out, but his gloves clank uselessly against the visor. He blinks, squinting through the harsh light. His first instinct is to rip the helmet off for the relief of fresh air, but as his eyes adjust, he doubts it’ll make a difference.

He’s in a desert. The dusty and cracked ground stretches all the way to the horizon. Nothing about this place feels familiar, in fact, the bright orange gradients in the sand look alien. He has no way of telling if the air here is breathable, and though it’s tempting, testing it isn’t worth the risk. The sheer lack of life in the landscape certainly doesn’t bode well in that regard.

He tries to think back to how he got here, but there’s nothing. He doesn’t remember falling asleep outside. Definitely not here, and definitely not with his helmet still on.

Reflexively, he reaches for his communicator, but it’s not there. With rising anxiety, he pats down the rest of his person. His gun, enderchest and communicator are all gone. The only useful thing he still has left on him is the helmet on his head.

That’s concerning. He keeps those things on him at all times. It’s mandatory. As much as Scar would push the rules, he can’t deny the sense in keeping his gun, enderchest and communicator at all times. Even with his reputation, he wouldn’t just wander into the wilderness with none of his gear. He’s more competent than that at least, right?

There are no constructed landmarks nearby to use to figure out where he is, and he won’t be able to figure out the star system he’s in until the sun has set. At least whoever left him here had the decency to leave him with his helmet on. He can panic about being stranded, while puffing recycled air.

He thinks for a moment that maybe if he stays put the Vindicators will come looking for him, but that idea is quickly squashed by the realization that he’ll probably die of heatstroke before they realize he’s gone. His best bet is to walk until he finds some sign of intelligent life… or run out of oxygen in the process.

Not the most optimistic reality, but nevertheless Scar picks himself up, bushes the desert dust off his clothes, and scans the horizon for the most promising direction. Hoping, desperately, that he's not about to get himself even more lost than he already is.

With a sigh, he squints at the horizon with his hands on his hips. He finds cracks and grooves in the sand that open up beneath him to form long ravines. The gouges in front of him seem to open up into larger trenches that follow a relatively straight path, a much better scenario than splitting into maze-like passages. He nods approvingly. It’s his best bet to make his way down into the ravine. It’s depth is about double his height, which should still provide some shade from that glaring sun.

He spots a relatively safe way to get down— a sandy slope built up against the otherwise harsh stone. He walks tentatively towards it, but stops at the sound of a beep. Looking around for the cause of the noise, he sees a collection of rocks protruding from the sand, but no movement. He checks the soles of his boots too, in case he stepped on some kind of device hidden in the sand, or maybe a small creature, but he sees nothing there, either.

He’s probably just imagined it. Continuing on, he hurries down towards the slope, desperate to escape the heat. The sound of sand scrapes against his leg braces as he slides, and he keeps a hand pressed into the sand behind him to stay steady. He manages to avoid slipping as the sand shifts below his feet, but only barely.

The shade cuts the temperature in half, and Scar sags with relief. The ravine is just as lifeless and empty as the surface, albeit far more claustrophobic. The curving, orange walls hide the vastness of their expanse from view. Scar’s footfalls echo down the chasm. He’s not sure if he prefers the company of the extra sound or if it just makes him feel more exposed. Everything is so empty and open, and an almost perfect mirror to the clear sky. The entire atmosphere radiates with a yellow glow, as if the sun takes up the whole sky. Maybe it does. Out of the corner of his eye, Scar finally detects movement— a shadow across the dusty scenery, but he reacts too late, and looks up to see the shadow is gone, and the sun’s still bright.

He walks for at least five minutes before another beep is heard again, except this time it doesn’t stop there. Quickening, it takes about thirty seconds untill the next one, forcing Scar to accept he hadn’t imagined it.

He listens, face wrinkled with concentration. The beep isn’t coming from anywhere around him. It feels like it’s in the back of his head. Whatever it’s trying to tell him, he can’t figure it out.

He turns to his left, kicks a few stones, tests if the sound reacts. Maybe it’s something hidden in his jacket pocket. He rifles around in them, remembering they’re all empty, and goes back to struggling to understand the pattern of the beeps. It keeps slowing and quickening— even when Scar is walking in a straight direction, so it can’t possibly be leading him to a fixed place, and he tried waiting a few minutes after each beep, just for nothing to happen, so it can’t be warning him about anything.

Frustrated, Scar tunes it out eventually, and focuses instead on making his way through the desert. He'll be glad to find anything other than rocks, sand and the sourceless beeping at this point. At one point he sees movement again, another shadow darting across the ground. It looks almost like a bird, but Scar can’t be sure, the shape vanishing almost as soon as he notices it. It’s like it’s evading his view, like it’s trying to make him second guess himself.

Scar groans. It’s been a long trek through the winding canyon. The sweat drippin into his eyes taunts him— he wishes more than anything to be able to wipe it from his brow, but alas, Scar’s not quite desperate enough to risk removing the helmet.

Almost on autopilot, he trudges on, trying to think through the heat about what it could mean. He racks his melting brain for more things that might cause beeping in your head, or what it means. Scar’s so caught up in his thoughts that he almost misses the beeps getting faster, faster than they had gotten before. When he finally notices, he stops in his tracks, snapping to attention as it continues to speed up.

He doesn’t notice the winged figure swoop down until the impact pushes him to the ground.

Scar screams, head ringing as his visor smacks into the earth. He struggles, trying to roll over to face his assailant, but he’s immediately pinned to the ground by long, dark talons. The figure stares at him through their own helmet, like his except for the visor, which is split into two deep, dark, void-like eyes. They make no sound as their wings spread out, blocking out the sun with their feathers. A glowing blue knife held above their head.

"No wait- wait!"

The figure ignores his pleas, bringing the weapon down. Scar barely manages to deflect the stranger's aim, the knife sinking into his shoulder instead of his heart. Choking back a yell and instinctively shutting his eyes to the pain, he didn’t feel the blade being pulled out, nor see the figure grabbing their own shoulder in confusion.

"What?“ Head swiveling wildly, they balk. “Where?"

Scar shifts on reflex under the weight of the stranger, but this only brings the attacker’s attention back to him, their grip tightening. Without anything to defend himself with, his gun missing and this stanger holding a clear advantage, Scar scrambles for leverage.

He wasn't given time to collect himself as the stranger brings down the hilt of their weapon into his visor, shattering the thick glass.

Scar flinches back as the glass slashes into his cheek, but by some miracle misses his eye.

He pants, unable to catch his breath,helplessly expecting another hit— but the stranger stops. Scar is finally given a moment to reign in his panicking senses, and focuses on the vacant eyes of the stranger’s helmet. Thoughts swim in his slightly concussed mind, and he fishes one up at random.

"...Are we done fighting now?" Scar asks with a nervous laugh, trying to keep eye contact despite one eye now being exposed to the desert sun.

The stranger doesn’t answer.

They’re no longer putting all their weight on him, and eventually slides backwards to a stand, gaze still locked on Scar.

Grateful for the temporary relief, but still cautious, he shuffles slightly to check how the stranger will react. Once he’s sure he isn’t about to be whacked again, he shakily folds his legs under himself to stand, only slightly wobbly, wincing from his injured shoulder.

"So…” Scar tries again, “I think it’s fair to say the air is breathable here."

Scar coughs as he pulls off his helmet, doing his best to avoid the broken glass. The stranger, eerily quiet, considers Scar for a moment, then reaches to take off their own helmet, revealing eyes as deep and dark as their visor, with the same soulless look.

The person in front of Scar is painfully familiar, but he doesn’t skip formalities.

"Well, hello there!" He puts his hand out, but the stranger does not shake it. Their eyes remain locked onto his own, like they’re studying them.

Scar meets the gaze for a while, then his eyes wander to the blood on their face.

"Oh, your cheek-" he gasps, pointing towards it.

They do not move to check their face, pointing to Scar instead.

"Well, same." the stranger mumbles, their voice strained.

"Oh!- " Scar reaches for where the visor had cut him. He'd almost forgotten.

He looks back up at the stranger, to find him pulling a very uncomfortable face. And it clicks.

"Wait- I recognise you."

#stareater au #life series au #gtwscar #grian #cw violence #desert duo #cw blood #trafficblr

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worldstarz · 3 months

Text

saving kaeya after his fight with diluc

•❅──────✧❅✦❅✧──────❅•

pairing: kaeya alberich x fem!knight!reader

summary: after his fight with diluc, kaeya is thrown out of the manor to fend for himself. stumbling, bleeding, and on the verge of death, he finds you.

tags: hurt + comfort ; some angst ; mutual (?) feelings ; tbh could also be seen as platonic ; pre-storyline ; not proofread ; prolly ooc i’m so sorry

cw: blood ; injuries ; mentions of violence

notes: going through my notes app that is filled to the BRIM with oc x canon pairings. i haven’t played genshin in over a year (and this blurb was originally written like two years ago lmao) but i still love my flirty slutty cryo man! anyways i altered it so it’s reader x kaeya and removed some oc stuff, but idk how to fit in an explanation on why you’re in the forest… let your imagination run wild!!!

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kaeya stumbled out of the winery, hand trembling over his bleeding eye.

'it's fine... everything will be fine.' thoughts raced through his head. his whole entire body was throbbing in pain. it’s not like he could go back inside the winery to rest—not after a fight as nasty as that.

"diluc will be running over to some maid any second now. ha, lucky bastard," kaeya muttered.

diluc had a team of servants that he could go to. kaeya only had diluc, emphasis on had.

at the dead of night, there was no way he could get care at the cathedral. he couldn't hold in a chuckle, realizing the situation he was in. he had no one, huh? though popular, kaeya didn’t have any particularly close friends who he could spend the night with.

with that, he knew he had no choice but to pitifully limp to the favonius headquarters—a long, long walk away.

he barely made it into the forest before he fell to the ground, wheezing against a tree. his ears were ringing, but he could hear footsteps cautiously approaching him. he didn't even have the energy to lift his head.

"kaeya? what the hell are you doing out here this late?" whose voice was that...? was it an angel’s? oh, wait. angels wouldn’t swear. it was your voice.

in the state he was in, he could only muster a grunt in response. you kneeled down in front of him, and gasped at the sight of his collapsed body. "just what have you gotten yourself into this time?" you muttered. "can't stand up anymore, huh?"

you tilted his chin up, and both of you wince—him as a result of pain, you due to getting a clear view of his injuries. his blue hair, usually tied into a low ponytail, cascaded down his shoulders, caked in blood. his crimson-soaked chest rose and fell rapidly. "ooh, that is nasty. come on, lean on me. we're going to headquarters." you kneeled down to wrap your arm around his torso, gingerly lifting him up.

"well, would you look at that. that’s exactly where i was heading,” he chuckled, leaning against your body. typically, he would never accept support from another. but, with this arguably being the lowest point of his life, his pride was the least of his concerns. plus, you were just so undeniably warm. if he’s on the verge of death, then maybe being by your side wouldn’t be so bad for a final memory.

you don’t respond, your pace slower from his weight and for his comfort. silence follows. you obviously had a million questions for him—what the hell happened? did he get in a fight with an abyss mage? why was he out so late?—but you could tell he was beyond exhausted, and from the sight of his gushing wounds, getting answers was far from a priority.

the two of you arrived in the city, streets barren in the pitch black of night. the tavern was closed, so, thankfully, no drunkards were hanging about near the path.

the inside of the headquarters was equally empty. the soft glow of lanterns lit the way up the stairs to the barracks. "kaeya, where is your room?" you asked, your voiced barely above a whisper as to not wake the other knights.

"all the way at the end of the hall. but... i forgot my keys," he whispered. you could tell he was smirking.

"how sly of you. if i didn't know any better, i would've thought this was another trick of yours to be close to a lady," you responded, though there wasn’t a hint of accusation in your voice.

"ha, you know me so well."

"to my room we go." you walked further up the steps.

after a moment of silence, you mumbled, "i know you're not the type of person to sneak into a lady's room."

"i'm grateful you understand me so well."

"zip it. i don't even know your favorite color."

unlocking your door, you gently set kaeya down on your bed. you immediately get to work, removing his coat and shoes. usually, his slick tongue would say something suggestive, but tonight, he had no choice but to refrain.

even with your limited knowledge of first aid, you knew just a damp rag would do nothing to help. "i have no tools with me," you say, beginning to walk away. "i'll go grab so-"

kaeya suddenly grabbed your arm, effectively stopping both you and your sentence. he looked so... pained. "please don't go,” he whispered. you never could have expected this level of venerability from him.

"...kaeya?" you whispered, turning to face him. "i have to find a way to tend to your injuries. you're in pain, aren't you?"

his hand slacked.

after coming back with medical supplies, the two of you were silent as you tended to his wounds. he gazed at the ceiling, the silence occasionally broken by you asking for permission for actions such as unbuttoning his shirt. you don’t comment on the new cryo vision in his pocket.

deep gashes littered his body, most notably a diagonal one across his chest. as you applied pressure against the gaping wound in an effort to stanch the bleeding, kaeya couldn’t help but hiss in pain. “sorry, sorry, i’m trying to be gentle,” you whispered hurried apologies, using one hand to continue applying pressure and the other to hold his hand.

his grip tightened, and the poor boy whispered, “i know, i trust you. or, well, i’m trying to.”

all you could do regarding his eye was wrap it in bandages to get it checked out in the morning. the basic first aid lessons you were required to take to become a knight did not cover an injury like that.

once you finished, you sat on the floor, leaning against the bed frame. he was still holding onto your hand.

"what happened?" you asked softly.

"..."

"was it an ambush?"

"..."

"i'll report it in the mor-"

"don't. please, don't," he whispered. “i swear i’ll explain everything to you one day.”

you grimaced. "fine. just... promise not to do anything stupid like that again, alright? i was worried."

kaeya didn't respond, going over your words in his head. you were worried? you didn't seem worried. but... you were worried. why would you so willingly take care of him like this? how would you react if you knew who he really was? would you still be worried?

he couldn't hold back his tears and restrained sobs. you lifted your head in surprise, leaning in closer to scan his expression.

"...kaeya?"

"my apologies," he tried to smile, covering his face with his free arm in embarrassment. no one has seen him like this before, and it was far too foreign for him. "especially when you let me use your room."

in response, you squeezed his hand, whispering, “it’s fine. i don’t think of you any differently.”

how do you always know exactly what to say? to grant him at least a little bit of privacy, you turn away as he quietly sobbed into his forearm.

after a while, he sniffles, saying, “i apologize. i don’t know what came over me.” trying to get some humor out of the situation, he adds, “well, i guess we are bonded for eternity now, aren’t we?”

you turned your head to face him, the furrow of your brows causing him to chuckle. “archons, you’re going to be the death of me,” you sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose.

“seeing how you saved me from death, that wouldn’t be fair, would it?” his foxy grin made you let out yet another exasperated sigh, but you still couldn’t help but smile slightly. it was obvious he was trying to act tough for you, but for now, you would follow along with his fantasy.

“alright, whatever. get some sleep.”

“and what about your sleeping arrangements?”

“i’ll manage. i’ve slept on the forest floor for missions, i can handle a hardwood floor.”

“oh? i couldn’t possibly let my savior sleep in such horrible conditions,” he teased. “won’t you join me in bed?”

“barbatos, give me strength,” you muttered.

he laughs softly, and you can feel your stomach tighten at the sound. even during such a rough moment, kaeya can still manage to put up a charming appearance. his single eye twinkled in the low dim of the candlelight, and you realized your falling for his sly tricks. “please, [name], won’t you grant a poor, injured man his dying wish?”

with a groan, you let go of his hand and climb into the bed beside him, careful not to touch him to avoid any unnecessary pain.

“i knew you were a saint!” he gives you a triumphant smile as you lay on your side to look at him. his tanned skin, though scratched, still was as enchanting as ever in the moonlight. the deep blue of his eye pulled you in deeper, and once again, you realized you were a victim of his charm. but, this was different—though he would never admit it, with your tender care of his wounds and unwavering support, he has unknowingly fell victim to your charm, too. his hand seeks out yours once again, intertwining your fingers.

neither of you commented on the continuation of the hand-holding, nor would you ever.

only then, as you two shared the cramped bed space, does kaeya come to a realization—he had you.

his grip on your hand tightened.

he has you.

#kaeya x reader #kaeya alberich #genshin impact kaeya #genshin impact #genshin kaeya #genshin x reader #kaeya headcanons #hurt/comfort #drabble #genshin imagines #how fucked am i if the word grimace reminds me of grimace shake #the brainrot has consumed me #tension

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kaermorhenatnight · 8 months

Text

Light in the shadows

Rolan smut, NSFW, minors don't interact, please

Huge thanks to @commander-krios for proofreading and for all of the comments, suggestions and corrections! You’re amazing!

Rolan x fem!reader smut, Reader is one of the tiefling refugees from Elturel, afab, she/her. No y/n used. She's been friends with our favorite tiefling bachelor and decides to make her move during the tiefling party that they should have after act II. Tav appears and is gn (they/them)

CW | spoilers for acts I and II with mentions of violence, cursing, p in v, oral (m and f receiving), fingering, spells used for sex (including detect thoughts – consensually), Rolan's POV for a moment, biting and hickeys, tail play, Rolan is insecure about his body at first, dom Rolan, dirty talk, edging, Karlach x Shadowheart makes an appearance because I love them

Word count | 5,5k

Note: I tried to keep the spells as correct as possible (including components, duration and spell slots) because I am fun like that. If I messed something up about that please let me know! English is my second language so any tips and corrections about my writing are more than welcome!

Read on Ao3 here

Enjoy!

It was a nightmare. All of it. If not for blood pouring down your temple, sharp pain in your side and pounding in your head, you could pretend it was all a bad dream, that you would soon wake up from. Saying the shadow-cursed land was unwelcoming would be an understatement, but the attack... The screams. Zevlor, the calm, brave, strong Zevlor, just froze. Cal, Lia, and many others were dragged away. Others were bleeding out in the dirt. Some of you tried to fight, Rolan yelled to fall back, protecting the kids with everything he had. If not for his well-aimed spells, and the fight Cal and Lia put up keeping the cultists busy, none of you would have made it to the unexpected sanctuary of Last Light Inn.

Rolan took care of your wounds as best as he could. Despite your protests, he convinced the lovely cleric, Isobel, the woman responsible for the safety of the Inn, to come downstairs and lend some of her magic to help with your head injury.

Even though he went to great lengths to ensure your comfort, you could see all of his thoughts were preoccupied with his siblings' kidnapping and his perceived guilt in their capture. He was drinking himself numb, screaming at the kids who were just trying their best to show gratitude for all he'd done. He even lashed out at Tav when they offered help. Luckily for all of you, Tav not only brought Cal and Lia back safe and sound, but they also found, saved, and sent back to the Inn a slightly tipsy Rolan, who had disappeared to rescue his family on his own without accepting any help.

He did apologize to Tav afterward and thanked them for saving his ass, but gods, you and his family had to force it out of him with threats of violence.

You weren't that close before. You were good friends with Lia back in Elturel. It’s how you met him the first time. You liked him. He was fun to be around, although you would never feed his ego by telling him that, or risk being mercilessly made fun of by Lia, by sharing it with her. He was smart and funny, even if a little snarky and grumpy. You thought it was only natural that the difficulty and stress of your current situation brought you closer together. It didn't mean anything. Although you couldn’t help noticing him not being that attentive towards anyone else after all of you got to safety and could tend to your wounds. But you didn't want to give yourself hope. You couldn't. Life was difficult enough without getting your heart broken if you let yourself believe he might feel about you how you feel about him.

Right?

After what you heard was a terrifying and exhausting battle, the curse devouring this land was finally lifted. The sky started clearing up. A small party sounded like a pleasant idea, not unlike the gathering you held at Tav's camp after they helped you back at the grove.

And now you sit here, wine bottle in hand, watching with glee as everyone laughs and dances, celebrating the victory and honoring the fallen. Tav told you the truth about Zevlor. You can't find it in you to be angry at him. Honestly, you are just happy he survived and escaped.

Cal and Lia are on the other side of the room laughing, bothering Rolan about something. He lets out a frustrated groan, but the music of Alfira’s lute and the noise of conversation around them drown out what they are saying. You just look at them, smiling, happy to see them safe, happy to see Rolan relaxing in his own way, with his family by his side.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

“Come on, she's been pining for you for so long. And she's not subtle about it either. How can you not see it?” Lia is a little too loud for Rolan's comfort but everyone around them doesn't seem to notice anyway, in the haze of celebration. “I mean, I know I'm pretty great, but she wasn't coming to visit so often just to see me.”

“That’s a lovely tale, but I would appreciate it if you stopped spinning it. You are seeing things that are not there.”

“Gods, you are the dumbest smart person I know.”

“Are you also gonna pretend,” Cal chimes in, “your tail doesn't sweep the floor like you're a godsdamned kitten when she's talking to you?”

Rolan groans, hiding his face in his hands, trying to feign annoyance, while his cheeks and ears burn.

The truth is he couldn't believe you'd ever even look at him. In his eyes, you were a strong warrior, someone who he had once seen kill two people with one swing of a sword. Powerful, strong, courageous. And he's just a scrawny wizard who keeps getting his ass kicked. While he appreciates his siblings' attempts to support him, the amount of faith they are putting in his chances is ridiculously unrealistic.

He's going to try, one day, when he might have a chance. But he's not going to delude himself that he has it now.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

“Unless you are casting a sending spell, I don't think he's gonna be able to read your mind.” Tav sits next to you and nudges your shoulder, pointing at Rolan with a quick nod. “I’m sure Cal and Lia, as happy as they are to be reunited with him, won't mind if you steal your boyfriend for an hour or two for some… relaxation… upstairs.”

What?

“What?”

“Hey, I know there's not much privacy on the road and this might be your last night under a solid roof for some time. I imagine it must be hard for couples to spend quality time together in such circumstances.” They don't sound like they're teasing. In fact, Tav sounds painfully sincere and supportive.

‘Couples’.

‘Boyfriend’?

“I— I'm not… I mean… We…” You trip over your own words, not sure what to say. “We are not a couple.”

“Oh.” The surprise on their face is confusing you. Why would they think you are a couple? Were you that obvious with your crush that they just assumed this level of openly shown adoration must mean an established relationship? That would mean Rolan must see it too. What if he starts pushing you away, displeased with your feelings for him? “Well, apologies for assuming.” They rub the back of their neck, clearly embarrassed. “I just saw how attentive he was… and the way Cal and Lia were talking about you… Sorry, didn't mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“It's alright, no apology needed.”

You sit in silence for a moment but it keeps bugging you.

“What did Cal and Lia say?”

“Well, how happy they are that Rolan and you ‘found each other’ and how ‘less unbearable’ he is when you're around… Like I said, I didn't know they meant friendship and it was rude of me to assume.”

Oh.

“I see,” you say and turn to look around the room. No matter how hard you try you can't not think about it. You would think the two of you were a couple if you heard them speak like that. It spreads warmth in your chest knowing Rolan's siblings see your influence on him that way. Your thoughts might be too obvious in your expression because Tav nudges you again.

“You wouldn't mind that though, huh?”

Your skin is naturally red. Usually, it’s hard to see blush on your face, but now you are convinced a blind person would notice.

“Don't be embarrassed. There’s enough darkness in the world to be negative about, some love here and there is what truly makes everything worth it.” They smile at you with encouragement. “And… he has been staring at you throughout our entire conversation.”

You look up and the moment Rolan's eyes meet yours he looks away, his face slightly darker.

“I know it's not my business and far be it from me to mingle in your love life… but it's rare to have a moment of peace like this. Go talk to him, enjoy the celebrations.” They get up and wander off to talk to other people. After all, they're the hero of the hour everyone wants a piece of. Again.

And…they're right. You probably won't try to make a move, but you can't let your confused heart stop you from spending time with your friends. Especially after all you've been through. As soon as you walk up, Lia puts her arm around you and hugs you.

“I thought you were gonna sulk there alone forever! Is your head acting up again?” she points at the almost-healed wound on your temple.

“Oh no, I can barely feel it.”

You smile. It's nice. Cal is leaning against the wall, wine bottle in hand. Lia is holding you with her arm around your shoulders.

You start with small talk, but in your current situation, weather and gossip don't really hold up. But as soon as Lia mentions the upcoming threat of the Absolute army, Cal steps in.

“We can discuss it tomorrow. And the day after that. Today, let's talk about nice things. Like Rolan finally getting that big boy job in Baldur's Gate.”

Up until now, you tried not to pay too much attention to Rolan, being very self-aware of your gestures, but now you can do it unsuspiciously. There is something in the way he is leaning against the table, in his relaxed posture, in the lazy smile, that is making you melt a little.

“Oh yes, it almost makes me want to treat you with more respect,” Lia laughs, poking Rolan in the ribs with her finger. “The Great Wizard Rolan of Elturel!”

“Ha… ha… love the respect.” Rolan rolls his eyes and straightens his robe where she wrinkled it slightly. You can't help but follow his hands’ movement with your eyes, wishing to feel them on your skin.

What is wrong with you? You are trying to have a conversation and your mind just wanders off into territories you would prefer not to explore in a room full of people.

“I did say ‘almost’.”

Your eyes meet Rolan's again. He smiles, almost shyly, and his cheeks darken. You fight the urge to look away. Maybe thanks to Tav's encouragement, maybe because of the wine, you hold his gaze and return the smile.

“Well, look at that,” Cal says loudly and hurriedly finishes the wine in his bottle. It takes him a few chugs, too many to be fully comfortable. “My wine is finished. Lia, wanna go get some more?” He gives his sister a look that you cannot fully decipher before they both walk away, leaving you and Rolan alone. You move to stand next to him, taking Cal’s place by the wall.

“It's good to see you feeling better,” he says, shifting ever so slightly like he's trying to stand closer to you.

“I could say the same thing about you.” You catch yourself moving closer. “You were a wreck without these two.”

“They're… they're family.” He looks down, his fingers clench on the edge of the table, and his brow furrows. Even after everything, he still blames himself.

“I know.” You give his hand a sympathetic squeeze and his entire body tenses. Oh shit. Did you overstep a boundary? “Sorry,” you mumble, panic taking over your body as you move your hand away, trying to take a step back, but Rolan reaches out to you quickly and takes your hand in his.

“No! No, it's… thank you.”

He doesn't let go. You are only holding hands but it feels more intimate than anything you've ever done with anyone. Gods, you want him. You want to be close, to hug him, kiss him. You want to let him know how much you care, how dear he is to you. And if not now, then when? If he doesn't reciprocate, so be it. You are adults. Your friendship can survive a moment of embarrassment.

You take a step towards him, put your free hand on his chest, and press a kiss against his lips. You brace yourself for rejection as you start to pull away, but he doesn't let you. He puts his hand on your cheek and pulls you back in.

Kissing him feels right. Like his lips were made to be on yours. Like his hands belonged on the curves of your waist.

You are careful at first. Just relishing in the softness of the gesture. But when he parts his lips and you feel the warm flash of his tongue on your bottom lip, you are gone. Your hands find the front of his robes to pull him even closer. For a moment, you forget where you are but a heavy arm falling on your shoulder painfully reminds you.

“You two should get a room.”

You turn, letting go of Rolan in panic, but when you see the smiling, heavily intoxicated face of Karlach, you relax. “Get it? Cause we're in an Inn!” She laughs joyfully, swaying on her feet, and then wanders off, not even trying to walk in a straight line.

“Ugh, they are going to be so obnoxious about being right.” Rolan rubs the bridge of his nose.

“What are you talking about?”

“Well, Cal and Lia were trying to convince me… uh— that you…” he pauses and all of his confidence leaves him. But you are starting to understand and it makes your hearts flutter.

“I like you, if that's what you're getting at.” You spare him the embarrassment. “I really like you, Rolan.”

“Well, I gathered that.” He smirks and touches his mouth. “Do you… want to go upstairs?” He glances at Karlach who is now wrapping her arms around Shadowheart. “To ‘get a room’?”

You laugh and grab his hand.

“Sure, I'd love to.”

He pulls you behind him towards the stairs. “Have fun!” Lia says to you as you pass her by, and Rolan cringes, avoiding her gaze.

As soon as you leave everyone's line of sight, Rolan turns and takes your face in his hands.

“If I had known…” He is so gentle, fingers barely grazing your skin. His eyes wander around your face, drinking you in. “I wanted to wait until we got to Baldur's Gate and I became a wizard's apprentice and… when I'd finally be somebody… I would ask if you'd allow me to court you.”

“Rolan, what are you talking about?” You place your hands on his. “You don't need validation from some stuck-up jerk in his stupid tower to be somebody.”

“Actually, the Ramazith Tower is quite impress—”

“I adore you,” you interrupt. “You. Not what you can do or what you can become.”

You feel dizzy. He's so close.

He kisses you again. Slowly. Purposefully. His tail wraps around your leg and pulls you even closer. You whimper as the tip, you're not sure if it's accidental or not, strokes the inside of your thigh. Rolan pauses for a split second before repeating the motion, this time definitely on purpose.

“Fuck— Rolan… I'm sure there's an empty room here somewhere,” you whisper, leaning your forehead against his shoulder. “I— Someone will hear us.”

“Well, if you can't stay quiet…” You can almost hear his smug smile before you feel his tail loosening its grip, getting more freedom of movement to climb up your leg and grind against your cunt.

You press your face into his chest in a desperate attempt to muffle a moan that is forced from your throat. He steadies you with a firm grip on your waist but doesn't stop.

You can't talk, you can't think, you can barely breathe. He has you wrapped around his finger and he hasn't even taken your clothes off yet. Every stroke brings you closer to release and makes it harder not to cry out in pleasure. You muster all of your self-control to grab his tail and move it away from you.

“Let’s find a room,” you say, voice hoarse. “So I can get you out of these robes and make you see stars.”

He swallows hard and tugs on your arm to lead you to a door in the corner. The door seems stuck at first, but one strong push gets it open. The room is not in the best state, most of the furniture is broken and scattered across the floor. The bed, except for dust and a few broken pieces of wood on top, is holding together pretty well though. A quick spell and a flick of his wrist from Rolan cleans the sheets enough for them to be almost presentable and even smell like lavender and vanilla. Flames appear on the candles that are still left on the walls.

“There are some advantages to bedding a wizard,” he says with a confident smile.

“I can't wait to learn what the others are.”

He places one hand on your cheek, pulling you into another kiss, and the other hand travels down until it stops between your legs. Him palming you through your leggings is enough to make you whimper. When he starts moving, his fingers circling your clit, your knees buckle underneath you and if Rolan didn't catch you, wrapping his arm around your waist and anchoring you against his chest, you might have fallen.

Even through the fabric, with movement restricted by both of your bodies pressing against each other, he brings you achingly close to release.

“Rolan… I— Gods…” Your breath is reduced to huffs and whimpers. He eagerly muffles them with a kiss so hungry and sloppy, it's all tongue and teeth clashing.

“Let go,” he whispers, breaking the kiss and letting you come up for air. “I've waited so long to see you come undone in my arms.”

As aroused as you are, the dry friction of the fabric becomes a little uncomfortable. You can't think of anything other than how much you want to get rid of all the clothing that separates you from Rolan right now.

“Take off your clothes then,” you say, shifting a little to move away from his touch. “And fuck me into tomorrow.”

You think you see his jaw tense up a little, but can't be certain in the dim light.

He leads you towards the bed and sits next to you, helping you get rid of your clothes, but when you gently tug on the hem of his robe he nudges your hand away.

“What's wrong?” This time you are sure something is bothering him.

“It's nothing,” he assures you, but his posture and tone of voice betray him.

“If you don't want to do this, you don't have to… I mean, obviously, you don't have to, but… I mean— I don't want you to feel pressured.”

“It's not that. I… really want this with you. I promise I will make you feel good.” He looks down and whispers to himself. “I just don't want you to see me.”

You know there's a lot of insecurities under Rolan's confident facade. He acts arrogant to hide how unsure of his abilities he is. He worries that Cal and Lia not being his blood means they don't see him as real family. He doesn't believe he is worth something in your eyes, or anyone else’s, until he proves himself in the city.

Despite all of that, you would never assume he felt insecure about his body. You always thought he would consider any focus on the physical appearance beneath him.

“Rolan... why?”

“I'm not exactly the… physical-prowess type. I'm afraid you're going to be disappointed with what you see.”

“I could never be disappointed with you. With anything about you.” You tangle your fingers with his and place a kiss on the back of his hand. “You can read me.”

“What?”

“Detect my thoughts. At any point, you can look into my mind. No need to warn me or even ask. Just look.”

You are scared. Scared that your feelings are going to overwhelm him, that they would be more than he is in for. But he needs to see for himself the way you feel about him.

“Are you serious?”

“Deadly.”

Rolan stares at you for a moment, wrestling with his thoughts, before leading your hand toward the clasp at the front of his robe.

With shaking fingers, you help him out of his robes and then the shirt underneath. You want to memorize every inch of his skin you uncover. You want to kiss every part of him. Feel every part of him. You slide off the bed and settle between his legs. He watches you wide-eyed as you unbutton his pants and pull his cock out.

You start slowly, licking the tip before moving up and down the shaft. Rolan lets out a ragged breath, clutching at the sheets. When you suck the tip into your mouth, he whimpers softly. But it's not enough. For you anyway. You want to feel him hit the back of your throat. Choke on him until tears stream down your cheeks. You want him to completely ruin you.

Your hands wander, stroking his thighs and then his stomach. Tracing the infernal ridges, you relish in the softness of his flesh as you dip your head down until your nose brushes his navel. Your throat contracts around his cock and gods, you love the sounds that he makes.

When you pull away briefly, only to dive right back onto his cock, Rolan shifts slightly and you hear shuffling of fabric where his discarded robe lies next to him, as he pulls a piece of copper from a pocket. Then he whispers words of a spell and you feel tingling in your head. You look up. Rolan's eyes are set on yours.

You allow him in your mind. Let him see everything. All the lust and yearning. How you try so hard to burn the view in front of you into your memory forever. The view of his chest raising with heavy breaths as you continue to suck his cock; Muscles in his forearms flexing under prominent veins; His soft stomach you want to lick and kiss and leave bite marks on. He was scared of undressing because his body is not built like a brick house but gods, and now also Rolan, know it's not what you want, not what you need. Every single part of his body sends shivers of lust through you. You want him, need him, in every way possible.

You drag your tongue against the side of his cock. You can feel his presence in your head fading as his focus falters and then completely disappears when you suck in your cheeks and take his whole length again. Tears form in the corners of your eyes in reaction to the gag.

Rolan caresses your cheek, pulling you away and wiping your tears with his thumb.

“I— Wow.” He helps you up and pulls onto his lap. He's holding you close, one hand gently scratching your back and the other gripping your thigh, his face awestruck as he stares into your eyes.

You hoped hearing your thoughts would put Rolan's mind at ease, but it did so much more than that. You can see a sudden surge of confidence that you didn't expect, even in him. He roughly grabs you and pushes you down on the bed, caging you with his arms.

“I am going to make you beg for me.” His voice is almost a growl in his throat. He lowers himself and without any further hesitation, dives down your body, his tongue pressing flat against your clit.

It's so much better than anything you imagined, and you imagined a lot. Every lick, every flick of his tongue sends a burning hot jolt of pleasure from your cunt through your entire body to the tips of your fingers and toes. You dig your nails into the sheets, trying to ground yourself. You buck your hips, begging for more friction, more pleasure, more.

You feel the tingling in your mind again and let him in immediately.

The coil in your stomach is getting tighter and tighter and you can feel that if he keeps going like that it will soon snap. That's when he stops. Raises his head and looks at you, smug and a little mischievous. He knows what he did.

“Rolan, what the fuck?”

“You need to be patient. I will take care of you, I promise. But I want to take my time.” Before you respond, his head is back between your legs. The spell connecting you fades, but he doesn't need it anymore to know when you are close. He listened to the change in the pitch of your moans. The slight difference in the way your body tenses. And he's always been a quick learner.

The buildup is even faster this time, and again, he brings you painfully close to release before stopping.

“You're mean,” you whimper, tears now streaming down your face.

“A little.” He chuckles but goes back to work immediately after he sees your muscles relax a bit. His grip on your thighs is unyielding, holding you in place so he can devour you.

You can feel your orgasm approaching again and you don't think you can take the teasing anymore. You reach down and grab Rolan's horn, holding to it like a lifeline. “Rolan, please… I can't— Let me finish… Please…” Your legs are shaking, your body burns. You feel like you're going to die if he pulls away now.

He doesn't. When he can see how close you are, this time he just looks up to watch as you cum on his tongue, keeping the pressure and tempo going as you ride out your orgasm. He only stops when you push him away, high in the afterglow.

“Hells, Rolan…”

“Told you I was gonna make you beg.”

“You fucking asshole,” you laugh, grabbing his hand and urging him to lie next to you. He complies, clumsily kicking his shoes and trousers off, cleaning his face that's still dripping with your slick with a quick spell. His cock is now digging into your thigh and he's littering your neck and shoulders with kisses. Gentle at first, then harder, with more teeth, leaving marks. You expected this possessiveness from him yet it still surprises you a little. He pulls your leg to rest around his hip. His tongue is soothing the bites and bruises he has left on your skin.

“Do you want to continue?” He raises his head and bucks his hips involuntarily, grinding against you.

“Fuck yes.”

You turn to him fully, wrapping your arm around him and pulling him closer. His lips, kiss bruised, are back on yours. You flip him on his back, straddling him, his cock between your folds, the tip hitting your clit as you start rocking your hips.

His grip on your thighs is strong, desperate. He guides your movement, pressing his head back into the pillow.

“Ride me,” he pleads, his nails digging deeper into the flesh of your legs. And how can you refuse, when he's asking so nicely?

You shift to press the tip of his cock against your entrance and then sit down taking him in one swift motion. He thoroughly prepared you with his mouth but the stretch still steals the breath from your lungs.

“Hells,” you sigh, stilling for a moment to adjust to him.

He whispers your name with a reverence usually reserved only for the gods. Then he whispers something else. A spell. And you feel a gentle pressure of the mage hand at your clit. You start rocking your hips and his cock starts pressing deliciously against all the right spots inside of you. He has to recast the mage hand every other minute but he does it without any delay, the moment it would disappear, it appears again, as if he's counting the seconds to make sure your pleasure never falters.

“Rolan, you fill me so well.” You don't even think about it, the words just spill from your mouth. But they don't go unnoticed. You can see Rolan's eyes darken as something changes in him. He grabs you roughly again and rolls over to be on top of you. The slow rolling of your hips is replaced by his thrusts. The first two are restrained, but then he picks up the pace. He steadies himself on his elbows, chest pressed against yours, breathing heavily in the crook of your neck.

“Say it again,” he groans into your ear. His voice is low, lustful. A demanding hunger, that mirrors your own.

“You make me feel so good— Gods…” Your sentence is cut short by a moan Rolan pulls from you, his mage hand steadily circling your clit. “I never want to stop doing this. You fuck me so well, Rolan.”

The sounds he is making are animalistic. His movement becomes erratic and soon you can feel him twitching, spilling into you. The warmth of his seed fills you and the sweet honey of his incomprehensible praises tickles your neck. The mage hand seems to flicker for a moment as Rolan's climax overwhelms him, but he quickly gets his bearings and the steady pressure on your clit is back. His cock is slowly softening as he pulls out, shifting to kneel between your thighs. You can feel his seed spilling out of you as your muscles contract and relax, grieving the loss of his cock. Rolan looks between your legs like he's hypnotized for a moment. Droplets of sweat are glistening on his chest, his hair is in disarray. He is so fucking handsome.

When you feel Rolan's fingers circle your entrance and then, carefully minding his claws, sink into you, the tension inside comes close to snapping again. Your back arches as you're inching closer and closer to release and then when it overflows you, your vision blurs, your whole body tenses and soon you are gently pushing Rolan's hand away, overstimulated.

As he pulls his fingers out, he casts a spell and you feel his seed disappear and your thighs and his fingers are clean and dry again. It puts your mind at ease, not having to worry about any surprises in a few months.

“I don't think I could ever get tired of that view.” Rolan cocks his head slightly, his gaze caressing your body. His tail wraps around your calf.

“Well, I could never get tired of presenting it to you.” You let out a breathless laugh, collecting yourself. You sit up and place a quick kiss on his lips. It feels almost out of place, the gentleness of it, after what you just did. Slowly both of you start putting your clothes on between the kisses and you want to ask if he would like to stay here or go back downstairs, but you don't get that chance.

The door opens with a thump as it hits the wall and two people stumble inside not even noticing you at first, their limbs tangled, their lips joined. You wouldn't even recognize them if not for blue flames engulfing the tall figure of Karlach accompanied by Shadowheart. Good for her. You see a flash when Dancing Lights is cast.

“Oh shit, sorry.” Karlach laughs, when she finally notices you, one arm around Shadowheart, the other rubbing the back of her neck. You can hear Rolan behind you struggling to put his robe over his shirt and trousers faster.

“Don't worry, we were just checking out.” You can't help but laugh. Normally the situation would be mortifyingly embarrassing but right now your heart feels so light you can't find it in yourself to be anything other than joyful. You grab Rolan's hand as he finishes tightening the last clasp on his robe, and pull him towards the door, grabbing your jacket from the floor on your way out. “Have fun!” You manage to say before the door shuts behind you. The muffled noises you hear from inside the room tell you they definitely were planning on having fun even without your encouragement.

“Well,” Rolan clears his throat, trying to regain the scraps of his dignity. “That's a less-than-ideal ending to our evening. But I'm sure there are many more evenings to come.” It's not a statement, not really. It's a question. And even though he's smiling, you can see a hint of panic and insecurity in his eyes. You grab his hand. It feels so nice to be able to do that.

“Of course. You are not getting rid of me that easily.”

His smile of relief could melt even the coldest heart of stone.

#baldur's gate 3 #bg3 rolan #rolan #rolan x reader #baldur's gate rolan #smut #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 smut

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lily-fics-11 · 7 months

Text

The Girl Next Door: Chapter 1 (Hazel Callahan)

The Girl Next Door

Fic master post here (feel free to comment to be added to tag list)

You hadn’t been close with your neighbor Hazel for a few years. But you find her beat up in the locker room after fight club and all of that changes.

Chapter 1

You reunite with Hazel and clean her up after fight club

CW: mentions of blood and injury, allusions to violence, cursing, not beta read

You make your way to the locker room after staying behind at school to work on a group project. You forgot your hoodie in your gym locker, so you are grabbing it quickly before heading home.

While you are at your locker you hear the door open and close. Someone else has entered the locker room, but you don’t think anything of it.

As you go to leave you walk past the bathroom and you see someone standing in front of one of the sinks. She is facing the other way but you can see her reflection in the mirror. You notice that there is blood on her face and dripping down her shirt, paired with a swollen eye. You are obviously concerned and stop to take a closer look. Upon further inspection you realize that it is your neighbor.

“Hazel?” You call as you approach her. She sees you in the mirror and turns around. Why does she look amused?

“Hey!” She greets you like the circumstances are normal.

“What the hell happened to you?” This wasn’t the best school, but you would never have thought someone would get attacked like this.

“Oh this?” She looks down at her bloody shirt and shrugs. “I was just in fight club.”

“Who are you? Brad Pitt?” You are a little angry, what the hell is fight club and how did someone sweet and innocent like Hazel end up in it? You can’t help but feel bad for thinking that she looks kind of hot like this.

“No, no, of course not. Some of my friends have started a self defense club, we call it fight club because we learn to defend ourselves by fighting eachother.”

You sigh and decide to save your questions for later and give in to your instinct to take care of her.

“Why don’t we get you cleaned up?” You suggest to her.

She shifts uncomfortably and scratches the back of her head. She avoids eye contact by looking at the floor.

“You don’t have to do that. I’m fine, really,” she protests.

“I can’t just leave you here like this. I know we aren’t close anymore but that doesn’t mean I don’t care about you.” You mean every word. Hazel started to distance herself from you towards the end of middle school. You never knew why. You settled in with the popular crowd and Hazel settled in to her own niche. But it hurt you so badly and came right as you realized you had feelings for her. You have pushed those feelings down over the years, you’ve even had a girlfriend. But seeing Hazel like this, your old feelings are bubbling up to the surface.

Her eyes just widen, surprised, as if you had been the one to push her away. She tries to hide it, but a smile starts to creep across her face. “I guess I could use some help cleaning up. It doesn’t usually get so messy, I swear.”

“Oh believe me, I’m going to need to hear more about this fight club. But right now we need to do something about all of this blood,” your voice is tender, you are not sure exactly what she’s been through today and you want to be delicate.

You put your things down and grab a paper towel. You wet it and get closer to Hazel. As you reach towards her face she takes a sharp breath in. You aren’t sure why though, you haven’t even touched her yet.

“I promise I’m going to be as gentle as I can, but it’s still going to hurt,” you explain.

Hazel just nods and closes her eyes.

You begin to dab the wet paper towel on her face and the blood starts to come off. She winces with pain and says “ow” every once in a while, her eyes still sealed shut.

“Why don’t you talk to me? It’ll distract you from the pain.” You are suggesting it for her, but also for you. You’ve really missed talking to Hazel.

She opens her eyes to look at you with a tense expression.

“Right, right. Good idea. Um… how have you been?”

“Well I haven’t been punched in the face recently, so better than you,” you laugh a little and she does too.

“Fight club is great, for real. Yeah we get a little banged up, but it’s a safe space.”

You can’t help but laugh more as you echo “safe space.”

You expect her to continue to defend her new venture but she quickly changes the subject instead.

“So, how’s your um,” Hazel pauses to clear her throat, “girlfriend?”

That takes you by surprise. You didn’t really talk to Hazel at all but you guess that it makes sense that she would know which lesbians are in relationships with each other.

“Oh, we actually broke up. Last week,” you tell her shyly. It’s weird discussing your love life with someone that has your old feelings for her creeping up on you.

“I’m… sorry to hear that.” Does she sound relieved? It wasn’t a secret that your ex wasn’t exactly the nicest to you, so that must be it.

“It was for the best. Things weren’t exactly good between us,” you admit.

“You deserve so much better than her!” Hazel blurts out unexpectedly.

“I… thank you. That means a lot to me.” She just nods her head.

You take a step back and her eyes widen, seeming to think it was her fault.

“I’m done,” you tell her and you see a wave of relief come over her.

“What are we going to do about that shirt?”

“I’ll just change when I get home.” Hazel tells you.

“No, no.” You protest and pick up your hoodie. You offer it to her “take this.”

Hazel’s eyes dart around nervously. “That’s, um, okay.”

“You are going to get your little fight club disbanded” you warn, “if anyone sees you walking around with blood all over you like that. It’s bad enough that you’ve got a black eye. Plus everyone is still freaking out about that girl getting beat up by the Huntington football player.”

Hazel takes a nervous breath and starts to pull her shirt off. Your eyes widen and you know you should look away but it’s hard to when she reveals her toned stomach and sports bra. “What are you…” you begin to question frantically.

She cuts you off, “I don’t want to get any blood on your sweatshirt.”

You nod and finally peel your eyes off of her. You look away but leave your hand out so she can take the hoodie.

After a moment she clears her throat and you look back at her. You can’t help but smile a little bit seeing your hoodie on Hazel.

“I better get going,” she says and she starts to walk away. You step in front of her.

“Your eye is practically swollen shut. You can’t drive like that. I’ll give you a ride home.”

She freezes like a dear in headlights. She looks like she’s about to protest but she knows you are right.

“But my car? How am I supposed to get back to it, get to school tomorrow?” She asks nervously.

“I’ll just drive you to school tomorrow,” you tell her with a smirk. You can’t help it. The thought of getting to spend more time with Hazel excites you. She looks a little intimidated by how forward you are. She avoids eye contact. “I guess I’ll grab my stuff.”

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eepyuii · 1 month

Text

to embrace and consume

pairing ; childe x gender neutral!reader

content ; childhood friends to enemies to lovers?

cw ; violence, choking, frequent mention of injuries and blood, blood drinking, hurt/comfort? angst??? kinda???

notes ; sorry folks, not a new frostbite chapter!!!! life still pretty hectic, preparing for college now but i’ve had this idea for a while now and i thought trying out a oneshot would be cool!!! :3

this is kinda like an alternate reality of frostbite where the reader and childe still grew up together but they do actually grow to hate each other instead of that pussy shit i wrote before LMFAO. perhaps in this instance the reader didn’t join the fatui or maybe moved away from snezhnaya??? idk and they face off like they did in the golden house

also bear with me with this idea… i got it from that video of the boxer’s laying down and rubbing blood all over each others faces IM SORRY I JUST THOUGHT IT WAS RLY COOL ;w; this is the steamiest thing i can write that’s not smut, i don’t think i could ever write smut

ANYWAY I HOPE U LIKE IT

small tip-taps of two children running simultaneously. uncontrollable giggles echo from either side. they run circles around each other, in an infinite futile attempt of catching one another— they care not, for the point isn’t to win.

silent, calculated footsteps. they’re slow and careful, like a predator and its prey rounding each other, or perhaps even two predators— they only serve to postpone the inevitable clash of claw and teeth, in which only one will leave alive.

ajax tackles you into a bed of snow that steadily cushions your fall. he falls on top of you with a ‘puff!’ and you’ve both gone past the point of any hope in containing your laughter, chests shaking against each other as you cackle. you feel your head grow warm from the excitement and exertion, the fluffy snow that surrounds it creating a pleasant juxtaposition.

right as the two of you have finally managed to catch your breaths, panting out the last few giggles remaining inside you, ajax’s mouth grows into a devious grin. he leans back above you, arms winding back behind him… and lunges down at you— his small skittering fingers tickling your sides in a vicious attack. you roar in unceasing laughter as you shake from side to side in a futile effort to evade your best friend’s tickles.

“aja- ahahah.. s-stop! i can’t- hahah.. can’t breathe!”

the first arrow is fired, you dodge— then the second, then the third. they’re shot almost rhythmically, very predictably into your previous position, like childe is expecting you to dodge them. his expression is unreadable, unrecognizable even. he’s entirely unrecognizable to you. thinking about it nearly distracts you from the woosh of his arrows around you and the sound rushing water as he charges the next one with hydro energy, but your instincts thankfully take the wheel and allow you to evade childe’s onslaught of arrows almost subconsciously.

you’ve long since given up on maintaining a poker face, as your expression had slid down into a frown of pure resentment. you hate him, whatever he is right now— not ajax for sure. it feels as though it’s been an eternity since that name last left your mouth, the fond familiarity that it set on your tongue long dead, much like the boy the name once belonged to. he’s dead now, he must be.

within a flurry of varied attacks, a particular sharp wave of water finally outsmarts you— you’re a breath away from successfully evading it when it slashes your bicep in a cut as thin as a hair strand with a sting that feels cold and ruthless against your skin. the coldness of the cut is quickly replaced with a seeping warmth, your blood slowly making its way out of the incision as you huff with frustration and finally decide to get on the offensive. your polearm swooshes through the air with heavy, vicious swings hellbent on landing on your opponent.

a millisecond after one of your swings lands on childe’s shoulder, he’s already reacting with a near animalistic growl and unforgiving slashes of his transformed hydro blades.

and so ensues a bloodthirsty back-and-forth.

it’s akin to a battle between birds of prey, or africanized bees— violently and ceaselessly, the two of you clash at the center of the battlefield and the sheer force of your exchange in hits and counterattacks pushes you back apart, sending either one to opposite poles of the arena. two magnets on the wrong end that insist on approaching each other by the pure drive of utter hatred.

childe, much like his namesake, still manages to find a window to be cocky and throws taunting words at you with an overconfident smirk. even as a living weapon of war, he doesn’t forsake his immaturity.

after feeling like you might die from laughing too hard, you finally obtain the advantage on ajax and his fierce onslaught of tickles and manage to push him off of you— he lands on the snow behind him with an equally cushioned ‘puff!’. you stand over him, half-triumphant and half-malicious with the intent of paying him back in full for his sudden attack.

ajax comprehends your wordless intention immediately and kicks his feet into the ground to slowly back away from you as nervous giggles leave his lips. like a reversed déjà vu, you wind your arms back to prepare your own tickling power— only now, as your in the midst of lunging down at your best friend, he disappears and you land face down on the snow, ajax’s roaring laughter ringing out from a distance behind you.

it doesn’t take much to spot the fiery blur of ginger hair, plus his favorite red scarf, zooming through the trees. you start chuckling once again and take off after him.

“get back here, ajax!”

“you’ll never catch me, slowpoke!” he taunts.

“all you do is run!” you retort.

a raspy grumble escapes childe, one that sounds a lot like the words ‘all you do is run!’, but you’re far too simultaneously tired and pumped with adrenaline to process it properly. thinking those words are truly what he said brings a burning to your chest, one unlike the physical injuries you’re sustaining— no, it feels more like the ache of a fond memory now long lost. you can’t bring yourself to remember why that would be the case.

you’re both exhausted at this point, panting uncontrollably, movements turning sluggish.

childe’s steps falter, knees shaking as if he’s about to fall, and he braces himself to summon the power of his delusion as violet sparks of electricity emit from him. you feel the hairs on the back of your head rise to attention as you tense up and prepare for the new challenge your opponent seems to pose— only for him to utterly fail.

being far too weak, the electro particles dissipate and childe’s legs finally give in when he falls to the ground with a miserable groan. shouldn’t have left his delusion as a last resort.

that previous seeping warmth of blood has since taken over your entire body as you’re practically dripping in your own blood, soon enough it’s far too much for you to handle and you join childe as you slump on the floor pathetically. the silence becomes deafening as both you and your opponent become far too incapacitated to do anything but pant and stare at each other with burning glares ridden with loathing.

you utterly despise him. how far he’s fallen, how much he’s done. all for the sake of a loveless ruler and the thrill of the bloodshed she promises him.

“i-i…” you mutter, voice strained and shaky, yet it still catches childe’s attention in full. “i hate you.”

those three words seem to irk childe to his very core, as his anger grows into seething growls completely rid of any previous composure. he roars ferally as he uses his remaining strength to launch at you, slamming you down into the cold floor. your head painfully lands against the hard surface and leaves you with an overwhelming ache in your cranium.

a shaky but determined hand rises to your throat and tries its mightiest to squeeze. your own hands immediately rise to fight back and push him away, feeling the air in your throat grow thinner and thinner. you instinctively panic and thrash under him, terrified that you might actually die by childe’s hands, like pathetic prey. your heart is drumming in your ears like it itself is drowning in a panic attack. oh god you’re going to die.

miraculously, your protests prove to be needles as the harbinger himself doesn’t have the strength to properly choke you to death—he gives up and resorts to just looming over you while choked, heaving breaths and coughs leave you, filling in the silence. within the dizzy haze that your head injury brings, your vision blurs for a moment and you’re almost able to see the shining face of a grinning, ginger-haired young boy above you. it’s gone within the next second.

you wonder if childe sees the same thing you do. you wonder if he, even for a millisecond, sees your giggly younger self beneath him. you wonder if that’s what makes him falter in his attempt to strangle you.

your questions seem to be sensed by him and wordlessly answered as he slowly lowers his forehead to yours, tired eyes falling to a close. his nose drips blood like a faucet and it lands warmly onto your face. you’re far too tired to bring yourself to care about it, you just close your own eyes instead. you remain like that for a while, just breathing in the metallic scent of each other’s blood. your wounds scream at you, you don’t listen— you listen to childe’s journey into regulating his breathing instead and subconsciously follow suit. you’re so unbelievably fucking tired, you’re 99% confident you’ll pass out underneath childe any moment now. there aren’t enough words in the world to explain what happens next.

a sudden wetness drags itself across your face and you perplexedly open your eyes to discover that it turns out to be childe dragging his blood-soaked face against yours, cheek rubbing onto your own and spreading crimson all over it— like a slobbering puppy. it’s utterly inexplicable.

just like how it’s utterly inexplicable that you don’t pull away. no, you laugh. you’d like to blame it on your delirious exhaustion, how you just stay and accept it. allow your blood to mix with his, more than it ever would’ve if you had just killed each other and been done with it. childe soon joins you with his own weak giggles and the two of you, for even a fraction of a moment, feel like children again.

it’s mindless, it’s silly, it’s uncaring. like you’re merely playing in the snow again and rubbing the melting snow that clings onto your faces on each other.

your hands irrationally rise to cup childe’s cheeks but you still don’t think to push him away, nor does he think to leave your touch. it’s utterly familiar and completely foreign all at once. though not as much as what happens next— in the harbinger’s mission to slobber blood all over you, your lips brush several times but neither act upon it. until childe finally decides to firmly clamp his mouth onto yours, like a parched man desperate for water.

he kisses you. and it’s okay, you’re okay. you’re both okay.

the sanguine soup that you two create inevitably to slither into your mouth and you gulp it down— it feels like the freshest sip of water you’ve ever taste. you must’ve hit your head catastrophically hard. you feel childe’s content sigh blow over you from his nose and realize you’ve got your own sigh of utter fulfillment to let out. perhaps this is more familiar than it is foreign, this subconscious affection. perhaps if you had had more time together, grown up together, you would’ve noticed the effortless childhood connection the two of you had would’ve blossomed into something more at some point. you know it would have.

you know this because you and childe seem to only kiss harder and deeper, pulling away only when breathing seems to be absolutely necessary and falling back in. drinking more of each other’s blood, intertwining further. the taste makes you nearly delirious.

you pass out from exhaustion in each other’s arms, both thinking that it might not be so terrible to be killed by the other’s hand if it means you’d get to consume each other so purely once again.

#accidentally wrote this with no mention of y/n LMFAO #childe genshin x reader #genshin impact fic #childe imagines #childe x reader #childe x y/n #childe x you #genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #childe fic #tartaglia x y/n #tartaglia x you #childe tartaglia ajax #tartaglia x reader

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aireia · 2 months

Text

And now I'm burning brighter than your dreams. — He grieves for you.

Extra notes: Read part 1 here! The fic makes just about 0 sense without it unfortunately.

tw/cw: minor spoilers for chapter 261. no pronouns used for reader but uses she/her in first part. death. angst with little fluff. hurt with a little comfort. minor implications of suicidal thoughts. dreaming. mentions of blood. minor violence. blades. death. injuries. author's first language still isn't english. no beta we die like everyone. wc: 6.8K

note: This fic makes 0 sense to me. It sucks ass, but there's 2 days till my birthday so I decided to become a genshin character and send you guys a gift (angst) instead of someone sending me gifts instead. I also have no idea how to tag this. —masterlist

y/n l/n’s death has been confirmed by second grade sorcerer Megumi Fushiguro.

It’s been a few weeks since your death. Has it really been that long?

It's spring. The seasons have just shifted, and it’s still cold early in the morning. Megumi tries his best to get out of bed every morning, but the chilly breeze in the morning doesn’t help at all. It’s been like that for the past few weeks. He’d feel the cold air in the morning, and his mind would flash back to the time where he was holding you in his arms.

He remembers everything. It was especially cold on that winter night, which meant bodies got cold way faster after dying. He remembers wanting to get your corpse back to jujutsu high as quickly as possible, but that meant he would’ve parted from you faster than he would have ever wanted. In fact, if there were a choice, he doesn’t think he could ever let go of you.

Megumi remembers telling himself to hold you for just a while longer after you began to get cold, to give you the warmth you deserved. You’re a child too, just like he is, and from his knowledge, most, if not all children hated the cold.

He doesn’t remember being a selfish person. He’s only been like that once, for all he can recollect. Although he knows how he was when he cradled your body. His lips were trembling, his arms desperately trying to keep you close. He didn’t shed many tears, no, but he remembers his throat threatening to spill words such as “don’t go” or “don’t leave me”, yet he choked on all of them.

Megumi was certain it wouldn’t have cursed you, considering you were killed by a cursed tool, but for the short period of time you were hanging onto the thread of consciousness you had left, he was sure he would’ve cursed not you, but himself to death with his words had you heard him.

He hasn’t been doing much either. Every single day has been a constant loop for him where he struggles to get out of bed, does a bit of training, eats a bit, and heads back to sleep earlier than he usually would. His mind keeps yelling at himself that he’s being pathetic, and that you were the same as the people who come and go in a jujutsu sorcerer’s life. Despite that, he doesn’t quite understand why every part of him refuses.

Megumi doesn’t dream about you often. In fact, he hasn’t dreamt of you for over a month now. It's for the better, he thinks, and he hopes it stays that way. Though, there's a part of him that wishes he could see you every time he closes his eyes, then maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. No, actually, screw that. Your name has rotted in everyone’s mouths. It tastes like vomit and dust on their tongues.

“They didn’t even give you a proper burial,” Megumi thought to himself before his eyelids finally closed. He doesn’t know what they did to you after he turned your corpse in. He doesn’t want to think about any of that either.

Thinking too much was going to be the reason he died, he swore of it.

Megumi can hear the sound of soft grass swaying. Wasn’t he in his room just a few moments ago? For once, he can breathe the air normally without feeling like he doesn’t deserve to, and the sunlight is kissing his eyelids so beautifully, so much more gently compared to the morning breeze that pricks his skin.

He opens his eyes, and Megumi finds himself in a field of blooming flowers. He softly reaches out to touch the petals before standing up. He walks around the place, the sound of the grass rustling as he walks around now the only thing in his ears.

Megumi stops and takes a large breath of fresh air. If he could, he’d live here forever, he thinks.

Then he spots a butterfly fluttering around him. It’s pretty, a shade of deep purple and black, and he can’t help but follow it as it flies away from him. Suddenly, he feels like he’s three again, and although he doesn’t remember most of his childhood, he vaguely remembered that he would play like this with his mother.

He loses the butterfly a little while later, and he’s greeted by falling sakura blossoms. He reaches out to touch the pastel pink flower, only for it to dissolve as soon as it comes in contact with his hand.

Megumi walks up to the tree, looking up at the flowers to see the sunlight that bled through the gaps. Then, he spots someone else. Someone who’s also wandering around, lost, like a child without direction.

His eyes shot open. Megumi touched his face. It was covered in beads of sweat, and his hands lightly trembled, he swears he saw you in the distance. You weren’t facing him. He walked around the field, aimlessly wandering around while admiring the violet butterflies that danced around the flowers, just as he did.

He walked up to you, and there you are. That’s when he woke up.

“2am..” Megumi sighed once he looked at the clock on his nightstand. You’re in his dreams. Damnit. He’s not saying you weren’t before you died, but then, everything was simple. He dreamt of your futures together, not what this was.

He wasn't able to fall back asleep after that, tossing and turning on his head, only thinking of the image of you in the field of flowers. You looked so beautiful, and he wondered for a moment if it could be reality. It’s selfish, but he really wants it to be.

“Woah Fushiguro! You look more tired than usual today. You sure you don’t wanna sit this one out?” Yuji asked the next morning, clearly concerned. Of course he was. Anyone would be if they saw the dark circles under his eyes.

“I’m fine. Let’s go,” he replied, stretching in hopes of getting rid of the tiredness he felt. Each step he took after that felt heavier than the last, and Megumi felt like crumbling to the ground and falling asleep, but the world continues to spin no matter how he feels, so he decides to continue taking missions and working himself to the bone.

At first, it’s fine. He easily distracts himself from the thoughts of you, but with each second that passes, he finds it harder and harder to do so. He’d thought that he would be able to forget you, but it seems to haunt him more and more now.

He doesn’t get it. He remembers when Yuji died for a few weeks after he met him, and he easily got rid of the heavy feeling in his stomach, but now you’re gone forever, and if he’s honest, he never knew much of you, or had that much time with you, and it was a single dream, so why can’t he return back to his normal self?

Despite all the thoughts that plagued him, the day passed by quickly… He thinks.

It felt like a long time when they were battling, but everything before and after that is a blur of memories he couldn’t bother to recall. Maybe it’s the injuries the curse inflicted on him that’s messing with his mind. Or it’s just like any other day, bleeding and merging into each other.

“Another dream…” Megumi thought to himself when he opened his eyes to see the dark sky. He’s lying on something hard. The floor, probably. He stretched his arms and sat up, only to get startled by you, who’s holding up a lantern in front of him. He stares at you for a while, trying to process finally seeing you, and you cupped his cheek with your free hand.

“It really is you. You disappeared just as I was about to call out for you last time,” you said, smiling. You set the lantern down and hugged him tightly, and Megumi couldn’t help but feel a little odd at the warmth of you. He’ll remember this feeling, he tells himself, because at least, he wants this nice, warm feeling to replace the final time he touched you before this, when your skin was cold to the touch.

“Where are we?” Megumi asked as you helped him up after you parted, and you picked the lantern back up. You looked in the sky, where the clouds swirled and drifted. “I don’t know,” you answered with a cheeky smile. You’re just the same as ever.

You grabbed one of his hands and began running towards the nearest door. “I guess we should explore, right?” you laughed, entering the manor, both your footsteps now echoing through the empty halls.

The walls were mostly lined with paintings of people you both recognised. Gojo and Shoko, along with a painting of a male with long, dark hair. The both of you slowed down to admire the art, and as you walked along the halls, you realised that the mysterious person’s paintings had been torn, namely the large gash that ran along his forehead.

As you kept going to what seemed to be an endless gallery, Gojo’s paintings also seemed to be growing weirder and weirder. His were stained with crimson, and eventually, his paintings too shared the same destruction as the ones beside him.

Shoko wasn’t in the frame of her paintings anymore.

Megumi was about to push the door to the next room open when you suddenly asked, “How’s everything been?” and his hand froze.

“It’s not been the best,” he answered, not wanting to go too much into detail. You didn’t want to push him, but if only you did, because right now, you miss him too.

The door opened to a garden, casted over by the shadows of the plants and trees. There’s a table in the middle of it, with tea and coffee and snacks. It seemed like too much of a set up for a date. Megumi wonders because it’s his dreams, maybe this is what he wanted when you were alive? To take you out to a coffee shop, one where there were barely any people so you could focus on each other.

Without thinking, he pulled you over to the table and pulled the chair out for you, before walking over to one of the bushes and plucking out a rose for you. He goes back to you and slips it into your hair, brushing some of it out of your face to admire your pretty eyes. You’re the same as ever, and he thinks it’s the best thing that he’s felt in the past few weeks.

Megumi pours a drink for you before sitting down to sip on his coffee, shyly biting into the cookie that you offered him with that pretty smile on your face.

He doesn’t know how much time has passed in this dreamland before the both of you finally get up and start walking around again. This time, you’re looking at the many flowers grown in the garden, and by the time you reach another door, you’ve woven a flower crown and placed it on Megumi’s head.

The both of you stared at the wooden door in the middle of the garden. Considering its location, it was safe to assume that this was the pathway back to the real world. You felt his lips brush against your forehead before he opened the door, and then he was gone.

Megumi awakens this time from the sound of knocking on his door. He looks at the clock on his bedside. It’s already 9AM in the morning. He lazily throws himself out of bed, before rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, then opens the door.

“Wow. Look at this guy.”

Nobara pointed at his bed head. Her and Yuji were both dressed in casual clothing, ready for the day as compared to him, who still looked half asleep in his dark, long sleeved shirt. Megumi listened to the duo talk for a while before they focused their attention on him.

“Fushiguro! Did you not listen to anything we said on the way back from our mission last night?” Nobara asked.

“I was asleep.”

“Then go get ready or something!” she half yelled, and pushed Megumi back into the room.

Once Megumi stepped back out, he was immediately dragged off to Shinjuku, where they continued to pull him around while shopping for sweets and clothes and just about anything. Just for those few hours, his mind was lifted from the thoughts of you, and he felt a little at peace, even though you were still in the back of his mind.

He felt a little guilty. Even though his expressions don’t show it, he feels so, so happy for the first time in weeks with his friends, but you aren’t here to feel it with him, and he can’t help but feel like he can’t feel what he does, because he wants you to be beside him too.

He looks at the sight in front of him, drinking in how Nobara and Yuji looked trying to win a plushie from the claw machine, his own breathing the only sound in his ears as the chatter of passer-bys drown out every other sound. The two are raging over a rigged machine, the sensitivity of the claw set just a little too high for it to be able to tightly grip the plushies.

And then, he thinks of you.

Through his eyes, he can picture you laughing along with them. You would’ve loved this. You would’ve loved every part of the life they lived.

After they successfully managed to bag two plushies, they continued their journey, running around Shinjuku before they ended up at a mall, where they took Megumi to a photobooth.

Yea. You would’ve loved this.

That night, Megumi pulled out the drawer of his nightstand where he kept your photo and compared it with the new photo in his hand. He noticed that Yuji had a few new scars on his face, Nobara looked a little bit more mature, and he… Still had his eyebags. And the most noticeable difference, you weren’t in the picture anymore.

He places both of them into the drawer and shuts it. He wants to take another picture with you again. Just the two of you, together.

“What’s it like being dead?” Megumi blurted out. He was dreaming again. You take your eyes off the cloud like fish that turn into mist at every touch. A whale swam by just then, turning into smoke and mist the moment Megumi reached out to touch it.

You stared at him, mind wandering. You fixed your gaze back on the creatures around you as you walked through the aquarium, and finally responded. “I’m just… There? I guess.”

“That isn’t an answer,” he said, slightly side-eyeing you, and you laughed. “I can’t say. I haven’t been dead for long, have I?” but that’s only to you. To Megumi, it’s been a lifetime without you, and hearing you say it again reminded him of just how much he’s grown to lean on your shoulder when he felt weak.

“Or maybe it’s because I’m waiting for someone that I’m putting off finally laying my soul to rest,” you said, pressing your finger against the glass of the aquarium tanks and watching as curious sea creatures gathered.

“Who?” Megumi asked, only for you to turn around and boop his nose with your finger.

“You, obviously.”

“You want me to die early?” He questioned again. What? Where’d he get that type of idea?

“Silly boy,” you laughed, grabbing his arm before running towards the exit of the aquarium, the stray animals around you disappearing as you ran through them, leaving large trails of mist behind you, as if you were deconstructing Megumi’s dreams for him, leading him back where he belonged.

“I’d wait an eternity for you, so don’t come here too early.”

When he woke up again, the rain outside was as heavy as ever. With the way it’s pouring down, it looks like there’s clouds of mist everywhere. That would explain why he dreamt of… Whatever that was. He pressed his finger against the panel of the window, wondering if there was even the slightest chance for him to create shikigami that resembled the ones in his imaginations.

Actually, nevermind. That sounded stupid.

Megumi got ready for his day. For once, he felt just a little bit more energised. Maybe it was because he felt reassured. You’re waiting for him, and he won’t be alone. Even if he can’t see you now, but still! He knows now that if he does somehow die, which you wouldn’t be happy about, at least he’d be able to have all the time in the world with you.

The grief doesn’t feel as heavy anymore, now replaced by his hopes that you’d keep visiting him in his dreams, entering his mind and pulling him out of his own, it felt almost as if it were him who was in your dreams, and not the other way around.

It’s been a few months now, and he’s dreamt of you so, so many times. Each time he left those dreams meant that he made new memories with you– something you weren’t able to do in the real world. Megumi can’t help but find himself wanting to be with you more. He wants to make up for the lost time, for every second he wasn’t able to be by your side. If anyone knew, they’d call him obsessive. Hell, they’d say anything, but to him, this felt like hope he seemed to have lost.

He sat in his bed, reading one of his novels. Actually, reading… Wouldn’t be the right term here. He found himself mindlessly staring at the words and flipping through pages he hadn't read as he thought and dwelled on memories from when you were still alive.

Megumi looked out the window of the classroom. It’s autumn again. The trees have begun to turn a shade of orange, the wind has gotten just a little colder, and everything seemed a little bit duller.

Today, grey clouds covered the skies, and he looked at the front of the class. It seemed just like the day you first stepped foot into campus, where one day they’d all get permissions and have sleepovers and drink hot chocolate, and he can’t help but feel a little saddened.

Now all the memories he has of you are from the figments of his and your imaginations. Is it so wrong for him to wish to see the stars with you again? Is it so wrong for him to wish for you to take his first kiss in the winter on the roof again?

Megumi wants nothing more right now than to relive each of those memories, and with each passing second, he finds himself wanting to do those things in his dreams, even though he can’t control any of them.

“It’s almost winter? Brings back memories,” you breathed out, walking ahead of him. “I wanna play monopoly with you guys again. I was so close to winning last time.”

“Why couldn’t we have ended up like that?” Megumi asked you one day.

He was at a beach with you this time. When he opened his eyes, you were dancing in the cool water, freer than any bird with your arms spread wide to welcome the breeze and sunlight that kissed your skin.

He was mesmerised by the way you moved, and before he knew it, you pulled him by his arms to dance with you, the warmth of your hands surrounding his skin. And then, you sat by the ocean with your feet in the water, your head resting on Megumi’s shoulder.

“It would’ve been selfish,” you replied to his question, closing your eyes to listen to the sound of the waves.

“It’s okay to be,” he retorted. “We could’ve been so much more.”

Silence took over, and you think for a moment. He’s right. You could've been everything.

“There wouldn’t have been a point to it with what I was.” There was bitterness in your voice. “And besides, I don’t have the right to feel that way.”

“I should’ve been more selfish for you.”

You looked at the water splashing over your legs and stood up, slowly making your way to the deeper parts of the water. Maybe it's your fault for showing up so much, but you miss him just as much as he does, and you're unsure of how to get him to stop, or for you to let go, too.

“It’s time for me to go. See you?”

The uncertainty in your voice made him feel worried. He got up and tried to reach out towards you, wanting to do anything to keep you from leaving again, but the waves had consumed you before he could, and suddenly, his eyes were open, and he’s awake.

He doesn’t like how quickly the dream went by.

He doesn’t dream of you again after that. You’re always on his mind, just like usual, but he can’t seem to speak to you or dream of you. Each day spent was a day spent in disappointment, and he doesn’t want to stop trying.

Megumi could walk down the streets and see various flowers and plants, or a pretty bird you’d like, and he’d want to talk to you about it.

Despite how strong his desires are, he can’t find you anywhere. He swears he’s about to start writing letters to heaven and somehow hoping they get to you. He’s dreamt of you so much now he’s starting to think you’re alive again, and more often than not, he finds himself picking his phone up and clicking on your contact in hopes of being able to text you about his day, and for you to respond to him, but that won’t happen, and he knows it.

And then all of it repeats. He’s going to bed earlier and earlier, hoping that by some miracle that he was going to see you in the fog of illusions his brain made.

But you never showed up, and he was getting tired of it. He found it harder to concentrate on missions, because there were just so many things he wanted to tell you, and he kept telling himself to remember because he’ll see you again, and then he’ll get to tell you of everything he’s seen, because you were never able to see them.

He’s so full of you, you, and you, and all the heart he has for you, so please, he begs, for once he's found something he can look forward to, why won’t you just comfort him again?

“Megumi…”

His eyes opened abruptly to scan his surroundings. Another few months have passed, and a year has probably passed since you first started appearing in his dreams, he’s finally heard your voice again. There’s nothing around him. It’s pure darkness, and he can hear your voice echoing somewhere.

Megumi started following the sound of you, and eventually, the ground crunched with each step he took. He looked down. He’s stepping on white snow, then he looks up again, and there’s a trail of blood.

And he hears your voice in that direction.

He gulps and freezes. His legs are physically impaled into the ground, as if something were holding him down, and he can’t find it in himself to move. And then he thinks, and thinks, and you’re in danger, and suddenly, he takes one step, and then he’s running towards you.

The trees seem to become blurry as he increases his speed, and he doesn’t know how long he’s been running. One moment it’s dark, and then there was light as he stepped into the snow, and now, the sun has set, and he’s running in hopes of reaching you before he fails you again.

He’s panting heavily, his legs are about to give out from the running, and he finally sees you. The blood on the ground he saw earlier had gotten thicker with every step he ran, and he sees you laying in the cold snow again, with your arm extended towards the skies. There’s a star you’re hoping to grasp, to reach and it’s shining so brightly, so radiant and pretty for everyone in the world to see as you finally realised– It’s always been out of your reach.

Megumi ran towards you and pulled you into his arms. He wondered to himself just as he did it, what is he doing? Why does he have to experience this again? It’s completely the same, and he can feel how cold your body is.

He feels like he’s on autopilot, vision shaky and blurry as he holds your freezing hand up to his cheek, and he can feel his heart thumping in his chest, his mind running thousands of miles per second, and yet just one word from you snapped him out of all of it.

“I’m sorry.”

For some reason, Megumi dreaded that you’d apologise. He didn’t want an apology. He knows you felt guilty for the pain you’d caused him, but he’s over it. He could never hate you, because why would he? How could he hate you when you gave him company, love, and comfort? How could he hate you when he’s himself?

He doesn’t respond to you. Not this time. Instead, he looks up to see the moon, and just as he thought, there wasn’t any moon again, because why would there be when it was right beside him? And for how much you loved the sun, isn’t it cruel that it never shone upon you?

His eyes shot open again. It feels even worse now. He knows it’s just a dream, but you were dying, and he’s awake, and he wonders if he was still there holding you so you felt warm before everything went dark. He stares at his hands. It’s not stained with blood. Not anymore, for he washed it off over a year ago, so why does it feel so devastating knowing it wasn’t real?

Perhaps it was the feeling that he’s failed you again, and there wasn’t anyone by your side, or maybe he’s thinking from your perspective. Maybe he was never beside you and he’s invisible in his dreams, and you think you don’t deserve the grace of a little mercy, just a little bit of company and kindness when you die.

The tight feeling in his chest from the day he woke up after your passing was back again, and he can’t help but think it’s only gotten worse.

Megumi wipes the sweat off his forehead and gets up. He has a solo mission today. He can’t mess up again. Not when you’re no longer around to have his back.

Once he’s ready, he meets up with Ijichi, who briefs him on his mission while driving. It seemed easy enough. Worst case scenario, he’d run into a grade two curse, which he wouldn’t have that much of a problem defeating.

So why exactly was he being stared down by such a creature now? He can’t help but feel a sense of deja vu. This exact thing has happened before, but at least you were there at the time. Now, he’s alone, trapped in a veil with no way to contact the outside world, and with the way the curse looks, he feels that he’s about to be beheaded.

He snaps out of his thoughts when the curse swings at him, and he barely dodges the attack. He’s convinced he would’ve been turned into minced meat. He can’t do this. He can’t, not alone.

He needs you, but you aren’t there again.

He knows he can’t keep dodging forever. His stamina would run out soon, but every single attack he tried to deliver just wasn’t working. Nothing was. Every hit given was just another dent in his blade. It’s near its breaking point too, he can tell.

Megumi’s eyes close as another impact lands on his weapon, and he doesn’t process it, but another hit, and everything hurts. He’s not sure if he’s broken a bone or not, or if anything inside his body is bleeding, but he’s very, very sure that he’s bleeding out. He’s tired.

He doesn’t want to do this anymore. He can’t bring himself to get up. He can only stare at the curse before he finally blacks out.

“Hello?” he hears a voice sing out, and his eyes flutter open. “You’re awake, finally”

You’re looking down from above him.

“What… Where am I?" Megumi questioned you, looking around the blank space around him.

“The border between life and death. I'm just here to make sure you don't die early, that's what partners are for, right?” you crouched down and flicked his forehead.

“You’re dwelling on me too much. It’s been a year, you know?” you looked straight at him, noticing that he was avoiding your gaze. “...It’s because I've been appearing in your dreams, haven't I? That's what's holding you back.” Megumi finally looked at you at the mentions of his imaginations. Yes, you have been in his dreams. You are his dream, but he doesn’t want you to feel bad because of it.

“I don’t want to let go.”

You sighed at his words and sat down next to him. “Megumi, you have to understand that I’m only a small chapter in your life. I’m not much of a psychologist, but that chapter has ended– Our chapter has ended. You’re still young, Megumi, there’s so much you can experience, so don’t end it all–”

“You were young too,” he blurted out. “You had a lot you could’ve experienced too, but you couldn’t.”

“I wanted to live beautifully too!” you suddenly snapped at him, and everything went silent.

The tension between you two only increased with each passing moment, and you both sat in silence for a while. Truthfully, you were wondering how much time had gone by while Megumi was unconscious. You felt like there was a weight in your heart, a lump in your throat, something that prevented you from speaking.

You finally decided to speak up after some time. You needed a way to get him out of this place one way or another.

“Say, Megumi. What do you see me as?” Once you asked, he didn’t hesitate to respond.

“The moon.”

"Even after so long you're still looking at me as if I were the moon," you chuckled.

"...It's unfair." You whipped your head to face Megumi when you heard the crack in his voice. "What's unfair?" You shakily reached out for him, but stopped when tears began to stream down his face.

“Megumi–”

"Not just the moon," he interrupted through his hiccups. "I wanted to make you my entire universe."

You sharply inhaled, and pulled him towards you. He clung onto you. You noticed how his hands were tightly gripping onto your shirt, and you gulped. “I’m sorry,” you choked out. “I’m sorry,” you said again, running your hand through his hair.

“I never properly apologised to you for hurting you, did I? I’m sorry.”

The next few minutes were filled with apologies, his tears staining your sleeves. You pulled away after he stopped crying, your hand now tightly wrapped around his. “Megumi, listen. You have unfinished business. You need to get up and go, or I'll kill you myself.”

“Don't steal my lines,” he weakly croaked out in between sobs.

Megumi sighed and wiped his tears away, finally standing up. He couldn’t help but notice your hand tightening around his just a little after he helped you stand.

“I’m gonna miss this feeling once you go,” you confessed to him, fingers now running over his calloused knuckles.

“I have a request, Megumi,” you said, smiling at him. “I know I told you to move on, and I won’t appear in your but remember me every once in a while, okay? Somehow, I feel that there isn’t another soul that’ll remember me for anything good I’ve done,” and he bites his lips at your words. It’s true, everyone will forget you.

“Hey, wait,” Megumi says before you pull away from him. “Do you think I’m going to be alone when it’s my turn to die?” he asked.

You wondered for a while, then responded, “You won’t,” you said as you interlaced your fingers together. “You’ll be surrounded by so many people, and they’ll be there to help you live on for so much longer, I’d doubt you ever died,” you continued.

“Even if you are, and you feel alone” you wrapped your arms around his neck and kissed him goodbye one last time. “I’ll be here to kiss your lonely soul,” you teased, and he smiled before you detached yourself from him and turned around to walk away.

“Don’t take that as an invitation to come here early!”

“Oh! And let’s meet up on that mountain again. Under the tree!” you waved.

Megumi’s eyes opened. He looked around him. There were remnants of curses that weren’t there before he became unconscious.

“He’s awake!” Yuji shouted, and Nobara came over to help him walk to the car they came in with Nitta.

“We got worried about you since you didn’t come back,” the pink haired male said, helping him into the car before the both of them got to (aggressively) bandaging him up. He looks at the clock at the front of the car. It’s late.

Once they got back, Megumi got out and began walking in the direction towards the cliffs. “Hey! We need you to get checked by Shoko! She’s been waiting ever since we started searching for you!”

He groaned, but begrudgingly followed them, and all the way throughout his check-up, he’s only been thinking about everything you’ve said to him. The minute it was over, he darted out the door and ran for the cliffs.

Megumi was panting slightly when he got there. He went right after the mission, with blood still staining his uniform. The moon hung high in the sky, watching as he summoned his demon dogs and began digging the spot under the tree. Megumi began clawing at the soil using his hands at one point, getting dirt stuck in between his nails and fingers. He only stopped when he found a slightly rusted metal box.

The boy didn’t know what to expect inside, taking a deep breath and gulping before his shaky hands lifted the cover of the box.

Megumi saw a few pictures of you and him, some of the accessories you wore, a book, and a piece of letter that had been neatly folded.

He sat down under the tree and unfolded the letter, and began reading.

My blessing,

Truthfully, I don’t really remember my first day at the school anymore, because when I stepped foot into campus, my goal was to get information from all of you, acting like a shadow that didn’t exist. I know that I felt alone before that, but before I knew it, I had been shone upon by stars that burnt brighter than even the sun, but yet, you seemed to be the darkest shadow among all the students.

I planned to die from the first day, but I only made it worse by getting closer to all of you. Had I not done so, you wouldn’t be feeling any of the grief you do.

I’ve only been in your life for a few months, Megumi. I want to think I’ve made a change in your life., because I’m looking back on it right now, and you’ve made such a big impact in my life. All of you.

Come to think of it, we never got to see spring together. Next time we see each other, let’s meet in spring, so we can have picnics at night while wishing upon the stars, just like children do.

And I’ll make sure I’ll be the one to greet you first, because you were the one who waved to me first in this life.

Let’s meet again in a more forgiving world.

He held the letter in his hands after he read it, trying to figure out what he felt about it. His eyes are blank, and he’s cried so much for you that he doesn’t know if he has the energy for it anymore.

A heavy feeling settles on his heart as he sets the letter down and picks the book up. It was a book he’s wanted for a while, something he mentioned to you once while you were stargazing, but he never brought it up to you again afterwards.

Megumi flips open the cover, and there are wilted sakura blooms pressed flatly against the blank page, along with your handwriting.

“They bloomed early this year, Happy Valentines Day, Megumi.”

He continued flipping through the pages, and you had annotated the book, highlighting everything you felt he would look back at, the cute moments between the people in the book that reminded you of the both of you, and a bookmark made of wilted flowers that bloomed all year round on the page of the couple’s wedding.

Suddenly, he feels tears in his eyes again, and they overflow and drip onto the pages, slightly staining them. You told him to move on, but how could he? It was obvious you were lying to him again. You never planned to die. Even if you did, it’s obvious you never wanted to die. You wanted to spend your life with him. You wanted to swim in the ocean at night together, you wanted to wake up next to him, go on dates to carnivals just to ride the ferris wheel and admire the view of Tokyo.

And then it finally sunk into his soul that he’d never see you again. Not now, at least.

His hold around the book tightened, and he hugged his knees close to his chest. He wished on every universe that you’d somehow appear beside him and wipe his tears away, chasing away the heavy feeling in his heart. He knows the feeling is temporary, and it’ll go away in a while, but he feels so alone.

By the time he finally stands up, his legs ache from how long he’s been sitting on the ground, and the sun is peeking through the horizon. He’s been consumed by his own thoughts for hours, and he thinks maybe it’s in his mind, but just as he turned around to walk away, a breeze of air went by him, and it felt as if something hugged him, just for a second.

The universe is watching over him after all.

February 14th, two years after your death.

Megumi’s back at your spot again. This time, there’s a grave he had made for you, with a few plants planted beside it, and the ribbons tied around the stems sway in the wind. He sits down beside it and his fingers graze the tips of the soft grass.

He closes his eyes, and he realises he can no longer remember what you look like. Well, not really. He remembers clearly what you look like. He still has the picture all of you took at the mall together, and he holds it dearly, but all of them have grown, and it’s not enough to remember you anymore.

There are new scars around their bodies, they’ve grown taller, become stronger. Megumi wonders what you would’ve looked like if you stood beside him now.

He looks around him, and maybe that’s his answer. The grass is greener, the trees have grown taller, the waves of the ocean are just as if not even more calming now…

You would’ve turned out just fine.

He can’t remember how many times he’s reread the book you’ve given him, but he finds himself turning to the page where the two lovers separated.

“Do you think we’ll be like this forever?” the protagonist asked her partner, and you highlighted the phrase, a small note made in the gaps between words.

“Not forever, but definitely for a long time.”

Year ????

A young male with black coloured hair is walking through a park in Tokyo. The sun is shining brightly, and there are sakura flowers blooming. Some petals have fallen onto the sidewalk and grass, and he inhales deeply before stopping to admire… Everything.

The world looks especially pretty today. He doesn’t know why, but the sky seemed to shine just a little brighter.

A rare smile graces his lips, and he spots his friends and teacher waiting for him under one of the trees, all set and ready for a picnic. Someone taps his shoulder just before he takes a step forward, and he turns around to face someone with a face that seemed too familiar.

You.

He sees you. You, who’s waving at him with that smile on your face that he adored.

by user @ aireia, do not plagiarize and/or translate.

#signed by aireia!#jujutsu kaisen #jjk x reader #jjk #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk imagines #megumi x reader #megumi fushiguro #jjk megumi #megumi fushiguro x you #fushiguro megumi x reader #jjk angst #megumi x you

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fangsandfracturedhearts · 4 months

Text

Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Chapter 18: Unleashed

Summary: After embracing eternity as a vampire spawn under Astarion's wing, the Crimson Palace becomes a haunting symbol of the man he once was. As his personality unravels into a dark abyss, you flee. A year of hardship unveils the harsh reality of existence as a vampire spawn.

Just as all hope seems lost, a twist of fate reunites you with Astarion, revealing a glimmer of hope amidst the shadows. As you navigate the complexities of your relationship, you must confront the unsettling truth behind the Rite of Profane Ascension and the devilish secrets it holds.

In a race against time, you embark on a daring quest to save Astarion from his descent into darkness. With each choice you make, the stakes grow higher, testing the limits of your courage and determination.

Will Astarion find redemption, or is he destined to succumb to his own inner turmoil?

Word Count: 6.7k

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x female!Tav Spawn

Warnings: [Will try to continue to add more, but in general expect explicit content for mature audiences]

Possible spoilers. Eventual Explicit Content. Slow Burn. Thoughts of Suicide. Violence. Blood. Injury. Mature Content. Self-Harm. Mentions of in-game content. Completely fabricated camp events. Mentions of Astarion's Trauma.

If you notice a very critical tag missing, please don't hesitate to let me know

Rating: Explicit 18+ - [Meant For Mature Audience]

CW: Chapter gets dark - please be cautious

A howling tempest is whistling in your ears, muffling your ability to think clearly. A biting frost permeates your body, seeping into your bones and desiccating and fragmenting them. Although it’s agony, there is a peculiar pleasure in the descent into exile. The wraith strums a ghostly lullaby, like harpies enthralment, that encourages you to close your eyes and float away in the cyclone.

Your lashes flutter as you resist the temptation to let your dimming eyes shut. Icy vines braid and curl up your spine and caress your brainstem, coercing you to allow yourself to be devoured.

It sounds so easy, so serene, like the bottom of that dark lake where everything was wondrously still, still, still.

It starts slow, snowflakes fluttering through the irises of your dying eyes, each one descending to your soul. The first flakes melt and sizzle like drops of water touching a hot surface, but the barrage increases, and the fire within cannot sustain the onslaught.

Your very spirit is being doused, and it throbs as your psyche is pelted with sharp hail, chilling you to your very core and numbing you of your will to fight. The melody of violent winds, ice, and snow is rapturous, a perverted sonata that you long to get on your knees and recite.

You want it to sweep you away, sedate you, and submerge you gently into that final eternal night. It promises to remedy the heavy emptiness, and you pine for the feeling of not feeling at all. There is no drowning it out, no resolve to struggle, and the glacier you’re tripping on has cracks. There are tears creeping out of your eyes, turning to ice pellets as they hail down your cheeks.

Yes! Yes! The voice warbles as everything goes dark. Let go.

The crevice between your feet collapses, and you’re plunged into the frigid abyss. You fall down, down, down, until you find yourself in a barren whitescape with nothing but snow in all directions. Jagged icebergs the size of mountains jut impossibly high into the grey-blue sky and drift erratically with surreal speed, making them look like teeth trying to saw through the horizon.

The cold is lethal as it forms ice crystals in your lungs when you try to breathe, and even though your breath is as cold as death itself, it billows in misty clouds when you exhale. You try to suppress the urge to breathe so the biting cold can’t nip at your throat, lungs, and nostrils, but it’s hard when your jaw quakes and you’re nearly crippled by shivers.

You wade through the waist-deep snow in this hellish, frostbitten land. It’s difficult to form coherent thoughts as you feel yourself freezing to death. Your ability to move is quickly being confiscated as your limbs stiffen. Your skin is wind-burnt and blistering, cracking like dry firewood.

You will die here, or perhaps you’re already dead — you do not know.

An enormous shadow passes over the landscape, blotting out the meager light the dark, cloudy sky provides, but your neck will not crane to look up.

The terrain shudders under your feet as something immense lands just out of sight. Powdery snow is belched into the air like a puff of wafting smoke. When was the last time you were able to blink? Your eyes cannot focus quite right. The muscles in your face strain to war against the thin layer of ice accumulated on your skin.

A looming figure takes shape in the snow drifts, coming toward you, making the ground under your feet tremble with every step. It seems to shake an iota of sense back into your senseless body, and you find yourself taking steps toward the silhouette.

A dragon emerges from the squall; five chromatic heads in all colours rear up on regally serpentine necks to evaluate you. Their nostrils flare, shooting vapour into the air with every breath. The scales reflect the low light and appear almost prismatic, with strips of bluish-green, purple, and grey, glassy-smooth, running down the massive body and merging into a bronze that covers a long tail, tipped with a stinger.

Each head moves individually, sinuously slithering through the air until each one is poised close to your body. They are massive, each with maws twice the size of your body and flaming eyes of all different colours that examine you intently.

Their jaws open, revealing long, tapered teeth and forked tongues, and their hot breath wreathes you, dispersing the ice in your veins and biting frost in your muscles.

Although the figure does not seem to speak, you hear an alluring voice in your head. It is bewitching and gently ethereal. “Do you know me, child of night and dragons?”

Why you recognize the voice and why it soothes you is unclear, but it awakens your soul, sparking the white-hot blaze of your being roaring back to life with a vigour you have not felt for what feels like centuries.

“Tiamat.”

The dragon’s lips pull back, baring her teeth in a viscous smile. She opens her mouth and blows her scalding breath over you. “You do not belong in this realm, night stalker.”

The ice accumulated on your hair melts away, leaving it limp, wet, and sticking to your cheeks. Drops of water rain from your scalp, down your face, dripping off your lashes.

“I am lost. He is lost. We are lost.”

“Lost, thou say?” Timat’s laughter sounds like a celestial chorus that the stars themselves dance to. “Thou hast just been found. Wake, bloodkin, return to your realm, and seek the Lord of Lies. He shall hark thy plea.”

Tiamat rears her scarlet-scaled head, unhinging her jaw like a snake, with the ominous white glow of Hellfire scintillating in her throat. You reflexively take a step backward, putting your hands up to shield yourself as the white, molten flames burst.

Nothing survives Hellfire.

Her voice serenades. “Burn bright, child of night, blood of dragons.

The flames swim through the air with a crackle, enveloping you in a tornado of light so bright that you wonder if your eyes will be reduced to ash. You’re thrust off your feet, plunging you back into the abyssal depths you fell into, and careening directionless at an unfathomable pace.

You see yourself floating in a black, bottomless netherworld. The impression of movement halts you horizontally above your lifeless shape. Wake up; you want to scream, but you do not have a voice.

You must claw your way out of this watery grave.

Reaching toward yourself, you find that the other version of you mirrors your movements. Your fingers touch, and her eyes — your eyes — snap open and glow white. The Hellfire swirls around you both and flares out like ghostly, liquid flames in the shape of wings that curl around and fuse into you.

In a rush, you’re shot like a meteor, rocketing through planes of existence and bending time itself.

Your eyes flick open to see Rhapsody poised above your chest, the polished silver blades glinting in the candlelight. With a hard, inhumane scowl on his face, Astarion's lifeless eyes are fixed on you, the light obliterated by insanity. Rhapsody whistles through the air, plunging straight for your static heart.

Something beckons you to wield it — something new yet ancient, both familiar and unknown. When you reach out and grasp it, a blinding light is released from you in a destructive shockwave. Astarion cries out, staggers back, and rubs his eyes furiously.

“You petulant little shit!” He barks, his voice oozing revulsion and vitriol. “You will not leash me — you cannot leash me! I created you, and I will destroy you!”

Try as you might, you cannot get your feet to move as your mind fails to construct a viable strategy. You will not survive a battle with him, and you can’t imagine you will get too far even if you flee. Astarion shakes his head, blinking rapidly. His eyes coast around the room, unfocused, and his arms reach out, fingers grasping blindly.

He cannot see.

It’s only a matter of time before he heals, but it does give you a chance. You must make a decision quickly. Astarion cocks his head, growling like a feral animal with his lips pulled back in a snarl, trying to listen for your position. As soon as you move, he will be able to pinpoint your location.

You know what you must do, but you don’t want to do it. Furthermore, you don’t know if you have time to do it before he regains his sight.

Casting Misty Step, you bolt into your room, rifling through your drawers until you come across the scroll you need and stash it. Astarion is in the hall, and you quickly cast Gust of Wind to push him off balance and snatch Rhapsody from his grip before he has time to right himself.

“Fool,” he snarls, spittle flying from his lips as he lunges toward you. “I need no implements to end you. I will tear your limbs from your body as easily as wings are torn from a fly.”

You cringe at his tone — so cold, so unfeeling, so full of loathing. You sprint to the door, throwing it open and hurtling down the streets. Glancing back, you make sure Astarion is following you. His eyes remain aimless and restless in their sockets, and he moves erratically and only when he hears you.

“Astarion!” You call out, making sure you’re far enough away that you have time to make it to the next target in this death race.

He barrels toward your voice, fingers clawing through the air as you reappear at the next point, calling out again and again and again, keeping yourself always just out of reach, until the Crimson Palace looms out of the darkness.

You sprint for it, throwing yourself through a window. The glass lacerates your skin, and you know you’ve made a mistake. Astarion scents the air and races toward you. You tense your muscles like Astarion has taught you, roll back onto your feet, and dash through the halls toward your target.

Astarion is quickly gaining on you, hunting you through the halls with the finessed movements of an apex predator. His movements become more fluid, and you know he’s starting to get his sight back.

You are running out of time.

Veering left and hurling yourself down the steep staircase, you narrowly avoid his clutch.

“Oh, I have missed this, my little treat,” he taunts. “Chasing you around these halls, teaching you all sorts of delightful lessons. Do you remember my lessons, pet? Oh, how I loved the way you screamed.”

Of course, you remember his lessons vividly. The tortures and torments he subjected you to in the name of taming his unruly spawn, making you a perfect, pretty arm piece to dazzle and delight his opponents while he carried out his twisted ambitions.

And oh, how you screamed and begged for death.

And oh, how he laughed and laughed and laughed.

The corridor is like running headfirst into a dark tunnel with no light at the end. The air is musty, and the only sounds are your battering footsteps and the drumming of Astarion’s rapid heartbeat. Your eyes skip over the wall, searching for the invisible wall, and whirl, running through the illusion and into the dank, stone-brick room.

The kennels.

Your prison stands empty and desolate — the cage he had constructed just for you.

He had been so proud of himself when he commissioned this cell to be built with its chains, restraints, and locks too complex to use Knock on. You swallow thickly, forcing the memories down as Astarion enters.

“Ah,” he smiles menacingly, strolling in casually. “It’s good to be home. Isn’t it? I must say, I’m surprised that you would lead me here of all places. Did you miss my expert administration? I shall remedy that.” He tsks, clicking his tongue as if chastising a child. “I can deny you nothing, after all.”

Luring him into the cell was an easy enough feat, but you’ve run out of time. Astarion can see, but by the way his eyes are narrowed, you don’t think completely.

“Astarion.” Tears slip out of your eyes as your fears well up. “Please come back. Don’t make me do this.”

He sneers with a wide, eerie Cheshire grin. “I am Astarion no longer, but you know that, don’t you? He drowns.” Astarion points to his head. “In here. I am devouring him, making him rot from the inside out until the pest is conveniently lost. I will exhaust his light. He slips away from you, even now.”

You lash out with the Weave, casting Hold, but he dodges your attack with a fleet movement to the side and slams into you before you have time to recover. You’re thrown to your stomach on the stone floor, his boot pressed into your back, leaning his weight on you.

“Stay,” he commands, and you’re immobilized as the compulsion branches out in your mind and twists through your muscles. You cannot see the self-satisfied smile on Astarion’s face, but it’s evident in his voice as he purrs. “Good girl.”

Astarion leans down, grabs Rhapsody from your hand, and chuckles. “We could have had it all, love. Power, wealth, pleasure — if only you would have just fallen in line, been obedient, but you were always an obstinate little cunt, weren’t you?”

Astarion lowers himself, sitting on your legs and squeezing your arms to your sides with his knees settled on either side of you. You cannot speak, and the only sounds that make it out of your mouth are strangled whimpers.

The pointed tip of Rhapsody presses into your back, not yet hard enough to break through skin, and you think you know what’s coming. He will plunge the dagger into your heart.

There would have been a time when your imminent demise would have brought you a sense of peace and relief. You’d sought an end to this nightmare often enough in the past year. Now, it’s only fear and the overwhelming feeling of failure that nestle in your chest.

You try to conjure up happy memories. Astarion’s face lighting up in camp when you walked toward him, the walks through the forest in the dappled moonlight, the way he would slip into your tent and cuddle you when he thought you were fast asleep.

You try to remember his eyes when he proposed, so vividly crimson, wistful, and happy. In that moment, you could have been just another madly in love couple. It all seemed so ordinary, so beautifully human, that you didn’t think about all that opposed the bright future he was offering.

I forgive you, you think, though the connection between you is sealed. I forgive you.

Thoughts move sluggishly through your head, as if getting caught on the sticky threads of spider webs. The cold metal bites into your skin. Slow and steady, Astarion carves into the flesh of your back with precise movements. The shock hits you first, realizing that he’s mimicking Cazador’s torture, and the pain soon follows. It feels obscure for a moment; your brain not able to conceptualize what’s happening.

The shock wanes, and the sensation strikes with an intensity that makes you almost lose consciousness. Your limbs itch to scramble as your brain wails at your body to thrash. When your muscles don’t comply, everything swims around you as your psyche dissolves.

“Ah-ah,” he tuts flatly as he focuses on the canvas before him. You can hear the blade cutting through your clothing, tearing and rending skin and muscles alike. “Stay with me, darling, and no going into shock either. I want you to feel the art of it.”

Astarion’s compulsion takes hold, and you’re alert, all your nerves aroused and buzzing back to life at his behest. It is a mind-obliterating kind of torture. If you were able to writhe, you’re not even sure your body would, as you lose sight of the ability to consider how to get it to stop. A bone-deep nausea overwhelms you, and your mind is seized by the white-hot agony mutilating your flesh.

He mumbles as he whittles away at your back. “I may not be the same man, but I do have most of his memories. Do you want to know a secret he keeps from you? Do you remember the first time we had sex in that forest? He loathed every second of it. Every one of your pretty little moans made him want to retch. It disgusted him — you disgusted him. How easy you were.”

The pain frays the edges of your mind as your husband, your lover, sketches a tapestry of heartache into you with his words and dagger. Every drag of the blade is like an artist's brushstroke, and your blood is the watercolour of his unspeakable masterpiece.

“Oh my,” he croons with feigned empathy. “Wherever are my manners? You may speak, my love.”

As soon as your lips are no longer stitched shut by his compulsion, an insensate wail erupts from your throat. It rebounds off the walls and echos, cutting through the silence like ghosts lamenting the torture this room has been witness to over the centuries.

Astarion still talks, but his words are just another hum flowing over your ears but never sinking in.

You don’t know what prompts you to laugh, but you do so bitterly and madly. Your own laughter is so hollow that, at first, you’re not sure if it is you until words start to form between the hysterical mirth. “I am fucking coming for you. I will defy the Gods to save him, and I cannot wait to make you choke on my light.”

The dagger punctures deeper, through muscle and into bone, you’re quite sure, and another hoarse, harrowing cry is loosed from your lips.

“Yes, sing.”

For me.

He’s said this to you many times in this room, a haunting mirror of Cazador, and you wait for him to finish, but nothing comes. The knife carving your back stills, and Astarion’s heartbeat goes from being steady and rhythmic to clattering with such intensity that you cannot tell if it’s skipping beats or beating so rapidly that the sound just merges into one thundering call.

“Illyria?” The blade buried deep in your muscles begins to tremble, no longer the steady-handed glide, and you wince as it vacillates your raw nerves. It clatters to the floor abruptly. “By the Gods. What have I done?”

Astarion throws himself off you, his back thudding into the back wall of the hellish cell so hard it knocks the breath from his lungs in a wheeze. The compulsion pales, receding from your mind, and your body shakes uncontrollably as shock starts to set in.

Your mind wants to slip away, your eyesight blurred by the tears welled in your eyes that you were unable to shed without permission, but you force yourself to focus. The muscles in your arms tremble violently as you aim to push yourself up to your feet, but you only make it to your knees before the pain makes your body wrack, dry heaving between fitful sobs.

A noise between a croak and a gasp hiccups from Astarion. When you look up at him, his eyes are wide with horror. His hand covers his mouth, and his still-flickering eyes brim with tears. You stare at him, wanting to speak and tell him it’s okay, but instead you ravenously take in every feature of your Astarion to try to rid yourself of the cold countenance of the man who flayed your back. Your eyes focus on every soft feature, on the lustre of those wide, mortified eyes and the rampant fear in them.

You have not yet decided if you want to run from him or crawl into his arms, kiss him, hold him, and tell him everything will be okay, but his eyes still rock between dimness and lucidity.

“Stay with me, Astarion,” you choke out, begging him not to go, but he doesn’t seem to hear you.

“Oh Gods. Oh Gods.” His voice breaks, cracking and tight with emotion.

Astarion looks around frantically, and you see the recognition of this room, but also the confusion with the concrete walls and barred door surrounding him. He may never have seen this cage, or if he did, you imagine he would not know what purpose it served.

He’s unsteady on his feet as he reaches for the shackles hanging from the wall and snaps them around his wrist, clicking each padlock into place with a hiss as the silver manacles burn his skin.

“You have to get away from me. I will kill you. The darkness, I cannot walk away. I am—“

You see the moment he loses himself again, the flickering light in his eyes dying out like a cooling ember. You grab the dagger, stumble out of the cage, and slam the door closed. You remove the scroll from your pocket and unravel the parchment with shaking fingers, leaving bloody prints all along the edges.

The incantation flows quickly, but precisely, off your tongue as you recite it. The words glow golden, float into the air, and the scroll vanishes. The blue-white shimmer of Arcane Lock encompasses the cell door.

Astarion hauls on the restraints, testing their strength with a calculating look at the locks. The shackles are made for you, thick chains braided together to make sure you could not escape, and locks too complex for any spell. The silver in the manacles is meant to weaken, but there’s no knowing if it will affect him in the same way it did you. He observes the incandescence pulsing around the door.

His deathly, cold eyes peer at you through the darkness. “Clever, clever girl. What’s to stop me from just compelling you to dispel it?”

“You’re welcome to try, but it won’t work. Only a Wizard has the ability to suppress this spell.” Your silver tongue lies perfectly and effortlessly.

A silence stretches out between you for what feels like an eternity before he sinks into the darkness of the cell. His voice is unnerving. “It’s only a matter of time before I get free. Enjoy what little time remains of your life.”

You nod curtly and stride out of the room. Closing the door to the kennels, you bolt through the halls to Astarion’s old study and pull out all the drawers until you find the ring of keys that he kept well away from you. You descend the stairs back down into the hall, terrified that you will see Astarion standing in the dark, but it remains empty. You shove keys shakily into the lock until one finally spins with a satisfying click.

It’s a pointless endeavour. If Astarion escapes, he can break the door down, but it gives you some small sense of comfort to know there’s another barrier between you and that monster wearing Astarion’s face.

You’re not sure what you will do if he gets curious and compels you to let him go. There was no time to plan quite that far in advance, but for now, he seems to have accepted that you cannot dispel it.

You can do nothing but pray that his ignorance of the arcane arts still holds true.

The walls themselves seem to brood at your presence and press in on you. You drop to your knees on the floor, and the open wounds on your back flood you with fresh agony with every movement. You would whimper, perhaps scream, but the thought of giving Astarion the satisfaction makes you grind your teeth and dive deep into the solitude and silence.

The silver shackles burn your wrists and ankles and drain your strength. The rough stone blocks grate at the skin on your back like sandpaper, but at this point, it’s almost a welcome sensation.

How long have you been shackled now? Weeks? Months? You cannot seem to keep your grip on reality these days. Sometimes you think you hear voices outside of your cage in the darkness. Seven thousand souls tell you that you deserve this, that you brought this upon yourself, and that you should rot in here for eternity as they will rot in the Hells. All true, true, true, you think, and you let it hurt until that too stops.

Hunger has become an all-consuming, mind-numbing pain. Bloodlust is such a complex patchwork of sensations. It is a pain of pressure, of maturing, of constantly growing larger, larger, larger until your limbs cramp and jerk. You want nothing more than to die before your body can twist itself into excruciating positions and lock up on you, and even then, the hunger grows.

You cannot die from starvation any longer. This pain will only ever increase. Every second, the burbling acid in your stomach seems to burn hotter in the pit, an agony that often makes you whimper and weep.

At least you are not entirely alone. You can hear the bugs, feel them clambering against your naked skin. Sometimes they are light; others are heavier, with chitinous shells and legs that prick. They chitter and clatter their pincers together. Sometimes they bite between your toes, climb over your face, and through your hair. You don’t have the energy to brush them away, and so you don’t.

You have not yet decided if you might try eating them.

You haven’t moved — not so much as a twitch of a finger — in what must be weeks. It goes on and on and on until you’re very sure that this is all you will ever know for the rest of your immortal life.

Hunger, pain, loneliness, and bugs.

And then you hear the lock click, and you squint your eyes against the dim light of the candle that is set just out of your reach. You smell brandy and rosemary, and your lower lip quivers. You bite it to stop it from giving away your emotions.

“Don’t do that.” Astarion says, “Is that how you want me to see you for the first time in weeks, pet? Weak?”

Weeks… Is that all it’s been? It felt like years.

You hate that you are relieved to see him, happy to hear the devil's voice, and smell home, even if this home burns down around you even now.

Astarion grips your chin between his thumb and forefinger and forces you to look into his dead eyes. “I bet you’re starving. Hm?” He grins sadistically, turning it into a fake pout. “I do not like to see that look upon your face. Worry not. I’ve brought you dinner.”

He twists and grabs a silver bucket, turning it over and letting a dead, decaying rat splat on the floor beside you. Your nose wrinkles at the smell of it. It’s been dead for some time, and you can see and hear the maggots writhing underneath its rotting pelt.

But Gods, you are so hungry.

When you don’t immediately go for the rat, Astarion grabs your restraints and tugs hard, making your raw, blistered wrist light ablaze, and you whimper. “What? Not good enough? You ungrateful bitch. I lived on this diet for two hundred years.”

He kicks the rat forward. “Eat it. Now.”

“Please,” you croak weakly. Your voice has not been used in a while, and it sounds odd in your ears. “Please, Astarion. Don’t do this. I’ll behave. I’ll do whatever you want, but please.”

“I said.” Astarion grabs a fistful of your hair and shoves your face in the mushy corpse, rubbing your nose in it like a pup who has had an accident in the house. “Fucking eat it.”

With its putrid guts already spread across your face, you sob as you bite down into it, your fangs sinking into fetid flesh and stinking muscles, and feed.

It is worse than you thought it ever could be. Your mouth is filled with bits of congealed blood, but mostly puss and death and decay, and you swallow it down because you have no other choice.

“Gods,” Astarion grunts with his lips curled in disgust. “Hush now. You are terribly ugly when you cry, darling.”

You don’t dare trance and instead remain still and soundless, with only the pain igniting your being keeping you company. Fear keeps you rooted to the floor on your knees. Fear that if you leave, he will not be here when you return. Fear that if you dare move, he will strike from the shadows. Fear that you wasted too much time, and he is truly gone.

Fear. Fear. Fear.

Fear so sharp that you can feel it enclosing around you, squeezing the air from your lungs, making it feel incomprehensibly thin. Even though you do not need it, you try to gulp it down in shallow breaths, but there is no relief from the fear or the depravation that still strangles you.

You long to feel the connection with Astarion so you can stop feeling so boundlessly empty and alone. How easily you can get used to having another presence always at the back of your mind. It was comforting to know he was always there, nothing more than a thought or feeling away, but now that comfort too has been ripped away.

Sometimes you think you feel him touching your mind, but the sensation is fickle, like the wings of an insect tickling with soft, fluttering whispers.

There is no time to remain in this state of dejection, and yet you wallow in it. Perhaps you should not have told him, and this is your fault, but perhaps it was only a matter of time.

Nothing good ever seems to last.

You need help, but anyone who aids you will be in grave peril. Getting to your feet is a monumental effort; the scabs of the raw mosaic on your back split and reopen anew. You wonder what he sculpted into your flesh. What scars will you carry for eternity? It’s not like you will ever be able to see them, but maybe that’s a blessing.

You let yourself back into the kennels and force yourself to face him. There is a fleeting hope that when you light the candles, your husband's warm scarlet eyes will be what you see, but that, too, is another disappointment.

Astarion’s eyes remain almost matte, like once-polished rubies forgotten and dulled by the patina of time.

He sits on the floor, his arms resting on his bent knees, and watches you with a keenness that makes you shudder. You hold his stare. You will not be shy or meek. You cannot afford to show such weakness.

“Why?” Your voice is hoarse, clipped, and unsteady.

“Why what, pet?”

You ask the question that’s been plaguing your mind since you walked out of this wretched place — since he allowed you to walk out of this place. “Why didn’t you kill me?”

“Last night?” He snickers. “I wanted to hear your angelic cries once more before I—“

“No,” you bark, cutting him off. “Not last night. Why didn’t you kill me before? You had every opportunity. There was no one here to stop you.”

Astarion leans forward, making the chains rattle. There is a gleam in his eye, those perfect lips pulling back into a cruel smile. “Because I love you, of course.”

You almost want to laugh, as if he’s just told you a hilarious joke, but there is a resoluteness in his voice, a matter-of-fact intonation, that tells you that this is a truth to some extent.

Even this version of him, this soulless, fragmented rendition, loves you in his own twisted way.

It also indicates what you fear most: that this monster before you is still Astarion, and the only thing that stands between your Astarion and this one is the tattered remains of whatever is left of his soul.

If you fail in your quest and run out of time, this hateful, power-hungry savage will replace the man you knew. What would you do? Every atom of your being longs for him. If you cannot be his saviour, will you languish in the dark with him if only to keep him company? Would you be capable of hating him — killing him — if need be?

You wish to believe yourself resilient enough to roll your betrayal, sadness, and anger into loathing to release you from this self-flagellating love, but you know you will never be able to. There is still a soft part of your heart harbouring hope that if you keep getting up every time he knocks you down, if you keep fighting, there might be a happy ending at the end of this cluster fuck.

Or perhaps it is only your ending that awaits you at the finish line.

“That was quite a fancy trick,” Astarion drones, tearing you away from your thoughts. “Blinding me.”

You don’t bother answering before leaving him alone, locking the door uselessly behind you once again, and making your way to the main floor of the palace. The dust has settled in a thick blanket on the furniture, with cobwebs stretching out in every corner and between the slender candles in their opulent candelabra. It makes the atmosphere of this palace of nightmares all the more foreboding.

“Mizora!” You call out, knowing the cambion is ever watchful.

The air heats, smelling of sulphur and brimstone, and the oily blot opens up on the floor. Mizora’s fluid form arises, wings unfurling with her usual flair.

“That was quite the show last night.” She smirks with fangs peeking out of her lips. “Stupid, pet. Very stupid.” She sports a faux pout. “I thought you much wiser.”

“I’m not interested in your chastisement.” You cross your arms and immediately regret the way your shoulder blades stretch your injured skin, bringing fresh tears to your eyes. “Tell Shadowheart to meet me here.”

“What do I look like to you? A messenger pigeon?” Mizora tsks haughtily.

“If you want me to kennel Mephistopheles, you’re going to do as requested.”

Mizora huffs indignantly, stretching her wings out and jutting her chin up. You stare at her unyieldingly, not allowing your face to display your uncertainty, pain, or fear.

“Fine. Fine.” She huffs, waggling her clawed fingers at you. “I will fetch your darling little Cleric.”

Once Mizora disperses, you head straight for the library. It’s one of the bigger rooms, lined with floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookcases that are brimming with all kinds of tomes and books, ranging in age from new to ancient. Your fingers and eyes flit over the titles as quickly as you can, looking for anything even remotely related to infernal contracts, deals with devils, the nine Hells themselves, or arch devils.

The knock on the palace door makes you jump, and you are cautious as you make your way through the latticework of halls and corridors, trying to light candles as you go so that the palace is less oppressive.

Unsurprisingly, it does little to help.

When you finally tug the door open, you stay carefully behind it because you’re not sure if your sun protection has been rescinded, and you’re not interested in finding out. Shadowheart is waiting with her armour and weapons, arms crossed, and tapping her foot in the way she does when she’s either irritated or worried.

“You sent Mizora to fetch me? What in the blazing Hells is going on?” She strides into the palace, dropping her pack at her feet and putting her hands on her hips. “Why are we here, and where’s Astarion?”

Once the heavy door is shut and locked, you come out of the shadows where you’ve been hiding it. Even though you try to swallow them, tears weep from your eyes. “Astarion is downstairs. He’s locked up in the kennels.”

“Locked in the kennels?”

Shadowheart finally turns to look at you, and her stern expression vanishes. Her brows round, her eyes widen, and she pulls you into a hug, unaware of the wounds on your back. You wince as her arm folds over the barely healed lacerations. Shadowheart tries to jump away when she feels the cool wetness of your blood against her hand, but you mutter pleas to stay.

Eventually, when the bloodlust threatens to overwhelm, you let Shadowheart go. She stares at her blood-dappled hands and back at you.

“Show me.” She instructs, but you hesitate. You don’t want to show her this. She might not be able to forgive Astarion, and if that’s the case, she might be more likely to try and kill him than help you save him. “Turn around, Illyria.”

You do so slowly, with your head hung in defeat. Shadowheart’s heartbeat increases, and she gasps.

“By the Gods! Did he do this to you!? Did that monster finally show his true colours?!”

“You don’t understand,” you say quietly. “It’s not his fault. It’s not him.”

“We have to get you cleaned up, and then I’m going to fucking kill him.”

“No!” You yell, grasping her forearms and falling to your knees to beg. "Please, before you make any judgments on him, hear me out. Please, Shadowheart.”

“I... Ugh. Fine. Take off your shirt. We have to clean your wounds. Do you have any clothes here?”

“Astarion might,” you mutter. “I can go look up in his room for something.”

Shadowheart helps you carefully pull your shirt off, but it seems almost melded to your body, and it peels off some of the formed scabs as well. You can feel the blood dribble down your back. It scents the air with a coppery perfume, which makes your bloodlust surge.

Shadowheart is quiet while she works on patting your wounds as gently as she can, trying to clean them, and using her healing magic again and again and again.

You don’t have the heart to tell her which blade these were made with and why they will not heal.

“These are not healing well.” She comments, almost perplexed.

“They will heal in time.”

Shadowheart accompanies you to Astarion’s old room, and you pull out drawers only to find most of them empty. The various wardrobes are the same, but you do manage to find one shirt that still resides here, apparently not good enough to be packed and taken with the others.

His old camp shirt.

You slip it on; at least the fabric is soft and does not get caught on your wounds. It is, of course, much too large for you and likely looks beyond ridiculous, but it’s something at least.

“Tell me what’s going on,” Shadowheart says softly, her usual prickly demeanour nowhere to be seen.

So you do. You explain it all from top to bottom and back again. You tell Shadowheart about the way his mind sounds if you use Detect Thoughts; tell her about the version of him that lurks within; and about Mizora and Mephistopheles.

You conveniently leave out the marriage proposal.

“Hells!” Shadowheart rubs her face. “I knew there was something we didn’t know about that godsforsaken Rite. Fuck. We were such fools. So the man in the kennels, the man that did that to you, is not Astarion?”

She means that you were a fool, but it matters not.

“He is Astarion,” you answer. “But he’s a version of Astarion that’s been corrupted. He’s not the Astarion we know.”

“I want to see him - this version of him.”

“It’s not a good idea.” You shake your head. “I don’t actually know how long it will hold him.”

“How are we going to get our Astarion back?” Shadowheart says. “What’s brought him back before?”

“Me,” you say, sitting and combing your fingers through your hair. “It’s usually me, but this time seems different. He came back for a moment, but he was gone again quickly.”

“We’ll get him back, Illyria.” Shadowheart says it with a smile, but it’s forced. She squeezes your shoulder. “We will find a way, or he will.”

You nod, “Until then, we need to learn everything we can about infernal contracts and how to negotiate them.” You rise from the chair with renewed determination. “I pulled some books from the library already. We can start there unless you know where to acquire more specific books.”

“What do you mean negotiate them?” Shadowheart retorts with her brows pinched. “Don’t we want to destroy the contract? I very much doubt Mephistopheles will be willing to renegotiate if it means putting a muzzle on him.”

“Who said anything about Mephistopheles?” You grin wolfishly. “I’m going to negotiate new terms with the Lord of Lies.”

Big thank you for everyone who takes the time to read/reblog/comment, and all the other magnificent things. Your support gives me the motivation to keep this fic going.

AO3 [Crossposted]

Master List of Chapters: Fangs and Fractured Hearts

If you're interested I write another fic with Spawn Astarion x Tav called - Shadows of the Past

Small Notes:

It's been a while since we’ve seen this version of Astarion... We need our Astarion back!

Tiamat - Real or hallucination?

Lord of Lies - Bad idea? Most likely...

Posting a day early because it's my birthday tomorrow, and I'm not sure how drunk I'll be by the end of the day 🤣

#ascended astarion #astarion fanfic #bg3 #bg3 fanfiction #astarion x you #astarion #bg3 astarion #astarion x reader #astarion x tav #astarion smut #astarion baldurs gate #astarion bg #astarion bg3 #fangs and fractured hearts #astarion x oc #astarion ancunin #astarion x named tav

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the-kr8tor · 3 months

Text

Where the River Flows

Pairing: Cowboy! Hobie Brown x Fem! Reader

Word count: 7.4k

Tags: Use of Y/N sparsely, no specific physical description of the reader (except for her clothing), CW food mentions, TW Blood and violence, TW death, CW injury, CW guns, CW alcohol. Old west AU, cowboy AU

Our Place in the Middle of Nowhere Masterlist

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CHAPTER 4 >>> CHAPTER 5

You haven't slept this well in years, the last time you had was back when you've last slept next to him on the same lumpy mattress of his flat that you've once called home. Your eyes blink awake, cheek pressed against a pillow, it's soft, so soft that for a second you thought it was Hobie's arm. You stare at the ceiling, a carved magnolia tree stares back. Its branches are full of blossoms, perfectly carved just like the illustrations in your books. It's so vivid that you could practically see its pinkish hue. It's weird, you think, the carving, when the rest of the room is sparsely decorated; filled with drab oak, and cheap lamps. The room smells old, lived in by hundreds of travelers before you.

A creak echoes out at the far end of the bed, prompting you to look upon Hobie's bareback. Healed bullet wounds litter all over his flesh that you once held on. Raised scars dotted along his lower back like stars, stars that were once drenched in ruby. You wonder if it still hurts, the stars, like how the hole he left in your heart five years ago. You hope it doesn't hurt as much for him, you'll never wish agony upon him; even if a part of you thinks he deserves it.

Maybe you should tell him, tell him what agony has befallen you since he left. The pile of letters sewn into your skirt remains to be read by his viridescent eyes; its wax seal remains closed, the words of longing and hate are still scribbled upon the yellowed paper.

Your eyes dart along the expanse of his skin, frown getting deeper and deeper with every new scar you find. Hobie puts on his shirt, buttoning each one, the cloth hiding his own misfortune from your weary eyes.

“You talk in your sleep.” He finally breaks his silence. Looking over his shoulder, he regrets it immediately. The simple sight of your bed head and puffy eyes brings back memories of when you'd wake up next to him.

“I know,” I've been told. You grunt as you lift yourself off the pillow, elbow propping you whilst you watch him put on his cowboy boots and clinking spurs.

He blinks, hand pausing along the buckles. “It's new, you've never done that before.”

“Just like you said, a lot of things can change in five years.” Sitting up, you place your chin atop your knees, legs tucked under the covers, arms holding your legs in place. “What was I saying? In my sleep, I mean.”

“You were mumbling…” my name, he sighs at the thought of telling you the truth. “Someone's name I think, and egg soup for some reason.”

“I'm hungry.” You ignore whose name you might've been saying in your sleep. And you think it's not his.

“We need new clothes first, people must've gotten our descriptions by now. So we need to change.” Hobie puts on his leather vest, the metals of it clinking against one another. Then the hat comes after, he stands up, walking towards his gun belt.

“Okay, breakfast after?” You fight a yawn, palms rubbing harshly on your eyelids.

“Yes, breakfast after.” He secures his belt on his hip, silver guns shining in the early morning sun. “I don't think they have egg soup though.”

You crack a small smile. “It doesn't matter, anything will do.”

“The saloon has pumpkin soup I think, does that sound good?” Hobie has no idea why he's prolonging the conversation about soup out of all the things he could discuss with you.

You nod, staring at him through fond eyes. “Mm-hmm, sounds good.”

“Good, we need something warm to eat.” He realizes that he's been standing awkwardly at the doorway. Clearing his throat, you fight a smile. “Get dressed.” With the door shutting close behind him, he slaps his cheeks to wake himself. He needs coffee, or something stronger for that matter.

Meanwhile, you watch the space he just left with hope in your heart.

—

The dress shop smells nicer than the inn, it's elegant, looking like it doesn't belong in the middle of the dingy town. Every pile of clothing is neatly folded over the other, different outfits are displayed over the windows and display cases. Both leather and cotton are the most prominent ones, but there are a few chiffon dresses, lace and silks placed alongside the rougher fabrics. They're all wonderfully made, each having their own brand of beauty in every stitch.

You watch yourself in the floor length mirror. Dark trousers instead of a skirt hangs around your waist. A nice crisp white dress shirt on your torso fits perfectly on you thanks to the friendly tailor.

“You need a vest, or you'll get cold during your travels.” She taps your shoulder, genuinely smiling at you through the mirror. “Are you sure you don't want to wear a corset and skirt? You'd look just as marvellous.” Her eyes shine just like the dainty rings around her fingers.

“I'm sure, skirts and corsets are an inconvenience.”

“Well, you've given me a proper challenge then. But is it a challenge if everything looks good on you?” Her long dark hair sways behind her as she peruses her own shop, dozens of embroidered cloth folded neatly on tables.

“You're good,” you watch her sashay along her shop, colourful vests piled on her arm. “Just as good as the tailors back at home.”

Yuri, you learned her name just a few minutes ago, returns to you with her arm full of vests. “‘Just as good?’ oh sweetheart, I'm better.” She grins mischievously at you, red lips curled into a smug smile. Yuri would be friends with Hobie, you think, maybe in another life. “Arms up, my darling.” She holds up numerous different vests upon your body until she settles for a royal blue leather vest that has hydrangeas embroidered on it. “This is it!” Gasping excitedly, you let her help put the vest on. “Fucking beautiful! If I was your husband I'd be jumping your bones.” Grasping your shoulders, she places her chin atop it, smiling at you.

Your heart thumps loudly at the word ‘husband.’ “Thank you, Yuri.” You fiddle with the empty gun belt around your hips.

“Now for a coat or a jacket befitting a glorious woman like yourself.” She winks, twisting around in search of another dozen or so outerwear in her stock.

“Oh I think this is enough.” You don't want to use up all of Hobie's money, especially when he's still in the dressing room, none the wiser.

Yuri turns towards you abruptly, hand on her chest, feigning hurt. “Enough? Do you like prancing around town in your birthday suit?”

“No—”

“Then you shall have a jacket. The best one I've got.”

You bite your lip, a nervous tick of yours that Hobie once pointed out after kissing it off you. “I just don't want to spend too much.”

“You mean you don't want him to spend too much?” Yuri saunters over to you, boots clacking on the worn out floorboards. “What are husbands good for if not for spending their money for your own gain, hmm?” There it is again, your heart thundering loudly inside your chest. “Besides, you'd look marvelous in this coat. I'll give you a discount because you're the nicest customer I've had in years.” She leans closer to you, draping the leather coat on your shoulders for you to see. You beam at her, thankful. “It's similar to the one I gave to him, you'd be matching. Well, except this one is in a lighter shade.”

The coat reaches down to your knees, cream coloured with little fringes up front right where the front pockets are. It's beautiful with its white threads weaving around its seams. If you look closer at the bottom, you see that it gets darker as it gets closer to the hem. An almost brown shade that reminds you of the oak tree back home.

You inhale, staring at your reflection that you barely recognize in the new clothes. “Do you think it suits me?” Your voice is small, Yuri watches your expression, understanding what you truly meant.

Her playful voice lowers to a softer one, hands rubbing along your arms comfortably. “Of course, sweetheart. You're more than ready for the badlands.” You smile at her, nodding along to her encouraging words.

She twirls you around to face her, you chuckle at the sudden good hearted movement. “Now, my favourite part, the boots!”

—

You pick lint off the armchair while you wait for him to exit out of the dressing room. You're comfortable in your new clothes, it snuggles you cozily, you've never felt like this in any clothing at all; whether it be silk or velvet, all the dresses back home don't compare to what you have on. You look at your dark cowboy boots once again with a faint smile, its gorgeous spider web-like design has your heart bouncing in glee. It's a stark contrast to the threadbare shoes you had on. You make the shiny spurs clink on the floor, chuckling to yourself.

“Careful, don't scruff my floors.” Yuri appears next to you, handing you a small messenger bag.

“What's this?”

“A bag, every woman needs one to store her belongings.” She gestures towards the worn out skirt on your lap. “Especially the important ones.”

“I—”

“It's on the house, just this one though.” She chuckles before handing it to you.

“Thank you, Yuri. That's awfully kind of you.” The leather is rough against your bare hands.

“No worries, darling.” She shrugs, “after all the things you've bought it's only normal that I'd give you a little freebie.”

A door suddenly creaks open, and out comes Hobie in his new outfit. A light airy dress shirt fits perfectly on his torso, the same black bandana still hangs around his neck, hiding the large scar. He fixes the fit of his dark blue vest even though it clearly doesn't need fixing. It has a typical western embroidery on it, saved for the almost invisible peonies dotted along the buttons. His gloves are the same, lighter around the palms where friction is usually present. You flick your eyes over to his coat, Yuri's right, it's almost the same as yours. The length is shorter to accommodate for the warmer weather coming in. The shade is in this mahogany brown, warm in the eyes, a hue lighter around the hem, almost as light as your own coat. Frills are lined around the arms, the silver spikes placed atop the shoulders makes it more unique. His belt buckle this time is different, a spider trapped in amber in place of the deadly scorpion. It's cradled in silver, laurels weaving around the corpse of the spider like an elegant coffin.

Your eyes shine at his handsome appearance. “My, don't you look dapper.” You drink him up, every new thing satisfying your need. Roaming your eyes downward, you tilt your head at the odd material on his legs. His boots are the same, even the spurs, but you can't quite place the new fangled blue thing around his legs. “What's that?”

Both Yuri and Hobie follow your gaze. But Yuri seems to be the only one who could form a coherent sentence. “They're blue jeans, or work pants. Much more comfortable than the old pants. Looks nicer on the behind, eh?” She nudges you, winking at your flustered expression. “Or enhances what's lacking.” Her last comment trails off as you unabashedly ogle him.

“Fuckin' hell.” Hobie finally speaks, his eyes avoid your form. Especially the vest that cinches you right where it matters. “Why do you have a bag?”

You stand up, slinging the bag over your shoulder. Yuri watches the whole thing with amused eyes. “For my things.”

He furrows his brows, “you don't have things, Y/N.”

Eyeing the riding gloves on the table, you cross the small distance, taking it, but before you place it inside the bag, you spot a pretty pink lace ribbon next to it. You also take it for good measure and to annoy him further. Putting it inside your bag, you teasingly smile at him. “Now I've got things.”

Yuri gives you a nod and a thumbs up whilst Hobie takes out bills to pay for everything.

“Pleasure doing business with you.” She victoriously smiles, counting the money.

“Not a pleasure on my part.” Hobie grumbles, you clamp your mouth shut to prevent a laugh from coming out.

—

The saloon is bustling with people even though it's still early in the morning. Some drink their fill next to you at the bar, some are just like you, looking for something warm to fill their bellies with to survive the rest of the day. The whole place smells of hard liquor and broken dreams. You have no idea which smells worse, the sticky floors or the lavatory at the far end of the place. The wide windows help brighten up the place at least, sunlight streaming into the carved establishment. Animal heads stare down at you, an elk’s and a buffalo's empty beady eyes look over yonder the drunkard's solace.

A piano sits just behind you, its stool is currently empty, maybe you should put all the lessons drilled into you to good use. It's better to wait for your meal there than sit right next to a stranger who looks like he's about to expel his breakfast onto your new clothes. Besides, some good music could tamp down all the drunken mumbling and the annoying scrapping of plates.

Hobie notices your heavy look, abandoning his coffee, he taps your shoulder and you almost jump in your skin.

“You still play?” He asks, eyes flicking between you and the old piano.

“I dabble, but I'm a bit rusty. I prefer gardening nowadays.” You lock eyes with him, “and shooting.”

Hobie chuckles in his seat, eyes avoiding your own smile. “You should play, I'll call you when our food is ‘ere.”

“Are you sure?” A soft smile spreads across your lips.

“I’ll watch your back, don't worry.”

Hope weighs you down again. You leave the bar stool, walking the distance towards the familiar black and white keys. Sitting down, you wrack your brain for the notes you've made a long time ago. A song that you've written yourself for the man who watches your back.

Hobie watches you intently, ears perking up at the unfamiliar music. Your hands move precisely, fingers pressing quickly as the song quickens. He smiles, glass now lay forgotten on the bar to watch you play your music. The rest of the bar quiets down a smidge, even the drunkards pause their lips at the mouth of their glass to listen to you play. The song crescendos, from a fast happy beat to a tone that is slower, a forlorn one. All in all, you play it with grace, and weaved with so much emotion.

Hobie scoffs, yet the fond smile stays. “Rusty my arse.”

The bartender appears behind him, plates in hand. “Your girl plays well.” The man places your meals on the bar, pumpkin soup sloshing on the sides of the bowl. Hobie turns towards him, not fully so he could still see you in his peripheral vision. “Is she for hire? Our player retired a few weeks ago, the saloon has never been this drab.”

“No, we're just passin’ by.”

The bartender leaves with a nod. “Too bad.”

Hobie takes his sandwich, twisting around to continue watching you. His eyes zeroes in on the sudden presence next to you. The brim of the stranger's hat hides his face, yet, Hobie knows exactly who he is based on his confident stance. Or who he was before Hobie single handedly destroyed his gang.

You finish the song with a flair, chest heaving, grinning from ear to ear.

“Bravo!” The man leaning towards the piano claps, then a chorus of scattered applause follows right after. “Amazing, sweetheart! Where'd ya learn how to play?”

“A tutor.” You smile shyly.

“Ah, what's the song called? I don't think I've heard of it before.” His long beard moves while he makes casual conversation.

“I-I made it actually.”

“Oh? I didn't know we had a composer in our humble establishment.” He taps the old piano with his gloved hand, his other hand rests on his gun belt, golden pistol shining in the sun. “What's the story behind it, eh? My ears picked up some sad depressing story through the notes.”

“I'm not a composer, a-and yeah, I made it for somebody.”

“Well, I—”

“Culver!” Hobie's booming voice echoes out in the entire saloon, everyone stops what they're doing. “You want to talk to me? Come over ‘ere instead of pestering her.” He has had enough of the conversation, and the danger that you've unknowingly put yourself into.

“Mr. Brown.” Culver says through gritted teeth, standing up straight, flicking the brim of his hat to reveal his face. “Fancy seein’ you here. You're in my territory, spider.”

You notice every single patrons’ faces turning into something akin to a person seeing a ghost, or the reaper itself. Slyly, you move your eyes over to the man, Culver, his name is familiar, you're sure you've heard of it before. Inhaling, you look back at Hobie, whose hand is placed on his gun belt, ready to whip it out if needed. He silently communicates with you, run, his eyes says, but you're paralyzed by fear when you finally remember where you heard the name Culver. It was what that old man Arthur said back then, he's the man whose men were killed by Hobie in a single night.

Heaviness hangs in the air, tension so thick that you can't even poke a hole right through it with a bullet.

“Is she someone precious to ya?” Culver says, suddenly gripping you by the scruff of your blouse, your back hitting the piano keys harshly. You yelp, and Hobie abruptly stands up, eyes aflame. The bearded man smiles, blackened teeth in full display. “She is, isn't she?” He wiggles your head in his hand. You sit there frozen, unable to even breathe. “What if I do the exact thing you did to my men, eh?” You hear chairs scraping against hardwood floors and boots frantically running towards the back exit. It's just you three in the saloon. He taps his finger in between your eyes, flaking leather on your soft skin. “A bullet in between her eyes would look lovely on her, don't you agree?”

“Your quarrel is with me. Let's take this outside, shall we?” Like a strike of lightning, Hobie cracks his bullwhip towards Culver. Dust in your eyes, the high pitched sound ringing in your ears. You then see Culver getting dragged away from you by his arm. The whip wraps around his flesh, threatening to skin him from the force Hobie pulls him towards the swinging doors of the saloon.

You inhale the gunpowder like scent it left, standing up, you quickly follow Hobie out into the sun. As the light hits your eyes, you watch Hobie cracks his bullwhip again. Culver yells in pain as Hobie releases him in the whip's clutches before placing it neatly back on his belt. He stands ways away from him, just across the screaming Culver.

“Painful, innit? This is what you did to two of my mates.” You walk to Hobie's side, he spares you a glance, roaming his jade eyes over you to check for injuries. Satisfied, he then returns his attention towards his target. “Remember that fuckin' pain, because my bullet hitting your heart would hurt much more than this.”

Culver holds his aching arm, kneeling on the muddy ground, hat fallen next to him, revealing a shiny head. “You lettin’ me go?” He cackles, you don't hide behind Hobie. “Just like that? Oh that woman has softened you up, Mr. Brown.”

“D’you want to keep talking or do you want to fuckin' start?”

You knit your eyebrows, fear encompasses you. “W-what’s about to start?” Your hand finds his bicep, holding on to him tightly like he's about to leave you. Again.

“A showdown, go to the side, love, I don't want you ‘ere when the bullets start flyin’” He watches Culver slowly stand up in the corner of his eyes.

“A fucking duel? Are you crazy?” You grip tighter.

Hobie gives you a smile, the same smile he lets you see every night before you head home. It's a boyish smile, innocence hidden behind it. “Go, I'll be fine.”

“And if not? He looks like he's a gunslinger. What if he wins and you die?”

“Then I can't burden you anymore.” He whispers, green eyes glimmering in the sunlight.

“Burden—? What are you talking about?”

“Go, I'll win, don't worry about it.”

“Hobie—!”

“Go, Y/N!”

You move without question after he yells at you. Your hands trembles, knees going weak, tears brimming in your eyes, and he can't even look at you.

As the two men move further away without turning their backs towards each other, you hold onto the saloon's pillar lest you crumble from fear of losing him. Again.

Bystanders look on, watching the spectacle unfold right in front of their eyes. Some hide behind windows, children hide behind their mother's skirts. While you have nowhere to hide. Your nails dig into the wood, Hobie squares his shoulders, fingers brushing along his holster. You spare a look towards his target, his hand already resting next to his yellow-gold gun.

Silence hangs in the air. Death waits for the loser.

Hobie squints his eyes, attention fully on the man before him. He leans back slightly, right foot stepped forward, silver gun shining in the sun; you can even see your reflection on it.

With a single breath, it's all over.

Culver was too slow to quickdraw, probably from his still aching arm. He drops his gun before he could fully draw it out. Hobie's bullet has left a sizable hole in his dominant palm, a gaping, bleeding wound that you can see through if you stare long enough.

Culver screams, a gutteral shriek that worms into your mind. He drops to his knees, eyes wide in panic and shock, trousers drenched in his own blood. Gunpowder still lingers in the air when you run towards Hobie's side. Your hands grip his shoulders, breath stuck in your throat, as you check for any bullet wounds.

“Are you hurt?!” You scream, ears ringing from the loud shot.

“‘m fine,” your wandering hands find reprieve on his jaw. “Love, ‘m fine.”

He sees fear in your eyes like never before, not even when you get punished, cheeks stained with tears from whatever they've thrown at you. You've never looked like this terrified. Scared like a starving doe caught in a bear trap.

“Remember what I told you?” You can't speak or even think. “Breathe, Y/N.” Hobie takes your hand off his skin, there's a reluctance that you're not privy to. “Just breathe, inhale and exhale.” He holds your hand, squeezing once before leaving your side. “I need to finish the job.”

You exhale and he's gone, the golden gun kicked far away, aiming the still warm barrel against Culver's head. “No…” Running after Hobie, you refuse to see another dead man. “Stop! Please.” Gripping his gun once again, you plead with him. “Don't kill him.”

“Step aside, Y/N. If I don't—” he can't fathom what Culver would do to him, to *you if he doesn't end it right there and then. The cycle must stop, he can't accomplish it if you're standing in between his gun and Culver's soft head. “Don't get involved.”

“Please.” You breathe out, warm hands placed around his shooting hand. “Take him to the sheriff, let justice take its course. He's backing down, I don't want to see you kill another one.”

“The sheriff won't do shit. Just like now,” he nudges his head towards the man amidst the crowd. “Let me do this, or he'll follow us and hunt us down.”

“I won't!” Culver suddenly yells, even louder than his painful screams. “I won't follow! I'm tired, Mr. Brown. I don't want to do this no more.” He looks up at the two of you, remourse evident on his face. “I'm sorry about your friends, I really am! But we're already even, you've taken mine too. Every single one I've got.”

“Promise to never exact revenge,” you tell the groveling man as you watch his salty tears mix in with the warm crimson.

“I promise,” Culver cries. “I promise, miss.”

You look back at Hobie, your eyes meet his own. Anger subsides in those emerald eyes, face turning soft. “He promises, Hobie.”

“An outlaw's promise doesn't mean shit—”

“You’ll have to shoot through me to get to him.” You point the barrel right on top of your chest, its warmth seeps through you.

“He wanted to hurt you.” Hobie softly says, fingers wrapping around your own.

“I’m not hurt. It takes more than threats to hurt me, Hobs.” You both stare at each other, hearts beating together. “Can you holster your gun please?”

Together, you help him lower his gun. Together, you let Culver go.

—

You need to leave town immediately. Strawberry's sheriff might've been easily placated with a good duel, but other lawmen pursuing Hobie might not be. Bucky neighs loudly at the sight of you, moreso when he sees your intertwined hands.

“Hi, Bucky.” You start to place your foot on the stirrups but Hobie stops you halfway.

“You need a horse. Might as well put your new gloves to good use, hmm?” You smile as Hobie whistles for the stable hand for help. A teenage boy with worn out blue jeans appears. “She needs a horse. Anythin' fast, or hell, anythin' you have available. What do you have?”

Their conversation drifts into the background. Your attention and breath is taken away by the gorgeous mare that stands behind a stable door. Her shining blue eyes watch you as you approach, hair as white as snow, the same hue as her body, she glimmers in the sunlight that filters through the wooden cracks. She huffs, head leaning away when you hold out your hand. You could only wait for her to make the move, watching you with peculiar eyes like she's sizing you up.

The stable boy does a double take, “wait, ma'am, that's not—!” When he says it, the white mare leanes closer to your touch. “Well I'll be. She never lets anyone touch her except my boss. She's as fine as cream gravy that one is.”

“I think she likes me.” You tilt your head as she sniffs your hand.

“That's a fuckin' arabian, love.” Hobie says breathlessly, watching you and the hot tempered horse interact like you've been her rider for years. “Can't you pick another horse that doesn't cost three horses combined?”

You laugh, feeding the mare hay. “I could, but I really think she's the one for me.” Hobie scratches the back of his neck. “I can choose another one, Hobie.” As if understanding your words, the mare nudges your shoulder. Hobie feels like he's being robbed in broad daylight. But he'll spend a million for you if you ask.

The stable boy pipes up from the side. “You can't actually, ma'am, I was just tellin’ your husband here that we only have her available. The rest already have owners you see. She was abandoned six months ago.”

“How could anyone abandon you?” You whisper towards the horse, petting her head as she welcomes your touch.

“I think her last owner died, and no one has since picked her up, or bought her. My boss is more than willing to get rid of her now to make space.”

“We'll take her, on a discounted fee of course, since she's second hand. And a saddle too.” You grin at Hobie's words.

The stable hand sighs. “At half price too I bet?”

“Now you're speakin’ my language.” Hobie pats the boy's shoulder as he negotiates prices. The mare huffs again, asking for more hay while you are distracted by Hobie's wink thrown your way.

—

“She still doesn't have a name.” Hobie finally breaks his silence, he rides alongside your horse, making sure that your ill tempered mare doesn't buck you off. His hands guide Buckeye, but his eyes are completely on your form.

The road is long and empty, save for a herd of bison roaming just below the mountain you're both trudging. There are small graves littered around the road, worn out crosses, wood eaten by termites. Etched names forgotten, lives scattered in the wind amidst the dirt and blazing sun. You wonder how they died without getting to their final destination. The sun has completely risen, humidity making your lips dry, heat stuck in between your skin and the leather of your gloves. The canopy shields you from the rays, luscious greenery everywhere, trees and grass littered all over the mountain side. You can hear wild horses neighing far away from where you are, their hooves thumping freely on the soil.

You pause from braiding your horse's hair, securing the braid with the pink lace ribbon. Your eyes meet with familiar emerald eyes. “I've been thinking about it actually.”

“Well? What are your options?”

Your lips curl into a mischievous smile. “‘Blue jeans’”

“Oh fuck off.” He rides ahead to hide his growing smile.

You quickly follow, pulling the reins, clicking your tongue to make your horse trot alongside Hobie. “Why not? I like it, I think it fits her.”

“No it does not. You're fucking with me, lovie, and my blue jeans.”

You like him like this, bathed in the sun, in warmth as he smiles back at you; just like the days when you were still just friends, friends with lingering feelings that you're both too afraid to confess. If he doesn't love you back just as before, you'd settle for this, just friends who laugh and talk, and tease each other. It's better this way because friendship means that he still cares for you, that there's still a space for you in his heart no matter how small it is, that you're not forgotten.

“Oh you and your precious blue jeans!” Your laughter echoes around.

“Will you be like this the entire time?” You both turn a corner, where no trees shield you from the sun. He notices you narrow your eyes, palm above your eyes to see him better. “‘ere.”

“W-what?” There's suddenly a hat atop your head, his hat. “Oh!” You run your fingers along the brim that shields you from the light. The leather is soft, a few bumps here and there but you can feel that it's been taken care of. Hobie clears his throat, and your cheeks run warmer than the summer sun. “T-thank you.” You're not an idiot, you've been here for weeks so of course you've heard of the ‘hat rule’ in passing. But you don't know what to do, or what he wants to do when it's in reverse.

“No problem, you've already taken my money, might as well hand you my hat, eh?” Hobie inhales, the mere sight of you wearing his beloved hat sends his heart into overdrive. Maybe he shouldn't have given it to you.

“You make it sound like I'm robbing you blind. I was alright with my old clothes.”

Hobie has the opportunity to say either of the two things that popped up in his mind. One, tell you that you've only robbed him of his heart. And two, make a joke about how much Bucky disdained carrying you with your musty clothes. So he does neither.

“We had to, or we'll be recognized faster than a mother recognizes her child.” You both finally reach the foot of the mountain, successfully surviving without anyone shooting at you, kidnapping you; or hell, getting eaten by a bear. With both of your luck, it's possible.

“Weird analogy but okay.” Your stomach grumbles when you two come to a stop at a fork in the road. One goes to the right, the other on the left. There's nothing else distinguishable on either one of them. The signage is long gone, taken by strong winds, or just time itself. You wince, hoping that he didn't hear the sound your stomach made.

He raises a brow, chuckling deeply at the sight of you hiding your face with the brim of his hat. “I forgot we didn't get to eat. That sandwich smelt really fuckin' good.”

“I really want that pumpkin soup now.” You groan, leaning forward to rest your head on top of your horse who barely notices your movement.

“C’mon, I know a place.” He taps your boot with his own.

“Where?”

“On the left, it's not that far but it'll delay us on our journey.” It's not a bad deal, he thinks to himself.

You suddenly perk up, this is what you were asking for back in that cave, the road less traveled, the road where you get to just spend more time with him. And postpone your homecoming.

“What are we waiting for then, cowboy?” With a kick, and a laugh in your throat, you bolt over to the direction he pointed out.

“‘Cowboy?’ bloody hell.” He really regrets giving you his hat because now he doesn't have anything to hide his flustered face anymore.

—

“You said it was a restaurant,” you huff at the wide river before you, hands on your hips, stomach growling. “Not that we have to catch our own meal!”

Hobie can't help but laugh, a hearty, genuine one that also has you smiling. This suits him, just happy and without a gun in his hand. You like him in every conceivable way possible, even if you're still getting used to his new self. “I just said, ‘I know a place.’ I ain't no liar. Did you expect a café in the middle of nowhere?”

“Yes! And no— I'm hungry now, Hobs!” Your horse agrees, hoof digging into the dirt. Buckeye stands hitched next to her, eyes glued on her white mane. Weird, you thought. “Look, even blue jeans agree!”

“Instant gratification,” Hobie pulls his jacket off and places it on the saddle; he then takes out a folding fishing rod from Bucky's saddle bag. “You should work on that because it's not gonna work well ‘ere, love.” He walks towards the river bank, toeing off his boots, folding up the same trousers you love to see him in. And also folding the sleeves of his shirt to reveal his toned arms. “And her name can't be ‘blue jeans!’” Yelling back, he trudges the rushing cool water that goes up to just below his knees.

“Okay, fine!” You start to strip, taking off your coat and his hat— folding your trousers and sleeves, you follow him to the rocky river bank. “How about ‘trout’ then.”

He hears your voice closer, he laughs at you when you almost slip on a rock. “Careful, it's slippery. You can't name her ‘trout,’ she's too pretty for that.”

“Now you tell me,” you roll your eyes at him as he casts the line. The bait and hook plops in the deeper water, now the waiting game begins. “‘Too pretty?’ you once nicknamed me beetle just because it bit me once!” Warmth spreads across your chest at his laugh. You feel at home in that cold river.

“And? You callin' yourself pretty?” His smirk takes you back at that oak tree.

You have an urge to kiss it off him. You don't, it's not the time yet, or you may ruin everything. “Yeah, you did, I remember you calling me pretty…” you lean closer, face dangerously close to his own. Breaths mixing in together, but you still give him enough space to move away. He doesn't. You don't mention it. He thinks about your lips upon his. “And gorgeous, and then absolutely stunnin’!” You copy his drawl, but before he could even laugh at your teasing, the fishing rod starts to move, yanking him forward.

“Oh fuck!” Hobie reels it in, and you gasp in disbelief at the sheer strength the fish has. “Help me or we'll starve!”

“You don't have to tell me twice!” You embrace him from the back, arms squeezing him, face smothered by his shoulder. He feels warm, he still feels the same. You dig your heels in while he fights with lunch. “Come on, cowboy!”

He almost let go of the rod. “Shit!” You laugh into his shirt and he almost falters once again. “Come on you little—!” With one hard yank, he finally sees the fish fly up, the sun hits its scales, body frantically flopping around. But he pulled too hard, and down he goes on the river bank, with you catching him. “Fuck—!” With a splash, you get a face full of river water.

Hobie immediately jumps to the side to not squash you and drown you in two feet of water. His eyes are full of worry when you emerge coughing. He almost lets go of the rod to tend to you, but your smile and guffaw has relief flowing through him.

“How big is it?!” You ask, entirely drenched.

He gently wipes your face, calloused palms over your soft skin, fingers carefully wiping away a piece of grass stuck on your cheek. You close your eyes, letting him hold you.

Hobie inhales and drinks you in— he still loves you. It's always been there, his love for you, but he refuses to acknowledge it with what he knows just before he left, with what *he said before he took a slice at his neck. Hobie still dreams of you, still dreams of saying those three words again, he's a fool to bury the feeling, especially when you're in front of him again— close to him again, loving him again.

He has no idea what to do now, other than to stand up and give you a helping hand.

—

Hobie's been silent and you have no idea why. You warm yourself on the fire he built, the fish you both caught is now cooking wonderfully on the open fire. The river's currents are a lot stronger now, so it's a lot harder to catch anything without getting carried by it. Your clothes are slowly drying as you wring your sleeves free of water.

“Cherry.” You suddenly break the silence. “I think I'll name her cherry.”

Hobie sits across you again, gazing at you through warmer eyes. “Why cherry?”

“Because horses love fruit, and cherry is a fruit.”

“Brilliant thinkin’ love, horses definitely eat cherries.” He says in a sarcastic tone.

You furrow your brows, “wait, they don't?”

He blinks, “Huh, ‘m actually not sure. Maybe if you take out the pits and cut it in half?”

“That’s…that's plausible, they contain cyanide though.”

“Maybe we should ask them?”

“What?” You chortle, and Hobie cups his hands to yell at the horses.

“Oi! D’you lot eat cherries?” They only stare at him. “Guess not.” You laugh, he finds it infectious so he also does.

“Horses can't talk, Hobs.” You say in between giggles.

“You never know, I might be a horse whisperer.” His smile falters, and you frown at the sudden shift. “‘m sorry for yellin’ at you.” His voice is soft under the cackle of the fire. “I shouldn't have yelled.”

“Apology accepted.” Your nerves calm down, beaming at him, scooching closer to him until your knees grazes his own. He doesn't move away, even nudging your shoulder with a faint smile. “I'm sorry for making you spend so much. But thank you for the nice clothes, and being— just…kind.”

Hobie reaches for your hand slowly, your breath is in your throat, freezing you un place. His pinky brushes along your palm when a twig snaps Hobie quickdraws his gun.

“Who's there?! Show yourself or I'll fuckin' shoot.” Standing up, he hides you with his own body.

You also stand up, hand wrapping around the barrel of the rifle that was leaning next to you. Both yours and Hobie's hearts thump loudly with trepidation. The bush moves and out comes two men brandishing their own weapons. They dress like gentlemen, but their sneers say they are not.

“We came out to piss and we find the spider of the west, guess we're just lucky.” The one with a scar across his nose says, voice scratchy, nudging his companion. “And would you look at that?”

“You’ve found yourself a pretty companion, Hobart, one that has a very high bounty on her head.” The other finishes his partner's sentence. His mustache is all twirly at the end, golden tooth shining in the sun. “Y’know, sweetheart, the whole country's after ya.” You don't falter in your stance.

“With both of your bounties combined, we're aimin’ at ten thousand dollars right now.” The scarred man chuckles.

“Ten thousand?” Hobie whistles, “Can we bring ourselves in instead?” You snort, still aiming at the man's head.

“If only that was possible, Hobart.” The man gives you a twisted smile.

“Are you lawmen?” You ask, “Or pinkertons? You two don't look like either of them.”

“What do we look like then, sweetheart?” The mustachioed man taunts with a toothy smile. “A couple of handsome cowboys?”

“A bunch of dead men.” You push Hobie away, kicking hot coals in their faces, embers flying, smoke filling their lungs. While they're both distracted and yelling at the searing heat— Hobie fans the hammer of his gun, shooting all six bullets into each man's bodies until their lifeless corpses fall atop each other.

“I've seen better.” You stand next to Hobie as he checks for something in their pockets. Their blood slowly spread to the tips of his boots. “What are you doing?”

Hobie rubs a hand across his face, “Lawmen,” he raises the identification papers he found. “We need to go. Pack the fish.”

“But they're dead?” You ask but you still do what you're told.

“Lawmen are like rats, if there's two ‘ere, there's a dozen more near us, hidden under the crevices.” He walks near the banks, head downturned, eyes scanning the plants. “And they've got their noses on us now.”

“Where are you going?” You stand, wrapped fish in your arms. “Hobie!” You start to yell when he has walked a few ways away from you.

Hobie crouches down, hunting knife digging into the soil. You watch him take a bushel of grass, he walks back and now you get a closer look at what he's carrying. You thought your eyes are deceiving you, instead of the familiar green hue, the plant is pink, a very bright shade. There's still dirt clinging to the stems when Hobie carefully covers it with a handkerchief.

“That's oleander, Hobie.” You stare at him, concerned. “And that many could kill a fucking elephant.”

“I know, you taught me, remember?” You nod as shoves it inside your messenger bag. He pauses at the sight of the bundle of letters, then he dismisses them, closing the bag. “It might come in handy.”

“What's your plan?” You're terrified.

“We head to a train station.” He sighs, completely winded, and worried for your safety. “Bounty hunters and outlaws I can manage, but them?” He points at the two bodies. “They've got more resources than either group, and more people in their pocket.”

“Wouldn't that be obvious? Riding the train? We can handle them, just like we always have—”

“They hate my guts more than anyone, Y/N, and they don't fear me as much as bounty hunters or outlaws.”

“But a train…” you shudder. “We'll be in the south in a few days instead of weeks— that's quick, too quick…I don't—” I don't want to leave. “I can't.”

“You wanted the scenic route, right?” He starts to unhitch the horses. “It's the last place they'll look for thinking that we'll be traveling by our lonesome out on the backroads.”

“Yes, but—”

“Nothing’s more scenic than a train ride. C’mon, love, get on Cherry. Before more come out of hidin’”

You nod, tears threatening to spill out. Walking around the corpses, you get on Cherry with a far away look in your eyes. “To the train station then.”

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