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the-kr8tor · 2 months

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Rotten Floorboards

Pairing: Cowboy! Hobie Brown x Fem! Reader

Word count: 11.5k

Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader, Cowboy AU, Wild west AU, CW hallucinations, TW poisoned without your knowledge, CW violence, religious talk, CW guns, TW abuse mention, CW food mention, CW panic attack, CW injury, TW death, TW blood and gore.

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CHAPTER 7 >>> CHAPTER 8

Skinned knees, scarred hands, and venomous words, you've endured it all back home. Survived it all— his tight, firm grip on your hand that only loosened around guests, finger always running along the gold band on your finger, a reminder of your hatred, a different reminder for him. Then your aunt's yelling in your ears until you could only hear her thunderous words at night even when you're alone. Her pen that does more than sign documents, the sharp end pointed directly on your palm, stabbing and cutting along your life line as if it could end your life right then and there— sometimes you wish it could. Then him, your uncle who had his hand in cutting your ties with the man you love, whose echoing footsteps walk outside your door at night, never giving you reprieve from the pain of being awake in that mausoleum of a home. All that pain, all that abuse you've suffered from your so-called kin doesn't compare to seeing Hobie's limp body under the monstrous weight of steel and ash.

Your heart has stayed inside your stomach since then, his green eyes closed, breathing shallow than the well that your uncle threatened to push you inside— you won't drown in it, you'll just crack your neck and your spine while you lay in tepid dirty water. You feel like that now, hopeless, blank eyes staring at the sky, seeing the world pass by from inside the well.

You've never left his side, feeling as if you'd regret it if you did even for a moment. You've regretted a lot of things, letting your parents go on that doomed expedition, and letting your aunt dictate the rest of your life. Never again. So you don't leave, you don't drink, you don't eat while the stranger who helped carry Hobie into the shabby inn treats him.

Your own wounds ache, festering under the heat of the southern sun. The humidity is clinging to your skin, making it all worse, making the pathetic bandage around your ear throb from the pain, tethering from infection. The walls of the small room they've put you in is suffocating, walls that feel like it's closing you in, dark hardwood that sweats from the sheer heat, and floorboards that creak and squeak from your footsteps. But you'd rather stay upstairs than what's below you. It smells there, especially when the day runs hotter than the surface of a boiling pot. It's probably because the whole building is old and moldy. Or there's something dead hiding underneath the rotten bloated wood.

The alligators outside your window hiss and groan, birds you've never seen before get eaten the moment they step foot inside the marsh. It's not fair, you think, for they only wanted to eat yet they ended up getting eaten themselves.

The night gives your nerves a break, the cooler air breezing through your injuries, taking the pain away for only a moment. Fireflies gather outside the willow tree that you've been staring at since you've arrived. Hobie sleeps under it all, from all the noise and the heat. You've held his hand the entire time, even with the bandages around your palms you could still feel him, feel his pulse, feel how he still breathes. Your eyes are dry and red, tears gone from how much you've cried on his bedside, and pleaded to the man to save him whatever it takes. The rickety armchair that has one leg missing has been your home, the room is your land, and Hobie has been your reason to stay.

You held his hand in yours, watching as his eyelids moved about, a sign that he still lives and thinks despite the trauma to the head he endured when the train crashed. The bandage around his head has turned red from his wound. He protected you, did everything to shield you from death. You'd cry if you still had any tears left to give.

Dawn has arrived, and you hear a knock at the door. It's quiet, almost silent as if the sound would disturb Hobie's slumber.

“Come in,” your voice is still hoarse from the noose that wrapped around your neck. It's small, barely there, barely having the resemblance of your former self.

With a creak, the door opens, and a familiar face pops out. “Just checkin’ on ya.” His southern drawl is thick, shaven face illuminated by the lamp he holds. “I need to change his bandages. And yours if you'd permit me.” Entering the room, he shakes his leather bound bag with the initials ‘T.M.’ embossed on it. The metal and glass inside clinks against each other.

You watch him carry himself with confidence, but with apprehension from his gait. “Do him first.” Moving the chair aside, you still don't fully leave Hobie.

“Alright,” his friendly eyes look at you with uncertainty. Kneeling down next to the bed, he examines Hobie's head, gently unspooling the cloth. That's the only time you look away, refusing to see him that way or it might wiggle its way into your dreams. “I’ve realized that I haven't asked for your name, miss.” You hear his bag unzipping while you stare at the outside world blanketed in deep blue. “Not your fault though, Holden brought you in haste.”

“Holden?” You ask, eyes scanning along the marsh.

“That's the big brooding man that carried him in. My name's Thomas, by the way, what's yours?” The smell of putrid ointment hits your nose, you refuse to cover the smell.

You give him a fake name, a name that isn't known to many, a name that isn't plastered in every bounty board across the country. “It's Clementine.”

“What a pretty name, I'd shake your hand but 'm occupied right now.” He chuckles, and you hold your breath while he continues to treat Hobie. After minutes of silence, you hear the rustle of fabric as he closes the bandages around his head.

You turn to look, the sight of Hobie just laying there is sobering. You've always known him as a strong person, always burying his heels in, independent in all the ways, and speaking his mind when he needs to be. The opposite of you, but right now, you have to be the one that's strong enough for him, to fight, care, and protect him if need be while he recovers. You don't know if you can do it, but it comes easily to you because it's Hobie, you've already done so a lifetime ago. You inhale deeply, finally meeting Thomas’ brown eyes.

“Thank you, for helping, you don't know us but you still helped. I promise I'm going to pay you back for the room and…” you look at the room that still bares Hobie's blood all over the floor, and his things thrown in the corner. “And everything else.”

“No, need.” Thomas smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners. Crow's feet evident in his smile. “Just seein’ him get better slowly is enough for me.” You give him a weak but genuine smile. “Your turn, miss?”

“I'm fine.”

“I've been a doctor for twenty years, and you're clearly not fine. Especially that ear of yours. I've seen better ears from pigs in line for the slaughter.”

You glance at Hobie's sleeping face, finally relenting. “Okay.”

“I'll try to be quick, I promise.” You scooch your chair closer, immediately holding Hobie's hand like his skin is magnetized. “I don't want to ask but, this injury doesn't look like it came from the train derailing.” He starts to peel off the shoddy bandage that you hastily put on, your skin feels like on fire. You don't mind it anymore, you've felt worse.

You sniff, eyes glued onto the gold ring dangling from Hobie's neck. “A piece of metal from the train nicked it.”

“And your hands?” He nods at your burned palms hidden under cloth.

“Heat from the metal when I tossed it off him.” A half lie.

“Ah,” Thomas cleans your wound with the same putrid ointment. He tugs at your raw skin, you bite your tongue on instinct. “Maybe I shouldn't ask about your neck then.” The angry mark left by the lasso still stays, you know it'll stay there forever. If not, then in your mind.

You look back at the stranger, eyes pointed and daring. “Don't ask.”

There's new cloth around your ear, muffling the sounds made by the house. “Then I won't.” He seizes his movements, eyeing your hand around Hobie's. “May I treat your hands?”

“It's fine, mister Thomas.”

“It's doctor, actually,” there's amusement in his eyes. “I’ve got a license and everythin’. You should see it, it's very professional lookin’.”

You crack a smile, “sorry, doctor.” With slight apprehension, you slide your hands away from Hobie's before laying your palms on your lap. “Do you own this place?”

“I do, sort of.” He unwraps your hands, revealing the angry skin underneath. Sucking in his teeth, you already know it's healing badly. But he still tries, for that you owe him everything.

“Sort of?”

“It's my sisters’ you see, they went on this business trip to get more funds for the place so they asked me to look after it for a few weeks.”

“I'm guessing that you had to leave your practice.” You flick your eyes over to Hobie's rising and falling chest to check on him. Satisfied, you look back at the doctor handling you with care. “That must've been horrible.”

“Havin’ sisters?” He jokes.

“No, leaving it all behind.”

His smile falters. “Don't cry crocodile tears for me, miss, I'll be back there treating the sick in no time.” His head tilts curiously at the old scar on your palm, ghosting his thumb over it. “What happened to this one?”

You want to say that it was because of her, that she did it. But this is one of the rare times that it wasn't her fault. Yet, when it was, she's good at hiding the evidence. Your aunt wasn't an idiot, she knew how to turn a girl into her personal workhorse that you whip and punch to obey without leaving any marks, without showing the world and causing them any concern for your well-being. So you tell the halfhearted truth.

“It was a long time ago, there's no cause for concern on that one.” It healed, a remembrance, telling you that everything will heal if you give it time— that Hobie will heal. You meet his eyes, finding it hard to read the old man. “How about Holden and the others I saw? I didn't get a good look at them when I entered but I saw a few guests. Are they guests?” You question him because that's what Hobie would do.

“Holden lives nearby who just happens upon the train wreck. He has a small stable in town, in Saint Denis. If you want he can take in your horses? They're mighty fine, I don't want them getting soiled by the marsh.”

“That…” you think for a second. If the horses are gone then you'd lose your only way out. Hobie would say no. “No, thank you, I'll take care of them.”

“You sure? Fine by me, there's hay inside the stable for ‘em.”

“The others? You were talking about them.” You continue to push the subject.

“Ah yes, sorry ‘bout that, old mind and all. Well, there's Eli, he's been stayin’ with us for quite a while. A priest on a mission we call him.” You listen intently, taking note of every single detail. “Then there's Lucy, she's a regular ‘ere, always comin' and goin'. Accordin’ to my sisters.”

You nod as he finishes your hands that's now tightly wrapped with bandages. Thomas begins to stand up, gathering his things. “Will he be okay?” Will he wake up?

He sighs, there's something behind his eyes that you can't quite pinpoint. “It’s hard to tell.” Your heart hammers inside your ribcage. “But he has so far survived the night, I think he'll pull through.”

“Thank you, again. I'll repay you, I promise.” You reach for Hobie's hand, letting your warmth seep through his clammy hands.

Thomas' eyes flick between your hand and eyes. “Don't mention it. I'll bring a basin with drinking water for him. Drip water onto his lips every few hours so he won't dehydrate.”

You nod in understanding. “I will, thank you ”

“Then some food and water for you.” He smiles, opening the door and looking over his shoulder to glance at you.

“No need—”

“How would you care for him when you don't take care of yourself? You need the energy. What would he say?”

You chuckle, squeezing his hand tighter. “He’d call me a wanker for not eating.”

Thomas knits his brows, turning back towards you. “A what?”

“Nothing, it's something profane.”

He chortles, wiping his hand across his nose like he smelled something foul. And you smell it too— the sourness, the moment he opened the door. Maybe a rat died under the staircase. “I won't ask then. Get some rest, miss Clementine.”

The door clicks and you're once again alone with him. It hits you again, how dire your situation is. There's a rock in the back of your mind that keeps rolling about, reminding you how close Hobie was from dying in your arms. But there's another boulder in the pit of your stomach, it tells you of a fate that could befall you now that you're here, close to the person looking for you. You'd rather jump towards the alligators than be back in their hold.

Hobie will wake up, you know he will. For now, you'd stay by his side, play the good nurse and protect him as much as you can because he would do it if the roles were reversed. You hold his ring in between your fingers, letting the cold metal melt into your warm skin.

—

You whisper to him, words that you're afraid of letting go, words that you wish would wake him up. You wonder what he dreams of, is it home? Is it something good? Or is he dreaming of you? You'll ask him when he wakes up, he'll wake up, you know he will.

There's another knock at the door a few hours later. Thomas enters with a tray that smells of something savoury, you've forgotten how hungry you are. But how could you indulge when Hobie lays there like a statue?

“I have some duck for ya, and a loaf. It's not much but it'll fill you up.” He senses your trepidation. “Please eat, you'll get weaker if you don't. ‘sides, no one will take care of him if you fall ill.” The utensils rattles as he places the tray in your hands.

You stare at the food with a blank stare. Guilt eats you alive, grief devouring what's left of you. “C-can you…” you clear your dry throat, “can you check on him? See if his breathing is alright?”

Thomas nods curtly after a moment, placing his fingers above his pulse, timing it on a watch that dangles from his waist coat. You don't touch the warm food until he's done. “His breathin’s fine, he's a fighter.”

You finally feel like you can exhale again. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” standing up, Thomas points at the bowl filled with water where a cloth floats atop it. “That's for him, from what we talked about.”

“I remember.” You're already squeezing the cloth, releasing excess water before you place the tray on his bedside to slowly let the water drip on Hobie's dry lips. With every drop, you pray to whoever is listening to will him awake.

“I'll leave you to it,” the door closes, and you're once again left in your dark thoughts where your fears have come true.

In between eating and playing nurse, your eyes start to get heavy with every bite of the succulent meat. You couldn't help but finish it to the bone, letting it fill your belly, leaving half of the loaf for Hobie when he wakes up. After chugging a whole pitcher of water and emptying Hobie's bowl by slowly but surely letting him drink, you place the tray down on the ground to lay down next to him carefully. There's a headache forming in-between your eyes, maybe you're incredibly fatigued than you thought you were. You're mindful of his injuries but not your own as you lay on your injured ear. It's self flagellation, as if everything that has happened was your fault the moment you stepped foot in the new world. As your eyes get uncomfortably heavy, mind foggy, you fall asleep curled up on his side.

You open your eyes and you're back home. The gilded walls of your room open up to you like a theater curtain. Your chest heaves, eyes filled with tears that you refuse to let go. Chiffon and velvet dress hugging you tightly, too tight, suffocating you slowly like a hand on your throat. Hand upon your chest, you rip it all off as if the garment burns you. But it isn't enough to get rid of it all, so you walk over to your table in haste, grabbing a sharp letter opener to slash and tear at the threads putting it all together. One by one, the once pretty gown is torn to shreds at your feet, from bodice to skirt, it all lays on the ground like discarded meat. In a flash, your eyes see red and bloodied muscle still writhing on the floor instead of fabric. As soon as it appears, it's gone after a beat.

You stand there in your slip, but the heaviness in your chest persists, hands and legs going numb— a testament to your shallow breathing. Your hands glide along your body to find anything tight around you, gasping and still in a panic, your hands stop around your neck that holds a string of diamonds. Without a second thought, you snatch the shiny thing away from your clammy skin, breaking the chain in the process.

Air enters your lungs the moment it's gone. Palms above your chest, you inhale and exhale whilst hot tears flow out of your eyes in a shower of sorrow. Leaning over the table for balance, your eyes meet with a familiar handwriting addressed to you. You're brought back in time the second your hand touches it, brought back to five years ago when Hobie slipped you a note during a party. You read it again, telling you that everything was ready, that he's ready to run away with you, somewhere far away and that you should pack your things.

After you read it, the letter dissolves into dark ink that drips down to your feet. You're holding the new letter again, opening the plain wax seal, you read the contents. Then you read it over and over until you get your mind wrapped around the saccharine yet sorrowful words that are all written in his hand. Hobie, the one you've been mourning since the news hit you.

His address is written hastily next to his own name, you laugh and then sob, hugging the letter to your chest. The scene shifts as if you've entered the fog and into a new world. You're in front of the docks, a large ship looming over you. You're dressed in a pair of borrowed trousers from Peter's wife, whilst the older man himself speaks by your side but you can't make out his words. It's all a garbled mess. For some reason, his hands are dripping with blood, but you don't point it out.

You tell him something, and he shakes his head with a smile, eyepatch moving as he gently nudges you towards the ship. The night hides his face, and all the secrets haunting you, even with the full moon shining down. As you wave goodbye, the ship unfurls its sails, sailors reeling the anchor up, and the captain steering the ship towards your future. You watch as Peter's silhouette gets farther until he's a mere dot in your sight.

You raise your head up to watch the swirling sky, falling stars raining down, and the moon smiling back at you. Someone whispers your name, and you instinctively turn around, expecting a fate worse than death thinking that they've found you. But you're greeted by Hobie himself, still in the same clothes you last saw him in, hair short, and face flat.

“Hobie?” You sound like you're underneath the waves.

“Run.”

You're awoken by the squeak from the rotten hinges. Sitting up, your eyes adjust to the light, seeing a silhouette of a tall, bony man in black and white. Vision focusing, you see him awkwardly stop in front of the doorway, the white square on his collar tells you that this is the reverend Thomas was talking about. He has a patch work of a beard and an aura of weariness.

“Eli,” your mouth speaks before you could think.

“That's me,” he chuckles, clearing his throat right after. His hands are behind his back, prompting you to be more wary of the man.

“What are you doing here?” You sit properly, hand placed on your gun belt, feeling the cold metal of Hobie's gun on your palm.

“I–I was…” his blue eyes flick from your gun to Hobie's sleeping face. “Thinking of p-praying for him.”

“He’s not dead yet, reverend.” Your harsh voice cuts through the man.

“I don't mean any offense.” He holds his empty hands up, you glance at his rough hands and the tattoo on his wrist revealed from how his sleeve rode down. It's something you can't quite get a good look at. Noticing your stare, Eli brings his hands down, pulling down his sleeves. “Praying for his swift recovery. That's what I meant.”

“You can pray for him outside our door. Better yet, pray downstairs.” You stare him down. “Where's your book of prayers?”

“I'm sorry, I should've knocked.” You can't place his accent. “I thought you were asleep—”

“And that makes it alright to barge in?”

He balances on the balls of his feet, your eyes instinctively flick over to his leather shoes that are too shiny, too kept as if he just bought it or cleaned it for the occasion. “We got off on the wrong foot, I'm sorry, miss…Clementine. My name's Eli.” Reaching for you, you only look at his hand without shaking it.

“I didn't give you my name.”

The reverend takes his hand back with a wince. “I–I got it from Thomas.” Your jaw tightens, eyes boring holes into his forehead. Thankfully, he reads the room and your expression. “I should go—”

“You should. Goodbye.”

The reverend doesn't turn his back on you, opening the door with what you could read as a cursory apologetic look. “I'm sorry, again.”

You grunt in reply. With the door clicking close, you stand up, taking a spare chair that Thomas always sits down on to lodge it under the doorknob. Locking the door and battening down the hatches. It's what Hobie would do, it's what he always does when he thinks you've fallen asleep.

“Wanker.” You scoff out before sitting back down next to Hobie. You don't find sleep after that. Your mind is too noisy, too chaotic to find sleep even though your body demands it.

—

Two days in and Hobie is still unresponsive, he breathes, even twitches in his sleep but he's unable to wake up. It's pure torture for you, seeing him lay there while you try your best at taking care of him. You've even tasked yourself at watching the good doctor clean his wounds and replace the bandages so you could do it yourself. You miss his smile, his laugh, and how he holds your hand. It’s just like how you've felt for those five long years, but this time you can see him, touch him, and take care of him but he doesn't speak nor look back at you. You don't know which one is worse.

Thomas says he's getting better, but you still worry. You play his nurse and a grieving widow at the same time. Everytime Hobie's breath hitches or even when his finger twitches you sit up, frantically calling the doctor to check on him. He always says the same thing, ‘he’s just dreaming,’ it doesn't fill you at ease, especially if it's anywhere near the dreams you've been having.

Three meals are brought to you every day, and each meal has brought you to sleep. You blame the trauma you've experienced, the things you've seen, the things you've done— it brings you towards the precipice of life and death each time, and without fail, you dream of him. Hobie still sleeps on the lumpy bed, body lay still, breathing sturdy and true. You don't mind the sleep, but the dreams you've had aren't always good, so you'd rather keep your eyes open than face the horrors that sleep brings.

Sometimes your mind wanders off, vision whirling to something else, something worse than him laying unresponsive to the world outside. In the corner of the dark room, you see a bloodied fountain pen with soiled grain littered around it. You turn around to look away, and you see something worse, his pristine white suit is a glaring contrast to the almost dilapidated state of the room, acting like a beacon of pain for you. He doesn't smile, nor come closer to you, he just stands there, back straight like he owns the place, light green eyes aglow like the fireflies outside but none of the comfort.

The blood in your veins runs cold at the sight, so you turn away from him as he stands guard with his judging eyes. Your eyes land towards Hobie to calm you down and bring yourself back to reality. He still sleeps, bandages wrapped around his head, eyelids twitching while he dreams. With a sigh, you suddenly see a pair of eyes under his bed, you're frozen at the sight of a large hand appearing from underneath, nails dark and rotten, wounds littered around the arm, decaying and sour smelling. You see it give you a crooked smile. Heart thrumming, the hand grabs Hobie's wrist, blackened blood oozing from its touch. With horror in your belly but bravery in your heart, you yank the hand away, finding it bursting into a cloud of smoke the moment you touched it.

“You alright?” Thomas asks, he watches you catch your breath from the doorway.

Your hand is closed around nothing, still held up in front of you, gasping at nothingness. You inhale, clearing your throat and bringing down your trembling hand to your lap. “Y-yeah, I think I'm just too hot.”

Thomas nods, eyes roaming around the room. “You've been cooped up in this room for two days. I think some fresh air would do you some good.”

You immediately shake your head. “I can't leave him. Besides, there's a window here, I get enough air as it is.”

“Pardon my bluntness but, you need to stretch around, get a different scenery or you'll go mad seeing the same walls.” Thomas crosses the gap, tentatively placing his hand on your shoulder. His palm hovers slightly above your blouse, not truly holding you. “I can watch him for you, the worst has come to pass already. I know he'll wake up eventually.”

You glance at Hobie's face, he does look better than before. There's color on his lips again, his breathing stable, skin no longer clammy and his wounds are starting to scab over. And the horses need your attention too, you have no idea how they're faring since they got here. You ponder leaving him for a moment.

“...okay, j-just for a few minutes.” But you still don't trust Thomas enough to leave Hobie alone with him. “You don't have to watch him.”

“Alright, I understand where you're comin' from. Hell, I'll give you the key to the room if it makes you feel any better.” Thomas takes out a ring of keys from his pocket, and then he takes out an old key from the metal ring to hand to you. “Just bring it back after.”

“Alright, thank you, that actually fills me with ease.” You close your fingers around the key, letting the metal press down into your burned palms.

“I'll be downstairs. I promise if I hear anythin’, even a squeak I'll come runnin’ out to get you.” Thomas smiles, back already turned to leave.

Your voice calls him back. “Doctor, you've seen death, do you think there's an afterlife?” You suddenly ask him, Thomas stops in his tracks, chuckling softly.

“I don't know, love.” You raise a brow, head turning immediately to face him. “I think it's best if you ask the reverend that. I'm sure he can provide you with an answer.”

“But you've seen people die, right? From your patients, to just…living. I want your opinion on the matter.” You push the subject, eyes heavy and tired. You can feel every bone in your body as your vision shifts, seeing iridescent light pass through the windows and shine in Thomas' face. When your eyes focus, the light is gone.

Thomas scratches his head. “From what I experienced?” You nod, “I don't think so. I think there's just darkness right after.” He sniffs, hands placed in his pockets. “I really think you should talk to the reverend, he might provide a more comforting answer.”

“Maybe I should.” Your voice drifts off, eyes blankly staring outside.

“You sure you're alright?”

“I don't know.” You don't see how red your eyes have become, or the bags weighing it down.

Thomas leaves without another word. You don't leave the room after that, and the key stays with you to hold onto, letting the metal dig into your palms.

—

Startling awake, you sit up from the whispers that have managed to slither its way inside your ears. You look over your side, seeing Hobie asleep and safe, you begin to sit up, head pounding roughly against your skull as if you've been hit by something in your sleep.

More whispers echo out into the darkness, your eyes wander around the room, finding no one so you listen closely. You glance at the floor, ears straining to hear, you realize the voices are coming out from beneath.

Slowly clambering away from the bed, hand reluctantly releasing Hobie's hand, you make your way onto the floor, laying yourself down on the cool wood. Pressing your ears, you listen in on the murmured conversation.

“She barely sleeps!” A woman's voice exclaims, it's followed by shushing. “It doesn't even work on her. I'm at my fuckin’ limit.”

“We need to be patient—” Someone says.

You press your face down closer to hear better. “We've been patient. We need to—” the floorboards creak from your movement. And they immediately quiet down.

You lay there perfectly still, but no sound from downstairs can be heard. Standing up, you check the doors if you've locked it properly this time, and you pat the gun on your hip to feel if it's still there. The unfounded trust that you've given to the strangers downstairs are wavering by the minute. But you can't leave, not until Hobie wakes up, or you might disturb his healing.

—

You gasp awake, trembling in your seat, the wounds on your palms have reopened from how your nails have dug into your broken palms. It's another nightmare, another nightmare that has kept you awake. Hobie still sleeps, and you're still trapped inside the small dusty room.

The heels of your palms rub roughly on your eyelids, washing away the nightmare and sleep. Laying your head on the back of the chair, you stair at the ceiling and the cracking paint. There's a dark red spot near the middle, it's barely noticeable but it's there. The longer you stare at it, the bigger it gets. You fight a sob as you abruptly stand up, maybe you should take Thomas on his offer by going outside. It doesn't hurt to leave for a few minutes, right? Surely no one is awake at the break of dawn, so Hobie is safe to be left for a moment. And he's comfortable with the window opened, letting the cool early morning breeze inside.

You sit down on his bedside, hands gently cupping his own. “I'll be back, alright? I just need to check on Buck and Cherry.” He doesn't answer. “Maybe they can tell me how they managed to find us. Or maybe what you told me before was actually right, that they can smell us. Like loyal hounds we had back at the manor.” Your words drift away as your eyes lose focus, staring at the raised scar on his neck. You sniff, bringing yourself back to reality. “Please wake up, I feel like— just please wake up. Yell my name when you do and I'll come running back.” You kiss his knuckles, eyes glancing at the pair of white trousers standing in the corner. “I'll be back.”

You stand up, ignoring all the ghostly eyes staring at your back. They're not real, you whisper to yourself. Opening the door and locking it behind you before you could change your mind. The key is safely tucked away in your breast pocket. A headache rushes by, you almost fall on your knees from the pain.

As you stand shakily in the hallway, the floors seem to shift and change. It stretches before you while you walk, as if it won't allow you to escape the place. You close your eyes tightly, grounding yourself by holding onto the wall. When you open your eyes, you see your aunt standing at the end of the long hallway. She's clad in black, a long coat hiding her entire body, from her neck to the tips of her feet. Her hair is stark white against the dark material, strands that are longer than you last saw her. You can barely see her face, but it's odd, like something's amiss.

“Where are your eyes, dear aunt?” You ask in a small voice, as if you've returned to the young age you first met her.

She opens her maw, a deep dark crevice of sharp teeth all lined up in rows. You hear your name escape from her unhinged jaw, it's whispered close in your ears. “You can't leave.”

“I just did.” You say without remorse, and without guilt. “Watch me leave again.” With measured steps you walk closer to the vision, as you get closer and closer, her body turns transparent until you've walked through her. And everything returns to normal. You've reached the banisters overlooking downstairs, hand clasped tightly around the wood. Shaking, but victorious. “Not real.”

You look over the railing, eyes roaming around the small space. There's a small common room where a fireplace that doubles as the kitchen lies. A large man sleeps on the single couch facing the fireplace, snoring softly, arms crossed over his chest. A humble bar is placed across it, where amber liquid in foggy glass sits on the shelves. Leaning closer, you spot a door on the floor that could lead to a basement of some sort. The surfaces have been wiped clean except for the tops of the shelves that are caked in dust. There's minimal decorations, save for a few pictures hanging on the walls. Then it hits you, the smell of the place. From sour milk to rotten eggs, you can barely decipher what it is, only decay.

You can see the place being homely after a renovation if not for the stench.

The wooden bannister creaks when you put your weight on it, you flinch away before it gives out from under you. You walk slowly down the small steps of the stairway, legs shaking from the thrumming headache behind your eyes, feet swaying like you're drunk off of moonshine. You attribute it from the vision you saw and from how fatigued you are. But your shoes barely clack against the floor from your footsteps. Your eyes skim over the photographs on the walls, yellowed paper and old frames of family. You look for Thomas in any of the pictures, but he's absent in every single one.

You finally make it down without waking anyone. The man, Holden, you surmise based on the description Thomas gave you, still snores on the couch. Crossing the threshold, you unlock the front door to go outside.

The entire marsh is bathed in blue, sun barely peeking in the horizon. A breeze passes by, goosebumps rising on your arms from the cold. You should've brought your coat with you, but it's too late now. If you go back upstairs, you think you cannot go back down.

You already feel like you're coming back to your old self. Eyes still weighing heavy in its sockets but at least the air and the greenery have grounded you back to reality. You have no idea what has befallen you, why you've been having visions of your family. Maybe it's the sleep deprivation, or maybe the living has decided to haunt you for all the things you've done to survive.

Walking along the wooden paths that prop you up from the mud, you follow it further down towards the small stable. The birds are beginning to wake up, chirping just above the canopies of tall willow trees. With every footstep, your feet sink slightly into the mud, soil swallowing down the planks of wood laid down as a makeshift path. Flies buzz around your legs, you swat away any that comes near your healing wounds.

You finally make it towards the stable, opening the door with slight force since the hinges are long rotten from the wear and tear of the moist environment. You finally crack it open, seeing seven horses in their little pens on the side. The wood inside is in the same state as the inn, bloated and decaying from age. Light filters through the cracks, dust and bloatflies flying all over the horses.

Bucky peeks his head when he hears you enter, he immediately recognizes you, hind legs stomping in excitement. You smile genuinely at the dark horse, walking towards his stable, still swaying slightly on your feet. Cherry appears from behind Bucky, coat muddy and hair tangled. You guess that they had to share a pen because of the lack of space in the stable.

“Hi, you two.” You reach up towards their faces, Bucky nuzzles your hand while Cherry huffs against your palm. “I'm sorry, I should've visited you earlier. But Hobie needed my attention.” With the mention of his rider, Buckeye neighs, leaning away, almost standing up on two legs. You think that he worries for him. “It's alright, calm down, boy. He's getting better.”

Bucky shakes his head, so you scratch the back of his ear where he always seems to like. You coo at him, whispering kind words towards the horse for finding you and Hobie amidst the wreckage with Cherry in tow. You enter their pen, brushing your hands along his fur and hair. Hobie's canteen peeks from his saddlebag on Bucky, so you take it, taking big gulps before placing it back inside the pack. You feel a lot better already.

Cherry watches you and Bucky interact. When she's had enough of Bucky getting all of your attention, she nudges your shoulder, nodding and huffing like a petulant child. “Alright, alright, I didn't forget about you.” Chuckling, you rub along her snout, you find that she likes to be pet there the most. “Have you been good? I'd give you both an apple or sugarcube but I don't have any on me.” You spot the bundle of hay near the entrance. “Is hay good enough? When we get out of here I'll give you both all the sugar cubes and fruit you could ever want.”

Leaving their side after numerous pets, you grab a pitchfork laying on the corner to grab some hay to place in their pen. Once both horses are properly fed and petted, you look around the stable for a horse brush, but the only thing you could find were more horses looking at you with curious eyes. You're more confused though, you see five horses in each pen, but there are only four guests inside the inn that you know of. There's Thomas, Eli, and Holden that you've already met. Then there's the mysterious Lucy. Whose horse is it that is alone in the corner? Maybe it's a spare? Nevertheless, you feed all of them.

“I'll be back,” you fold your knees to grab a bucket on the floor. “Let me just get some water for—”

“You're speaking to horses.”

“Jesus!” You clutch your chest from the sudden intrusion.

“Just me, sorry.” A woman stands in the doorway, hands on her shiny belt buckle, red corset tight on her torso, revealing freckles dusted on her shoulders and clavicle. She smiles, showing a gold tooth in the bottom row of her teeth. The sun has now fully risen outside, bathing her back in light, shadows hiding her face from you. “I'm Lucy, you must be Clementine.”

You clear your throat before you almost made the mistake of correcting her. “Y-yeah. Nice to meet you.”

“Why are you doing manual labor? Aren't you injured?”

“I am, but I'm feeling a lot better now thanks to the doctor.”

“Thomas?”

“Yeah, is there another doctor here?”

She chuckles, stepping forward out of the shadows. You see her chiseled face, lips full and pretty, more freckles lined around her eyes and cheeks. Her blond hair is tied in a neat braid, cowboy hat perfectly fitted around her head. There's a hunting rifle strapped on her back, and a large ornate knife on her waist.

“I'll take care of the water. Breakfast is being served inside if you're hungry.” She says with a lilt in her tone. “There's sausage, the good kind. I think you'll like it.”

“You've got their water?” You ask, glancing at your horses.

“Yeah, I've got them.” She crosses the small distance towards you, you don't drop your guard even when her hand grabs the bucket away from you. “I've been the one looking after them.”

“Oh, thank you then. I hope they're not too much of a bother.”

“Not really. Especially your Arabian there, she's real pretty.” Lucy eyes Cherry like a piece of meat on the chopping block. “How much for her?”

“Excuse me?” You scoff. “She's not for sale.”

“Alright, understandable. How about the thoroughbred?”

“No,” you stand stiff, jaw clenched. “They're not for sale.”

She grins slowly, brown eyes flat and staring at your soul. Shrugging, she begins to walk outside. “Eh, it's worth the try. Your loss, I would've bought them at a mark up.” Her voice fades away as she leaves.

You stand there with your fists shaking, you're perturbed by the people residing in the inn. You think Thomas and Holden are the only decent ones inside.

Cherry neighs behind you, you look over your shoulder to meet with her eyes. “The nerve of some people, huh?” Buckeye agrees by trotting in place.

Walking back towards the inn already has you sweating from the humidity. Once you open the door, all eyes are on you. Thomas stands behind the bar, preparing a plate. While Holden eats on one of the empty bar stools with a cup of steaming coffee paused on his lips as he stares at you. The reverend was just about leaving the basement when you entered, hand frozen on the handle of the basement door.

The doctor breaks the awkward silence. “Good morning. Did ya have a nice walk outside?”

You flex your hands on your sides, biting the inside of your cheek. “It was…pleasant.”

Eli casually stands up and then sits on the sofa near the fire and the cooking pot. He opens a large book, reading like he didn't just leave the basement as if he owned the place.

“Come have breakfast with us.” Thomas beckons you over, sliding the plate he was just preparing over to you. “I was just about to go upstairs and give this to ya.”

“Thank you, I'll eat it in my room. I don't want to disturb you all.” You come closer to the bar, fingers placed around the porcelain plate. You feel eyes on you, Holden continues to eat in the corner of your eyes. Eli is mouthing scriptures at his seat.

“No, no, come stay!” Thomas hands you a cup of coffee. The smell brings you back home. It's not a good memory. “It'll do you some good to have company, even for a moment. Please stay.”

You nod, clammy palms rubbing along your trousers. “...sure, just for breakfast though.” Rubbing your nose, Thomas notices.

“Sorry ‘bout the smell. We think there's a rat that died in the basement but we can't seem to find it.” He picks at his own plate while leaning on the other side of the bar. “That's why the reverend was down there. It was his turn to look.”

You nod, glancing briefly at the trap door on the floor. “Can I have a glass of water instead? I don't like coffee.”

His fork clangs on the plate as he lets go. “Oh of course!” Turning around he takes a pitcher of water and then he pours you a glass. While he does that, you look at the pictures behind the bar.

“Which one are your sisters?” You gesture towards the frames, Thomas still has his back towards you as he continues to pour you a glass.

“Oh, the picture that's in the middle.” You follow where he pointed at. A photograph of two smiling women in front of the inn when it was still new and shiny hangs in the middle of the bar. Their faces are flat and serious but the way their arms are around each other says that they're particularly happy in the picture. If not for the long exposure needed to take the scene, they would be grinning widely.

You tilt your head at the picture, eyes scanning their features and comparing it to Thomas' face. “You don't look like them.”

He twists around, handing you your glass of water. “I've been told.” Chuckling, he looks back at the picture briefly before turning towards you. “They got my mother's features and I got my father's. Which parent do you look like the most?” His eyes watch the mouth of the glass against your lips.

“I barely remember their faces now.” You don't drink the water just yet to answer his question. “So I don't know.”

“That's too bad.” And yet, he smiles. “How ‘bout you, Holden? Who do you look like?”

“My mother.” He says gruffly, tone monotone and uninterested.

“Ah.” Thomas picks at his plate again.

“I haven't thanked you yet for saving him.” You address the large man. “Thank you.”

“I just happened upon the place. My eyes couldn't leave the train wreck.” Holden stares at the same spot on the bar, you follow his line of sight, once you've reached the end, you see a dark red splatter on a glass of gin.

Before you could ask, Eli interrupts. “As is his will.” He's now in front of the fire even though it's sweltering inside already. “It's very lucky that Holden happens to be riding that way.” Eli says those words with humour, as if the train derailing is the funniest thing in the world.

Thomas clears his throat, “I heard no one else on the train got hurt.” You sigh in relief, knowing the real Clementine and her family are safe and sound. “A few railroad workers were injured but they're fine now, last I heard.”

“Yes, it's good that no one else got severely hurt.” Lucy appears inside the inn, smiling at you. She stalks silently around you like you're prey. Your hand instinctively slides down towards your gun belt.

“Well, except for your lad.” Thomas says, you look at him with wide eyes, blood running cold, gun now fully in your hand. The world swirls around you, your breathing gets faster, heartbeat loud in your ears. The air shifts, everyone except Thomas stiffens. “We know who he is. He's a fuckin’ legend ‘round ‘ere, but don't worry, we won't tell any lawmen. We're not like that.” Thomas continues to speak even with your world crumbling around you. He doesn't know what he just revealed. “Drink your water, we don't want you goin' thirsty now.”

“‘L-lad?’” you almost whisper, but the entire room is silent, a pin could drop and you'd hear it. Your words are thunderous compared to the fire cracking in the fireplace. “You said you're from here.”

Thomas chuckles nervously, you stand up, eyes flicking over towards the occupants. The rotten stench under the floorboards has increased ten fold in your panic, the tiny splotches of crimson on the walls and glass aren't just dirt and grime.

It's blood, and the entire inn is covered in it. Hastily scrubbed off the surface, but the mark of death remains.

They all look at you, Holden stands behind you, his shadow casting over you. Lucy continues to smile while Eli looks on amidst the backdrop of the raging fire behind him. Thomas gives you a look, shaking his head subtly.

You don't miss a beat, gun aiming behind you to shoot. But no bullet flies, you don't hit your mark for the chamber is all emptied out without your knowledge. You don't know when it was taken out but you don't have time to ponder it. Running past Lucy towards the stairs, you yell his name.

“Hobie!” You manage to get to the third step before you fall flat on your face, nose harshly landing on the stair, shoulder oozing something warm. Looking over the source, you see Lucy's hunting knife embedded in your shoulder. “No!”

Lucy giggles, and the reverend joins her side, face downturned, eyes following how your blood oozes out of your back.

“Fuck! They said don't draw blood! What the bloody hell is wrong with you!” Thomas shows his true colours, yelling at Lucy angrily. You continue to crawl up the stairs despite the searing pain. “Fuckin’ grab her! Get the key, it's on her.”

“I'm…” you still fight, elbows pressed on the rough wood, crawling relentlessly up the stairs. “Going to fucking kill all of you.” You say through gritted teeth, ignoring the seething pain as your body trembles.

Eli's voice pipes up. “We just want to get you home. God will strike you down if you do that.”

“Strike me down all he wants. He knows where I am.” With determined eyes, you keep crawling even though your arms are split apart by splinters.

You're about halfway up the steps when you hear loud heavy footsteps walk towards your form. Groaning, you dig for the key inside your pocket. The second you find it, you toss it with all your might, it flies up and then it lands and slides under the bar shelves. It's your turn to cackle. Large hands grab you, turning you over. Holden's scowl looks back at you. Puckering your lips, you spit at his face, laughing as he lets you go, desperately cleaning his face.

“Move over, big guy. Do I have to do everything around here?” Silent steps cross over to you while you try to desperately climb up. You can't feel your back anymore. Suddenly, you feel a cloth press on your mouth and nose. You know this smell, it's sweet and tart, but there's an underlying bitterness. Recognizing it from the description on the botanical books you've read, the ones that they say a proper lady shouldn't read. And you know you're about to black out within ten seconds. You try to fight back but you're weakening.

“Shh,” Lucy coos, arm tightening around your neck as she presses the concoction harder on your nose. Her own arm hits the knife still in your shoulder, you gasp in pain, inhaling more. “Go to sleep, sweetheart.”

The last thing you hear is his voice calling out after you. You're not sure if it's real or not, but you still cling to hope that it is.

—

The rope around your body is rough against your skin, the hemp seems to tighten around you as you move. You feel bandages on your shoulder blade, stab wound aching and throbbing. Entire body covered in sweat, your clothes are drenched from the heat. Your vision swirls, mind tethering between reality and fantasy. You see your aunt standing near the rake you just held, your uncle crouched in the corner, watching you struggle against your binds. And him, who sits next to you, as if he's guarding you. His face crosses your line of sight, it shifts between Hobie's soft smile, and his grinning face.

“I told you, you can't leave.” He says, hand reaching up to touch your face. You know he's not real, that he's a result of what Lucy gave you, what they've been giving you— but you still feel the air around him shift, how his palm sits on your cheek like a hot pan against your skin.

“C–Cross,” you gulp down as much air as you can amidst your state. “What did I do to deserve this?”

He could only grin at you.

“You’re awake, good. Lucy didn't accidentally kill you.” Eli stands near the doorway of the stable with a gold gun in his hand. Fingers yanking off his tab collar.

“Eli, you creepy motherfucker.” You slur your words, but you fight the haze. “How much did they pay you just to bring me back?”

He sniffs, “a lot.” The horses neigh in the background, you turn your head and you see Bucky and Cherry frantically thump and kick their hooves inside their pen.

“You’re not even a reverend are you?”

“No,” He says, turning away from the doors to face you. “I was once though.”

“Let me guess, you weren't cut out to be one.” You lean up, almost folding yourself to squint at him. “Or they fucking kicked you out.” He flinches, it's subtle, but you saw it. “They did, didn't they? What did you do, reverend?” You taunt while you try to ease your wrists off from the rope. Your skin stings from the movement, but it'll be worth it once you get your hands around his scrawny neck. “Oh shit, don't tell me it's—”

“It was gambling. I've racked up a debt.” He was quick to answer, as if he's still trying to protect his reputation. “I used all the donations.”

“That's fucked up.” You scoff, riling him up, playing him like a fiddle. “Seriously, so fucked up. And you decided to what? Scam more people by wearing the uniform?” Eli doesn't answer, you see him bounce on the balls of his feet, anxiety rolling off him in waves. “Is there an afterlife, reverend?” You say in a small, weaker voice to rag on him on more. It works when he turns towards you.

“Stop talking,” He saunters over to you, crouching down to your level. “I've already heard all those words before, you don't get to hurt me back, girl.”

“Was it all of you? Holden looked like he didn't want to be in there.”

“Please, he was the one who recruited me. He knew that Thomas needed more men the moment he heard Hobie's name.”

You chuckle bitterly. “You know that one of you has damaged the goods, right?”

“Thomas healed you.”

“Yeah, but still, you've left a mark. That means the pay will go down, that means your share will go down thanks to Lucy.” You can practically see the cogs in his head turn. Tilting your head, you turn him against his own team. “Tell me, would it hurt if you got someone out? You know, increase your pay.”

“What are you saying?”

“There are plenty of alligators here. I'm saying that accidents happen.”

Eli knits his brows, “but which one—?” The unmistakable sound of a gun going off echoes around the marsh. It's so loud that the horses are startled, panicked neighing fill the stable, birds scramble off the trees to fly away. “That came from inside the inn!” He stands up, you drop your façade as he turns away. “Shit!” More shots ring out, then a dozen more, suddenly, it's quiet in the marsh again.

Eli is in the perfect position for you, his body shields you from the afternoon sun as he stands there in a worried state. His gun is in his clammy hand, hammer pushed all the way down. Without a thought, you sit up in a crouched position slowly without startling him. And then you push him on the back of his knees with your shoulder, earning a pained groan from you and a sudden bang when he falls that has you flinching away.

Rubies pool around Eli's body, and you realize, he has shot himself when he fell on his face.

“Fuck.” The voice by the doorway says, you can only see his silhouette, the setting sun directly at his back. He's hunched over, silver gun in his bloodied hand.

“Hobie, are you real?” You could cry, on instinct, you move to get to him but your binds prevent you. Tears cling to your eyelashes as he slowly makes his way towards you. “H-how?”

You can see his face fully now, blood coats his cheeks and neck, eyebrows contorted in pain but his smile tells you otherwise. “I woke up.”

“You did.” Sobbing, you try to hold him even with the ropes around your wrist. “Are you okay?”

Hobie holsters his gun, wiping the blood off his hands on his trousers, and then he cradles your face. Thumb brushing along the tears. “‘m alright, dizzy and a bit of a headache but ‘m alright.” His viridescent eyes are aglow, trapped tears glimmering. “Are you—? Did they hurt you?” He asks in a small voice, afraid of your reply.

You frown, and he already knows the answer. “I thought you wouldn't wake up.”

“With you waitin' for me, of course I'd wake up.” Hobie lays his forehead against your own. He's real, and he's holding you in his arms again. “‘m real, love. I'll never leave you again.”

You cry in his arms even when he cuts off your binds. Your mind is still reeling from the previous event. Body free, you embrace him, face tucked on the crook of his neck. He holds you, kissing your temple, hands rubbing up and down on your back. He apologizes against your skin a hundred times. And you forgive him a hundred more.

Hobie releases all the horses from the stable, all the now riderless horses gallop out in a rush. He guides Cherry and Bucky out to hitch them just outside on the trees and away from the inn and stable. Coming by to get you, who stands in front of the inn.

“I need to get my things.” He says next to you, pinky curled around your own. “Your letters are still in there.”

“I'll come with you.”

“No, you don't need to see that.” His eyes warn you of the sight ahead.

“Too late for that, Hobie.” You thump your head on his bicep. “I’ll watch your back. Just in case.”

“Stay close, yeah?” He smiles softly, letting go of your hand reluctantly. You nod behind him, gun drawn and loaded.

The door opens, you try not to look at the bodies at your feet but your eyes seem to gravitate towards the violence that was left. There's blood splattered all over the walls, Holden's body is hunched over itself, blood seeping out from his numerous gunshot wounds. You walk a bit more, following Hobie's path. Broken glass crunches at your feet, and you see Lucy laying on the ground with her own knife shoved inside her chest. Her eyes are wide open, mouth agape in surprise. By the stairs, in the same position you were in mere hours ago, lies Thomas with a shotgun wound on his back, making you see through him.

“H-how'd you manage this on your own?” Your nails scratch along the metal of your gun.

“You were in danger.” Was all he answered.

As you stand there, you hear something on the floor next to the bar, glancing downwards even though you've had enough of the sight, you find someone who shouldn't be there.

“Culver?” You ask, and he whizzes out.

“Help. Me.” He tugs at your trouser leg, he's drenched in crimson, from his face down to his boots.

“He was hiding underneath the floorboards with the bodies of the actual owners.” Hobie says, guilt is written all over your face. “It's not your fault, love, you gave him a chance and he spat at it.”

“P-please,” he wheezes out, voice hoarse and broken, “they hired me, I-I was just following orders.”

You sniff, fists shaking. “It was my aunt wasn't it?”

Culver shakes his head, desperate to please you, desperate for you to save him again. “No, it was your h—”

Your bullet cuts him off, he lays there, now unmoving, and the gun in your hand smoking. You feel like you're deprived of air. Hands shaking, tears flowing out freely.

Hobie reaches for you slowly, you don't flinch away so he pulls you in, letting you weep against his chest.

—

The flames ebb away at the building, ashes flying off into the air as the roof collapses down on itself. You let the smoke fill your lungs, watching the fire light up the entire marsh, but it acts as a beacon to where you are. And you can't risk being found, especially when he's back on your side.

You kneel down, placing the framed photograph of the actual owners on the ground, apologizing to them quietly.

“We should go, Hobs.” You softly say, tugging at his sleeves.

He nods, eyes flicking between you and the burning inn. His palm is pointed towards you, waiting for you to reach for him. When your hand slides on his own, all his fears melt away. You're safe, and he's alive— that's all that matters.

—

Midnight comes, you and Hobie rode further north and away from the chaos you two left. Bucky and Cherry sleep next to each other, both tired from the ride. You tend to the fire while Hobie cleans his hands in a nearby river. The murky water turns a dark shade of red as he scrubs his hands clean, there's blood under his fingernails. And shallow crimson slashes on his arms. Once all the blood has been washed away, he sees a slash on his palm, identical to yours, the one he sutured himself. He winces, and you turn around to check on him. The both of you had been quiet the entire journey, preferring to look on whenever one groans in pain or when either one of you shifts on the saddle. You don't want to talk about it, and he doesn't want to either. Both thinking that it was his and your fault for everything that had happened.

He holds up a hand to you, wordlessly telling you that he's alright. Nodding, you turn back towards the fire, your vision shifts from the campfire in front of you to the burning cinders of the inn. A wet cloth on your cheek jerks you awake.

“Sorry,” Hobie flinches, taking the cold cloth away from your skin. “You have soot all over your face.”

You smile softly, hand reaching for his wrist, gently placing the cloth back to your face. He understands, wiping away the ash off of your skin. You stare at him, face unreadable, bandage still wrapped around his head. “Hobie,” he hums in reply, continuing to wipe the grime off. “You said you had to leave but you never told me how you left. Please tell me what happened that night.” Why did you leave me?

Hobie scooches closer to you, knee to knee, hand still wiping along your forehead. “Hicks did it.” You listen, hands fisting his vest to tamp down your frustration and everything in between. “He was the one who found out, told your aunt and got a group from the factory to ambush me in our meeting place.” His voice breaks but he composes himself. “He was the one who slashed my throat and…” faltering, the cloth slid downwards to your neck, rubbing along your skin. “buried me alive under our tree.”

Your heart clenches, imaging him clawing his way out of the dark earth. “Hicks, h-he married my aunt six months after you left. That motherfucker boasted that he killed you, hid your body in the woods. But I knew better.”

Hobie runs his thumb under your eye, wiping away a stray tear. He gives you a brief smile. “Fucker wasn't content in bein’ the factory manager, he had to ‘eliminate the competition,’ he said. I wasn't even participatin’.”

“I'm sorry,” you wrap your arms over his shoulders, hands holding his jaw. You apologize to him like an acolyte asking for retribution in front of the shrine. “I'm sorry, I should've done something— I could've—”

“There was nothin' you could've done, love. Just like how I couldn't fight back.” He pulls you in, face pressed on the crown of your head. “They used you against me. Told me that you didn't want me anymore. Told me I was a burden to you.”

“No, never. I'd never do that.” You pull away, holding him close, meeting his emerald eyes that reminds you of the best parts of home.

“I know that now. I knew it back then too, but my anger and frustration got the best of me.” He presses a heavy kiss on your forehead as you close your eyes, listening to him breathe. “Peter helped me get out, and all he got from it was getting his eye taken out.”

You gasp softly. “He helped me too,” Hobie looks at you, hands still cradling your face. Hands that are warm against your soft skin. “He didn't tell anyone where you were, I didn't know until now, until your letter. He helped me get on a boat.” You remember that day, it was raining, it was also pouring down back when Hobie left. Your nails dig into your palms when your mind gives you the image of him digging himself out of the flooded soil, lungs inhaling in rain water and dirt. “I–I really wanted to look for you, to run after you but I couldn't.” Hobie presses you against his chest while you heave, tears flowing down your cheeks as you feel his own drop on your head. “They had me under lock and key, they guarded my doors for years, until—” You pause, hands bunched up on his shirt. “I'm so fucking sorry.”

Hobie cradles you in place, arms holding your form as he lets his touch calm you down, accepting your apology, and accepting his faults. “You did good, love, you survived. But I'm ‘ere now, you'll never be back there.” You nod against his chest, Hobie hides his sorrow filled face in the crook of your neck, lips pressed on your skin, mumbling apologies. “When I was runnin’ away while I was still bleedin’, I thought I should at least say goodbye to you. But I changed my mind and went towards the docks while Peter hid me in his cart.” He leans away, just like back then, he doesn't want to sink his teeth into you, to bite hard and draw blood. “I thought that you deserve someone who isn't me. Someone who's not broken. 'm broken, and 'm afraid I'll never return to who I was before.”

You reach up to touch his cheek tenderly, head placed on his lap, cradling your body just like he did under your oak tree. “You are not as broken as you think you are. Not to me, never. You are everything to me, Hobie Brown.” You hug him, for you have no idea how to tell him that you know he can't be ‘fixed’, that there's nothing to be fixed. That even if there was, you'd break yourself, break every muscle and bone in your body, tore it limb from limb so you'd be broken together. That you'll fit right in where his jagged edges lie just like before. But you know you don't have to, because you're just as broken as he is.

"Is there still room left in there for me?" You poke his chest right where his heart is.

His yearning has taken a form in you, it has your face, and it has your voice. You are love incarnate.

"Always. you've never left.” He says softly, words that are only for your ears. You nod, smiling, tilting your head up as he leans down. “Let's go home, love.” He wants to carve out your name in his heart, but he'll settle for the next best thing— etching your lips upon his own.

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kaisensei · 1 year

Text

— ☆ hallucinations

summary: you visit your best friend only because you wanted to see him. but due to a sudden change of plans, you end up on top of him; which by the way, started as a challenge to prove him that you are indeed, very much real.

pairing: satoru gojo x reader (f)

genre: smut, friends to lovers, 18+

wordcount: 4k

warnings: kissing, language, fingering, cigarettes, drinking, oral sex (f. recieving), unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), multiple orgasms, grinding, drunk af satoru!!

note: my first fic over here, so please be kind! minors stay away, if I find out your age is less than 18 then I'll block you! please let me know what you think about this one :) it's kinda unedited and also like 9 pages of pure smut. dividers: here @cafekitsune

masterlist

The lights seem hazy and you slouch back on the bed, your feet nudging Satoru's thigh as he sits at the other end of the bed.

You didn't mean to drink, your main reason to visit him being your urge to see him. You had come up with an elaborate reason about how you had to give him the parcel Megumi had asked you to transfer to him; smartly leaving out the part where you had bullied that poor guy to hand it to you and not to Satoru. He had smiled and invited you in, unknowingly seducing you with his voice which had indicated that yes, this guy is drunk.

"You know, you seem like a hallucination," he exclaims and you balk.

"Why would you say that?"

He blinks at you and then laughs, "I mean you in my bed? That must be my imagination."

That statement has your stomach dropping to your knees. Is he implying what you think he is implying? Why else would he be so affronted to you being in his bed? Unless…

"I can prove to you that I am very much real."

He laughs and leans forwards, towards you, his eyes, although drooping slightly, holding a challenge you can never turn down. You grin at him, your insides tingling with the need to get near to him.

You take a puff from the cigarette pinched between your index and middle finger, and then proceed to crawl towards him; your face now inches from his because of the way he leaned forwards too. You smile, the drinks you had a while back fuelling you, and grab his neck to pull him to your lips, your skin already on fire from the adrenaline and excitement coursing through your veins.

As soon as his lips touch yours, your chapped lips feel as if they were burned. The smoke that you immediately exhale forms a shroud around your attached mouths and you inhale a bit of it, a jolt spiking through your body and you push yourself closer to him.

At first he doesn't move. But, when your lips move on their own accord, his hand finds your cheek and he falls in rhythm with you. In tandem with you, like two swans dancing across the lake, performing an intricate ballet of their own – that's how your lips move together. As if they were meant to be, like jigsaw pieces fitting in perfectly.

You don't know how his eyes had widened like saucers when you first pulled him down by his neck. You don't know how his heart had stopped when your lips landed on his, the action making him feel jittery and burning his inside with need.

All you know is how blissed out you feel – and you are fucking loving it. You know the wine made you so bold as to kiss him, especially like this, but you are just glad you are finally kissing him.

And he is kissing you back. With so much fervor that you feel you can dissolve in a puddle. His other hand also makes its way to your face and he holds you gently, but firmly. His tongue swipes across your lips and you shiver before breaking the kiss.

With a hair's breadth away from you, Satoru stares at you in a haze, hands still holding your face and lips red and glossy.

"Did you just kiss me?"

"Now do I feel like a hallucination?" you quip and he shakes his head, thumb swiping at your cheek softly.

"Fuck. Do it again."

Gladly, you think and rush to stub the cigarette on the tray. In your haste, you stumble a bit and Satoru steadies you with a giggle, almost falling forward with you himself.

As soon as you put it out, you scramble in his hold and intertwine your hands behind his neck, climbing on his lap and straddling him. He grabs you by your waist, to steady you, and almost instantly you attach your lips again – this time with an eagerness that you both match.

He groans when your lips move against his, performing the same dance, but with added grace. His grip on your waist gets tighter and you open his mouth with yours, licking into his mouth and tasting faint traces of whiskey. It makes your mind go on an overdrive, and goosebumps spread through your whole body.

Arousal pools at your center when he runs a finger up your spine, his other hand inching upwards, under the shirt you had on. He sighs into the kiss and breaks it.

"Oh my god, you are so soft." his nose touches your cheek and he slowly drags it all the way to your ear, tongue peeking out. You shudder when he licks your jaw, forming circles with his tongue under your ear, on your neck.

"Satoru." you keen and tug at his locks, pulling him closer to your skin – which is absolutely on fire. His lips meet your neck and he kisses your skin slowly, taking his time to savor your neck.

His hand on your waist works its way around it, and he grips you tighter, and before you know – you are being picked up and tossed on the bed with a soft thud.

"Ow." you groan and Satoru's eyes widen and he hovers over you, sparing no time.

"Oh my god, I am sorry. Are you okay?" his round eyes meet yours, face way too near for you to function. In his haze, he doesn't realize that even if you were hurt, your face would have been intact, and you giggle.

"Yes." you sigh out and pull him down to join your lips again. He almost crashes into you, but braces himself with his forearms. His tongue enters your mouth immediately, relishing in the flavor of bubble gum and making you moan as his tongue does wonders.

"Wait lemme-" you break the kiss and shift upwards, so you are not in the middle of the bed, dangling off the edge. That makes Satoru crawl upwards too and once you both have settled, his mouth finds your neck and your hands find his hair.

His tongue finds a spot on your neck, which gives away how fucking sensitive you are, and he groans into your skin when you whine. Your hips buck upwards and he pins you down with his, with perfect pressure that keeps you in place, but doesn't hurt you.

"Satoru, I want more." you moan his name and he ruts his hip against yours once, grinding down on you so you can feel him. His semi hard length rubs against your center, and even through the barrier, you feel overwhelmed by it.

"You want me?" he teases with his mouth at your breastbone, dragging your shirt down so he can see the top of your breasts.

"Yes."

"Say what you want, baby."

You whimper in his hold. If he called you baby again, you might actually die.

"You, all of you."

"Fuck you're making me go crazy."

You get hotter at this, goosebumps erupting across your whole body. As if you were any better? As if you weren't crazier?

Your back arches when his lips brush your nipples through your bra, making your pussy clench around nothing. His hand pushes your shirt upwards, rubbing patterns on your skin with the gentleness of a feather, soft but tingly. You arch a bit more, instinctively, when he tries to remove your shirt – and you let him, meeting him halfway. Your shirt goes flying somewhere in the dimly lit room, and you don't care.

Satoru has a different air around him, one that makes you succumb to him, with everything inside you. Your hips push themselves upward, for any kind of friction and he looks up at you from your chest. As soon as he does, you inhale a sharp breath and wish to die for him.

His hair frames his face beautifully, like the prettiest ocean. His eyes are deep, and beautiful, and his eyelids droop scarily, hazily, as he watches you with a glint in his eyes. His lips are wet and bruised, and his tongue pokes his cheek, before he speaks.

"Eager, are we?"

Oh God.

"Yes." you sigh, and you think you see him smirk, if only for a second. You are restless, you are crazy and you want everything, all at once. And he is making you run hills for it.

He kisses your stomach, and makes his way southwards. Your toes curl when his hands brush over your core and reach to unbutton your jeans.

"Can I?" he looks up at you, and even if his voice is a whisper, you hear it clearly, and you nod,

"Of course, 'toru."

He grins at this, and undoes your button, your zipper the next. You lift up your hips to help him pull down your jeans, and in a few tugs, you are lying on his bed in only your underwear.

He looks at you with a glimmer in his eyes, filled with lust and haze. There's adoration that you make out, and you return it tenfold. The ever changing lights from his lamp frame his body, making him glow and you pant as you beckon him to you.

"You are so beautiful," his hands toy with your band and he kisses your core through the material, making you arch your back, your hands flying to grab his hair.

"Oh fuck,"

He slowly tugs your underwear lower, as if he has all the time in the world and you whine impatiently. You need something, and your cunt is restless as you try to shimmy out of the piece of clothing gracing your ass.

He grunts at the sight of your bare pussy. You arch your back, pushing your hips upwards and he bends down, eye level with your naked core, as he caresses the side of your hips.

Your mind buzzes, the fog sitting down heavily. You already aren't coherent enough, and the feeling of lust drives you to another level of high.

"Shit." you hiss quietly. It feels so good when his hand cups your pussy, making you squirm your hips and tighten your core due to the sudden action. The laugh he lets out is hoarse, deep, and the utter desire to have him drives you with ease.

Your eyelids flutter shut when he starts leaving feather light kisses on your lower stomach, dangerously near to your center. The soft action amidst the heat of the moment has you curling your toes, hands slowly reaching up to his locks.

"Satoru," you sigh and he grunts into your skin, his voice muffled by the rising of your body, with each ragged breath that you take. You are gasping for air, trying to take in his essence, his scent, all of him. It won't be wrong to say that you are so fucking pathetic, so gone, that he hasn't even technically done anything, and you are already incoherent.

"Can I taste you?"

Your hold on his hair tightens at this, and you mindlessly nod. Of course, you would like him to taste you. Your pussy is aching with need – crying for whatever that is offered. Yes, that's how pathetic you feel.

His breath hits your quivering cunt and you shudder when he parts your folds with his fingers. They then find your clit and he rubs circles around it, making your legs shiver. You quietly whimper when he skillfully traces a line to your cunt. One of his fingers plunges in and your arousal coats his hand, merrily.

Even though you know how real this is, you still can't believe you are here with him. You close your eyes in a state of utter bliss, heightened by the faint noises he lets out right at your center.

"You are so fucking amazing," is his word before his nose touches your folds, parting them. You think he sniffs – and moans – right in front of your pussy. The sudden vibration makes you go haywire and you gasp out loud.

"Stop doing that." you warn him and he chuckles, making you run for your breath – again. You don't know how he can be the cause of your misery and pleasure, all at once.

"It's like I can live here." he says and you get a bit bolder – maybe from the high? or maybe from the frustration?

"If you're only gonna talk, then find some other place." you grumble and it's as if a switch flips inside him.

He pulls you down by the hips, burying his nose between your folds and swipes a path, almost hungrily. His hold on your hips is firm, not hurting, but also not allowing you to squirm. You faintly register his tongue peeking, but before you have the chance to react, it fully assaults your poor pussy. He licks between your folds, making your legs shudder, and moan in pleasure. His hands creep to your inner thighs and he pushes them wider, allowing himself to stay comfortably in between them.

"Mhm. So sweet, baby."

You whine at the pet name, and pull at his hair. His tongue works skillfully, and he lets out little noises of pleasure which drive you mad. His hair cascades down the side of his face, and faintly tickles your thigh, while framing his face beautifully. You can feel your high wearing off, the lust taking place instead. Your back arches when his tongue finds your clit.

"Satoru, that's.. yeah."

His laugh is devastating, and your toe curls. You open your eyes to a sight that makes your breath hitch, and your other hand goes to the sheets, gripping them for any kind of anchor.

With his eyes closed, his jaw works heavenly. There's a slick sheen of sweat covering his forehead, and his eyebrows are drawn taut in focus. He hums and his finger rubs circles on your skin, leaving fire in their wake.

"You know," he looks up at you with a lopsided, lazy grin, and eyes drooping low. His lips are red and wet, and there's a blush spreading across his neck. His lip curls and he bites down on his lower lip to stop himself from laughing, especially after seeing you ragged and gasping for breath, looking at him with your head tilted and eyes pleading, "You sound like pure fucking sin." he completes and you thrash your leg, for him to say such a thing.

"Please, don't." you sigh and he snickers.

"Don't what? That's the truth, baby."

You roll your eyes and it doesn't take him longer to get back to your cunt. This time as soon as his tongue flattens on your bundle of nerves, the tightness in your core starts to nudge you. His finger parts your folds and his tongue twirls in circles on your nub, making you gush like a fall.

You can feel the mess you are making, and his affirmative hum just makes you curl your fingers more.

"I'm, I'm close. Please don't stop"

He shakes his head and increases the pace of his assault, making you gasp out loud. The squelching sound of your juices has you rolling your eyes back and gulping. His tongue flicks over your already sensitive nub, and that being the last straw – you break for good.

Your orgasm washes over you in waves of haze, which has you moaning out loud for heaven's sake. The stars that Satoru's lamp forms on the ceiling seem so very much real, that it has you reeling for a second. You try to take in as much air as you can, taking in the smell of sex. As your breathing turns normal again, you register his tongue still on your cunt. He laps at your juices deliciously, and you arch your back painfully – especially because of the pain your nub feels, sensitive and gone.

"Stop no." you rasp out, and he stops immediately.

He looks up as you gasp for breath, and his face is drenched – covered by your cum. His tongue peeks out and he licks his lip, tasting your cum again and you almost shudder at the sight. His thumb presses into your skin and he leans ahead, sniffing once more.

"I love you so fucking much."

Time stops and your eyes turn into saucers, your heart flying out from your body.

Did he just say he loves you? Is this real? Is he real? After being a moth to his flame for literal fucking years, he tells you that he has been no better. Heaven rushes to you and your eyes brighten with glee. You want to grab him by the neck and shout at him that yes, you love him too, but somehow those words die on your tongue when you look at him looking up at you with those eyes. So, you just nod; a gesture which seems to translate perfectly well to him, for he smiles wide.

His eyes, crinkling at the edges, catch sight of your hardened nipples from your bra and he fucking groans. Soon, he is hovering over you – the motion so quick that it gives you whiplash. He wedges his thigh between yours and rests his weight on his forearms, as he sets them beside your face. He is quick to attach his lips to yours, and you sigh into his mouth. The taste that sits on your tongue is yours, and even though you inwardly cringe, you find it so fucking hot. His tongue presses down on yours and you gasp when you feel his teeth on your lip, almost bruising you.

The vigor of his kiss drives you, and you moan when you feel his hard length poke your abdomen. You mindlessly shift your body and he grinds down on you, detaching his lips from yours – only to moan at your lips. His head hangs low as he works his hips a little more, and you help him with little whimpers and shifts of your own.

"Let me ride you." you sigh out and he pauses, looking up at you with a furrow in his brows.

"Are, are you sure?"

Even though you can't actually feel your legs, you know you are sure.

"I want to ride you. I need to." you assure and he groans.

"Fuck, baby."

He climbs off of you and stands beside the bed, unbuttoning his pants. His eyes glaze over your eager form on the bed and a jolt strikes through your body, pooling at your center. There’s a slick sheen of sweat on his naked chest, and you get the sudden urge to wrap your arms around his wide frame and pull him as close as possible to yourself. He rids himself of his pants and you almost moan out loud, loving the sight of his nude thighs, practically inviting you to sit on them.

Satoru nudges you and you shift, letting him settle down on the bed beside you. Immediately, your hands are on him, and you trace his form with your fingers, your lips on his jaw trying to savor each and every inch of him. He groans under your ministrations, leading you to push yourselves onto him, finally on those thighs you have always thought about.

“You are so hot,” he sighs, his hands finding solace on your waist.

You will your hands to leave his pecs, and direct them to his cock, standing tall with need. You fist it once, the man under you keening with pleasure. You look him in the eyes, your gaze challenging him as you continue to drag your hand over his length slowly, making him bite down on his lip and tighten his hold on your waist. His touch burns you, his fingers digging into your bare skin. The pleasure and his voices drive you, and you bring your other hand to your back, successfully unbuttoning your last piece of garment. He audibly moans when he sees your boobs and your insides flare with need.

“Baby, please,” he pleads, and you understand what he asks of you. Your actions are swift as you hover above his length, directing it to your aching pussy and slowly sit down on it. You throw your head back, syncing your moans with his as your walls cover his needy cock, filling you full. You brace yourselves with your hands on his abdomen and he guides you lower on his length, your pussy tightening around him and covering him with your slick arousal.

"Ah shit," he hisses, his eyes glazing over with lust. Your ass hits his thighs, and you bite down on your lip to stop the insensitivities from spilling out of your mouth. You lean towards and start moving your hips, your fingers inching up his abs and pussy sucking him in deliciously.

The stretch of your walls hurt you, but you can't even complain because that's what you wanted. Soon, you are riding him with ease, your hips rocking as his fingers dig deeper in your skin. The pleasure is so crazy that you see spots in your vision, your body hot with need.

He whines under you and you moan his name out, increasing your pace and leaning back on your palms, as they rest on his knees. You close your eyes and he thrusts his hips upwards, meeting you halfway. Your tits bounce as you move, and the man under you groans at the sight.

"'toru, you feel so good," you whimper, and miss the way he bites down on his lip. His eyes drink your sight in, and rather than see it, you feel the heat of his gaze on you, goosebumps erupting in its wake.

Your core tightens and your pace gets sloppier, his thrusts taking you to levels never seen. His eyes screw shut and you try to train your sight on the beauty of his body, white spots filling your vision from the pleasure that courses through your body. You are terribly close, leaning towards him in need to find his lips on yours.

"Angel, I," he begins and breaks the sentence with a deep thrust upwards, "I have never felt so fucking blissed out before."

Oh god, you almost cry out at this, slipping closer to the edge. You tell him so and he nods, a grin etching on his face.

"Let's slip together," he brings his hand to yours and intertwines his fingers with yours. Butterflies rise in your stomach and your throat almost chokes up at that action, a lovely feeling encasing you.

He loves you.

And you love him.

That fact combined with the way his cock fucks into you so sweetly, you topple over the edge, your orgasm washing over you in waves of pure bliss. You see stars behind your closed lids and stop moving, not being able to feel your legs or your knees or your hands; only and only his presence.

It's a few seconds later that he spills inside you, his hold on your hand tightening and a deep groan making its way past his lips. His cock jerks inside you once, and he brings you closer to him, your name the only word on his lips like a mantra.

Your boobs press up against his chest and he gushes at the feeling, his nose nudging yours, a similar smile on both of your faces. He pulls out with a grimace and wraps his arms around your form, locking you in his embrace.

"You said you love me?" you sheepishly suggest and he lets out a full belly laugh.

"Yes, yes I do. I'm in love with you, and I can no longer deny it."

Oh, straight to your heart. You get all giddy like a teenager at his proclamation of his love for you.

"Do you…?" he trails off, a shadow of doubt passing over his face.

"Of course, I love you."

He grins, relieved by it and leaves a chaste kiss on your lips, giving you the chance to chase it if you want to. And of course you want to.

You'll always want him.

>>> please let me know what you think of this by reblogging, leaving comments or sending asks :) I'll love it!!

#gojo smut #gojo #jujutsu kaisen #jjk smut #gojo satoru #satoru smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #jjk x reader #jjk gojo #gojo x reader #jjk #smut #anime fanfic #jjk fanfic #gojo fanfic #✍️ hallucinations #⭐ mine #📂 jjk #📝 oneshots

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one-piece-aus · 11 months

Text

Whumptober Day 19

Luffy x Reader

"Back off!" You held up your sword.

"What's wrong, [Y/n]?" Luffy tried approaching you but pointed your weapon directly at him.

"Keep your claws away from me!"

Confusion plastered on Luffy's face. Your voice and movement were directed at him, yet your fear-infected eyes stared at the air above him. Hostility projected from your stance, your teeth grinding together, and your eyes glowing a usual colour.

You were under the influence of a devil fruit.

Standing in front of your delusion eyes is a man you feared, Luffy nowhere to be seen.

"What are you talking about [Y/n]?" "Aw, scared now are we?"

"I'm not scared of you!" You take a step back.

"[Y/n], snap out of it!" Luffy frowned, walking toward you. "Are you sure about that?" The man grinned and stalked toward you.

"Stay- stay away..." You felt yourself shrinking the further you backed up.

The wall prevented you from any further escape. Luffy reached out to you. The man invaded your space. You swung your sword but Luffy knocked it out of your grasp the man yanked it out of your hand and threw it across the room.

"No...no..." you muttered, retracting your arms away from him.

Luffy wrapped his arms around you. The man engulfed you in his embrace.

"Let go- Let go of me!" You cried, pounding on his chest, but he didn't move. Tears poured down your cheeks as you felt his hand on the back of your head and pulling you closer. Your nose is forced to intake his scent yet as the smell enters your senses, you register to be warm and friendly.

Blinking away your tears, your resistance ceasing. Hesitantly, you place your hands on his shoulders and look at him.

Luffy.

You see Luffy.

Your breathing steadies. Your muscles relax.

"Luffy?"

"I'm here, [Y/n]."

Tags: @bookandyarndragon @roseoftrafalgar

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stardust-and-snickerdoodles · 2 months

Text

you're not in the dark; but far from the light pt. 2

part 1

fandom: The Mandalorian

pairing: Din Djarin x Reader

summary: After a bounty hunt gone wrong, Din must take care of your wounds and watch over your recovery. Things get dicey, buckle up! (Din's POV)

tags/warnings: angst, injury, blood, fevers, hallucinations, hurt/comfort

word count: 1977

Since your initial injury, Din has had an almost sixth sense that tells him when something is wrong. So when he wakes suddenly in the middle of the fourth night, his heart is already racing.

Before he's even up and out of bed, he hears you moving around restlessly. By the time he reaches you, you’re awake and shivering. The Mandalorian rests the back of his hand against your forehead. His stomach drops as he feels the burning heat radiating from you and the thin sheen of sweat on your brow. He lets out a curse as he retrieves the medpack.

Your normally clear and lucid voice is slurred as you call his name, and his heart breaks at the sound. He does his best to keep his own voice level as he explains your condition.

When he looks up at you again, you’ve already drifted back into sleep. Din peels back the blanket from your damp skin before pulling up the shirt to reveal your wound. He removes the dressings and swallows down the bile that threatens to make an appearance at the sight.

The stab wound is red and inflamed, leaking fluid from around his piss-poor suture job. Despite knowing there wasn’t much else he could do, Din kicks himself for not cleaning out the wound better. If he’d used more antiseptic, or if he’d gotten the blade out faster… it doesn’t matter now. What matters is getting the infection and your fever under control.

Din rustles through the medpack, hoping to find anything to help. He’s well stocked on the Crest, thankfully, due mostly to your overprotective nature (and perhaps your obsession with hoarding interesting supplies from every planet you visit). He manages to locate some ice packs that activate by air exposure, and quickly places them under your armpits, between your legs, and at the back of your neck. They won’t last long, but hopefully they can bring your temperature down quickly.

Din also finds some medicine that’s vaguely labeled as “fever.” For a moment he curses your lackluster organizational skills, because he’s not sure if these are supposed to induce fever or keep it down. He doesn’t want to take the chance though, and besides, there’s no way he could get you to swallow anything right now. He stuffs them back in the pack.

Din rustles through the other contents one more time, pulling out more supplies to change your dressing. He sets the medpack on the floor before going about cleaning up the wound as best he can.

You’re still shivering, and Din’s doing his best to be gentle. He carefully wipes away all the fluid and gives the whole thing a big douse with antiseptic before wrapping it back up with clean gauze. It’s a questionable job at best, but it’s the most he can do for now.

The Mandalorian settles cross-legged onto the floor to watch over you. He tries not to let his worries get the best of him. You’ll pull through this; you have to. Din doesn’t know what he’ll do if you don’t.

You bring an air of lightness and peace to the Crest. The idea of that being gone, of Din being on his own again… he doesn’t even want to entertain that.

So he keeps a watchful eye on you, through the night and well into the morning. You wake only for brief moments so Din can get you to drink some water, but even your sleep is restless as the fever and infection ravage your body. Each time you let a soft moan or move about, Din’s heartrate skyrockets. He has to reassure himself that you’re still here, still fighting.

Around midday, as Din is removing the now-warm ice packs, he notices your moans have turned into soft cries. The change is worrying, and it almost sounds like you’re in pain even while you’re asleep.

Din thinks it will settle eventually, but a few minutes later your cries have only grown louder and you’re beginning to roll around on the cot. The Mandalorian worries that you’ll tear your stitches by moving so much.

Din murmurs your name, resting a gentle hand on your cheek. “Wake up.”

Your eyes flutter open, but they’re glazed over and unfocused. Din can tell you’re not all there, but at least you’re semi-conscious.

“I’m awake,” your voice is quiet and hoarse. Without warning, you raise your hand and begin to wave it around your face. “Leave me ‘lone. Wan’ sleep.”

Din’s brow furrows with worry. The fever must be higher than he thought if you’re so disoriented. He’s not sure what you’re doing with your hand, but it almost looks like you’re trying to keep something away from your face. “Cyar’ika,” he murmurs, “you’re dreaming. You’re safe. I’m here.”

You don’t seem to register his voice. Instead, you bring your other hand up to your face as well. After a few moments, you start to scratch at the skin on your face weakly, and your nails leave raised red welts. Din doesn’t want you to hurt yourself further, so he gently pries your hands away and keeps a light grip around your wrists. He whispers soothing words to you as you mumble something about bees.

“I have you,” he reassures. “I have you. Rest now.”

Eventually you stop struggling against his hold and your eyes fall shut again. Once he’s sure that you won’t continue scratching, Din releases your wrists and examines the new marks on your face. They’re all surface level, and for once the Mandalorian is thankful that the fever has made you so weak. A bit of bacta spray and these will heal in no time.

Din takes care of the scratches with ease before placing fresh ice packs on you. He’s slightly worried that the fever doesn’t seem to be diminishing at all, despite the fact that it’s been almost 12 hours. In fact, when he rests a hand against your forehead, it seems you’ve grown even warmer.

He tries not to let worry get the best of him and instead keeps himself busy with changing your dressings again and placing a cool washcloth on your forehead. He settles back onto the floor, ever watchful and on guard.

Sometime before sunset, you begin mumbling in your sleep. For a moment Din thinks you’re awake again, but your eyes are closed and your breathing is still slow and even. Din shushes you gently, placing a hand on your forearm to reassure you of his presence. He isn’t even sure how cognizant you are, but he’d rather provide comfort anyway than let you think you’re alone.

Finally, Din is able to make out what you’re saying. You’re speaking broken Mando’a, just a few words and phrases that he’s been teaching you in your spare time.

“Gedet’ye…” your voice is soft and Din’s heart breaks just a little. “Me’bana…?”

“Shh,” Din replies, “Udesii; ni’m olar, mesh’la.”

His words seem to calm you because you go silent once more.

You remain asleep for the rest of the night, apart from one moment when you try to remove the washcloth. Still, Din stays at your side, checking your temperature with a hand to your forehead every hour. He almost feels confident that the fever will break soon.

Unfortunately it seems that this is wishful thinking because in the morning, before Din has even placed his hand on your head, he can already feel the heat coming off of you in waves. It’s the warmest you’ve been, and your clothes are drenched in sweat. The Mandalorian berates himself for not getting you into something cooler, for not noticing that your fever had skyrocketed sooner.

He quickly retrieves a change of clothes for you, a tank top and a pair of shorts, as well as another cool washcloth. A small part of him feels guilty for undressing you, but this is no time for modesty. Besides, you’ve seen each other in more revealing ways than this before.

Once he’s removed your sweat-soaked clothing, he glides the cool washcloth over your bare skin with great care. His movements are gentle and slow. Once he’s finished, he carefully sits you up to get you into the new clothes before placing even more ice packs on your shivering form. Through it all, your eyes remain closed and Din tries not to feel so scared at your lack of response.

Din feels incredibly useless as the hours pass and your fever shows no sign of reducing. He replaces the ice packs every hour like clockwork and sponges down your skin with a washcloth, but still you remain unconscious and burning. At this point, the Mandalorian worries about you cooking your brain and briefly considers taking you to see a doctor, but he doesn’t want to risk entering hyperspace with you so unstable. Not to mention piloting the ship would mean he would have to leave your side, and he doesn’t think he can handle that now.

After a few hours, he attempts to rouse you to get you to drink some water. He gently lifts you into a sitting position, one arm secure around your waist to keep you upright. Your eyes flutter open but fall closed almost immediately.

“Come on, cyar’ika,” Din insists. “Wake up.”

“Cold,” you mutter, and your voice is almost unrecognizable.

“I know, I know,” Din’s own voice breaks. “But I need you to have some water for me.” He thinks he sees you nod, and brings a cup with a straw up to your lips. “Drink,” he commands gently. You take a few sips before coughing most of it out. The water dribbles down your chin and Din uses the corner of a blanket to gently wipe it off. “Jate,” he praises. “One more time.” You manage to swallow a few sips before your eyes fall shut again.

Din rests you back down on the cot, rearranging the ice packs around you once more before taking up his now-familiar place on the floor. At this point, his own restlessness is getting the best of him. His limbs feel heavy and cumbersome, even without the beskar armor. Still, he is used to sleepless nights. He cannot rest until you’re well again.

The rest of the second day and night passes by slowly, with Din almost obsessively checking on you every hour. He feels a sliver of relief when he notes your breathing deepen and your shivering lessen. A hand to your forehead confirms that your temperature has gone down slightly.

The third morning while changing your dressings, Din notes that the inflammation around the wound has lessened and there’s no longer fluid seeping from the stitches. Just for good measure though, he covers the whole thing in bacta spray before rewrapping it.

You rest what seems to be peacefully for the entire day, waking to drink a small amount of water before falling back asleep. Your temperature continues to decrease and the tension very slowly leaves Din’s body.

It's impossible to describe the relief that washes over the Mandalorian when you finally wake the next day, eyes no longer glassy and skin no longer burning. It’s like there’s been an elephant sitting on his chest the past three days and now he can finally breathe again.

You’re still weak and forgetful, but it's a major improvement. Din doesn’t hesitate to oblige when you ask him to lay with you. Feeling your warm skin against his chest, hearing your breathing even out as you fall asleep again, it's the closest thing to comfort he's had in a long time. His hold on you tightens just a bit as he recalls how worried he was for you. But now that's over, and he can work on getting you back on your feet. As long as you don't throw any more surprises at him.

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jasmines-library · 1 year

Text

Up and Down

WHUMPTOBER 2023: Day three, prompt ‘solitary confinement/make it stop’

Fandom: Supernatural

Summary: After returning from being tortured by the devil himself, your brain can’t help conjure up its own images which refuse to leave you alone.

Warnings: Hallucinations, manipulation, glass shattering, negative comments about reader.

Word count: 1.3K

MASTERLIST ⛤ WHUMPTOBER WORKS

🕸 ⋆ ⁶𖤐⁶ ࣪⋆🕸

He was there again.

That tall, looming figure that seemed to always wear a shit eating grin on his face. He was lounging across a chair, drumming his fingers against the wooden table and singing obnoxiously loudly to some song you had never heard before but had promptly decided that it was already getting on your nerves. With elbows resting on the table opposite him, you clenched the hair on your head into fists and let out a frustrated sigh, rising to your feet and storming away from the library.

“Aw, come on.” Lucifer pouted. “I thought you liked my singing Y/N?”

Rolling your eyes, you made your way into the kitchen to where Dean was thickly spreading peanut butter on a slice of bread, trying to drown out the jests from the archangel he was still hurling at you. At the sound of your footsteps Dean raised his head greeting you with a grin.

“Hey Kiddo. How’s it going?”

You were hesitant in your answer. Dean knew the toll that coming back since being tortured by Lucifer was taking on you. You were much more jumpy than usual and opted to spend much more time locked up alone in your room than spending time with your beloved hunter friends. Dean couldn’t help but feel guilty everytime he heard you cry out in your sleep from across the hall. He couldn’t help but feel deep down that all of this was his fault. After all, it was he and Sam who decided to reopen the cage - it was he and Sam who Lucifer wanted revenge on. Instead of responding verbally, you opted to nod, knowing that an unwanted tremble would snake its way out between your words, like it had your hands.

You couldn’t help but stiffen at the voice behind you. It didn’t go unnoticed by Dean, who moved away from his PB&J to place his hand on top of yours. “It’s okay sweetheart. It’s only Sammy.”

Turning, you watched as the lumbering man struggled in through the door. His arms hugged a selection of paper bags awkwardly. He smiled; a gentle gesture before placing the bags on the counter, and wrapped you up in one of his bear-hugs. Returning the gesture, you smiled into his blue flannel, letting out a breath you didn’t even know you had been holding. Detaching yourself from Sam, you began unloading the groceries he had brought back with him, listening to the eldest Winchester talk animatedly about the latest show he had decided to binge watch on netflix. It brought a grin to your face.

Here, with Sam and Dean around you, you felt much safer. That was until that irritating voice drifted into your ears. You dug your nails firmly into your palm, leaving little grooves on the soft skin, hoping that the dull pain would distract you from the image of the Archangel. When that didn’t work, and his remarks still rang through your head, you turned to flee the room.

“Y/N?” Sam tilted his head.

“I’m fine, Sam. Promise.” You nodded.

Sam was about to say something, but shut his mouth as he watched you flee the kitchen, your bare feet pattering on the wooden floors as you retreated back down the corridors and into your room, locking the door, and the hollering of Lucifer behind you. Albeit, you could feel him lingering over your shoulder. Taking a deep breath and screwing your eyes shut, you pinched yourself harshly.

Lucifer chucked deeply. “Real cute, Y/N.”

You turned and pushed past him.

“You know you can’t ignore me forever.” You stopped abruptly. “I miss our little heart-to-hearts.”

You rolled your eyes, moving towards your desk and beginning to shuffle the contents around. That was when he started singing. It was an old song. A sad song that you and the Winchesters used to listen to on particularly difficult nights. One that you associated with comfort.

“Stop.” You told him firmly.

He didn’t. Only sung louder, edging closer to you.

“Stop it.” You said once again.

Lucifer continued to sing mockingly.

“I said stop it!” You yelled, throwing the glass that you were moving at him. It sailed straight through the illusion and shattered on the ground. He grinned manically.

“There we go, Y/N!” He howled, clapping his hands together joyously. “That’s what I’m talking about. This is the you I miss. Where did all that fire go, huh kiddo?”

“Leave me alone.” You spat out through gritted teeth.

“Mm” Lucifer pinched his chin between his thumb and his index, tilting his head towards the ceiling. “I don’t think I want to…You see, now you’ve acknowledged me, you’ve let me in.”

You shook your head, backing away from him as you approached. “No.”

“Oh yeah. I can see everything Y/N.” The devil proceeded forwards until your back hit the wall. “I’m inside your pretty little head. “ He sang.

“You’re lying.” You shook your head, trying to convince yourself more than him. There were voices outside your door, but they were drowned out by Lucifer. “Sammy said that nothing you say is true. He- knows. He’s been here before.”

Tutting, the blond rolled his eyes. “Sammy, is a lying, untrustworthy piece of shit.”

“Don’t say that.”

“He doesn’t care about you Y/N. None of them do. They’re just using you Y/N.”

“You’re lying.” Rouge tears began to snake down your face.

“They just feel bad for you. You’re a liability, Y/N. You’re gone as soon as they get the chance to get rid of some dead weight. They don't need someone like you on their team, dragging them down. I mean, think of how easy it was for me to get to you. Poor, helpless, useless-”

“STOP IT!” You cried, sinking to your knees.

Your heart pounded in your head, beating like a drum to the rhythm of an army march.

“You are nothing Y/N. You’re nothing without those Winchesters. You are nothing without me!”

“Get out!” You sobbed “clutching your knees to your chest.

“You are worthless.”

The pounding grew louder as you buried your head between your knees. Fat tears fell down your cheeks, pooling on your jeans as Lucifer continued his onslaught of words. That was when you realised that the drumming was not your heartbeat, but the sound of Sam and Dean trying to break down the door to your room having heard the commotion. When they managed to barrel themselves in, Sam’s heart dropped when he saw you rocking back and forth in the corner of the room, lip trembling with hands plastered over your ears. He took one cautiously in his hand. You drew back sharply, eyes moving frantically across his features.

“Please…” You whispered. “Make it stop.”

Wrapping you up gently he allowed you to bury his face in his chest, ignoring the dampness that followed as you continued to weep silently. Dean pulled you in close from the otherside, encasing you in between them. He never would fully understand what you were going through, no matter how hard he tried. He could sympathise, sure. He had been through decades for torture himself. But he would never be able grasp onto exactly what you were experiencing. Sam would be able to understand more; he too saw Lucifer for a while. But they both knew that no two experiences were the same. They knew that people cope differently and that was okay. All they could do was stick by you and help you work this out. And was exactly what they chose to do.

🕸 ⋆ ⁶𖤐⁶ ࣪⋆🕸

<- DAY TWO ⛤ DAY FOUR ->

🏷️ whumptober taglist:

@senjoritanana

#whumptober2023 #whumptober #no.3 #make it stop #solitary confinement #hallucinations #hallucinate #ptsd #supernatural #spn #supernatural x reader #spn x reader #supernatural x injured reader #fanficion

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nevertheless-moving · 6 months

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continution of stormlight au 14, where kaladin keeps it together just a little longer:

Adolin: Storms! So both you and bridgeboy have been radiants—

Kaladin: surgebinders.

Adolin: surgebinders, this whole time? Unbelievable! Anyone else here secretly a surgebinder?

Renarin:

Shallan: I— your cousin. Jasnah. She didn't have a soulcaster. She was one.

Kaladin: Wait. I thought you said she died.

Shallan: Radiants can be killed! She had a sword through her chest!

Kaladin: I mean...I haven't tested that out specifically. But I've been shot a lot. And I was basically flayed alive. Teft nursed me back to life with a few diamond chips.

Adolin: Hah! The assassin did get you with a shardblade, didn't he? And you healed from it!

Navani: I knew it. She's impossible to kill.

Shallan: I— but I sank the boat. Oh stormfather...

Kaladin: I can also survive without breathing a while. 20 minutes easily. haven't timed my limits.

Adolin:

Shallan:

Shallan: I — wait, did you say you were flayed alive? What? Why?

Kaladin: It's — it's how the whole stormblessed title happened. Got strung up in a highstorm.

Adolin: Huh. At this point I was wondering if you got the title talking to the stormfather himself, ha!

Kaladin:

Adolin: ....Bridgeboy?

Kaladin: It. I mean during highstorms sometimes...

Adolin: I swear if you say you thought it was a hallucination I'm throwing you as far as I can. And I'm wearing plate right now.

Kaladin: It— it can't have been real.

Adolin: I'll do it bridgeboy. I know you can take it.

Kaladin: Fine. Anyway. That's how I got the stormblessed name. Sadeas ordered me outside, left upside down in a highstorm. Not fun, but I lived.

Shallan: So... she really could be alive...

Adolin: My captain of the guard, my bethrothed, and my cousin! Ha! Renarin, you'd tell me if you were a radiant — I mean a surgebinder, right?

Renarin:

Adolin: Renarin?

Renarin:

Adolin: Renarin...I...but why wouldn't you tell me?

Renarin (crying): I thought I was going mad. I was seeing things, I could hear screaming from my shardblade...

Kaladin: I hear that too!

Shallan: There's...something wrong with most shardblades.

Renarin: I thought it was...

Adolin (gripping Renarin's shoulder): Brother.

Adolin: I don't think hallucinations are real.

#my au #stormlight archive #stormlight fanfiction #stormlight au #Yeah I think after all this adolins just convinced that there's no such things as hallucinations #Hears about madman raving that he's a herald and is like DAD THATS OBVIOUSLY A REAL HERALD #I mean he's right but #Gets super concerned about death rattles and the family is like um that be too far #until taravangean reveal #Honestly as a reader theres no textual evidence for psychotic delusions that AREN'T in some way related to cognitive realm or God stuff #stormlight au no 14 #cosmere #nevertheless cosmere

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serxinns · 5 months

Note

Hello love. How are you?

I wanted to request a father Aizawa Shouta in which he finds her daughter shoplifting in a store near their home.

Thanks :) hope you have a great day

Now if you knew better you already know you fucked up

Your Dad had to drive over there over the speed limit still In his robe with pink cat slippers his one hand gripping on the sterling wheel while the other coffee still in his hands

When he slams open the door he sees you sheepishly not even saying a word hands in your pocket avoiding your father's glare and the store employee's eye on you, "so?" your father says still glaring at you "Take out the item y/n" you still stood there gripping your pants almost about to cry "y/n.." you took out the wine bottle, your f/s (favorite snack) and a bunch of candy

When your father saw the wine he when ballistic he was scolding you and lecturing you harshly even raising his voice at you which is something you NEVER see him do your eyes started watering I was embarrassed and Ashamed and started crying

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I thought if I got these for you for Father's Day you'll be happy!" Your Father's heart stung, you were thinking about him, part of him wanted to forget everything and hug you but he needed to let you know that this type of stuff is wrong and shouldn't encourage this he is a pro hero after all

"Stealing is never the answer sweetheart you may have good intentions but the decisions you made were very bad"

"I promise I won't do it again" You looked down in shame as your father's gaze softened a bit "Now let's go home we need to fit a punishment for you" You gulped at that your father's punishments weren't as painful but it was discomforting like how you had to run 10 laps none stop without slowing down and after you're done your legs felt like a thousand hot knives stabbed into it while your dad put something on the TV,

your head laying on his lap (please don't make it weird I do this to my mom whenever we watch tv) now if you were REALLY bad he would have to drug your food to make you more docile and calm, you hated those damn pills because they always have a horrible taste and side effects like nausea, headaches or even hallucinations you mostly get the headaches luckily but the time you got a hallucinations were so horrible your father had to send you to a hospital

But this punishment was lighter you just had to wear embarrassing matching outfits and when you got home he would baby you and cuddle you barely had any alone time only but bath time, it was torture yes but at least it wasn't the running around laps, or nightmare drugs good thing you put on a whole dramatic performance back at the store and got a good lie at time that he believed you or else it would've been a more worse punishment~

#yandere bnha #yandere ua #tw yandere #yandere x reader #tw obsessive behavior #platonic yandere #bnha fluff #yandere mha #yandere dadzawa #yandere aizawa #tw drugging #tw hallucinations #tw mention of drugs

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yuri-is-online · 1 year

Note

Hi hi, Can you please to prompt 4 with Malleus,Vil, and Riddle?

4. You met someone really wonderful at the Masquerade Ball and have been ranting about how he was totally the love of your life to your abnormally quiet friend. Actually wasn't he invited too? Maybe you should ask him how that went.

Hello hello and of course I can, and I agree with the first ask you sent me. I was not really thinking of Malleus specifically when I wrote that prompt but it really does suit him doesn't it?

Oh also, welcome to the hell site. I noticed you're new from the few asks you sent me (I was so confused as to how a blank blog was talking to me), I hope you have fun with the content on here. New people are always welcome with me, I know all about being shy and uncertain of how to interact with people. I'll answer the other Malleus prompt you sent in after I have done some others, it was my bad for not realizing you were the same person haha.

notes: they/them used for Yuu, full shojo manga lack of self awareness here in Malleus's part (it is implied to take place before the Ch. 6 reveal), just don't think about it is Yuu's middle name. The rest of the requests can be found on my masterlist here.

Malleus

"Tsunotarou, you know a lot about gargoyles, right?" Such a foolish yet welcome question. Truly your unawareness of just who you are conversing with never ceases to amaze and infatuate him.

"Of course, I am something of an expert." He smiles, trying to keep it from showing the whites of his teeth.

"Oh well then you must be very happy to be in Diasomnia." Your eyes are sparkling, and he pauses. Yes he is very happy to be in Diasomnia, but not for the gargoyles. Briar Valley has long respected the legacy of the Thorn Fairy, and what better house could there be for the noblest of nobles than one that's very core is the spirit of nobility? But these are not exactly things he wishes to speak with you about, it would require detailed revelations he fears the consequences of.

"And what makes you think that, child of man?" Still there must be cause for your reasoning, and he does wish to hear it.

"Well your housewarden is one, isn't he?" You seem very pleased with yourself, but your mind is clearly very far away. Malleus stares at you, eyes wide in shock as he attempts to piece together what logic might have drawn you to such a conclusion. "I met him last night." Your dreamy sigh fills him with jealousy, just irrational enough that the thunder crack above you is quite small enough that he can convince you to remain outside of Ramshackle in conversation with him.

"Your mask is really impressive!" Your eyes always shone at the simplest displays of magic, it filled Malleus with a joy he could never quite find his fill of.

"Mask?!" Roars Sebek, his volume matching the pride rapidly feeling Malleus's chest. "Foolish human, this is more than a mere mask! This is a display of my lord's skill! A perfect recreation of old Briar Valley Masquerade tradition! His artistic talent has been woven though magic to bear his true face for the world to see-"

"That's quite enough Sebek." He does enjoy his retainers praise, but he has a task in mind that the over excited boy might- no will definitely endanger if he speaks further.

"But my lord!" Poor Sebek is torn between embarrassment, jelousy, and concern as he watches his precious lord observe you in the same manner one might a particularly expensive jewel.

"They have given me a most treasured compliment and I wish to reward them in turn." He bows, making sure to flourish his hand as he extends it, taking great pleasure in the little shudder that he only sees unaccompanied by fear in you. "May I have this dance, prefect?"

"Y-yes. You may." You seem in a daze as he takes you to the floor, just as unaware of the others around you as he is. It's wonderful, no matter how many times he visits you he has never had such a good excuse to hold you as this. Your scent, the weight of you in his arms, the way he can better familiarize himself with the subtle movements of your face is all much more real and overwhelming than he had ever imagined it being. It's all Lilia can do to drag him away, whispering teasing things about impropriety and duty to soothe the storm at his fingertips as he sees your friends scoop you up where he left off.

"He is a very handsome gargoyle. And so polite! But then I guess he is royalty so that makes sense..." The continued thunder has you inviting him in, mentioning something about tea he really can't be bothered to think about.

"No he isn't." Malleus pouts. "The nobility of Briar Valley has a reputation for being extremely dour and irrational."

"Oh. Well no wonder he seemed so happy I danced with him. Poor fellow must be very lonely." Oh if only you knew.

"Enough about my housewarden." Malleus declares without a hint of irony, bowing in a familiar fashion to prevent you from entering your kitchen. "He isn't the one you are talking to now is he? He isn't the one who you will be thinking about when you dream tonight." In a slight daze you take his hand, the living room fills with green fireflies as the storm outside slows to a halt as kinder, not softer emotions fill the young lord's heart. "He isn't the one your last dance is for, so focus on me, won't you?"

Vil

"This is why I told you to make sure whatever costume Crewel gave you came with a coat." Vil is beyond angry, with you certainly, but mostly at- life? The fact humans have an immune system that doesn't always work? You have no clue and your head is much too stuffed up to care. What you do care about is that Vil is here, and he really shouldn't be. Colds are contagious and Vil has so many things that he should be doing other than fussing over someone who is not in his dorm and not his responsibility.

"You could get sick." You say and he laughs, if you could see him, if he was not sat behind you on a bed in one of Pomefiore's empty rooms, you know the look he would have on his face. You would see his stupidly beautiful smug smile he has when he has something particularly cutting to say; instead you have to close your eyes and picture it as he pats your head dry just a bit more forcefully.

"Not my responsibility you say? You certainly seem to have a funny view of this." Vil has a word on the tip of his tongue. A word that's ambiguous, a word that would make his manager have a fit. If only she had been a fly on the wall during the Masquerade last night.

"My my, you seem a bit out of place." The tall stranger must be confused at your staring, but he seems more amused than offended. "Does my costume enchant you that much?"

"It reminded me of something." It would hard enough to explain to a friend what you are thinking of, harder still to a stranger. The scarlet costume could have been taken from a playbill, you find yourself looking him over for any sign of a folio. You highly doubt it's you the Red Death wants to capture tonight, but you cannot say you will protest too loudly if that's what he decides. "Sorry if I made you uncomfortable."

"Quite the opposite," the stranger does not ask you to dance, merely extends his hand and gracefully leads you off to the side when you take it, "so long as you praise me out loud you can look as long as you like."

"It's not like you got me sick." You sneeze into your tissue and Vil frowns, satisfied with your care but not with your answer. He had his suspicions that you may have made a... mistake in your assessment of your time at the Masquerade. But it did hurt him slightly to think that you did not know his essence well enough to have recognized him at once. "And I did get a costume with a cloak, I just gave it to the Red Death because it was too weird to see him without it."

"Mhmm I don't know." you say. It's such a shame Vil can only see your lips, he loves it when you tease him so much already it isn't fair he has to focus on something so tauntingly close and yet so far out of reach. "I think your costume is incomplete."

"Oh?" Vil makes sure to hold you close to him as the song ends, daring anyone to come close enough to try and steal your attention so he can laugh at the attempt. "What's your reasoning for that? Depending on what you have to say, I just might agree." You back out of his arms and make a frame with your fingers. "Kiss me." He begs silently. "Kiss me and leave a mark." But instead you unwind your cloak and fix it to his shoulder.

"Perfect. Now you really look like the portrait." And to his great despair you are gone.

Despite your earlier stated worries, you fall back into Vil's chest, tilting your back to look up at him. "When I'm not sick remind me to tell you about the Phantom of the Opera? I wanted to spend more time dancing with him, but I was feeling too much at home and got scared he'd vanish." Vil's eyes shine with a strangely familiar light, and he gently guides you under the bed's covers. Just before he leaves he kisses your forehead so gently it's all you can do not to cry.

"I think your phantom might be closer than you think." He murmurs against your skin and leaves you to sleep, tucking you under a mysteriously familiar red cloak as soon as your eyes are well and truly closed.

Riddle

"You will be too tired to do anything after the ball, so make sure to shower and go directly to bed."

It was good advice based off of a reasonable assumption, and technically you were not in fact physically doing anything. You were also quite tired, you had expected to spend most of the ball on the outskirts observing the display of feathers and paints but that was far from what actually happened. You don't think you had ever danced in your life as much as you had in the past six hours. It would be extremely reasonable to assume that after scrubbing yourself free of makeup and sweat you would be down for the count.

But you weren't. Your mind was running a mile a minute, eyes constantly glancing at your phone on your nightstand. It's an odd feeling, wanting to call someone and not being able to. It is also a feeling you have become deeply familiar with, the ache it produces might as well be permanently woven into your heart, you should be immune to the pain at this point.

This time though, this time the person you want to call could theoretically be within reach. This person was someone you could touch, someone you could hold, someone whose touch still lingered against your hands.

The little knight was just as awkward as you were, if he didn't immediately stutter out a protest you would have thought he was just as inexperienced with the whole formal party thing as you were.

"I know what I'm doing I just-"

"Then can you show me how to dance? I've been practicing but I'm not great at it." He stares at you, and you are worried you said something wrong until he laughs, it sounds smug you think but you can't be sure.

"That's the proper way to ask for a dance." He takes your hand in his as he bows, kissing it so gently you half think it was your imagination. "This is."

You pick up your phone before it buzzes, immediately sitting up in shock when you see just who is messaging you at 3:30 am on a Friday.

[Riddle] Are you still awake prefect?

[Yuu] Ace is that you.

[Yuu] I'm not covering for you if Riddle finds out you took his phone again (¬_¬)

[Riddle] What do you mean again?

The little knight's dance is stiff at first, but he relaxes as you continue. He has been guiding you to the center of the room, you belatedly realize. You must have looked frightened once you did. "It would be rude to stay in the corner during the slower songs." He squeezes your hand to bring your attention back to him. "It isn't against the rules to be bad at dancing, but it is to monopolize other people's space."

"Aren't you doing that right now?" You tease and he stops leading you, almost as if he hadn't even considered that.

"Are you not enjoying yourself?" He almost sounds afraid and you find yourself having to take over the direction of your movements.

"I didn't say that." Your knight almost seems to grow ten feet tall at your praise before he becomes aware of himself again and gets a bit bashful. But he does not take over again, content to let you set the pace of your dancing for the rest of the night.

[Riddle] Actually disregard that. Since you are awake, would you mind coming to your window? I understand throwing rocks is considered romantic but breaking a window would be most unfitting behavior for a housewarden.

You are tempted to tell him you are waiting for a message from someone else, but the unusual behavior has you at your window before you can even full form the thought. You almost drop your phone at the sight you see below you.

Riddle expected to have difficulty making eye contact with you. He expected to be teased about his failure to follow his own good advice, his costume has got to be a mess between the dancing he did with you earlier and the pacing he did once he got back to Heartslabyul.

But neither of those happen. Neither matters, instead you see him and the familiar scrap of paper you had given him with your number and a heart and fly down the Ramshackle steps into his outstretched arms.

"I'm so glad it was you I danced with tonight."

#twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #malleus draconia x reader #vil schoenheit x reader #riddle rosehearts x reader #500 followers celebration #malleus is just delulu enough to be jealous of himself and you cannot convince me otherwise #also i understand that malleus and vil's voice actors were actually in a production of phantom together before being in twst #as the phantom and Raoul respectively? or did i hallucinate that #anyway i just think vil suits the phantom role and will be making more references to that in the future

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