#keep in mind Vasily has one hell of a fever

[never-enough-golden-kamuy]

Rusalka

There is not NEARLY enough stories about Vasily x reader on this website so obviously decided to write some myself. And boy oh boy I predict that my man will get some hype this season. At least I fluffing hope so.

>>words like this are in really bad Russian<<

(it got rewritten so u might like to reread it :3 no pressure tho)

Vasily x f!reader 800 words Enjoy!

Vasily’s heard stories about Rusalkas his whole life. First, when he was a child, parents warned him not to talk to beautiful women on the edge of lakes, and later the older soldiers tried to spook the youngsters with stories about the deceptive beauties lurking in the woods. All these stories were right in one matter: Rusalkas were the most beautiful creatures in the world.

*

The Will O' the Wisp foreshadowed her arrival. A small flame emerged through the doorframe, guiding her hand. Its glare reflected off the white wall of snow furiously swirling outside and enveloped the room in a dim light. A thin layer of snow settled on the figure's cloak now shimmered with each step she took as she crossed the room. A deep hood fell over her shoulders, revealing [H/C] hair and the profile of her face, marked by frost. She stood on tiptoe and reached over the fence at the back of the building. The animals closed behind it stretched out curious muzzles towards her, for what they were tenderly petted. Relief shone in [E/C] eyes as she saw that the animals remained dry and safe despite the inclement weather.

Then her gaze shifted to him.

Her feet didn't even touch the ground as she fled outside with broken cry. She disappeared as suddenly as she appeared, dragging the flame with her, and the interior once again darkened. Vasily didn't even manage to follow her with his heavy gaze. And when he tried, a sudden pain shot through his right temple. He gasped sharply as an invisible wedge split his skull in two. Sweat ran down his forehead even though he was shivering from the cold seeping from his own bones. Every movement only made things worse, so he forced himself to take only deep breaths through his nose, staring fixedly at a point in front of him.

At least until the light come back. Two huge eyes sparkling like stars peeked at him from behind the doorframe. She swept his pitiful form with a playful gaze and took a half step into the room. The figure muttered something in Rusalkas' language and her voice soothed his soul. She raised a hand, never spotted by work or a splinter, and pointed curiously at the rifle in his lap.

He held it out of habit, as he had no way to lift it, let alone take an aim. He took his hand off the stock in a gesture of harmlessness, and she dared to go inside and slowly approach. Woman knelt at his side, mesmerized by his soaked cloak. Vasily slowly rested his head against the wooden wall behind him, unable to hold it upright. His gaze wandered over the perfect features of her face, which seemed to radiate in the faint glow of the fire.  

He should chase her away. He had heard enough stories of men lured to lakes or forests by beautiful aerie women. Rusalkas were as beautiful as they were deceptive, and they were not to be trusted. But he couldn't bring himself to hate her. Her whole figure exuded delicacy and innocence.

And on the other hand, there was no force that would be able to lift him from his place.

She hovered her hand over the bloodstains on his clothes that ran all the way to the front of his cap.

"No." he gasped out weakly as she touched the fabric. Which was the worst idea he could have come up with. A cascade of fresh blood gushed from his mouth, dripping down his beard and onto the bashylk's scarf. The world was shrouded in darkness, filled with hellfire spewing from the wounds on his face. Rusalka ripped off the front of his papakha, which he didn't even notice, too busy choking.

He bent his head, letting the blood drip freely to get it out of his mouth. The tears mingled with the crimson and now dripped onto his cloak as he watched helplessly. He messed up. He survived the duel, only to now be unable to move. He was supposed to get his revenge. He was supposed to complete the mission for which Ilya had sacrificed himself. He was to finish what he had sold the lives of his two companions for. Why aren't the wounds mending and why is it still bleeding?!

A cool hand on his forehead allowed him to catch his breath again. He closed his eyes, not daring to look at her. He felt her take his cap and pull the bashlyk back on instead. She spoke in a language he did not understand yet agreed with every word she said. He could feel a reassuming squeeze on his arm and then heard her walk away, leaving him with the Will O' the Wisp. The faint melody of the bells filled his mind as he watched the ghost waving at him his fiery arms. He didn't know for how long. Maybe he fell asleep? He couldn't tell.

A touch has woken him up. Rusalka came back and had even laid out the contents of the bag she had brought with her on the ground. She was just putting a cup of lukewarm mixture in his hands. Vasily huffed in refusal. She failed to lure him deep into the woods, so now she's trying to drug him with fairy potion?

>> Pain. No.<< she replied in the most handicapped Russian he had heard in his life. Too surprised to react, he watched as she took the cup and took a sip herself. Only for a moment did she wince at the bitter taste of the medicine. She handed it back, smiling encouragingly.

Vasily tightened his hand on the cup, considering once more how much he trusted her, or rather how badly he wanted the pain to go away, and then gulped it all down. The bitter taste of the drink mixed with the already well-known taste of blood, but he managed to do it quickly enough so that the damaged tissues in the mouth did not protest. He struggled with a cough a moment longer, and as his breathing evened out, a white ball of cotton wool appeared in front of his face.

>>Dirty.<< Rusalka said, pressing a finger to her cheek. >>Pain.<< added soaking the swab in one of small bottles. The pungent smell of disinfectant filled his nostrils. She nodded, asking if he was ready. Vasily tightened hands on the fabric of his coat as he blinked in muted agreement. Every touch of her was as gentle as a touch of summer wind, and at the same time it burned with hellfire. Every time she caught the jags of wounds, he huffed hollowly, to which she replied crooked "sorry". With time, he began to feel that the mixture actually started working and relieved at least a fraction of the pain he was feeling. Meanwhile, Rusalka had enough time to rub both wounds clean and opened the box with green paste.

>>Dirty no. Pain no.<< she took a small amount on her fingers and carefully spread it over the wound, instantly lulling the torn skin.

She gathered her things in a bag and sat down heavily in front of him, rubbing her face tired. The earlier amusement had vanished from her eyes, replaced by confusion. Stray strands of hair fell over her face as she pouted her lips absently. She alternately frowned and smoothed her brow as she thought of things known only to herself.

Vasily would love to draw her. To preserve this magical sight, convinced it will soon be gone. His body, however, didn't even have any energy left, so he only tried to remember her features. Rusalka must have felt his eyes on her and gave him a sad smile.

>>Dream. << muttered, once more putting her hand to his forehead and to his displeasure soon taking it away. Instead, she sat down by his side, leaning against the same wall and closed her eyes. The snowstorm continued to rustle outside, intermittent with the faint ringing of the bells.