theorist-fox

[theorist-fox]

By the way, this is what I wrote in my Videogame Recs post

HOLLOW KNIGHT: SILKSONG - RELEASE TRAILER QUEEN (in case you didn't know yet)

TWO WEEKS?!?!? TWO FUCKING WEEKS?!?!

YES OH GOD THE GODS HAVE LISTENED

[theorist-fox]

no butler is gorgeous!! thank you for sharing it again so i could have a chance to read it (i'm relatively new to the fandom and haven't had a chance to read all the masterlists yet!). for one, fuck AI and it's bastardization of the em dash because you use it expertly and it feels so organic and necessary in this fic. there were some lines in particular that stood out to me as just wonderfully lyrical and really brilliantly constructed on their own and together and i need to scream my appreciation of them at you:

Watches how your cheeks sink at the suction. Feels the rough texture of your tongue coat his pads. He takes them out, then. Smears your spit on your lips only to kiss it with his own.

The screen of the TV creates a halo of light around your shoulders and back, and Simon thinks he’s being blessed—he’ll never get used to it, neither the sight of you nor the warmth of your sex.

The lines curling around your mouth, the way they stretch when you stutter your moans, when you whisper his name among them—like a fucking prayer, like you only know how to say his own.

He whispers nothings in your ear. Calls you beautiful as you come apart piece by piece, unraveling like a spool of thread between his fingers while his calves burn from the strain. Let him be consumed, for all he cares—as long as you're there, sizzling hot and clammy and soft.

The TV drones muted dialogues, drowned in the slap of skin against skin and your soft breaths in his ear. Sweet fucking sounds, he thinks. Would taste like honey, feel like silk.

also, after the bang, the way your paragraph structure/dialogue really tightens is just delightful, and then they get back to it and the prose slooows back down, all fluid and soft. oh, and "The telly drones silently as it displays the front page of some streaming service you pay for. It’s the only light in the living room, and it bathes you in soft oranges and ruddy shades" is the perfect blend of showing and telling and i adore it.

sorry for the novel - i seriously don’t normally do this with fics but this was absolutely lovely and i had to share the praise!

Oh you. You. I want to kiss you. This message is so gorgeous I’m literally lying in bed debating if I should wait before answering—like take my time and gather my thoughts and try to be eloquent because I’m so emotional right now I’d probably just blabber nonsense. But then I thought hey maybe that’s the most honest reaction I could give this sweet anon here. Because you are an absolute sweetheart and you went above and beyond just to tell me how you felt about my silly, self-indulgent little one shot.

So here I am. In bed. Rereading your words over and over and over. Bothering my boyfriend about it (babe look at this!!!!!) and thinking that maybe my stories aren’t as awful as I convince myself they are.

Thank you so much. Really. I needed this little pocket of love while I wrestle with my WIPs and rip each one apart in my head.

Never ever apologize for telling a writer what their work sparked in you. Truly. No matter how long or short. I’m not exaggerating when I say I’ll be thinking about this message—and about you—for days. And I’ll be smiling like an idiot whenever I start beating myself up again.

You sweetheart. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

[theorist-fox]

HOLLOW KNIGHT: SILKSONG - RELEASE TRAILER QUEEN (in case you didn't know yet)

TWO WEEKS?!?!? TWO FUCKING WEEKS?!?!

YES OH GOD THE GODS HAVE LISTENED

[theorist-fox]

Simon Riley who fucks you raw in the bathroom of the local dive bar on a Friday night. You've had a few and so has he, no one complains when you're turned around in the stall bent over the back of the toilet, his fingers digging into the curve of your hips, jeans shucked down around your knees. It was a fight to get inside you, your body slowly catching up to your brain, spit slicking your finger tips as you swiped through your folds, begging, pleading. "Fuck me, just fuck me. Hard." You were looking for something, a distraction, an escape, and everything catches up just fine, pussy wet and ready for him by the time he's halfway buried.

He doesn't know your name. You don't know his. That's not what this is.

Although-

When his muscles start to tense and he's staring down at the curve of your nose, chin turned towards your shoulder, lip tucked beneath your teeth, poison starts to infect his blood, reducing cerebral blood flow, starving him of sense.

You'd look real pretty with his baby inside you.

He pulls out and yanks free from the condom before he can change his mind, sliding back home barrier free, nestling deep against your cervix, slowly battering his cock as deep as he can. You're babbling, bouncing against his hips on his dick, desperately trying to keep quiet, biting down on your forearm when he finishes hard, pumping you full of cum and sealing himself to the plush of your ass, trying to hold it, force it through to your womb.

You're not dumb though. You catch on.

"What- what the fuck?!" You jerk away, nearly falling face first into porcelain before he grabs you, meeting your rage with a smile, the happiest he's felt in a long time. No guarantees, but he feels good, optimistic, about his chances. He's got strong swimmers, he guesses, considering Tommy got Beth pregnant so fast. "What the fuck is wrong with you?!" You shriek, slapping your palms against his chest, trying to force him out of the stall but he doesn't move and you stumble inside, lurching to the side so violently he has to catch you with both hands.

Holding you like this, face to face, seeing your confused, distraught expression... it's a bucket of water. Cold, shocking reality.

Fuck.

He does what he does best, strategizes on the fly, and pats your hip, trying to shrug it off.

"Gimme your phone," he grunts, pawing for where it sits in the pocket of the jeans you're zipping. "Gonna give you a number."

"What?" You're staring at him like he has two heads.

"In case it took." The idea alone is enough to drive him mad, and he doesn't trust himself. Doesn't trust himself in either direction, two lines or none.

You look at the contact he's just typed in suspiciously. "John? That's your name? John Price?" He nods, and just when you're about to say something else, something angry or logical, something blatant that will expose his flaws and point out the truth of this situation, of what he's done, he turns on his heel and splits.

Leaving you alone with his cum in your pussy, and his Captain's number in your phone.

[theorist-fox]

Simon "Cat Dad" Riley

[theorist-fox]

Unfortunately I was wrong, turns out he just used that silksong thing as inspo for whatever he designed.... I'm so sorry 💔

we're all in mourning.... here I thought I was about to have ties with team cherry....

tell your coworker ha has good taste though....

[theorist-fox]

Fiending for some König à la Emmy this evening... what is Pornstar!König's biggest weakness in the bedroom or on set?

What act does he like the most?

What's the easiest way to make him blush?

-fictitioussaturday

My beloved! Hello! I’ve genuinely been pondering on this one for ages! I was wondering what the best way was to answer! And then I thought! Shall we do like a pornstar König fact file?! Like he’s a Pokémon card!

Biggest weakness in the bedroom: his biggest personal weakness is softness. Eye contact, hours of kissing and cuddling, spooning sex, running your hands over his body or smooching his skin. Adores it when you dig your nails into his shoulders or back too if things get a little intense.

But generally - depressing as it is - he just wants to be treated like you love him.

Biggest weakness on set: I’d say strangely he’s pretty professional?! For all his madness off screen. I reckon any sort of power imbalance vibe gets him going, he really enjoys having to work, to prove himself. He wants to show off, that’s why the intern scene was heaven to him, he got to flip the script and surprise everyone.

What act does he like the most - personally, he absolutely lives for missionary! Stroke his hair and give him all the kisses (it’s an underrated position in my opinion). Also - blow jobs (is that a surprise?! Probably not.). On set - anal and eating pussy - he feels he excels in those arenas (gold medal König well done.)

The easiest way to make him blush - ask him to stay the night. He’s thrilled. It’s very cute. You’ll wake up to him cleaning, making breakfast and singing to himself like Cinderella.

[theorist-fox]

There's no butler in The Usual Suspects

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

18+

Self-indulgent piece because I need some fluff in these hard times

Summary: Simon gets distracted while watching a movie, and then he gets distracted while watching you.

Word count: 2.8k

CW: Kevin Spacey Jumpscare and big fat spoiler for "THE USUAL SUSPECTS". Also, smut in established relationship (Simon is so whipped).

Let me know if you've been cockblocked as well.

Masterlist 🦊

“’S Kobayashi,” he mutters.

You give him a look. “Kobayashi?”

“The—the criminal thing,” Simon gestures vaguely at the TV, legs spread in the spot next to yours on the sofa. “Wha’ was his name.”

He sees you connect the dots slowly, head tilted in question, and then you stifle a laugh when it hits you.

“The criminal thing? You mean Keyser Söze?”

He snaps his fingers at you in recognition. As if you haven’t seen the movie already and only sat down on the living room couch to have him watch it—because that’s a great film, you said. One he can't apparently miss.

“Tha’ one.”

“How can it be Kobayashi.” You deadpan as the TV buzzes with dialogues you’re not paying attention to anymore.

He shrugs. “S’always the butler.”

You chuckle, tucking your legs on the cushions. “Kobayashi’s not a butler.”

“Closest thing.”

“Have you been watching the movie at all?”

Simon gives you a side eye, arms crossed on his chest. Thinks. His gaze falls down your legs inconspicuously before rising up and following the curve of your hips, up until the plump of your breasts outlined by the fabric of your t-shirt. It’s a quick swipe you could’ve missed, but he knows you’ve caught him red-handed.

“Sorta.” He replies, though his voice has a certain hoarseness to it, now.

You give him a knowing smile, echoing the word right after him with so much skepticism he tastes it on his tongue.

“C’mere,” he says, beckoning with his fingers, before gently curling them around your forearm to tug you in.

A quick pat on your thigh has you straddling his lap. You take the blanket with you, draped over your shoulders like a soft cape. Simon cups your hips with his palms, thumbs drawing mindless circles at your hipbones.

“The movie, Si.” You say softly, placing your hands on either side of his neck. 

But his eyes are already tracing the fine lines of your face, tiny imperfections he adores because they make you more real and less of a dream. 

“S’the butler, trust me.” He murmurs, and you chuckle under your breath.

“It's not the butler. There’s no bloody butler.”

It makes his lips curl in a smirk, because he knows you like being right—and he’s more than aware that you are, because, as you've told him for the nth time, there is no fucking butler in The Usual Suspects.

But he stopped watching the whole thing thirty minutes in, when he got the gist of the film, instead favoring to focus on you.

Can’t fucking believe he gets to witness this firsthand, eh?

Gets to have a pretty thing like you share her home. Share her meals. Her bed. Her thoughts, her glances, herself. Fuck, how he’d like to show this to his fucking father. Show him that you chose him, no matter how hard that bastard's tried to turn him into the same worthless sack of shit that he was.

So, frankly, sue him if he doesn’t care about this movie when you’re so obviously there—looking divine in your simplicity.

And now he has you exactly where he wants you. Plush thighs sitting atop his, tongue peeking out to wet your lips.

He leans forward and leaves a peck at the corner of your mouth. Then one kiss on your chin, one down your throat, to your collarbones. He's not choosy, kissing wherever his lips land.

He puckers his lips around your nipple, sucking through the cotton of your shirt, and you arch into him, inadvertently grinding your hips against where he’s already hard. You hiss and glower when he sinks his teeth around it, and his shoulders shake with a breathless laugh at how powerless you look, even if you’re trying your best to appear otherwise. 

Before you can chide him, however, he blinks up and gives you the softest of smiles—aware that he rarely offers them. Aware that they melt your resolve easily, like snow under the morning sun. 

So, really, it’s not long before you drop the blanket on the floor, pooling at his feet—his briefs and sweatpants coiled around his ankles. Your own clothes freckle the coffee table, or the armrest of the couch, or the carpet underfoot—he took them off you and tossed them away blindly, uncaring of where they landed.

It’s not long before he’s worked you open with his hand. Not long before he has you fuck yourself on two thick fingers he occasionally scissors inside you, watching you drag your clit across the heel of his hand—your breathless moans somehow louder than the barrage of gunshots blaring from the TV. 

He stuffs those same fingers in your mouth once he's satisfied with how wet you are. Watches how your cheeks sink at the suction. Feels the rough texture of your tongue coat his pads. He takes them out, then. Smears your spit on your lips only to kiss it with his own.

Soft hands are placed on his chest as he holds the base of his cock to help you sink on him. The screen of the TV creates a halo of light around your shoulders and back, and Simon thinks he’s being blessed—he’ll never get used to it, neither the sight of you nor the warmth of your sex.

Within minutes, he has you stretched around him, taking his cock as if you were born to do it. His palm lies flat on your lower belly, thumb rolling circles on your clit. Simon lets you ride him, watching mesmerized all the things you hate about yourself, all the things that make you so real to his eyes. 

He loves to watch you cum, but for selfish reasons. Not only do you feel heavenly clenching around his cock, milking it for all it's worth, but also because, unbeknownst to you, all those details you seem to despise suddenly bloom before his eyes.

The rolls of your stomach, and how they ripple when your orgasm stalks closer.

The lines curling around your mouth, the way they stretch when you stutter your moans, when you whisper his name among them—like a fucking prayer, like you only know how to say his own.

The crow’s feet at the corners of your eyes—you say they came too early, he says they make your eyes smile. 

And fuck if all that doesn’t make you prettier in his eyes, no matter what you think.

You’re entranced. Heavy lashes curtain your eyes, casting shadows on your cheekbones. It’s ethereal to look at you, wonderful thing in his arms, so abandoned in bliss because of him. Nails dig into the muscles of his shoulders, but there's no pain—not when the plump of your rear slaps against his thighs each time you come down to take him to the hilt.

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous.” He grunts against the tightness of his throat, “You wanna cum, yeah?”

He feels the knot of your clit getting raw under his thumb, so he grabs your jaw and sticks his finger in your mouth. Your lips close around the knuckle, and he watches with heavy eyes how you suck on it, lathering his pad with your spit, before he returns it to your sex. 

He draws his thumb back and forth on your clit, unsheathing it from its hood so that each stroke sends sparks up your spine. You jolt above him when he touches it right, and he drinks in the sight of you trembling when you try and resume the pace.

“You do, don’t you?” He asks again, "Sweet girl."

Your head bobs limply in a nod, and your lips twitch in a smile, because you know he’s going to comply. He'd never take a thing from you—always giving more, and more, and more.

“Fuckin' hell.” He curses under his breath, mouth dry like sandpaper. “I got you, love. I got you—c'mere."

Simon’s arms wrap around your waist to bring you in, allowing you the chance to rest the tireless work of your hips in order to favor his. Your forehead is in the crook of his neck now, and you’re curled into him as he holds you steady and fucks his cock into you from below. 

He whispers nothings in your ear. Calls you beautiful as you come apart piece by piece, unraveling like a spool of thread between his fingers while his calves burn from the strain. Let him be consumed, for all he cares—as long as you're there, sizzling hot and clammy and soft.

He laps at the sweat like dew on your neck, sucking love bites while being careful not to leave any dark spots behind. Though he would love, if anyone were to ask, to mark you up like you’re his property. Symbolic—someone his, and his only.

However, he figures his cock spearing you open is enough of a statement.

The TV drones muted dialogues, drowned in the slap of skin against skin and your soft breaths in his ear. Sweet fucking sounds, he thinks. Would taste like honey, feel like silk.

Liquid warmth wraps around his cock, a cocktail of your arousal and his. It makes something tighten at the apex of his thighs, makes his fingers twitch against the fat of your hips.

He wants to cum inside you. Wants to see it leak out and push it back in only to fuck you again. He wants your face warm and dizzy, your eyes rolled back, and his name on the tip of your tongue.

So, he bucks his hips and fucks his cock into you again, and again, and again. Until you're a shivering mess and your nails are leaving red marks on his back. Until you stumble over your moans and his grunts echo with your own. Curses, praises, whines pitching upwards and—

A bang from the TV.

You jump in his hold, whining something unintelligible over the ringing in his ears.

His mouth twitches in annoyance as he goes and resumes the pace, trying to give you back the orgasm you've clearly lost. One he's fucking lost, too.

But whatever’s happening in the movie must require some build-up of tension, because the volume suddenly skyrockets. 

He tries to pay it no mind. However, you seem to do.

“Turn off the thing,” you mumble through heavy breaths, gesturing blindly to where the remote should be. 

He huffs and looks around for it, using one hand to keep you still as he slows down with his hips. He finds it tucked between the cushions of the sofa and snatches it off before pointing at the TV. 

There, his eyes land on a scene. A close-up of two shoes, walking with a limp at first, and then straightening their step. Cut to a hand lifting a cigarette being brought to a pair of lips. 

“Bloody hell.” 

His voice is so croaky that it has you lift your head in worry, movements coming to a halt. You palm his jaw, your breath puffing against his cheek.

“What? You alright?” You fumble, brows pinching right above your nose. “Did I hurt you?”

“T’was Kint.” He mumbles, frowning in thought. 

The air still smells of sex, but there isn’t an ounce of it left in either of you. You blink, as if the motion could bring you back to earth, as if it could make you forget how painfully tight you’re stretched around him.

“Wh-what?” You pant, confused. Clearly, blood still hasn't made its way back to your head. “Who?”

“Keyser Söze.”

You almost flinch when he says that. Eyes wide and a big, fat question mark floating above your head. Slack-jawed. Befuddled. 

Only when your fucked-out brain connects the dots do you snort.

“K-Keyser So—what the fuck, Simon?” You chuckle under your breath, “Now? Really?”

He blinks. Drops the hand holding the remote next to his thigh with such abandon one might think he’s just received the worst news of his life. Then, he looks up at you, one arm still wrapped around your side, fingers grazing at your tailbone.

“Really fuckin’ thought t'was the butler.” He mumbles in disappointment, but his lips twitch in a smirk.

You burst into a laugh above him, throwing your head back. It ripples through your stomach in waves that rumble against his own, and he realizes that it looks even better when it happens because of this instead of an orgasm. 

It tugs at his heartstrings, and so he tugs you a little closer. 

When you return your eyes to him and bring your hands to cup his cheeks, he nuzzles your palm and presses a kiss against it.

“Told you there was no butler in The Usual Suspects,” you say a little smugly, but with a smile that could brighten up a room.

Simon holds your eyes for a moment longer, and then he wiggles his fingers against your side to steal another laugh out of you. 

“Yeah, alrigh’ smartarse.”

He lifts you up enough to place you on your back on the sofa, tucking his hips between your thighs. He slides his cock inside you again, but you’re so wet that you barely react to it. His hand comes to cup your cheek, while the other one slips between your bodies to brush against your clit.

It throbs under his touch, asking for attention. He gives it, reverently, as he slides in and out of you at the slowest of paces, rolling idle circles that cause the air to lodge in your throat.

You hold him with your arms around his neck, occasionally grazing his scalp with your fingers. Your lips travel from his cheek to his jaw, until you’re softly biting into the meat of his shoulder when he hits something that feels particularly good.

He fucks you languidly this time, as the credits of the film roll like background noise. Simon makes love to you with each lazy kiss down your neck and each slow drag of his cock—deliberate movements that give your orgasm the chance to build up slowly, coiling around your belly up to your throat in a blazing warmth that Simon feels stick to his chest.

It’s not long before you cum around him, huffing heavily from your nose while your teeth sink deeper into his skin. That does it for him, and the knot at the base of his cock finally snaps, causing syrupy hot warmth to travel all the way to the tips of his toes. Simon cums with a muted groan, and his body gives out until his chest falls flush to yours. He spills inside of you and traps your lips in a heavy kiss—because you taste so much better when you’re still shivering underneath him.

Your breath is hot as it hits the damp skin of his neck. Your mouth is warm when you press it to the shell of his ear. And when he comes back to his senses, he props his weight on one arm and looks down at you, basking in the afterglow.

The telly drones silently as it displays the front page of some streaming service you pay for. It’s the only light in the living room, and it bathes you in soft oranges and ruddy shades.

You look lovely like this, he thinks.

He pulls out of you, careful when you wince as his cock drags against your sensitive walls. He watches with rapt attention as his cum leaks out of your hole—it makes his eye twitch and his cock ache once again.

But you seem sated, glassy eyes slow blinking at the ceiling. Chest rising and falling softly.

So, he relents to your wishes and stuffs the thought of having you for a second time in the back of his mind.

And since he knows neither of you can be arsed to clean the sofa in case it stains, he uses his fingers to gently push his cum back inside. You read his mind and cant your hips upward so it won't leak out again.

“Guess perception wasn’t one of the SAS requirements, uh?” You tease him breathlessly, toying with the hair at his nape. A snort escapes you, and you mock his gruff voice. "S'always the butler."

He narrows his eyes and flicks your nose because he knows it'll make you smile. Then, he brings his hand between your faces, watching how his middlemost fingers glisten under the soft light from the telly. 

“How ‘bout you put tha’ mouth of yours to better use, mh?”

You scrunch your nose in a smile. “Like what?”

“Could clean this up, for starters.” He mumbles with a smirk.

You snort. “Charming.”

He gives you a cheeky side eye, but ultimately moves his hand out of the way to kiss your smile. His chuckle is hoarse against your mouth, inviting and warm, as his kisses turn playfully sloppy just to rile you up and have you giggle underneath him.

And you cherish it—like you do every time—by kissing him in kind.

[theorist-fox]

milk teeth – @bitterrfruit

my interpretation of your Price. 14 hours working on it, with possibly some modifications for later. for now, i wanted to post it

[theorist-fox]

but what if you're too shy during sex to let your pleasure be known? every slick, trembling movement of your hips is proof your body is betraying nothing, but your mouth is a cage, lips clamped tight, cheeks burning, desperate to stay quiet. you're too self-conscious to let the sounds be free.

but simon isn't having it.

a rough hand slides to your jaw, tilting your head. then fingers press into your mouth, curling between your molars, forcing your lips apart.

"stop hidin'," he growls, low and rough. "your pussy's singin' for me. why can't your mouth do the same?"

your eyes squeeze shut, but he tilts your head back, a thumb flat on your tongue, holding your jaw in place, and a shaky little moan escapes, muffled through his fingers.

"be louder. my hearin' ain't what it used to be."

[theorist-fox]

it starts because you don't know when to stop.

a snide comment during debrief. a sharp suck of your teeth when you're ordered to keep second-to-last watch. enough sass throughout the day that, if you were under anyone else, it would've earned you more than a clipped warning. but you're not, and with Ghost, it's different.

he doesn't snap at you, doesn't bark. he just decides you need to learn.

his lessons are brutal.

the first one almost goes unnoticed until you feel the heavy pressure of his hand on your thigh beneath the conference table. gloves off, calloused fingers sliding higher while Price drones on at the head of the room. you stiffen, a hiss of air caught in your throat, but Ghost doesn't even look at you. he's staring ahead, mask tilted toward the screen like nothing's happening.

his fingers slip past uniform, find the damp heat already gathering where you're softest. it forces you to sit perfectly still while he works you open with slow, merciless strokes, your notebook clutched so tight your knuckles burn, your lip bitten near bloody just to keep silent. (every slide is louder to you than Price's voice.) you squirm in your seat despite yourself, thighs squeezing shut but he hooks a heavy boot around your calf and pulls. you'll be splayed open as long as he damn well pleases.

"you've got a mouth on you," he rumbles later in the corridor, his hand fisting in your collar as he steers you toward his office. "let's see if you can use it to save yourself."

the desk is cold against your hips and the door stays unlocked. his cock splits you open, and every thrust comes with the weight of his threat. make a sound, and anyone walking by will know how he's got you.

that's the real discipline. not his palm narrowing your world down, not his rank. it's the risk. (the hallways are not empty. the walls aren't thick.) it's the way your body betrays you, writhing under the drag of him, desperate for more while your throat aches with swallowed moans.

he doesn't stop until you're ruined; slick, shaking, jaw sore from clamping down on screams, and your pride in pieces.

and when he finally bends close, his breath on your ear, his voice is low, dangerous, and satisfied.

"good girl. see? learned to shut the fuck up all on your own."

[theorist-fox]

eppy

[theorist-fox]

having very important visions that if you’re in missionary with simon and your feet are remotely near his face then he’s kissing them and putting a few toes in his mouth

[theorist-fox]

Another butcher!ghost sketch 🙏

[theorist-fox]

theo u saw me raving in the reblog but that medieval au crossover has actually done something insane to my brain chemistry... (spoilers for anyone who hasn't read it yet!)

it was absolutely beautiful. the subtle religious undertones and the doomed yearning....my heart was actually in pieces...and then he came back to her🥹 like he promised

you're an amazing writer i can't wait to see what you do next :')

AAAAAAH hi lovely!!! I am so unbelievably glad you enjoyed that story—it was truly a challenge for me to write and very out of my comfort zone (first AU, first posted OC, first third person POV and no more reader insert), so to know it came out somewhat decent is such a relief!

I just adore the concept of soulmates traveling through time and space and finding each other in every life—like Zelda and Link, in a way. I got inspired by their meetings in different universes and it just stuck with me.

Also I love some doomed from the start lovers who manage to break the cycle. The hurt/comfort part of it. Forever a wholesome stories writer unfortunately 💀

Thank you so much for coming in here to leave me your thoughts. You warmed my heart so much 🥹

[theorist-fox]

I'll tell the coworker tomorrow that a stranger on the internet loves them for something I'm not 100% he did

Actually yes tell them and keep me updated will ya

waiting for silksong with bated breath over here. it's been ages

[theorist-fox]

Find me in the future

Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick x fem!OC

Soulmate/Medieval Fantasy AU

18+

CW: canon typical violence, mentions of rituals, sexual fantasies, hospitalization.

my first approach at fantasy and third person and an OC! it was so much fun and also the most challenging thing ever ever

Masterlist 🦊

Kyle is dying.

The last thing he remembers is John. 

His palm patting his cheek once, twice. Voice roughed up from half a lifetime with a cigar in his mouth. His name being shouted, something dark behind his captain’s eyes—already in mourning, rankled with grief.

Sleek blood on his belly, clammy palms, sticky clothes.

A sharp pain where the bulletproof vest should’ve covered. It must’ve skewed to the side. Maybe he thought he had tightened it right, but had overlooked how slack it felt. 

A small mistake. His arrogance. His demise.

Kyle accepts it.

It’s literally in the contract, isn’t it? 

Not written black on white, but still obvious to him, always has been, from the moment he decided the special forces were his destiny.

Acceptance.

He whispers a quiet apology to his captain, to his teammates—no, his friends— fussing around him. To his parents, somewhere at home, unaware of their child’s passing.

Kyle’s vision blurs at the edges. There’s a heavy block on his chest, hard to discern whether it’s the gear or the weight of his life suddenly dropped on him. He counts the stars studded in the sky. Impossible to do, they say, yet he thinks he’s got all the time in the world now.

His skin feels cold. Ears cottoned. Eyes closed.

Kyle is dead.

Kyle thinks his mouth feels too dry for him to be in heaven. Granted, he never thought the pearly gates would open up for him. However, the soreness of his throat and the heaviness of his limbs feel too much even for hell. 

Wake up.

Blearily, he flutters his eyes open. There is no light to get adjusted to, thankfully, because the sky is as dark as it was when he died. 

When he died. 

Yet Kyle’s chest fills with air. His ears rumble with the erratic pumping of his heart, as if the thing’s just as excited to be… alive?

There’s coldness at his fingertips, but not that of a corpse. It’s more human, like when falling asleep on a hand, and it tingles to reawaken.

Wide-eyed, he stares at a sky that’s like the one he knows, and yet so different. Spilled rice over a dark navy blanket, meaningless dots he can’t connect into shapes he knows.

He flattens his palms against the ground and finds blades of grass, fresh earth, soft and damp.

Inhales.

Petrichor, wood smoke. 

Perks his ears. 

Crunching leaves, rustling of branches, a voice. Feminine. Shrill yet quiet, like it’s forced not to scream like it wants—perhaps scared someone might hear. Heavily accented. Heavily worried—no.

Angry.

“Wake up!” It speaks. “By the Gods, wake up, before the two of us perish!”

Kyle blinks at the sky. 

His head is filled with rocks, the muscles in his neck flaccid and weak. But still, he perseveres—he lets the back of his head roll against the earth, until he meets the cinders of a fire long extinguished.

Behind the billows of smoke, Kyle sees a shadow. He can’t quite understand who it is, if he knows it, if it is at all, or if that’s what hell is like with its souls—turns them into outlines of humans that once were, evanescent silhouettes of past lives.

A branch snaps somewhere.

The shadow moves terrified. Clumsy. It stumbles on two feet and falls on its fours. Scrambles to him, like a desperate, starving fool who’s seen salvation.

He’s about to close his eyelids again, succumb to the darkness and the tortures of hell.

Thwack.

A slap on his cheek. It stings like needles breaching skin, like blood running hot just underneath.

Kyle’s eyes snap open.

He’s alive.

“What are you doing?!” The figure whispers, yells, he’s not sure. “You are supposed to protect me!”

He looks at a head hovering above him. Adjusts to the darkness and focuses on it.

A face. Dusting of freckles on a sharp nose. A heart-shaped mouth that would be a delight if it wasn't curled in a snarl. Imperfect teeth, an impacted canine that sticks out pointier than its neighbours. Thick, pale lashes, framing obsidian eyes. Frowning brows, reddish or blond—he can’t tell.

“What—” He croaks, voice rough from disuse. “Who—who—”

The figure leans back, kneeling next to him as he lies down, helpless. 

It’s a woman. Long hair tied in an intricate braid that must’ve looked like a fancy updo before something drastic had happened to it. Hair pokes out, now, as if she’s slept on it. Bits of green and brown stick to it, as if where she slept wasn’t really a bed but more of a pile of leaves.

“Who, who—” She echoes as she sits back on her calves. “What are you, an owl?”

Kyle frowns. She mimics him.

“I am Lady Charlotte of the Greying Lands, you scoundrel,” she scoffs. 

Kyle’s brows rise. Gingerly, he forces his elbows to dig in the soil underfoot. Everything hurts, everything’s heavy. And when his eyes land on his body, he finally realises why.

He’s wearing armour. A proper set. Carved designs of leaves adorn the shining panoply. Wing-like iron cast pieces extend from his hips. His legs are no longer clad in olive-drab trousers but in rigid brown leather. Boiled leather boots, thick and dark chocolate. 

Before he settles for far too long on the presence of a sheathed sword instead of a holstered gun to his hip and bloody loses it once and for all, he returns his disbelieving eyes to the woman kneeling next to him.

“Who of what?”

She blinks.

“Are you daft?” She asks, somewhere between baffled and mildly concerned. “Have you hit your head, perhaps?”

He cocks said head. Touches it, just for good measure, though he’s almost positive nothing’s hit it. If anything, he must be hosting a bit of metal inside his stomach—

Kyle’s breath stutters as memories flood. His hands frantically reach for his abdomen, but of course his testing is rudely interrupted by iron instead of flesh.

His eyes return to her, seeking answers. But Kyle only finds an anger that he’s sure would be blazing if it weren’t for the nervousness smothering it: the nibbling of her lip, the way her eyes look left and right in a frantic search for danger.

“Have I been shot? Swear I’ve been shot,” he pants. “In-in Aqtabi. Cap was there, an’ Ghost—”

“What in the Seven Hells are you saying?!” She interrupts. “You are sworn to the King—my father—and charged with my protection!”

Kyle shifts to sit upright. It’s hard, he reckons, with all this armour on. Briefly he wonders how they’ve done it in the past… which is currently the present. His present. 

His musing comes to a halt to prevent the insurgence of a panic attack. 

“Protection from what?” 

She blinks. Withers right before him, shoulders sinking with the exasperated breath that leaves her lips.

“Oh Gods,” she heaves, surrendered and panicked. “You’re a lunatic. I was left with a lunatic!”

 “Oi—”

“Do not ‘Oi’ me!” A finger is accusingly pointed at his face. Kyle almost goes cross-eyed in his attempt to follow it. “You are dooming us all! The lands will grey over once more because of you! The people will starve and die, and there will be no one left to save!”

Kyle pulls back. Frowns. “Wha—”

“Your sole job is to take me to the Creature alive!” She says angrily, as if that made any sense to him. “Alive, Sir Kyle, not dead—so you better get off your arse and check what in the seven bloody hells that noise was!”

Yet her voice has raised in volume, whether she’s realised it or not. Her cheeks burn red, sweat on her brow. Her chest heaves as she recollects herself, fruitlessly trying to smooth her hair back, even though it is much past the point of salvation.

She exhales, then.

“Still, I would wager that whoever made that noise has no interest in us,” she reasons, breathless. “I have been shouting, and no one has struck.”

Her head swivels to the forest behind. “Perhaps an animal.”

Kyle doesn’t understand. Frankly, he doesn’t think he ever will. 

“Perhaps.”

Charlotte seems kinder in the following days.

She apologises profusely after that night, saying she must have been touched by the Darkness, which caused all the mélas cholé stored in her liver to pour out of her mouth in the form of crude words.

Fuck if he knows what that means.

He doesn’t comment on it, though. As much as curiosity urges him to ask, he still has to adjust to his… condition. Unsure whether further explanations would grow his panic or quell it, he simply accepts her apology, understanding that the motive behind it all must have been fear.

He gets it. He’s afraid, too. Whatever confidence he'd built throughout his years alive has withered the moment he woke up in this place. Genuinely he feels like a fish out of water who's been ordered to grow legs.

Things would be much different if he had something familiar to rely on—a Kevlar vest, for example, instead of a panoply he’s only ever seen behind protective glass in the bloody Tower of London. 

Or a fucking gun.

Because, truthfully, Kyle’s not sure how to use a sword.

It’s funny, he thinks, because he has a reservoir of weapons he can effortlessly wield: AKs, revolvers, Glocks. Tactical knives are second nature, and he can get pretty clever with a balisong—yet he cannot swing the most ancient of weapons. 

Thankfully, for both his and her safety, he hasn’t had to use it much. Wildlife seems scarce here, and when it appears, it’s more scared than feral.

He doesn’t blame it—Charlotte’s a force to be reckoned with.

He’s seen her bare her teeth at wolves or swing her dagger at the occasional boar. And she does all that while wearing a green velvet gown with mud at the hem and gold in the embroidery of her sleeves.

Her hair is now a ginger nest of leaves and sticks she struggles to rip. Some green always lingers in the furrow of her locks, but he finds it endearing. Makes her look like a nymph.

She is… something else, surely. Surprisingly easy to talk to.

At first, their nights are quiet—hours spent dozing by the fire, saying little beyond what’s necessary. But as time passes, she begins to unravel. Her polished manners soften, her laughter grows brighter, louder, sometimes punctuated by an unguarded snort she hides behind a shy hand.

Now, when the sun sets, she throws her composure into the same fire she helps light: she sings—sometimes for him, sometimes with him. He tries to follow along, though never quite on key and fumbling the words, and that steals a laugh from her, warm and unashamed. 

Every now and then, she sips on ale from the leather pouch hanging at his hip—one of the mysterious objects he found on his body when he awakened—only to spin away from the fire and dance under the moonlight. Then, with flushed cheeks and glossy eyes, she holds out her hand, inviting him to join. The dances she proposes are nothing like the ones he’s used to, but he likes to dip her sometimes, flashing that charming smile he knows has made women swoon before. 

It sure as hell does something to her—wide-eyed and apple-cheeked, her palms pressing against his chest as she searches for balance. And, by God, that does something to him too.

He’s grown awfully fond of her. Too much, maybe, and if he weren't so focused on surviving, he’d recognise that he properly fancies her. Dreams of her eyes when they crinkle in a smile, of her lips and whether they'd taste of cherries, like the colour that paints them suggests. Of the supple curve of her hips, wondering what's hidden under the velvet of her dress. Dotted honey on her skin, when she turns away he imagines his mouth following the path traced by her freckles—if they darken around her nipples, if they journey downward between her legs.

Only so many times he can pretend to disappear for a hunt only to hide behind a tree and find some semblance of relief with a hand underneath his pants. The guilt that follows him afterwards forces his eyes to the ground, no matter how hard Charlotte tries to redirect his gaze her way.

His favourite side of her, however, is when she sits by the fire and shares stories of this world: legends and myths, monsters crawling in the darkness slain by gilded heroes whose swords now hang from her palace ceilings. Stories of her childhood, of her mother who has passed, of her sisters back home—their youthful smiles and their innocence. That's when her eyes really light up, showing the true colours of her soul. Kyle basks in them like she's sunlight, lends his ear and learns from her ways, while subconsciously jotting down intel regarding the world he's now apparently part of.

If he has questions, Charlotte answers them as best as she can. She has accepted his sudden state of amnesia and pegs it to the Darkness again. Says it must’ve sent him to The Wane, where the Horned Devil of Loss punished him.

Kyle doesn’t care that it doesn’t make sense to him.

However, she never explains where they’re headed. Whenever he asks, her eyes turn gloomy and dark, shifting away from his own, and then she either changes the subject or bids him goodnight.

When he asks why, Charlotte simply replies that, sometimes, ignorance is bliss.

“The Creature,” he prompts her one day for the umpteenth time, as they walk north, where Charlotte’s told him their destination is. “What is it?”

Her gait’s more natural than his. He can tell she’s used to walking on unfriendly grounds, skipping over roots and following hidden paths. When he speaks, her eyes effortlessly find his. 

She stops in her tracks with a sigh. Her nose turns towards the sun as its glow softens into gorgeous oranges at the horizon. 

“We could make camp here, rest until morning,” she suggests against all odds. “And I shall tell you everything over supper.” 

She cocks her head, waiting for him to agree.

Her cheeks are slightly sunburnt, and there’s a curl of her nose that makes Kyle’s stomach knot and tighten, the tips of his ears awfully warm. He promptly looks away and nods before heading out to find wood for the fire. 

Charlotte and Kyle have found a comfortable routine when it’s time to set up camp. She rummages through her satchel for main ingredients from previous hunts, wanders around but not too far to search for herbs, while he collects wood and starts a fire, cooking dinner when all is ready.

Meals are scarce: rabbit or fish meat in best-case scenarios, frogs only once—didn’t have the heart to propose them again after catching Charlotte retching behind her hand as she forced a morsel down her throat. Still, he reckons they’re tastier than MREs—he’s told her that, one night, and she’d only politely chuckled with him, with a look that suggested confusion and a tad of concern for his mental stability.

Kyle found that impossibly endearing. 

That evening, Charlotte sits next to him, perched on his bedroll. 

“So,” she sighs. “The Creature.”

He looks up at her; the nest of ginger hair glows a furious red under the firelight. Shadows lick at her skin, dancing flames playing tricks on her freckled cheeks. She’s a pretty thing, useless denying it. Kyle admires most the kindness of her eyes. 

How scared she’d looked that first night, masking that terror with striking anger: fighting fiercely, baring her teeth at him to get up and do something. But he’d seen it, the fear, and saw his own reflection in her—just as terrified.

Nevertheless, when his gaze locks with hers now, there’s a sense of… settlement: she’s comfort, she’s familiarity. She is the only thing he knows of this world—the only thing keeping him afloat. So, he holds onto her like a lifeline, because Kyle is, at the base of it all, so, so horribly afraid.

But with her by his side, that feeling tends to fade. His golden thread wrapped around him and guiding him through forests and rivers, keeping him sane.

He shifts around so he’s fully facing her, bending his knees and bracing his elbows atop. She mimics him, turning his way and tucking her legs under herself. 

“The Creat—” he stops. Tilts his head, and his eyes narrow curiously, dancing about her face.

Charlotte blinks. Instinctively her hand goes to her cheek, fingers testing around to find the source of his sudden curiosity. However, he reaches forward first, plucking a leaf from the crown of her head, tangled with her hair.

“Christ your hair’s a mess,” he chuckles. In turn, Charlotte turns bright red, enough to match her hair.

“Christ?” She stammers initially, confused, before huffing and subtly rolling her eyes. “Well, forgive me Sir Kyle, there’s a dreadful shortage of mirrors in the woods.”

His eyes soften. “Just Kyle,” he offers.

Annoyance dissipates from her features, and Charlotte mellows down as well. Bit timid, perhaps less used to such interactions with other men. 

“Well, then.” Nervously she licks her lips. “Just—Just Charlotte.”

"Mh. Charlotte." Kyle cocks his head, heart thrumming excitedly in his chest. “Lottie.”

She inhales sharply, but the smile on her face indicates opposite feelings. Playfully, she slaps his chest. His armour’s off, the back of her hand hitting the nettle of his shirt. “Do not take such liberties!” 

He bursts out laughing and swiftly grabs her wrist. Holds her palm close to his heart.

"Oh I will." His lashes fan his cheekbones as his eyes trace her features—the flirt he is. "Sweet Lottie."

Her cheek turn ripe with color, drenched in red. She doesn't exactly blush as much as she splotches, pink lost within the honey of her freckles. Briefly she looks away, and then, perhaps moved by that courage he knows she has, returns her eyes to him.

“Turn ‘round,” he says softly, reluctantly letting go of her hand. “I’ll sort your hair while you tell me ‘bout this… creature thing.”

Charlotte doesn’t put up much of a fight, to his utter surprise, and after a few shy looks sent his way, she shifts until her back is to him, sitting comfortably between his legs. 

Kyle gets to work, undoing her braid. He plucks out stubborn twigs and, although reluctantly, also those leaves he thought looked positively charming on her. 

Charlotte's cheek rests atop her knees, hand splayed in the grass. Blades run between her fingers, before she sinks her nails in the earth.

“Beneath the soil, there are seven layers—Seven Hells.”

Kyle hums to give her a sign he’s listening. Sometimes his focus shifts to her face, glad to see it slowly relaxing as he carefully rakes his fingers through her hair.

“Each Hell is governed by a devil,” she goes on, quiet and soft. “You must have seen the first layer—The Wane. That is how you lost all your memories.”

Kyle doesn’t have the heart to tell her that he has no clue what she’s talking about, so he keeps quiet. 

“The Wane swarms with men,” she explains. “Men filled with greed. Men who kill to have more.”

He hums as he divides her hair into three sections, careful not to pull too tightly.

“So, the Horned Devil of Loss takes from them. Their memories, too. It’s their punishment: to never have, and never know what they once held.”

Gingerly, he crosses the right lock of hair over the middle one. “Not good people, then? 'S wha' they get."

“Not entirely true,” she clarifies. “Sometimes men mean well. Wanting more—that is part of human nature. A knight who slays for gold, or for glory. A hero who fells a beast yet brings death upon a village.”

Kyle's chest tightens. Memories flood around him until he's drowning: the blood he's spilt, the homes reduced to rubble, the eyes of children he orphaned, the wives he widowed—all in the name of peace.

Perhaps Kyle was wrong, and he’s seen it, The Wane. Witnessed it firsthand—held blades to throats and muzzles to foreheads, all under the guidance of his captain, alongside his brothers in arms, fighting for his cause. For peace, he says. Tells that to himself. Not entirely wrong, but also not the entire truth.

For peace, and for money. Pays well, to put your life on the line, to sacrifice some to save the majority. The man in Piccadilly—a father, because he called for his girls. A brother, maybe? A son, surely. The bomb strapped to his chest, his scream as Price threw him over the railing. Still scared, drenched in human fragility.

Kyle reluctantly realizes he never bothered learning his name.

Charlotte pauses. “If the hero mourns the fallen, he may be granted forgiveness. But if he only revels in glory, then his place in The Wane is already set.”

His jaw is screwed tight as he crosses her locks in the beginnings of a braid. There’s a certain rigidity in his fingers, now. Sweat prickling his forehead, hairs standing on end.

“If I’ve been there, like you said,” he asks, “then why’d that devil send me here? Not much of a punishment, this."

“To give,” she answers swiftly. “Only to reclaim.”

His fingers work ceaselessly, slowly, interlocking hair with precision.

“What’ll it take?” He picks up the silk bow from the ground to tie it around the end of her braid. “Got no memories left.”

Gingerly, Charlotte turns to look at him above her shoulder. “Me.”

Kyle’s hands fall still.

The wind blows gently. Leaves rustle overhead. The fire crackles. 

“What d’you mean?”

Charlotte falters. He sees it in her eyes: grief.

“You were sent to take me to the Creature,” she breathes. “She governs the last layer of the Hells, though She inhabits our Earth to oversee it—us.”

Kyle swallows. On instinct, his hands find her, curl around her biceps.

“A sacrifice. Ripe women in exchange for fertile earth.” Her voice trembles. Fear, unfettered. Then, she exhales.

Acceptance—her destiny. “So that the Greying Lands will not grey over again. So that the people may survive.”

“Lottie—”

“Mourn me,” she interjects. There’s panic in her voice, shaking briefly before she recollects herself. 

Kyle’s vision grows misty. His arms journey forward and wrap around her chest. He pulls her into him, buries his nose in her hair.

Charlotte welcomes his arms. Curls herself in a ball between his thighs. Her nails claw at his forearms, and it’s a gentle pain Kyle accepts wholeheartedly. Tears dampen his skin, and he returns the favour when he hides in the crook of her neck—salt water down her throat.

“Mourn me, for no one else will,” she whispers. “You’ll be a hero. Your sword will hang in the royal palace, and you’ll bathe in glory—but do not let it fool you.”

She shudders. Kyle kisses her cheek. For a moment, Charlotte goes rigid, unused to this type of intimacy, but then relaxes in his embrace. Timidly, she leans into him, and Kyle kisses her again.

“If you remember,” she croaks. “Perhaps you’ll be granted a second chance.”

Tense silence settles. 

Then, he whispers, “Or we could leave.”

Charlotte softly shakes her head. Her throat bobs in a hiccup, one she tries to quell by pressing her mouth to his arm. 

“Greed will be the death of you, Kyle,” she murmurs. “You cannot slaughter a people to save one.”

“But I would,” he insists, tightening his hold around her. “Fuckin’ hell, Lottie, I would—”

“I don’t want you to.”

Gingerly, she turns in his embrace. Their eyes touch, both misty and red. 

“Can you respect that?” She asks quietly. “I wish to save my people. Can you respect that?”

There's a fire in that placated whisper that he's rarely saw before. A courage burning brighter than pure sunlight—admirable and breathtaking. Though Kyle knows that each star eventually meets its end, scorching the universe itself before turning into dust.

He thinks Charlotte’s wrong, and hell is not beneath the soil, but exactly right here before him, forcing him to live with mere sand continuously slipping through his fingers.

Forcefully, he pushes it out of his mouth. “I can,” he croaks.

He brushes the hair off her face, those loose locks that have escaped her braid. Charlotte’s smile is tremulous but sincere. Her cheeks are warm with life and sadness, with hope and tears. 

She leans closer and kisses his lips, a chaste peck that tastes of salt and unfettered gratitude. Kyle meets her evident inexperience with a passion he's never once felt. His hand journeys to the back of her neck, stiff under his fingertips, and his head lolls sideways to allow for their lips to slot.

Charlotte is unsure of what to do, initially taut and wide-eyed, and only relaxes in Kyle's embrace when he guides her. When his fingers find her waist and she feels herself burn all over. When his eyes flutter closed, and she mimics. And her body follows suit, turning malleable and soft under his hands.

She tastes his tongue, gasping in surprise when it passes the threshold of her lips. She smells the woodsmoke lingering on his skin, feels the texture of his hair when her hand travels to it, holding him still to her. And when he opens his mouth to deepen the kiss, Charlotte finds herself unable to resist. She lands her trembling hands on his shoulders and cinches his shirt in her fists, before collapsing in his arms, knowing they'll hold her tight and prevent any harm from coming her way.

Or at least, the ones he can stop.

When Kyle pulls back, his mouth stays agape. Warm breath brushes her nose, clings to her wet lips. Charlotte's heart drums a furious tune in her throat, and when she goes to cup Kyle's cheek, she feels the warmth of the blood collected underneath. His eyes are glossy with tears but still heavy with her—slowly they dance about her features, and she allows him to take her in, as she is unabashedly doing the same with him.

“Thank you,” she breathes. “For each dance, for each song. For listening to the stories of my people and to those of my life. You showed me what happiness truly is like, and I shall treasure it in this life and the ones to come."

Kyle’s throat tightens, and he nods stiffly, turning his gaze away from hers.

Gently, he redirects his eyes to her using the hand on his cheek. “Remember me?”

His gaze returns to her swiftly. 

“Of course,” he chokes with conviction. “Could never forget ya, Lottie.”

Charlotte drags him down onto his bedroll. Her cheek finds his heart, her hair’s savage still, curls entrapped in a braid that could never fully tame it.

Kyle brushes it with his fingers as they both fall asleep.

When he wakes up, his lids feel heavy. Mouth dry, limbs unresponsive—tingling awake, a thousand needles piercing skin.

He waits patiently for his body to settle before opening his eyes. Some things feel off: the sun is oddly blinding, the bedroll unusually comfortable, and there’s no braid between his fingers, no weight on his chest.

Beeping sounds climb upwards. A cacophony of alarms starts blaring. 

Charlotte.

Suddenly he takes a mouthful of air, crisp down his throat; not humid and warm like the first morning breath in those woods.

A rough voice breaks through the cotton in his ears. “Calm down, Sergeant.”

“Gave us a scare there, Garrick.” A gruff voice, different, rings through.

“Looked awfully dead for a moment, mate.” Scottish. “Thank fuck Evac was close or we’d be at a bloody funeral, eh?”

He knows them. Knows the lilt and the gravel, the gruff chuckles and the morbid jokes. He feels safer now, and yet somewhat… misplaced.

More voices rumble around him. Different, unknown. Soft laughter and sniffles, whispered words and happy cries. Carefully, he rolls his head to the side, following the source of that placated chaos.

A nest of red hair resting on a pillow like his own is the first thing he sees. Then, his eyes focus on freckled cheeks and a pointy canine peeking through a weak smile. Polite and warm, given to supposed friends and relatives standing around her hospital bed. She’s hooked on cables exactly like him, tired like he reckons he must look—but she’s unmistakable.

Kyle’s eyes widen. His throat goes impossibly tight.

He stammers for a moment. Breathing uneven, heartbeat erratic.

“Lottie?” He croaks.

Chatter fades into whispers. The small crowd around her bed curiously parts, and beautiful dark eyes focus on him.

Her reddish brows furrow, confusion paints her face. 

Remember me?

She blinks. Something clicks. Must, because her eyes soften, chapped lips part in a smile. 

“Kyle," she breathes.

Could never forget ya, Lottie.

Written for July writing challenge, to fill the prompt "Across the AU-niverse".