summary: fet can’t explain what he saw. quinlan x f!reader. she/her pronouns.
cw: fet-centric, she/her pronouns, fluff.
word count: 357.
Fet looked up one day, after coming back from hunting munchers and gathering supplies, and saw Quinlan coming back to camp after three months’ disappearance. That wasn’t the interesting part, though—the interesting part was that he had returned with a female companion.
Everyone was surprised, but after a few days of her settling in, hunting deer and doves and gathering firewood, it was assumed she had tagged along to be part of a larger camp.
Fet, though, having spent the most time with the Wormless Wonder during those hard months of searching for an elusive nuke and avoiding the Master’s henchman, still had a funny feeling about their relationship.
This funny feeling was confirmed one day when he saw her trip over a hidden root and Quinlan grasped her waist to steady her.
Dutch had told him to get over it.
“She was falling,” Dutch had said. “It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Have you ever seen him help anyone?” he argued back.
“Yes, Fet, he helped us with the Master for one.” She rolled her eyes. “And he moved the laundry baskets to the river for Lily yesterday. It doesn’t mean anything; you would’ve said something if he had let her fall on her ass.”
All valid points.
But Dutch hadn’t seen it.
Fet had tried to argue, but he knew that feeling and instincts weren’t enough when one was discussing the possible heart of a Dhampir. Quinlan didn’t normally touch others—except to threaten eating them or wringing their necks—but when [Name] had tripped and Quinlan’s hands had reached out, he had looked—gentle. Even after she was stable, a hand, pale and large and hesitant, still hovered against the base of her back.
How was Fet supposed to explain that to Dutch? How could he properly describe how ethereal and picturesque they looked in the glow of the dimming day? How serene, as though they weren’t on their way to kill munchers lingering in the area?
How could he explain that, when he had glanced backward, he had caught the quick smile on Quinlan’s face, bright against the fading light, even as they split?
You watched Fet make one last attempt to appeal to their humanity.
“Look, friend, we have one enemy: them — the munchers. We’re on the same side; we should be helping each other out.”
Any optimism disappeared from him, though, as the man in front of him, his red beard dirty with gray snow and food bits, turned away to leer at Charlotte.
“You have pretty eyes,” he said, but his gaze was at her breasts.
Another man with short prickles of hair on his chin stepped forward from off to the side, gazing at you in the same way. You clenched your fists, feeling a chill even through your clothes, but kept your hands still. You wanted nothing more than to slice their stomach jagged, because anyone who took advantage of other people in these circumstances deserved to watch their intestines spill out their torso, but you knew they had hasty fingers on the triggers.
“Don’t do it, man,” Fet warned.
In response, the bearded man pressed a knife to Fet’s neck. His friends stepped toward the three of you, holding up their guns.
The one that had been eyeing you stepped closer. With the end of his gun, he pressed it against your cheek, forcing you to turn your head to the side; you resisted the urge to spit at him. He eyed your dainty, gold earrings, worthless in this day but gifted to you from your passing mom, the faded scar on the side of your jaw, the smoothness of your neck disappearing underneath the scarf and heavy jacket. He licked his lips, grinning.
Fet let out a bark of laughter suddenly, interrupting your glare and the man’s leering. The bearded man raised the knife to Fet’s face in warning, but his eyes were defiantly bright and amused, flickering to the one in front of you.
“Oh, no, no, no, her?” He laughed again, though no one else shared his mirth. “Don’t do it, my friend. I’m telling you: you’re making a big mistake.”
The man in front of you sneered at Fet. “Mistake? And what the fuck are you gonna do about it?” To emphasize his point, his free hand roughly gripped your face, tilting it every which way as if he were examining product; then, he pressed his thumb against your bottom lip, the rest of his fingers stretched out toward the strands of your hair. You grunted, trying to pull away, but he helped your face tightly, finger right against your teeth — “Ah, ah, don’t you move, sweetheart.” He brought the gun back to your cheek.
“Me? Nothin’,” Fet answered. “I don’t need to do nothin’.”
You bit down sharply on his thumb in his distraction, but his response was immediately, swinging the back of the gun against your face. You saw stars on your way down, feeling the skin against your jaw and lip split.
“You bitch,” he hissed, getting on top of you and pinning your hips down with his weight. “I’m gonna have fun with you —”
“Listen! Listen,” Fet interrupted quickly. “You guys ever heard of the story of The Beauty and the Beast?”
“Shut up!” he growled. He raised his gun above you, intent on knocking you out even through Fet’s speech; the rest of them closed in on your friends.
“Hey, hey, I’m just trying to warn ya — [Name] here is The Beauty, and The Beast is not something you wanna mess with.”
“What the fuck are you going on about?”
“I’m saying her monster boyfriend’s territorial.”
There was a sudden thump off to the side — a body had hit the floor in halves.
“What the fuck was that?” They looked to each other, and the one on top of you looked back to Fet.
“Don’t look at me,” Fet said, shrugging, his hands still up in the universal sign of peace. “I tried to warn you guys. Look, but don’t touch, eh?”
The blade swung so fast that it barely had time to even sing through the air. A head flew off the neck, toppling to the snow-covered ground with soft beats. Another man turned around and tried to shoot at the zooming silhouette of Quinlan, missing each one. While they were distracted, Fet grabbed the gun from the leader and smashed him in the head with the butt of the weapon. You instantly punched the one straddling you in the balls, and as he toppled over in pain, you smashed your elbow into him, snatching the gun from the floor.
When you looked up, there were only two men left, the one that had been harassing you and the de facto leader, both staring in petrified horror at Quinlan wiping his sword on one of their dead teammate’s shirts. Quinlan hadn’t bothered to rip it off the carcass; the body strained between his hold and gravity as it dangled in the air, a show to his inhuman strength.
Fet wiggled eyebrows at them. “You wanna help us now?”
Quinlan stopped in front of you. You moved your jaw, testing the damage. Your face was throbbing and you could taste the sharp copper flavor of your own blood, but nothing seemed broken.
You looked up at Quinlan. His eyes flickered to the cut on your lip and the dark, blooming spot that was probably already growing on your face.
“I’m fine,” you said. “Flesh wound.”
He stared a second longer before turning away to loom over the man on the ground.
“I’m sorry — I didn’t know — I didn’t —”
“What do you mean you didn’t know?” Fet remarked, amusement laced through his words. “Everyone heard me warnin’ ya, right? Right?”
In one smooth movement, Quinlan pierced the blade through the man’s chest, pinning him bloodily and painfully to the ground, the snow around him dirtied and stained. He choked on his blood, gazing into narrowed, cold eyes. Quinlan twisted the sword and, with a sharp crunch, the man went limp.
You didn’t feel sorry.
When Fet and Charlotte turned away to harass the remaining man, Quinlan pulled his sword out and shook it once against the snow. He didn’t wipe it off, perhaps a show of what he could do, or what he had done.
You couldn’t help the teasing smile. “Territorial, huh?”
He glanced at you as though he were debating an answer. Then, his voice low, he said, “Extremely,” and your grin grew. “Stay close,” he said.
“I’m fine,” you said, but even when you didn’t follow him, you noticed he was never far from you.
a/n: is that what that day is called? i dunno. my first instinct when i was watching story mode.
11/18/2022 edit: don't mind me; just reformatting.
summary: day 4, when v tries to convince you to leave with him. saeran x f!reader.
cw: f!reader, she/her pronouns. angst.
wc: 719.
V takes a step forward — “Please, can’t you listen to me?” — and then Ray is reeling back — “Get away! Get away!”
Despite his panic and desperation, Ray throws his arm out in front of you, keeping you behind him and away from V. “Don’t you dare touch [Name]!”
Even as his breathing grows ragged, his face becoming paler with every gasping air, he is trying to protect you. You watch his back tremble and hunch; his body looks as though it is trying to curl into itself and hide from whatever memories V brings with him.
V takes another step forward, and now Ray’s shouts have become frenzied begging — “Please, please go away — ” and you feel that this web spans years, threading insects and poisons and nightmares with every silky curve and twirl, and you aren’t sure where to begin to uncover it and how to unravel him from this cocoon.
He stumbles as V shows him two little cards. Ray drops his arm to grasp the limb, pained, stammering about an angry savior. His voice rises and cracks, and you see it again, the reason why you had decided to stay: there is a gaping, cracking chasm in him, jagged along the edges as if some great devil had slipped their fingers between his chest and pulled him open by the ribs; and with this blackened maw trying to swallow him, he had never once asked you for help —
— But you have seen your fair share of blackened maws.
You have seen fissures greater than canyons, than planets, yawning cavities that have devoured entire universes.
You have your own memories of drowning in ravines, hands reaching up at the night sky, starless.
You know that sometimes it is a silent plea.
“I’m so sorry things turned out like this, Saeran,” V whispers. He looks to you then. “But [Name], I came to rescue you. I infiltrated this place after determining that you were in danger.”
“No —!” Ray grasps his head. “Don’t – don’t believe anything he says, [Name]. I can protect her — I’m protecting her.”
Ray is unsteady on his feet; you touch his shoulders, but he flinches reflexively, and when he sees that it was just your hands, he grasps your wrist.
“[Name],” V begins.
“Save him,” you say. “If you’re here for me, then you should be here for him, too.”
V hesitates. “I... It’s my fault,” he says. “It’s my fault, but...but I can’t — I don’t think I can pull him from her grasp right now...”
V looks pained, too, when he says that, and then you see that he has the same gasping maw in him, the same jagged lines where caressing fingers had turned cruel.
Ray’s grip on your wrist tightens. You had stepped in front of him, but he tries to tug you back, fear in his hands.
“She doesn’t believe you,” Ray snarls half-heartedly, but you see the doubt and the dread — Don’t go — Please don’t — Please don’t leave me.
“I think you should go, V,” you say.
V looks like he wants to say more, to try and convince you, to save at least one soul, but there are voices shouting from across the garden, and he hesitates, now stuck against the hourglass.
“Go,” you tell him kindly. “I’ve dealt with spiders before.”
“She’s not — ” But the words get caught in his throat. You see old webs in his hair, glistening against the glow of the garden lights. He nods finally and then turns and disappears into the trees.
Ray is trying to calm his breathing, his hand still gripping firmly around your wrist. You reach back and pry his hold from your skin, and before he can jerk back in fear and self-doubt, you switch the grasp to your hand, showing him how other people should be touched — gently, and with sincerity.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, eyes still darting at the growing darkness around the two of you, at the shadows that shift and slide in the unknown.
You never liked the thought of putting broken pieces back together. The cracks would still be there, pieces would still be missing — but armor, and swords, and steel? It is a romantic thought, you think, but perhaps these pieces can be re-forged, heated and kissed by a blazing fire, by a steady hand.
016:
After what had transpired, Sakura had walked you to all your classes. Now, it is the end of the day, and she diligently walks you to the locker. She doesn’t have to, and you tell her so, you say that you are fine, but she just shakes her head and ignores your words.
“Ino really didn’t mean it,” Sakura says again. She leans against the lockers beside yours. Your hand is shaky and you hope she doesn’t notice it as you take out your brown notebook. “You know how she is.”
You do know how she is, and that is why you know she meant it, even if she didn’t mean to say it aloud or regretted it afterward. There is nothing to say in reply to Sakura’s sugar-coated words, not when you know the truth.
At the back of your locker you have a mirror hanging; you don’t know why you had put it up. You don’t care for your reflection, and yet, you had hung it up one day; normally, the books blocked your reflection, but today, you see it. You are not disgusted; you are not pleased. Just curious. Just sad. Something changed that day, but maybe everyone else sees a different change.
Everyone but Sakura. You are thankful for that.
“I’ll drive you home today,” Sakura says, but you shake your head.
“It’s okay,” you tell her. “I’m okay.”
017:
Sakura leaves and you watch her back disappear into the crowd. She pauses a couple of times to glance at you, as if waiting for you to change your mind and call her back to ride home in her old Toyota Avalon, but you merely smile and wave. You reassure her, even if it is a bit of a white lie.
When she finally gets enveloped by the moving crowd, you turn back to your locker and stare at the blue metal. You don’t want to go home. You don’t want to get on that bus, but you don’t want to ride home with Sakura either.
“I’ll just go to the art room,” you mumble, even though you’re not sure how you’re going to get home later — but that’s something you’ll think about whenever it comes along. Just as you shift your backpack up off the ground, someone taps your shoulder. You turn to the left — no one is there.
“Wow, you actually fell for it!”
Naruto. The surprise on your face is as plain as day. Why would someone who left school before lunch suddenly come back at the end of the day? He is risking a lot, especially because the teachers are wandering around now.
“You’re a funny one.” He grins, rubbing his finger under his nose. You don’t know what to say, so you shrug, clutching at your backpack straps. He is still smiling, even though there is nothing being said now.
A few more seconds roll by while you stare at your old converses. You try to think of an excuse that’ll get you away, but come up short. After the whole Ino thing, you don’t really want to talk to him; not that it’s his fault or anything. You just feel like it’s bad juju.
“So, what are you still here for?” he asks.
You glance at him, shuffle your feet. “I could ask you the same thing,” you say, the boldest thing you’ve ever said to anyone. They feel like strong words, even though there is no malice behind them.
“I actually forgot something,” he says. You finally notice the sheets of paper in his hand; you catch glimpses of music notes. Does he play an instrument? “You, on the other hand,” he continues. “The buses are about to leave, you know.”
But the comment doesn’t register because you are too busy staring at the papers, trying to identify the notes with what little knowledge you have about music. It is futile to try and understand what they mean, but you can tell that everything is hand-drawn.
Seeing your gaze, Naruto hides the papers behind his back and you look up, embarrassed again. You feel your chest and ears turn red, but he is not angry — on the contrary, he is still smiling.
“They’re not ready yet,” he says. He folds them in half, slipping them in his back pants pockets underneath his shirt.
018:
“Come on,” Naruto says, jutting a finger in the direction behind him. He starts walking, but you don’t follow; when he realizes, he gestures again, and says, “Come on, I’ll take you home. You don’t drive, right? And you’ve missed the bus by now.”
Still, you don’t move, but when he stands there, thumbs in his pockets, waiting patiently with eyebrows raised, you slowly make your steps, shaky but eager.
And then you pause.
Ino would be mad. More than that, she’d be hurt.
“…It’s okay.” You shake your head. “I was going to go to the art room.”
Something in you aches, but you tell yourself it’s better this way.
“Oh? You’re part of the art club?”
“Not…really… I just use their room.”
“Wow, didn’t know you had a rebel streak in ‘ya,” he says. You don’t have time to correct him before he starts again (because you’re not a rebel; the art teacher, knowing your situation, allows you to use the room and equipment whenever you want).
“Well, all right then,” he says, and you nod, grateful. Somewhat.
019:
The point of you denying his proposal of taking you home was to be a good, loyal friend, to put Ino first.
But…
But how are you a loyal friend now, when instead of a ten, fifteen minute car ride home, you are now sitting side by side, him watching you sketch the statue several feet in front of you?
You hope he doesn’t notice, but he is messing up your breathing. Boys don’t normally sit this close to you, and even though you don’t sense any ill will from his genuine curiosity and fascination in your pencil strokes, you are still uncomfortable, still…excited? Anxious? Maybe all of the above and more.
Neither of you speak. You focus on drawing the statue’s reality, and he concentrates on the strokes of your pencil.
“You’re seriously amazing,” he mumbles. You glance at him; he catches it and smiles.
“I’m…actually not that good,” you say. “My mom’s a lot better than me. Our house used to smell of paint because she liked to paint on the weekends and sketch during the weekdays during her lunch break… But she hasn’t picked up a brush or pencil in a long time.”
You are rambling. You could hear it from your own mouth, feel the awkwardness sneaking up your toes, and yet you had rambled and you couldn’t stop.
And even though you expect a half-hearted answer, a half-interested response, you instead receive a genuinely captivated gaze. There is a small smile on his face, partially hidden by his arms from the backwards way he is sitting (back of the chair against his chest).
“I dunno,” he says, “what you can do is pretty amazing. It’s kind of hard to imagine that anyone can top that.”
Another compliment.
You quickly look away, having found yourself staring into his eyes.
“Thank you,” you say.
You’re grateful he isn’t annoyed, and you return to sketching, calmer than before. You can feel him shift in the chair and fall into a light sleep.
"I can relate," Naruto says. "I get writer's block — well, I guess it'd technically be musician's block.”
He glances at you; you know it’s bait. The words dangle in front of you tantalizingly, and you know better than to complete the hook-line-sinker, but you are too curious (surely the ride on the line shows glistening sunlight and water? Sure that is worth it?).
“What...do you play?” you ask, giving in to the feeling.
“A lot of things,” he replies. “Not trying to toot my own horn or anything, but music — instruments — it come easier to me than anything else.” He lists them off his fingers: “Math, composition, social studies, science... Gym.”
Abruptly, you snort, but there is no feeling of betrayal.
031:
The clouds are darkening. You wonder if the sunlight can be trapped beneath your skin, just like it is in his hair.
Despite the doubt, there is a burst from your curled toes.
“You never answered,” you say finally, looking at him.
“Hm?”
He is playing stupid.
“What instruments do you play?” you ask again.
He smiles (the word charmingly make its way through your head).
“I don’t want to give all my secrets away,” he starts, “so I’ll only tell you that I play the very clichéd guitar and piano, as well as the sax and the flute.”
You are surprised at his answer, figuring that he could only play the first two. You were not expecting the last two to be under his belt; you remember his previous words: how many more instruments can he coerce into singing?
You think you see his cheeks stain pink, because he looks away quickly and rubs the bottom of his nose with his finger, the way guys do when they think they’re cool.
“Can’t believe I’m saying this,” Naruto says, “but you’re making me feel real embarrassed.” He laughs — you hear the notes of shyness in the vibrations.
“It was just a question,” you say. “I didn’t mean to...”
“No, it's just — never mind.”
You’re now positive that there is a pink tinge to his cheeks.
032:
When was the last time you felt this way with anyone else besides your three other friends?
If there is anyone more fit for the page, God strike you now.
33:
“Alright then, Miss Chatty.” Naruto shifts his position; he looks comfortable, looking at you.
(Yes, he is indeed looking at you.)
“Tell me about your artistic ability,” he says. “You draw, sketch, do crazy things on Microsoft Paint...”
Another smile makes its way onto your face. He is too good at pulling them out.
“Paint’s not the worst program,” you answer.
For some reason, the thought strikes you now that you are too quiet, that he can barely hear you and it must be driving him crazy to have to try so hard to hear your words through your softness, and you then remember how your brain does things like this, how it makes you doubt yourself and the people around you — you push it away.
“Hey — ”
His face comes into view.
“I was just kidding,” he says. “I’m sure Paint’s a great program.”
Your chest fills with laughter.
“Ah, there she is.” He grins.
“She never left,” you say quietly, and at the tilt of his head you wonder if it is too cryptic, too strange or too soon.
But he nods knowingly. “Sleeping Beauty, eh?” he remarks. “No worries. I’ve been there.”
034:
“Are you coming back tomorrow?”
In the distance is thunder and lightning; life will often do that, you recall.
“Maybe,” you say. The word, the implications of it, hums on your tongue like electricity.
“Make it a yes,” he says. “I’ll bring my guitar.”
You are stopped in your tracks. Is this moving too fast? You are only trying to test out the waters; swimming isn’t supposed to be the next step.
Your expression makes everything obvious.
“I’ve seen a drawing of yours,” he continues. “That first day, right here. Remember?”
You are still, but abuzz.
“So... I’ll play you one of my songs. To make it even.”
“Um.”
“I’m part of a band,” he mentions, as if it clears up everything. It doesn’t, but it is a piece of information that you tuck away.
Made for the canvas, made for the limelight, you think.
035:
“Anyways...” Naruto gets up and stretches his arms and cracks his back. “Better get going before we get caught in the rain,” he announces. "Come on."
You look up at the incoming darkness; the black clouds have descended sooner than you originally thought.
“I’ll give you a ride home,” he offers. Immediately you hear the noises of the storm, sounding as if it is right over your head; it effectively mutes any intent of declining his offer.
You follow him to the parking lot, and the two of you get caught in the pouring rain.
036:
The two of you are running, arms trying to shield your faces from the onslaught of water, though it is a futile effort.
“Your sketchbooks are going to get ruined!” he yells. The wind whips his words right past your ear.
“The car!” You aren’t able to finish your thought, stepping into a deep puddle that has you almost slipping.
“Oh, right, well, about that…”
In the parking lot, there is only a motorcycle. The two of you stand before it, the rain matting your hair and clothes to your body, seeping through your backpack. You can barely see; the drops are so heavy on your eyelashes that you keep rubbing them clear to assure yourself that the machine before you isn’t a hallucination.
“Sorry, [Name]!” He can’t hide the laugh, and you can’t suppress the anxiety. You have never been on a motorcycle before, and all you can think about is your distant uncle who got in a wreck with one, in a storm like this. He wasn’t the one driving it, but still.
Realization strikes.
Maybe the rain is making you emotional like all of those romantic movies you’ve watched, but you push your hair out of your face as if it would help you hear better what he just said.
“You know my name,” you blurt.
“’Course I do."
He says it as if it was obvious, as if he always knew, as if there was no way he couldn't.
You rub your eyes.
Of course he knew.
Of course he knew.
"Are you gonna get on or what?”
037:
Naruto swings his legs over the body of the bike. Awkwardly, you follow suit, your hands tentatively touching his waist. You try to keep a distance between your bodies, but he grabs your wrists and pulls you forward until your chest is touching his back and your arms are wrapped around him, fitted like halves.
The only space between your bodies are your thin shirts, made thinner by the rain.
He is warm, you think.
Naruto glances back at you. There is the smile on his face, the one that speaks of troubles and endless teasing. His beam is not as innocent as he wants people to think it is, and now that you are up close and personal, you see the glimmers of an imp.
“Hold on tight!”
38:
He is unable to give you the helmet, and though he apologizes, you are relieved, because it is better that he is able to see on the road than you can, as he is the one in charge of your lives.
Your eyes are closed and your face is pressed into his back, his wet shirt, trying to hide from the double attack of the rain and the wind. Though you see nothing, the experience is not lessened. You feel the vibration of the bike, every pebble you drive over, every smooth turn and incline in road. You feel him inhale and exhale, feel him humming a song deep in his throat, in his chest.
The sketchbooks in your backpack are surely damaged beyond repair. Maybe there are some salvageable pieces, but at that moment you know that it does not matter.
You will always draw. You will always produce more, and it is because of moments like this, of your face pressed into his shirt, smelling of rainwater and boyish cologne, the scent of wood and warmth, your hands around his waist, fingers digging into the fabric, the feel of his eyes stealing peeks at you whenever they can get the chance, the wonder of whether or not he can feel your rapid-fire heart against your breast, because you can feel his.
