Hurt So Good (Garou Lemon 🍋)

Hurt So Good

Hello :)

This started out as me playing with third person POV since I realised I'd never published anything in third person and it grew from there.
I tagged it as xReader because, as always, I wrote with the intention that the reader imagines themselves as the female character in the story even though it's not second person POV. In that sense it's not a traditional xReader but I would love for you to imagine yourself in the scene ^.^ And if that's not your jam, you can always imagine it as an OC of sorts too!

This story also moves between the past and present. I didn't feel comfortable with having large chunks of the story in italics to symbolise a different time period so I have used the ~ symbol to indicate when there is a movement from past to present to past as well as using the appropriate verb tense for each time period.

This story really took on an unexpected life of its own!
Felt cute, might delete later ;)

xoxo

LaReinette

P.S.: usual warning that this story contains explicit sexual material and all that! ♥️♥️

~*~*~

He holds his bandaged hand in front of his face in the dim heat of early autumn. The shack has no windows and no particular light to offer but his eyes always adjust quickly. The sun is setting- No, just set. Just gone down for the night but Garou lies wide awake.
He'd just made it back after a sleepless twenty four hours. There's a dull ache in his calf where Golden Ball's little missile got him and this.
He clenches and unclenches the bandaged hand lightly.
Bandaged is a generous word. It is not a bandage. A rag he found, really. He'll bandage it up properly soon now that he's back at his own little headquarters but for now he just wants to lie back for a moment.
A smile pulls at the corner of his mouth.
His headquarters.
He likes that.
The fucking heroes have their Hero Association HQ and the monsters have their own somewhere, he is sure of it, and here he is, in his own headquarters. King of his own castle. CEO of his one-man organisation. He thinks he might even give himself a promotion, employee of the month even.
A fun, savage laugh rings out in the stillness.
How about that? Employee of the month.
So he did amount to something in the end. Heh.

The hand. An annoying injury. An unexpected one. Compliments of Spring Mustachio. But at least he'd gained some experience against blades and that's always useful.
The wound has begun to close up, he can feel the flesh starting to pull together, faster than any human he knows but still far too slow for him. At least it was a clean wound.
One quarter of a stigmata.
No, they'd never be able to crucify him now. Not even if they tried.
There is no one on his side. He has nobody. The situation hasn't changed. There is no one on his side except his own body, and it's been cooperating much more than usual lately, stepping up to the challenge. This quick healing a welcome surprise. All his billions of cells in on the plan, cheering him on, working hard to make sure he reaches his monstrous goal.
This pain? He looks over his hand again, turning it in the dusk. This pain is nothing.
It hurt like a mother fucker, stung like hell as it happened, as he felt the blade pierce the skin, slide against muscle but he was too high on adrenaline to notice much. A half hour later though, it wasn't so fun anymore.
But now it was just an inconvenient ache and tomorrow, he'll be able to deliver a punch like nothing had ever happened. He is sure of it.
This pain, it's almost gone.
But did the bastard really have to slice up his shirt?
He'd left the dojo with nothing but the clothes on his back, not intending this phase of his plan to drag out for too long and that was just fucking rude.

The last traces of sun are gone and the cracks in the roof shine a saturated violet. He can hear the last of the crickets outside. Soon they will fall silent. It will be far too cold for them. But for now, tonight especially, it is more than warm enough. Reminiscent of summer. Of broken wood and broken bones, a trail of now defunct dojos across the country. All his own handiwork.
These skilled hands.
He had never particularly really excelled at this or that before. But he'd poured all his blood, sweat and tears into learning, into training, quickly found he had a knack for it and exploited it to its fullest potential under that old man's guidance.
The geezer seemed delighted. He was so fucking full of himself, Garou's smile dissipates into a scowl. He felt he was just a trophy, a vessel, a superior demonstration for the old fool's martial arts.
If he'd never shown any particular promise, would the old bastard have shown him as much attention? It was all performative, all conditional, in the end, wasn't it?
What if he'd just ended up as another Charanko (shudder the thought)? Bang wouldn't have given two shits about him, would he?
The scowl tenses.
Now look. He's gone and done it again. Wisps of a blackening, indecipherable turmoil rising, waking deep inside. Feelings he cannot name and doesn't care to.
This hand. This pain. The edges of injured skin and bone and sinew. This pain.
This pain is concrete and visceral and real. It has a location, a pinpoint. It's definable. He can point to it and say 'Fuck this shit right here', grip it with his hand when it gets too bad, when it has gotten too bad, grit his teeth and shift his attention somewhere else.
An eight. Now a six. It's gone down to a three. A meager one.