Hsr Acheron X Reader - Tumblr Posts

6am thoughts are thoughting… been thinking about this quote—

So take my tags, and I’ll take yours, and if I die in this shitty fucking war don’t tell them we switched; let me be buried under your name—and some fifty years from now, you can be buried under mine.

tempestaurora. 2019. “let me be buried under your name”. https://archiveofourown.org/works/21021290

—and naturally thought of acheron and her ‘borrowed name’ because like. what if it was yours.

‘origin’ is not a blade to be unsheathed for fickle reasons. it was forged in the blood of millions, a symbol of an endless struggle against fate itself. the only time ‘origin’ should reveal its cutting edge to the world is to invoke ‘end’.

and yet, sometimes, she unsheathes it anyway—if only to delve into those fractured memories stored within the scabbard and see your face once more.

the memory flickers and ripples as she watches from outside, the ghost of her future watching the life of her past. she’s sitting next to you—alive, breathing, beautiful you—as the both of you sit on the balcony of an abandoned apartment. she remembers this mission well; it was a simple scouting one, observing the movement of the oni, and you had even brought peaches with you.

she watches herself watch you as you bite into the soft, overripe fruit, the juice trickling down your chin. a smile creeps onto her younger face—you’ve always been a messy eater. your expression scrunches up as she reaches out to wipe away the spilled sweetness, but you let her do so anyway. a beat of silence passes between you both, but you break it first.

“hey, ▇▇▇?” you hum, and her current self lets the sound of you saying her true name wash over her. there are many vices in the universe, but none will ever be as potent to her as you.

“yes?” her past self answers, a curious look on her face. in the dim light of the storm-shrouded sky, her red horns gleam like rubies. her heart jumps the same way it always has when you turn to look at her.

“let’s switch tags,” you say. your expression is one she can’t really read, at least not back then, and her hand that had been on your face falls. her past self tilts her head in curiousity.

“switch… tags? why?”

you eyes flicker back to the fruit in your hand. it’s falling apart, sticky flesh heavy with sweetness turning mushy and falling to the cold, damp concrete. “i dunno,” you answer after a while. “i just… feel like it, i think. if i gotta die in this stupid fucking war, then i wanna be buried under your name.”

she should have known, then. you’d always been strangely perceptive—it shouldn’t have surprised her that some part of you anticipated your own death. but that past her had only indulged you with a smile, because she had never been able to say no to you. she slips her tags off from around her neck, then loops it around yours, and you do the same. you take the oppurtunity of being so close to her to kiss her, and she giggles. you taste like peaches.

that day, she became ‘acheron’, and you became ▇▇▇. and not even a week later, it is the name they engrave on your tombstone.

(it’s fitting, really. because when you died, so did she.)

in reality, acheron lets ‘origin’ slip back into its scabbard with a click. her umbrella lies discarded on the ground, and the downpour soaks her form, but that’s alright.

at least like this, she can pretend that the tears slipping down her cheeks is nothing more than just the rain.