Hazbin Hotel (and Helluva Boss) x Reader (Under Rewrite)

Husk x Reader

For fanofaot2

I tried.

Reader's P.O.V

Fighting for your country is a great honor.

At least, that's what you always get told.

War is often glorified way more than it should be. In reality, it isn't as glamorous as I had hoped, but by the time I actually found that out, it was already too late.

There I was, a starry-eyed, bright young soldier, straight out of boot camp, and I was ready to die for my country. After hearing so much about bravery and sacrificing for your land and people, I knew that's what I was destined to do. Follow in the footsteps of all those great men. So I signed up for Vietnam. I wanted to do something for my country. And now was my chance!, I thought naively.

After just a few weeks, every ounce of heroism and thrill I initially felt was drained out so thoroughly I don't even remember it being there. It almost felt like I was always this hopeless and exhausted. It felt like nothing even mattered anymore. Between philosophizing about the human condition and watching all your friends die one by one, it was very unfulfilling. Stronger than my fear of dying and my increasing hatred of humanity was my disappointment at this fact. There were explosions and guns and everything I was promised, but none of the glamour or glory.

Perhaps that's a very simple way of describing the true horrors that I witnessed. I could go on, of course, detailing the dreadful massacres and agonizing mental torment I went through. But details get hazy when you don't want to remember them.

Now that I think about it, there was only one person that almost made me feel something. Ironically, my fondest memory of him took place while my closest friend at the time was dying slowly. His name was Johnny, I believe, or maybe it was Jerry. Maybe something else. He was fatally wounded, and even the nurses couldn't help him. I may have been a little desensitized, as, while he was on his deathbed, taking his last breaths, I asked if he would let me borrow his boots, as they were still in prime condition, unlike mine, and he no longer had any use for them, as he was about to die.

He said yes.

As I was putting them on, another man, older than me, came up to Johnny or Jerry or whatever the fuck and started talking to him. I didn't pay attention to what he was saying. All I knew was by the time I got up again, Johnny was dead.

"He was a fine young man", the older guy said to me. I nodded. "He was. He let me take his boots." He looks down at the shoes, then up at me. "Are you fucking with me?"

"What! It's not like he needed them!"

He shakes his head at me. I roll my eyes. "Ugh, whatever."

I glare at him while he's not looking. Does he think he's better than me because he's not resourceful? I hate people like that. Should I punch him? No, no, (Y.N), this is no time for violence. Maybe try being friendly. I tap on his shoulder, a smile plastered onto my face.

"So, what's ya name?", I ask him, not minding subtlety. He doesn't respond. My smile falters slightly.

"What's ya name?", I repeat, a bit louder.

"Why does it concern you?", he snaps. Rude. "I'm only trying to be nice", I say. "It's good to make friends."

"In these times?"

"Especially", I say matter-of-factly. He sneers. "Are you okay, kid? I think you spent too long in the sun."

"I don't think I did. I just want to know your name. My name is (Y.N)(L.N). What about you?"