#Wholehearted Half-Souls

[hattythewriter]

Wholehearted Asriel's birthday

Today, February 14th, is Wholehearted Asriel's birthday! Happy b-day to the fluffy goat.

[autisticraventale]

Today I found out that @hattythewriter  passed away sometime last month. His work touched my heart and I was devastated when I learned of his passing. He is deeply missed.

RIP Hatty Hattington

[littlenighttales]

For Hatty.

Rest well, my friend. See you soon.

Time: 4h 9m

[sleeplessdreamer14]

we’ll be alright ִ ࣪ ✦˚ drabble

request: no

fandom: treasure planet (2002)

relationship: jim hawkins x gn! reader

summary: You have a touching moment with your boyfriend.

contains: established relationship, fluff, hugs, tears, kiss at the end, short dialogue, no reader pronouns, second person POV, very sappy

a/n: this is set post voyage, and was inspired by Fine Line

Resting his head on your shoulder, Jim takes a slow deep breath as he relaxes against you. You feel his shoulders shake a little as he lets out a soft chuckle under his breath. His hands wrap around your middle and he pulls you in closer, locking you in a wholehearted embrace as if this was the last time he ever would. He’s so close that you can almost feel the subtle beat of his heart against your chest.

You can tell by the way that he buries his face into your shoulder and takes a slow deep breath that he’s on the brink of crying. Tears of your own begin to well up in your eyes as you return the gesture, wrapping your arms around him and giving him a gentle squeeze as you lean your head on him.

It’s perfect. As if you were made to hold each other, fitting in each other’s arms like lock and key. Part of you wanted to spend the rest of forever here.

Just as the thought crosses your mind, you hear a muffled sniff come from Jim as he begins to raise his head and slowly pull back. Not completely, just enough so you can look at him.

“It’s gonna be okay,” Jim says softly, reaching down and taking one of your hands in his. As he presses the back of your hand to his lips, you can’t help but let out a tearful giggle. Deep down, you know he’s partially telling himself that.

You know Jim loves you, and he knows you love him too. But he has confided in you about his anxieties and fears before, that something would happen out of your control, that would take one of you away from the other, or that you might wind up falling apart the way his parents did. A dozen and a half different ways your relationship could go wrong.

But now, those fears seem to have washed away with the tide, and in their place was a newfound courage in himself as he holds your hand against his chest and leans in closer so his forehead touches your own.

“We’ll be alright.” Jim whispers, as certain of that as the sunrise, tears rolling down his cheeks as he leans in closer until pressing his lips against yours.

Jim isn’t sure what he could have done to deserve this, but dammit if he isn’t grateful for it. And now, all he wants it to be close to the light that is you, to feel the loving warmth of your soul in the simplest of gestures. And now, he has the faith in himself to do this right.

[kissagii]

mars - gojo x reader

based on the song "mars" by sleeping at last

genre: angst, established relationship, gn!reader ; wc: 0.8k

warnings: general angst, blood, violence, graphic imagery, major character death basically i got really carried away and it's disturbing

This mission could very well be your last - the one that put a decisive end to your career. Or your life.

You realized as much while you belted on your armor and weapons for what could possibly be the last time. It was a macabre sight for sunset - you are young, still, and so were all the others whose lives would be on the line. How many would die you didn't know.

"Hey, hey, don't look so depressed! We'll be fine!" he said, wrapping an arm casually around your shoulder, "I hate not getting to fight with you, but I'll see you on the other side, yeah?"

"Yeah, I'll see you on the other side." You let yourself lean into his shoulder, "I love you, Satoru."

With a giggle, he kissed you on the cheek, "Aww, I love you too. Now let's go kill some curses, and if we're done early enough I'll take you out on a date, kay?"

You couldn't help but chuckle at his nonchalance. "I'll hold you to it."

His calm was enviable, a bit of his confidence trickling into you as you began making your way to your post. Neither of you looked back.

By daybreak, there was only carnage. The battle - hours, it must've been - was blurring together in your mind, the hundreds of creatures you cut down combining into a horrific mass in your memories. There was blood on your clothes, some yours, some from the curses, some from the others-

The others.

Satoru.

Satoru.

He was supposed to be nearby, but you knew, you knew how he fought: for all you knew he was in the next county over. But still you ran, heaving your heavy and aching bones forward, searching for that stupidly carefree man. Though each step sent splinters of pain through your muscles, you ran, searching blindly and desperately for his white hair and bright laugh.

It was Ijichi, standing deathly still on the battlefield, who served as your landmark. One of the many cleaning up the mess.

"SATORU" You called, running faster, tripping over your aching feet, falling with every step but unable to stop. Ijichi watched you with a hollow gaze as you approached, quivering in the air thick with smoke.

At your feet was a body, broken and bloodied. Whatever had ended this life was not merciful, and the twisted limbs and pools of blood were testimony.

Those ice-blue eyes had never seemed so lifeless.

Satoru.

"SATORU" You cried, falling to your knees with a crack, searing pain shooting through your brutalized body. "SATORU YOU PROMISED. YOU PROMISED WE'D MAKE IT OUT OF THIS."

Your throat burned from the screaming and the smoke, and the tears stung as they escaped your eyes. Water tainted by blood and dirt dripped onto Satoru's lifeless form, Satoru the man who was never injured, the man who laughed in battle because he knew he would see the light of the next day. But this time he did not.

Satoru's final daybreak had passed. And yours had not. How backward that seemed - you were the one who wondered late at night what might happen if you were to become one of the casualties, the one that was reassured every day that you won't die.

"Satoru... Satoru.... I love you." you whispered, though your words held no weight now. Had they ever? The late-night conversations, the gentle kisses, the teasing and flirting and wholehearted love - did any of them matter? At one point you'd hoped that those words would become your life, your future, your forever. But that could no longer be so. Because Satoru was gone.

Gojo Satoru, confidence personified, indestructible, was dead.

Ijichi tapped your shoulder gently. "We best be going. They're here for him, and you need a doctor."

You stood up hollowly, watching Satoru's body be picked up and carried away as Ijichi led your half-dead soul to a car. The memories replayed like broken records in your mind.

You lived through three more daybreaks before you saw Satoru again. Though it wasn't really him - only what remained, a dull greyish powder in an unremarkable jar. There was no life, nor even an echo of the brightness he once was.

When you received the call, you pondered again if this mission would be your last. And this time there was nobody to console you, nobody to make empty promises to smile with you again once it was over. Only the broken recollections of him.

Go, make a better life without me. He would've told you. Keep my students safe, fight more curses, and find love again. Be full of life.

Gojo Satoru always had too much faith.

oh god that hurt to write... happy heartbreak ig

[hick4hire]

Striker has appeared ! What to do . . .

☆ @questionablemuses — Angel's gonna take his chances & pet. Cautiously.

The Sinner is extremely lucky: Striker is holed up in the Hazbin Hotel this month. It was a reliable place to stay, somewhat lowkey, isolated from the rest of the Pentagram, non-hostile, with good booze... and most of all? Free. Save convincing that bleeding heart of princess that he was really interested in bettering himself and that even if he had no soul to redeem— he just really needed a place to stay.

She'd agreed, and a couple days in, all Hell had broken loose for the imp hybrid. He's fucking shedding. Patches of scales that flicked off his back, upper arms, and thighs. They were tan, dry, sepia-toned scales that blended in pretty well with the rest of his body— but not well enough for him. He hated them. From being called scale-slug in middle school, to feeling like a freak whenever he showered, Striker really did his wholehearted best to keep the scales from view. So when Niffty commented on the loose scale grit that dropped occasionally, like dandruff, he kept his damn mouth shut. Hopefully they'd blame it on the other snake.

Long sleeves and long pants were a good solution... until his scales lifted and itched against the fabric. He knew better than to pick them off. He'd learned that painful lesson fairly young. No, the agonizingly best route was just to wait for those slow, awful days. It came in stages: separation— his eyes had a thin cloudy film, rendering him completely fucking useless. He had to rely entirely on his heat vision, and that only went so far. His scales paled. Then, the whitening: his scales cracked, prickled, and started to lift. Next, the worst of the worst in terms of the irritating tickling sensations: he'd need to rub himself against any scratchy surface, especially his back. He had a carpet in most of his bases specifically for it. But those weren't here and no way was he risking going outside right now. A loofah sponge would have to do. Maybe he could attach one to a stick.

The worst part? The usually mostly dormant reptilian instincts. He was a heat seeking, drowsy creature. The lethargy soaked him to the bone. He couldn't work out. He couldn't eat. He couldn't even sleep in peace. He wished it would come off all at once, instead of this wishy-washy bullshit where the segments of his scales across his body let loose individually. It made it all the more excruciating. The ONLY positive trait of this unfortunate biological reaction? It meant he'd gotten bigger. Stronger. His scales were adjusting to fit a body one step closer to what was required.

Still. He'd substituted the warmth of another person for the warmth at the bottom of a bottle, and now here he was, wasted, at the hotel's bar. The bartender was missing, but he didn't let that stop him. Striker didn't notice though, a clawed hand loosely holding a bottle of absinthe, his head laid on the counter, eyes closed. He wasn't asleep. He wishes he was. He was in some groggy half-state, too apathetic to move and too intoxicated to try.

Then... his half awake state recognizes it. Warmth. Touch. Gentle fingers through his hair, his hat long fallen to the floor. The serpent hybrid's tail had flicked, the tip shivering as if it meant to rattle, but no such sound emerged. Was he too weak for even that much? Striker inhales deeply, testing, trying to tense himself up. His pride twinges. What did this guy think he was? A pet snake? Tch. He manages to tense his shoulders, but . . .

It felt nice. Damn it, it felt nice. Striker sighs, muscles relaxing slowly. He manages to turn his head, opening one ringed, dimly glowing eye. "Mmmm . . ?" A hum of confusion, looking at Angel Dust. What did Striker do to deserve this? Why was he being touched with something that wasn't hostility? Did the Sinner want something from him? Was he trying to soften him up? Was he making fun of him? He couldn't produce answers, so he tries to produce the questions: " . . . Heeeyy," Is what comes out, breath reeking of alcohol so harshly it almost stings the very air, tone quiet and gruff, a bit hoarse. ". . . Keep. . . doin' that."

[thepilotdogee]

On March 4th, 2023, fellow Undertale fan Hatty Hattington ( @hattythewriter )   has passed away from an illness. He was an active member over at the Asriel discord server, sharing his fanfic AU Wholehearted Half Souls, and many including myself enjoyed talking with him. His passing was a blow to us all and will surely be missed.

Before he passed on, Hatty sent me this Q&A question to my version of Asriel and as of this moment, he has only crossovers with Yukimura’s Asriel, @epicsackboy54 ‘s Robot Asriel, and of course, Hatty’s Asriel. Even though Hatty is gone, I just couldn’t leave this Q&A unanswered. Someone over at the Asriel discord server dedicated a shrine for Hatty in Animal Crossing and did my best to replicate it here as close as possible. Even though Kingdom of Hometown!Asriel may not always see eye to eye with Hatty’s WHHS!Asriel, he was still a good friend, and I think he’ll miss him as much as we miss Hatty. Rest in peace dude, and thanks for everything.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Souls Link!Asriel belongs to Yukimura-4

Robot Asriel belongs to @epicsackboy54

WHHS!Asriel belongs to @hattythewriter, Art made by TC-96  ( @xxtc-96xx ) Hatty's Undertale Fanfic can be found here:  Wholehearted Half-Souls  

Hatty’s Prequel Spinoffs: The Wholehearted Saga: Origins 

More of Hatty’s Prequel Spinoffs (Uploaded by me): Undertale: Wholehearted Origins (Continued) 

See the rest of my Undertale arts here: [LINK]    

[aykaypee]

zombies that embody that pure, wholehearted devotion of humanity to try and see the fucking bright side. even if it's not for the greater good. you're still in the same area you've always been. you have friends, maybe, family if you've not moved much. you have nobody, if you're really lucky.

the cashier you used to make small talk with just idles around the shop they were employed at. you're sure they have a home they should be returning to, something someone told you about familiar scents and all that, but one of your buddies gets trapped there and they joke that the place is more well-maintained than the sardines tin you're sleeping in and you realise why they don't leave, why they always seemed so tired and how being a zombie, with no need for proper sleep, seems to have helped them.

think of all the loved ones locked up in a shed somewhere, starved of flesh and proximity and the feeling to be intertwined with something so tempting when it's right around the corner or behind a fence. it's still their voice, it's still them. it has to be, they look at you and you can't see them, but that's fine. when the cure comes around, things will go back to normal. they still have all those little habits. you think you hear what has to be your mother humming the lullaby she used to sing when you were younger or when she was cooking, something that wears the vessel of your best friend like some haunted approximation laughing and suddenly you are twenty again and the world is normal. their eyes crinkle the same way. they almost look lost. they almost look like they're trying to remember too.

children crying and trying to get over or under barricades because you told me he was dead, why is he here, what are you doing he's right there, he has his arms out he wants to hug me please met me out i want my brother i want my brother

being a lone survivor. keeping a journal of all the zombies you meet—you just moved here, you don't know any of the people in your low-density rural community. the woman with long brown hair keeps running her fingers through it like she's staving off the knots, there's someone who always stops and stares whenever they're near the lake in the woods, one of them, some child you're sure was a friend of the neighbour's kid, scoots up to you. her arms latch around your leg and there is red on her mouth and you think if this is the end you are fine with it perhaps your thing will be pulling at the too-long sleeves underneath your jumper, or constantly walking along to a beat that is not there. perhaps your thing will be sitting on the roof from time to time, or at least the very closest you can get to it if death is the vacancy of the soul, leaving broken and splintered bits that half-remember who they are, you'll sit on your roof and let yourself be filled with stars and sky. sure.

the girl stops when she looks at you. like she's sure she should be doing something right now. her hands are that same shade of red. and purple. and of course. she's eaten the wildberries on the side of the road. she clung to you. of course. the stranger.

families who know they should be together and arent sure why, keep drifting off but drifting back together. bonus points if none of them look anything alike and it's clear they're not blood but they're family nonetheless.

i think it's quite devestating, actually.

Zombies shouldn't growl or snarl, they should babble a mixture of incomplete word sounds and whole words or sentence fragments. Every zombie should sound almost but not quite like it's trying to tell you something.

[moreapples]

“To the angel of the church in Laodicea write: These are the words of the Amen, the faithful and true witness, the ruler of God’s creation. I know your deeds, that you are neither cold nor hot. I wish you were either one or the other! So, because you are lukewarm—neither hot nor cold—I am about to spit you out of my mouth. You say, ‘I am rich; I have acquired wealth and do not need a thing.’ But you do not realize that you are wretched, pitiful, poor, blind and naked. I counsel you to buy from me gold refined in the fire, so you can become rich; and white clothes to wear, so you can cover your shameful nakedness; and salve to put on your eyes, so you can see. Those whom I love I rebuke and discipline. So be earnest and repent.”

—Revelation 3:14-19

~~~~~

Laodicean

By Jennifer Kane

I lived in the lukewarm,

neither fire to ignite nor ice to soothe—

just the quiet hum of apathy,

a shallow peace in unshaken waters.

"I have enough," I told myself,

counting wealth like blessings,

my comfort a shield

against the call of something greater.

But then He spoke—

"You are wretched, blind, poor.

Your riches are dust,

your garments a facade,

your sight clouded by pride."

I stood exposed,

a beggar clothed in illusion.

His words burned like fire,

yet the warmth stirred something long forgotten.

Still, I lingered in the lukewarm haze,

the cost of zeal too high,

the weight of repentance too sharp.

And so He left me—

silent, distant, gone.

It is, in fact, God’s final punishment

to leave a man alone.

In the emptiness, I felt the truth—

the void was mine to fill,

the silence mine to break.

I cried out,

and mercy flooded in.

The fire came, refining,

burning away the dross of comfort,

the pride of self-sufficiency.

He gave me white garments,

salve for my eyes,

and a heart that burned with His zeal.

Now I am no longer lukewarm—

I am the heat of devotion,

the cool drink of His peace.

Refreshed, renewed, redeemed,

I run the race,

a soul alive in His hands.

~~~~~

Scripture: Revelation 3:14-19

Laodicea was a wealthy and self-reliant city. Its water supply, however, was famously lukewarm—neither hot for healing nor cold for refreshing. This practical reality serves as a convicting metaphor in Jesus' rebuke to the church of the Laodiceans: they were spiritually lukewarm, neither fully passionate for Him nor completely distant. Their compromised and complacent faith elicited strong words from Jesus, who declared He would “vomit” them out of His mouth (Revelation 3:16).

Lukewarm faith is a dangerous place to be. It often comes with self-sufficiency, where a person or community has “just enough” of Jesus to appear spiritual but lacks the true zeal and dependence that define a life on fire for God. The Laodicean church exemplified this. They were materially rich but spiritually poor, blind, and naked (Revelation 3:17). They did not recognize their desperate need for Christ.

This warning speaks loudly today. Our modern culture often values comfort, compromise, and convenience over conviction and wholehearted surrender. But Jesus desires more than lip service or half-hearted allegiance. He calls us to be either hot, zealous in faith, or cold, where our need for Him is evident and can drive us to repentance. He offers His refining love—gold tested in the fire, white garments to clothe our shame, and salve to open our spiritual eyes (Revelation 3:18).

Take time to examine your spiritual temperature. Are you lukewarm in your faith? Do you find yourself compromising, living a double life, or being indifferent to God’s call? Ask the Holy Spirit to ignite your zeal for Jesus, making your love for Him evident in your actions, prayers, and commitment.

~~~~~

Lord Jesus, forgive me when I have settled for lukewarm faith. Search my heart and expose where I have become complacent or self-sufficient. I desire to be zealous for You, fully dependent on Your grace, and eager to serve with all my might.

Thank You for never leaving me alone. Even when I chose comfort over conviction, You waited for me to turn back to You. When I cried out, Your mercy poured in, refining and restoring me. Your discipline, though painful, is a gift of love—a sign that I am Yours.

Clothe me in Your righteousness, open my eyes to see my true need for You, and fill my heart with zeal. Let Your fire burn away my apathy and pride, leaving only a life that glorifies You. Thank You for walking with me, for calling me back when I stray, and for Your promise to never forsake me.

May my life be a testimony of devotion, a soul alive in Your hands. Amen.

[hattythewriter]

Wholehearted Half-Souls re-sharing

(Cover art is by ArtsySunbrush)

Good timezone, friends! The one year anniversary of the Wholehearted Saga is nearly upon us. Part 2 in the Wholehearted chronology, "Wholehearted Half-Souls", will be one year old on February 20th!

So, here's a goal I'd like to hit: the story currently has 2942 hits on AO3. I would really appreciate it if we could somehow hit 3000 hits in total in a week. That way, we could have a special milestone achieved alongside the main milestone of hitting one year for Wholehearted!

Here's the link to WHHS on ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/37252972/chapters/92946478

Please read, reblog, and share with your friends! I appreciate getting more readers, and I appreciate all the love and support thus far. I'll be making a more official one year anniversary post on next Monday, February 20th.

[nyantry]

"Yeah, Death, Samael," he nodded. "Like I said, I see him often... and he's helpful. I consider him a friend," he shrugged. It was very matter-of-fact.

When Nova asked if he meant the bit about souls literally, as opposed to metaphorical, he pulled his legs up to sit indian-style, making himself more comfortable in the chair. This was a serious talk. "I mean literally. I can feel how far or close he is from me, how he's feeling, almost... almost even get what he's thinking? Thoughts are feelings a lot, I think, and I get all the feelings even if they don't always make sense to me. He gets the same from me. It was a lot at first, really overwhelming, foreign. But it feels like it was always meant to be this way. It's not red, it's not blue, it's purple. You can't unpurple the paint once you mix it, it just is."

He glanced out the window for a moment, trying to conjure up the words to explain. Then he returned his gaze to her, candid. "It's the most intense thing I've ever felt. That's... saying something, too. I've felt intensely enough before to be moved to kill... to die... more than once. That was nothing. This... This is the only thing." He hoped she would understand, on some level, what he was trying to say. Even now he was missing Nico; it was just that it wasn't so terrible when he knew that Nico would be back, that Nico was happy about his mom being home, that he had Lisbeth for company on his errands.

Dmitry didn't tell Nova, but what he'd understood a long time ago was that Nico's choice, however impulsive, to mash their souls together was really just one thing: Nico had made sure that, no matter what happened, any choice from either of them to stay or to leave would have to be 100% deliberate, 100% voluntary, and neither of them could ever deny that meeting the other had permanently changed them both. He'd made it so that any declaration of love was wholehearted — for what would have been the point of half-assing it? There was no lying. It was freedom in a way Dmitry had never even conceived of until that day at the graveyard.

So, yes, literal.

It only highlighted the way Murmur made Dmitry feel like that, like something was deeply fucked up. The way Dmitry had seen Murmur look at Nico made Dmitry feel dirty and violated. It was like Murmur was aware Nico didn't quite catch the real intentions behind their interactions, too jaded by the possibility of getting on the demon's good side, of having a relationship with his father. It was like Murmur knew Dmitry saw right through it and understood it intimately, in the most personal way. It was mockery and subtle violence; manipulation making Dmitry an unwilling accessory and a Cassandrean spectator, effectively rendering him unable to do anything about what was going on. Murmur was clever, he'd grant that much, but that was exactly why the situation was so awful, too.

Dmitry noticed the way his prior words on Murmur had struck Nova. The kind of distant look she had was familiar to him — crushed hopes, trampled-on plans and strategies, a forceful move to alternate and less optimal strategies. He instinctively reached to hold her hand in an attempt to comfort her, only he unknowingly also shared by touch a good deal of what he'd kept to himself in explaining, through feeling, accidentally. Whether Nova could comprehend what that meant or not, it was there.

"I don't know that I'd say love, exactly. He wants to. He's trying. On some level, I think he also knows it's not that simple. He knows how I feel about it, I just don't know if he's willing to let go of the idea that it might somehow work out however he's imagining it should."

"Koala? That's what Nick Knack's going by these days?"

She couldn't help but smile. She shook her head just watching Dmitry and thinking of her son.

But, it all took another turn when the Murmur conversation began.

Incoming story of Dmitry and Nico's past.

Back up. First Dmitry worried about anything she might need. For now she waved him off too hyperfixated on the subject at hand.

Finally, he started talking.

Starting out a story with "when I died" probably wasn't going to blow over well in most crowds, but Nova didn't hesitate to believe and took it literally from the moment he opened his mouth.

Her mind had a hard time following. Nico caught that he couldn't stay dead. She did just walk through the veil with him. She'd been too groggy even as she went into mission mode to put everything completely together. She actually didn't know his powers. She wasn't there when he was a teenager and he'd been so frightened by his changes. Her thoughts were racing. Was he like her? Did he have human medium abilities? Was all this from his father? Her mind was going places it hadn't had a chance to latch onto yet. She and Nico hadn't had their own private sit down yet. She'd been so set on getting supplies. All of this was going through her head while trying to learn about Dmitry. It was very emotional under her still exterior.

Sammy? Her mind was clocking this.

"Sammy? Reaping? You aren't referring to Samael?"

Was this guy really referring to the Angel of Death as Sammy?

Soul chunks? She shook her head a bit. Nova lived in a mind that was pretty sure to take this literal, but considering the proclaimed love a few moments earlier.

"Literally?" She just wanted to keep the conversation clear.

"You're saying you're tied together in more than a metaphysical way, physically, spiritually speaking?" She was searching for the words but she had a feeling Dmitry got her line of thought.

She was still shaking her head because she didn't get what made him think Murmur wouldn't hurt Nico. Her whole life was about protecting him from this because she believed he would.

Then came the caveat that she always knew would come back around. Murmur wanted him. He acted like he didn't to Nico, but to Nova, it was different. Nova and Murmur had a different relationship. She always knew he'd be back for Nico. That's what she was trying to prevent. Now, here she was all these years later after being rescued from a trap she finds out Murmur has been trying. Even Dmitry understood. It didn't feel like normal fatherly reasons. This much she latched onto. But, what was bringing her heart to the floor was thinking of all that had happened to bring them all to this moment.

She failed. Things were set in motion. She didn't prepare him enough before she got her motherhood stolen from her. How many times she thought I should wait until he's older. She wanted to beat herself in the fucking head. She fucking failed.

She'd look away into the distance at nothing in particular crestfallen. She wouldn't respond for what might be considered an inappropriately long time. The past was catching up to her. It took a lot to remain strong right then.

Then she had to suck it up and remember she was here with Nico and this Dmitry. How much had Murmur gotten a hold of him by taking her out of the equation? It didn't take her long to deduce if Dmitry was talking this way that meant there was some sort of ongoing contact. It was then she realized this wasn't just prevention anymore. It was damage control.

She looked over at him finally after quite the long silence with a daze still on her features.

"Nico already loves him, doesn't he?"

She was bracing herself for a truth she felt like she already knew. It was between the lines. Grooming Nico. Even if Dmitry distrusted it meant he was around. Already back. In the damn picture and Nico was letting it happen.

[aggravatetheaxe]

FINDERS KEEPERS - Chapter 6: Into Dust

Murderer. Monster. Serial killer. Abuser. Freak. These are words you would be well within your rights to use when describing Bo Sinclair. But when a trip to dispose of a body doesn’t end up quite as planned and a nameless waif enters the picture, he might have to add one more label to the list: protector. How long can Bo justify the presence of a child who so critically throws off the tenuous balance of life in Ambrose? How long can he stand it?

CW for this chapter: probably if you're this far into the fic you know what you're getting yourself into; mention of firearms; mention of drug use; mention of fire/explosion

This title is SAFE FOR WORK.

Taglist: @blackrose8425, @shirtlessfelix, @popsnapopera, @slasherblog, @toastysalt, @sweetbird-sinclair, @imbleedin-out, @pharmacykeys, @venusanatomica, @katerinabythesea95

Soundtrack: Into Dust, Ambience

Words: 4,525

Chapter 1

Chapter 5

Masterlist

***

The air in Ambrose grew colder with every passing day, and with it, Bo grew used to their new routine.

He liked routine. 'Course, he also liked for his routine to not be interrupted, but after a week and a half, he'd gotten accustomed to the change. Mornings were no longer just about him or him and Vince: he had to think about feeding the kid, washing the kid, making sure the kid's diaper got changed. Underwear. Socks. T-shirt. Ring. Bird's diaper. Bird's clothes. Socks. Food. Juice. Sprite can.

And then, on top of all that, he didn't have his bed to himself. He always had grand plans to tuck her in and sleep elsewhere, but every night, she convinced him to stay for just a minute, and he was out like a light.

Turned out, taking care of a toddler was exhausting.

And ... frustrating. The longer she stayed, the more comfortable she got; the more comfortable she got, the more she whined, demanded, and refused, and she could be a stubborn little thing. It was only when he got real angry and raised his voice that she fell back in line like a lamb.

No wonder Momma had shouted and hit so much—and Bird didn't even talk back. If Bo recalled, he'd had quite a mouth on him.

He hadn't hit Bird yet, though. The fear in her eyes when he shouted soured his soul enough, though he couldn't have said why. Seeing fear in peoples' eyes was one of his life's great pleasures; an unmatched thrill. It was different with her, and that bugged him. It was in those moments that he knew for sure Vincent was right: she had to leave as soon as possible.

Yet, as the days passed, subconsciously, he yearned less and less for his life before her sudden appearance. He got used to his new normal. But then, he'd always been adaptable when it was required of him.

It wasn't until one morning, sitting at the breakfast table, when Vincent put his spoon down and asked, "When are you going out for Thanksgiving stuff?" that Bo realized just how long she'd been with them.

He looked up from his hashbrowns and blinked. "Oh, shit. It's in a coupla days, i'nit?"

"Lester's going to expect the whole nine yards."

"Lester can kiss my ass," Bo scoffed. "I ain't basting no turkey. Not after last year." He shoved a forkful of eggs in his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. "I'll figure somethin' out." Hey, Birdy—you wanna help me plan Thanksgiving dinner, chickadee? You remember having a Thanksgiving, right?"

She sat politely at the head of the table, although "head" was relative when your table was circular. More like she, Bo, and Vincent each sat at one point of an equilateral triangle. Her eyes darted between the twins, no longer with the nervousness that had lingered in her gaze for weeks but with wholehearted curiosity, and though she didn't answer with words—she still hadn't spoken a word since she'd read her new name off his hat—she stared at Bo expectantly as she nibbled her toast.

"Turkey, ham, sweet potatoes, chicken 'n' dumplings, stuffing, cranberry salad ... you know, Thanksgiving. We'll buy a pre-roasted turkey from the supermarket and Les won't know the difference," he added with a wink.

He couldn't help but notice the very deliberate, cold silence Vincent held. It'd been the same damn thing for the past two weeks, but whenever Vince brought it up, Bo always had the same question: What do you want me to do?

Vincent never had an answer for that. Well, beyond Take her to the cops like you said you would���but both of them knew that unless they literally dumped her outside the police station and somehow evaded any witnesses, bringing her to the cops would only draw scrutiny. They'd kept her for too long at this point. Questions would be asked, and with them still not knowing what had happened to her folks, not to mention all the secrets the Sinclairs had to hide....

Bo willfully ignored Vincent's cold shoulder, considering Bird. "Cut's lookin' good," he said as he reached out to scrub his hand over her prickly head. The gnarly gash there was almost completely healed now, with just a little pink scrape left over. "What about your feet, how do they feel?"

Bird responded only with a noncommittal hum, but, well, she'd tell him if something was terribly wrong.

"Good. Can't have ya walkin' around on busted up tootsies."

With little more than a sigh, Vincent stood from the table, dumped the remainder of his cereal down the sink, and left the kitchen. Bo watched him go, little tendrils of anger poking at his heart. There was nothing in this world more a blessing and a curse than having a twin. They understood each other like no one else ever would; when they were on the same page about something, it felt like they could move mountains. On the other hand, when they stood in opposition, it was more than annoying. It was painful.

And Vincent in particular wasn't someone you wanted to argue with. He was as stubborn as Bo but with the added, finely honed talent of passive aggressive dismissal and condescension—something inherited straight from Trudy Sinclair.

People could die, but they never really left, did they? For better or worse.

The popping of Bird's Sprite can as she depressed the aluminum with her fingertips distracted Bo from his train of thought. Probably for the best. He always went to a real dark place if he thought for too long. He'd rather be here, not there.

"You done?" he asked, eyes falling to her mostly empty but not cleared plate. Another good sign, he reckoned: she'd been absolutely obsessed with food her first week there, like she was afraid someone would take it away. It was nice to see her behaving more natural with it. "Well, whaddaya say we get cleaned up 'n' start the day?"

Bird nodded in reply, pushing away from the table but not standing up. She preferred to wait for him to pick her up and place her on the floor, if she must be forced to stand at all. Once her feet touched the linoleum, however, she squeaked her little rain boots over to the sink without complaint, climbed onto the stool, and put her plate in the sink. Bo turned the tap and pumped a couple squirts of soap into her palm, then surveyed her, arms crossed, while she scrubbed her hands with little to no finesse.

As he handed her a towel, there was an unnecessarily exuberant knock on the door, followed immediately by the sound of it opening and Lester's twangy voice: "Hey, Bo! You here?"

"In the kitchen," Bo called back, unable to hide the edge of irritation in his voice. He leveled a sharp glare at his little brother as he entered the kitchen. "Can't you knock politely 'n' wait for me to answer the damn thing? Were you raised in a barn?"

"No, I was raised in a nice, big house!" Les replied, spreading his arms wide and making a beeline for Bird. Over the past couple weeks, the youngest Sinclair brother had managed to find a hundred and one excuses to drive up here and see the baby. "Heya, sweetpea! How ya doin'?"

Bird turned on the stool and reached out—basically the way she greeted all three of them at this point—and Lester obliged, grinning and lifting her into his wiry embrace.

"Oof, feels like you're puttin' on a li'l weight!"

"She is," Bo replied tightly. He got a weird feeling in his chest whenever Les interacted with the kid. He was so much better at it than Bo was, so much more natural, and it just ... didn't seem fair somehow. After all, Bo was the one who'd found her. He crossed his arms again, if only to suppress the urge to snatch Bird away from his brother. "What're you here for—or, guess I should say, what's your excuse for showin' up this time?"

Lester turned his attention from Bird, expression sobering. "Well ... you remember you told me ta keep an eye out for her parents?"

"Yes, Les, of course I fuckin' remember that. Am I stupid? Spit it out."

"Okay, okay!" He set her down and sauntered over to the fridge. "Well, I been askin' all over hell's half acre, and I think I got a lead."

Bo was silent, simply watching him open the fridge and peer inside. Whatever feeling was prickling up the back of his neck wasn't a pleasant one: something like suspicion, dread, defensiveness. He found himself ready and willing to dismiss whatever Lester had to say out of hand, like he didn't want to believe her folks could really be out there. But that wasn't such a good impulse if he wanted to wash his hands of her, was it?

Lester took his time pouring a small glass of orange juice, apparently weighing what to say next. "I, uh ... I think it'd be easier for me to show ya instead of tell ya."

"What d'ya mean? Who are her folks, where do they live?"

"Uh, nowhere now." He took a big gulp of juice. "You're just gonna have ta see it for yourself, Bo, I told ya."

"Fine," Bo said gruffly, picking Bird up and grabbing his keys off the sideboard. "Let's go."

When Lester didn't reply, Bo assumed it was because he was chugging the last of his juice, but a moment later, the little squirt followed him through the doorway, stumbling over some kind of warning: "Now— Now, Bo, I dunno if that's such a good idea, this might not being somethin' she—"

He turned abruptly, fixing Les with another glare. "What? Y'all wanted her gone so bad, but now it's time to hand her off and you're changin' your mind? Well come on, then, let's get her back to her white trash folks, for Christ's sake, so you 'n' Vince can get off my back."

He didn't realize how sharp his tone was until he felt Bird flinch against him.

Lester started to protest that actually he hadn't bugged Bo about giving her back, but he wisely shut his mouth and pulled his hat lower over his brow, mumbling something in the affirmative as he stomped out of the house. Bo paused to put Bird's coat on, made sure she had her Sprite can, then followed suit.

"Let's take my truck," Lester said with an edge of bitterness to his voice. "No reason ta bring more attention to ourselves."

"Two Chevys ain't really a ticker-tape parade, ding dong."

Nonetheless, Bo acquiesced, walking around his truck to the passenger's side of Lester's. Shame he didn't have more of an excuse to drive his own, 'cause Lester's smelled like shit. Literally, underneath all that blood and rot. He held his nose—not literally, unfortunately—and slid Bird into the middle of the bench seat, then climbed in after her. Immediately, she let her Sprite can fall to the cab floor and reached for the mummified deer foot hanging from the rearview mirror. She couldn't quite reach it, but Bo didn't mind watching her try.

"So where is this 'lead?'" he muttered as they turned around and headed down the hill toward Main Street.

"'Bout twenty minutes north of Edward. She sure did walk a helluva long way ta get ta Ambrose! Uh ... y'know, Bo, you don't sound too convinced."

Bo looked pointedly out the window. "S'just ... after all this time, you'd think someone woulda come lookin' for her. I can't imagine what kinda people her folks must be." He paused. "And— And what're we supposed to do if they're not fit parents, just leave her there?"

There was another pregnant pause. "Bo ... it's okay to admit ya'd like to keep 'er."

Bo whipped his head round to look at his younger brother. "What the hell are you talkin' about? You big dummy, I don't wanna keep her, I'm just sayin'—it's a shame, s'all. She's a good kid; she deserves people who give a damn about her." He shook his head bitterly, intending that to be the end of his rant, but not a minute had gone by before he started up again. "I mean, what the hell kind of person leaves a baby out in the wilderness 'n' doesn't go lookin' for it? They didn't even call the police. No one's been searchin', that's all I'm sayin'. Keep her. I don't wanna keep her. She's been a thorn in my side since the moment she came into town."

"Okay, okay, take it easy!" Lester raised one hand in surrender. "Yeesh. Anyway, I think you'll see that these people— If they're her family, they ain't in much position to go to the cops."

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

"I said it'd be easier to show rather'n tell." By now, they had transitioned from dirt road to pavement, and Lester peered out the front windshield, trying to find and read the street signs. "Does that say Osmund Road?"

"Jesus Christ, Les, you know you should wear your glasses," Bo said, squinting at the sign. "Yeah." Then, looking at their surroundings. "We're in the middle a' nowhere."

Something cold touched his arm, and he looked down to see Bird clutching his elbow. She was squeezing herself closer and sinking into the seat, like between him and the upholstery she might find a place to hide. Her dark eyes sparkled, and though he wasn't surprised to see her trademark wariness, he was surprised to see just how scared she seemed to be: her little chest rose and fell quicker, and she licked her lips.

"Hey," he mumbled, removing her claw and enfolding it in his large hand. "Don't be nervous, right? Come on now, you been such a big, brave girl the past week. Don't chicken out on me now."

It was obvious his words did nothing to soothe her—and the further they went down the dirt Osmund Road, the more nervous she seemed to get, until finally she stood up in her seat and threw her arms around Bo's stubbly neck. He kept trying to calm her down, but it was no use. By the time they pulled up to the only drive on the long, rural road, Bird was crying and stamping her feet. "Pcheewww," she whined. "Pcchewww, pchhhewww!"

"Bo," Lester began tentatively, "I really think we oughtta bring 'er back home. She's upset."

"Shh, shh, shh." She had tucked her face into the crook of Bo's neck, and while he rubbed her back in circles, he looked over her shoulder at Les. "Go up the driveway."

"But—"

"Move it!"

Lester pursed his lips tight, and a moment later, the Chevy jerked up the pitted drive, bone chimes jingling. Low-hanging boughs of untrimmed trees scraped the top of the cab. It felt eerily like the swamp had lured them in and was now swallowing them up. Anticipation and dread built in Bo's chest until it was physically painful, and soon, he found he was gripping Bird as much as she was gripping him.

Finally, the place came into view. Or, rather, the remnants of it.

It had been a trailer, he thought, though it was no more than a foundation and a few charred walls now. Trash and other debris lay strewn all across the lawn, including, notably, a crib and a kid's swing set. Realization dawned on Bo.

By now, Bird was screaming hysterically. With great effort, he disentangled himself from her embrace and passed her over to Lester, reaching for the door handle. "Bring 'er back to the road. I'm gonna look around."

Lester's eyes shone with concern. "Be careful, Bo."

Bo grunted and shut the passenger door behind him as quietly as he could—but it still upset the kid, and she threw herself to the window and pressed her little face against it. Her expression of abject fear tore his chest right open, but he waved, trying to reassure her everything would be perfectly fine despite his own trepidation in this creepy-ass place.

He waited until Lester was all the way back down the road and out of sight before he turned back to the wrecked mobile home.

His first suspicion was fire—and certainly there'd been some charring, though even in the winter the swamp was a pretty shitty place to start a flame—but as he waded closer through the debris, he noticed that some of the trees close to the foundation were scorched, too, and missing quite a few of their skinnier branches.

"Holy fuckin' shit," he muttered to himself, taking his hat off and carding his fingers through his hair. There'd been an explosion.

A gas line explosion, maybe? But no way a little four year old girl could have survived that. There was nothing left of the front steps, so Bo hoisted himself into the house to get a better look around. Everything was left behind, although most of it was destroyed: furniture, clothing, appliances ... he moved toward the decent-sized kitchen, sifting through trash with the toe of one boot as he went. It was mostly bottles and boxes of—

He stopped dead, a thrill running up his spine. A lot of boxes of cold medicine. Several different types, all with varying dosages of pseudoephedrine.

The further he searched with this in mind, the more signs he found: Pyrex, tubing, funnels, rubber gloves—to say nothing of that paint-y smell lingering on the furniture and what remained of the curtains.

"Of course it's a fuckin' meth lab," he whispered.

Bird's parents were tweakers. Or at least suppliers. Not very good ones, if this explosion was any indication.

Bo took a deep breath, replaced his hat, and looked up at the midday sun shining through the destroyed roof. That solved the mystery of who her family was, but something still didn't add up. Gas or meth, this had been a fiery explosion. If the kid's parents hadn't survived, how the hell had she?

He surveyed the rest of the house, then moved onto the cluttered yard. Besides the crib and a couple other necessities, there was no evidence a child had ever lived here—but Bird's reaction told him all he needed to know. This was where it had all gone down, whatever it could possibly be.

Maybe she was just the world's luckiest toddler.

Maybe one day she'll be able to tell me, said a little voice in the back of his mind.

He was about to leave—to accept that he might never know the whole story, that she was some miracle baby—when he tripped, nearly falling on his ass right there in the ash. Whatever he'd slipped on shot out from under the sole of his boot, bouncing and glinting into a bush. Weird. Seemed like nothing around this place should be shiny enough to glint.

He approached slowly, crouched, and squinted at the 9mm brass casing pinched between his thumb and forefinger. In the corner of his eye, something of a similar size and color glinted, and slowly, he followed a trail of casings back to the house.

What in the hell?

Bo bent to pick them up, but one was stuck in the remnants of a mud puddle, and nearby ... no fucking way. He dug a finger into the dirt and retrieved a flattened 12 gauge casing.

Two firearms at the scene, a handgun and a shotgun. One explosion. Had the crazy sons of bitches shot each other in some meth-fueled frenzy? It would explain how Bird had survived: if she'd run away from the gunshots, she could have been a decent distance away when the place blew sky-high.

Bo turned the shell casing over and over between his fingers and said softly, "Pchhhewww."

Oh, chickie...

Abruptly, an unsettling feeling gnawed at the center of his back—a feeling he wasn't too accustomed to, seeing as how he was usually the hunter and not the hunted. Was someone watching him?

He looked over both shoulders, turned around, scanned the treeline ... but as far as he could tell, he was the only human soul for a mile—and to be fair, the state of his immortal soul was pretty up in the air anyway.

It was just this place getting to him, he decided quickly. Too isolated and too quiet, with all this death and destruction around...

Ain't that hypocritical? Bo chuckled, shook his head, and left the ruins behind.

***

As soon as Olympia could be sure the man was gone, she emerged from the trees.

Her heart was beating so hard and fast, it was a wonder he hadn't heard it and noticed her. There had been a couple close calls there; she'd been so damn scared he was about to spot her at any second, darting between the trees, and then who knew what he'd do? If he was crazy enough to kidnap a little baby girl...

When she'd seen the truck driving through Edward and recognized him in the passenger seat, she almost couldn't believe it. That wasn't the Chevy she remembered, but there was no way she'd forget that man's face. No way in hell. Lucky she'd been out back on her break to catch him, but her manager hadn't exactly been thrilled when she'd abandoned her shift to follow him in her mom's beat-up SUV. If there was anyone in this town to replace her, she was sure she'd have been fired.

But honestly, even if she was, she couldn't bring herself to care. This was more important.

Carefully, she made her way closer to the burnt-down trailer, in awe of it. Why had he come here? More importantly, why had he brought the girl? Olympia hadn't gotten a good look at her, but she'd been able to hear her freaking out, poor thing.

At least the girl was still alive. It felt terrible to acknowledge, but that was a blessing.

Maybe this was where the kid had come from, Olympia thought, crouching to examine an overturned swing set. In that case, was the man trying to return her to her parents? It seemed highly unlikely after keeping her for, what, two weeks? Two weeks where Olympia had been totally unable to sleep, haunted by the man and girl who seemed to have disappeared without a trace. No ... she didn't trust him.

But what had happened here? The man had looked as confused as she felt, sifting through the rubble for clues.

Was that possible? Was it possible that he wasn't the bad guy but someone who was trying to help ... someone trying to put the puzzle pieces together just like she was?

...No. She didn't trust him.

"Morning."

That word, spoken in a pleasant Midwestern voice, hit her like a ton of bricks, shocking from her a shriek that echoed against the tree trunks surrounding the clearing. She turned to the stranger, at the same time shooting toward the treeline in a bid to escape—but she stopped when she saw his face.

She had no idea who this man was. He was a decade older than her, but he was handsome, with a shaved head, bright brown eyes, and a bemused smile. "Miss? I'm sorry ... didn't mean to sneak up on you like that. I thought for sure you heard me coming up behind."

Olympia raised her hands to her flushed cheeks, and though she didn't let her guard down just yet, she mustered a smile. "Oh, shoot, I— I thought you were someone else. You scared the bejeezus outta me..."

"Sorry," he said again. He extended his hand to shake, but he didn't come any closer, which she appreciated. "I'm Brice. Brice Starky."

"Olympia." She looked him up and down, noting his muscular frame, practical clothing, and the shotgun holstered at his back. "What are you doin', creepin' around here?"

Brice laughed good-naturedly, adjusting the wrap-around sunglasses resting on his forehead. "This is my property, so.... Me and my wife, we just bought a couple acres out here. Yup, she's from Baton Rouge originally, so she's always wanted to move back here."

"Oh," Olympia said, taking her hands from her pockets. "I'm so sorry, sir, I had no idea this was private property."

"It's alright. Not like there's much out here yet, besides this." He gestured to the ruins in front of them. "But, ah, the police are still investigating, and there's probably broken glass and stuff around, so I would stay out of the area if I were you. Wouldn't want you to get hurt, right? Then I'd be liable," he added with a laugh.

She giggled nervously in return. "Yeah, guess not..."

"What are you doing out here anyway?"

Olympia fought with herself briefly. Maybe she should tell someone, though no one had cared to listen to her theory about the kidnapper so far. Still, this guy was the property owner, so surely he'd be able to help in some way. Maybe he even knew who the little girl belonged to.

She intended to tell the truth. She swore she did. But for some reason, when she opened her mouth, she could only bring herself to say, "I was ... I was looking for someone." When Brice cocked a brow, she pivoted: "I-I mean, I thought I saw someone. I was drivin' down the 445 and I thought I saw a little girl wandering into the trees, so ... I decided to drive down the road and take a look."

Brice's eyes lit up. "A little girl? No kidding."

"Yeah..." She knew she should tell him more, but instead she said, "I thought maybe she was lost or somethin'."

"Did you see what she looked like?"

Of course, Olympia knew exactly what the girl looked like. She saw her face every time she closed her eyes. "Not ... not really. I, uh, I think she had brown hair."

Brice shifted and grabbed a small notebook and pen from the inner pocket of his jacket, jotting something down quickly. "If you see the girl again, can you call me?" he asked, offering a torn scrap of paper to her. "Or if you think of anything else you remember. Can you do that, Olympia?"

She scanned the phone number scrawled across the paper, then peered up at him. "Why? Are you related to her or somethin'?"

"Yes."

He didn't elaborate.

Olympia gnawed on her bottom lip, reading the number again and again. After a long paused, she dared, "You're not workin' with that other guy, are you?"

"What other guy?" Brice asked a little too eagerly.

His tone convinced her in her gut that he didn't know about the blue-eyed kidnapper ... but she didn't care for it, either.

"Nothing. Never mind." Olympia folded the scrap of paper and tucked it in her pocket, pasting a customer service smile on her face. "I'll call you the second I think of anything else, Mr. Starky."

[snakeningel]

prompt: "could you imagine?" w/ helward

never let it b said that im not a man of the people. ficlet under readmore.

"Could you imagine? I'm certainly neither hero nor god." Jack Seward is not normally a man oft taken by flights of fancy, after all, he sees himself as too much of a rationalist to be carried away on the buoyant forces of fantasy and hope. Yet the presence of his dearest professor always seems to untether him from those steady rocks of reality, sending the two of them adrift on the wild waves of outlandish theories that he cannot help but be swept along by. Still, this hypothesis may be a bridge too far, even for a pet student otherwise unshakable in his loyalty. So with something of a scoff, Jack cannot help but question the object put before him.

If medical school had taught Jack anything at all, it was that Doctor van Helsing is nothing short of a hurricane of personality, and attempting to resist the man's charms is an exercise in futility. If Jack were to think of it, he could not have explained how a halfhearted slip of the tongue led to him here, half-bent over his professor's desk and peering down at a book too weathered to even be called ancient. All he had admitted to was the vaguest curiosity regarding his own quirks and mannerisms; even as astute a student as he is, Jack could not understand the relationship between that and this book of scrawled tales. Even the greatest of charms and smartest of men cannot convince a doctor of stories written millennia ago.

A heavy hand comes down on his back, and it takes every muscle in his scrawny body to not crumple onto this doubtlessly priceless manuscript. (Really, Jack should be proud that his elbows only buckled a little under the unexpected gesture; as great a man as Van Helsing is, regulation of strength does not count among his many skills).

"Of course, Friend Jack," Yet as always, Van Helsing's voice is full of nothing if not confidence, the rumble of his sharp consonants traveling down to purr against Jack's bones. "There are many things men write not because they are true, but they are mirror of a mirror of what they see in the world. We are doctors, so maybe we see only what is in front of our hands and what we know what we can call real in touch and hold and smell, but if you see a reflection of a tree from pond to mirror to your eyes, you will not say that the tree does not exist, no? Maybe witch and monster and hero do not exist, maybe they do. But you are no more strange than flower that do not grow in the soil of your homeland or mine, if only we see it in the ink-stroke of the other do we know it exist, and you are not the only one to ever be, ja?"

Perhaps a normal man would stumble over the words that fall from Van Helsing's mouth, but Jack has been a scholar of his master long enough to understand it just as he does Latin or Greek. The warmth of his mentor's hand burns like a coal against his back, the heat radiating through the layers of fine fabric, yet Jack could not find it within himself to pull away. His professor is a hurricane that is not easily denied or swayed, but those wild winds always lead him to a steadier shore than ever before. How many men who claimed marriage to the sea ever match that tender devotion and wholehearted trust?

"I —" The words neatly printed on yellowed paper seems heavier with meaning and ink under Jack's gaze now. Brotherhood, devotion, a soul split in two. Something within him settles like a beast soothed, its desperate howls finally answered by echoes of those who had once held the same animal bound beneath human skin. But in that moment, Jack knows that even those words pale in comparison to the devotion he holds for his mentor; how could one love a man in the same way one would worship a force of nature?

"Thank you, professor." And how rare is it to be cherished by someone far larger than life? Too many gods in the world require sacrifices of bone and flesh, yet when Van Helsing's eyes crinkle with joy, Jack knows that his god needs only gratitude from a lone disciple.

[shadowworks]

Compulsion

Pairing: Mafia!Dabi X Reader

Warnings: dubconish themes, flirting with Hawks, blood, murder, blackmail, fingering. NSFW, quirkless AU!

Word Count: 4.4k

A/N: Alright! This piece is for The Smut Pile Mafia Collab

I have to give my wholehearted thanks to @hisoknen @some-kindofgnome , @pleasantanathema, and @ever-enthralled for reading this over the last couple weeks, and making sure it reads well! I am so happy to have you beautiful souls! Also a special shoutout to Raph for brainstorming with me when I was stuck at the very end. 💕

Edit: This has fanart! Beautiful @maewoahoah created a Mafia!Hawks piece right here and a Mafia!Dabi piece here! She’s very talented! ;)

On this ominous winter evening it begins snowing. 

You readjust your peacoat and step through the frosty glow of the street lamp to your front door. Your muscles ache a little more than usual, your steps a little heavier. It’s been a long and tedious day at work; far less stimulating compared to Toga’s position working for a bootlegger named Tomura. But both jobs pay the rent. You push papers and withhold your scowls towards clients. Now, you want a bath. 

The sound of a muffled radio plays on the other side, and it floods your ears as you walk in with warmth and an iron smell wafting your chilled nose. 

“Folks, I'm goin' down to St. James Infirmary...

Seeeee, my baby there;

She's stretched out on a long, white table

She looks so sweet, so cold, so fair.”

Toga’s playing blues again. It’s a routine she has before the graveyard shift across town. At this time, she’s in the kitchen making something before she goes, but you’re having trouble figuring out what food smells like copper. 

“He-e-e-y,” you call lazily, a sing-songy tone in your voice. 

She doesn’t answer, though you hear the clacking of stiletto heels on wood, which makes you amble down the hall to see what she’s doing. 

“Think you can smuggle some whiskey tonight? I thought we had some, but Keigo probably polished it off last—“

You stop in the doorway. 

There’s a poor bastard lying flat on his back, head twisting too far towards the sink. Ribbons of blood streak down his colorless skin, pouring out from a dark and glossy hole just beneath his jaw. You see it puddle and stain the edges of his hair a sticky red, the only sound besides your heart thudding is the soft thrums from the parlor.

“ When I die please bury me in my high top Stetson hat

Put a twenty dollar gold piece on my watch chain

So the gang'll know I died standing pat.”

You’re in a daze, one where you’re not sure how long you’ve been staring. It doesn’t seem real. Is it real? But it’s not until you hear the sound of heels clicking against the wood floors that you drag your gaze to the noise. 

Toga’s standing near the stove, her features vacant, shoulders slouched, and she’s holding a knife that’s still wet.

What the fuck? 

You want to scream, berate her, seethe what the fuck was she thinking, or if she was thinking for that matter. But the blonde speaks up before you do, with a voice above a whisper. 

“He was going to leave me. Said he was too dangerous.” Toga doesn’t look in your direction, moving to the rim of pooled blood which has stopped spreading out, “I told him I wouldn’t let anyone come between us, but he wouldn’t listen.”

Your jaw goes taut, staring incredulously at her steely face. The lack of emotion gives you a sinking feeling in your stomach.

The man wasn’t a random suit who bled out on your floor, this moron was seeing Toga on and off for months and had been trying to be more present.

Nights spent arriving at your door with flowers and sweets, and driving her to work was becoming a staple in his routine. He preferred staying in Toga’s room if they had the day off, and he always slipped out when the morning frost dusted the grass, a soft bluish hue painting the streets before sunlight. 

But that’s not the problem. See, he was a core member inside the Mafia running the northern side of the city, ‘The League’ they like to call themselves. The only men above this guy was his boss Tomura, and the underboss Dabi. You don’t know the former, but you’ve spent time with the latter.

You’re aware of his sadistic nature that flashes behind those teal eyes, and he doesn’t try to  hide it, either. The sideway glances during a poker match before he fucked someone over , the smile he wore when you asked about the purple bruises on his knuckles. 

So fan-fucking-tastic, the broad has some nerve.

You curl your lip, already shrugging your shoulders from your coat. You toss it over the table and start rolling up your sleeves to the elbows.  

Toga finally turns towards you after catching movement by her side, brows raising confused, “What are you doing?”

“You’re gonna grab his feet and we’re gonna move him onto the rug in the hall.” 

You step in the blood, grabbing him by the rusty black colored jacket and dragging him from the puddle. Of course it leaves drag marks, your heels making tracks alongside, but you can deal with the clean up later. 

Toga hurries over to help, carrying him by the legs and letting you guide the body to the floral rug.

“You don’t want to know what happened?”

You stop. Immediately dropping the dead weight, his blond head lolls off to the side. Your palms sheen with red, but you straighten up and push a beach curl from your cheekbone with the back of your hand.

“Not really. All I want is this fucker out of my house.”

It’s her turn to stare at you incredulously. This is completely out of nowhere for you to be assisting in hiding a dead boyfriend, even if you two are roommates. You’ve only been living together for four months now.

“Toga, I need you to listen, okay?” you say, a bit mockingly, “I can look past the murdering business by pretending you acted in self defense, but if you don’t have the goddamn brains to realize this idiot has friends, then I suggest you don’t stab people!”

Toga flinches slightly at the lilted pitch in your voice, already suggesting panicky, “We can take him to the woods and hide him there?”

“That’ll work.” You don’t think Twice about it.  

Working together, you both hoist him a couple feet onto the rug, refusing to look at his face. You didn’t need to be feeling a pang of guilt. It doesn’t take long for you to roll him towards the front door, as the material wraps around his figure. 

The hardest part is retreating to the car. The moment you push through the door, you see the distance from where you stand and the car parked a little down the sloping street. You both give a hard look to the powdery snow dusting the ground, quiet and enchanting. It would be beautiful...had you not been carrying a corpse.

“Stop being a little bitch and heave!”

“I can’t! You’re making me hold all the weight!”

“He’s off the ground! How the fuck are you holding all the weight?”

“But my arms hurt!”

“Fucking hell, Toga. What if I had stayed at my sister’s tonight? What then?”

“Stop yelling at me! I get it, alright? I shouldn’t have done it in the house!” 

Your bickering toils through the winds, muffled by the falling snow. The burst of cold air is running through your buttoned blouse while crossing to the 1929 Chevrolet causing a shiver to roll down your back. When you reach the car Toga plops the rug down onto the snow first, then you. Your wet fingers feel numb against the metal handle. 

There’s one entrance on each side, which likely will make shimming the body to the backseat  much harder. You pause, looking at the front in thought. 

“I’ll go first,” you say, “when he’s in, you go and grab our coats.”

“Are we burying him?”

“Think the lake’s faster.”

“What if it’s icy? They’ll see the hole if we throw him in.”

You both ponder your options for a little while, this isn’t exactly something you’ve done before...You can’t say the same for Toga, but she seems just as puzzled, almost clueless on how to get rid of her ex. 

Meanwhile, the rolled corpse behind you starts to slip downhill, little by little. The slanting street gives speed and the rug starts to roll.. Red droplets trail behind in its wake. 

You just happen to see it first.

“Toga—Toga, the body! The body!” 

Toga cries out, taking off after the rug as best she can on a frozen sheet. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” 

The graceful snowfall flutters with pain and chaos.

Toga skids against the fresh ice, feet stumbling under her navy blue dress. She falls to the ground with a hard thud, and you see she isn’t stopping. She keeps going alongside the body, sliding until the two disappear under another parked car. 

You don’t have time to think, a chill strikes up your spine in your panic. 

“Toga!” you call out, taking off after her. Unfortunately you find yourself abruptly on your back, pounding hard on the stones and stealing the breath from your lungs. 

If you could sigh right now you would. Or rather, if you could punch Toga right now you would, as rage twists with a throbbing pain in your chest. Was all this worth having a mobster roommate? The odds were piling against her. You have a mind to push her in the lake when you get there.

Several silent minutes go by with you staring up at the cloudy sky. It’s brighter from the illuminating white snow, and despite the icy powder prickling your flesh, you have no choice but to wait for the ache in your chest to fade. 

“Enjoying the view?” 

You hear a new voice, male, and the suave tone tells you who it is before he treads near. He looks over you with half lidded eyes of honey gold. 

He’s very pretty. The drifting snow flakes above his wheat coloured head manage to enhance this, though the uplifted eyes lined in black, and nicely sharp features are the last thing you want to see. You’re nowhere near ready to start lying out of Toga’s mess. 

“That can’t be too comfy down there,” Keigo says, bending forward with an outstretched hand,“C’mon, upsy-daisy.” 

You take his hand, feeling another leather glove hold your waist and lift you onto your feet. When you settle, he starts brushing the caked snow off your back. Mobster or not, he’s at least a gentleman.

“You alright?” he asks, giving you a once over for any fresh scratches.

You give a slow nod, crossing your arms over your chest. Fear’s got the better of you, and you look anywhere but him., “What are you doing here? I thought you were working tonight.”

“Oh I am! You could say I’m on patrol, need to pick up a few things.” 

Your gaze stills to your left, heart skipping. Keigo’s not alone. Standing nearby, a slim figure dressed in black from head to toe is watching you two lazily. A thread of smoke seeps from his parted lips, clouding a handsome face and spikes of black hair. Keigo keeps talking, but you can’t take your eyes off the ghostly presence you know to be Dabi.

“Unfortunately that includes loverboy. He was supposed to be back hours ago, but we figured he’s still fooling around,” a little smirk tugs at his mouth, suggestively “He’s still inside, right?”

You blink, turning back to face Keigo, “I wouldn’t know, I just got home,” you lie. 

“Look at you! You look like you’re about to freeze to death.” He starts suddenly, swiftly slipping his arms out from his heavy coat, revealing a black three piece with pinstripes, and a brighter crimson tie. In one smooth motion he twirls the long, beige coat over your shoulders, letting it rest over your figure.

“Thank you,” you say, before your eyes catch something. 

Dabi moves towards the clumsy skid marks, head tilting down to the red dots in the snow near his polished shoe. You stiffen.

“You sure you’re okay?” 

Your gaze flashes from Dabi’s retreating back to a politely smiling Keigo, “Yeah, I’m fine! I’m really cold is all.”

“Well, we should get you inside. You know you left your door wide open?” Shit, the door. You forgot about the stupid door—

(Dabi looms across the indents in the snow and follows down the hill like a dark shadow against crystals illuminating bright.)

“Ah yeah, I thought I left my purse in the car. It was just for a second, and then I slipped,” You force a smile. Relax. You need to relax. Keigo doesn’t seem convinced, reading something off in your features.

“Is that right?”

(He gets the edge of the old Ford, and notes the specks of red soak wider here. The spots lead underneath.) 

“I know, it’s pretty foolish. It’s um...It’s a good thing you showed up when you did, or...”

Your eyes drift over Keigo’s shoulder. The underboss starts to crouch low. Your pupils shrink, a new wave of panic tingles the back of your neck. Damn him, why was he so clever? 

“Dabi, wait!” you shout, pushing past Keigo’s shoulder. In your hurry you kick up the snowy crystals, rushing to the taller mobster in his long obsidian coat. Dabi quickly turns, standing up.tall before you hook onto his upper arm like a lover. “I saw an animal go under there that looked hurt. You shouldn’t mess with it.”

A smirk that breaks into a grin spreads on his face, a look of amusement blooming from your look of fright. You want to glare at him, though that could be dangerous. Why does he like seeing you scared?

 “An animal, you say?” he parrots back, adopting the same mocking pitch you gave Toga earlier. He’s not in the least bit on edge, and you really don’t like that. He flicks his teal eyes up to look behind you just then, “Good thing I have the city’s best exterminator right here.”

As if on cue, you hear the crunching boots of Keigo walking to the car. “Give me a break with the dirty work, will ya?”

“What, scared of a little pest?” Dabi taunts back coolly.

 “I’m not too fond of getting my knees wet, actually,” Keigo returns quite dryly, sharp eyes studying the long pattern marks. He places his gloved hands on his thighs and drops himself to a crouch in front of the vehicle.

You desperately hope Toga proves you wrong. Maybe she had the common sense to bail while no one was looking. It’s all you can do at this point, while Keigo dips his head underneath. You don’t realize, but your grip on Dabi’s arm presses tighter into the wool.

Keigo inspects below for a moment. There’s a long pause like a winter evening should be. Silent. Calming. You can almost believe in the soothing little lie. Then Keigo coughs a laugh  that echoes through the street. Bursts of manic giggles grow louder from the mobster, leaving you tilting your head at his pushed back hair, confused.

“There’s a pest, alright! I think I caught something—“

Keigo reaches under, and with an impressively strong yank, Toga’s head pops out in a doe eyed stare. Her arms are wrapped around a bundled rug with a fairly familiar head sticking out. 

“Hey there, Toga!” Keigo exclaims, “When did you become a rat?”

 Dabi tips his head down, drawing the lit cigarette back to his lazy smile. He’s shockingly calm which does nothing to ease your shivering panic. Toga however, seems fine. In fact, she’s moved on to livelier feelings.

“Hey! Does it look like a rat could’ve done this?!” she snaps, shaking the body in her arms. It bangs against the bottom of the car sending loud echoes through the nearly empty street. Specks of blood dribble on the white ground, and a couple more drops spray her cheeks.

You stare up at the clouds, rolling your eyes. Goddamnit Toga.

“Yeah, I guess a rat can’t hold a knife, huh? Ya got me there.” Keigo turns and beams you a smug look, eyes half lidded in an expression that reads, nice try, but you failed.

You scrunch your nose, quietly shooting him back a glare. Asshole might’ve caught you both red handed, but he didn’t have to be so fucking cocky about it. It’s only charming when he has a winning hand at cards. Beside you, Dabi’s shoulders shake with silent laughter, though you don’t have the guts to flash him the same glower. He is second in command after all.   

“Yeah, see? That’s what I thought!” Toga says in victory.

You blink very, very slowly at Toga when she finally meets your vastly unamused gaze,“...Nice work, Toga.” 

It comes suddenly. A fiery warmth ghosts the dip in your waist as Dabi leans in. It’s not unwelcomed, raw and soothing even, but it hardly lasts. His hand curls around Keigo’s coat collar and pulls it off your shoulders. The crisp wind rushes to your exposed arms.

“You got any rat poison on you, Hawks?” Dabi tosses the coat to Keigo. 

He catches it mid air as he rises to stand. “Nah, fresh out. But we have some back at the house.” 

“You want to take care of our rat problem then?”

“Can do, boss man.”

Before you can figure out what they mean–what they have planned for Toga–Dabi’s pristine leather glove presses at the small of your back and directs you toward the pouring light of the open door. “Don’t wait up.”

It’s barely there, but as you shift your eyes to Keigo, his features take on a darkened look toward Dabi.

“Play nice, now,” you hear Keigo say. This time though, the joyous tone is gone. 

A new song hums on the radio when you’re pushed through the threshold, you listen to the richly solemn blues as Dabi closes the door. He turns the lock with a click and pockets the key.

“I forgive you 

'Cause I can't forget you.

You've got me in between the devil and the deep blue sea”

He doesn’t give you a passing glance, instead he turns and strolls down the freshly bare hall. He hasn’t removed his coat, and each room he passes he tilts his head in to search for something, stopping by the parlor. With a twist of a knob, he shuts off the radio.

“Where’d she ice him?” he asks, still not looking at you by the stairwell. 

“In the kitchen.” You return. No point in hiding it now. 

His steps creak the wood as he ambles further down, knowing full well where to go. He’s been here a handful of times; of course, those were happier evenings filled with drunken laughs.

You watch him stand by the doorway, staring at the vibrant mess of a crime scene. He pops the tip of his cigarette in his mouth before slipping from your line of sight. Dabi’s got the key to the door, so it’s not like you can run away—especially with Keigo just outside. It’s too risky to try and you know it, but it does cross your mind. 

Summing up the courage, you decide to follow Dabi with measured steps, “What are you going to do with Toga?” 

When you face the kitchen, Dabi’s near the table where you threw your coat. He has a hand in one of your pockets, and he’s fishing for something inside. It jingles in his grip as he stuffs it into his own pocket. Your car keys. 

“Are you going to kill her?” you try again, a little irked he’s swiping your things left and right. He doesn’t release your coat either, laying it over the crook of his elbow.  

He draws a final inhale from the dying bud, and crosses to the sink to snuff it out. An exhale of smoke blows out from his lips, “Killing her seems like a favor, don’t you think?”

“I thought it was the other way around.”

He turns, flicking teal eyes sheening with energy at you, “That lunatic’s no longer your concern. Right now, you ought to be more worried about yourself.”

Your features go taut, which in turn makes Dabi’s sadistic smirk return.

 “I didn’t help her kill him.”

“No,” he agrees, taking a few strides around the blood to approach you,“but you were willing to stash the stiff.”

“Yeah, for this very reason. I didn’t want you coming after me!”

Dabi draws dangerously close, mere inches apart as he glances down with lidded eyes, the smell of tobacco perfumes from his shirt collar nestled under a violet tie. He crooks his index finger, embellished with a silver ring, ghosting it under your chin. “How’d that turn out for you, babydoll?”

With a ruthless smile, he breaks the fixed stare and rounds you to the hallway. He seems to be making his way towards the parlor again, but the swish of your peacoat in his arm, set you off.

How dare he? You don’t like how he’s walked inside, claiming what’s yours. You might have your life screwed over, but at the very least you want your coat back as some semblance of control.

You stalk after him, picking up pace to aim for his arm. The clacks of your heels are loud, but you currently couldn’t care less about being sneaky, “Give it fucking back. You’re not keeping that!”

You lunge for the black wool, but as your fingers brush the material on his left elbow, Dabi whips the coat, rotating arms. You’re not fast enough, but you try a second reach for his right arm, huffing out a growl at his stealthy reflexes.

“Dabi, I’m serious! You’re such a—”

In a twirling motion his newly free palm shoves at your shoulder, pinning you against the stairwell’s wall. He’s close, so close, the blue flames in his eyes are absurdly intense. 

“That makes two of us. You’ll get this back when I say so.” 

His voice is low, soft lips almost connecting to yours. You tilt your chin up, glaring at him with fearful, tentative eyes. His gaze flashes with mirth, and he huffs a small laugh at you.

“I’ve always liked this about you. That spark inside you.” He muses. The peacoat spills to the floor. Dabi lifts his slender fingers, pushing back a loose curl from your cheek. 

Your stomach flips, as shocks tickle your skin. There’s been subtle flirting between you two before. You just wrote it off as overthinking the moment. Even though he only called you, babydoll, and he sat next to you at gatherings. How he filled your glass with water instead of booze as the nights waned. Now, you feel foolish for denying the little signs. 

“You have a horrible way of showing girls you like ‘em,” you counter back, your voice’s quiet but leveled. 

“Yeah?” he asks. The arm holding your shoulder tightens, while the other lowers to collect your long skirt. He traces his knuckles on the soft flesh of your thigh. As his hand trails up, his eyes remain fixed on your facial features. “Maybe this will help.”

His slim fingers reach the cotton slip, and it’s easy to pull off to the side, exposing the lips of your warmth. He tests the waters, sweeping the tips of his fingers across your folds. Your mouth parts in a breathless hitch in your throat. Dabi parts his own lips drawing near, ‘til his lips touch yours but not quite pressing together yet. His pierced nose bumps yours.

“Now here’s what’s going to happen,” he starts, just before sinking two fingers between your folds, pumping deep and slow inside. “You’ll go upstairs and pack what you need. When you come down—”

He thrusts particularly hard into you, sending a gasping moan to fall from your open mouth. His voice remains calm, a hint of glee can be detected. Fucking bastard.

“—You’ll be leaving with me. You’ll work for me...Live with me…And you’ll do everything I say. You got it, babydoll?”

He adds a third finger, soaking his knuckles deep with your slick. He’s hitting the right spots, the perfectly deep pressure. Your attention turns hazy as wakes of pleasure tighten just below your stomach. Your hips buck against his thrusting hand, yet still, you manage to nod your head. 

Moans flutter from your lips and vibrate onto his smiling one. To heighten the pleasure he begins swirling your wet clit. “Ah, Dabi...Oh god, Dabi—”

He slows his fingers suddenly, which makes you cry out. He pretends to ignore it. “If you try to escape me...I will hunt you down and hurt you in ways that will marr that pretty skin of yours. I’ll make you scream so loud, and no one will be there to save you. Tell me you understand.”

He curls his knuckles, pressing into a rough spot at the top, pumping fiercely against your slippery, muscular walls. You cry out, squeezing at his shirt collar and coat. “Fuck—I understand, I understand! Baby, right there, ah!”

Dabi gives you no mercy. He tugs and twirls the bud of sensitive nerves, swirling with driven circles that clench your walls in wonderous pressure. You’re close, he’s so close to sending you in high bliss. Your moans get heavier, and your clenching more and more and—

He removes his fingers. Another cry of protest sobs from your mouth only to be swallowed by Dabi’s lips on yours. His tongue massages the moans from your breath, his scent of cigarettes and smoke immerse your senses as you drown in the kiss.

He slowly breaks apart with a wet sound, looking deeply in your lust-glossed eyes. His voice is low and arousingly husky. “Now get your things.”

Before you know it, Dabi pulls away from your shoulders, and turns for the parlor. You try catching your breath, watching his slim, muscular back...Did that happen? Did he rob you of everything? Your home, your life, your orgasm?

Eventually, with light steps you do as you’re told, and turn to climb up the stairs. What choice do you have? He has your life in the palm of his hand. And right before you make it to the top, your hand drawn on the railing, the spinning clicks of your house phone perk your ear.  

A long pause. Then finally, Dabi’s rich voice speaks up from the parlor,

“Hey, I’ll be needing a few guys at Togas...Yeah, we found him….Toga did him in pretty good...No, we’ll need the good bleach for cleanup.”

***

P.S, this might be a mini series 👀

[recitedemise]

Perhaps Ameridan has ought to speak to him in smaller parts. They could then gather in the morning, expounding on their slumber as some light aperitif, and their moving onto topics of a cut more tender? That, their grand entrée, would so delightfully fill him. He'd then the time, he would wager, to both savor and consider each succulent portion. As it were, he's drowned in half a deluge, palate dumbly struck with a thick, sweet mead. His cheeks would color and his world would tremble! He's on the bloody appetizer and he's half-way drunk.

Truthfully, there's not a world where he'll leave this with the whole of his senses, but...well, a pride-death tonight would be merciful, indeed. Ameridan, as is he's wont, stuns him mad, mad, agog.

"If there's but one thing I've learned, Ameridan," Gale somehow recovers, "is that arguing with you is but an exercise in futility." It's fond. "You would astound me always, and there's not a conceivable world where I could say that enough. Believe me, I am very much aware of my considerable vocabulary, but the whisper of a moment in an evening by your side? That alone would leave me stumbling without them."

Selfishness, is that right? To his horror, Gale decides that he likes it, that grasping, self-serving, and remorseless greed. Of course, it isn't new to him, most certainly, the clinging of those cobwebs of another soul's wants; however, it's but the nature of the wanting proving more the whirlwind. In fact, it's like an ocean and some star-jumps away from Hers. Dizzyingly, Gale wouldn't question his sincerity, that need for Gale's survival so blisteringly naked. It hardly matters to the price tag, to the lives he'd put at risk for this wizard so rotted, and it's this wholehearted selfishness that catches in his swallow. Gosh. At long bloody last, some honest regard.

No, he won't grieve any longer. He won't put the nail to wood in another damned coffin. He sooner roils at the notion, beleaguered enough already by a phantoming weight of a million wakes. He'd rather it were him, Ameridan with the nova in the chasm of his bones — and, well, what if the pleasures of life has lost its luster?

No more funerals. Determined, Gale corrals him closer with a tug at his hand.

"You've really ought to be more careful when making those grand offers of yours," Gale heatlessly remarks. "Otherwise, at the rate I'm supposing you're keen on keeping, I'm afraid that I'd have to insist you keep me had." Naturally. As clearly as the morning, he's endeavoring like a hero for a hint at levity. At any rate, some morself of cheer couldn't hurt them, right? At Gale's tent, an untaken pillow fluffily beckons. "I can't speak to a million lifetimes, unfortunately," he picks up again, "but if you're determined to have me for the one, then I will see to making it feel like a substantial deal more. You know, Waterdeep is lovely during this time of year. As soon as the trees begin to golden, the scene from my tower is unparalleled. You would take to it remarkably. I should like it if you came."

Grabbing his pack, Gale unwraps some delightful little cakes to chew on over wine. "If, of course, you've no plans after all our adventuring. Everyone but you seems to have drafted a manifesto of sorts."

"You speak of charms as though it wasn't obvious when we first met you were the one who has a way with words." They both do, in truth, though in different ways. Ameridan is concise, straightforward --- some have praised him for eloquence on occasion. But language is a tool to him, albeit one he wields with care and grace, whereas for Gale it seems a paintbrush or a lyre, turning his thoughts into the most exquisite art or the sweetest music.

And still the wizard does not even seem to realize what he did with those words, what they meant. "It was enough. It took me through. We are here now, and though we do not know the path ahead we are more prepared for it than before. This hope, this faith --- it is yours. I am returning it."

It is selfish, perhaps. Were the orb his burden, doubtless Ameridan would use it at the first opportunity. He may not be convinced it would work, but he would judge it worth the attempt, because the gain would be so much greater than the loss. If it did work it may save hundreds of lives, thousands perhaps, all those the Absolute would lay claim to while they searched for an alternative. If not, still only a single person would be lost. Like Gale he can see the logic. Like him, he doesn't consider his own life worth more than those hundreds or thousands, even if saving them is only hypothetical.

But it's not his life being offered up in trade, it is Gale's. And Ameridan doesn't want to lose him. This brilliant mind, this passionate heart, those kind yet blazing eyes. Those hands so soft to his skin, that troubled chest. The way he looks at anything beautiful or curious, how a small wonder lights up his face. The way he looks at Ameridan sometimes, the way he finds words of comfort whenever he needs them, the trust he has placed in him. He's not Ameridan's first, just as Ameridan would never be his first. If anything, he may be the last. For Gale is still quite young for a human, and Ameridan is old, and maybe...

maybe it will even out.

Maybe there is no more life left in Ameridan, even if they survive this, than there is in Gale; maybe there is even less. Maybe if they see this through he can be the first to go. Maybe he will no more be the one left behind while friends and lovers die and are buried.

It's selfish, perhaps. But he's tired of being the one left behind. As his hands soften by Gales touch and his heads bows low, he is so tired.

He cannot say these thoughts to Gale, of course. Was he not just speaking of hope? "It was never my design to trap you, but if that is what it takes you keep you here, alive..." Yes, hope. May Tymora grant him enough for the both of them. He lift shis head again and smiles, and his other hand clasp's Gale as though to give him no room to slip away. "... then i will keep you. Not for a million lifetimes, but maybe for one --- and if not, then for now, and as long as you want."

[thefanficmonster]

Finally, You’re Back

Part 1: ‘There You Are’

Karl Heisenberg (Resident Evil 8: Village) x Reader (Gender Neutral)

Warnings: Mentions of Injury and Human Experimentation, Insecurity, Swearing, Spoilers for RE8

Genre: Angst, Romance, Some Humor and Fluff too

Summary: And there they are, back in that village half a decade later to retrieve what’s theirs but unaware of what they’ll find in place of what they remember.

Requested by one Anon and the idea was modified by another Anon, so thank you both so much for sharing your creativity with me, it’s really been a huge honor to write a fic inspired by such a beautiful idea. Love you both! 💕

If again is what he hoped and prayed for, why is he damning it now Why does he resent himself for having hope When he previously wished nothing but to have it Why does their presence hurt When it used to heal him Why do they remind him of how much of a monster he is When previously they were the only one making him human Why is he worthy of their presence When he’s only become worse They upheld their promise But the person they are coming back to is no longer alive He’s taken his place and he hates himself for it He’d kill himself to get him back He’d do just about anything Just to prevent those eyes from seeing them differently Just so he can greet them with open arms and say:

“Finally, you’re back“

But as of now all he can say is:

“You’re back, but the one you’re searching for will never return“

He was made aware of their presence the day of their arrival in the village. He knew all about their venture, going around the village asking for him to be looked at with terror by the villagers they came across. He watched as all the people refused to tell them his whereabouts, claiming they didn’t know or they couldn’t tell. No matter what bribery or convincing method Y/N tried to use, the villagers refused to stand down from their determined ground.

They refused to give up though, going against his prayers that they would. They might have felt discouraged but they never, not even for a second, thought to give it up. Never did they even consider forgetting him as an option. It’s been half a decade and they still remember him, they still have the will to look for him despite all the time that has passed, despite the odds that aren’t in their favor, despite the lack of help from anyone.

They keep going, keep trying. They keep driving the sword deeper into his chest, piercing his heart.

If only they could accept me like this. If only they could look at a monster the same way they looked at that boy they met five years ago...

His mistake, although blatantly obvious even to him, is not something he’s willing to correct. He doesn’t want to give them a chance. And the answer to the question many - even he himself - would ask ‘why’, that answer he doesn’t want revealed.

Because he knows it and would do anything in his power to keep it from swimming to the surface.

The answer? - It’s because he’s afraid. Terrified really.

What of? That’s the part he’s not sure about. Is he afraid of them being scared, disgusted and repulsed by him? Or is he afraid of the complete opposite - that they won’t bat an eye at the change he’s undergone. That latter option leaves him with a bitter taste in his mouth, his stomach turning. He doesn’t believe he deserves that reaction, after all he’s done, after becoming the monster he is now, he’s done his best to not even think about them - attempts that have failed miserably. Not a day has gone by that they haven’t been on his mind. He thought getting rid of the dog tag necklace - the promise - would cleanse his system of their memory that’s etched itself so deeply within his mind and soul but his hands refused to cooperate when his brain kept telling them to lift that necklace off his neck. He couldn’t do it, and he hated himself because of it for a while, but if he’s being honest he felt more relieved than anything else. He doesn’t want the only real memory, the only pleasant memory of his human days gone. He doesn’t want to wipe Y/N from his mind, they’re the only thought that still sends his heartbeat speeding in a positive way. He knows he’s a coward for what he does, hiding in the shadows and watching them waste their time with the villagers who think they are downright insane for going around looking for Karl Heisenberg whom the entire village knows as Lord Heisenberg. Not using his title each time they ask never fails to bring a smile to his face. It’s a relief that they at least have a nice picture of him that has stuck with them. And if it’s up to him, that’s the picture that will remain, they won’t see him like this, this new him won’t replace the old him in their mind. He’d do anything to make sure of it.

That being said, you can imagine the massive shock and mini heart attack he experienced one day when his motion detectors picked up on someone entering the factory in broad daylight. Rushing to the camera display, the briefest glimpse was enough to make out who this foolish person looking for their death was. 

Goddammit, Y/N!

It was no longer a danger to his sanity, their presence at the factory was an even worse danger for them. His creations wouldn’t think twice about slicing their tiny frame in half with their implemented chainsaws, designed to do exactly what he’s hoping they won’t get the chance to do this time. Running to the elevator, all he can do is silently pray he reaches them before they come across one of his minions.

What he’s going to say to them? How he’s gonna greet them? He hasn’t got the slightest clue, all he knows is that he has to get to them asap.

Running out of the elevator once it settles on the ground floor, he almost crashes directly into them, eyes wide with shock as the adrenaline is still pumping throughout his body despite the immense amount of relief he feels wash over him. He doesn’t notice at first, but when he does his heart sinks: their gaze is empty and their face unreadable. He can’t bear to have them looking at him like that, it hurts more than physically hitting him. Hell, it hurts more than the experiments Miranda did to him.

“How’d you find me?“ He decides to end the silence for his sanity’s sake, his heart heavy and aching in his chest.

They shrug, “Wasn’t easy, I’ll have to admit, you’ve trained the villagers well, none of em wanted to give me even a clue.“ They give him a small smile before looking around at the factory walls and everything lining them, “And then I put it together on my own. It was a bit of a stretch...“ they trail off, their eyes scanning him from head to toe, “...but I see it was a lucky one.“

He can’t help but huff, more out of disgust for himself than anything else, “If you call this lucky you’ve gotta have a few screws loose.”

Much to his surprise, this remark earns him a genuine, wholehearted laugh from Y/N, “Oh Karl, didn’t you pick up on my loose screws back when we first met? That’s odd, people usually take one look and can already tell.”

He scoffs, letting a small smile slip onto his face before he chases it away, forcing himself to maintain the seriousness, “I can’t believe how foolish you are. Didn’t you, even for a second, think there was maybe a good reason why people didn’t want to give you my whereabouts?”

“Oh I didn’t need to think about it!“ They say, lifting a pointer finger in the air as if to emphasize their point, “They were pretty clear when they were calling you stuff like ‘monster’ and ‘cruel Lord’ or whatever.“

Heisenberg’s eyes widen in an instant, “So you knew? You knew I was...I wouldn’t be the same as you remember me?” He asks, his jaw almost reaching the floor.

They nod nonchalantly, “I mean, I was sure of that part, it’s been half a decade, after all. Of course, I didn’t expect such a drastic change but it changes nothing. The villagers made it all sound super scary and dramatic...”

Karl doesn’t get confused often. However, right now, they’ve got him completely flabbergasted. “You were told about me...about me being what I am and you still showed up and walked into this place everyone fears like you own it? Where the fuck is your self-preservation instinct?!”

With an eye-roll, Y/N pushes past him, entering the elevator and walks over to the buttons to choose a floor, “Up your ass, Heisenberg. Right next to the stick that’s got you in such a foul mood. Is this how you welcome back an old friend?” Though the words themselves were harsh, they spoke them in such a way and with a sincere look in their eyes that they had the complete opposite effect of what they’d usually have. Hell, he wants to laugh at the vocabulary on its own, it’s so refreshing to hear someone use those terms and speak so freely around him, unfazed by his powers. To be fair, they’re probably not even aware he has any.

Looking at them now, their intense gaze telling him loud and clear that they’re completely unfazed, has him going soft. They’re still his connection to the humanity he’s lost, he’s still clinging onto it thanks to them. And while he still believes he doesn’t deserve to preserve any last piece of it, he’s glad that he’s not the judge of that. The punishment is not his to decide. It’s theirs. And who knows, allowing him to keep a tiny fragment of his humanity may be the ultimate punishment but he doesn’t know it yet. Regardless, he’s happy with it as long as it means he has them by his side to carry said punishment out.

When all they get in response to their words is a laugh they too let a smile lighten up their features, “There you go, knock some humor into you.” They turn to look at the buttons briefly before locking their gaze onto him once again, “I like what you did with the place. Care to show me around?”

He shakes his head as his laughter dies down, “You won’t like it.”

Y/N rolls their eyes yet again, “Leave that up for me to decide, old man.”

A frown comes across Heisenberg’s face, “Old man? How dare you?”

The sound of their laughter almost manages to wipe the frown off his face. Almost. “Old man who can pull off even a century old dog tag necklace.” They say, sizing up the necklace resting over his chest which he automatically reaches out to touch as a result of her remark. “You can keep it, by the way. I don’t need it back. I’ll be sticking around for some time after all.”

Before he can even process what they said, they’ve pulled him into the elevator and pressed the button for the top floor, looking out of the open side of it to be able to see the inside of the factory as the metal box keeps climbing, carrying them with it. Their back is turned to him so he can’t see the look on their face but he can only hope it’s not one of horror or disgust. If he were to receive that look from them his heart would shatter on the spot. So he’d rather they don’t turn around - both for him not to be able to see them grimacing and so they can’t see him staring at them with that look in his eyes.

Look of adoration he’s never given anyone before nor will he ever give to anyone else. And so, all the pieces of his soul have found their proper spots.

Thanks to Y/N.

Finally, you’re back.