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aggravatetheaxe · 2 years ago

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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."

#bo sinclair #vincent sinclair #lester sinclair #house of wax 2005 #sinclair brothers #how 2005 #slasher community #slasher fic #slasher fandom #bird sinclair #written #bo sinclair imagine

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nyantry · 20 days ago

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"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.

#iconoclast infidels

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snakeningel · 2 years ago

Note

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.

#dracula daily #jack seward #abraham van helsing #helward #(idk where this fic came from but yeah it sprung fully formed from my head)#drac ficlet #(thats my tag for this series thing now lol)#(anyways hope i got the van helsing babble right xoxo)#(pls no judge writing i wrote it in 20 minutes before i went to bed lmfao)#(ok snork mimimimimimimi time gn)

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shadowworks · 4 years ago

Text

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 👀

#dabi x reader #touya todoroki x reader #bnha fanfiction #mha fanfiction #dabi #touya todoroki #my hero academia fanfiction #boku no hero academia fanfics #mafia!dabi #tw blackmail #tw blood #keigo takami #bnha x reader #the smut pile #tw dubcon #shadow tales

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thefanficmonster · 3 years ago

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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.

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sybilinthehollow · 3 years ago

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I'm Feeling Just Fine - Chapter 2 of 3

High School AU: Jungkook x Reader, feat. rest of BTS

Genre: Angst and Fluff (mostly angst for now), Slice of Life, Sickfic, Platonic with a Romantic Bent, Foster Siblings

Rating: General Audiences

Word Count:

Find Chapter 1 here! My masterlist here!

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You’re getting better.

It’s no falsehood, now, the dietitian you are currently seeing has assisted you and Jungkook’s family in figuring out a solid diet that works (helps that they can afford fancy organic foods, and his mom has time to cook)- and stress relief of a brief run or a stretch, or one of Jungkook’s Eomma’s back rubs helps the tension headaches that apparently caused half of the nausea bouts. No, after a few intense months you’re happy to say that your immune system is so, so much better, so much so that a cold doesn’t knock you flat for a week, with complications, like they used to. You’ve had enough pneumonia in your lifetime. And the constant time spent with friends cheers you up, body, soul, and spirit, and the doctor commended this.

The tentative friendship you and Jungkook have built eases your worries on that front for the most part; he having thawed out to tolerating you (helped, probably, by him being relieved of the annoyance of hearing you vomit every other day) and that’s enough progress for you, really. It’s not like there’s any point in getting to know him better when you’re going to leave after you graduate.

So, all in all, you’re doing great!

That is, until your period hits, two weeks before final exams, and you crave chocolate.

And that isn’t even the major problem.

—

Jungkook’s tired. As he watches you heal, it seems like he gets worse, as the track season climaxes and leaves him spent, with a few medals to stare at and wonder if it was worth it when he wakes up at three am with shins that ache as if someone’s stabbing him, over and over and over. As much as he tries to study, what with the break from sports, he’s despairing at the amount of work that remains for his anatomy exam. If he wants to become a nurse like his mom, he’s going to have to catch up. A lot.

He tries, he really does- bringing all his schoolwork downstairs with you so he can’t get distracted, cutting off his friend-time to squint at his screen, pulling not all-nighters, but as much sleep as you could count on one hand. He asks his mom, who finally has some time for him (though not as much as she used to, what with all the cooking she does nowadays), for tutoring, asks you for help (but not often, because you’ve got to study too), asks Namjoon to explain frustrating math problems (and he’s got AP projects to focus on).

A niggling voice at the back of his head reminds him in those late hours when he’s awake past the world, that he’s pushing things down under a load of studies, out of sight so no one can call him out, and most of all, so he can forget.

(Forget that he hasn’t asked his mother for any affection since you’ve come, because there’s a wall there, that he’s stuck outside while you join his mother in, receiving all her wholehearted caresses, and his eomma seems to think he doesn’t want that anymore. That he’s lost his eomma to the past, that this one doesn’t see him anymore.)

(Forget that he misses his brother(s) these days. He hasn’t told Junghwan anything- Junghwan hasn’t called since he came home for Christmas break, and Jin reaches out, but Jungkook just doesn’t want to talk about anything now that it’s his fault he’s pushing such a loving person away.)

(Forget that his heart hurts, so bad, and he can list a thousand illogical reasons why.)

But his body won’t let him forget any of its complaints.

First, the tight muscles all around his neck and back, from forcing himself to stay still, and then hunching over his computer for hours on end. If he lies just so, Jungkook finds, he can sort of give himself a massage, and try and stretch out everything.

Then, there’s the shin splints, toward the end of the track season, causing a stumble in his step every so often, and forcing him awake in the darkest hours to lie and just feel the pain, as if someone’s stabbing him in all down his leg, over and over, when he’s alert enough to feel the agony but not enough to go get pain medication or ice.

Then, his brain hates him. It always has, has always prided itself on being the slowest browser possible, if you will, but now has added a special foggy effect that makes him feel sleepy, always. It takes every ounce of spite to get him out of bed most days, because if you can do it, so can he. He’s not even sick, and you are. (Or were.)

Honestly, you keep him going. Not that you know most of what’s going on inside his head (he doesn’t think) but your constant energy and cheer even in the face of such pain, why, he respects you so much. You’re way cooler than him, even if he dresses like a cool kid.

(And that makes him so guilty for harboring such terrible emotions towards you when you’ve done nothing to deserve them- but the feelings just won’t go away.)

As finals approach, everyone studies hard, and your walks home from school are mostly spent in silence; you’re sleepy in the mornings and tired in the afternoons, like him. You always comment on the beautiful June weather, though.

Even through this exhaustion and stress, you are positively glowing, skin bright and healthy, step steady even if weary sometimes. No, it’s his own hair that has fallen limp, his skin sallow as he forgets to wash his face, his gums stinging because he forgets to brush his teeth, his eyes that are always shadowed or puffy. Truly, Jungkook feels faded, worn out, a grey soul standing next to a shining rainbow one.

So, one Saturday, when he hears someone gagging upstairs in the bathroom, Jungkook startles, trying to shake off the electronic haze that had enveloped him. He hasn’t heard that in so long, he thinks drowsily, he must be dreaming. His head feels so heavy, his eyes too… and he drifts off, forgetting to check on you.

Jolting awake all of a sudden, he hangs his head a little when he sees his laptop gone to sleep, tired of waiting for him. Here he is, wasting time again…

He pauses, bringing his hands to his head as he becomes aware of a throbbing sensation hammering relentlessly against his skull. His head hates him. It doesn’t want him to study either.

But he needs to study. Has to, now.

He’s trying valiantly to keep his eyes open against the tantalizing weight of sleep, when you stumble into the kitchen, face rather grey. He lifts his head, wincing as the room tilts a bit, and he feels a twinge of nausea in his throat at the memory of your illness. That’s weird. He normally doesn’t feel anything when he thinks about that.

“Are you sick?” he ventures, as you barely make it across to the fridge before bowing over, your arm wrapped around your middle. “Here, let me get the garbage can…”

“No,” you croak, stopping him in his tracks. His heart stutters at the pained grimace on your face; the controlled tightness. “No, I’m- fine,” you continue in a more normal tone, straightening to look at him. “I’m just having cramps, is all.”

The change in demeanor, the composure, confuses Jungkook’s already fuzzy brain.

“But the- upstairs, earlier, you-” he gestures toward the bathroom, then reaches out to hold the counter. Wow, the ground really is wobbly today. Or his feet. Whatever you call it..

You blink at him, then seem to understand, and wave it off. “Oh, that. That was just routine. Craved chocolate, because, you know, period stuff.”

“Oh.” Oh. He wishes he could stop his ears from turning red, unclog his speech capacity because it’s not working and you’re going to think he’s some weird guy who can’t stand to talk about that sort of stuff! He can-! He’s just inexperienced, okay?! And he thought- well, nothing- oh, how his head throbs, pounding against his skull… he shouldn’t have gotten up so quickly. He can’t think.

“Yeah,” you’re saying. “It backfired, as usual.” You’re smiling way too brightly for someone who was just sick. “Anyway, your mom’s out at the grocery store, and she’s going to pick up some soy-free chocolate because that seems to be the issue! Do you need anything?”

He stares at the counter; wills the pattern to just stay still.

“...Jungkook?”

He looks up. It takes you a second to realize his eyes are glazed over, white-knuckled fingers gripping the counter. “Huh?” He asks, but it’s like he has to exhale the word, because if he speaks louder he’ll break something.

Ah. A headache.

“Are you okay?” you ask, taking your ibuprofen quickly so you can move closer and focus on him.

“Oh, yeah,” he chuckles, trying to be casual while also trying to blink away the sudden white blur around the edges of his vision. Laughing hurts. He walks back over to his laptop and closes it when he can’t even look at the screen. He can just work on his anatomy definitions flashcards upstairs… while lying down…

“You don’t look it.” You’re not convinced. He feels a sudden rush of irritation. You don’t understand. He can’t just relax now, succumb and let his grades and work go to nothing.

“Well, finals don’t care what I look like!” Jungkook snaps, shoving the rest of his stuff into a pile and striding out of the room, leaving you behind.

Half an hour later he’s sitting at his desk gritting his teeth, trying to stifle a whimper of pain, as his vision goes even more spotty. It was better for a while once he got off his computer, but… maybe if he rests his head on his desk the pounding will go away. He turns his desk light off. It’s too bright.

It hurts even more to close his eyes- all he can focus on is the throb, throb of pain, heavy, so heavy it makes him have to repeat every thought in his head before understanding it. Ah, he’s so stupid, so bad at schoolwork. Eomma will be so disappointed in him. How is he going to get through college all-nighters if he can’t beat one little headache?

“C’mon-” he hisses at himself, clenching his left hand into a fist as he flips the flashcard. His nails digging into his palm creates a new sting, diverting his nerves from the headache.

Migraine- the card reads.

“Migraine- migraine…” He swallows another wave of nausea, mind going blank. He flips the card over, squinting to see the writing. His contacts are in! Why can’t he read it?

“Migraine,” he mutters aloud. “An intense headache that causes a throbbing sensation…usually accompanied by nausea and- “ he swallows again “-and sensitivity to light and sound.”

Next thing he knows, Jungkook’s collapsed off his chair with a loud thud, hitting his cheek on something and he’s retching into his wastebasket.

You stand frozen in the kitchen, still clutching your cup of juice and the ibuprofen bottle, after Jungkook stormed out.

Despite his denial, you’re certain that he isn’t feeling well; hasn’t been for a while. In fact, it wasn’t long after you started going to school that Jimin had confided in you, saying that Jungkook had been having a rough time of it ever since…well, ever since you came; he doesn’t do well with change and he’s had a lot of it this year- and that these irritable, avoidant moods were the tall boy’s manner of defense. And sure enough, that proved to be true. He hasn’t been looking healthy at all, but in the kind of way that belies mental misery, so much that it crosses over to the physical.

(You know, because you’ve been there before.)

You sigh, trudging up the stairs and back to your own room to wait for the pain medication to kick in.

You’d seen how his eyes dulled, growing heavy-lidded even in the brightest hours of the day. You’d seen how he clammed up around his friends, hardly talking about anything personal or not even talking at all.

You’d watch him grow frustrated and disheartened over his books as you studied together. He thinks he’s stupid.

But you never knew what to say to him, or how to say it. Because, you don’t know him, you’re ashamed to admit. There was a wall there, a gulf you didn’t dare to cross, for, after all, you’re an intruder in this house. Just a temporary patient until you’re old enough to be left alone again.

Jungkook just gave you a little reality check, that’s all.

See, when his mother had caught on to Jungkook’s avoidance of you she had apologized profusely. “Ah, Jungkookie is not like you.” she had said, shaking her head lovingly. “Some get sick often, but he is strong almost always. He doesn’t understand what it is to know you are weak, all the time. Instead, he saves it all up and gets sick once. When he was six, he had a fever and stomach flu and an ear infection, and a sprained ankle from playing soccer. It was an … adventure.”

“I think I’d almost rather have it that way,” you had mused. “Then maybe it’s a lot of work at once but then you feel good the rest of the time. That must be nice.”

She had tucked your head under her chin in response, holding you tight.

You strain to hear anything from his room, but like normal, it’s silent- maybe slight rustling of pages now and then. He’s really been studying a lot, more than you, that’s for sure. You have been leaning more on friends than school these months, trying to make up for lost time.

He, by contrast, has given up on all his hobbies till exams are over, and his efforts are, well, a little overboard in your opinion. He’s going to work himself sick… you couldn’t wish illness on anyone.

The next thing you hear is a sharp crash.

Then, dull thuds, as of someone’s limbs splaying across the floor.

Finally, a very familiar sound.

That wall between you and Jungkook? You’re tearing it down, here and now. Because you’re certain that that sound was of someone losing their lunch, and that someone was Jungkook.

—

You scramble up out of your bed, thankful that the ibuprofen has kicked in and now lets you stand up straight and make a dash for his room.

Which you’ve never been or even seen inside, even though you’re right across the hall. He’s a very private person, even locks his door sometimes according to his mom.

You hope it’s not locked now, because you’re perfectly prepared to break down the door when you hear the miserable sounds coming from within.

It’s not; the door swings open easily, but the only thing you see is Jungkook, and you immediately forget all about his mysterious room. You dash over and drop down next to the figure collapsed by the desk, legs tangled with those of his desk chair, which is tipped over. His shoulders heave as he gags, hurtling up bile into the wastebasket he clutches, his knuckles white. “Oh, Jungkook,” you say, hardly noticing what’s coming out of your mouth, yet leaning into the instinct to protect and comfort, because you’ve never seen him so discomfited.

He’s barely balancing on his elbows, surely an uncomfortable position when all one wants to do is curl up to ease the cramping of one’s stomach, so you keep talking, even as you hook your arms under his and somehow manage to pull him up to his knees, ‘till he’s crouching over the wastebasket. Good grief, you think to yourself, this guy is heavy!

And dead weight, too- he’s not stopped throwing up the entire time, barely breathing, really. You kneel beside him again as he coughs, raspy, and then forces out- “shouldn’t be here-” before curling up under another wrenching wave of nausea, eyes scrunching shut in pain.

Ah. You must agree. If he’s going to rest in here, there’s no way he will if it’s smelling like this.

“We can move to the bathroom if that’s more comfortable,” you offer, but he shakily exhales, gasping once, twice, before speaking again, “No, you shouldn’t be here. You’ll get - sick.”

“Eh, I’m fine. It’s of no concern to me. You’re good. We’re okay.”

“Okay.” he repeats, managing a few more quick breaths, before bending over again.

“You better?” You ask, a few minutes later, after his breath has calmed a bit.

Bad idea- just at that, he swallows hard, a shudder running down his back. “No,” he says. “Not. Maybe a minute, but- my head-oh” and his hands go up to grip the offending member.

“Okay, that’s okay,” you soothe. “You’re doing great, Jungkook-ah. I’m going to get you a warm washcloth. It’ll relax your muscles, and help the headache. I’ll be back in a minute.”

It’s humiliating. Jungkook doesn’t understand how he had lightning fast reflexes in football but now they leave him defenseless and disoriented, so that he doesn’t even notice you manhandling him to sit up until he’s already there, making the whole burden of his weight fall on you. When he realized it was you who was sitting by him, helping him, he knew you shouldn’t be in here, because (he just yelled at you, why, you should be insulted, furious, annoyed, anything but this) he’s done nothing to deserve your help. He tried his best to tell you so, but you refused to leave. And you’re speaking softly and considerately, giving him assurances that you don’t mind, not at all.

He tries to respond, but there aren’t any words in his brain, just all that comes out is an incredibly pathetic whimper, but you seem to understand, touching his shoulder in a way that makes him want to melt. But he can’t move- it hurts to move, hurts so bad-

He’s lost in the haze again, alone. You’re gone. He can’t remember where you went.

You run back out of the room, skidding to grab the bathroom wastebasket and the mentioned washcloth, and a few other useful items. You leave the hot water running and race to your room to pull out your trusty hot-water bottle and leave it by the sink, going back to the sick room to pull open a window. It could do for an airing. Fresh warm summer air wafts inside, freshening up the room immediately.

Jungkook’s sitting on his knees with his feet tucked under him, still clutching the wastebasket and swallowing occasionally. He stares blankly at the closet door in front of him, but manages to turn to look in your direction, eyes resting somewhere over your shoulder when you speak. “Hey, I’m back. Here’s the washcloth.”

He swallows again, heavy-lidded eyes still resting beside you. It's unsettling, to be frank.

“Can you see me?” you ask. Maybe he doesn’t have his contacts in. (Does he have contacts, actually? You don’t know.)

His eyes drop. “Sort of,” he mumbles. The words come out less clipped than earlier; you count that as a good sign.

“Okay,” you breathe. So; act like he can’t.

Dropping down to your knees again, you slide your fingers over one shoulder to note him of your presence. “Here’s the washcloth,” you tell him softly, noticing how he shudders. His t-shirt is sweaty under your hand. He’ll need a change of clothes…

The warm washcloth cups the back of his neck, and Jungkook goes limp, sagging against you with a breathy groan of relief. His head hits your shoulder- you immediately cup it and tuck it under your chin. He lets you do as you please, lets you run your fingers soothingly through his hair, his eyes fluttering closed as his breaths hitch, then even out.

Like this, he appears ever so much smaller than the big guy you know he is- one that has to duck under every branch crossing the sidewalk- the football player and track star. Jungkook is tall and sturdy, you know this, but you’re severely tempted to hug and protect him now- he looks too young, and miserable.

When you try to rise, his hands clutch at your sweater, eyes screwed shut again as if refusing to acknowledge his need, but you simply mention the hot water bottle and he lets go immediately, managing to sit himself up and lean against the desk, wincing in pain at the slightest motion of his head.

This time you bring back crackers, ginger ale, and pain medication, along with the promised rubber bottle in its (your) slipcover.

“You need to change out of those clothes,” you murmur, setting the food on the desk. “Are you up for a shower?" He shakes his head once. Bad choice- instinct, probably- he winces, swallowing again. “Yeah, okay,” you breathe. “Then let’s get you into bed.”

Jungkook just nods wearily, ready to lie down and drift away from the world. You look like you’re expecting a protest, but you won’t get any from him. He knows he can’t study anymore. His throat aches, his head feels like it’s splitting apart, and he’s pretty sure he’ll bear bruises tomorrow after falling on the floor, but he feels achy and gross, and so lets you grab a t-shirt from the closet. He balks until you slip out of the room, though. You're not close enough for that.

Shivering though fully dressed again, Jungkook's startled to realize he feels cold- without your arms around him.

You stand in the hallway fiddling with the hot water bottle, wondering when his eomma will get back from the store. He'd probably rather her take care of him.

His appa (you’re endeared by the Korean names, they have such a sense of warmth and belonging that the English never had for you) is on a work trip for the weekend, so it’s just you three. You really hope Jungkook’s not sick with something contagious. His eomma is a great nurse, but what if she comes down with it too? And you? No, that would not be good.

A weary "okay" echoes through the door.

At least he's letting you in again. Best not to think too much about any of this.

"Go ahead," you say, briskly stepping over as he fumbles with the covers. "Lie down."

He reacts much the same to the rubber water bottle as he did with the washcloth- as soon as it touches his stomach he curls around it, clutching tight, his expression screwing up in relief. "Oh!"

You grin, familiar with the effects. "Oh, indeed. I'll go reheat the one for your head."

It's under his shirt, directly against his feverish skin, when you come back, and he seems to be drifting off so you pull the covers over him, because his teeth chatter.

You tap his shoulder. "Unclench your jaw."

He lifts his face from his pillow, eyes still bleary and unfocused. "Huh?"

“Relax your jaw. You’re clenching it. It’s probably causing the headache. See, like this-”

“I can’t see.” He spits it out with an intensity you haven’t even heard him direct at you. Most of the time there’s just a void when it comes to emotions (visible ones, at least), making the intense visible ones most drastic and startling. You don’t question it now, though. He’s hurting, that’s enough to warrant irritation.

“Ah- right, sorry,” You wince. “Here…”

Fingers press against his face, tentatively searching his jaw, and then pushing down. Jungkook freezes, feeling a shudder ripple down his spine at the contact. Just as he’s about to spring away, though, something releases, he can feel it. “Oh-” he says again (seems like that’s all he can say now), relaxing into your hold, as you rub your fingers up and down, sort of massaging his jawline. “There you go,” he hears you coo, far away sounding, like there’s a cloud between him and you.

Ah, his head still hurts though…

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Thank you so much for reading!!

Chapter 3 is here!

If you would like to see more of my writing, this work and others are already on AO3 and Quotev under the same username :3 ~Sybil

#fanfic writer #fanfiction #seokjin #jimin #jungkook x you #sick fanfic #sickfic #high school au #bts fanfic

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