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the7thcrow · 3 years

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indulgence | part one

pairing: felix x (fem) vampire!reader series

summary: an indulgence grows to become dangerous, as the society of hampden college takes note of y/n’s new blood bag.

series masterlist.

word count: 4.9k

genre: forbidden love, angst (sorta), fluff, suggestive.

warnings: blood, suggestive content (kissing and a shirt comes off, nothing too crazy lmao), hook-ups (but nothing is explicitly described), strong language, and vampires ofc.

rating: 16+

a/n: hi everyone! this is my first fic, so i’m sorry if it’s a little messy. this is part one of what will be a series. i’d love to hear some feedback, so don’t be afraid to shoot me an ask or message! i hope you enjoy!

...

You are late. The pattering of rain echos from atop your umbrella, the puddles of pooling water soaking your loafers as you hurry along the busy street. However, you pay no mind as the liquid seeps into your shoes, mud embedding itself along your pant leg. On a normal day, you’d scowl. You’d curse the shitty weather, and grumble as you marched home to change into a dry pair of shoes. Only today is different. Today it doesn’t matter, not when you have far greater troubles warranting your concern.

The Council isn’t pleased. They’d be even more upset, if that were even possible, if you arrived tardy. You can imagine their old, petulant faces, looking down on you with disgust. Perhaps even pity, seeing you as nothing more than a childish young girl, who’d been foolish enough to break her vow. You frown to yourself, that’s all they would ever see you as. It didn’t matter how the years passed by, to them you were, and would always be simply that. A child. Always younger, always naive. Most of all, always beneath them.

The headquarters becomes visible in the distance, clouded in the slight haze of fog. It appears to be like any other building on the Hampden Campus. Old and rustic, elegant in the way it was shaped and carved, a relic of history reflected in a modern day era. Only this building holds a far different tale than those surrounding it.

Far more bloody. Far more gruesome. A home to monsters.

Monsters like yourself.

You knock on the door. Twice, slowly. Then a pause, before three times quickly. A code, letting anyone inside know that you are, in fact, a member of The Society.

The door opens with a creak, a young boy with electric blue hair peeking out through the crack. After recognizing your face, he smiles, ushering you in quickly as the door slams shut behind you.

“Y/N! It’s good to see you. It’s been a while, huh?” The boy says, casually leaning against the door. It has been a while, you never came to this god awful building unless it was absolutely necessary.

“I guess it has been. But it’s nice to see you too, Jeongin,” you speak warmly in return. You’ve known Jeongin for a couple years now, since he first arrived at The Society doorstep. Alone and confused. A freshling, having just been turned. While perhaps not physically, he’s certainly grown since then, in both confidence and courage.

Suddenly, the smile drops from his face, his expression becoming sullen. “I hear you’ve gotten yourself into some trouble,” he states. When you don’t respond, he continues. “It’s not true, is it? I know you wouldn’t-”

“Listen, Jeongin,” you cut him off quickly. You aren’t in the mood to be lectured, especially not by someone whose opinion you actually care about. “I’m already running late. I’ll catch up with you after, okay?”

“Wait, Y/N!” He calls after you, but you’ve already disappeared down the hall, heading towards the council room. You quickly cast a glance at your watch. Shit, five minutes late. They wouldn’t forget that.

With only a quick breath to gather yourself, you burst in through the large wooden doors. The silence in the council room is deafening, as all heads turn to face you. In all your life, you’ve never seen so many dissatisfied faces.

“Ms. L/N,” the head councilman calls. He has an old face, embedded with wrinkles and a scalp of thinning white hair. Unlucky. He could have been beautiful, or at the very least, young. However, he must’ve been turned late. A pity, to stare at such a reflection for eternity.

You stifle a laugh. The frown he always appeared to be wearing probably wasn’t helping.

“Take a seat,” he states, motioning to the chair seated in the center of the room. How dramatic you think, to put you in the middle of so many staring eyes. While the council was only composed of three individuals, the room seems to be full of other lower ranked members of The Society.

As you take your seat, your gaze wanders the room, landing on a familiar head of shaggy brown hair. His eyes bore into your own, his expression serious. Perhaps even angry, the longer he stares at you.

You want to say something. Mostly, to ask him what the fuck he’s doing here. This isn’t any of Chan’s business, yet for whatever reason he has the audacity to stare at you as if it is. As if you will grant him answers. As if he deserves answers.

“Ms. L/N,” the chairman interrupts your thoughts. “Do you know why you’re seated here today?”

Why are you seated here today? Well, that answer is complicated. How could you have possibly gotten yourself into such a mess? How could you have been so foolish? You knew the rules. You knew what was permitted and what was not. Yet, you chose to ignore these conditions.

Why? What could possibly have made you toss everything you’d promised to the side?

Well, that story starts with a head of bright blonde hair, and a set of curious eyes.

~~~~

The library of Hampden College had become something of a second home to you. Late nights spent bent over a book, transcribing various philosophies and literature into latin. Sometimes greek, however you didn’t have quite the same knack for it. That’s where you found yourself tonight, your beaten down copy of The Iliad staring back at you from its place on the table.

Your classics degree was coming along just fine. You didn’t mind the endless books to read and poems to analyze. Nor the papers you often found yourself crafting from this very spot in the corner of the library. It was always quiet, always solitary at this time. Even the night owl students having gathered their books, departing the library for a brief rest before their early classes the following morning.

Tonight however, was different. You heard the door creak open, glancing up as a boy appeared in the doorway. He had long blonde hair, fluffing at the nape of his neck. Sporting a sharp blazer and a pair of oxfords, you couldn’t deny he was well dressed. Perhaps that’s why he grabbed your attention immediately, you were attracted to effort. To someone who was put together, who cared.

The boy took a seat just a few tables away from your own, gently setting his books down and disappearing into the maze of shelves to your left. You attempted to go back to your work, but couldn’t seem to find your focus. Who was this boy? You’d never seen him before in all your time at Hampden. Also, why would he possibly be at the library so late? You recognized the faces of those who while rare, might possibly be here at this time of night. He wasn’t one of them.

You would remember if he was.

You strained your neck trying to find his figure, having lost him almost immediately.

“A fan of Homer?” A voice rang out from beside your ear. You jumped in shock, greeted by a sweet smile and wide eyes. The boy chuckled. “I’m sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.”

You smiled sweetly, trying to calm your beating heart. “No worries. And well, you translate the entirety of Book Eight overnight into Greek, and tell me if you could still consider yourself a ‘fan of Homer.’”

The boy laughed before beginning to pull a chair out beside you. “May I?” He asked.

Looking back, you should have said no. You had a lot more work to do, and near no time to do it. Not to mention of course, rejecting him initially could have saved you from this whole mess. Instead you nodded, a grin forming at the corners of your lips as he sat down.

“What’s your name?” He asked. His voice was sweet, sultry. Alarming in just how deep it was, not quite fitting his bright and youthful exterior.

“Y/N, classics department. Yourself?”

“Felix,” he answered. There it was, the first time you heard the name that would cause your undoing. “I’m majoring in history. Listen,” he began, leaning in slightly closer as if he were going to tell you a secret, his voice lowering further. “I must say, I’m in here all the time, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen you before.”

You hummed, leaning in closer to him as well. His eyes glinted. “Well that’s simple, I’m assuming you don’t frequent the library at-” you glanced at your watch- “2:32 in the morning.”

Felix’s eyebrows furrowed with something like concern. “You’re here every night at this time? Why?”

“Hey,” you began, not wanting to lose the playful nature to the conversation. You’d heard enough concerned voices to last a lifetime already. “Aren’t you here this late yourself? You’re in no place to judge.”

He laughed, and you knew you could get used to that sound. “Fair enough, I’ll leave it be.”

“Why are you here this late, anyway?” You asked.

“Oh, so you get to know my secrets, but I can’t know yours?”

“Of course.”

He rolled his eyes playfully, resting his head on the desk, cradled by his crossed arms. “If you must know, I couldn’t sleep. Figured I’d read some of your classics, thought they might help me doze off.”

You shoved his arm, to which he feigned a groan of pain, clutching his shoulder. “Excuse you,” you laughed. “I have a lot of Homer to struggle through, and no time for your cheap shots. You can go ahead and leave now.”

You were surprised when he got to his feet, worried for a moment he’d taken you seriously and was actually about to make his exit. Instead, he disappeared into the philosophy section, emerging with a copy of The Odyssey. Felix flopped down back in his chair beside you, extending his feet on top of the table and leaning backwards.

“Well, then I guess I’ll suffer along with you,” he said. Without another word, he flipped towards the first page.

Felix was a good person to study with. Well, technically you weren’t studying with him, but nonetheless it was nice to have him in the room. He didn’t bother you, didn’t speak, just let you do your work. Sometimes you’d look up and meet his gaze, his eyes imploring you. Curious. Mischievous.

Dangerous.

“Alright,” you yawned after an hour or so had passed by, stretching your arms high in the air. “I’m done.”

He smiled, slowly closing his book and setting it down on the table. “Yeah? Finally going to go home and sleep?”

“Sleep? What’s that?” You said, playfully scoffing. “Nah, it’s already past 3:30, it’ll be 4 by the time I get back to my apartment. Not worth it at this point.”

“Hmm,” Felix hummed, a flicker of mischief in his growing smile. “What ever will you do to pass the time?”

“I don’t know,” you returned, excitement building in your chest. “But I suppose I’ll leave you now. You still have about 3 quarters of The Odyssey to get through, and I don’t want to tear you away from-”

You shouldn’t have been surprised when his lips crashed into yours, but you were. You let out a small “mff” against the sudden impact. It took your brain a second to catch up to speed on what was happening. Here you were, with this incredibly beautiful boy of whom you literally just met, kissing in the middle of the library.

Your second thought was about how you’d never done this before. Not kissing someone, hell you’d done a lot more than just that. But never a stranger, and certainly never a human, for that matter. You had to be careful with who you got close to, you never knew who could be dangerous, who could be a hunter. Besides, The Society had rules, and this alone was undoubtedly breaking a few of them.

So what the hell were you doing?

You should stop this, you thought. But the more you settled into a rhythm, the more your worries trailed from your mind. Felix was a good kisser. A really good kisser. His lips were soft, warm, his breath sharp with the taste of mint. When the dork had a chance to pop a tic tac you didn’t know, but it made you smile against him.

You ran your fingers through his hair, leaning into him. He groaned in response, moving his hands down your figure, settling in on your waist. Carefully he began to fiddle with the buttons at the bottom of your blouse, and with that it all suddenly became real.

“We can’t do this,” you breathed, finally breaking away from him.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I went too far, I-” he began to apologize, frantically removing his hands from your body and shifting backwards into his chair.

“No,” you replied, a smile tugging at the corner of your lips at his sweetness. You grabbed the collar of his shirt, gently tugging him closer to you. “We can’t do this here.”

The Society had rules, plenty. Human’s, in any sort of relationship, were out of the question. Public displays of affection with even your own kind, especially of the more vulgar sort, were off limits as well. The idea was to not bring attention to yourselves, to not cause a scene. And if you were going to break one of these rules so terribly, you figured you could at least pay the respect to do so privately.

“Okay,” he mumbled, placing his forehead against your own. “Where should we go?”

“My place? It’s a little far from here, but I don’t have any roommates. So..”

Felix smiled, planting a soft, lingering kiss at the nape of your neck. “Lead the way.”

~~~~

The walk over to your apartment wasn’t awkward per say, it was simply...charged. Felix had his arm looped around your own, making your way silently down the dark, lantern lit path through campus. You could feel your heart beating rapidly in your chest, a desire thrumming down inside you, resurfacing. It had been a long time since you’d last been with someone. That last person being Chan, your ex as of eight months ago.

Things had been good with Chan. Great even, in the beginning at least. He was intense, thoughtful. He loved you deeply. Most of all, Chan understood. Like you, he was a member of The Society. He was under every restriction you were, and felt all the same frustrations.

Of course, not all good things can last. Eventually your relationship began to sour. Your arguments became full on brawls. Your differences and quirks became unbearable. You couldn’t be in the same room without being at one another's throats. You were the one who finally decided to end things.

Chan was the only man you’d ever loved, and since him you’d never entertained the thought of being with another. Until now, that is. You glanced towards Felix, who was staring ahead down the street, his eyes dark. You could feel his own desire radiating off of him, visible in the way he slowly swallowed, his adam’s apple bobbing. Besides, Felix could give you something more. Something Chan could never.

No. You stopped yourself. That wouldn’t be happening tonight. It would only make things more complicated, more dangerous. Still, you could feel it deep inside you, pounding for control. That familiar, incessant hunger. The more you tried to ignore it, the more it was there. Becoming stronger as your ears focused in on Felix’s heart beat, the sound of blood pumping through his veins.

You were pulled from your thoughts as the sight of your apartment complex appeared in front of you. Quietly you entered, making your way up the stairs and towards your own door. Releasing your arm from Felix’s, you fumbled for your keys in your purse. Giving him a small smile, you twisted your key in the lock, and allowed him inside.

The moment you closed your apartment door, all bets were off. Felix tossed his books onto your kitchen table, clashing into you with a speed that almost made you lose your own breath. You felt your back press against the wall behind you, Felix’s lips devouring your own. Desperate and wanting.

He quickly revisited the buttons of your blouse, this time starting at the top and beginning to make his way down. All the meanwhile his lips traced your neck, gently brushing against your skin. With every new kiss fueling your own desire, you slowly began to rock your hips into his own. This was escalating. Fast. As he finished with the last button, he allowed your blouse to drop from your shoulders, smiling to himself as he took you in.

“Your turn,” you breathed, tugging at the collar of his shirt as a signal to take it off. He did so, absent-mindedly tossing it aside into your living room. He took your chin in his hand, forcing you to look up at him, staring deeply into your eyes. Then he proceeded to say the very last thing you ever expected him to:

“Look at your eyes… You haven’t fed in weeks, have you?”

You slapped his hand away and shoved him off of you, rushing to the otherside of the room, putting the coffee table between yourselves. “How-How do you?” You stammered, physically unable to form a complete sentence. How could he possibly know what you were? How did he even know you existed?

Felix’s eyes widened, clearly shocked by your reaction. “No, no. Don’t worry!” He said frantically, outstretching his hand to you. “Listen, I’m not going to hurt you or anything. I didn’t mean to scare you, I’m sorry! I’m sorry.”

You stared at him, disbelievingly. “Yeah? And how do I know that?” You let this man into your home, your safe space. How could you have been so stupid?

“Look, I grew up around Vampires okay? My neighbors, back in my childhood home, they were like you. I know the signs. I know how your eyes blow out when you’re hungry, the way they glaze over when you haven’t fed in a while. That’s it. I didn’t even realize until I got a good look at you, back when you were translating. It’s no big deal, really.”

You scoffed. No big deal? Felix didn’t seem to realize just how big of a deal it actually was. Humans weren’t supposed to know what you were, certainly not at Hampden. The Society had made well sure of that. God, if The Council saw you now...

“Y/N, I’m sorry. I should have told you back at the library. I honestly didn’t think it would freak you out this much. That’s on me,” he said, inching slightly closer to you. Despite yourself, you didn’t move away. “I’m serious though, it’s been a while since you last fed. Hasn’t it?”

A while was an understatement. The Society had been going through a shortage of blood bags, after having severed their connections with one of the nearby hospitals. Meaning if you wanted to drink, it would have to be from one of their Certified Donors. Which was another, fancier and far more innocent way of saying prisoners. These were humans who had given their lives to The Society, some willingly and others not so much.

You didn’t like going to their quarters. Located in the basement of the main district, it was always quiet down there. Always solemn. You’d never been to a place lacking so much hope. You’d only gone once, and drinking from that man still haunts you to this day. The way he didn’t move or speak, or even wince when your fangs broke his skin. The way his eyes were hollow and empty. How when you were done he simply laid down in his bed and turned away from you, without another word.

The Certified Donors were what made you begin to hate The Society in the first place. Since then, your resentment only seemed to grow.

You sighed, walking past him and flopping onto your couch. “Yeah, it’s been a while,” you confessed.

Felix carefully approached you. Instead of seating himself next to you, he got down on his knees, resting a hand on your thigh. “It’s okay, you can use me. I don’t mind.”

You were ready to tell him no, the word lingering on the tip of your tongue. However, you couldn’t bring yourself to deny him. Perhaps it was your hunger, the fact that a few more weeks in this drought, you might actually become ill.

Or maybe, just maybe, it was the fact that you wanted to disobey the society. That this little act of rebellion, this utterly wrong indulgence, was what made your desire grow unbearable, unchained. You hated The Council, you hated the Certified Donor system, and you hated the way they had such a firm grip and control on your life.

A beautiful boy was seated in front of you, begging you to drink from him. How could you possibly say no? Better yet, why would you say no? To deprive yourself of something so great, for something you despised so deeply seemed ridiculous. That was the moment your judgment lapsed, that you crossed the point of no return. If you drank from Felix, there would be no going back. If the council found out, there would be consequences. Big ones.

But who doesn’t love a little risk?

You sunk down to meet him on the floor, staring at his bare chest. You could hear his heart pumping, its pace quickening the closer you got to him.

“Are you sure about this?” You asked.

“Yes,” he whispered. You shifted your position. Not quite seating yourself in his lap, but hovering above, your knees on either side of him.

“This might hurt a little bit,” you warned. You extended your fangs, approaching his neck, carefully. You didn’t realize until then how nervous you were. It had been a long time since you’d fed from a human. You’d drank from Chan of course, but he was also a vampire, and your blood didn’t have quite the same effect. There was pleasure in it, usually accompanied in moments of ecstasy, but it didn’t replenish you. It didn’t heighten your senses, nor fill you with energy. Most of all, it didn’t satisfy your hunger, your thirst. Not at all.

Felix’s blood would.

You kept this in mind as you finally plunged your fangs into his neck. Felix let out a gasp, tensing beneath you, his hand clutching onto your arm for support. The taste of his blood grazed your tongue, metallic and warm. Delicious.

Fuck, did blood ever taste this good before? You didn’t think so.

The sweet taste consumed you. Intoxicating. Raw. Cascading over your mind in a blanket of pleasure, reveling in the way its effects seeped over your body. You could feel your mind growing sharper, your senses becoming more alert. It was a relief, after weeks of blurry weakness, of being too close to humanity in your thirst. You felt yourself again, the monster you are. The monster you are glad to be.

Here you were powerful. Invincible. And all you wanted was more. More. More.

More of this power, this sensation, this strength. This is what feeding should be. What feeding can give you. Not from a blood bag, nor a helpless prisoner, but from someone you want. Someone you desire. Someone who desires you in return.

It was as you felt Felix’s grip on your arm loosen that you finally broke away, breathing hard as you caught your breath. Felix’s eyes shifted to yours lazily, dazed. Perhaps even delirious. For a moment you feared that you’d taken too much. He blinked slowly, his eyes regaining focus.

Then he smiled. “Shit Y/N…” he began, his voice appearing more of a croak. “That felt really fucking good.”

You grinned, leaning into him and pressing a series of kisses up along his jaw. Felix shivered, allowing his hands to slowly slide up your figure. Wanting.

“Yeah?” You whispered, your lips brushing against his ear. “Then how about we continue where we left off?”

~~~~

The next morning you woke to the sound of your alarm buzzing, sunlight peeking through the opening of your drapes. You heard a low groan next to your ear, quickly becoming aware of the hand wrapped around your waist.

So last night really happened. The reality of your situation dawned on you. You’d both drank from and fucked a human. There was no going back now, you’d completely disobeyed The Society.

Worst of all? You didn’t care. At least, not near as much as you should have.

You shifted to face Felix, seeing his eyes still closed, eyebrows furrowed. “Hey,” you whispered, planting a soft kiss on the tip of his nose. “We have to get up. I have class.”

He groaned again in protest, shaking his head and burying his face into the crook of your neck. Between last night's events and the ringing of your alarm, you both only got about two hours of sleep, and that was being generous. This was no problem for you, as while sleep was a luxury, it was not a necessity. The same didn’t go for Felix.

“Come on,” you laughed, worming out of his grasp. “You’ll be fine, I’ll go make us some coffee.”

You rolled out of bed, throwing on Felix’s discarded shirt and heading towards your kitchen. Flicking on the radio, you felt oddly blissful as you grounded the coffee beans into a filter. It had been a long time since there��d been another person in your apartment. It made the space seem less… haunted. No longer lingering with the essence of Chan’s ghost. It felt fresh. New.

Felix emerged from your bedroom, rubbing his eyes sleepily, sporting only his khaki’s from the past day. His gaze met yours and he smiled. “So, I take it my shirt is yours now?”

“Mhm,” you hummed, leaning forward over your kitchen counter. Felix bent down, causing you to become nose-level with one another. The close proximity made your heart race.

“Mean,” he murmured, leaning forward to kiss you softly. There was no unchained desire, no promise of more. It was simple, warm. A morning of peace after a night of wildness.

You could get used to this, you thought.

The thought sunk in your chest like a stone. This wouldn’t be as simple as you wanted to be, as you needed it to be. There would be sacrifices to make, and cautions you’d have to adhere to. You had to get the truth out in the open. Better to rip the bandaid off now rather than later.

“Felix, you can’t tell anyone about this.” You said. The smile faded from Felix’s face, and for a moment he looked so… hurt. He stepped back.

“About the feeding? Y/N, I wouldn’t tell anyone what you are, don’t worry about-”

“No, not just the feeding. About us. About any of it.”

Felix opened his mouth to say something, but then quickly closed it. His gaze hardened. “Ah. Got it,” he stated sharply, grabbing his blazer and motioning to the door. “I’ll just head out then.”

“Wait, Felix! No, it’s not like that,” you said, rushing around the kitchen island and reaching for his arm. He turned around to face you, his expression wounded. “Listen, I don’t know how it was with your old neighbors, but here at Hampden things are different. There’s certain rules we have to follow, and what you and I did? Well, that broke about a hundred of them.”

Felix was silent for a moment, then sighed. “Okay… But what do you mean rules? Who’s enforcing them? Hampden?”

“No, it’s bigger than that. There’s a group of us here, a society. There are rules we abide by, and they’re meant to keep us safe. Keep us united,” you explained.

“Like a cult?” Felix asked, and you had to refrain from rolling your eyes.

“Well, if that helps you, then whatever. Yeah, sure. A cult.”

“Where do you-”

“I’m sorry,” you cut him off. “But that’s all I can really tell you, at least for now. Honestly, the less you know, the better. Just for safety’s sake.”

“Oh. Alright,” Felix said, his lips pursed. He wasn’t pleased, that much was obvious.

“I know this sucks, I’m sorry. But if we want to keep doing this-”

“Wait,” Felix interrupted, his eyebrows knitted together in confusion. “You want to keep doing this? I thought you’d get in trouble?”

You smiled, and were pleased to see the corners of his mouth curve up in return. “I’ve already risked getting myself in trouble.” You trailed your finger along the bare of his chest, feeling the warmth radiating from his skin. He was so alive, so real. And it only made you want him more. Perhaps, that’s why he wanted you as well. You were unpredictable, wild. A challenge.

A match made in hell.

“I dug myself a grave, Lix.” You looked up at him, entranced by the curiosity swimming in his eyes. “Might as well lie in it.”

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phykios · 3 years

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honesty and promise me, part 5 [co-written with @darkmagyk] [read on ao3]

Annabeth is making her periodic pilgrimage to the gynecologist when she gets Leo's call. It's very fitting--two uncomfortable and invasive things for the price of one. She answers her phone, ignoring the doctor's chastising frown. Surely she can place her new IUD while Annabeth deals with whatever Leo wants.

"What are you doing on the 18th?" he asks, about the only type of hello she ever gets from Leo.

The two of them never really grew out of pretending not to like each other, after they had gotten over their initial dislike. When he and Piper first got to Miss Minerva's, more or less straight out of juvie after Piper's dad made a lot of calls and called in a lot of favors, she and Leo had really hated each other. They used to fight over everything, from Piper's attention to the position of captain of the Mathletes team. And also, over Leo hating a rich white girl on principle, which, in retrospect, is totally fair. But then, by a weird twist of fate, they wound up in Boston together.

If Annabeth had to choose between hanging out with her creepy, Norse mythology-obsessed uncle and hanging out with Leo, she'd pick Leo every time. They had gone through a lot together, things both big and small.

"Of August?" she asks.

"Please be still, Ms. Chase," says her doctor. Annabeth rolls her eyes.

"Duh."

Wracking her thoughts she can't think of any prior commitments she might have had. Maybe there's a concert that day, but if she can't remember, it probably wasn't that important anyway. "Not much."

"Good, because we have plans."

She frowns. "Piper didn't mention any--"

"No, you and I have plans. I'll see you in Philly, yeah?"

Philadelphia? Ew. "Why Philly?"

"Our Smarter House thing won an award."

"No shit?"

"Eta Industries Award. The gala is on the 18th. You're my plus one."

She sucks in air through her teeth, readjusting her hips as unobtrusively as possible. Eta Industries was… a very big deal. "Isn't that, like, an engineering specific award? Maybe you should accept it by yourself." She'd be better off staying out of the limelight for this one, she thinks, even as some part of her longs once again for recognition.

Something electric whirs in the background, tinny and buzzing. "I'll see you on the 18th, then," says Leo, not having heard a word she said. "Also, you've been summoned to the castle."

"Leo--" she jumps as the gyno touches something she really shouldn't have.

"No arguments, she's expecting you today at two. Adios!" He clicks off.

"Okay, Ms. Chase," says the doctor, a little too chipper for Annabeth's taste. "You should be all set."

Annabeth leaves the doctor's office with her brand new IUD, a handful of medical literature which immediately gets tossed in the trash, and a sinking feeling in her gut as she gets on a train to Brooklyn, headed to Piper's place for another annoying and unnecessary fashion show. It's not that she doesn't enjoy being Piper's model--it's a position she's held since their time at Miss Minerva's, and it's never really a hardship to be told how gorgeous she is--but Piper has a way of just... getting information out of her that she doesn’t always want to share.

Stopping off early, Annabeth gives herself a moment to walk down the Brooklyn Heights Promenade, to settle her nerves and indulge herself a bit. That skyline gets her every time.

Turning down Pierrepont Street, she is once again struck by just how quiet the city can be. Manhattan is loud, rude, in-your-face, almost an entirely different world from the stately, deafeningly silent Brooklyn. For Annabeth, who is incapable of falling asleep without city horns blaring, it wigs her out a little.

She barely has time to ring the doorbell on Piper's dad's place before the girl herself wrenches it open, grabbing Annabeth's hand and yanking her inside. "You're late!" she trills, suffering what Annabeth can only assume is the onset of a caffeine overdose.

"I thought I had until two."

"That was before I had the best idea."

The brownstone is a mess, as per usual, reams of fabric tossed over every available surface, enough dressforms strewn about to make it look like Piper is hosting a party exclusively populated by headless zombies, adorned with a warehouse's worth of half-finished dresses and jackets. Based on the loud fabrics and structured angles, it looks like Piper is in the middle of a Klimt-ian phase of inspiration. Annabeth eyes a bright gold gown with a huge, extended collar, embroidered with silver eyes, the raw edges trailing the floor. "Please tell me this isn't your idea."

"First of all," Piper releases her arm as they enter her kitchen-turned-photo studio, gingerly stepping over a box of assorted beads, "even though it would look amazing on you, that dress is for an actual paying client. Second of all--" she snatches up a dressform from its position behind the camera, setting it down in front of her with a flourish. "This is my idea."

Annabeth was right--Piper is definitely on a Klimt-ian kick.

Pulled straight from her art history classes, the dress looks like a two dimensional painting come to life, a stunning skirt like a column of liquid silver descending onto the black mat, pleats like fluted columns precisely draped over the dressform's hips… and not much else. Annabeth points. “Is that it?”

Piper makes a face. "I have a bodice, promise. Now go take that shit off."

Annabeth looks down at her repurposed The Police shirt, fished out of a thrift store bin some months ago, shirt collar cut and sides resewn to bring the waistline in. "I like this shirt."

"Oh, I like the shirt plenty," she agrees. "But you could stand to wear a nicer pair of jeans."

She does have a point there--her jeans are clinging to life at this point, the knees and hems all but obliterated, strings of fabric valiantly attempting to hold their original shape. "Fine. Be right back."

When she emerges from the bathroom a minute later in just her bra and panties, Piper has laid out another bolt of fabric in that same color, silver with a blue shift beneath the studio lights. Piper, bent over with a strip of measuring tape, looks up at her, then squints. "So who is he?"

Annabeth starts. "Excuse me?"

"The guy you've been seeing."

How... the fuck does Piper always know these things? "I don't know what you're talking about."

She flicks her eyes down to Annabeth's thigh, Annabeth following her gaze to the remnants of the bruise that Percy had left there with his mouth two days ago. Dammit.

Piper tsks, a smile distorting the sound. "Naughty, naughty, Annabeth."

"How do you know it wasn't from a girl?" she asks, petulant.

"Because if it had been a girl, you wouldn't be nearly so defensive."

Shit. "We've been friends way too long," Annabeth grumbles.

"That we have," says Piper. "And out of respect for our friendship, I will refrain from grilling you about him until you are more comfortable sharing."

"So, for a few hours?"

She shrugs. "More or less."

"I suppose you want me to thank you for holding back."

"Don't thank me yet," she grins, wide and toothy. "I've been cooped up here working on my collection for three days, and I am dying to talk to someone."

Annabeth sighs, but obediently raises her arms, making room as Piper crouches down to pin the skirt on her. "Okay, you got me. I'm seeing this guy."

"Seeing or seeing-seeing?"

"Just seeing," she clarifies. "It's pretty casual."

"Can't be that casual if you're telling me about it," Piper points out.

Fuck. This is why she never tells Piper about her hookups. "You're the one who asked."

"Another business bro, I assume?"

"He's--" Piper swats at her as she automatically sucks her stomach in, their long held code for "stay put." "He's a dancer."

She hums, arranging pleats over Annabeth's knees. "Like on Broadway?"

"Ballet."

Piper glances up at her, eyes sparkling. “Un danseur! Ooh la la,” she trills. “What’s his name?”

“I can just leave,” Annabeth says, distinctly not thinking about how Percy will occasionally slip into French whenever he stubs his toe.

“Okay, okay, no more boy talk.” Piper moves in front of her, adjusting the fabric about her waist. “Tell me about the thing you just won with Leo.”

“I had honestly forgotten about it,” she says, lying a little, pulling her arms forward. “You remember his master’s thesis?”

“The shmart kishen thing, right?” Piper asks around the tape measure in her mouth.

Leo, the prodigal boy that he is, had spent his last year of school dedicated to a singular problem faced by people around the world: the sudden, out of control kitchen fire. Using very complicated electronics and engineering that Annabeth does not understand, he devised a handful of mechanisms to sense, contain, and ultimately douse random fires as soon as they popped up. Annabeth came on as his design partner after he had graduated and had gotten some funding to conceptualize an entire safe house.

“Well, it just won an Eta Industries award.”

Her head snaps up, hands freezing in their tracks. “Holy shit.”

“Yeah.”

“Congrats.”

“Thanks,” she shrugs as Piper gets up to grab some more fabric. “I mean, it was mostly Leo’s doing. I just made sure he didn’t leave any stray pipes around.”

Holding out her arms again, Piper slides them through the sleeves of a heavy, corset-like piece, structured and straight and very forgiving on Annabeth’s lack of curves. “You shouldn’t sell yourself short,” she says. “I’m sure your skills as a guinea pig were very valuable.”

“Are you ever going to let that go?” Annabeth asks, she who has literally burnt pasta while it was submerged in water.

“You’re just lucky my dad was out of town that weekend. Have you decided what you’re going to wear to the awards ceremony?”

She shoots her friend a strange look. “I thought I was wearing this?” she gestures to the unfinished silver gown currently making her feel like an absolute goddess.

Piper makes a face. “What do I look like, the fucking Flash? This isn’t going to be ready for another thirty hours, at least. I’ve got decals to add, Swarovskis to bead, not to mention all the hand-stitching on the neckline because for whatever reason my machine has decided to hate me this week.”

“Okay, well,” says Annabeth, appropriately cowed, “then I guess I’ll wear the black one you gave me.”

“2019 fall/winter?”

Annabeth nods.

“Styling?”

“Luke gave me this really nice scarf for my birthday.”

Throwing her head back, she groans.

“What? What’s wrong?”

“You’re so boring,” she moans, pulling Annabeth’s hair out of the way. “Let me guess, you’re going to pair it with the black shrug and opaque nude tights.”

“Well… yeah, I was.”

“Exactly! Boring.” Coming back around, she pushes Annabeth lightly into the light, before taking her place behind the camera. “You could do so much with that dress and you choose to make it boring. Why not some fishnets? Or a big statement necklace?”

Annabeth waits after a few shutter clicks to answer. “Because I doubt that the people at Eta Industries are going to be big fans of my tattoos.”

“That is a bald-faced lie and you know it,” Piper says. “Your tattoos and piercings are gorgeous and you would look absolutely rocking with them. Knock all the old farts right off their feet. Turn.”

Obediently, Annabeth rotates, letting Piper snap off as many pictures as she likes. “This isn’t a Vogue event, Pipes,” she says, rolling her eyes where her friend can’t see them. “Punk isn’t exactly accepted practice yet.”

“Punk was the Met Gala theme almost a decade ago, babe. It has filtered down from Vogue. It's practically cerulean now. Side.”

Annabeth turns again, keeping her eyes straight. Side-eye would ruin the shot, no matter how much she wants to give it.

“I will never understand why you both refuse to wear halfway decent jeans and then refuse to go guns out in my dresses that demand it. I can almost guarantee you that Leo will show up in those stupid suspenders with grease on his face. And you’ll have to get him to leave his tool belt in the car.”

“Then it’s probably for the best that I have a modicum of professionalism, huh?”

Piper leans out from behind the camera, glaring. “At the very least,” she hedges, “will you let me set you up with some shoes?”

“I don’t know…”

“You are not allowed to wear those horrid Manolo pumps you wear everywhere. And your nude Louboutins won’t look right with the black.”

“What did you have in mind?”

Piper’s grin is evil, and the way she scampers out of the room means she’s got something she’d been trying to force on Annabeth for a long time.

Five minutes later, Annabeth is presented with a set of black strappy sandals, its edges detailed in a gold zipper, with safety pin pull to match. She frowns. “Are you sure? They look kind of… hardcore for something like this.”

“They’re Versace,” Piper says. “I was not lying about punk’s democratization.”

Well. They are pretty cool.

“It’s either this or the McQueen boots. They have studs.”

Annabeth sighs, holding out her hand. Piper squeals, bouncing a little, wrapping her in a brief, but exuberant hug, kissing her cheek with a loud, wet, smack. “You’re the best!”

“I haven’t even done anything.”

“I am saving up favors to cash in. Now,” she releases Annabeth, retreating behind the camera. “If you’ve got some time, can I borrow your head? I’m working on a helmet and all my mannequins are busy.”

***

“Hey,” Percy begins. It is so late at night, the dawn is on the edge of breaking, and they are both exhausted from some particularly good sex. Which is saying something, because all their sex is particularly good. “You doing anything on the 18th?”

“Yeah,” She says, distractedly, snuggling down into his bed. The fact that she’s also snuggling into him is just a coincidence.

“Oh.”

“Why?”

“Nothing. Was going to invite you to a thing if you weren’t.” She nods her head against his shoulder and falls asleep in his arms, thinking absolutely nothing about it.

She continues to think nothing of it on the train to Philadelphia on the 18th, half-asleep and listening to Paramore to pass the time, blasting Misery Business on repeat as she changes in her hotel room.

The Eta Industries event is pretty much exactly what she expected: a lot of old rich white people milling about, sipping champagne and verbally circle jerking each other, the insipid strains of classical music spilling out of the ballroom as Annabeth steps up to claim her name tag. “Name?” asks the young, college-aged girl, skimming her printed guest list over the rim of her glasses.

“Annabeth Chase.”

She runs a long fingernail over the assorted collection of name tags, before settling on the correct one, handing it to Annabeth, her star tattoo on the inside of her wrist free and open to anyone who would care to look. “Here you are, Ms. Chase,” she says, smiling. “Have a wonderful night!”

Automatically, Annabeth goes to pin it on Luke’s scarf, before she remembers that something is already occupying that place--Percy’s Acropolis pin. She had taken to keeping it in her pocket these days, something of a good luck charm, and thought that it might… she doesn’t know, maybe send a subconscious signal to Percy that she’s thinking of him. Even though there is, quite literally, no way he could know, she hopes that maybe he can sense it, and that maybe he’s thinking about her, too.

Ugh. She snatches up a flute of champagne from a wandering waiter, eager to get that thought out of her head, making a beeline straight for the refreshments table. It’s there that Leo finds her, not five minutes later, munching on some chocolate covered strawberries.

“And here I thought you might ditch me entirely,” he says, even as he bumps her shoulder. True to form, he is absolutely, 100% dressed in those stupid suspenders, a smudge of grease behind his ear.

“You’ve got a…” Annabeth trails off, motioning behind her own ear.

“Huh? Oh!” He snatches up a napkin, rubbing discreetly. “Thanks.”

She squints. Something about him is distinctly different. “Are you taller?”

Kicking out a foot, he wiggles it, triumphant. “Platform shoes.”

“Seriously?”

“Hey, if they're good enough for Robert Downey Jr., then they’re good enough for me. After all, I am Ir--”

She groans, good-natured, taking another gulp of champagne. “If you quote Marvel in your speech, I’m leaving.”

“Fine by me, Your Highness, they’ll give me the award either way.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Valdez?” The same college girl from before sidles up to them, clipboard clutched in her hand. “They’re about to start.”

He claps his hands, rubbing them together. “Excellent. You coming?”

“I…” She casts her gaze to the makeshift stage they’ve constructed, eyeing the bright “Eta Industries” placard, the sharp angles shiny and alluring, the siren-song of recognition.

This is a big deal. There are photographers in the audience. In the write-ups and reviews, she would be listed as a co-winner of the award, a co-designer of the world’s safest house, a thought so happy she practically starts flying.

“I think I should stay out of the limelight for this one, Leo,” she says, politely. “This is your moment. I don’t want to ruin it.”

He frowns. “You sure?”

Were it not for the fact that people were watching, Annabeth would have leapt up onto that stage without a second thought, snatching up the trophy like she had just won the Oscar, holding it up like the goddamn Olympic torch. “What, you want a white woman stealing your glory?” she says instead, arching a brow.

“You get a pass this one time,” he quips, holding out his hand. “Don’t make me regret it.”

Whatever social grace she has left crumbles. She’s denied it enough--she wants to be up there. “Oh, fine. Since you insist,” she says, following clipboard-girl to the stage.

There’s a quick burst of feedback, then an elderly gentleman at the podium begins speaking into the mic. “Excuse me--sorry about that. Yes, yes, thank you all for coming tonight to the annual Eta Industries awards presentation ceremony. It is always such a pleasure to come together with our hard-working and generous board members and shareholders to honor the best and brightest upcoming talent in engineering.”

Internally, she rolls her eyes. Rich people.

“It is my pleasure, however, to introduce the young man who is the recipient of this year’s Millennium Prize for innovation and safety. One of MIT’s youngest and most decorated graduates, he was a recipient of the Mead Prize for Students, the Friedman Young Engineer Award, and the Collingwood Prize, among several others. His master’s thesis, ‘Towards the Design and Implementation of Autonomous Safety Measures in Commercial Kitchens,’ formed the basis of the project which we recognize tonight, the so-called ‘SmartSafe House,’ reflects the pioneering spirit and outstanding creative vision of not only Eta Industries, but also the field of engineering as a whole. Please join me in congratulating this year’s Millennium Prize recipient, Leo Valdez.”

From the sidelines, she claps enthusiastically with the rest of the crowd as her friend takes the stage, shakes hands with the Vice President of Eta Industries, and accepts the award, a blue, blocky triangle which almost seems to glow in the light of the ballroom. “Thank you, Mr. Helms. This is--this is a really big honor.”

She can see him shaking a bit, taking a quick drink from his water glass. Public speaking was never really his strong suit.

“As--as a lot of you probably know, this project is very near and dear to my heart. Growing up in Houston with my mother, a car mechanic, I was eight years old when her beloved shop went up in flames, like that.” He snaps his fingers, his other hand pressed to the podium where no one can see, joints white with pressure. Annabeth is proud of him--he hasn’t been able to speak this candidly about it in years. She knows firsthand how much his mother’s near-death haunts him still. “Thankfully, we were able to rebuild, and my mother went on to bigger and better things--including a shop with cleaner vents. But I can definitely pinpoint that moment as the day I knew I wanted to make the world a safer place, for my mom, if not for everyone else.”

She remembers, so clearly, that snowy night in the dorms at Miss Minerva’s. The power had gone out, and Leo had made them an illicit campfire out of their trash bin and Annabeth’s failed English exam. Cold and miserable and with dying phones, they passed the time instead telling scary stories and funny memories, until the conversation had gotten suddenly, intensely real.

“But I would be remiss,” he goes on, cheerful, “if I didn’t acknowledge my friend and collaborator, without whose work I wouldn’t be here today: Annabeth Chase,” he waves to his side, indicating her. The whole crowd, as one, turns their gazes on her. She straightens up, imperceptibly, hoping she doesn’t look too haughty or anything. “I’ve never been very good with people. My mama says I’m just like my dad that way. Give me a car, or a computer, or pages of multiplication tables, and I’m golden. But people?” He blows out a breath, and the crowd chuckles, naturally. “Now, if it had been left up to me, the SmartSafe House would have been a top of the line, cutting-edge metal box, efficient to a fault, but completely unlivable. Thank God I had Annabeth on my team to remind me what the project was really about: a home that families could feel safe in, so that what happened to me and my mom might never happen to anyone else.” He hoists his award above his head, leaning into the mic. “Ma, este es para ti. Thank you all.”

Stepping down from the stage, they reenter the crowd, ready to receive adoration. In another life, she might have been embarrassed by such praise. Here and now, however, she takes each handshake and word of congratulations like a starving man in a desert who just came across an oasis, hungry and greedy.

Hey, it’s her night, too.

After what feels like a whole-ass sixty minutes of shaking old people's hands and polite nodding, though, she is in desperate need of a break. Escaping the throng of mingling bodies, she darts into a dark corner of the ballroom, leaning against the back of a rounded stone column, just barely out of sight of the party.

Rubbing her hands over her face, she sighs, just short of a scream. Blowing out all her air, she lets the faint music and fake laughs melt into each other, becoming white noise, a blank canvas, empty of concrete thoughts and feelings.

Then, her ear picks up a strand of conversation.

“...announcing tomorrow that the CEO of Pallas Inc. is choosing a successor,” a woman says, the sneer in her voice almost visible. “About time.”

“I thought she already picked a successor,” says the woman’s conversation partner, a man with the kind of cookie-cutter cadence that she heard every time she took a business major to bed. “Pallas is a family business, isn’t it?”

“You haven’t heard?” Annabeth can almost picture it, the furtive glance around the room, the woman placing her hand on her partner’s arm, leaning in to share a juicy secret. “Supposedly she was grooming her daughter for the role, before she went in for rehab.”

“Rehab? Really?”

“What else could it be?” says the woman. “She’s disappeared off the face of the earth, and her mother refuses to talk about her. Let’s be honest, if she were dead, she would have raised a bigger stink about it.”

Annabeth closes her eyes, sucking air in through her teeth. That… wasn’t totally untrue.

But the woman doesn’t stop. “It’s always the same story,” she scoffs. “You throw countless hours of schooling and millions of dollars into girls like her, and what do they do? Turn around and blow it all on drugs and partying. Honestly, she should be grateful her mother is even bothering with her rehab at all. Hasn’t she wasted enough of the family’s money already?”

Blood roars in her ears, drowning out the fancy party. Sharp points dig into her palm, pinpricks of pain, before she realizes that they’re her own fingernails.

The lady has got it all wrong. Her mom couldn’t even be bothered with that.

Luke’s scarf, the shrug, it’s choking her, suffocating and constricting. Percy’s pin feels heavy on her chest.

Blinders on, she would have sprinted for the exit were it not for the Piper’s stupid Versace heels, reduced instead to a teetering, tottering wreck, like a baby colt running from a predator. The night is hot and humid, heavy with the threat of rain, and Annabeth can barely breathe, dark spots in her eyes, until she ducks into a nearby Target, the frigid blast of air a welcome distraction.

Almost in a daze, she watches herself pick up a few things--clippers, an electric razor, beef jerky, a blue Gatorade she considers for a moment before putting it back, choosing a lemonade instead--practically throwing them at the poor cashier who begins checking her out, mechanically. He doesn’t spare her a single glance for her odd assortment of items. He doesn’t even look at her at all.

The walk to her hotel room disappears in the blink of an eye. Blink--she breezes past the check-in counter, slipping into the empty elevator. Blink--she kicks off her heels in her room, nearly hitting the wall mirror, leaving a scuff mark on the white plaster. Blink--she’s down to her underwear and tights in the bathroom, shaving the right side of her curls clean off. She’d gotten them professionally done for the night, perfect spirals held together by expensive products. And now she wants them gone.

She pauses and breathes too hard, looking at herself in the mirror. Her mother didn’t like that she was blonde. Maybe because of dumb blonde stereotypes, maybe just because it reminded Athena too much of her failed romance with Annabeth’s dad. And that thought stays her hand from getting rid of the rest of them.

That, and maybe the idea of Percy, of some broke dancer, tangling his fingers in it as they lie together.

Fuck her mother, and the fucking stories she tells.

She likes it. She likes her blonde hair and her fresh undercut.

She can get Thalia to touch this up later, maybe. Now, though, she needs this.

It doesn’t look perfect. The left side of hair is too long, her gold laurel earrings too fancy for a homegrown haircut like this, her makeup too pristine. Shoving her hand under the running water, she rubs at her eyes, mascara and eyeliner smearing until they’ve reached something much more respectable for the failure that she really is.

She misses her industrial. And her eyebrow rings. And the tongue piercing. But this will have to do for now.

Breathing heavily, eyes hot, she doesn’t register her phone blinking, signaling an unread text message.

It’s from Thalia. surprised you weren’t at kelp heads bday party, it reads. was pretty boring. Kno he missed you

#backstory backstory backstoryyyyyyy #my fic #percabeth #pjo #the rivalry ends here #darkmagyk #perseannabeth #ballet au

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juniorgman187 · 3 years

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The Bones (Reid Series) Part 1

Summary: Almost a year after Maeve’s death, Spencer reaches out to the recipients of Maeve’s donated organs to reconnect with his lost love. However, when the receiver of her heart, Reader, doesn’t write back, Spencer goes on a poorly-motivated mission to find her.

Playlist: “The Bones” by Maren Morris & Hozier (BONUS: song includes major foreshadowing)

A/N: There is an OC in this story because to me, writing “(y/n)” over and over again cheapens the story and doesn’t flow well. It was a personal decision, and to anyone it sincerely bothers, I’m sure there’s a way you can insert your own name instead. This fic is also inspired by “Things We Know By Heart” by Jessi Kirby. Category: Series, Soft Angst, Eventual Smut + NSFW content* Pairing: Spencer Reid POV x Fem!OC Content Warning: allusions to death, mourning, loss, recovery, arrhythmia (this is an intro chapter, so it’ll get more interesting from here I promise) Word Count: 2.2k

This will be a multi-part series.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

It all started that first autumn after Maeve’s death - just five weeks past a year since I parted with her. I was absentmindedly reading when, rather out of the blue, Mary Donovan called to inform me about a Mrs. Rachel Larsen.

Although we didn’t learn her actual name until later, she was first known to us as the recipient of Maeve’s liver. Not a single one of the three of us - Maeve’s parents and me - had expected a recipient to be in contact with us. That inability to predict such an event was caused by my neglect to remember Maeve was an organ donor. It wasn’t particularly relevant in the grand scheme of things, and for that forgetfulness, I was truly ashamed, but after reading Rachel Larsen’s letter together with the Donovans, it all came back to me.

Every single thing.

You see, despite the anonymity of the person writing to us, it was as if I could actually feel Maeve’s soul coming alive again, as strange as that sounds.

She was still here with me ... in some form.

Later that night, when I would return to an empty apartment, I would wonder why I hadn’t thought of reaching out to the recipients before. Even though I’d already started writing a thank you letter back to Rachel, the thirst for more of Maeve became increasingly insatiable.

While I did have fond memories of her to live by, I couldn’t thrive off of them in the way that I did with that letter. Our only moments together worth reliving were those spent over the phone, a time when I didn’t even know what she looked like. But that letter from Rachel Larsen ... it was somehow more wholesome and pure than any memory of the living Maeve that I could cultivate.

You could say I was doing this to ease my mourning, meaning it should’ve made me feel better, but that didn’t stop the guilt from eating away at me piece by piece as I wrote letters to the rest of the recipients.

The Donovans had no idea I was doing this, but I reasoned to myself that they would appreciate the surprise. Though they were still undeniably riddled with grief, smiles embellished their sullen faces when they read about Rachel’s quality of life now with a new liver. So maybe, just maybe, hearing from the rest of the receivers would be good for us all. At least, that’s what I told myself.

In one of those rare moments when inspiration strikes and it courses through your veins at the speed of lightning, I found myself being more productive than I had been in nearly a year. By midnight, I’d successfully composed five letters, each dedicated to the receiver of one of Maeve’s major organs - none of which, though, included my identity.

Given the fragile process of contacting the transplant coordinators, getting consent forms, and premeeting counseling, it would be months, if not years, before I would be able to really speak with these faceless people. Nothing against Donor Family Services - I’m sure they do the best they can - but for me, their best wasn’t good enough. So instead, I enlisted the help of someone I knew could never let me down.

“Are you sure you want me to do this?” Penelope peered up at me from her seat, her pinky finger hesitantly hovering over the ‘enter’ button.

“Yes.”

With just one click, she discovered the addresses of each one of those faceless people. This singular operation, albeit somewhat unethical, was the final piece to my puzzle. All there was left to do now was send the letters to them, with the tenuous hope they might send one back.

Luckily for me, not a single recipient questioned how I managed to find them or why this process wasn’t being handled by Donor Family Services, but I suppose if they did wonder those things, they didn’t feel comfortable asking me. Especially not after they learned who I was in relation to their donor. I didn’t intend to guilt-trip anyone with what I wrote in my letters nor did I want to take advantage of anyone’s empathy, but how could you possibly make a foe out of your organ donor’s grieving boyfriend? Exactly - you can’t. So you don’t. Instead, you send an inviting letter back, telling me you’d love to meet. Which is what four of them did.

Only one person didn’t reply, and while an 80% success rate was great, I simply couldn’t let this one go. Trust me, I would have ... had it been any other organ.

For quite some time, I was the one with Maeve’s heart.

I just needed to see where it was now.

᠃ ⚘᠂ ⚘ ˚ ⚘ ᠂ ⚘ ᠃

The heart has several definitions and corresponding connotations.

Scientifically speaking, the heart is a hollow muscular organ that pumps the blood through the circulatory system by rhythmic contraction and dilation. However, figuratively, the heart can be seen as the central or innermost part of something. The heart of a city, for example. But in literature, the heart is symbolic of love. It is often regarded as the source of all knowledge, which is where the comparison between the head and the heart comes from. The head operates logically, whereas the heart functions emotionally, but despite the rationality the head holds, the heart is what people advise you to listen to because it holds the ultimate truth.

The heart, because it is equipped with your truest feelings, supersedes any logic and reason the head might hold.

But you see, I only ever knew Maeve’s mind. I could understand the inner workings of it - I’d probably be able to navigate through her consciousness if I entered it given the fact that our intellect matched one another’s - and I shared nearly identical thought processes with her, but that was all that I ever knew.

And if that was how much knowledge she held in her head alone, then, undoubtedly, her heart held so much more.

Science defines the heart as an organ. Figurative language uses the heart to establish a focal point. Literature likens the heart to love. But I compare her heart to the ocean. Like the sea, Maeve’s heart was 80% undiscovered, and exploration was simply calling my name.

For that reason, and that reason alone, I couldn’t abandon my pursuit of it.

That’s not to say I wasn’t ashamed of this mission, though. If anything, shame for the man I had become in the face of Maeve’s death was the only feeling I was truly capable of anymore. Any other emotions were fleeting or insincere.

Unfortunately, that slimy, disgusting feeling was only amplified times ten when I found myself driving two hours and forty-five minutes to get to Virginia Beach.

No sane man would drive this far on a weekday for even their most prized possession, and yet here I was, exactly 180 miles away from home, seeking out someone who hadn’t had the courtesy to even write me back, let alone agree to meet with me. Who knows if she’d even give me the time of day.

She being Valerie.

“Valerie Elise Bishop was born on August 5th, 1988 in Henderson, Nevada, to parents Andrew and Sara, but when Valerie turned seventeen, she was diagnosed with arrhythmia,” Garcia explained to me over the phone on the car ride here. “It’s when-”

“When the electrical impulses that coordinate your heartbeats don't work properly, causing your heart to beat too fast, too slow or irregularly,” I accidentally cut in. Realizing I interrupted Garcia, I brought her back into the conversation by asking, “I know there are more than 3 million cases per year in the U.S, but isn’t it usually common for ages 60 or older?”

“You are most certainly correct, Boy Wonder. It is more common in ages 60 and older, however, her maternal grandmother passed away from arrhythmia, so the family history increased the likelihood.”

At the sound of this news, I had to pull the car over and physically stop just so I could grasp the weight of what I was really doing.

“In Henderson, Nevada ... maternal grandmother passed away ... family history increased the likelihood …” Garcia’s voice rang in my head.

It was then that I came face to face with the gravity of reality.

Valerie wasn’t just a faceless name or a recipient of Maeve’s heart, she was a person. And her humanity only became more apparent to me the more Penelope spoke.

For god’s sake, she and I grew up in the same state. She and I saw the same sunsets from the same little corner of the earth. She drove down the same highways and byways - we might’ve even crossed paths at one point or another! Not to mention that she lost her grandmother to the same disease that she was suffering from, and if there was one thing consistent about arrhythmia, it was very likely she’d been living with it for decades, if not her entire lifetime. It’s a long term disease that takes years to improve but only seconds to kill. All it would take is just one irregular beat, and she’d be dead. How can you possibly live with that constant fear looming over your head?

She is a person. I had to remind myself. Not just a means to explore more of Maeve.

“Hey, Garcia,” I turned the car back on. “I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

“What do you mean?” I could just feel panic begin to rise in Garcia.

“No, I’m not talking about life, I’m talking about this.” Though she couldn’t see, I grandly gestured to the location, the car, and the passenger seat that was cluttered with files on Valerie. “I don’t feel right invading her privacy like this. It’s just selfish.”

I wasn’t the only one mourning something here.

“Are you sure?” Penelope clarified. Which was ironic considering she was the one who was unsure of doing any of this, to begin with. What was I thinking? I shouldn’t have dragged Garcia into this. Something as immoral as this was totally against her character, but she did it anyway because her loyalty to her friends conquers all.

Like I said, my shame multiplied times ten. If not for Valerie, then certainly for Penelope.

“Yeah, I’m sure. I’m heading home.”

“Okay,” She softly returned. “Be safe.”

“Oh, and Garcia?” I asked before ending the call. “Thanks.”

“Of course. Anything for you, Dr. Reid.”

By the time I ended the call, the sun was already setting - that’s how long I’d been on the road for. The nearly-three-hour drive I would have to make for the second time today meant I wouldn’t be home in time to beat the pitch-black sky, so considering I was already in for a long night, I made a little detour for the one thing I couldn’t go home without.

A piping hot cup of coffee.

I felt something as rewarding as caffeine was well deserved for the self-restraint I demonstrated minutes ago. And maybe it was my exhaustion, both mental and physical, that brought me to the near conclusion that I would truly let this go, but I was honestly feeling like I could accept this. An 80% acceptance rate. Not bad, right?

Though I was basically half-asleep while waiting for my coffee, I could not miss the barista when she said, “Valerie! Your order’s ready!”

What are the chances?

A jolt of energy surged through my body and brought me back to life, causing me to whip my head around at the slightest semblance of movement. On instinct, my gaze gravitated to the woman walking towards the front counter. My pull to her was so strong that even if I hadn’t studied file upon file on her that included pictures of what she looked like, I still would’ve recognized her in a heartbeat.

I just knew. That’s her.

I had no plan whatsoever for how I should approach this, and yet I still rose from my seat, motivated by nothing more than the single belief that I needed to.

Was this the universe telling me that I was meant to run into her after all? That I needed to meet the woman with an oceanic heart?

But when I finally got to where she was, she glided effortlessly past me, not paying any mind to my presence. Why would she though? To her, I was no one. To her, I was the faceless person.

“Excuse me!” I bolted to the front counter after realizing I might’ve just missed my opportunity. The barista, stunned and concerned, furrowed her brows while she waited for my question. “Is that girl a regular here?”

“Valerie?” She pointed in her direction, to which I nodded rapidly. “Oh, yeah. She comes in here all the time. She works just across the street.”

When I came to this coffee shop, it was simply by chance. It wasn’t even the closest cafe, but it was the one I chose to go to for some inexplicable reason.

I’d like to think it was fate. I was meant to be here after all. Because right behind me stood the storefront of a building I had only briefly read about in Valerie’s file.

The Bones, Art Gallery & Studio

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

PART 2 HERE!

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#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fanfiction #the bones #the bones pt 1 #juniorgman187

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theanimeview · 3 years

Text

My Nitpick Issue with Sherlock in Moriarty the Patriot

By: Peggy Sue Wood | @pswediting

It may surprise some of you to know that I have degrees in book reading and writing. While earning those degrees I studied one specific time period more than the others--that being British Literature from late-17th/18th century through the early 20th century. This is to say that it is a time period I know a little more about than you might think. And early 1900s is probably my favorite period out of that timeline, particularly England under Victoria’s rule.

And, perhaps, because of this strange obsession I have with the period, I presently have a small bone to pick over Moriarty the Patriot.

It’s not the minor inaccuracies of the clothes, nor the adaptation of character designs. It’s not even the adjustment to social tendencies depicted that are more Japanese than British-English of any period thus far either--because those kinds of things happen frequently in adaptations. And it's not Moriarty or his backstory too! Because, again, this is an adaptation, and liberties will be taken to fit the new story (besides, even in the original works by Doyle the man’s backstory was inconsistent).

My issue is with the character of Sherlock and his supposed “deductions.” Well, maybe more accurately it's with the writing of Sherlock.

You see, Sherlock is almost always introduced the same way in an adaptation. He makes a judgment about someone (usually about Watson or the Watson stand-in) and then proves it using his observational skills. This introduction is important because it clarifies that the world of the characters is one based on where common sense and science not only work but make sense. His deductions are logical and based on some semblance of rationality. Here is an excerpt from the original novel:

“I knew you came from Afghanistan. From long habit the train of thoughts ran so swiftly through my mind, that I arrived at the conclusion without being conscious of intermediate steps. There were such steps, however. The train of reasoning ran, `Here is a gentleman of a medical type, but with the air of a military man. Clearly an army doctor, then. He has just come from the tropics, for his face is dark, and that is not the natural tint of his skin, for his wrists are fair. He has undergone hardship and sickness, as his haggard face says clearly. His left arm has been injured. He holds it in a stiff and unnatural manner. Where in the tropics could an English army doctor have seen much hardship and got his arm wounded? Clearly in Afghanistan.'

How does this prove we are in a world where common sense and logic works? Well, because he didn’t pull any of these deductions from thin air. He just used his eyes and common knowledge to make a quick judgment.

In the example above, everything that Sherlock assumes is true and based on reasonable assumptions about the time period and about what he can observe of the person before him.

The tan of Watson’s skin is something he notes because London is usually dark and wet around this season, so you’re unlikely to get a tan. The way the man walks and stands is also a thing he can observe, and fresh military men walk very differently from the average citizen or gentleman. These two observations, coupled with noticeable injury and limp could lead one to think that maybe he has just come back from the current war (the First Anglo-Afghan War). Of course, maybe he wasn’t injured in the war at all--maybe something else happened; however, you can make a pretty good guess that an abled bodied soldier would not be home and looking for a room in the middle of war-times if something hadn’t happened to him on the battlefield.

My point is that all of Sherlock’s deductions come from observing details, paying attention to the basics of the world (such as the ongoing war or understanding rigor mortis), and using your senses. Sure, there may be a few things the average person doesn’t know that Sherlock does, but that’s because Sherlock has studied different things and to a more serious degree. The level of understanding is different, but not impossible to achieve in one’s own time or effort. And, as another note, Sherlock is not perfectly observant all of the time. There are plenty of examples of him needing to take breaks, of him closing his eyes to block out distractions so he can better focus on what someone is saying, and of him smoking to zone out for a bit so that he can come back to a problem with fresh eyes at a later time.

It’s absolutely vital to Sherlock’s character, and the original story, that all of the deductions are based on the “possible,” which is why the introduction of Sherlock in Episode 6 of this adaptation immediately irritated me. Here is the scene:

Side note: I’m sorry it’s shown as a poorly made gif--I literally could not find a copy of the clip with English subtitles on YouTube so I could not include it as a video. If you want to look at it in the episode itself, it starts at about the 13:00 minute mark. EPISODE LINK)

Here is what bothers me so much. Why would a mathematician be checking to see if the staircase on a ship fits the golden ratio? More importantly, why would that in any way matter to Moriarty as a character? Based on what we’ve seen so far of this character, and we’ve had 6 and 1/2 episodes to define him so far, none of Sherlock’s statement makes sense here.

Like, at all. (And I know that this also happens in the manga--doesn’t make sense there either.)

You know what would make sense though? For the time period and the character development we’ve seen of Moriarty thus far? A pause to consider-- and maybe even compare--staircases on the ship between the main steps for passengers and the steps for commoners or staff.

Why would that make sense? Oh, thank you so much for asking. Time to get real nerdy here for a minute:

Class issues were a serious problem in Victorian England (as they are now, though in a different way). These issues were not necessarily the same as depicted in the show but it was still consistently present throughout the society as a whole. (A good, short read on the subject can be found here for those of you interested: Social Life in Victorian England.)

One way that this issue came out was in the very architecture of homes. In Victorian England, nobleman homes and estates were built with main staircases, where the residents and guests walked, and servent staircases, where the staff and other temporary employees walked. The difference in these stairs was huge, as the servant staircases were basically death traps.

In the late 1800s, a mathematician (and architect) named Peter Nickolson figured out the exact measurements that would generally ensure a comfortable and easy walk upstairs:

BTW: Here is a great video on the subject and how they were death traps: Staircases in Victorian England

However, Nickolson’s math and designs were not used regularly in the design of houses for years to come.

By the setting of the story, and given Moriarty’s interest in maths, his understanding of class issues, and beyond--this kind of knowledge would make far more sense than searching for the golden ratio in a man-made set of stairs.

Moreover, the golden ratio is generally interesting to mathematicians (to my understanding) because it can be seen in nature frequently. It is a pattern found everywhere, from the way that petals grow on flowers, to how seashells form, to freaking hurricane formations! So why on Earth would Moriarty be interested in an architect's choice to use such a ration when planning a staircase?

He wouldn’t, I believe. Nor would Sherlock generally be able to make that assumption based on his time gazing at the staircase, distance from said staircase, nor angle.

So what can he deduce, if not that? Well, he may be able to deduce that Moriarty is a nobleman based on his attire. He may also be able to deduce that the man is a student based on age, as in an earlier episode we were told he’s quite young to be teaching in university and appears close in age to his students. Maybe he’s a student of architecture? But, if he’s a nobleman--as we suspect he is based on his attire--then it's unlikely he works a labor-intensive job or one close to it. So, he must be in academia for academic reasons such as mathematics. Physics during that time, as an academic subject, focused more on lighting, heat, electricity, magnetism, and such. And, Sherlock notes that Moriarty is specifically looking at the stairs, not the lights of the ship.

So, BAM! I’ve deduced Moriarty is a young nobleman who is likely a student of mathematics. Perhaps he’s recently had a lesson on staircases or another algebraic concept that’s caused him to pause with momentary interest.

It makes a heck of a lot more sense than finding a “golden ratio” in a man-planned and man-made staircase... don’t you think? And, maybe, we can even deduce that rather than a student he’s a professor who has just thought up an interesting lesson--though that would be a BIG jump from the data we’ve been provided here.

Deductions that come from major leaps in logic make it seem like Sherlock is doing magic... and he is--because it is magical that people find it impressive or believable. It’s not. And I would argue that the original character would find it insulting based on his comments to Watson regarding being compared to other fictional detectives.

Pay in mind, I have this feeling about several adaptations, so my judgment on Moriarty the Patriot isn’t technically exclusive. It just hit me so hard in my first viewing that I felt I needed to share because generally, this issue of deductions becoming magic rather than stemming from logic doesn’t happen in the first two minutes of meeting Sherlock Holmes.

So... yeah. Thanks for coming to my absurd history/lit lesson through Moriarty the Patriot. I appreciate you sticking with me to the end and hope it was enjoyable.

You can watch the series on Funimation.com right now at: https://www.funimation.com/shows/moriarty-the-patriot

Overall, it’s a pretty good series; although there was a lot more child-murder than I expected...

#Moriarty the Patriot #Yuukoku no Moriarty #funimation #analysis #character analysis #character #sherlock holmes #james moriarty

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joonie-beanie · 4 years

Text

Eroge

Pairing: Leviathan x Reader

Word Count: 3,778

Preview: You happen upon Levi at a bad time, and accidentally end up getting sucked into his video game. It wouldn't be so bad if it weren't for the fact that said game is a kinky eroge.

“Can’t you get me out?!”

“Ah—um—it says that the only way to get a player out of the game is the make them—um—climax?"

** Please note that this is a cross-posting **

This chapter was originally posted on 2/8/2020 as a part of my “Devil Doms” series on AO3.

[New text from Leviathan]

Leviathan: Hey!! Come to my room today!! I need your help with a boss raid!!

You: Okay!!

“Levi!” you call out, knocking on his door. It’s close to 9pm, but he hadn’t texted you until a short while before dinner, and you’d already agreed to proof read Beel’s literature essay for him following the meal. You’d assumed that coming to Leviathan’s room whenever would be fine, but when you hear the Avatar of Envy startle from within—something crashing to the floor and a scream following—you wonder if now isn’t the best time.

“Ah! No!” he cries out, something else clambering onto the floor, and you knock on the door again.

“Levi? Are you alright?”

Without waiting for him to answer, you test the doorknob and push the door open when you find that it’s unlocked.

“N-No! Don’t come in! I--,” he begins to say, but quickly realizes he’s already too late when he sees your head pop through the doorway. Your eyes land on him. He’s kneeling beside his desk, face red as a tomato, and a few figurines, a bottle of…lotion?, and a controller are scattered at his feet.

“Are you okay?” you ask, hesitantly stepping into the room and closing the door behind you. Levi’s hands shake, his gaze turning down to the floor in front of him.

“I’m fine! Totally fine!” he nearly yells in response, hurriedly scooping up the items scattered across the floor. His eyes dart back up to you, and he spins on his knees, facing away before standing up.

You frown, wondering why he’s acting so weird.

“Is now a bad time? Maybe we can do the raid tomorr—”

“No!! It has to be today!!” he responds in a panic, his head whipping every which direction. After a second, he rushes to his bed and gingerly sets the figurines down. He then stands up, still facing away, and glances at you over his shoulder. As soon as he makes eye contact with you, his blush deepens.

“We can do it now! I just…I need to use the bathroom first!” he says, and stiffly walks to another door nearby. You watch him, concerned. You’ve seen Levi flustered before, but this is an entirely new level.

Still a little unsure, you slowly pad further into the room. After a few seconds, his monitor catches your eye, and you make your way over. On screen, there’s the start menu of a game. It’s pink, and twinkly—little starbursts shining all across the menu. However, there’s no title to the game, or indication of what it’s about. The only options on screen are “Resume Game”, “Import Character & Continue” or “Quit”.

Well, if this is the game we’re playing, I might as well get a head start and make my character, you think to yourself, scooping his wireless controller off the ground. You take a seat in his green and black leather chair, figuring it’s not a big deal since Levi isn’t around at the moment.

Pressing the joystick down, you hover over the “Import Character & Continue” option, and then hit ✕. A text box pops up.

“Is the current player the one you would like to import?”

A “Yes” or “No” option appears, and you click over to “Yes”. However, as you confirm your choice, an electric tingle rolls over your entire body. You gasp, the controller falling out of your hands, and it clatters to the floor.

The sound manages to reach Levi—who is still hidden in the bathroom—and he opens the door slightly.

“Y/N?” he calls, “what was that?”

There’s no response, and Levi peeks his head out a bit farther. His eyes scan the room, and there’s no sign of you. Just his wireless controller on the ground beside his chair, and—

Levi notices the screen on his computer has changed, and his heart drops into his stomach.

“No no no no no no!” he panics, darting out of the bathroom and to his desk. He holds the monitor between his hands, orange eyes widening as the screen changes yet again—the level finally having loaded. Immediately—you appear on screen.

“Leviathan?!” you call out, scanning your surroundings. You’re no longer in the House of Lamentation, but what looks to be a city—or, more specifically, an alleyway within a city. Tall brick walls cage you on either side—a dead end behind you, and a street a few hundred feet ahead.

“Levi!” you try again, and this time you hear a response.

“Y/N!” it sounds like he’s far away—his voice echoing down the alley. You open your mouth—relieved to hear him—but he doesn’t sound calm at all.

“Why did you do that?! You stupid normie! Now what am I going to do?! Oh my GOD. OOOOO MY GOD—”

“Levi! What is going on?! Where am I, and why are you freaking o--?”

Before you can finish, a dark shadow begins to materialize out of the pavement in front of you. You startle, back tracking. Ever so slowly, the dark mass rises up—tentacle-like arms whipping out and dragging across the floor.

You stare in fear, gasping when you roughly run into the brick wall behind you.

“Levi!” you yell, frustrated at his silence.

“I—UGH. Okay! Listen! I was playing a game, and this is the final boss! You totally came to my room at the worst time--!”

He’s halfway between exasperation, and a whine, but you don’t have time for his rambling at the moment.

“What kind of game?” you interrupt, your eyes training on the abomination in front of you once more. By now, it’s no longer a dark shadow. The mess of slick limbs has taken on a purple hue—two large eyes appearing at the front of it’s torso.

“Um…”

Leviathan sounds more embarrassed than you’ve ever heard him before, and realization begins to dawn on you—both fear and arousal mingling in your gut.

“Levi…,” you speak again, your tone soft, and a little scared. The monster makes eye contact with you, and its tentacles begin inching forward.

“I—it’s—,” he struggles to admit the truth, but at this point you don’t need him to say it. You realize what he’d be playing: a very kinky eroge—in which the final boss is apparently a tentacle monster.

“Can’t you get me out?!” you ask, shivering as one of the tentacles begins curling up your leg. There’s the sound of a game case clicking open, and papers being flipped. You assume he’s reading the manual.

All the while, another tentacle reaches out and touches your wrist. You immediately jump away from the feeling, but the tentacle is persistent. It darts out—securing your wrist in a split second. You panic—attempting to pull free, but it’s clear that the monster is much stronger.

With little effort, it forces your arm above your head, and another tentacle darts out to capture your other wrist. By the time Levi’s voice returns to the space around you, both of your wrists are secured above your head by a single tentacle—your feet barely touching the ground.

In his room, staring at the screen, Leviathan swallows harshly. The tent in his pants twitches at the sight of you.

“Ah—um—it says that the only way to get a player out of the game is to make them—um—climax?”

His voice pitches high at the end. Clearly, he’s embarrassed to be saying it, and you don’t blame him. However, right now, you’re pretty sure that if either of you have the right to be embarrassed, it’s you.

“Do you…have a hand in completing the level?” you ask him when the monster begins to idle. As if on cue, a bold, white “LEVEL START” appears in the space above you. Levi’s hands tighten around his controller, and his tongue darts out to lick his lips.

“I…”

You can hear many emotions in his voice—everything from shame, to regret, and maybe even a little bit of excitement. You sigh, your thighs rubbing together shyly. If it was up to you, you would have built an emergency escape option into the game, but since there’s clearly only one path to getting you out…

“It’s okay, Levi. I trust you.”

And it’s true. Despite the monster in front of you, it’s reassuring to know that at least Levi has some control. And…it’s not like you’ve never seen anything involving a tentacle monster before. Like Levi, you enjoy anime, and at some point, had discovered hentai. You’d always felt shameful when becoming aroused while watching, but the idea of being stimulated so much at once is undeniably appealing to you.

So, while your current predicament wasn’t exactly planned, it wasn’t completely unwelcome either.

“Y/N, I…,” Levi sounds so torn. If he’s being honest with himself, he really wants to play the level. And the fact that you’re willing to put your trust in him and let him play it a huge turn on. However…if he had just been more careful, and hadn’t freaked out and left you alone, then you wouldn’t be in this predicament to begin with.

“Levi,” you speak up again, and he glances at his computer screen to find you smiling up at him. You send him a little wink, and while he can tell you’re still nervous, there’s an air of genuine reassurance about you as well.

“Have fun. I’m yours to use.”

And with that, Levi needs to hear nothing else.

His tongue pokes out to wet his lips, heart thundering against his ribs, and his fingers tighten against the controller in his hands.

“Ittadakimasu,” he whispers, an edge to his voice that reflects his hunger. You blush, realizing how turned-on he is by your words, but don’t have long to think on it. The tentacle wrapped around your leg inches up to meet your womanhood—rubbing it through your leggings.

You gasp, arms straining against their restraints, but of course it’s no use.

Behind you—perhaps purposely hidden, so you can’t see the words—an array of options appears.

✕ – Play with breasts

◯ – Rip off clothes

△ – Spank

□ – Fuck pussy

Levi reads through them quickly. All of the choices are tempting, but he doesn’t want to be too rough with you starting off.

His thumb hits the ✕ button, and a tentacle wiggles forward—curling around your waist and then wrapping around your breasts. You keen, thighs pressing together as heat begins threading through your limbs. Even while clothed, the sensation of having no control while being touched in your most sensitive areas is more arousing than you’d care to admit.

The tentacle at your chest curls around one of your breasts—squeezing, and tugging at the mound. Your other breast is prodded at by the round head of the purple appendage—attempting to locate your sensitive nipple through your clothing.

Again, an option appears on screen.

RB – Remove shirt

Levi’s finger hesitates over the bumper, precum beginning to pool against the crotch of his sweats. What he’s doing feels like a crime, but…your words of reassurance resound in his head, and he pushes the button.

In reaction, the tentacle at your chest momentarily stops its ministrations—diverting downward. The slimy arm sneaks beneath the hem of your t-shirt, crawling its way up between your breasts. And then, with a might tug away from you, it rips your shirt up the middle. Your bra is the only thing left shielding your chest away from public view, but it doesn’t stay in place for long.

Apparently part of a package deal with the “Remove shirt” option, the tentacle yanks the lacy white fabric away from your body—the garment disappearing from around you with a definitive rip. Immediately your breasts spill into the open air, and you flush bright red, realizing that this is the first time Levi will have seen any part of you so intimately.

Seated in front of the PC, the Avatar of Envy sets his controller atop his desk—prepared to push the buttons with one hand (no matter how lame of a gamer it makes him), while his other hand finally sinks into his lap. He palms himself through his pants, nearly moaning at the momentary relief. However, he doesn’t give into his desires just yet—his eyes still glued to the screen as the monster begins toying with your tits once more.

This time, with no fabric in the way, you’re feeling much more sensitive as the tentacle resumes its movements. The purple limb wraps around one of your breasts, pulling and squeezing the soft flesh, while the head of the tentacle swirls around your hardened nipple. You tremble at the feeling, managing to hold in any sounds that threaten to escape you…at least, until an additional tentacle hovers over your neglected breast—the end of the limb opening like a pair of lips. It wastes no time locking onto your nipple—sucking harshly and causing a lewd gasp to escape you.

Finally, with two tentacles assaulting your tits, and a third still rubbing between your legs, you’re beginning to fall apart at the seams. Your breathing becomes unsteady—whines and moans rolling off your tongue as the monster continues to follow Levi’s commands.

While you can’t hear it, the purple haired demon’s breathing has turned rugged as well. His dick is so hard now that it’s painful, but he still doesn’t grant himself relief. Not yet, not like this.

“Levi,” you moan, and you hear a quiet groan in response. The Avatar of Envy reaches down between his legs to pinch the base of his cock—stopping himself from cumming at the sound.

“Shit,” he curses to himself quietly, his eyes flitting back up to the computer when another round of choices appear.

✕ – Fuck pussy

◯ – Fuck mouth

△ – Fuck ass

□ – Other

Heat creeps up Leviathan’s neck as he reads through them. The game had been equally as blunt on previous levels, but now that you’re involved, he wishes there was some sugarcoating in place.

His pointer finger moves to hover over the ✕, but he hesitates. As he mulls over the many thoughts in his head, your moans reach his ears once more, and he immediately makes his decision. He won’t last if you continue sounding like that.

In game, you begin to whine his name—needing something more, anything—when all of the sudden your mouth is filled. You gasp, your eyes squeezing shut as a tentacle presses between your lips—the slick limb moving across your tongue. The monster fucks your mouth at a steady pace—testing the waters. You gag when the tentacle ventures a little too deep, and it seems like the game takes note—lessening the frequency in which it forces you to try and deepthroat.

However, each time you gag, your nipples and clit feel more sensitive than before. At this point, the lack of true contact on your womanhood is turning into torture, and you whine around the length in your mouth—your thighs rubbing together around the limb still sliding up against your pelvis.

Levi understand what you’re asking, and taps □. Instantly another line of options appear aside from the main ones, and Levi is relieved to find the one he’s searching for.

LT – Give oral

He hits the trigger, watching as the tentacle tending to your lower half pauses in its job. It reaches up to grab the waistband of your leggings, and in one fell swoop tugs them down your legs. You squeal at the sensation—eyes popping open and glancing downward, attempting to see what’s occurring.

You note an additional limb sliding across the ground towards you. It reaches up, curling around one of your legs, and hiking it off the ground. Suddenly, your pussy—shining with your arousal—is very much on display for Levi to see.

“Oh, fuck,” you hear him groan, wishing you could see him. Knowing that what he’s doing to you is getting him off makes your pussy clench, and you wonder if that’s his plan. However, the tentacle that had been teasing you up until now doesn’t fill you as you expect it too. Instead, the tip of the tentacle peels open—a smaller appendage sneaking out of the opening.

To you, it looks similar to a tongue.

“Mmph!” you gasp when it licks between your folds—finally coming in contact with your aching clit. Your spine curves—hips pressing downward as tentacle pleasures you in earnest.

Tears prick at your eyes—the amount of sensations afflicting your body at once almost overwhelming. You mouth is full—tits being sucked, and licked, and squeezed—and now your clit is getting the attention it’s been so desperately craving. Really, it’s enough to drive you insane.

Eyes squeezing shut—your thighs shake as the pressure building in your gut threatens to snap.

“Please cum, Y/N,” you hear Levi beg—breathless. You’re not sure if you had been meant to hear his silent plea, but it’s enough to push you over the finish line.

You climax with a cry—the sound muffled by the tentacle in your mouth as its rhythm slows—sensing your release. The tongue between your legs continues licking—dragging as much pleasure out of you as possible—while at the same time the tentacles on your breasts give the mounds one last round of love.

By the time the waves of pleasure have diminished, your arousal is leaking down the inside of your thigh.

Above your head, a bold “LEVEL COMPLETED” appears in the air, and the tentacles begin to retreat. You breathe deeply as your mouth is freed—the slippery limbs uncurling themselves and returning to the main body of the monster. And—as soon as your feet touch the ground, and your wrists are released—the scenery around you shifts.

Levi’s hands scramble to grab you as you materialize beside him back in his room—your legs giving out as he does so. You slump against him, still struggling to catch your breath. You’re relieved that it’s over—you’re not sure how much more of that you could have taken—but you’re jumbled out of your serenity as Levi hefts you up so you’re seated on the edge of his desk.

“Levi?” you question, eyes darting up to his face. There’s a serious look in his eyes, and you watch in surprise as the Avatar of Envy shoves his sweats down his thighs—his cock weeping against his abs.

“I’m sorry,” he says, swallowing your groan with a sloppy kiss as he slides his length between your walls. His voice is shaky—he’s been holding back for too long. “I need this. I n-need you. Please.”

“Fuck, Levi,” you groan, your pussy tightening around him as he begins chasing after his own release. His pace is quick, and sharp. It’s clear that he won’t last long. He had been waiting for this—for you—and while you know you won’t be able to orgasm with him—you can at least egg him on.

“You feel so good,” you speak, tits bouncing at the intensity of his thrusts. Your hands reach up to hug his skull—the demon’s breath hot against your neck as miniscule whines escape his throat. His grip on your waist tightens—blue colored fingernails digging small crescents into your skin—and with a few more snaps of his hips, he’s releasing inside of you.

“Fuck,” he chokes, forehead pressing against your collarbone he rides out his bliss.

After a moment, he pulls back—his cock slipping out of you, and immediately his seed is sliding from your heat—mingling with your own arousal. The sight has you both turning a bright shade of red, and Leviathan begins to panic—his head whipping every which way in search of a towel, or literally anything.

You laugh at him, your hands reaching up to grip his sides, and he finally pauses. His gaze turns back to you—his orange eyes shy now that the intensity of the situation has died down, but you only smile at him. Tired, but reassuring. Like always.

“Did you enjoy yourself?” you ask, giggling when Levi sheepishly nods his head. “I’m glad then.”

“I’m sorry,” he speaks up after a moment, his hands reaching beneath you. He cradles you in his arms, carrying you to his bed. “Please don’t hate me now.”

“I could never,” you tell him honestly, your palm cupping his cheek as he bends over to set you down. His eyes meet yours—still apologetic—and you cough, your face turning pink and gaze darting away.

“And besides, I…um…actually really enjoyed that. So please don’t feel sorry.”

A wave of relief washes over Leviathan, and he topples you over with a hug.

“UGH. I was so worried! But man, that was sooooo hot!! I can’t believe you let me do that to you, and you enjoyed it!! I knew I liked you for a reason, Y/N!”

His outburst of emotion has you giggling—his face rubbing against your chest as he releases all his pent-up feelings. However, after a minute his words and movements stop, and you open your eyes, glancing down at him.

He’s looking at you with a serious face, but his eyes shine with excitement.

“Can I import you and start the game again? Oh! Or, if I buy more games like that will you let me make you my main character? Please?”

“I--,” you’re not sure what to say—feeling embarrassed all over again at the idea. He seems so enthralled by the idea, and while you’re completely flattered that he’d enjoyed the experience so much that he actually wants to do it again, right now your brain isn’t able to entertain the thought. You’re too exhausted.

“M-Maybe?? Ask me later.”

“Huhuhuhu okay~!” he giggles, hugging you tightly once more, and you can’t help but smile.

As dorky as he is—the Avatar of Envy is as equally endearing.

“Hey Levi?”

“Hmm?”

“Why didn’t you make the monster fuck me in the game?”

Your question has him turning pink—his gaze shying away from you.

“Because…”

“Because?”

“Because yourpussyismine--!”

You frown, not understanding.

“What?”

“Because your pussy is mine!!” he yells, his embarrassment exploding as you force the admission out of him.

Your eyes go wide, cheeks reddening at his declaration.

Well, you think, feeling like you may need a cold shower. That settles that.

#om!#obey me!#obey me! fic #obey me! smut #obey me! leviathan #leviathan smut #om! fic #om! smut #om! levi #obey me smut #leviathan fic #levi x mc #levi x reader #leviathan x reader #leviathan x mc

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dismuch47 · 3 years

Text

ADVANCED SETTINGS (Part 3)

ONE MORE CHUNK AFTER THIS. And it’s the sexy one. This has been such a joy to write, as spaced out as it is. Hoping to finish this THIS WEEK, so I can begin on SHORT drabbles. (Am I capable of short?)

Advanced Settings: Wanda and Vision find there is more to iron out in making their relationship “work”. Rated Mature.

It was not a very restful night. Wanda’s tired and aching body didn’t move at all, but her dreams had raced chaotically with no reprieve. They were usually quelled with the reassuring warmth and weight of Vision’s form beside her, which she would slip her arms and legs around, finding solace in the comforting white noise of his serene and positive thought computations.

Her eyes instead shot open, the stark morning-light mercilessly bringing her to full consciousness. She saw that the bedding beside her was undisturbed, then peered over at the living area from the bedroom nook of the hotel room. Vision had remained on the couch, facing away from her gaze. She almost thought he hadn’t moved from that spot since their parting last night, but she could see a new shirt upon his shoulders. Blue. He liked blue. Because she liked it on him.

Almost as if sensing Wanda’s awakened state, he looked up from his lap, but didn’t turn towards her.

“Good morning, Wanda.”

Wanda noticed the guarded politeness of the greeting. She took a pillow and firmly fluffed it back into shape before tossing it haphazardly back upon the bed.

“Morning, Vis.” She lightly padded over to him, clad in her faded night shirt and sporty red underwear. She leaned over the back of the couch and peered over the synthezoid’s broad shoulder. “That must be some book…”

She saw that, though he was staring at the literature in his graceful hands, it was only the title cover page.

“Oh…” She fought rising hurt. Perhaps he had just begun another. He could read exceptionally fast. It didn’t necessarily mean that he would have preferred to stare at a title page in the dark rather than come cuddle with her…

Vision pulled his gaze away from whatever distant thought he was processing and closed the prop in his hands. “I admit, I found myself too… distracted… to properly enjoy the novelty of physically reading, nor thoroughly contemplate the mastery of Tolstoy musings in it’s original Russian language.” He finally chanced a side-look at Wanda. “Not with more pressing perturbations to consider…”

He patted the seat cushion beside him, encouraging her to join him. Wanda obeyed, though she pulled her bare legs to her chest, wrapping her arms tightly around her knees. Vision let her have her space, though his cognitive intuition told him that he should be holding her. He instead tentatively mirrored his hands against each other, creating a gesture of thoughtful regard.

“I have given a great deal of consideration to our conundrum regarding... well, regarding…”

“Sex?” Wanda offered, her turn to be unabashedly pragmatic.

Vision looked down, gentle smile on his lips. “Yes.” The smile then faded. He looked back at her. “And I have come to the conclusion that, perhaps preserving the other intimacies of our relationship, encouraging unperturbed growth, should be the primary focus. Rather than focusing on the … incompatibilities.”

Wanda sat in silence. Stunned. “I... I knew it was different, but I didn’t think it was… unbearable.”

Vision’s head reared. “No. Oh no, you misunderstand me, Darling.” He risked placing a hand on one bare knee, for consolatory contact.

“Well I can’t make you feel the way YOU make me feel.” Wanda placed a hand on his, clinging tightly. “I can’t do what you do for me, and the moment I point it out, you don’t want to take comfort in me, anymore…” She was doing her best to speak levelly, but her eyes watered with imminent tears. She tightly pursed her lips together to keep composure.

Vision now scooped her towards himself, embracing her lovingly. “Wanda, no. Please cast that conclusion from your mind.” He stroked her shoulder tenderly. “You are being far too gallant, taking the blame for my obvious and… and-and staggering limitations as a synthetic person.”

“Vis…” She held him back now. He was stuttering, like he usually did when he displayed nervousness or broached sensitive topics.

“The truth is, perhaps I’m speaking from a place of self-preservation. I… I don’t know if I could cope. If you came to resent me… for such limitations.” He gave a humorless huff. “I think I would rather cease to exist than witness that day…”

“That day will NEVER happen, Vision.”

“I see that my non-reciprocation upsets you, Wanda” He insisted. “I saw it last night, and the beginnings of it in other nights before.”

Wanda was silent a moment. “I never said anything that would insinuate-”

“No, but I can see it.”

“How?”

Vision opened, but then shut his mouth. Trying to explain how he could interpret the electric impulses of her aroused body would be yet another reminder of their physiological differences.

“Nuance” he said. “I know your body well enough to know when you are stimulated and when you are not.”

Wanda’s head shook, incredulous. “How could you think that I could ever resent you?” She reached out a hand to cup his face.

“Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But some day, when my limitations keep preventing you from reaching important milestones in-in your life…” He trailed off. Unable to finish. It was unbearable for him to ponder.

“No. Not EVER.” Wanda retorted.

“Wanda…”

“NO, Vision” she said firmly. “I don’t see a future with kids, or a house with a picket fence… a dog. Hell, I don’t even know if in this line of work I’m going to make it to a very old age.” She held his face, gently. “All I see… all I feel… is you. And that’s enough for me.”

Vision placed his hand atop of hers, closing his eyes as her words deeply touched him. But after a moment, he reopened them. His gaze sad.

“It shouldn’t be” he murmured.

She tilted her head at him, full of love and emotion in those wounded, deep hazel pools. She caressed his cheek, tracing some of the patterns of his face and the etched seams of his forged skin. He closed his optics as she moved down his prominent, straight nose, until her touch loomed over his lips.

“Do you remember our first kiss?”

Vision smiled weakly. “I’m incapable of forgetting it. Nor would I ever wish to.”

She returned a soft smile, focused on her finger tips upon his attractive lips. “It was after I saw how you felt about me, through the mindstone. I could see into you and how you saw me… how you felt about me…”

It was a diversion. And it was successful, as the synthezoid was lowering his forehead to her instead of keeping her on topic. But it was only borrowed time. They had undoubtedly arrived at the precipice of a chasm that couldn’t be bested with assuring words and tender embraces alone.

Wanda’s hand skimmed up to the stone, her powers emanating in scarlet wisps of light as she moved her fingers in graceful, fluid motions. Vision’s eyes opened as he felt her administrations. It made him light-headed, but also completely enveloped by her essence. He could feel her observance of him. He didn’t even try and hide what he had come to know as profound feelings for the human before him. All his thoughts and motivations completely bewitched with maintaining her happiness. He watched as her closed eyes looked so serene. As she basked within his thoughts of her.

And then her hand bore down upon the yellow gem. Startled, Vision’s eyes fluttered opened. Her grasp was firm. For a moment, he winced as he remembered that day at the Avengers compound, when he and Wanda had found themselves on opposite sides of a rift. She overrode his mobility drives, controlling him from the inside out. He knelt before her, helpless, though unharmed. But this sensation was different. There was a struggle of control… but it was not within him. He watched as she gritted her teeth, furrowed her brows. The reflecting force that showed her the rich abyss of his adoration, suddenly flipped.

Vision sharply inhaled with shock. She was already in there, entwined with his consciousness… but he felt as though his was being drawn in by hers, and down into her depths…spiraling with the currents. An up and close look at her forceful oceans… until the roar of sensory newness calmed into…

Love.

She loved him. She never said it. But she felt it. It was overwhelming and consuming beyond explanation.

Vision tried to find himself again, to process this, but the connection was so potent. It was easier to simply accept it rather than try to quantify. It was senseless to quantify. Quantifying was stupid.

“W-Wanda-“ He tested his voice, but was silenced by her lips. Her lips, which he could feel. Not his against hers… but simply HERS. He tasted himself. Felt the texture of his skin against her pleading buds. How it delighted the delicate skin with sensation. She urged against him and it was so clear what she wanted and why. Vision opened to her, his breath hitched as hers did. The rhythmic thump of her heart felt as though it was within his own breast, increasing in pace with the prolonged contact. Suddenly the shimmering shores of Wanda’s pleasure centers became more than just a map to analyze for productive response. There was aching. And a hunger that Vision had never known possible…

Wanda removed her hand from the mindstone and reality came back to disorienting focus. Both she and Vision were breathless from the kiss. Vision’s eyes were still closed, his body working in overdrive to adapt settings in order to accommodate and categorize the new sensations. His cerulean eyes slowly opened when he felt Wanda nuzzle against his nose.

“I had to show you…” She breathed. “You are enough.”

Vision grinned broadly, on the brink of happiness and humility. That she could feel as she did for a being like him. He pulled her face to his once more. His core pounded. Odd as he was not under duress… but he accepted, and even enjoyed, it. He breathed and gasped against her lips with the intensity… and there was that hunger once more. But it was now his own.

#ScarletVIsion #WandaVision #vision #wanda maximoff #I'm seduced by this soulmate idea #literally there is no one else that could ever make him feel this way #LITERALLY #little syntheziod lucked the frick out #finding a good lead in to the the sexy bit was alittle tricky #got alittle melodramatic #so I had to start delete and restart this chunk a few times

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cno-inbminor · 4 years

Text

a/n: iwaizumi occupies an unhealthy amount of thoughts in my head. yay for another drabble dump! kind of recycled a soulmate!au from another fic of mine.

wc: 1.4k; angst; gets a little risque but no smut.

vampire!iwa, soulmates via red string + reincarnation, person A can see it but person B can’t.

“y’know, roaming the earth for nearly 400 years doesn’t sound that bad.”

“it’s torture in its own way, trust me.”

“haji, i know you’re a vampire and everything, but must you be so angst-y and brooding all the time?”

“leave my house.”

hajime pretends that your laughter doesn’t make the corners of his own lips twitch upward. his attention, albeit divided, is directed towards the book resting atop his crossed legs, a cheek pressed into his left fist with his elbow on the arm rest. the cotton sofa chair he sits upon is a relic from britain that he was given from the king himself in 1833, and you’re amazed that it hasn’t turned to dust yet. hajime thanks the development of good upholstery cleaning products.

his onyx gaze flickers to where you stand with your hands clasped tightly behind your back, perusing the titles on one of his many bookshelves lined against the walls. though he’s completely desensitized to the smell of human blood, the scent of yours is moderately more tempting than he’s used to. part of him is disgusted with himself, a tiny yet monstrous fraction of his soul simply keeping you around because he’s addicted. the realization sticks to him like grime and muck on skin, a pain to wash off, and grimace settled deep into invisible wrinkles. while his goal wasn’t to achieve complete humanity, he didn’t like being reminded that he exists as a monster, a foretold dangerous creature of the night.

“you have a first edition of pride and prejudice?!” you cry out, fingers hovering reverently over the spine. you’re afraid that if you touch and try to open it, the pages will scatter towards the cherry hardwood ground quite unceremoniously, and that hajime might rip your neck open for it.

of course he’s silent in his steps to move closer to your figure, nonchalantly pulling back the book from its position. he relishes in your quiet, nervous intake of air and opens the cover as if to let you know that it’s not as fragile as you believe. the awe in your eyes is captivating, and he tries not to bore holes into the side of your face. you’re charming in many of the same ways as your previous lives, though that’s a secret for him to keep for now.

“you know what’s absolute batshit crazy? this alone could cover my living expenses for two or three years.”

hajime shrugs. his sense of money has also gone downhill over the years, but he’s a simple man with very few material needs. the most sizeable portion of his tremendous wealth goes towards art and literature, and he believes it pays off in moments like these.

“i could cover your living costs until you die,” he supplies and another soft peal of laughter leaves your chest. your inevitable, human death doesn’t trigger a twinge in his chest, not at all. he’s past that -- it’s been over ten lifetimes, this one won’t be any different.

“that’s sweet, but i don’t need a sugar daddy,” you chuckle, sliding the novel back into the shelf. “there are plenty of others who could use your help. go build homeless shelters, donate a shit ton of money to charities and causes. or you can be a sugar daddy for other people. plenty of people would sign up in a heartbeat knowing that you were willing to give money without asking for some favors in return.”

“i have built homeless shelters and made large anonymous donations to several places over the years. what do you take me for?”

“a dark, brooding vampire that pretends the sun still burns his skin.”

hajime rolls his eyes and walks away, choosing to return to his seat and open his book again. he feels you adjust and balance yourself on his arm chair, leaning above him to read the words as he goes along. you know that he slows down his reading speed for you, turning the pages at a more human pace to accommodate your needs. it’s charming and quite touching, romantic in a similar vein. perhaps it’s silly that you’ve developed a crush on an immortal creature, but you and hajime seem to click so well. even just after a few weeks of getting to know him, he feels so familiar, like a best friend you’ve known all your life. so incredibly reliable, protective, helpful, intelligent, ridiculously handsome that it should be a crime, and caring -- it’s frightening to some degree, but also comforting more than anything.

“you’re a 400 year old vampire, yet you choose to waste your time with me,” you mutter, the words tumbling off your tongue before you can stop yourself. “compared to you, i’m pretty much a child, probably extremely immature. so why bother? boredom? curiosity?”

hajime almost stares incredulously at you for such a ridiculous assumption, though severely underestimating how close your face is to his. once again, he finds himself getting lost in your gaze. it’s as breathtaking as the first time those centuries ago, and you are so painfully unaware of the effect you have on him. the bond, the red string of fate becomes the center of gravity. after all this time, he can’t control and stop himself from glancing at your lips then back up, trying to give you time to deny his advances. though like always, you reciprocate his actions, leaning closer towards him, mouth slightly parted with bated breath and electric anticipation.

the warmth of you quite nearly sears his skin, and he can’t help but sharply inhale at the first touch of contact. god, he’s missed this so much. he’s missed branding the shape your lips into his brain, he’s missed how alive he feels in these moments, he’s missed being able to hold you in his arms and claim you as his yet again. hajime wants nothing more than to pick you up by your thighs and carry you to his bedroom to remind you just who exactly you belong to, who you’ve always belonged to. the passion nearly hums in his veins but he keeps the pressure against your lips to a minimum, relishing in how soft they feel against his own. he never wants this to end -- fuck needing blood for survival.

you’re all he needs.

a soft moan sneaks away from him when you push harder against him, seeking fuller contact -- who is he to deny you? he places a tentative hand on your nape to keep you stable, though it doesn’t take long for you to slide into his lap and straddle him. your own hands fist his obsidian strands, tightening and tugging when you pull back for air and he finds refuge in the skin on the column of your neck. he nips and sucks until you’re almost whining to kiss him again, his hips grinding against where you might need him most.

it’s almost too much, but you can’t find it in yourself to stop. there’s something inside you that screams you’ve been craving this, that this intimacy with hajime is everything that’s been missing from your life. you feel so complete, a sensation so terrifyingly thrilling because you couldn’t imagine what would happen if hajime ever left you.

“i need you,” you gasp against his lips, grinding down on him for extra measure and throwing shame out the window. your scent washes over him in crashing waves and intoxicates his soul yet again, the grasp of his hands on your waist surely bruising your skin now. it’s the tipping point, the slip in the house of cards, the leap into another endless rabbit hole that will only bring him torment again in sixty years. and though every lifetime he tells himself that he’ll keep his distance, that he’ll be nothing more than a good friend, he can’t help but relapse and give in. it’s too hard not to, and all the pain, suffering, and agony of waiting for you to be reincarnated is worth it if he can have you again.

“if you’ll have me,” he murmurs. it’s silly that he’s trying to make sure you’re aware of your own actions, as if the soulmate bond wasn’t tugging on your heartstrings this whole time. there’s no one more perfect for him than you, nor him for you. written in the stars, foretold in the legends, there was no escaping it.

“please,” you beg, driving the metaphorical stake through his chest. it ensures another death, another ending that most would spend eternity running from.

but effortlessly lifting you with one hand beneath your thigh and the other wound around your waist, he takes it all, prepared to die once more.

#iwaizumi x reader #iwaizumi x you #iwaizumi x y/n #iwaizumi #hajime #iwazumi hajime #hajime x reader #hajime x you #haikyuu #hq #iwaizumi angst #hq angst #haikyuu angst #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu x you #iwaizumi scenarios #haikyuu scenarios #everyone get some good quality sleep if you can!! and drink water!

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bad-bitch-beauchamp · 3 years

Text

Songs About Me: Chapter Four

How Claire found herself inside Jamie's bookshop, and what happens when Jamie finally gets inside to watch her perform.

READ ON AO3

The Alleys of Beacon Hill, Boston; Early October, Mid-Morning.

Following a very intense conversation with Joe and Geillis in which Claire repeatedly tried to express that there was absolutely nothing going on with that guy from the night before, peppered with lines like, “Oh bullshit, Claire! Jamie couldn’t take his eyes off ye!” from Geillis and “Seriously. It was disgusting. And romantic. Something’s there!” from Joe, Claire eventually succeeded in getting them to let the topic lie… for now.

Outside in the daylight, Claire felt refreshed. She would find a place to sit and write, and decompress. Strolling down her tree-lined street, breathing in and out slowly, she savored the way autumn here made her feel. The brick townhomes was trimmed in white with shiny red and black doors, covered in wild ivy and window boxes with trailing flowers. Mums in classic pots lined the front porches, and stone walls raised courtyards and gardens above the worn-brick sidewalks. Tall trees, oak and maple and elm, towered as tall as the buildings and brought a soft green and yellow glow to everything below their canopies. Everything felt old, here. There was a history, here. Under normal circumstances, Claire could’ve never dreamed of living here in Beacon Hill, but because of Lamb’s will, his love, his generosity, she was now able to call her favorite place, home. She was a woman who placed very little weight on material goods, but if the townhouse and her greenhouse were the only things she claimed, she would die happy. Boston was the first place that Claire felt she could create her own history. She wandered through the winding alleys of Beacon Hill, admiring how green changes to gold on every leaf and living surface. She stopped at the coffee house that knew her name, left with an earl grey latte a few minutes later, and was back outside at a wrought-iron table and chair on the sidewalk, her black leather notebook and cheap pen drawn from her purse. She admired this little courtyard, tucked just off an alley. Across the close was her favorite bookstore. She often wished to had more time to visit the physical shop, but with running a business of her own, she didn’t have as much time to peruse all the fellow small businesses around her. When she moved to Boston in 2015, she stopped in the little bookshop, and left with nearly more books than she could carry. The man behind the desk told her she could place orders online as well if that would be easier for her, smirking as the top book of the stack Claire was balancing slid off the top. The bookshop took residence in a historic three-story brick building, with the shop taking up the bottom two floors. An open staircase in the middle of the shop gave way to an open loft filled with shelves and leather chairs. The downstairs was completely open, making it easy to work your way around the shop in a u-shape. For any other type of store, it might seem like a bit much. For the bookshop, however, it was the perfect mix of historical and charming and quaint and magnificent and absolutely beautiful. It had been awhile since she had been able to physically make it in the store, and she missed it and it’s comfortable grandeur greatly.

Today was different though, as Claire had given herself the day off while Geillis worked, and she would spend it adding new books to her collection. She savored the last time of her latte and stood when she glimpsed a man inside the shop putting up a poster in the window.

Local Musician Wanted. Claire approached the sign after the man finished taping it to the window. In smaller letters, it read: Come share your talent, play for the community, and grab a good book when you’re done. Call or inquire within.

She had promised herself to have more fun, and karaoke had turned out to be a blast in the years she and her friends had been going. Music and gardening are what made her feel alive, made her heart bloom… Why not give this a chance when she wasn’t working? Claire’s heart rate sped up and she started to sweat when she thought of going inside and introducing herself as a musician. Deciding she’d call and arrange a time to come in with her keyboard, she started to turn away. The morning sunlight caught the lettering on the window, glittering just at the edge of her vision. She’d never paid much attention to the store’s exterior before -- or really even the name, since she’d long been calling it just “the bookshop” for years now -- but today, the gold paint drew her attention. Fraser Literature. Her breath hitched, her pulse raced, her head lightened. She couldn’t look away from the sparkling name on the glass. It couldn’t be… could it? Her pulse raced, her head felt light, the brick and cobblestone around her began to swirl.

With one shaky step and an attempt at a steadying breath, she pulled open the heavy wooden door.

Fraser’s Literature, Beacon Hill, Boston. Mid-Afternoon.

Jamie stepped through the doorway and tried not to jostle the small crowd that had assembled at the front of the shop. He just wanted to glimpse her, convince himself that she was real, that this, was real. That she was here in his shop, playing her music, just for him. He slowly, carefully, made his way to back of the crowd and found a small bit of standing room directly in her line of vision. She’d play a song with no lyrics, only instrumental melodies followed by quiet chords braided with thoughtful verse and chorus. The sunlight was streaming in the shop’s window now, lighting the crown of her head with rivers of auburn and gold. God, she’s ethereal. After each song, the small crowd would quietly clap and she would politely nod, cheeks turning rosey with shyness when her eyes fell back to the keys -- like she hadn’t even noticed they’d been there. She’d occasionally look up and look around the crowd, but only for a moment. Come on, lass. Look up. Find me. See me. As if she heard his plea, she held a long chord with both hands on the keys and looked up, straight into his eyes. Jamie gulped. She was singing, in French. She was singing, to him. He hadn’t expected it to work, the calling for her. He didn’t expect to be shocked into stillness by the whisky of her eyes and the dark shimmering curls around her head. He didn’t expect to feel this way after one night with a lass he barely knew… But here he was, enthralled by her. A gentle hand cupped his shoulder then and he jumped.

“Ye look completely enamored for a man who just met the lass a single night ago. Like a lovesick puppy,” said Rupert. Claire had gone back to her songs, but both men continued to watch her.

Angus had joined them now. “Ye never want to seem too eager tae please a woman, ye ken? It gives them too much power.”

Jamie watched as Claire finished another piece. He had to physically keep his feet rooted in place when she glanced his way, quirked a corner of her mouth up in a smile, and quickly looked down, tugging her cardigan tighter around her chest to hide the pink bloom erupting there and moving up her neck. “Aye, I’m completely under her power,” he smiled softly at her, “and happy tae be there.”

For the rest of the afternoon, Jamie tried to work, he really did. He refused to work in his office, since it was the furthest place from the front windows, and the furthest place from Claire. He went around with a polishing rag, trying to be inconspicuous with his meanderings until Rupert whispered, “I can practically see ma reflection in that shelf. Maybe move yerself along?” He tried to water the plants, only to remember he’d already done that when the pots started to overflow. He would run his hands through his hair just for something to occupy his time. Eventually, Angus suggested he bide his time making sure the rare and first-edition copies that sat on the highest shelves were dust-free.

“Aye, that’s a good idea! I’ll just be up on the ladder then if ye need me.” Angus laughed and shook his head as Jamie ascended the first rung. “Come get me, will ye,” Angus turned to look at him with a smirk and raised brow, “if she… uh, if anything happens.”

“Yeah yeah, get tae work. I doubt she’ll be leaving without saying hello if her looks meant anything at all -- and they definitely did.”

Jamie placed the last book at the end of the row back into its place and started his way back down the ladder to slide it to the next tall shelf when electricity pulsed up his calf. He lost his footing and came to a crashing halt on his back on the floor.

“Fuck fuck fuck… Fuck! are you okay? I shouldn’t’ve spooked you!” He tried to shift himself up, but couldn’t. “Don’t try to move; here, I’ll try to keep you still. Is your head okay?” It took Jamie a moment to get his bearings. His head smacked the hardwood floor when he landed, and his wrist tried to take the fall. Neither of those things were of much concern to him now though, since Claire was kneeling over him. Not just kneeling over him, he noticed. She was on top of him, a knee on either side of his torso. His brain was short-circuiting. She was in light-wash high-waist skinny jeans, a goldenrod cardigan, and a white tank top and she was on top of him . He couldn’t stop tracing her with his eyes. “Jamie?? I’m going to need you to respond or I’ll have to call the squad. Can you hear me? Can you say something, please? What hurts??” Dear God in heaven, nothing hurts. Nothing a damn thing. Her face came closer to his and he noticed the way her curls fell forward, how the sun was still lighting her from behind, how she was absolutely incredible. He blinked. Her brows knitted and her hands came to his face. Her touch revived him and he remembered how to speak.

“Claire,” he watched her, reverently. She smiled as her eyes glistened with unshed tears.

“Oh, thank god. You scared the shit out of me with that little stunt, you know,” she said as she began touching near and watching his eyes. Touch me again, never stop, he thought to himself. “How do you feel? Any ringing in the ears, nausea, blurry vision, dizziness, light sensitivity? Wait, you’re not bleeding, are you?”

Jamie smirked. “Actually, there’s some pressure on my abdominal region.”

“Your stomach? I don’t understand how that could have…” She blushed when she realized she was still straddling him, right on the storeroom floor. “You mean me.” She climbed off of him as quickly as she could manage and turned a shade of red Jamie hadn’t known was possible. “I am SO sorry about that, I didn’t know if you’d be injured and you wouldn’t stay still so I--”

“It’s quite alright, lass. Thank ye for looking after me. Truly.” His hand came out to hold hers. His thumb brushed her knuckles.

“Are you sure you’re alright? Honestly? I feel terrible.”

“I’m jes’ fine, Sassenach.” He made to stand up then, using his arm to prop himself when he stood. He came crashing back down with a grunt.

“It sure wouldn’t seem like you’re “jes’ fine”,” she replied in her best mocking tone. He smiled, sheepishly. “Is there somewhere we can go where I can have a better look at it?”

“Does up in the loft work for ye? It’s usually quieter, and better light than in the office.”

“Sounds perfect.” She extended a hand to him. “On your feet, soldier.” He looked at her then. How could one woman go from tugging on his heartstrings with soft melodies and French words to making him fall for her with demanding medical questions and authoritative requests. He watched her outstretched hand, her long fingers, her gentle bones. He watched her eyes, watch him. He grasped her hand, and she led up him up the stairs to the loft. She led him. In his shop. Seeing her lead him, he decided he’d let her lead up anywhere for the rest of his days.

She motioned for him to sit in a velvet wingback chair and took his wrist in her hands. He tried to breathe normally as her fingers probed the dips in his palm and traced down the veins in his forearm. Surely, she would feel his pulse. Surely, she would know she was the one that made it race. In the distance, Jamie heard her ask him some questions about pain and discomfort, and he’d nod or not depending on his response. He couldn’t form words. He was still in disbelief she was even there, in front of him, kneeling at his side.

Claire sat back on her heels. “Will you tell me if it starts to hurt? You could have a sprain, you know. That was a pretty nasty fall.”

His mind was working overtime but he finally found words to use. “If ye didna find anything wrong, I’m sure I’m jes’ fine.” He dipped his head to meet her eyes. “Yer a verra competent doctor, Claire.” He grinned. A tear fell from Claire’s face. “Och lass, what is it? Did I do something wrong?” She sniffed. She wouldn’t look at him. “Please, Claire. Please talk to me.”

“You’ve done nothing wrong. I’m not a doctor, is all.” She wiped away a tear with the sleeve of her sweater. “I actually… I quit medical school, a few years back.”

“I’m sorry, I didna know…”

“It’s honestly fine,” she replied hastily. “I’m really happy with the decisions I’ve made in my life, and I don’t have any regrets. Honestly. It’s just… sometimes it hits me that the plans I made my whole life didn’t work out. It gets me sometimes.” Jamie watched her, listening. “Oh my god, I just keep rambling!” She sat back on her hands, legs out in front of her, ankles crossed. “I’m so sorry about that, I really am fine.” She smiled at Jamie, and reached down to hold her hand.

“I understand the feeling of missing things that didna come to pass. I feel it myself sometimes.” Claire watched their hands intertwine. “Ye can always talk to me, Claire. I’m always here.” I’ll always be here.

She laughed then, and looked up at him still sitting in the chair. “Next time, I’d like to see you when one of us hasn’t nearly killed ourselves with a fall.” She giggled, and Jamie followed suit.

“Ideally, that’d lovely,” he replied with a laugh of his own. “What brings ye to the shop by the way, if ye don’t mind me asking? I never expected to see ye here today.”

“Oh, I came here for the first time after I moved, and I try to make my way in again whenever I can but work makes that a little difficult. It’s one of my favorite places in Boston though. It’s so quaint and quiet, but somehow still enchanting, and then today I saw a poster in the window asking for musicians and…” Jamie was absolutely beaming. “Wot?”

He laughed then at her absolute Englishness, and brought his free hand up to join their combined ones. “I’m jes’ glad ye like it here so much is all.”

She looked down at their hands. “To be honest, I was going to come today anyways, but then I saw the poster, and I remembered what the name of this place is, and well, I took a chance.”

Jamie was watching her intensely. “And ye took a chance.” He, too, looked down at their hands. “I’m glad ye did.”

The conversation was heavier than Claire thought it would be. She didn’t expect this. She cleared her throat and asked, “So, how long have you been here?”

“Me, or the shop?”

“Both, I suppose. The shop has been here as long as I have.”

“I moved here from Scotland--”

“Shocking, the accent didn’t give anything away,” she joked, and he pinched her forearm before continuing.

“--back in 2015--”

“Hey, that’s when I got here, too!”

“--and I’ve been here ever since. When I graduated my undergraduate studies, I went back home to the highlands and spent some time with family. Wandering the cobbled streets, the little shops, reading about the history… it was the only thing I wanted to do with my life. Some things happened back in Scotland -- some family things and some ex-girlfriend things -- and Boston seemed as good a place as any with history to start over. So, here I am. I started the shop, hired the lads when they came over a bit after me, and that’s the story.”

“I feel like there’s more to the story you’re leaving out,” she said with a grin, “and I do love a good story, Mr. Fraser.”

“Ye got the Cliffnotes version. Tell me yours,” he nodded at her.

“Well, I nearly didn’t survive medical school. I wasn’t happy, I wasn’t coping, and my mental health was kind of in the gutter,” she looked at him, and he gave her a sympathetic smile. Maybe he understood the feeling better than he let on. “I decided to drop out during my junior year and leave it behind. My uncle used to live here and left me some property, so I moved, and started over. Geillis and Joe came over after they graduated. Joe continued with medicine, and Geillis joined me, and as you said, that’s the story.”

“And where is it you started over at? What is it ye do?”

“Oh, I opened a plant shop here in Beacon Hill. It’s exotic houseplants, non-traditional bouquets, that kind of thing. It’s small, and eventually I’d like to run a greenhouse and garden, but right now, the shop is perfect. Besides, Boston isn’t exactly conducive for having that, is it?” She laughed, and tried to hold her pipe dreams at bay. “Geillis offers zero-waste products, and makes some of the macrame hangers and planters in the shop. It really is the most lovely place. If you ever want to visit and make sure I’m not the one to fall off a ladder, it’s just over on---”

“Garden Street. Aye, I know the place,” said Jamie, smiling to himself. His eyes were positively twinkling.

“You know the shop?”

“Where d’ye think all the plants in this place came from? Aye, I know yer wee shop and believe me, Claire. It’s a dream. I had no idea it was you behind it all.” He paused, watching her. Drinking her in. “We’ve just missed each other for years now, it would seem.”

All she could do was nod. Her mind was racing. How had they been so close so many times, but had never met? How had only two days with the man made her feel like her heart was beating outside her chest? He moved to the floor to sit next to her, his hand on her thigh. Suddenly, he turned to her. “I think yer verra brave, Claire. For starting over like that. For following your dreams.” Her pulse slowed with his comforting words, and her hand rested on top of his. “I could say the same about you, you know.”

They stayed that way for a while, watching the people down below, touching hands, touching legs, moving closer into shoulders and sides. Jamie leaned back into the shelves. Claire sighed.

“Since you own the place, I guess I should let you get back to work.” She stood, smiled, and started down the stairs. Jamie launched to his feet, unwilling to let what happened the previous night repeat itself.

“Claire! Lass!” He reached for her hand and she stopped a few stairs below him, turning to face him. His mouth was dry.

“I dinna think I can’t wait a week to see ye again. I didna think I could stand it this morning and then ye dropped out of the clear blue sky into my shop and ye sang yer songs -- oh, and I didna know ye knew French! I do as well,” Claire blushed at that but Jamie continued on, “and ye showed up and mended my wounds and ye told me of our shared histories, and… and I willna wait to see ye again.” He descended a step. “That is, if ye want to see me, too.”

Claire was overcome not just with Jamie’s declaration, but also with everything that had happened today and the last five years that led them here today. She could only smile at his nervousness, and admire him. You’re beautiful, James. His simple navy t-shirt was pulled taught across strong muscles, the red curls she daydreamed of were just combed straight back with the exception of a single lock that escaped with his chase of her down the stairs. His ocean eyes bore into hers with a plea, with an guarded passion Claire was increasingly desperate to unlock. She reached in her crossbody bag to retrieve a pen and finding no paper, offered up a Dunkin’ Donuts receipt. She brought the receipt up to his chest, just above his heart, and wrote her name and number.

“I’ll be waiting for your call,” she said, and turned back down the stairs, not waiting for a reply.

She reached was reaching for the door when a voice echoed down the stairs, “I promise ye’ll hardly be waiting at all, Sassenach.”

His phone rang then, and a woman’s smiling face shone up at him from the screen. As soon as he could, he would call Claire. He sighed, and hit accept on the call.

#songs about me fic #in which tessaactually tries fan fic #outlander fan fic #outlannder prompt exchange

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barricadebops · 4 years

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As I'm about 99.9% positive you would agree, I will never understand why people say that Enjolras isn't a good friend or wouldn't be a good boyfriend. Like I get that the revolution and his work was important to him (I personally believe that he would balance his friends and work to the best of his ability), but you cannot tell me that he wouldn't drop everything, including his work, at a moment's notice if a friend needed him. This is something that I believe wholeheartedly, and someone would have to pry this head canon/belief/whatever you want to call it out of my cold dead fingers.

Yes, I of course agree with this 100%. I really don't understand why people would say that either, it is just not him! The thing about Enjolras is that he cares so much, enough to the point where it was what got him killed. Some may argue that he cares more for his cause than for people, and I would say that is because they are viewing the cause and people as two different concepts, when, in reality, they are actually one and the same! Because Enjolras' cause is the people and that includes all people—the common man Feuilly, his (probably previously) wealthy friend Combeferre, and even the man who on several occasions has let him down, disappointed him, and given him all the reason not to trust him, Grantaire. If his cause is the people, how could he ever feel cold towards the people who matter most to him?

I think the idea a vast amount of people have that Enjolras doesn't love comes from the fact that canonically Enjolras does not experience romantic love, and frankly, this sort of thinking is rather dangerous, because it erases the fact that love comes in so many more forms than just romance. Enjolras is filled with an incredible amount of love—love for his friends, love for the people around him, and love for the future, and every one of those aspects links back to the love he feels for those who surround him. It is the love for the people he would encounter everyday while walking on the streets, it is the love for the people he would meet when he would go to buy his bread, it is the love for the friends who would look to him as their beloved friend and leader—it is his love for these people that he launches an entire rebellion— and subsequently dies for it, too. His ideals are defined by the motto of France—liberty, equality, and fraternity—but these ideals are driven by his greatest ideal of all, the one he hold key above others: love, and he makes his value of the ideal abundantly evident in his speech following the execution of Le Cabuc when he says:

"This is a bad moment to mention the word 'love.' I mention it anyway, and I glorify it. Love, the future belongs to you... In the future there will be no killing, the earth will be radiant, the human race will love." (5.12.8.)

From this, it is quite clear that Enjolras does not just experience love, but feels one of the highest and most greatest forms of it, so the characterization that he knows not of the feeling of love is quite unfounded.

He absolutely does love his friends to death. The one time we see him ready to forsake his ideals is when rather than keep the valuable spy Javert, who holds information about the rebels at the barricades, he is willing to hold an exchange so that they may bring back Jehan Prouvaire.

"'Yes,' replied Enjolras. 'But not as much as by Jean Prouvaire's life.'" (5.14.5)

He also sees so much good in his friends, he believes in them wholeheartedly, and for Enjolras, his belief is his expression of love.

"He composed, in his own mind, with Combeferre’s philosophical and penetrating eloquence, Feuilly’s cosmopolitan enthusiasm, Courfeyrac’s dash, Bahorel’s smile, Jean Prouvaire’s melancholy, Joly’s science, Bossuet’s sarcasms, a sort of electric spark which took fire nearly everywhere at once." (5.1.6.)

I've always loved this passage because it allows us to glimpse into Enjolras' mind and see how he truly thinks of his friends, and the way he sees them is incredibly sweet. He sees these people as his brothers who are capable of amazing feats, who are just as passionate as he is, and will be the ones to help him fight for the future. The love he holds for them is incredible, and though we get to see inside of Enjolras' head so little, this passage here is quite enough to inform the reader of just how much Enjolras draws joy from his friends.

In terms of the canonicity of the brick, I have always seen Enjolras' final moment as him realizing and accepting Grantaire's love for him (I would also argue that this moment is also when Grantaire himself, having not known exactly what it was he felt for Enjolras, also realized what exactly he felt for him), but dying with him only as a friend, but the fact that he smiles, and that it is him who extends his hand towards Grantaire says a lot about how strong his platonic love for his friends is. And of course, once again it is not just for his friends; far too many people see Enjolras as a man willing to sacrifice whoever and whatever in order to accomplish his goals, but his words once he discovers that Paris has abandoned their barricade say otherwise. When the rebels stubbornly insist that they all remain, no doubt fantasizing of dying "heroic martyr deaths," rather than encourage them, he instead essentially chides them by reminding them that:

"Vain-glory is wasteful[,]" (5.1.14)

so to paint him as merciless holds no merit. I feel as if this image comes from the quote:

"Enjolras was a charming young man capable of being terrible." (4.4.1.)

While yes, it is very capable for Enjolras to turn ruthless, the key word in that sentence is capable. The word that preceeds it, the one that follows after the definite word was, is the word charming, and the fact that charming is put before terrible holds great significance. Enjolras' first instinct, what comes to him naturally, is to do good, to be good, to be charming. He can be terrible, yes, but he must put his mind into doing so, whereas being a good person comes to him without thinking. Many tend to ignore the first part of the sentence in favour of the second, and they twist it to mean that his first instinct is to do bad instead of good, which really does not define his character at all.

Perhaps the biggest contributor to the misinterpretation of Enjolras' character is the way people have read his dynamic with Grantaire, and the way the lines between canon and fanon Grantaire have been so thoroughly blurred that it has ended up distorting Enjolras' image while erasing major parts of Grantaire's character that makes him the character and to a greater extent, metaphorical representation he is. I will not lie; I write fanfiction, and the version of Grantaire that I write into my stories is most definitely his fanon image; in other words, he is a vastly improved version. But it is incredibly important to acknowledge the way the two concepts deviate from each other, or you'll end up with a situation in which the character you have in mind isn't really the original character itself. It's okay for people to have different perceptions! Everyone understand literature differently, and that's the beauty of the arts! I think it's totally cool that everyone believes in characters in different ways! But for me, it really bothers me the way the fandom tends to paint Grantaire as a saint while portraying Enjolras as a character who always seems to know less than Grantaire, always is on a lower platform than Grantaire, and is always harsh and unjust towards Grantaire, because it simply is not true. A lot about Grantaire is ignored in terms of the canonicity of the brick. For example, it is true that Grantaire is, in fact, ugly, and he's described that way for a specific element of the narrative that Victor Hugo is writing in (@lilys-hazel-eyes is writing a great analysis on morality represented by beauty, which is exactly the point here—you should definitely go check it out!) In the brick, Victor Hugo describes Grantaire's cynicsm to be the "dry-rot of intellect" (4.4.1.) Hugo's stance on nihilism and cynicism is made quite evident in the way he portrays Grantaire, a character meant to represent the physical manifestation of cynicism (some say that he's the physical embodiment of Paris itself and I think that's a really neat reading on that!)

"A rover, a gambler, a libertine, often drunk... Grantaire, with insidious doubt creeping through him, loved to watch faith soar in Enjolras... his soft, yielding, disclocated, sickly, shapeless ideas..." (4.4.1.)

From these descriptions, it is quite clear what sort of opinion Victor Hugo holds of cynics, which is why Grantaire's characterization is so deliberate. He is trying to make a commentary here about the harm those who do not hold passion or belief can do, to both themselves and society. It is why Grantaire's redeeming moment is the one in which he finally comes to accept the hope of the revolution and proves through action his belief in Enjolras.

In terms of what is presented in the brick, Grantaire does not exactly have much to really defend him. Often drunk, he expends his energy into drunk rambles rather than meaningful meeting contributions, (though admittedly, he does say some rather valid and eloquent things within his rambles—the quote "Take away 'Cotton is King,' what remains of America?" [4.4.4] comes to mind) he deliberately pokes and bothers people as seen when he calls Enjolras "heartless," (5.1.6) and when given a task, does not hold up his end of the deal and ger it done despite having asked for it in the first place. Enjolras' doubt in him is actually entirely understandable; after all, what has Grantaire really done to prove himself trustworthy and reliable? When Enjolras asks if "[he is] good for anything" (5.1.6) the question is, likely in his eyes, genuine rather than insulting. And even when he has every reason not to, Enjolras still puts his faith into Grantaire to get something of extreme importance done for him, which I do think says a lot about Enjolras' willingness to believe in the best in people.

Victor Hugo ends the chapter right before we can see Enjolras' reaction to Grantaire's failure, and while this part, I will say, is up for interpretation, personally I have always extrapolated that the most emotion this would draw from him is disappointment—though it is disappointment that he definitely thinks he should have seen coming, rather than imagining him as getting insanely mad at Grantaire.

Their next interaction is during the rebellion itself, during which Enjolras is put under quite a bit of stress and Grantaire's behaviour really is not helping matters, so him snapping is actually very believable, if a little harsh.

The Enjolras seen in fanon, derived from these interactions, always seems so harsh, so rash when he speaks to Grantaire and therefore is characterized as rash and reckless in general, and generally seems to not understand emotion very well, which is very unlike him. Rather than harsh, I would say that with the exception of course of the rebellion at the barricade and the lead up to that time, Enjolras actually seems to be quite calm.

"All held their peace, and Enjolras bowed his head." (4.4.5.)

Rather than instantly explode at Marius for his rather awful beliefs of Napoleon, instead, Enjolras keeps calm and silent, which demonstrates what an incredible depth of patience he has. And as for Enjolras not understanding emotion, when it comes to fanworks, I'm generally tolerant of people holding different perceptions for different characters, but of all perceptions, this one is one I cannot begin to comprehend, and this is one that I will say that to say he knows not of emotion is to have wrongly read his character.

"And a tear trickled slowly down Enjolras' marble cheek." (5.1.8.)

I simply cannot allow myself to believe that the man who cried at the prospect of having to shoot the artillerman, who calls him his "brother," who is no doubt thinking that had circumstances been different, the action he would be taking would not be necessary—I do not believe this is a man who would not understand feelings and emotions.

The Grantaire in the book who has "the dry rot of intellect," (4.4.1) only ever makes unnecessary rants during meetings, and is very much untrustworthy, is a far outcry from the Grantaire who bases his cyncism on being what he would say is being "well informed," often makes valid points in meetings, and proves himself reliable. Similarly, the Enjolras that is thoughful, as he proves himself to be in his "Outlook from the Top of the Barricade" speech, still chooses to believe in the best in others despite being given every reason not to, and is actually quite patient, is very different from his rash and reckless, short tempered, seems-to-hate-Grantaire, fanon counterpart.

Of course, if you take characters who are shaped by their surroundings and circumstances in the nineteenth century and adapt them to fit the scene of the twenty-first century, it's obvious things are going to change! However, I think it's important to keep these key traits in mind when doing so, and more often than not, it is these key traits that end up getting mangled. When one sticks to these traits, it's easy to say Enjolras would be a wondeful friend/boyfriend (if you see him as having one.) Enjolras' whole deal is loving and caring immensely, and to put his absolute one hundred percent effort into everything he does, and that includes into his friendships and relationships.

Once again, I'm not bashing on the fandom here, I'm part of it. I'll repeat again, I too write with the fanon image of Grantaire in my head. Everyone takes away different things from literature, and that's fine! This is simply how I have interpreted it.

One more note on Enjolras.

Les Amis de l'ABC absolutely love Enjolras. The way Enjolras' character has been misinterpreted has ended up having an effect on the way the Amis are looked at as well. The Amis are all so passionate about the revolution, they attend meetings because they truly do believe in the change they can create in their world, so I'll never truly understand the characterization of the Amis as laughing at Enjolras' devotion to the cause, or finding his passion for it stupid or bothersome. Victor Hugo himself describes just how passionate of a group they are:

"All these young men who differed so greatly, and who, on the whole can only be discussed seriously, held the same religion: Progress... The most giddy of them became solemn when they pronounced that date: '89... the pure blood of principle ran in their veins. They attached themselves, without immediate shades, to incorruptible right and absolute duty." (4.4.1.)

Everyone here, with the exception of Grantaire, is here because they believe wholeheartedly in the revolution. This is not something Enjolras forced upon them, this is not something they groan when thinking about, it is something they all believe in so passionately. It is not something they make fun of him for.

"Affiliated and initiated, they sketched out the ideal underground." (4.4.1.)

They are all here by choice, by will, and by the values they hold close to their heart, and so to say Enjolras is someone who constantly whines about his cause and the others think he needs to lighten up is both an insult to him and the rest. Furthermore, the Amis really love Enjolras, and not just as their leader, but as a beloved friend, and as strongly as I believe Enjolras would drop all of his work to help any of the Amis when they are in need, I believe the Amis would do the same for him. The unity of Les Amis de l'ABC says a lot about the kind of charismatic leader Enjolras is, and his friends most definitely adore him.

So yeah, anon, I 100% agree, and rest assured, if they try and take this canon fact away, they'll have to pry it from both our sets of our cold dead fingers.

#les miserables #enjolras #les amis de l'abc #enjolras talk #character analysis #les miserables meta #woah this turned out to be long #I'm so sorry anon you just wanted to express your feelings and I just...went off #I couldn't help it I had been meaning to write up a defence on Enjolras for a while and the opportunity just presented itself #GRANTAIRE STANS BEFORE YOU COME FOR MY BLOOD PLEASE LISTEN TO ME I DON'T HATE GRANTAIRE #This is simply my interpretation of things if you don't agree feel free to ignore it #I fear the Grantaire stans #also I am by no means an expert I'm a teenager not a literature prof or anything so like this might not all be right #so like sorry if it's not completely accurate #this is my interpretation of it #please don't attack me I'm sensitive

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unityghost · 3 years

Text

Masquerade

Oh look, I wrote part 29 of Post-Asmodeus Sabriel Feels.

Based on the following prompt from Archive of Our Own user PersonFace:

Gabe hides his true thoughts and pretends to make progress, and, to his surprise, he's good at it. Not, they let it go, not, they're not noticing, he's really good at hiding away, and putting on a face. Even Sam is fooled. Gabe is conflicted on how to feel about that.

I'll confess that some of this doesn't follow the prompt to the letter, but I did my very best. And of course I am sorry for how overdue it is.

“No,” said Sam.

“Yes,” said Gabriel.

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. “I told you, you’re not coming to fight.”

“I heard what you said, which is why I lied and agreed I’d lay low. Thing is, I don’t want to see you flop because you lacked the knowledge to keep from getting slaughtered.”

Sam’s face softened. “You gave us all the information you could.”

He and Gabriel stood alone in a motel room near the Uinta mountain ranges in Utah. It had been a long while since Gabriel had spent a significant amount of time out west, and indeed, they planned on being here for no longer than a few days. Dean had already left to start the car, and Sam was blocking the doorway so that Gabriel couldn’t accompany them.

Gabriel knew that Sam had a point: since healing an injury on Sam’s hand two weeks previously, after a witch and her miniscule but bloodthirsty familiar had attacked him, Gabriel had been exhausted.

Even so:

“You really don’t know much about these sons of bitches,” Gabriel reminded Sam, trying not to sound like he was pleading. “And I’ve seen them before; I would be able to take one on.”

But Sam held firm. “You’ve already done plenty to help us along, all right? You taught us more about the satori than Wikipedia and all the Japanese folklore books combined. We don’t need you to fight; we just needed that guidance. Okay? You really aren’t ready for this. And I’m not saying that to try and make you feel bad. When you’re stronger, I won’t make you stay put. Promise.”

“In other words, I’d slow you guys down.” Before Sam could protest, Gabriel added, “Fine. You’re hardly off the mark, so fine. I’ll entertain myself while you go hunt down your furry lunatic. Remember, get a good swing in, and if it doesn’t know what’s coming then you’ve got yourself an extra three seconds or so to avoid being eaten.”

Sam nodded, pretending Gabriel hadn’t told him this already. “Sure thing.”

“Did you meditate? Clear that noggin of yours? The satori feed on thoughts. Especially complex, contemplative thought.”

“Dean and I both meditated.”

“Like I said: complex and contemplative. I’m not as worried about Dean.”

Sam glanced down at his watch. “Gabriel, I’ve got to go. But while we’re gone, put your feet up. Let yourself relax for a while. I promise we’ll be okay.”

“Did I say you wouldn’t be?”

Sam smiled, and just missed the raised middle finger cast behind him on his way out the door.

Gabriel waited for the engine to fade before he checked his pocket to ensure the room key was there.

Yes, he was worn out; yes, he was low on grace; and yes - he had enough sense to understand that Sam had been generous in allowing Gabriel to come at all when he was sure to slow the others down. Nevertheless, it was true that Gabriel knew these creatures better than Sam did: he’d dealt with them more than once when they had free reign over the Central Pangean Mountains, long before humankind could take advantage of any opportunity to mess with them.

Gabriel was familiar with what scant literature was accessible to the public these days; and no matter how many times he insisted that not only were these monsters more cunning than the Winchesters’ average prey, but quicker and more ferocious, neither of them took the warnings seriously.

“I’m not questioning whether you can take them on,” Gabriel had told them. “I’m just trying to get you to believe me when I tell you that you gotta prepare for more than you’ve been able to read up on.”

“So tell us more,” Dean prodded, watching him in the rearview mirror.

“I told you all I know! It’s not like I’ve ever sat down to have lunch with one. But I’ve seen what they can do to humans, and …” Gabriel paused, remembering. “A couple of times I was able to chase them off.”

Dean raised his eyebrows. “And the other times?”

Gabriel waved a dismissive hand. “Doesn’t matter.” He didn’t want to admit that the “other times” had seen him standing out of sight, watching the carnage and unwilling to get involved. “I just hope you had good reflexes in Little League.”

“We’ve got everything we need,” Sam assured him from the passenger seat. “Plenty of options in the trunk.”

“I’m not worried about what weapon you use. What matters is how fast you can swing it. The goal is to take the sucker off guard, not to destroy it.”

“Then what’s the point of this trip anyway?” Dean demanded.

“See, Sam? Your brother gets what I’m trying to say.”

“As long as we can chase it off,” Sam reminded them both. “Look, Gabriel - I hear you. We don’t know how to kill it. So we’re going to immobilize it.”

“Right.” Gabriel sat back and closed his eyes. He could feel a headache coming on. “With your fancy-pants spellwork.”

“Rowena told us - ”

“Rowena knows how to chase them into isolated sprawls of water. They can’t swim, and that’s all well and good, but what happens after that? Did she do a follow-up study? For all we know, this could be the same one she took down all those years ago. You want me to page the coral reefs, see if they found a mangy corpse over yonder?”

Sam sighed. “You’re just gonna have to trust us. We’re doing the best we can.”

“I know. That’s why I insisted on tagging along.”

Outside of the motel, Gabriel halted, breathing in the mountain air. Not for the first time, he was discombobulated at the subtleties his near-graceless body picked up in a way it never would have before: the way this oxygen was thinner than that of Kansas, the chilly tickle of fall as background noise in the latter half of summer. These minute changes affected him in strange ways, altering his heartbeat and sometimes making him feel as though he was surrounded by unfamiliar presences.

He began walking. It had been a long time since he’d set foot in the Uinta Mountain ranges. Memories flickered at the back of his mind - memories that might have taken place prehistorically or may have happened a mere few centuries before. It was hard to tell sometimes which memories fell where, considering that his time with Asmodeus was a history in itself that felt both very old and very fresh.

That’s how it works when there’s no end in sight, he thought, making his way down the road toward the mountains themselves, where he knew the monster would be lurking.

It was an hour before he got a text message from Sam. Nothing yet. Probably gonna be a few hours.

“Cool,” Gabriel said to the mountain air. “Because this won’t take me long at all. Good thing one of us knows what we’re doing.”

He couldn’t recall the last time he’d been on rolling, open grass like this. Lebanon was beige; the mountain ranges were a pure, warm green.

He wished he could move positions the way he used to. It was conceivable that he might manage some distance should he attempt to fly, but there was no point in wasting his energy on that, especially since he wasn’t sure whether he had the grace he needed to take this creature down. He couldn’t remember having ever seen one killed another way; all that could be done, it seemed - at least for humankind - was to frighten the satori off with whatever object an unwitting traveler could swat at it.

What Gabriel had wanted to say to Sam, and hadn’t, was: “If it’s a choice between you getting clawed to death and turned into a meal and me taking myself out with a last gasp for grace, why are we even debating?”

How’s it going? Gabriel texted, and Sam wrote: I’ll let you know when we get rid of it.

That terse reply, indicative of irritation (although Gabriel, sensitive as he was these days, knew he wasn’t a good assessor of others’ emotions), was nothing compared to what he would face when Sam found out he’d tried to tackle the satori on his own. The real upside to Gabriel not making it through this in one piece was that he wouldn’t have to deal with punishment.

Sam’s not going to punish you, something inside of him retorted, but he focused on taking one step after another. He was tired, but he could feel that his grace was present. Maybe healing Sam’s hand had stimulated it.

Doesn’t matter. Just gotta get this done.

When he felt the satori, his neck prickled and his heartbeat sped up. It seemed that his ability to sense unwelcome supernatural presences had either never left or been reignited at some point in the recovery from his time in Hell.

Or perhaps he was attuned to predators lying in wait.

“Come on,” Gabriel called. “Eat me.”

All birdsong ceased as Gabriel turned around.

The creature stared at him and smiled.

“You’re gross,” Gabriel told it. “You look like if the offspring of Mr. Potato Head and an orangutan got its finger caught in an electric socket.”

The goblin-esque animal-thing only grinned wider. Its eye sockets were still and hollow in a furry face.

When it spoke, its voice was high and tight as if it had inhaled from a balloon, and the words came rapidly:

“The blackness thickens,” it said. “No one will be here for long; it’s all pretend. Not one of them wants you; not one of them cares. It’s a good thing you came along to destroy the enemy: make yourself useful and perhaps they’ll let you stay. Ask nicely and they’ll allow you to keep stealing from them.”

Gabriel’s skin crawled. “What are you doing, you mangy freak?”

“It has not been able to read your mind before,” the beast replied. Gabriel, who could only assume that “it” meant the satori itself, could no longer tell whether it was actually looking at him or whether those grotesque holes were sightless. The horrid animal looked dead. “You used to be an angel. When you were more than this, it couldn’t get into your head. But look: is this not proof of what you have become?”

“I’m here to - ”

“And yet if you use what little grace swims in your near-human flesh, what use will you be? Perhaps it is time; the hour has come to show that you’re a failure, and they’ll have the excuse they so sorely need to throw you away. It can eat you, too; if you are human, and it can read you, then it can swallow you as well.”

Gabriel stepped backward.

Chill out, he told himself. The son of a bitch is screwing with you.

“The son of a bitch is not screwing with you,” the creature said. “Your memories - I smell them on your breath.” The satori cackled - harsh, like retching. “You fear that he is still inside of you. Who would have thought that you, once so esteemed and powerful, might buckle? Paralysis maintains its grip upon the creature you once were.”

Paralysis indeed, Gabriel thought as he found himself struggling to respond with either speech or movement.

The creature gave its choking laugh again. “You see? You are frozen. It knows. It knows better than anyone.”

“Wrong.” Gabriel steeled himself for either overwhelming exhaustion or worse. He felt a pang of annoyance that he couldn’t do this the way he used to. “No one knows better than yours truly.”

The flash of grace hit the creature hard, and Gabriel felt some of it ricochet back to him. It hurt, but wasn’t enough to knock him over. That came only after he saw the satori crumple to the ground, its eye sockets just as lifeless as they had been a few seconds before.

Gabriel found his face pressed into the dirt. Every muscle ached in a peculiarly human manner.

He experimented with standing up and found that, although it was a sluggish process, it wasn’t impossible. He was dizzy but he could walk.

He took breaks here and there to lean against a tree and catch his breath. The birds had started singing again.

During one of these brief siestas, he sent a message to Sam:

I know you’ll hate me and I don’t blame you but I squashed the big furry toad thing.

A few moments later, Sam replied: Where are you???

Almost to the motel.

What were you thinking???

Gabriel didn’t reply. Sam sent another message only a few seconds after that: We can find you if you stay put. Don’t move.

I’m almost back; calm down.

He could picture Sam closing his eyes and inhaling, trying not to show that he was frustrated.

Are you sure? Sam asked.

Yes. Chill. I’ll meet you there.

He didn’t check the messages after that.

Gabriel arrived first. The motel room smelled like coarse carpeting and the salami sandwiches Dean had eaten in Gabriel and Sam’s room several hours before.

Gabriel groaned and lay down on one of the two beds. He wished he could fall asleep then and there, but he knew he was about to be in trouble.

“You didn’t even take a weapon?” Dean cried when the brothers returned. “You were just banking on being able to lasso him with possibly nonexistent angel milk?”

Sam strode over to the bed. “Did you really - ”

“I’m sorry. I know. I didn’t want you to get slaughtered by something I knew I could get rid of for you, okay? Sue me.”

Sam cupped his hands over his face and exhaled. “Did it do anything to you?”

“No.”

“It didn’t hurt you?”

“If it had, then my answer would’ve been yes. I’m fine, Sam. I’m good. And I knew you’d be upset with me, but I would rather you be mad than dead.”

“I’m not upset with you; I just - you should have told me you were going to risk your neck like that.”

“Well, I asked your permission to risk my neck and you said no! What was I supposed to do, Sam? What’s done is done and we’re all still freakin’ alive, so go shower and stop yelling at me.”

He knew that Sam wasn’t yelling, but to Gabriel it sounded dangerously close.

Sam glanced at Dean.

“He’s an idiot,” Dean announced.

“Come on,” Sam snapped. “That’s not helpful.”

“Neither was going after a monster without telling us first.” Dean glared at Gabriel before making his way to the exit and slamming the door behind him.

“He’s worried, that’s all,” Sam said.

“Yeah, he’s all in a tither over my safety. I could tell by the way he tried to disembowel me with his eyes.” Gabriel shoved his face into a pillow and groaned. “I know, okay? I do. I really - I mean - look, I’d be royally pissed too, but I was doing what I thought was best. I’m not sorry for that.”

“I …” Sam struggled for a moment, but all the fight seemed to have left him. “I’m glad you managed to pull it off. Just don’t do it again.”

With an effort, Gabriel sat up. “I’m not interested in standing by anymore.”

“We’ve had this talk already: you don’t owe us anything.”

“Fine.” Gabriel flopped back down. He hadn’t removed his shoes. “I just knew what had to be done in this instance. It can’t be taken back now and I’m glad you’re not dead.”

He shut his eyes, then felt the mattress sink under Sam’s weight.

“I’m sorry,” Sam told him. “It’s only that - ”

“Don’t be sorry.” Gabriel kept his eyes closed. “I knew the reaction I was in for. As if I didn’t run through this a thousand times in my head. You disowning me is more appealing than me having to dig your grave.”

“I wouldn’t disown you. You know that. I’m not mad, and if I was - ”

“You are mad. But frankly, I figured you’d be a lot worse than this.”

“You really don’t trust me, do you?”

Gabriel opened his eyes and squinted up at Sam. “I trust you. You obviously don’t have enough faith in me to help you when you need it, though.”

Sam stood up. “Maybe let’s have this conversation tomorrow.”

“No need. Go clean yourself up.”

“Take off your shoes.”

“Too tired. Not conscious.”

As he was drifting off, he felt Sam untying his sneakers.

There was little dialogue during the long trip home the following day. Dean was still tense, which surprised Gabriel, who had been ardently convinced that Sam would be furious and Dean would be relieved. Dean wasn’t worried about whether Gabriel lived or died, and someone had taken care of his dirty work for him.

There was, of course, the possibility that Dean was upset over being denied a triumphant capture. But Gabriel wasn’t particularly concerned about Dean’s feelings in this instance. What mattered was that he and Sam were both alive and well.

Gabriel slept most of the way home, and his dreams were full of eyeless beasts clawing at his face and digging soiled ape-like paws so harshly into his skull that the pressure became too much and he grew blind. In the nightmares, he tried to scream at them, but couldn’t make a sound.

There was nothing he could do, because they already knew he was afraid.

He was stiff and clammy when it was time to climb out of the car. During the extraordinarily long journey (probably not so extraordinary for them, Gabriel realized), Sam had taken Dean’s place at the wheel and Dean was staring sullenly out of the window.

“Okay back there?” Sam asked.

Gabriel nodded.

“Here - ” Sam made his way around back to open the door and help Gabriel out.

“I’m fine,” snapped Gabriel. “I can move on my own.”

He immediately felt guilty for his tone of voice, but the dreams wouldn’t leave him.

“What’s wrong?” asked Sam. “Hey, you’re all sweaty and shaky.”

“Tired from using up my grace. Think there’s probably none left.” Both halves of his explanation were true. There was no need to explain that the nightmares had made it worse.

He shoved himself out of the car and Sam reached out a hand to steady him. Gabriel stepped away before Sam could touch him.

“Gabe,” said Sam, “You look like you’re going to pass out.”

“I’m not.”

“I can tell when something’s wrong with you.”

Gabriel clenched his jaw. “Is that so?” He straightened himself and made a concerted effort to walk evenly and steadily up to the door and down the stairs into the bunker. He stumbled toward the bottom step and Sam grabbed his shoulder.

Gabriel wrenched himself away. “Jesus, Sam, I’ll tell you if something’s wrong!”

“Okay!” Sam looked alarmed. “I just - okay.”

Gabriel ignored the shame that accompanied his outburst. Sam didn’t deserve anybody shouting at him, but there could be no denying that he was right: Sam had seen Gabriel in various states of distress and knew what it looked like when he wasn’t well.

He turned away, making for his bedroom; then he paused and looked back at Sam.

“I just need a little rest,” he said. “That’s all it is. I’m on edge, all right? But I’ll be fine.”

Sam nodded. “Yeah. Go. Get some sleep. I’ll bring you something to eat later.”

“All right.” Gabriel wasn’t sure he would be able to eat, but there was no reason to make Sam more suspicious. “I’ll see you later.”

He didn’t look back this time.

That week, Gabriel made it a point to eat in front of them - especially Sam - at least once a day. He wasn’t unable to eat, and mostly it wasn’t a necessity; usually, however, he didn’t have any appetite. Besides that, hunger made him feel guilty, and sometimes he had a hard time eating without an immediate recollection of being held down and force-fed during his time with Asmodeus.

If Sam noticed that Gabriel was eating more, he didn’t say. Gabriel tried to let his mind go blank during mealtimes. Asmodeus often crept in, and he must have looked a certain way when that happened because Sam would frown.

Not one of them wants you; not one of them cares.

Gabriel forced himself to swallow, privately willing Sam to stop watching him, desperate for control over his own mind.

Is this not proof of what you have become?

Not even Sam ought to have access to his innermost thoughts and memories - not anymore.

Meanwhile, Dean’s behavior had settled into some semblance of normalcy. Gabriel had never been more thankful for his indifference; he had never taken such joy in the absence of intuitive empathy.

Then there was Castiel, who seemed mostly inclined to leave his brother alone. He sometimes looked puzzled - although that wasn’t unusual for him - but he didn’t say anything.

If Jack had any suspicions about Gabriel’s newfound stoicism, he didn’t let them show. He was cheerful and inquisitive as always, and yet - maybe from spending so much time with Cas, or perhaps because he had learned neither how to express his compassion nor how to block it - there were times he too appeared confused, not sure what to make of his uncle.

“Why are you looking at me like that, kid?” Gabriel asked him one evening.

Jack replied, “How am I looking at you?”

“Like I’m still brushing off loam from the uncanny valley.”

Jack didn’t know how to respond to that, and the subject didn’t come up again.

The four of them were sharing dinner one night when Gabriel made his decision.

“Hey,” he said to the others. “You guys all need to chill right the hell out, okay?”

Everyone turned to stare at him.

“Every time I take a bite,” Gabriel elaborated, “At least one of you watches me like you think I’m going to burst into flame. Or tears. Maybe that was warranted at one point, but I’m starting to feel like there’s something stuck in my teeth and nobody wants to tell me.”

“Your teeth look fine to me,” said Jack.

“Look,” Gabriel went on, “I get that I kind of wore myself out back in Utah, but can you fellas please stop watching my every move with those confused looks on your faces?”

Sam appeared taken aback. “Is that what we’re doing? I guess I was just …”

Slowly, looking him in the eye, Gabriel forced himself to take a bite of the pizza Dean had crafted. He had tasted it before, and although it was exceptionally good, Gabriel had a hard time with the richness of it. Had it been up to him, he would have steered clear of meals that were meant to make a person feel full. This was the first time in the last week that he had fully committed to this sort of sustenance; before that, he’d been able to get away with lighter fare.

The fact that Gabriel was able to dismiss the taste and weight of the food, that he was able to bring his mind elsewhere and ignore the spasm of nausea he had anticipated when he sat down, was encouraging.

“You were just what?” Gabriel asked when he’d swallowed.

“Uh …” Sam blinked. “Nothing. Sorry.”

“You’re used to me being a swooning maiden,” Gabriel countered. “Right now I feel fine, and your constant inspection is nothing short of creepy.”

Sam furrowed his brow, but nodded. “All right. Sorry, Gabriel. I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

Gabriel took another mouthful, swallowed, and said: “Who knows? Maybe using my grace to wipe out the monster was just the kick in the pants I needed to get up and running again. I mean, hey, if I have it in me to off a predator from Jim Henson’s fever-dream, maybe I’m not in for the permanent misery that seemed inevitable before he and I faced off.”

Sam smiled, looking more at ease. “Yeah. I guess that makes sense.”

“Hey,” Dean interrupted, “You including me in that accusation? You and I have been having a great time.”

“That’s true,” Castiel agreed. He hadn’t taken any pizza, but was enjoying the company. “I’ve never seen the two of you get along so well.”

“Right?” Gabriel sat back. “So what do you have to complain about, Sam?”

“I’m not complaining, Gabriel, really.”

“Good. Because if you’ve got something to say, you can say it to me.”

For a moment he was afraid Sam was going to shout at him, although Gabriel knew that when he’d dared use that tone with Asmodeus, he deserved whatever response came his way.

Instead, he saw Sam further relax. “All right. I will.”

Sam was watchful during the remainder of the meal, although it was possible that Gabriel was only imagining as much. Sometimes he thought he felt Sam’s eyes on him, but when he looked over, Sam was just enjoying the food.

After dinner, Dean crooked a finger at Gabriel. “C’mere a minute.”

Gabriel followed him into the hall.

“What’s going on?” Dean asked, which surprised Gabriel.

“Nothing,” he replied.

“Look, I’m not complaining. I like you like this. But last week, before we left for Utah, you were afraid to ask for a napkin - and that’s even if you took five minutes to eat without Sam practically forcing it down your throat. So what gives?”

“Nothing,” Gabriel said again, wishing Dean had used different hyperbole. “Why are you harassing me about this?”

“Well, maybe if I knew what I was harassing you about it, we wouldn’t need to have this conversation.”

Gabriel stiffened. He felt betrayed. He had trusted Dean to be ignorant and unconcerned.

“I don’t know what you think you’re seeing,” Gabriel told him. “All I know is it isn’t real.”

“Maybe Sam should be the one to decide that.”

“Oh please. What’s Sam got to do with anything?”

Dean remained stone-faced.

Gabriel hardened his voice. “No one’s bothering Sam about anything. What, have you consulted him how to fix whatever imaginary problem you’ve got keeping you up at night? Asked him how to rewire his favorite disaster?”

“No,” said Dean, “Because I’d never hear the end of it from this new version of you.”

“What ‘new version’ of me? I can’t figure out if I’m being insulted.”

“Look, all I know is people don’t change like this overnight. Not without a reason.”

“Good thing I’m not people, then,” Gabriel snapped.

Dean shook his head. “Like I said, man, I don’t know what’s going on with you. Maybe it’s none of my business; I just figure you should ask Sam for help if something isn’t right.”

“I - ” Gabriel faltered. “You don’t want me to bother Sam about this, do you? Not that there’s any - but if there were, if I was - look, no one’s asking Sam for anything, okay? There’s no need, and if something was wrong with me, then he doesn’t need to do anything. Poor sap’s done enough for every lifetime he’s been put through.”

“I think he’d wanna know.”

“What would he want to know? What do you think the issue is here?”

“Well, if I knew, I wouldn’t’ve thought to bug you about it. But fine. Maybe my intuition is off.” He turned to leave, but then paused and looked back at Gabriel. “Sam would never forgive himself if you felt like you couldn’t tell him something, though.”

Gabriel stared at him. Then, more timidly, he asked: “Are you sure you haven’t mentioned anything? About … about whatever you think you see?”

“No. Should I?”

Gabriel shook his head.

“Look, Gabe,” said Dean, “He worries, but at the same time, he really wants to see you get better. He might be pulling the wool over his own eyes about this. If something happens to you and he thinks he could’ve done something to stop it, neither of you is going to be okay.”

Gabriel didn’t respond.

“I’ll see you later, Gabe,” Dean said, and left him standing in the hall with his heart beating twice as fast as it had been during dinner.

With static humming in his mind, Gabriel went back to his own bedroom. He shut the door and lay down on the bed, puzzled and frustrated by the sudden tautness in his throat. He ignored it.

He felt as though he had just been scolded, although he was reasonably confident that no such event had taken place.

Paralysis maintains its grip upon the creature you once were.

It occurred to Gabriel then that even he wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing. He allowed himself a brief indulgence in the notion that Sam really was under the impression that, for the first time in months, nothing was so wrong with Gabriel as to require immediate attention. He wondered if they could be friends without the ongoing dynamic of victim and savior, although he knew Sam would have scoffed at such a description.

Then he considered the practical implications of remaining here when he had just taken such a hit to his grace supply. He had reason to believe that it would come back - he had been entirely without grace more than once, and it always came back - but the amount of time that would take couldn’t be predicted. If he was to stay here, in the bunker, he had to have grace sooner rather than later. He remembered being without grace in Hell, and wished he could forget the punishment for such a crime. Now, in the bunker, he might not be penalized so much as …

Well, uselessness was a punishment in itself.

The hour has come to show that you’re a failure.

Gabriel sighed and closed his eyes.

They’ll have the excuse they so sorely need to throw you away.

No dreams, no nightmares, no tossing and turning: this slumber was quiet and pure.

But the next thing Gabriel knew, there were two voices calling his name; one he recognized immediately as Sam’s, and the other took him a few seconds to identify as that of Castiel. He couldn’t make out the words, and then he realized he couldn’t fully open his eyes; they had grown too heavy.

Panic set in as someone lifted him upright. He didn’t even have the strength to go rigid, let alone any power to fight back.

“Gabriel.” Sam was speaking to him in a low, hurried voice. “We’re not going to hurt you. Just wake up, all right?”

Gabriel wrenched his eyes partway open. The room was hazy. He took shallow breaths.

“Geez,” Sam told him. “Gabe, buddy, we couldn’t get you to wake up.”

Gabriel tried to ask, Why? but couldn’t make himself speak.

“It’s almost two in the afternoon,” Sam told him, “And when I came in to check on you, you just …” He trailed off.

“Wouldn’t move,” Castiel finished.

Gabriel leaned back against Sam.

“What’s going on?” Sam pressed. “I’ve never seen that happen to you before.”

When Gabriel managed to reply, his voice was hoarse. “I’ve fainted plenty.”

“This is different. Hey, keep your eyes open for a minute; we thought - ” Sam paused. “We just didn’t know what was going on.”

“Tired,” Gabriel slurred.

“This goes beyond tired, Gabriel,” said Cas.

“My grace … it’s …”

“It’s what?” Sam prodded.

“Dunno. I …” Gabriel tried to ignore the pounding in his head. “Killing the monster, the satori - ”

Sam and Castiel waited for him to continue. When Gabriel’s breath began coming a little more easily, he finished, “Maybe took some fight out of me.”

“This is why I told you not to come.” Sam didn’t sound angry - just worried, even afraid. “I know you were trying to help, but Gabriel, you were the one who said how vicious those things are. You’re not ready for something like that.”

“Through no fault of your own,” Castiel added.

Gabriel tried to push himself off of Sam and found that he was too weak.

“What’s wrong?” Sam asked him. “Does anything hurt?”

“Why?” The question emerged, at last, without Gabriel even thinking about it.

“What? Why what?”

“What good’re you gonna get out of knowing what’s the matter with me?”

Sam shifted so that Gabriel was lying with his head on Sam’s lap instead of bent at an angle against his chest.

Castiel spoke up: “I suspect that Sam is simply trying to remind you that you’ve become an important part of his life, and he doesn’t want to see you suffer.”

“Well, whoop-dee-doo.”

“Gabriel …” Sam checked for a fever, then pushed stray locks of hair from Gabriel’s eyes. “I don’t understand. You seemed okay last night.”

“I’m still okay.”

“That’s obviously not true,” said Cas.

“Can you try and sit up?” Sam asked.

“Maybe.” He let Sam shift away and prop him against the pillows. As he watched Sam step back, face pale with concern, he had a moment’s doubt about his own pride.

Sit back down, he wanted to say, or I wouldn’t want to touch me either.

He closed his eyes.

“No,” Sam commanded. “Gabriel, don’t. Not yet. I want you to stay awake for now.”

When, and how, had this suddenly become too much? He knew how to frolic in lies. He knew how to make personal falsehoods into very real truths; pretending until he was no longer play-acting was a familiar process.

Why now, then, did he feel his throat tighten as he stared down at the blankets?

He was committed this time, though. He was well-versed in the warning signals of a breakdown and understood that there was no benefit in acting like a child. Sam had seen and dealt with enough, and Gabriel had debased himself so often that he couldn’t imagine anyone harboring even a modicum of respect for him at this point.

That was fine. He needed to learn not to care so much about his reputation at the bunker.

“Cas,” Sam said, “Maybe …”

“Yes. Of course.” Gabriel felt his brother watching him. “If you need me, I’m nearby. Although I suspect you know what you’re doing, Sam.”

“Thanks. I think we’ll be okay.”

Gabriel heard the door close.

“All right,” Sam said, “I know you don’t like to be coerced into talking to me, and usually I’d let up a little, but if you’re sick you need to tell me.”

“I’m not.”

“Then what happened just now?”

“Beats me. But what do you expect?” Gabriel spoke more smoothly now, but directly to the blankets. “I used up all my grace on the satori. Can you blame me for being a little out of sorts?”

“No, of course I don’t blame you. But I’m not talking about your grace. Or at least I don’t think I am.”

“Yeah? What do you think we’re discussing here, then?”

“I don’t know.” Sam looked helpless. “You seemed fine yesterday, and now you’re - I mean, how did you go from that to this? This whole week you've been ... I mean ... I don't know. I thought ... ”

“Am I not an open book to you anymore? Good.”

“What?”

“There’s no reason for you to be inside my head. There’s no reason for you to - to know any more about me, or what happened to me, than you already do.”

Sam was silent.

“I see through your strategy, Sam,” Gabriel added, still staring at the blanket. “I - when you’re quiet, you want me to talk.”

“I’m just worried.”

“You’ve made that abundantly clear, and I don’t know what to tell you. I don’t know what I can do to make you feel better about this whole thing.”

“About what whole thing? About you trying to get well?”

“Pal, if that’s what you’re looking for - for me to get back on my own two feet - then what are you complaining about? Obviously I’m better. I haven’t cried or thrown up once since we got back, and I don’t see how that’s a questionable development.”

“No, I mean, it’s not, but - ”

“But what, Sam?”

“It’s not. Really, it isn’t.”

In the moment of silence that followed, Gabriel felt such an urge to speak, to tell the truth and recount exactly what had happened in the mountains, that he tore his gaze away from the blankets and met Sam’s eyes. He now had a choice: he could say something about what had taken place, or he could lose control of himself altogether.

If there was a third option, Gabriel didn’t see it.

“I don’t want to give you a whole novel about this,” he said. “My head is killing me.”

Sam nodded.

Gabriel hesitated for a few moments longer. Then he took a deep breath and began: “When we were out in Utah, and I took down that creeptastic freakazoid, it - you know - it did what it does. It found some way into my brain, and yammered on and on about my every thought. Which wouldn’t have been a problem in and of itself if I hadn’t - if I wasn’t - well, before, when I faced one of them, it couldn’t read my mind. I was an angel and it couldn’t get in. So what does that tell you, Sam?”

Sam looked blankly at him.

“Come on, Mr. Ivy League,” Gabriel pressed. “This is measurable proof that right now, at least, I’m more human than anything else. Plus, I’ve already got one monster in my head. I don’t need another psychic bedfellow. You mean well, I know, but - but don’t you think, Sam, that you being the way you are to me might be holding me in one place? Or making me an easier target, instead of building me back up to what I used to be?”

“I’ve never thought that.”

“Well, does this change your mind? I just wrote you a whole thesis.”

“Gabriel, if you didn’t have any power then you wouldn’t have been able to take that thing down in the first place.”

“And look at how that turned out. I can barely move.”

“That’s because you haven’t given yourself a chance to recover.”

“How was I even supposed to know I needed it? I’ve been fine this last week.”

“Have you?”

“Yes!”

"I sort of wasn’t talking about the satori.”

“Oh for the love of all things holy and unholy, Sam, stop being so dramatic. I’ve had plenty of time to tunnel my way out of this.”

“Did you get through the whole week without a flashback or nightmare? You seemed like you felt pretty good. I … should I have checked?”

The guilt in Sam’s voice made Gabriel wish he’d stayed unconscious. “No.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I said no, Sam.”

“You’re not well.” There was horror and distress on Sam’s face now. “I thought - ”

“Christ, Sam, relax.”

“Why didn’t you - ”

“Because this is on me, Sam! It always has been. And that’s almost beside the point. Geez, you know - you really need to make up your mind. Am I meant to improve by eating more and learning to calm myself down, or am I supposed to hold you like a security blanket every time my engine misfires? Which is it, Sam? Should I be strengthening the muscles that Asmodeus deflated or should I keep letting you man the ship when a storm kicks in?”

“Gabriel …”

“Answer the question. I’m serious. I can’t solve this equation no matter how creative I get with it. What am I supposed to do? For me, for you, for everyone here? I need an answer and maybe you have it. I sure as all get-out have no idea what I’m supposed to do or where I’m supposed to go without messing something up.”

Gabriel thought Sam looked like he might cry. “I guess it depends.”

“No, see, that’s not how this works. Because if this was a case-by-case endeavor, one of us would have found the balance by now. No, Sam, I don’t feel good. Why’s that? I don’t feel good when I’m alone; I don’t feel good about how I act when you step in. There’s no winning for me, and for you there’s just constant sacrifice that never leads anywhere. There’s a right and a wrong answer here, and if neither of us can figure it out, then I don’t know what to do. Just stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“Stop - stop trying to make me showcase my emotions. Maybe it works for you but it doesn’t lead to anything good for me; all it does is make me feel ashamed.”

Sam seemed at a loss for words. “I’m sorry,” he offered. “I’m not trying to make you do anything. Gabriel, I think you should just do what feels natural. If that means pretending everything’s okay, then - then fine, I guess, except I don’t think that’s what you really want.”

“Well, I don’t know what I want; as far as I’m concerned, I don’t want anything except to be more like an angel and less like a toddler.”

“I don’t think of you that way. You know that, Gabriel.”

“Sure, fine, but let’s not sugarcoat the fact that I am the way I am, and the responsibility is on me to change.”

Sam looked away, contemplating. Then he asked, “Why didn’t you tell me about what happened with the satori?”

“Because then I would’ve gotten worked up about it and so would you. You would’ve been worried about me.”

“I’m worried about you anyway.”

“Yup, I missed the mark on that one. What else is new?”

“So you think - ”

Gabriel shoved himself properly upright. “Stop it, Sam! For the love of every damn good thing left in this world, just stop it! Stop trying to coach me into a breakdown!”

Sam looked aghast. “I’m not!”

“So what are you after? You want to help? Do you want to keep me in one piece or break me into a thousand? I never know with you anymore; it - ” Gabriel took a shuddering breath and began to cry. “You know exactly what you’re doing. I’m not here for you to play with me, Sam!”

Sam stood up. “Gabriel - ”

“Is this what you want?” Gabriel raised his face so that Sam could see the tears. “You think that bullying me into showing my feelings is going to lead to success? I don’t like myself like this! I don’t want you to see and you keep on trying to open me up just like he did! Stop it, Sam! Stop it!”

“No, no - hey - ” Helplessly, Sam took his hand and Gabriel tore it away. “I - Gabriel - should I get Castiel?”

“No!”

“I don’t want you to be alone.”

“Neither do I!” Gabriel pounded the mattress with his fist. “So stay, because I need you here, and I hate you for that and I hate me for that too. I hate all of this!”

“I know you do.” Sam’s voice shook. “But you haven’t done anything wrong. Maybe I have; I don’t know. But none of this is your fault. I’m so sorry if I messed up.”

“You didn’t! I did! I don’t know! Stop it!” Gabriel took frantic breaths, tasting salt where the tears met his lips.

“You said I was like him.” Sam sounded weak. “If I ever made you feel that way, it was an accident.”

“You’re not like him; you - you’re trying to do something to me, and so was he, and I don’t know how to tell the difference between you pushing me to bleed out in front of you and him ripping me open with his bare hands!”

“I had no idea that’s what I was doing!”

“Because you’re - Sam, you’re - ” Gabriel found himself unable to breathe for a moment. When he managed it again, he said, “You’re not evil.”

That seemed to perplex Sam. “I hope not.”

“Of course you aren’t. But do you have any idea what that does to me?”

“I … no, I guess I don’t.”

Gabriel didn’t know either. He ground his teeth against the urge to scream.

No one will be here for long; it’s all pretend.

“I wasn’t like this before,” he said.

“That’s because you weren’t trapped in Hell before.”

“You’ve been trapped in Hell! And you’re nothing like this! Talk all day about how you need help, about how you have your bad dreams and your breakdowns - but you’re nothing like this, nothing like what I turned into.”

Not one of them wants you.

“That thing knew,” Gabriel wailed. “That thing knew exactly what I believe, exactly what I’m afraid of; that thing got into my head in a way even I can’t get into my head! I don’t have any control anymore, Sam - none.”

Not one of them wants you.

“That creature thought I was human, Sam,” Gabriel whispered. “Feeding on your kindness hasn’t done anything except squash me.”

Not one of them wants you.

“I know I can’t really understand what it’s like, exactly,” said Sam, “But what scares you so bad about being human? Especially if you know you aren’t, and your grace always comes back - even it’s on the slower side.”

Gabriel shook his head. “It’s not about the grace.” He swiped at his cheeks with his palms. “It’s about this.”

“About …”

Gabriel looked at him. “Do you know, and you’re just trying to get me to say it?”

“No! I’m not trying to make you say anything.”

Gabriel wasn’t sure he believed him, but lacked the energy to argue. “Well, then it’s about - it’s about the stuff in my head, and how I seem to be open season for anyone who wants a shot, for better or worse. In your case, it’s for the better; you don’t want to hurt me, or at least I don’t think you do. But you still know. You still see inside of me, and I’d give anything at all for a little emotional opacity. I’m weak, maybe as weak as I was in Hell.”

“No.”

“At least in my stupid cage I had a consistent idea of what the next day might bring. I anticipated chaos. He’d destroyed me, on purpose, for fun - so after a little while, I didn’t have to pretend I was holding myself together. Giving up the effort was easy enough; I had no choice. Well - no - unless I did have a choice, and made the wrong one. But he had power over me and I was used to being hurt. I didn’t have to play at not being vulnerable. It’s not like that anymore, Sam.”

“Shouldn’t that be a good thing?”

“You’d expect so, wouldn’t you? Me too. I’ve lost track of what’s good and what’s bad. So it’s not my grace I’m worried about. Or - no, that’s not true. I do worry about my grace, because I don’t know what the heck I’m supposed to be without it. It’s more like - it’s that worrying about my grace is almost a luxury right now. If I get to lose sleep over how much grace I have instead of how easily I get scared and lose control of myself, I count myself lucky.”

Sam frowned, trying to grasp what Gabriel was telling him.

Sometimes Sam understood, and sometimes he couldn’t relate. In this case, Gabriel suspected, Sam was at a loss because at no point in his life had he ever known genuine autonomy. With Gabriel, it was different: independence and secrecy were everything to him.

“I’m sorry,” Gabriel muttered. “I know I don’t make this easy for you.”

Sam was silent for a moment longer, then asked: “Can I tell you something?”

Gabriel froze. This wasn’t the first time he’d become immobile over the possibility of Sam explaining that no, he really couldn’t do this anymore. Perhaps this was the paralysis to which the satori had referred.

“It’s nothing bad,” Sam added hastily, in yet another demonstration of how naturally he could read Gabriel. “I just wanted to say that I don’t look down on you for being affected by your time with Asmodeus. Of course you freak out sometimes; who wouldn’t? And don’t say anything about me," he added as Gabriel opened his mouth. "I’ve been out of Hell a lot longer than you, and you were gone for so long … there’s a lot you didn’t see.” Bitterness crept into Sam’s voice. “Anyway, you can’t help what this has done to you. But hey, you know who would judge you for struggling? Asmodeus. Not me. Not any of us, but especially not me.”

Gabriel tried to respond, but there was no way to speak around the tightness in his throat and chest. The sincerity in Sam’s voice hurt him.

Finally, he managed: “You set that up to sound so dramatic.”

Sam smiled. “Sorry.”

Neither of them spoke for a while after that, although the break in conversation felt natural, not awkward.

Gabriel was fighting sleep when Sam broke the silence. “You’re convincing, you know that?”

“I’m what?”

“The way you just … slipped into your old role. I was surprised, but it didn’t seem forced. The way you spoke up for yourself at dinner last night was impressive. Normally you would’ve been scared of getting in trouble.”

“Hm.” Gabriel considered. “Well, I’ve said it before, Sam: I don’t know who or what I was before Asmodeus. Something changed; that’s all I can tell you.”

“And I was thinking - you know, even before we got back from the mountains, I saw something different. You pushed to come, and then you broke your promise about staying in the motel. I don’t know, maybe I’m off, but that’s a decision you might not have made before.”

“It was important. If something happened to you because I was too afraid to help, that would’ve been punishment on its own. It was a no-win situation so I took the option that I knew would keep you alive.”

“But you probably weren’t so sure about whether you would come out okay.” There was no accusation in Sam’s voice; he was merely making an observation.

“No,” Gabriel agreed, “I didn’t.”

Sam went on, “And it says something, doesn’t it, that you were able to put on such a good act? That’s an old talent that maybe you haven’t tapped into in a while.”

“It must not have been as good as you say, because your brother picked up on it somehow.”

Sam looked surprised. “When?”

“Last night he cornered me about how it isn’t standard to switch from empty to full in such a short span of time. Said I should go to you if I needed help.”

“Wow." Sam blinked. "I guess I don’t really know what to make of that.”

“Well, to me it means that some lucky winner always has access to my cesspit of a brain. Whether that’s you, or Dean, or Asmodeus, or a mountain-dwelling monster.”

“Oh geez, Gabriel …” Sam reached out to squeeze his shoulder. “It’s not like that, buddy.”

“Of course it is. Everybody gets a piece of me if they want it.” Gabriel turned his eyes to the sheets again, fighting tears. “And when I wasn’t whatever I am now, the satori couldn’t get into my head. Like I said - proof, Sam. Proof so concrete you could draw chalk around it. Proof.”

Sam shook his head, but didn’t seem to know what to say.

“I can’t stay awake,” Gabriel muttered, because it sounded more reasonable than When you look at me like that, you’re proving my point. “Can I rest a little bit?”

Sam hesitated. “Let me wake you up in twenty minutes. Just to make sure you’re not out cold again. Then, if you’re okay - another hour, and we can take it from there.”

“Fine.” Gabriel hated the idea of being shaken awake in such a short time, but hadn’t the stamina to argue.

Sam helped adjust Gabriel’s position so that he was lying down, then pulled the blankets around Gabriel’s shoulders. He didn’t move to leave.

If this was an instance of Sam being able to read him too easily, he didn’t want to know.

#Post-Asmodeus Sabriel Feels #PASF #Supernatural fanfiction #SPN fanfiction #Sabriel #Platonic #Friendship #Fanfic prompts #Do I regret my decision to forgo anonymity?#Sometimes #Too late now #Oh well #Gabriel #Sam Winchester #Dean Winchester #Gabriel/Sam Winchester

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glassartpeasants · 3 years

Text

Ó̶͕̂̉̏͐̎͗̕ũ̷͓̺͖̺͖͍͈͉̝̫̬̗̂̒̽͂r̶͉̱̺̩̫̝̤̙͍̗̜̲̭̝̋̆̈̀͜ ̷̨̩̫͈̱̤̬̲̺͍̣͔̉̈́͋̀̀̈́̃̎̈́́͘͘͠L̷̢̡̳̟̺̣̙̦͖̩̝͉̘͎͙̔̅͒͘ì̸̡̛͔͖̙̥̝̂͛͋̇͋̓̓̈͜͠ͅt̸̢͇͓̩̙͐̒̀͊̇̑̐̏͗́̍̒͘e̵̩̎̅̆͂͝r̸̡̡̫̱̼̼̤̠͙͖͙̙͓̼̦̐̈́̓̌́̀̓̑̑̊͑̿ą̴̦̦͉̩̞̲̙̹͎̃͋̇́̈̋͌̓́͐̅̀̄͌t̴̟̻̯̘͖̪͍̥̯͙͚̔͛͛͋̕͜͠ư̸̧̙̳̺̩͑̕͘r̸̪̖͆̔̀̓̈́̃̈̓e̸̡̢͉̣͍̺̟̣̹͈̬͊̊͜͝ ̴̩̫̮͚̘͌̂̋̋̓̓̂̊́͛́͠C̴̡̓̇̌́̈͛̓̊́̒̓̚͝ͅl̵̡͇̲̔͜ứ̵̥̟̟̤̯̲̙̺̍̈́̏́͗̏̀̓̍͒̇̓͝ḃ̸̥̭̉̂͛͋̃̈́̊͗̉̈͑̚͝

SPOILERS FOR DOKI DOKI LITERATURE CLUB

Characters:

Kai Chisaki-Monika

Tomura Shigaraki-Natsuki

Dabi-Sayori

Hari Kurono-Yuri

Reader-MC

Warnings: Cursing

A/N: I’m literally trying to keep myself awake cause I have shit too do but eh, that's a probably that tomorrow me has to deal with. Uh also (f/t)= favorite tea. Sue me. Enjoy this for today.

~~~

Chapter 5- Tea

~~~

As you walk into the classroom after school you notice all the boys have already gathered up there and talked about one another’s poems. Looking around seeing Tomura rummaging through his backpack for something unknown, while Hari is reading his book and Dabi is-

“Eh (y/n)! Come over here I wanna ask you something!” Walking over towards Dabi you see a grin placed on his scarred face. You know that smile all to well.

“What ya need Dabi?”

“I was just wondering if you wanted to go to the vending machine. I’m kinda hungry.” You raise your eyebrow up and down, looking in his electric blue eyes.

“No.”

“What? Why not!”

“Can I go through your backpack?” You say smirking crossing your arms. Dabi’s eyes went wide as he looked at your face. His smile dropped.

“I-I don’t know what your talking about. You don’t need to.” You smiled seeing him sweat before he let out a sigh and grabbed his wallet from his backpack.

“Good, now empty it on the table.” He looks at you and sticks his tongue out at you before flipping it over his wallet, a few dimes and nickels fall out of the empty wallet.

“Just as I figured. You broke as hell and needed me to buy you something to eat.”

“Eh! Don’t make me feel guilty...”

“If you feel guilty that means you deserve to be guilty.” You continue smirk at home even more.

“Hahaha.” Hari suddenly chuckles from beside you too. You didn’t even notice him listening, his face was in his book like usual.

“Eh?” Hari’s eyes widen. Realizing he was caught eavesdropping on me and Dabi’s conversation.

“A-ah-” His face reddened a little bit before shoving his face back into his book.

“I wasn’t listening or anything! It was just something..in my book...”

“Hey Hari, you should convince (y/n) to let me borrow some money.” Dabi chuckled and elbowed Hari.

“That’s uh-Don’t get me involved in something like that Dabi...besides, you should only buy what you can afford responsibly. And after that sneaky little stunt of yours I think your suffering is your retrobution.”

“Wait! I-I mean-”

“Yo dude chill, it's all good. It’s good to speak you mind Hari. You don’t do it much but it's fun to see what you truly think.” Hari’s face slowly turns into his normal hue before letting out a sigh.

“I didn’t mean it to sound so mean...”

“Nah bro you right I tried to trick (y/n) and now I’m suffering with whatever the fuck you just said.”

“Retribution?”

“Yeah that.” You let out a little giggle before looking at both of them again. It’s nice to see everyone get along. It’s also kinda cute seeing Hari all flustered, you’ll have to thank him later for saving your wallet. Knowing Dabi, he would have bought the whole machine.

“Oh please you knew exactly what you were doing. It’s happened before, you pretty much tried to buy the whole machine. Which, by the way, you still haven’t paid, me back for.”

“Eh give me a break-OW.” You and Hari both look at Dabi wondering what had happened. The thing landed on the desk before Dabi took notice of it.

“What the hell? Is that...a cookie?” Dabi grabs it with his hands before unwrapping the plastic that surrounded it.

“Who the hell throw it at me? Eh well doesn’t matter anymore. I’m hungry. Seems like i paid my restitution.”

“Retribution. Close enough.”

“HA! I was just gonna give it to you but then I heard you blab about the cupcakes. Was totally worth seeing you face!”

“Oh shit thanks man. I haven’t eaten anything today.” Dabi quickly takes off the plastic before taking a huge bite.

“There better than the schools cooking that’s for sure.” Dabi said with some food in his mouth.

“AH SHIT! I bit my tongue.”

“Seems like the cookie’s gonna end you dude.” You laugh at him. You turn your attention to Tomura who takes a bit out of his own cookie. A small smile plastered on his face.

“Yo that cookie looks pretty good Tomura, wanna share?”

“Hey! I already gave you one!”

“But bro...that ones chocolate...”

“Yeah? Why do you think I gave you that one?”

“Oof, that’s cold. But regardless, thanks for the cookie man.” Dabi stands up before rubbing Tomura’s head, causing his hair to get all over the place.

“Okay okay I get it! Stop! Your gonna make my hair get knots!” Dabi laughs before leaning in and taking a bite out of Tomura’s cooking and started running away to safety.

“HEY!” Me and Hari started laughing at Tomura’s shocked face.

“Jeez! He’s such an ass sometimes! Kai tell Dabi he’s-” We look around to room only to see that Kai isn’t in here to our surprise.

“Where’d he go?”

“Have any of you guys seen him today? Is there a reason he’s late?”

“I haven’t seen him at all, Have you two?”

“I can’t say I have.”

“You don’t think-”

“It wouldn’t surprise me. Kai is known among the woman in this school for being one of the hottest men, So it wouldn’t surprise me if he does have a significant other.”

Just as soon as you started talking, the door swung open and out pooped Kai.

“My deepest apologies for being late.”

“Speak of the devil, looked who just walked in.”

“I really didn’t mean to be late. I hope you guys didn’t think I was skipping.”

“Eh? Oh look, Kai chose the club after his girlfriend after all. Your so strong willed.” Dabi laughed before standing besides Kai.

“G-girlfriend?! What on earth are you rambling about Dabi?” Kai quickly glances at you before going back to Dabi.

“Ah enough with that. But seriously where were you?”

“Oh, my last class wsa study hall, to be honest I just lost track of time.”

“That doesn’t make sense! You would have at least heard the bell!”

“I must not have since I was practicing piano.”

“Piano? I wasn’t aware you played any music Kai.” Hari says looking at Kai.

“I-I don’t really. I actually just started recently..to be honest, I’ve always wanted to learn it.”

“That’s pretty cool dude, you should play something for us Kai.”

“That’s uh, maybe once I get a little better I will.” Kai looks at you really quick.

“I’ll look forward to it!” You say looking at him while smiling.

“Really? In that case I won’t let you down (y/n).” Kai smiles at you from behind his mask before Dabi called for his attention.

You giggle before looking around the room once again to see Hari back in his book. You just noticed it’s a different book than from what you guys are reading.

“Hey Hari!”

“Ah!” He jumps suddenly before looking at you.

“Sorry I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”

“Oh...no It’s okay, I was kinda waiting for you actually...”

“Ah well if that’s the case. Can I see the poem you made today?”

“Yeah sure. Actually I have a request, You wouldn’t mind if I made some tea first?”

“Not at all. Go ahead!”

“Thank you.” Hari gets up from his seat and starts to walk to the back of the room as you begin to follow him. He opens up the cabniet to retrieve a small water pitcher. The ones with the filters in them.

“Could you please hold this for a second?”

“Sure!” You grab the water pitcher and watch Hari get out an electric kettle.

“I’m going to go and plug this in near the teachers desk then we could go get some water.” Hari walks past you and you follow his movements and watch as he places the kettle on the teachers desk.

“Okay, now I’m going to go get the water.”

“Might as well come with you.” You say laughing as Hari joins in.

“Where are you two off to?” Kai’s voice rang through your ears.

“Oh were just going to go get some water since Hari was going to make some tea.”

“Ah I see, just curious. That kinda seems like a one person job don’t you think?”

“Kai I think it’s okay. Please mind your own business. Or should I tell (y/n) that there’s something wrong with helping with club activities?”

“E-eh? I..I suppose there’s nothing wrong with that...” Hari sighs as he leaves the room with you following close behind.

As soon as you get into the hallway, Hari puts his head against the wall.

“What was I thinking, how could I say something like that?”

“Hari...”

“I just, something about the way he said that just made me feel so...irritated. What’s wrong with me?”

“No Hari, I think..I think you did the right thing.” You place the water pitcher down for a moment before placing a hand on his shoulder. Looking at him and smiling.

“I wasn’t expecting it but, It’s also not fair for Kai to judge people like that.” Hari looks at you, a bit of sadness seen in his eyes.

“(y/n) how come whenever I do something bad, your being nice to me?”

“Because Hari, nothing you do is that bad as you make it seem in your head. Nobody’s perfect. We have emotions and we always can’t hide them away. But you always make things worse in your own head, your mind turns a slight rain shower into a hurricane.”

“I...no. Wouldn’t you hate me for something as terrible as that?” Hari said looking at you as he moved his head away from the wall.

“Why would I hate you? I can’t hate someone for having emotions Hari. What kind of friend would I be if I did that?”

“Friends?” Hari looks to the side for a second. A bit of red flushing his cheeks.

“It’s.... nice to be friends with you...”

“It’s nice to be friends with you to Hari.” You say. You really wanted to make Hari feel better. He seemed really sad about the whole thing so you hoped you really did.

“Now how about we go get the water?”

“Ah.. yes.” You and Hari walk to the nearest water fountain, once we fill up, we head back to the classroom.

“Would you like some (f/t)?”

“That one’s actually my favorite!”

“That’s good to know. I’ll have to buy more of it next time.” Hari smiles back at you. He turns around and sees the little teapot resting at the cabinet. You watch with interest as he measures the water and the tea leaves. And surprisingly starts humming to himself.

“Well you must be in a better mood now.” You say laughing slightly when Hari laughed along with you.

“Really? I’m glad you noticed. It’s not really that hard to do after all. I guess it’s just helps when its a person I’m with.”

“That’s great Hari! Just please don’t push yourself to much.”

“Your always worrying about me (y/n). It’s very endearing.” Hari grabs both of us a cup of tea.

Taglist

@bat-eclecticwolfbouquet-love @zuffer-weird-girl @thotsforvillainrights @hello-lucky-luka @turningmad @axerrri @franko-pop @meisharmony @uwuhuffelpuff @charlotteltk

#tomura shigaraki x reader #overhaul x reader #dabi x reader #hari kurono x reader #bnha tomura #overhaul #shigaraki tomura #kai chisaki #tomura shigaraki #mha #bnha #mha tomura #mha overhaul #mha dabi #dabi my hero academia #dabi is a todoroki #hari chrono #our literature club

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