#also what statues are in which room is still subject to change. actually a lot of it is . its a work in progress and so on

[catominor]

also re: lucius furius house. one i will show and that i like is the description of his study actually

Study/library: Coming off from the passage between the atrium and peristyle, this room is wider than it is deep, with a small hallway to enter it, making it T-shaped. There is a heavy wooden door which can be locked from the inside. The walls of the room proper are plain, a light-brown-ish color, and covered in wooden shelves for holding scrolls. The scrolls are neatly arranged, labelled, and meticulously cared for. Most of the books are of Stoic philosophy, although there is also literature and historical works. The floor is a mosaic, which has a pattern in black and white tiles. Lucius' desk and chair are newer, quite nice, made of carved wood. Above the desk is a window. On it is usually something he's working on writing, kept very neatly; the desk has spaces on either side of the writing surface for storing reference works. On either side of the desk are two bronze stands for holding lamps. Next to one of these is a bust of Marcus Camillus. Next to the desk is a smaller stone-topped table; this is for food, when Lucius eats in his study, which he often does. On one side of the room (perhaps in a niche surrounded by the bookshelves?) is a soft, red upholstered couch with a table next to it, and a trunk with blankets and pillows at its foot; Lucius keeps this area in his study for when he's feeling too under the weather to sit at his desk but still wants to read or work. haunted level: 5/10. It's haunted in a different way than the other rooms of the house so far; haunted in the way all libraries are, rather than by the ghosts of the family's past. Lucius redid this room soon after inheriting the house from his father.

[nockstormbringer]

PLATONIC TELEMACHUS WITH TWIN SISTER READER!!!!!!!!!!!!!! SHES BASICALLY A COPY OF ODYSSEUS AND A MAMAS GIRL WHO TRIES TO KILL THE SUITORS REGULARY

Napping || Telemachus

Synopsis → Telemachus with a twinsister! Reader who is a mini-Odysseus.

Warning → The Suitors, Voilence, Abuse, Telemachus lowkey being a hypocrite, Mentions of Monsters

A/n → Oh my god, I'm finally able to post, currently in English finishing this request. These two girls in my English who are sitting right next to me are rough housing and laughing so loud, its embarrassing. 🤡

Word Count → 697

↳ Oh my god, Telemachus would absolutely dote on his sister. Doesn’t matter if she’s the elder or younger twin.

↳ Though if she is the younger twin, he’s absolutely gonna be that brother who constantly reminds her of it. Doesn’t matter place or time.

“Y/n/n, I’m just looking out for you. It’s my duty as your big brother to defend you.”

“You’ve never even been in a fight.”

“Don’t change the subject.”

↳ He’s so hypocritical too, like yeah, sure, you’ve fought monsters and won fights against men larger than you, BUT, he advises you that climbing that rock could get you hurt.

↳ He’s such a dork though, and gets excited every time he finds something he thinks you would love. Like a cool rock, maybe something that use to belong to your father before he left for the war of Troy.

↳ Telemachus no doubtably defends you against the suitors, even if you’ve proven to be able to handle them in a fight.

↳ He’s watched you fight many battles, and win majority of them, so when an altercation starts up between the suitors and/or himself, he knows you’ll be there to end the fight quickly and swiftly.

↳ He fears for the day you come of age, worried that Queen Penelope can no longer prevent you from marriage.

↳ Even so, he knows that suitors could absolutely kick his ass, so he tries to keep you away from them at all costs.

↳ Telemachus loves spending time with both you and your mother. At least once a week, there will be a day where you three just do whatever. From spa sessions, to long walks alongside the shoreline, the same one in which Odysseus promised to return from.

↳ You both are constantly told of how you both resemble Odysseus, whether with your fighting skills, personality, traits or just overall everything that made the King of Ithaca so him.

↳ More than once, have the servants been spooked, especially those who have been serving the castle from before you and Telemachus were born, because of how much you two look and even act like Odysseus.

↳ It’s one of the biggest things you two are praised for, and one of the biggest things the suitors hate about you both.

↳ After a particularly hard day, whether from a fight gone wrong, the suitors were somehow worse than usual or just feeling gloomy, you both just rest with each other.

↳ You two just sleep in either your own or Telemachus’ room, or even the garden. One time, Penelope found you two sleeping against Odysseus’ statue.

↳ Argos' so cute, he switches between sleeping in yours, Telemachus and Penelope room. Absolute cuddle bug of a dog, he's so loving.

↳ Telemachus would be torn between wanting you to accompany him to get Odysseus back. He doesn’t want you to get hurt on the journey, but he also worries for what the suitors will do.

↳ Obviously you go with him, but he was still hesitant.

↳ After that whole ordeal, big family reunion with Odysseus!!

↳ You all cried, like a lot. Penelope and Odysseus have their lovebirds moment and it sends both you and Telemachus into tears.

↳ But yay! No more suitors!

↳ Its sort of weird at first adjusting to Odysseus being home again, considering you and Telemachus hadn't actually known him before the war, but you all fall into a nice routine.

↳ Odysseus makes up for lost time and takes old man naps with both you and Telemachus, roughly 2-5 times a week. Penelope joins most days.

↳ Telemachus trains a lot, wanting to get stronger, to protect you, Penelope and even Odysseus. Your father tries telling him that he can protect all of you, but everyone can see he's getting older. Even he.

↳ But, nonetheless, Odysseus humours Telemachus, and trains with him, giving great pointers and teaching him new tricks. Most days, you join in, and Odysseus loves training with his kids.

↳ You've managed to hand their asses to both of them, leaving them with sore muscles and aching bones. Both Odysseus and Telemachus are incredibly proud of you.

↳ Overall, Telemachus tries his hardest to protect you, even if you or someone else kick his ass. <3

thank you!! ♡

[phykios]

Academic Dishonesty for Fun and Profit [read on ao3] 15k, rated G

Does Percy like his job? 

Of course. 

Well, mostly. 

Kind of. 

See, the thing is…

Percy is on his computer, which is half the problem. 

There were a lot of things he could have been doing right now. Like grading, or finishing next semester’s syllabus, or responding to the avalanche of emails from anxiety-ridden freshmen and overbearing admins. Or grading. Gods, he has a lot of grading to do. Why hadn’t he listened to Paul when he said there was so much grading!

But to be fair, he is, technically, actually working right now, proctoring his Latin 3 exam. Never mind that he can definitely hear the kids in the front row whispering the answers to each other. Absently, he notes that Jamie has made leaps and bounds since her first Latin class—she’s the one supplying the answers this time around, rather than Junie. 

But to be frank, the Minotaur could parade through the exam room in his tighty-whities and Percy wouldn’t care. Or even notice. He’s too busy refreshing his email over and over again, tapping Riptide against the wooden table. 

Fucking ADHD. 

He can’t focus on anything else, except for the fact that the mid-April soft deadline has long since passed, and he still hasn’t heard anything. Which could mean nothing. These things take time. Or it could mean he was rejected. Which would suck, of course, but it would also make things a lot simpler in terms of his immediate future. But there’s been no change to his application status since last December. So here he is. Not paying attention to the final. Refreshing his email. 

Quickly flipping over to the Mythomagic subreddit, he refreshes that page, too. Nothing new. 

He refreshes his email again. No news. 

“Professor?” 

Only years of battle training keeps him from jumping out of his seat. “Mm?” 

Sierra, one of his straight-As, is standing before him, brandishing her exam. “I’m finished,” she announces, proudly.

He can see that. What, does she want a medal? “Great,” he says, “you can leave it on my desk and head out.” 

“Actually, could I ask you a question?” 

“...Sure.” He set down his pen, cautiously. “What’s up?” 

She beams. “I was just wondering when you were going to post our last weekly quiz grades.”

Internally, he groans. “I'm working on it—promise.”

“Totally!” she chirps, “but have you gotten to mine yet? I was just wondering how—” 

“I’m sure you did fine,” Percy interrupts, gently. Behind her, another student drops off his paper, and, blessedly, leaves without comment. “I’ll try and get the last of the quiz grades up in the next few days. Sounds good?” 

Sierra nods, clearly disappointed. “Sure thing.” 

But she doesn’t leave. 

Percy rolls his tongue behind his teeth, counts to ten. “Was there anything else?” 

“Yeah, so, a couple weeks ago, you mentioned the possibility of some extra credit? I’ve been reading Cicero, and I thought that maybe I could…” 

But what Sierra was imagining she might do with Cicero, Percy will never know. Because, looking out of the corner of his eye, he sees that his email has just refreshed. And the subject reads “Application Update.” 

His heart starts racing. 

“...And so I have about three pages of an essay already written comparing him and Catullus and contemporary views on homo—” 

Percy lifts a finger, and she falls silent, her jaw closing with an audible clack. “Sorry,” he says, tongue numb in his mouth. “Sorry, I’m so sorry, I just… gotta read this real quick.” 

Fingers trembling, he moves his mouse, the cursor hovering shakily over the unread email. The email preview isn’t very long, a simple, “Thank you for your application to the…” which tells him literally nothing. He has to open it. All he has to do is press down, and open the email. 

But his thumb won’t respond. The email remains unbolded, unread. 

Just click already, he internally chides his thumb. 

His thumb does not click. 

Oh, for the love of—“Sierra?” 

“Yeah?” 

“I will give you one point of extra credit right now if you open this email for me.”

She blinks. “Seriously?”

“Two if you read it out to me.” 

“Okay!”

Percy scoots out of the way, pressing his eyes into the palms of his hands. He might actually be sick. 

He barely has a chance to hope that he didn’t leave anything embarrassing open on his computer, before her soft voice quotes, “Thank you for your application for the Campbell Fellowship for Bronze Age Research at the American Society of Underwater Archaeology. Attached is a letter about the status of your application.” 

His heart is beating so loud, he’s surprised she can’t hear it. “Is that it?” 

“Well, there’s also the letter.” 

With his face covered, she can’t see him roll his eyes. “Can you read the letter as well, please?” Undergrads. Di immortales. 

There’s a beat where Percy thinks he might actually explode, and then, her voice barely audible over the blood racing in his ears, he hears her read: “We are pleased to inform you that—” 

“Wait.” 

Pleased? 

He stands. “I got in?” 

“Uh—” 

Perhaps a tad rudely, he yanks the computer out of her hands, bringing it up to his face. For once in his life, his dyslexia doesn’t act up, entirely cooperative as he reads for himself, in neat, tidy, Times New Roman: We are pleased to inform you that the ASUA has awarded you the Campbell Fellowship for Bronze Age Research for the upcoming academic year.

He gapes. 

“Professor?” Sierra asks, shyly. 

He’s in.

He’s in!

“I got it!” He shouts. Every head in the exam room shoots up, staring at him.

“You got it?” echoes Sierra.

Brandishing his computer, he can only gesture to the screen, excitement bubbling up in him like a Coke about to explode. “I got the fellowship!” 

Fifteen pairs of eyes blink at him, uncomprehendingly. 

“Uh, I’ll be right back.” Inelegantly, he plops his computer back down on the desk, snatching up his phone. “Give me—give me five minutes. Stay put.” 

Bounding up the steps of the lecture hall, he already has the phone to his ear, dial tone ringing, and he barely makes it out of the room before his wife picks up. 

“Percy?” 

Now, Percy’s wife is a legitimate genius. She has known him almost her entire life, and in that time, she’s become a master at picking up the little nuances of his voice, the change in tone indicating the little undercurrents of emotion, no matter how hard he tries to hide it. She also knows that he knows that calling her in the middle of the workday is generally not helpful, as she’s usually in a meeting or deep in the zone, and taking her out of it is bound to mess up her flow for the rest of the day. 

But of course, Annabeth is a genius. She knows him inside and out. And she knows he wouldn’t call if it weren’t extremely important. 

“Annabeth—”

She doesn’t even let him finish. “You got in?”

He grins. “I got in!”

Over the phone, she gasps. “He got in!” Through the tinny connection, he hears her office cheering. 

And in the empty hallway, he jumps for joy, punching his fist in the air. 

***

Because his wife is brilliant, Percy doesn’t even realize that their walking date ends at the Greek Embassy until the three of them turn the corner. It’s just one of her many talents, making sure that Percy gets to his appointment on time. 

Percy wouldn’t exactly call it the perfect weather for a walking date. Gray clouds blanket the sky, enveloping the tips of skyscrapers in mist, and through the alleyways, the wind howls, whipping at their jackets, sending Percy’s messy hair into further disarray. Even Annabeth, who has recently taken to keeping her curls in a short bob with a rotating collection of headbands so that they don’t get in my gods-damned eyes so I can see what I’m working on, isn’t faring much better. Still, he’s out with his wife and daughter, enjoying a leisurely walk down the streets of New York, and it’s hard to be in a bad mood with that kind of positive energy around. “Alright,” he announces, slowing to a stop outside the consulate. “Here we are.” 

Automatically, Annabeth looks up, appraising the exterior, and Percy merely grins, awaiting her judgment. 

She frowns. “That’s the embassy?” 

Percy nods. “Uh huh.” 

“But it’s so… nothing.” 

He shrugs, readjusting his backpack, gripping the strap before it slides off his shoulder onto the wet pavement. In his other hand is his eldest daughter’s, squeezing it tight as she twirls around, her sneakers making little whirlpools beneath her feet. “That’s what I thought.” 

Now, technically, it is a Tuesday, and Junie should have been in Pre-K, wowing all her teachers and outperforming all the other kids by a mile. But, well… turns out the genes run a little bit deeper than just looks. The teacher had not been exactly sure how Junie had managed to flood the classroom via the little sink in the corner, but it seemed pretty clear that she had. She hadn’t been expelled, exactly, but it had been suggested she seek education and enrichment somewhere else. Honestly, Percy and Annabeth were a little charmed by it. Apples and trees and all of that. But they did worry that it heralded things to come. 

“I mean, there’s nothing,” Annabeth says again, craning her neck upwards. “No decoration, no sculpture… There’s nothing there!” 

“Nothing but pilasters.” 

She gags. 

“At least the one in Boston is next to the bar from Cheers.” 

She blinks at him, uncomprehending, and Percy makes a note to himself. 

“So how long do you think this will take?” she asks. 

“Dunno.”

“Because if it’s not that long we can just wait out here for you.” 

He shakes his head, kissing her on the cheek. “Don’t waste the rest of your lunch break on me.” Besides, his back itches in the way that means it’s probably going to rain soon. “I’ll pick up Lucie from my mom’s place, and I’ll have dinner ready by the time you get home.” 

Percy is long-since immune to the domesticity of such a statement. Or at least he thought he was, because the way Annabeth grins at him, leaning forward to capture his lips in a stronger kiss, makes him want to do a little jig with Junie, right here on the sidewalk. 

His daughter certainly seems to agree, if the way she spins faster is any indication. 

Annabeth slides her own bag off her shoulder, and pulls out a bulky file folder, handing it to him. “One last check?” 

“Hit me.” 

“Award letter?” 

“Check,” he says, thumbing through the pages. 

“Proof of insurance?” 

“Check.” 

“Background check?” 

“With fingerprints, and without allegations of underage terrorism.” That had been a fun and nerve-wracking experience, getting his fingerprints taken. He had been sweating bullets for a week, expecting his brief career in monument-related arson to have the FBI kicking his door down. 

“Visa application?” 

“Plus immunization forms, birth certificate with apostille, and two hundred dollars cash.” 

“Passport?” 

He blinks. “I thought you had it.”

Annabeth snaps her gaze to him, eyes blazing. “Are you serious?”

“Kidding!” Reaching into the folder, he pulls out his shiny new passport, flapping it in the air. “Kidding.” 

She swats at him. “Seaweed brain…” 

“Sorry, sorry,” he laughs, kissing her again. “It’s all good, promise.” 

“Don’t be an idiot in front of the ambassadors, or whoever it is you meet in there, okay? Save your dumbassery for something less high-stakes.” 

Scoffing, he slips the passport back into the folder. “Excuse you, my dumbassery is only reserved for the lowest of low-stakes operations.” 

“Just go and get your stupid visa.” 

Percy crouches down. “See you soon, Honey Dew,” he says, kissing her forehead. “Go have fun with mommy!” 

Junie’s only response is to kick water in his direction.

Yes, he stands and watches them leave, smothering a laugh, even as it begins to drizzle on him, until they turn the corner. 

After checking in with the security guard at the door, he is directed to sit in the hallway, on a low, uncomfortable wooden bench. The floor is not marble, but it has the same kind of glossy shine to it, in a black and white checkered pattern that makes his eyes hurt. Tapping his foot, he casts his gaze around for something to focus on, and finds very little but blank walls, dim, yellow lights, and a fake marble statue in the corner of the winged, headless Nike (he knows that one on sight—Cabin 17 had made their own replica with an intact-head and placed it on their cabin roof after a series of Hermes-related pranks gone awry). 

Directly across from him, mounted on the wall, is a large, nearly-square painting. From his vantage point on the bench, Percy can make out a brown landscape, a blue, cloudy sky, and… not much else. There are lines of white blobs, dots of red and green and blue, and it takes Percy an embarrassingly long time to realize that they are people. Okay, the blue blobs are cannons, and the white are soldiers, he presumes. The subject begins to take shape, clues falling into place before his eyes.

Percy is, after all, quite familiar with sieges. 

He checks his watch. He made sure to arrive five minutes before his appointment, but it’s been fifteen minutes, and so far no one has come to collect him. 

Returning his attention to the painting, for lack of anything else to do, he stands, leaving his folder on the bench, and walks over for a better look. He can see much more clearly this close, can much more easily make out the lines of attackers and defenders. The white-robed people, armed with curved swords, are defending some kind of castle on a hill, with walls and towers and… columns.  

He frowns, tilting his head. 

In the center, towards the top of the canvas, is undoubtedly a temple of some kind. He counts eleven columns, gleaming white, in a row, with a gaping hole in the middle, filled instead with a circular building with a terracotta roof. Beneath the temple, on the slope, are even more columns, and a wall unevenly dotted with arched openings. 

There is something eerily familiar about the image that he just can’t quite place. 

What the hell is it? 

But he doesn’t have too much more time to dwell on it. “Mr. Jackson?” 

An older woman with a shock of white hair strides towards him, her heels (her very tall heels, dang) clacking against the not-marble. 

“Yes. Ms. Georgopoulou?” 

She shakes his hand, firm despite her age. Her wrists have so many bangles, maybe it’s a covert kind of weight training. “Yes,” she nods. “Please, follow me.” 

He takes a step to follow, before remembering that he left all his shit on the bench. 

Swiping it from the bench, he turns, grinning sheepishly, only to see that she is already halfway down the hallway. Percy has to actually jog to catch up with her. 

Several turns and one staircase later, Percy is in her office, seated on a leather chair that has seen better days, all but twiddling his thumbs while she painstakingly types in his application information. Which seems kind of a waste of time to him. On Paul’s recommendation, Percy had filled out his application on the computer, as he did not want to subject some poor admin worker to his terrible handwriting. If she’s just going to retype everything, why don’t they make the whole system digital? 

Ms. Georgopoulou types slowly, precisely, her bracelets occasionally scraping against the ancient-looking keyboard. Every so often, she will gaze at him over the thick, brown rim of her glasses, appraisingly. 

He stretches his mouth in a not-quite smile, feeling, once again, like a little kid who’s been sent to the principal’s office, waiting for the inevitable scolding or dressing down or disappointed sigh at his “antics.” 

Squinting, she takes another look at his passport. “Ah!” Then she beams, years shedding from her face. “Perseus?” 

He pauses. Only monsters call him by his first name. 

Surreptitiously, he slips his hand into his pocket, fingering his pen, tensing his legs just in case he has to make a run for it. Wouldn’t be the first time an old lady turned into a demon, but boy does he wish it happened less often. It’s not even surprising at this point anymore. “Yes?” 

But then, she does something maybe even scarier than spit venom at him. 

She starts speaking at him in Greek. 

He’s sure he looks like a dumbass, sitting there, eyes wide and mouth hanging open. “Um,” he starts. “Uh, I don’t—I don’t speak Greek.” 

Which is true. He technically speaks ancient Greek because of magic genetic fuckery. But modern Greek? It’s about as foreign to him as Korean. Except he’s actually picked up some Korean just from the restaurant down the block from his mom’s first apartment. So really, it’s about as foreign to him as, like, Martian would be, or something. 

Ms. Georgopoulou hmms at him, a wordless judgement, and goes back to her typing. 

It feels like an eternity before she talks to him again. “You have somewhere to say?” 

Percy nods, grateful for English. “I’ll be living in, uh, Piraeus.” Though he imagines he’ll mostly be living on his boat, or whatever island he ends up closest to for however long it takes to re-survey whatever part of the ocean he’ll be in. 

More typing. She flips through Percy’s sheaf of papers, frowning. “Where is your proof of insurance?” 

For a heartbeat, he panics. 

Oh gods, did he forget the insurance? 

He snatches them out of her hands, his own trembling as he thumbs through them. There’s no way he forgot the insurance. He and Annabeth double-checked, triple-checked—

“Here we go!” Percy brandishes the lucky paper, relief so intense it almost makes him dizzy. “Got my insurance right here.” 

Thankfully for his nerves, the meeting wraps up fairly quickly after that. Percy hands over the cash for the visa fee (no card, no check, cash only, because of course), and is summarily shown the door, letting him know that he will be notified about the status of his visa application in no less than fifteen days. 

More waiting. Joy. 

Still, Ms. Georgopoulou is nice enough to lead him back out of the labyrinth of the consulate, rather than let him embarrass himself further by getting lost. Walking once again through the hallway with the painting and the checkered floor, he spies that same painting out of the corner of his vision, the one with the siege and the temple and all the little blobby figures—and it hits him, all at once. 

“Oh!” he exclaims, stopping dead in his tracks. “It’s the Acropolis!” Because what else would it be? 

Ms. Georgopoulou eyes him, oddly. “It is,” she agrees, with a tone that she probably uses on her grandkids. Her dumb grandkids. “See?” 

She gestures to the label, and Percy has to squint to read the tiny letters. 

The Siege of the Acropolis, reads the caption, once he manages to make the letters fall into place. Painting by Panagiotis Zografos, under the guidance of Yannis Makriyannis.

So he’s off to a great start. 

***

Frederick Chase takes them all out for dinner the evening his visa arrives—by which he means all of them, including his mom, Paul, Estelle, and Junie and Lucie. They get a big corner booth in the back of a fancy, Japanese-Spanish fusion restaurant that one of Percy’s grad student colleagues had recommended, for which Percy is infinitely grateful, as Frederick had suggested a Greek restaurant at first, before Annabeth commented that Percy would soon be eating his weight in Greek food, and would probably prefer something else for the time being. 

Some concern had been expressed about the littles one finding something to eat, but Estelle had taken to the chicken katsu with aplomb, and Junie had eaten enough of the tempura green beans that Percy wasn’t too sure there’d be room for dessert. 

She sits in Percy’s lap now, painting water trails with her straw on the wood of the table, while his mom holds Lucie so Annabeth can run to the bathroom. Frederick, on his third glass of wine and more animated than Percy can ever remember seeing him, is regaling them all with stories from his own research trips, a handful of which had taken him to the Mediterranean. 

“Let’s see,” he begins, counting off his fingers. “I’ve been to… Sardinia, Malta, Samos, Samothrace, Lemnos—oh, Lemnos!” The wine in his glass almost sloshes over the rim, and Paul has to move out of the way of his elbow. “Lemnos was wonderful. Such a lovely, remote island with all these incredible volcanic formations, and did you know that ANZAC used the island as a staging ground for the Gallipoli campaign?” 

“Oh, really?” Asks his mom, genuinely interested.

“That’s what I was there for—I wanted to see whether the Axis had used the geography in the same, or set up their bases and commands in roughly the same places, as part of a broader investigation into how the Axis built off leftover infrastructure outside of Germany. In any case, I had a letter from the Ministry of Culture, I had all my permits, I even had the Deputy Ambassador notify the local Air Force base when I would be arriving.” He pauses to take a sip of wine. “All I needed was one historical map from the 1910s—just one—but the local commander would not let me look at it!” 

Paul gasps, a little theatrical. The wine must be hitting him, too. “No!” 

“Oh, yes. The man would not budge. Kept citing national security concerns. I told him, in not so many words mind you, but I told him that I had come all this way to see this darn map, and that the Greco-Turkish war had been over for almost a hundred years at that point, and not only was there no reason to keep the contents of the map classified, but satellite technology made the whole thing moot anyway, so what was the harm in letting me take a look?” 

Chuckling, Percy spears the last of his potatoes, popping it into his mouth. He’s heard this story before, heard all about how Frederick managed to convince the stodgy Greek Air Force commander to let him study the map by promising him a citation in his article. 

“So,” he goes on, “I am arguing with this man for what feels like hours, until finally he’s called away for something or other, and that’s when I realize.” Frederick leans in, a savage glint in his eye that Percy instantly recognizes as Annabeth’s war games face. “I don’t know what they were doing with it, I don’t know why it was there, but there, on his desk, was the map—and there, in the corner, was a copier.”

“Wait,” says Sally. Percy takes a drink of water. “Did you—”

“Make an illegal copy of a classified map from 1917 and smuggle it back to Virginia? Of course.” 

Percy spittakes so hard it nearly comes out on his daughter’s head. Estelle thumps his back while he coughs, spots appearing in his eyes. 

“Alright there, Percy?”

“Yeah,” he wheezes, “I just never heard that version before.” 

Frederick blinks, cocking his head. He looks so much like his daughter it’s actually scary. “You haven’t?” 

“You told me you managed to convince him by promising to put him in your article!” 

“I did?” 

“Yes!” 

“Oh.” He flushes slightly, sheepishly dabbing at his mouth with a napkin. “Well, I, ah, must have given you the, um, undergrad version.” At Sally and Paul’s concerned look, he rushes to assure them, “Don’t worry, it was declassified the next year!” 

Looking plenty worried, his mom shifts her concern from Frederick to Lucie, a grin creasing across her face. “Aw, sweetheart,” she coos, “looks like someone needs a change.” 

Suppressing the last few coughs, Percy shifts Junie to Frederick, who is more than happy to take his granddaughter from him. “I got it,” he says, standing. “If the waiter comes back, make sure to order me some matcha brownies, yeah?” 

Luckily, they’re already in the back, so it doesn’t take too long for Percy, kiddo and new diaper in hand, to make his way to the bathroom, and summarily run into Annabeth, who is just coming out of the women’s room, flicking her hands clean of water. “Oh!” She laughs, “fancy meeting you here.” 

“Come here often?” 

She grins, then shifts her attention away. Not that Percy is upset by that. “Hi sweetie,” she coos, wiggling her fingers. Lucie laughs, and Percy falls in love all over again. “Everything okay?” 

“Just time for a diaper change.” 

Annabeth steps aside, with a grand sweep of her arm. “Be my guest.” 

The bathroom does not have stalls, and Percy breathes a sigh of relief. It’s not his fault that men’s rooms don’t generally have changing tables, and it’s nice not to get weird looks while taking care of his daughter. Or when Annabeth comes up behind him, and wraps her arms around him, hugging his torso, face buried in his shoulder blades. Like she is right now. 

“I love you,” she mumbles into his back.

“I love you, too.” He cleans and changes Lucie with all the speed and grace of someone who’s done this a million times, and as he looks at his daughter’s face, feels the warmth of his wife pressed up against his back, the muffled noise of the restaurant and all of New York city in the distance, the sounds of the city as familiar as a lullaby, he is struck with an almost painful pang of longing. “I’m going to miss you so much.” 

Annabeth tightens her arms around him. “It’s only for a few weeks. We’ll be there before you know it.” 

“I can’t remember the last time we’ve been apart for so long.” 

“Apart from being kidnapped by a rogue goddess?” 

“Yeah, exactly. I can’t remember it.” 

She snorts. 

Picking up his clean kid, he bounces her in his arms, and is rewarded with a giggle. She’s just about old enough to transition out of diapers. She’s growing up so fast. “It just feels so real, now,” he says, quietly. “The visa, the plane ticket… I’m really going.” 

“You are.” She comes around to his side, her hand never leaving his arm. “You’re going to go to Greece for twelve months, dazzle the crap out of the other archaeologists with your million shipwreck discoveries, and not have to deal with any grading or any undergrads the whole time. And we’ll be right there with you, the whole time.”

“Almost the whole time.”

“Almost,” she conceded.

“I just—I don’t want to waste this opportunity. I’m not…” 

“What? Not smart enough?” 

He shrugs. 

In response, she rolls her eyes, then gently cuffs him upside the head. “Ow!” 

“Percy,” she says, dead serious. “Do you know how many people apply for things like this?” 

“I dunno… a few?” 

“Try at least thirty per cycle. These are really prestigious grants. People apply from all over the world, in all stages of their careers. And you, seaweed brain,” she pokes him with her finger. “Beat out the competition.”

He feels the grin stretch across his face, slowly. “I did, didn’t I?” 

“We did.” She kisses him. “Half of that proposal is mine.” 

“The better half.” 

“Of course.” 

“Your name should be on this visa.” 

“And it would be, if I could breathe underwater.”

“I can’t wait for you all to join me,” he says, eyes going misty.

Annabeth kisses him again. “We’ll be right behind you.” 

They’re in the bathroom so long, dessert has already come and gone, but his mom manages to snag a matcha brownie for him before Paul gobbles them all up. Frederick leads them all in one last toast, to Percy’s great academic finds or whatever, but the true highlight of the night is when Annabeth nudges Junie, who, with a gasp of almost-forgetfulness, pulls out the little thing he’d seen her working at for the last few weeks, proudly presenting it to him. 

“I made this for you, daddy,” Junie announces to the table. “I hope you like it!” 

In her hands is a friendship bracelet, patterned with the Greek wave in blue and light green. Some of the waves are uneven, the crests a bit clunky, but in the center, Junie had woven an evil eye symbol in white. 

“I love it,” he croaks. “Thank you so much.” 

“Mommy helped with the mati, but I picked the colors.” She points at the band. “Blue is for the ocean. The green is for honey dew!”

He cannot stand it—he hugs his daughter, and doesn’t stop himself from crying. 

***

Percy, who in the last seventy-two hours, has suffered air travel, jetlag, a mattress as soft as a concrete slab, the Athenian metro system, and one really, really steep hill, now faces his final challenge of the day. Swallowing his fear, he runs a hand through his sweaty hair, and steps up to the front desk of the library. 

"Ah, signomi," he stammers, the word strange and unfamiliar in his mouth. The syllables are pretty close to ancient Greek, but the way they fit together is just… weird. "I have an appointment with, um, Aristides?"

The older lady at the front desk peers up at him over the rim of her glasses, her wrinkled hands resting on the pages of a yellowed book. With her red-dyed hair, large frames (are those Chanel?), enormous jewelry, and heavy eyeshadow, she reminds Percy of every school librarian he's ever had. 

She leans in, hand to her ear, one eyebrow cocked. "Eh?"

"Aristides?" he repeats, a little louder. It echoes throughout the main hall of the library, and he does his best not to wince.

"Ah, Aristides!" She perks up, babbling at him in Greek. "Edaxi," she says, "one moment, please," before rising from her seat, and floating across the hall, where she disappears behind a large, wooden door.

Unsure if he should sit at one of the tables, Percy elects to stand, hands gripping the strap of his backpack, tapping his heel against the floor. An older patron in the corner of the room, his table piled high with books almost tall enough to wall him off from the world, glares at him.

It's a beautiful little library. The attached museum had been a beautiful little thing, too, and if it weren’t the middle of the night on the east coast, he would have called her up himself, and shown her around via video.

He channels her now as he looks around, observing. The outside had been all neoclassical, almost beating you over the head with it, with perfect, fluted ionic columns, tapering gently at the top. Inside, beautiful, grand, wooden bookshelves surround the room, their contents locked behind glass. Some of them he can read instantly, of course—the library has a hefty collection of ancient Greek literature after all—but the rest swims in front of his eyes, scratchy gold lettering blurring together with blue and red leather. Wandering over to something that won't make his head hurt, he stops in front of a glass display of a book, open to a delicately printed page of text. 

It’s in Greek—ancient Greek, thank the gods—and to his delight, it’s the first few lines of the Iliad. Instantly, his shoulders unwind, and he relaxes enough to lean down and take a closer look, quietly mouthing the familiar words to himself. Percy doesn’t even bother with the label, instead tracing his eyes over the floral linework in the header illustration. He sees ram heads, fish, and pumpkins in the little cornucopia, and some kind of gorgon mask in the big, illuminated “Mu” that begins the poem. His master’s thesis had been a new translation of the Aeneid, but during that process he had come to appreciate the art of old, fancy editions of epic poems. It was kind of cool to see a physical, non-magical link to his past. He might be living proof of the Olympian gods, but plenty of mortals had dedicated their lives to carrying that legacy forward on faith and passion alone. And now Percy will carry it forward, too, without using his sword this time. It’s pretty cool, if you think about it.

A quiet voice behind him breaks the spell. "Mr. Jackson?"

Percy turns, and is greeted by a well-dressed man, probably in his early 40s. He looks as Greek as Greek can be, with a great beak of a nose and thick, wavy, salt and pepper hair. “Percy,” he insists, reaching out to shake his hand. “Thanks so much for meeting with me, Mr. Yiannopoulos.” 

“Please,” he returns, in a perfect American accent. “Call me Ari. Come on, let’s talk in my office.”

His office is huge, definitely bigger than Percy’s apartment back home, and covered wall-to-wall with books, in so many languages that it makes his head spin. As Percy closes the door behind them, Ari sheds his suit jacket, tossing it over a spare chair squashed between two teetering piles of books. He gets the sense that this guy and Frederick would get along famously. 

“You get settled in alright, Praetor? No problems with the apartment?” 

Percy sets down his backpack on the 70s-era linoleum floor. The things he’s picked up from Annabeth still astound him. “Yeah, it’s fine. But getting here was a journey, let me tell you.” 

“I’d bet,” says Ari, evenly. 

“That hill is killer.” 

“They’re building a new metro station in the neighborhood, but it won’t open for another few years probably.” 

“How do you stand it?” 

Ari shrugs, sitting down behind his desk. “Practice, mostly. But I live on campus here.” 

“Heh, must be nice.” Percy sits in the chair opposite him, zipping open his backpack and rummaging around for his documents folder… until something occurs to him, and he suddenly shoots his head up. “Did you just call me ‘Praetor’?”

“Took you long enough.” 

He blinks. “You’re a Roman?” 

“Yep.” Ari rolls up his sleeve, revealing the familiar, stark harp symbol, with twelve lines beneath it, signifying twelve years of service. “Third generation legacy.” 

Something in his brain might be broken. Or maybe it's jetlag. “You’re a Roman… but you work for the Greek government?” 

Ari raises his brow right back. “And you’re a Greek, but you teach Latin.” 

That does not at all clear anything up for him. “Did you know who I was when I applied?” 

He shakes his head. “I only learned you were coming after the review committee circulated the applicants. I saw your name, and I had to basically beg my supervisor to let me be your liaison.” 

“Okay… Why?” 

“I’m glad you asked.” Percy doesn’t think he looks particularly glad. “Because, Praetor, you,” Ari glares at him, as sharp and pointed as the finger he’s thrusting into Percy’s face, “have a bad habit of attracting attention.” 

Percy frowns. “Wait… Is this about the Gateway Arch? That was, like, fifteen years ago—”

“The Arch, Mount St Helens, the sinkhole in Rome,” he counts off his fingers. “Do you even know how much paperwork I had to do when you and your friends collapsed the Necromanteion in Epirus? Oh, and then you all decided that the best course of action would be to march on Athens and stage a battle on the Acropolis!” Ari slams his hand down on his wooden desk. “The Acropolis is one of the most popular tourist destinations in the entire world! We had to close the site for days! My bosses were about to have me crucified!” 

Percy would scoff, but Ari is a Roman. He knows exactly what he’s talking about vis-a-vis crucifixion. “Well,” Percy counters, “my bosses were going to have me—and also you—obliterated if I hadn’t gone there.” 

Ari glares again, a wolf stare so perfectly intimidating it could only have been taught by Lupa. It probably works on the skittish undergrads and beleaguered government employees he has to deal with on a daily basis. But Percy has also trained at Lupa’s knee. He’s faced the Titan king and the goddess of Earth. He has stared down Athena while hiding underneath a pastry cart—and has seen the exact same look on his two year old when she doesn’t want to be put down for a nap. 

Sensing, perhaps, that he is outmatched, Ari blinks first. “Fine,” he grinds out, “but I’m giving you an assistant.” 

“What? I don’t need—”

“Oh, yes you do. A grant this big comes with serious scrutiny, which will fall on my shoulders if you decide to trash another priceless heritage site.” He turns to his computer, quickly typing something out. “I’m sending you his resume right now. You are not to leave him behind or waste his time with useless data entry.” 

“But—”

“Don’t worry, he knows his way around a boat.”

Percy gapes, his whole day suddenly upended. In all his time preparing for the fellowship, he had not expected that he’d have a permanent hanger-on. Especially one he knows nothing about! “You can’t just saddle me with some mortal assistant and call it a day!” 

Ari levels him with another look. “Don’t be stupid—I’m sending you a legionnaire.”

“A kid?” 

“Yep.” Ari finishes typing with a final clack that brokers no argument, before swivelling back to face him. “You can pick him up from the port when you head out Thursday morning. He’ll be waiting for you at Terminal B.” From a desk drawer, he pulls out a folder, sliding it across to Percy. “I’ve booked you two tickets for an overnight ferry to Crete. You’ll have one day to settle in Heraklion before you start your first survey. Any questions?” 

Flabbergasted beyond speech, Percy can only take the folder. 

“Great.” He stands up, and goes over to open the door to his office. “I’ll be checking in with you next week. Have a safe trip, Praetor.” 

***

“How’s the kid?” Annabeth asks. 

Percy groans, dropping his head back. 

Over the Iris Message, Annabeth snorts. “That bad?” 

“No,” Percy admits. “He’s actually been really helpful.”

“Then what is it?” 

In truth, there isn’t a lot to complain about Arthur Taylor. A son of the Roman god Portunes, Arthur had spent the better part of his childhood sailing around the world with his mortal dad, before they settled in San Francisco when he was fourteen. After two years in New Rome High School, he had tested out of most of the classes, and was given permission by the Senate to take his senior year off for a long term Legion assignment—which, apparently, just so happened to be babysitting Percy. 

Still, he’s a good kid. He’s an excellent sailor, knows how to operate the very expensive diving equipment that Percy had to rent for appearances’ sake, and, to be quite honest, keeps Percy from going insane by giving him someone to talk to.

There is just one slight problem. 

“He keeps calling me ‘Mr. Jackson’!”

Annabeth, the heartless woman that she is, just laughs at him. 

“I’m serious!” He whines. “It’s weird!” 

“You know that I’m Mrs. Jackson, right?” She flashes the ring at him for good measure, like he’d ever forget one of the best days of his life. “What’s so bad about that?” 

“It makes me feel so old.” 

“I’m older than you.”

“And you’re aging beautifully.” 

“Ha ha,” she deadpans. Then she yawns. 

Percy frowns. “It’s not that late over there.” It’s only 8 AM here, and Annabeth seriously lives up to the night owl stereotype. 

“No, but I haven’t really been sleeping well for a few days,” she admits. “Taking care of all three of us is hard work.” 

A pang goes through him, cutting through the gentle morning sun filtering through the window. “I’m sorry.” 

“It’s okay. Sally’s pitched in a few times, and my dad has started sending me those fancy microwave meals.” She shrugs a shoulder, her t-shirt sliding down and showing some skin. Percy tries not to stare like a teenager. “We’ve been getting by just fine.” 

“I know.” And he does. Annabeth wouldn’t let a little something like her inability to cook stop her from being the best mom ever. “I just miss you guys so much.” 

Smiling softly, she leans forward, and he copies the movement. “We’ll be there next week,” she reminds him, “which means we’ll see you in just three weeks.” 

“What if I just cut my survey short and met you in Athens?” 

“Don’t threaten me with a good time. Besides, yesterday you told me you were onto something?” 

Was it only yesterday? Gods, Percy’s sense of time is shredded out here. They’ve only been surveying for a little over two weeks, but it simultaneously feels like forever and no time at all. The only way Percy can really mark the passage of time is by his twice daily IMs back home. “Maybe,” he hedges. “I talked to some sharks the other day, and they said I should try and find this nymph who’s lived in this part of the bay since the twelfth century.” 

“Any luck yet?”

“Not yet, but they said she liked to scare the tourists sailing back and forth from Chrysi.” 

“Is that daddy?” Junie waddles into view, rubbing her eyes with her fists. 

“Baby, you’re up so late!” Annabeth hoists their oldest into her lap, so she can get a better view. “What’s the matter?” 

“Hafta go potty,” she mumbles. “Heard talking. Hi, daddy.”

“Hi, Honey Dew,” he says, almost tearing up. He misses his family so fucking much. “Are you being good for mommy?” 

She nods, her eyes still droopy. “Miss you.” 

“I miss you, too, kiddo. But I’ll get to see you in just a few weeks! And then we’ll have our big boat adventure!” 

Smiling, she snuggles into Annabeth, burying her face in her t-shirt. “Adventure,” she repeats, dreamily. 

“Come on, let’s go potty so you can go back to bed.” Annabeth took their daughter’s hand, waving at Percy from thousands of miles away. “Bye, daddy! Have fun on your survey!” 

“Good night, baby!” 

“Night night,” his daughter says, clumsily flopping her arm. 

“Night, Percy,” says Annabeth. “Talk to you in the morning.” 

“Sleep well.” 

Annabeth blows him a kiss through the IM, and he catches it, rubbing it on his cheek, before swiping a hand through the image of her sticking her tongue out at him. 

Good timing—from above, he hears Arthur ring the horn to signal they’ve arrived. Percy emerges from below onto the deck, shading his eyes against the bright morning sun. “Morning, Captain!” Arthur calls from the wheel. “We’re coming up on site 23B.” 

“Excellent.” That’s the other great thing about Arthur. Aside from all of his other skills, he is also a whiz at deciphering their legacy data. “How’s the weather looking?” 

“Another perfect day.” 

They are currently cruising off the southern coast of Crete, cruising easily over the most perfect, bluest ocean Percy has ever seen in his life, beneath a bright, clear sky. It’s hard for the weather to not be perfect here. 

“Alright,” Percy says, “if that’s the case, do you think you can head back to Ierapetra and pick up some more supplies?” Their little galley kitchen may be powerful, but it’s still pretty small, and they need to restock every few days.

“Sure thing,” says Arthur. “Any requests?”

“Just clear out their entire stock of peach juice for me.” It may not be blue, but it is delicious.

Arthur opens his mouth, as if to say something else, but then closes it, ducking his head, embarrassed. 

“What is it?” 

“Um,” Arthur hedges, hands gripping the wheel, “would it be okay if I took some time to go check something out in town?” 

Percy frowns. “Sure. Is everything okay?” They haven’t been accosted by monsters yet, but he figures it’s only a matter of time. “Do you need backup?” 

“What? Oh,” Arthur flushes. “No, nothing like that. I just wanted to sight-see a bit.” 

“Sight-see?”

He nods. “There’s this house—supposedly, in 1798, Napoleon docked in town, incognito, for a single night, before he headed on to Egypt for the Mediterranean campaign.”

The kid’s been all over the world, has docked in every continent except Antarctica, but he’s practically bouncing to go check out some random house that maybe has a connection to the Napoleonic wars. Grinning, Percy makes a note to introduce Arthur to Dr. Chase at some point. “Sure,” he says. “Have fun.” 

Arthur beams. “Thank you, Mr. Jackson!” And he looks so excited, Percy can’t even bring himself to be annoyed with the whole “Mr. Jackson” thing. 

And if Percy decides to give the boat a little push after he dives in so that Arthur can get to shore faster… Well, there are multiple benefits to this decision. Arthur gets to shore faster, and Percy gets to have some time to himself. 

Hey, just because having the kid around keeps him from going crazy doesn’t mean he doesn’t need some Percy-time. 

Percy lets himself sink further down, enveloped by the warm, crystal clear blue water. Eyes closed, he tilts his head up towards the surface, breathing out a stream of bubbles, his t-shirt gently wafting in the calm undercurrents. A school of something swims past him, tickling his arms and face like a soft breeze. 

Yeah. This is the life. 

For a few solid hours, he just lets himself be moved around by the will of the ocean. He moves in something approaching a circle, simply drifting around the island of Chrysi. Dappled sunlight drapes like lace over the rocky seafloor and patches of seagrass, while parades of colorful fish stop in their tracks to look for a second at the weird obstacle in their migration path, before continuing on around him. Eventually, the current takes him by the waist and draws him further from shore, into the deepening dark of the sea. Beneath him, he can sense the slowly sharpening descent of the ocean floor, stretching further and further, past the hunting grounds of squids and octopus until, he knows, some hundreds of meters further south, the ground suddenly gives way to a steep, sudden cliff. And what lies beyond, no one knows. 

Which is crazy to Percy. He’s seen the surveys, read the topographical maps, and even asked his dad, but despite the seventy or so years of dedicated surveying and the literal thousands of years of nautical travel and trade, there are still, somehow, unknowns in the Mediterranean. There are creatures down here even his father doesn’t know. There is magic here older than the gods themselves. 

And there is also a nereid staring at Percy from behind a tall rock. 

He yelps, tripping on himself. Yes, tripping underwater. It happens, and it’s just as silly as tripping on land. “Ahem. Hello?” 

The nereid pokes her head out further. She’s pretty in the way that all nereids are pretty, by virtue of being an immortal in a pantheon full of pretty people, but there’s something distinctly different about her. Her skin is pale, her hair somehow sticking to her face, like she had just emerged from underwater… despite still being underwater. 

Percy chances a swim closer. She doesn’t immediately run away, but she still seems pretty shaken up by the appearance of a sudden stranger. “Hey. Uh, I’m Percy. What’s your name?” 

Her eyes widen, and she squeaks, blushing blue to the roots of her glossy, black hair. “My lord!” She bows, nearly tumbling into a full front flip, her long, skinny tail flipping against the rock with a thump so loud, Percy can feel the vibrations. 

Oh good. She knows who he is. “Hi.” 

“Hello! Good morning! Um, afternoon? My lord!”

The water ripples out from around her, shaking so hard she’s starting to cause her own localized whirlpool. “Percy is fine. Please.”

The nereid nods, sharply. “Lord Percy!” 

Well, that’s about as far as he’s going to get. 

She stares at him, starry-eyed, but still nervous. Also, she doesn’t look like she’s about to make off with him and drag him to her undersea lair, so that’s a plus. “So… what’s your name?”

“Eunice, Lord Percy!”

“Great—wait. Eunice?” 

“Yes!”

Eunice. Huh. Well, he’s heard weirder. “Eunice. You live around here?”

She nods, her hair whipping in the current. 

“I’m looking for—”

“For shipwrecks! Yes! Your father told us!” 

“Right.” Oh he’s well aware. He’s had random nereids accosting him all summer to tell him about the incredibly fascinating sunken lobster fishing boats off the coast of Maine they had found, and how about they go check them out together, just the two of them? “Well, actually, I was talking to Kostas the other day—”

“The squid?” 

“The shark.” 

She nods. “I know him well! We are good friends!” 

That had not been Kostas’ version of events. “He said you might know something about a bronze age wreck around here?” Specificity is important, he’s learned. There are so many shipwrecks around Crete, mostly from the last forty years, and specificity means he’s not wasting time chasing Cold War-era fishing vessels. 

In lieu of an answer, instead she turns and bolts into the deep, almost smacking Percy in the face with her tail. 

He stares after her. 

Then, just as quickly as she left, she swims back, beckoning with one webbed hand. “Please, Lord Percy! Follow me!” And then she shoots off once more. 

O… kay. 

With only some trepidation, he swims after her. 

She’s fast, and the further they go, the more she blends into the environment, but the sea puts his senses into overdrive. He can easily follow her bubble trail, weaving in and out of spiky rock formations, inching ever closer to—where else—the edge of that underwater cliff. Because of course. “Hey, Eunice,” he calls out. “Where are we going?” 

“We seek the edge of the Minoan Crown, my lord!” She sends back. Which means absolutely nothing to him. 

But it’s not like he can get lost, so, onwards and upwards. Or downwards, as the case may be. 

The water grows colder, blacker, heavier. Pressure curls around his ankles and wrists like weights, but Eunice is not stopping, so Percy swims through the water as thick and heavy as molasses. He can still breathe down here, but something about the water is just… different. Awkward. Like it almost doesn’t fit in his lungs. More disconcertingly, he feels like he can barely see, the darkness is so impenetrable. 

“Nearly there!” Eunice calls cheerfully. Percy wipes his brow, suddenly sweaty. 

“Nearly there” turns out to be something of an overestimation, but eventually, she makes a right turn, and comes to a hard stop, Percy nearly barreling into her. 

“Here, prince,” she says, approaching a dark shape in the dark(er) water. “Look.” 

This deep, in this thick, complete darkness, he’s essentially blind. Still, he can sense that they are in an underwater cave, some five thousand or so meters beneath the surface. He has an impression of spiky stalagmites and packed sand. Cautious, he swims closer. His eyes essentially useless, he closes them, reaching out with his feelings instead. 

The water here is still, unnaturally so. There is no life, no movement, aside from the gentle wave of Eunice’s hair. A cold hand brushes against his arm, and his eyes snap open as he jerks away in shock—not at the touch, but at the fact that he can suddenly see. 

Eunice is softly glowing. Her skin, already so pale, is translucent, enough that he can see her bones, but now he can also see the bioluminescent spines protruding from her forearms, casting the cave in an eerie, almost ultraviolet light. “Be at ease,” she says, her voice lower, suddenly confident. “I shall be your light.” 

It’s not great. He’d rather have a flashlight. But it’s more than enough to see the smooth, wooden curve of the keel which rises up out of the packed sand of the cave floor, about six inches from his face. He places a hand on a plank, running his palm over the whorls and grain of a piece of wood which had somehow, miraculously, survived all this time. 

“Whoa,” he breathes, a stream of bubbles escaping his mouth. How has the wood not completely disintegrated by now? 

“You must take care, my lord.” Eunice waves a hand, redirecting the current. “This cave has never known the anemoi, and a hero’s breath is a dangerous thing.”

He frowns, and then it clicks. “This cave is anoxic,” he says. “There’s no oxygen down here.” And no oxygen means no wood-eating organisms. No wonder the keel is so intact. 

She tilts her head at the unfamiliar word, frowning delicately, a personality change equal parts eerie and sudden.

“Nevermind.” 

With his portable nereid spotlight in tow, he swims around the exposed body of the ship, his astonishment growing with every look. Not only is the keel intact, but so is the deck, as is the single exposed mast, rising up into the black water, a thick length of rope—rope!—attached to the top. Turning and swimming down, he examines the spot where the ship emerges from its sediment casing. If the wood and the rope had survived this long, what else might there be? A sail? Some paint? What if the ship’s cargo survived, too?

“Eunice,” he says, remembering to pull his face away. “How long has this thing been down here?” 

She shrugs. “I cannot say for certain, for I had not yet come into being when this vessel came to rest in this cave, its passengers long since drowned.” 

The question is out of his mouth before he has time to register that it might be a little bit rude. “How old are you?” 

But she doesn’t seem to mind. Eunice smiles, her mouth full of long, sharp teeth, glinting in the light of her spines, and Percy shivers. He vastly prefers the awkward, nervous Eunice from earlier. “I am old enough to have guided the Argo safely through the clashing rocks, to have been challenged by Cassiopeia, and to have mourned the swift-footed son of Thetis, pouring honey and ambrosia over the silver casket of the greatest of warriors.” 

So, about as old as the Trojan War, then. 

Which means this ship is even older. 

He places his hand on the wood, and closes his eyes again, focusing, a trick he’s picked up from Leo. 

Machines have stories, and so do ships. How they’re made, how they work, how they’re broken. Percy just has to be willing to listen. 

“It’s not a cargo ship,” he says, mostly to himself. “It was a warship.” He can hear it, the furious beat of drums, the rhythmic grunt of oarsmen, the sharpening of blades and the readying of bows. The wood, hewn from a cedar tree, is warm beneath his touch, even here in the freezing cold dark. “And it was sailing north.” 

“North?” 

“It was… running away from something.” Limping away from battle. The captain had cut his losses, and had ordered his men to retreat. “There was a storm.” No doubt his father and uncle had been fighting again, this sad little warship caught in the middle of an explosive family dispute they had no part in. Percy hears the crashing of thunder, the howling wind, the mighty crack of a mast as it splits apart. “And then it sank.” 

An all-too common occurrence. But where did it come from?

Percy frowns, stretching his senses further. 

He sees round shields and horned helmets, and people exhausted by constant war. There is the spicy, floral red lotus, and the earthy, woody papyrus. A mighty river floods in an endless cycle, giving life in a barren desert. And in him is a spirit that covets this bounty, a feeling of envy so hot and sudden, it almost knocks Percy off his feet. 

He has to—he has to write all this down. If this is what he thinks this is, then this could be the find of a generation. Maybe several generations. Frantically patting his pockets, he pulls out Riptide, converting it to normal pen mode, before he stops, and smacks his forehead, groaning. 

Di immortales, he left his notebook with Arthur on the ship!

***

“Absolutely not!”

“Ari—”

“No!” 

“Ari, this could be huge.” 

“You’re talking about causing an earthquake!” 

“A small one!” 

“Are you out of your mind?” 

“How else am I supposed to get it out of the cave?” 

“Arthur, tell me you think this is a bad idea.” 

“Um…” 

“Iuppiter dique te omnes perdant, Percy, you’ve gone and corrupted him.” 

“Look, it’s not Minoan or Mycenaean, it’s not Egyptian—it’s unlike any other ship I’ve ever seen before. The cave is anoxic, so the wood is so well-preserved, and Eunice says that it’s been there since before she was, so we’re talking 12th century, at minimum.” 

“CE?” 

“BCE.” 

“...And it’s not Mycenaean?” 

“Mr. Jackson thinks it could belong to the Sea Peoples!” 

“Arthur—!”

“Sorry!” 

“...The Sea Peoples. Really?” 

“I mean… yeah. I think so.” 

“...Let me make some calls.” 

***

Calls are made. And Percy waits. 

Luckily, he has a really, really nice way to pass the time. 

Annabeth, naked as the day she was born, lounges on the cabin bed, stretching her arms over her head, before she flops over onto her back, limp and boneless. Percy, drinks in hand and equally naked, has to force himself to set the bottle down on the little table, rather than drop the damn thing and jump her all over again. “Water or wine?” he asks, shamelessly leering. 

She shamelessly leers back. “Water, then wine,” she responds, already reaching for a glass. “I need to rehydrate.” 

Originally, the plan had been for Percy to go back to Athens to meet his family after they arrived. However, given the potentially paradigm-changing archaeological treasure stuck in the Hellenic Trench, Ari and Percy had both decided it would probably be best for Percy to stay put, and have his family come to him, rather than the other way around. Which is fine by him. They can explore Athens as a family any time, but the perfect weather off the coast of Crete will only last for so long. 

The tourists have begun to dissipate as the summer season gives way to a warm fall, so Percy, Annabeth, and the girls have the beaches and seas more or less to the locals and themselves. Junie is utterly enchanted by the Flying Dolphin, and has decided that her new favorite game is hiding in the various nooks and crannies aboard ship, then popping out to surprise him, giving her daddy a heart attack in the process. Lucie takes a little more time to adjust, laid low by a minor ear infection, made worse by the rocking of the boat. The only way to calm her, they quickly learn, is for Percy to hold her while they go for a dive, suspended in a little air bubble, her little eyes wide as she takes it all in.

Percy, Annabeth, and their family spend their days diving, fishing, making friends with the elderly women who come out every morning at sunrise for their daily swim, relaxing on the beach, and eating their way through the multiple gelato shops which line the promenade. Aside from a few hiccups, having this time with his family has been an absolute, perfect paradise. 

Percy is pretty sure he and Annabeth are guaranteed a spot in Elysium. Whenever they end up there, he hopes it’s exactly like this. 

Especially this part. 

After about a week and a half, Frederick, sensing that Percy and Annabeth were in desperate need of a little alone time, had graciously volunteered to take Arthur and the girls inland on a tour of Minoan ruins. Percy had essentially been put on shore leave while Ari did his bureaucratic, six degrees of New Rome separation thing to make sure Percy’s plan isn’t completely idiotic, and maybe even viable, and Frederick was already chomping at the bit to see some old rocks which had once been palaces, so it didn’t take much effort to convince Arthur to go along with them.

So, with the kids away and work on hold for the time being, Percy and Annabeth are engaging in some truly excellent sex. 

Like, a whole lot of it. 

Dehydration is a very real possibility for both of them.

“Tell me you have more of that cheese,” she says, after downing a glass and a half of water. 

“We finished off the graviera this morning. I’ll tell Arthur to pick up some more on his way back.” 

She pouts. “You mean to tell me that I’ll be cheeseless for two more days?” 

“Unless you want to get dressed and go get some yourself.” 

“Honestly, I’m considering it.” She lifts one leg, grasping her knee and pulling it closer, stretching out a cramp—and giving Percy one hell of a view. “I’m going to need some snacks if you’re going to keep making me come like that.” 

He grins. It had been explosive. “Hit your limit already?” 

“Not even close.” Percy settles onto the bed next to her, wine glass in hand, and she lifts herself to kiss him, slipping the glass out of his grasp. “But seriously, we should probably eat. I think we were fucking all through lunch.” 

“You hungry?” 

“Give me like half an hour. You’re not?” 

Percy frowns. He… really isn’t. “I’m fine.” 

Annabeth hums, thoughtful. “How much do you eat out here?” 

“The normal amount, I think.” Usually, he’ll have some yogurt and granola for breakfast, some cheese and salted fish for lunch, and whatever fresh fruit and cheese they had on hand for dinner. There’s an abundance of fresh fish, too, and catching some for a quick grill is comically easy out here. Arthur is largely in charge of grocery shopping, and he certainly doesn’t complain about the food, but he also seemingly has an endless supply of oregano flavored chips. Hopefully Percy isn’t accidentally starving him.  

“Hm.” 

“What?” 

“Just thinking.” 

“About?” 

“You.” With her free hand, she trails a finger up his chest, her nail ghosting over browned skin and white scar tissue, leaving a pleasantly tingly feeling in its wake. “Ocean life seems to agree with you.” 

“It certainly beats grading.” 

“Mmhmm.” Her fingers move further north, from his shoulder to his neck to the back of his head. “Your hair is getting long.” 

On reflex, he runs a hand through it, pushing it back from his face. “I can cut it.” 

“Don’t.” She tangles her fingers in it, tugging, and smirks at his quiet gasp. “I like it.” 

Thoughts of lunch are pushed to the wayside in favor of… other pursuits. 

It’s only much later, as the rim of the sun just barely kisses the horizon, that Annabeth puts her foot down. “We have to eat something.” 

“I can just catch us some fish,” he protests. 

But Annabeth shakes her head, pulling on her underwear. “I haven’t been on solid ground for forty-eight hours. I want to walk around the old town, eat my weight in stuffed peppers, and then get another twelve of those giant sfakianopita, so that the next time we have a two day sex binge, I’ll have something more substantial to snack on instead of just cheese and nuts.” 

“You can snack on my nuts,” he mutters, and is rewarded by Annabeth throwing his shirt at his head. 

Still, solid ground is a solid idea. As much as he enjoys living aboard the Flying Dolphin, she is one small ship. Ierapetra isn’t exactly the big city, but compared to his cramped quarters, it might as well be as bustling as Manhattan. To his chagrin, Percy hasn’t actually spent much time in town, rarely venturing further inland than the corner shop on the boardwalk. 

Annabeth laughs as he points it out. “Only you, seaweed brain.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Your first instinct is to go for the bodega.” She laughs again, bright and bubbly, her curls bouncing in the evening breeze. “Guess you really can’t take the city out of the boy.” 

Hand in hand, they wander the streets, Annabeth pointing out every architectural feature that tickles her fancy. She had used the flight to blast through an audiobook about Ottoman architecture, and she takes great delight in putting her newfound knowledge to the test. Almost as much delight as Percy takes in listening to her. 

“So why is this one square?” he asks, as they are admiring the remains of a mosque with its tower broken off. “I thought mosques were supposed to be rounder.” 

“It depends. Lots of mosques have unique layouts because of geographical limitations. This one is interesting, though. Look at the walls—see how they’re sticking out?” 

Percy nods. 

“And the tiled roof. This mosque is missing the qubba.” 

“The what?” 

“The dome.” She needs both hands to explain, and Percy tries not to pout at the loss. “Representing the vault of heaven. It’s not a requirement, but it’s still unusual for a mosque not to have at least one dome.”

“You know,” he says, “I have noticed that all the churches here have domes.” 

Annabeth smiles, proudly. “They’re definitely related. Most dome architecture can be traced back to the 6th century, and the construction of the Hagia Sophia.”

“There weren’t domes before?” 

“There definitely were,” she says. “Remember the Pantheon in Rome?” 

“I was a little busy fighting some nymphs that day.” 

“It’s basically a giant circle imposed on top of a big square. It’s the world’s biggest dome made of unreinforced concrete. But that means it’s also very heavy, and it needs a lot of internal support, which shrinks the available internal space. The Hagia Sophia, on the other hand, is so amazing because the architects basically invented an entirely new way to construct and support the dome. Instead of putting a sphere on a cube, the Hagia Sophia has pendentives in the corners to help bear the weight of the dome. They also reduced the weight of the dome by cutting windows into the bottom, which lets in a ton of natural light, and supposedly it makes it look like the dome is floating.” She sighs, happily. “I’d love to see it one day.” 

Percy is already mentally composing his vacation request. “I’m sure I can get Ari to get us some time off after we officially discover the paradigm-shifting archaeological marvel.” 

Annabeth takes his hand again, almost glowing. “I’d really like that.” 

With renewed energy, they finish their ramble, settling down at the first restaurant they see once they emerge from the maze of streets back onto the beach. True to her wishes, Annabeth manages to eat her weight in stuffed peppers, while Percy devours almost an entire grilled octopus, using his fries to mop up every last morsel. They share a couple bottles of wine, and endless plates of fried cheese, as the sky turns from purple to blue, the twinkling lights of the cruise ships off the port like stars. 

Percy has his arm around her waist as they walk back to the boat. He’s a little tipsy, and Annabeth is very sturdy. Still, he manages not to trip as they slow their roll, coming to a halt in front of the very annoyed looking young woman who waits for them at the dock, tapping her foot next to a giant package. 

She doesn’t look like a local. Percy’s spent enough time with the frequent fishers that he can easily pick them out of a lineup. But she does look mad. “Um… can we help you?” 

The woman sighs, tossing the sweaty strands of brown hair which have escaped her tight ponytail. “Percy Jackson?” 

“Who wants to know?” Annabeth adjusts his grip on her waist, giving her more room to draw her knife. 

“I need your signature for a delivery.” 

Percy is pretty sure he would remember making an order big and important enough to need a signature. “Sure…?” 

She hands him a clipboard and a pen. Then she stares at him when he does nothing. “Are you going to sign?” 

“Sorry,” he says, “I’m a little confused.” Annabeth snorts. “Who is this from again?” 

“Mr. Yiannopoulos commissioned the equipment from New Rome on your behalf.” 

Oh. Now that he looks, he actually does see the Senate insignia on the top of the delivery form. 

“What is it?” 

The woman eyes Annabeth suspiciously. “And you are?” 

“Annabeth Jackson.” 

“Hero and Architect of Olympus,” Percy adds. 

Turns out, that was the trick. The woman’s jaw drops open, her eyes widening. “You’re—you’re Annabeth Chase?” she gasps. 

“That’s me.” 

Percy chuckles, clumsily signing the form. The novelty of Annabeth having fans has long since worn off, but not the delight of seeing other people recognize her brilliance. 

After an autograph and a selfie for Drusilla, who apologizes profusely for her attitude, Praetor, she had just been told to wait by the Flying Dolphin for an unknown amount of time, and you know how the Senate doesn’t always give all the pertinent details, Annabeth is giving her directions to their favorite gelato spot while Percy crouches by the package. “So, what is it?” 

“I don’t know,” says Drusilla, still starry-eyed. “I only picked it up in Miami.” 

Percy frowns. “Is that a card?” 

Sure enough, there’s a Hallmark greeting card taped to a corner, nearly hidden beneath all the customs stickers. Tongue between his teeth, he gently pries it off, cleanly slicing it open with Drusilla’s pen. On the cover is a drawing of a dragon, lighting birthday candles with his breath. 

“Who’s it from?” 

“To Percy,” he reads the chicken scrawl inside. “Got a special request from NRU engineering to help make you a little present. As payment, I expect ten percent of every underwater treasure chest you find. (Babies are expensive!) Love, Leo.” 

“What does it mean?” 

“Who’s Leo?” Drusilla wonders. 

Percy stands, grinning. “It means that Plan Earthquake is a-go.” 

***

Plan Earthquake is pretty much exactly what it sounds like it would be. 

The Aegean Sea plate is surprisingly active for how small it is, and seismic activity is pretty common in this part of the world. If, say, for instance, there were to be a minor earthquake originating from the Hellenic subduction zone, maybe it could potentially dislodge any archaeological detritus from where it was trapped in an anoxic cave almost six thousand meters below sea level, sending it floating closer to the surface, where it could then subsequently be discovered by some passing ship surveying the area for wrecks. 

You know, possibly. 

But first they need to get it out of the rock. 

Unfortunately, Leo’s magic winch did not come with jackhammers, so Percy is warming up for the big act by gently shaking the packed sand apart. Eunice is helping, too, redirecting the currents to help clear away the loose chunks of rock. Annabeth is on standby on the surface, monitoring the seismological chatter, while Arthur mans the ship, and keeps an eye out for sea monsters. 

“How you doing, hon?” Annabeth says into his bluetooth earbuds. 

Percy shakes out his hands, jumping up and down. “Fine,” he confirms. “Think we’re almost ready to fire up the winch. How’s it looking up there?” 

“All clear,” she confirms, after a beat. “Arthur says we’re alone out here. No ships, no uninvited guests.” 

They should be. There’s no reason for tourist ships to come this far south of the coast, nor for shipping out of Cairo to come this far north. Also, the monsters have been leaving them alone for the most part. Hopefully they’ll stay away, instead of dropping in in the middle of Plan Earthquake and making things interesting. Percy breathes in, stretching out his arms. “Alright. Give me another hour.” 

It’s long, grueling work, but bit by bit, they uncover the wreck, freeing inch after inch of preserved wood. To his delight, he finds that he was right—the packed sediment did preserve the paint. There’s no way it will survive contact with oxygenated water, and there’s no way he could explain away any pictures, so he commits each color to memory, all the beautiful ruddy reds and browns, and the gold and white geometric designs on the prow. It’s truly a masterpiece of construction, shell-first with mortise and tenon joints, sleek and sturdy and beautiful.

Though, he thinks as he starts attaching cables to the boat, maybe a little too sleek. Hopefully it’s sturdy enough to withstand the pulling. 

“Eunice,” he calls, “you ready?” She’s not his first choice for an assistant, but he figures even she can’t screw up pressing a button. 

She frowns at the machine, the image odd on her delicate face. If he didn’t know better, he would say she was afraid of it. “Prince, explain again, what would you have me do?” 

Okay, nevermind. “You know what, just swap with me.” 

“My lord?” 

“Just keep the boat from shaking too bad, and try and slip water between the wood and the rock to help wiggle it out. I’ll man the winch.” 

The winch is automatic, but Percy still has to keep his attention divided more than he’d like between the cable and the boat and the rock, making sure nothing goes catastrophically wrong. It’s slow going, and sometimes they have to pause the winch to maneuver around a particularly stubborn piece of earth, but between Eunice and Percy, they manage to slide the hull out of the packed stone. Percy winces a t every groan and every ding of rock against the wood, but that’s okay. No wreck is perfect. 

A particularly spiky shard of rock scratches a deep line across the gold paint, and Percy kind of wants to cry about it. 

Then, the winch abruptly stops, the mechanics whining in protest. The cables pull taut, and the wood screams. 

It’s over in a second, but to Percy, it might as well be slow motion. 

The keel can apparently no longer stand being dragged over the rough earth. Percy watches in horror as a catastrophic looking crack races across the wood, shooting up from bottom to top. The internal pegs on the mortise and tenon joints must have been more corroded than he thought, because as soon as they touch water, they disintegrate, and the ship pulls itself apart. 

Percy swears. 

“Are you okay? Percy!” 

“I’m fine—it’s the ship!” 

Eunice races over to the machine, overcoming her fear of technology to slam on the brakes. 

“What happened?” 

The port side of the hull has split in two, sharp splinters of wood floating in the water, and based on the creaking, the starboard side is just about on the brink, the force of the winch leaving it hovering in an awkward bend, listing to the right. The ship’s cargo has spilled out onto the rock, coins and ingots glinting in the soft light of Eunice’s bioluminescent skin. 

“It broke,” he says, not at all able to keep the horror out of his voice. 

“How?”

“I broke it.” A life-changing find that could upend the entire field of archaeology, and Percy goes and breaks it. He swims closer to investigate, running his fingers over the exposed wood. 

“Talk to me.” 

“The pegs must have been in worse shape than I thought.” Hopefully Percy can salvage at least one of them for further study. “The hull cracked towards the stern, and the joints just came apart.” 

She swears. “How bad?” 

“It’s not great.” The front half, suspended in the water, seems to have emerged mostly unscathed, but as for the stern, it is deeply, firmly wedged within the earth. “The stern is stuck, and I’m not sure I can get it out.”

“So, what now?” 

Percy blows out a breath. “There’s nothing for it—we’ll have to keep going and excavate what we can.” 

And break the other half of the ship in the process. 

A lot of bad things had happened to Percy in his life. This doesn’t make the top ten, but it definitely makes the top twenty. Right in between getting kicked out of Goode and getting electrocuted by Thalia. 

He takes a moment to mourn the loss of a beautifully made vessel, his hand over his heart, before waving back to Eunice. “Alright,” he calls. “Fire it up.” 

Of course, he has to amend his list after he watches the winch rip apart the other side of the hull. This hurts way more than a lightning bolt to the chest. 

But Percy’s been a soldier longer than he’s been an archaeologist, so he can get his job done, and grieve at the same time. 

He takes a deep breath, calls on the power deep within him, and cracks a fault line. 

It’s over, quicker and easier than blowing up Mount St. Helens, and less than forty minutes later he’s back on the ship, sitting too close to his wife in the galley, feeling sorry for himself. 

“It’s really okay, babe.” 

He groans, dropping his head in his hands. “I can’t believe I Schliemanned it!” 

Arthur pokes his head in. “How are we looking on the scanners, Mrs. Jackson?” 

Annabeth really likes Arthur. More specifically, Percy thinks she really likes it when he calls her by her family name. So he’s not surprised at her warm tone with him. “Minimal tsunami risk across the coast. Thanks for the save earlier.” 

He blushes, mumbling. “It was nothing.”

She had sworn up and down to Percy that she had never been in any real danger. Percy did not believe Annabeth Ingrid Jackson about measures of danger (she feels the same about him, so it works out.) But his earthquake had rocked their boat more than a little bit. Annabeth hadn’t gotten far. And probably wouldn’t have made it over the side. But Arthur, all about safe harbor, had managed to grab her before anything too catastrophic occurred. 

He slides in across from the now, tapping his feet against the base of the galley table. “So, what now?” 

Percy pinches the bridge of his nose. “Now we wait. We’ll come back at some point in the spring, officially discover what’s left of the ship, and get it ready for surveying.” 

“What’s left of it?” he wonders. 

“I had to leave like a fifth of the wreck in the cave.” A whole fifth, including hull, keel, deck, and cargo. Annabeth rubs his back, and another wave of misery crashes over him. He can’t believe someone paid him over a quarter of a million dollars to come all this way and destroy the first priceless artifact he finds. 

Arthur frowns, thoughtful. “Isn’t that a good thing, though?” 

Percy lifts his head. “What do you mean?” 

“Well, intact shipwrecks are super rare, even for stuff sunk in the last fifty years.” 

“The Uluburun was mostly intact.” 

“Mostly,” Arthur points out. “And it wasn’t stuck in a cave. What are the odds of a three thousand year old ship surviving being ripped out of a rockbed by an earthquake?”

“He’s right,” Annabeth says. “Honestly, the fact that it’s broken will probably add to its authenticity.” 

Percy hums, noncommittally. They’re probably right. But he still feels bad about it. Bad enough that he feels like an hours-long swim to clear his head. 

Annabeth is waiting for him when he climbs up on deck around midnight. Just Annabeth.

“Where’s Arthur?”

“Arthur went to bed,” she says. “I ended his watch for him.” 

“You’re not the captain.” 

“There was a power vacuum, on account of the captain going swimming with the fishes.” 

He kisses her, the last dregs of his bad mood floating out to sea. “I’m so glad you’re here.” 

“Me, too.” 

They hold each other, swaying to the gentle motion of the waves, under a dark sky littered with stars, and Percy has a strange, distinct feeling that they’d done this before. Maybe in another life. Maybe in his dreams. But something about this moment, so peaceful and beautiful, feels eternal, immutable, like a cornerstone of the universe. 

“Guess what?” she murmurs into his collarbone. 

“Hmm?” 

“I’m pregnant again.” 

He goes warm, from the tips of his toes up to his chest and his cheeks. “Really?” 

“I’m surprised it didn’t happen sooner, given how excited you get on the water.” 

Then he blushes for an entirely different reason.

“Sorry.” 

“So not a problem.” She kisses him again. “So, so not a problem.” 

***

Percy takes a sip of lukewarm water. It gets hot in Greece in early March, and this room, even with all the windows and doors open, is still pretty stuffy. “Excavation is currently underway at the Chrysi site, and is expected to continue through June, before resuming this coming September. By then, we should have completed both the trilateral and photogrammetric surveys of the site, and may be ready to begin excavating the cargo and other material for preservation.” He clicks to the final slide, a picture Arthur had taken of him, Annabeth, and the girls on the deck of the Flying Dolphin, and the audience politely coos, applauding while holding cups of hot tea. 

Which makes sense, since this is a tea talk, something that apparently exists. But why do they all drink hot tea for these things? It’s over sixty degrees fahrenheit outside! 

“Thank you so much,” says the moderator, an older woman with straight, white hair, who speaks fluent Greek in the most Jersey-ish accent he had ever heard in his life. “Really, really intriguing stuff. Shall we open the floor for questions?” 

The audience is made up mostly of young grads, dutifully scribbling away in their notebooks, with some older academics scattered among them. They sit on couches and armchairs and rickety-looking wooden seats, lined up in rows, and the unlucky ones who didn’t get a seat either are relegated to the porch outside the salon, leaning against the door, or squished three to a person on the piano bench in the back. 

A girl in the front row with dark, curly hair and a flannel shirt raises her hand. She doesn’t look that much older than him. Actually, she might be a few years younger. That’s kind of a sobering thought. “Thank you so much for such an interesting talk. My question is, you have all these different types of data, between the legacy data and the weather patterns—how do you keep it all organized?” 

“With difficulty.” His audience chuckles. “For something with this many moving parts, I have to do it manually. However, drawing my own maps gives me the freedom to adapt on the fly.” And add data that would be, uh, inconsistent with mortal abilities. “Plus, my wife helps me keep everything straight.” 

Annabeth flashes him a thumbs up from her front row seat. Junie flashes him two, and Lucie kicks her feet, distracted by the amphora on the bookshelf next to her. He hopes that Annabeth, at six months pregnant, still has her reflexes ready if Lucie tries to make the bookshelf baby’s first lava rock wall. 

From the back of the room, a thin, reedy man with round glasses and a scruffy black beard raises his hand. “How do you choose your areas to survey? What made you pick Crete?” 

The fish tell him. “I have specialties in deep-sea diving and open water sailing,” well, that’s one way of putting it, “so, the Aegean is just a little too shallow for my tastes. Plus, there’s been so much maritime traffic in the Levantine Sea since, well, forever, it seemed like a natural place to start.” 

To the left of the first girl, another girl raises her hand, her sleeve falling to show off her amazing red figure pottery tattoo. “Thank you so much for sharing. The colors are just so bright and so strong, do you know, or do you have any theories as to why it hasn’t degraded?” 

He and Annabeth have spent days hammering out the details Percy would fudge, drilling the answers so often they become automatic, but he’s still proud of himself for not tripping over his words when he answers, “It’s unclear as of right now. There’s still a ton of tests that need to be run, but my best guess would be that, after it sank, the ship ended up in some kind of anoxic environment, maybe like the Bannock Basin, that was able to preserve most of the organic matter.” He ducks his head, full of false modesty. “Of course, that’s just a theory.”

Annabeth smirks at him from the corner of his eye, and he really has to fight back the answering one which threatens to spread across his face.

The tea talk wraps up in due time, and the chairs and couches are summarily put back into place as the audience all moves out onto the porch, carrying plates of crackers and cheese and tall, thin bottles of ouzo. Percy hangs behind, lingering at the podium, entertaining the stragglers who come up with questions and “more of a comment, really” and whatever else, leaning against the wooden mantle now that the project screen which covered it has been retracted back into the ceiling. Annabeth has more or less let the kids roam the now-empty salon to their hearts’ content, allowing them to check out the art and artifacts with strict instructions to Junie not to touch, so she can hold court with Percy. He’s grateful, always, for her steady support. 

“So you think it’s more of a warship,” says an older man, with a shock of white hair but the energy of a college student. 

Percy nods. “At first glance, other than weaponry, the cargo looked like it was mostly looted material—jewelry, precious stones, that kind of thing.” 

“I saw, those raw sapphires? What an amazing find!”

Next to him, Annabeth surreptitiously covers her brand new sapphire bracelet with her other hand. 

“Where are you headed next? My wife and I have spent pretty much our whole careers excavating in Crete, so if you’re headed back that way in June, we’d love to take you two out to lunch.” 

Annabeth’s eyes light up, a calculating spark. “Your wife is an archaeologist, too?” 

He nods, proudly gesturing to a silvery haired woman, chatting in Greek with the moderator, her hand over her mouth as she laughs. “I study Bronze Age Crete, she does Hellenistic, and together, we’ve been excavating at Mochlos for, gosh, I don’t even remember how long.” Catching Annabeth’s expression, he asks her, “But you’re not an archaeologist, yeah?” 

“Unfortunately,” she shrugs, ruefully. “I’m an architect.” 

“Somebody has to bring in the bacon.” 

The man laughs. “Well hey, it’s handy to have an architect out in the field! And to get to bring your kids with you, too…” He shakes his head, his gaze, like a magnet, turning back to his own wife. “I don’t have to tell you how special it is to have someone you love doing this work with you.”

Annabeth takes his hand, squeezing, but Percy has no qualms about public displays of affection, so he does not hesitate to sling his arm around her shoulders and kiss her on the cheek, loud and sloppy. She shoves him, laughing, and as he hears Junie and Lucie start playing around on the old piano in the corner of the salon, on this beautiful warm spring day in Athens, Percy can’t remember if he’s ever been happier. 

***

They decide to extend their trip past the end of May. Estelle had been put out all year that she wasn’t able to live with her big brother on a boat and explore the Mediterranean for ancient shipwrecks instead of having to go to school, ugh, so Sally and Paul agree that they are all in dire need of some island time. Percy had to return the Dolphin at the end of his fellowship, and while he was sorry to see it go, the Amalia is a little bit nicer. The man he rented it from said it belonged to his yiayia, and he had brought it with him when he moved from Poros to the mainland. Where the Dolphin was all business, the Amalia is all homey, quiet pleasure. The man, Kostas (Percy had snorted, and Annabeth had had to kick him) had done his best to remove all personal traces to make her fit for rental, but Percy can still sense the love in every inch, from stem to stern. He runs his hand up the mast, and he’s nearly bowled over by the strong rush of emotions practically radiating from her—love, sorrow, and a pride so strong it makes his heart hurt. 

As nice as she is, she still won’t hold all nine of them—the family plus Arthur, who is well on his way to becoming Sally Jackson’s third child—so Percy is spending more time on shore this one month than he has all year. He’s had to move out of the Piraeus apartment, too, but Paul got an amazing deal on a vacation rental apartment in Kolonaki, so Percy wakes up every morning to the sight of the Acropolis from his balcony, sipping on a nice, cold glass of peach juice. 

Don’t get him wrong, it’s pretty nice. There’s not a lot to complain about. 

But he’s very excited to get back out on the water for one last ride. 

Just him and the love of his life.

He had no destination in mind, just somewhere far enough from shore to see if they could catch a glimpse of some dolphin pods. Annabeth, just about ready to pop, is lounging on the sun-drenched deck while Percy takes a call in the galley. “How do you feel about Nat Geo?” Ari asks in lieu of a greeting. 

“Like in general?” 

“Have you ever had media training?” 

“...No?” 

“Well, you’re going to.” Through the IM, Ari is happier than Percy’s ever seen him, his features smoothed out into a broad, happy grin. “The permit application just landed on my desk. I’m fielding requests from all over to get a glimpse of the Chrysi wreck.” 

“I thought my problem was that I attracted too much attention.”

“You keep making life-changing discoveries like this, Praetor, and you can attract all the attention you can handle.” 

“Hope so,” says Percy, “because Eunice told me that she heard from her sister that there’s another Bronze Age ship floating around Ithaca that needs discovering.” 

He squints, suddenly suspicious. “You’re not planning another earthquake, are you?” 

“Not currently, but who knows. There are a lot of subduction zones around Greece. Lots of places for ships to get stuck.”

But Ari just sighs, throwing his hands up in defeat, though his smile has come back. “Whatever, fine, whatever you need. Make your little earthquakes.” 

Then, from above deck, an earth-shattering scream rips through the peaceful afternoon. 

“PERCYYYYYYY!!!” 

“Whoops, that’s my cue,” says Percy. “Gotta run, send me the Nat Geo details later!” 

Swiping his hand through the image, he dashes up to the deck, expecting to find a pod of dolphins waiting in the water below.

Instead, he has to pivot, hard, and get down to work bringing his third daughter into the world. 

The dolphins return later in the evening to meet the new little sea princess, then graciously offer to escort them back to shore, where his family (and a doctor) gather at the docks, ready and eager to meet their newest relative, little Thalassa Amalia Jackson. 

“Thalassa?” Sally asks, holding the tiny thing, her voice soft with wonder. 

“Annabeth’s idea, actually,” says Percy, hovering as the doctor checks his wife over. “Born amid ships.”

“And made amid ships, I suspect.” 

Percy blushes, scratching his neck. “Guilty.” 

“I also get to name the next one,” says Annabeth, exhausted but proud and healthy

“You can name every single one of them.” A deal like that shouldn’t be made lightly, but Percy doesn’t care. He’d give her the world if she asked for it. A name is nothing. “Except Olivia.” 

But Annabeth just grins. “No take-backs!”

[do-u-know-this-autisticcharacter]

Do You Know This (non canon) Autistic Character?

Propaganda:

- Restrictive eating, based on texture. (Aversion to any vegetable, to the point where even Ignis knows to not work with carrots because he will just not eat anything with them. Aversion to jellies and custards with the quote "Not a fan of mushy desserts." Will visibly poke at food and then eat it with a decisive movement like it's what he has to do to get it down. Cannot bring himself to eat the tofu, which is perfectly in line with the dislike for "mushy" texture.)

- Narrow and obsessive interests. (FISHING. FISHING??? FISHING! It's the only thing he gets excited about besides his FAVORITE FOODS and his friends make fun of him relentlessly for how he lights up about fishing. His passion for fishing is unmatched. He loves fishing. So many fishing quests, so many dishes that require fishing, so many accessories and fishing spots and photos.)

- Social difficulties. (Often doesn't pick up on small cues, for example: The lady flirting with him at the Galdin restaurant is met with an explanation of what he actually meant, even though she knows that already. He often stutters and stops confusedly when talking to people. There are very straightforward options when responding to Luna's messages, to the point of almost being rude. He also often ducks away from anyone who touches him, even his close friends, and brushes them off quickly and awkwardly. The massage scene is painful to watch because having the masseuse's hands on him looks like it hurts him even though they are visibly being gentle. He HATES being touched. The mechanic to wave at passersby is very stilted and unsure. The outing with Iris is palpably hard for him even if you choose the nice options, he still talks out loud to himself about his negative opinion despite the fact that he does like Iris as a person. Spoilers: He cannot tell apart the mannerisms of his best friend from his worst enemy. Canonically. )

- Self-soothing behavior. (Look I know this is a game, they have idle animations, but stay with me here. Noctis will play with his hair during idle AND when he's talking to people. He's not combing through it to fix it, he's fiddling and petting when he's feeling awkward or confused and he does it a lot, even compared to his companions.)

- Trouble with emotional regulation. ("I'M AS CALM AS I'M GONNA GET. " "I GET IT, ALRIGHT? I GET IT!" and then pulling in on himself to be completely silent and detatched. compared to everyone else in the game, Noctis is the only one having these severe reactions. as for the scene references, iykyk)

- Lack of respect for authority. Lack of respect for authority is not diagnostic criteria, but it speaks to his difficulty in understanding social hierarchies and expectation (You can totally read this as him just being the Prince, but he seems to genuinely be overwhelmed and confused by the reverence expected to be given to royalty. He stutters when calling his father "Your majesty" and outright rolls his eyes and disrepects him. If not contempt for authority, at the very least it's indicative of being unable to read a room. He also tends to avoid subjects like Ignis and Gladio's sworn duty to him, and prefers to act like it doesn't really matter, as with his own royalty. Every time he forced to acknowledge his status it's like they put a vegetable in his mouth.)

Any other details

Whenever the writer wants to make a parallel to Noctis's father, they change Noctis completely in order to do so. Sudden confidence and speeches and knowing exactly what to say to political leaders. I choose to ignore these, because Noctis does not act like that for the majority of the time playing the game and it comes off jarring in my opinion.

[thisisevenharderthannamingablog]

Decision Point (Ep 5/6)

I just can't stop with this sorry, it's been years since I had anything I wanted to meta about.

"What happened to me?" The crux of the problem, succinctly expressed, that Porsche did not feel like an actor but a subject the previous night, that he didn't have a choice.

He spends most of this episode hurt and confused and looking desperately for any kind of signpost about what happened. The "go ahead then - do it" scene is one of the most charged moments between them. It's also Porsche trying to figure out -- in the most dangerous way possible, because Porsche -- which side of Kinn is the facade. Kinn's demeanor at the house is almost always smooth and controlled, even when he's dealing out violence. In this scene that is cracking. He is drunk and angry, and Porsche pushes hard on that, because he needs a sign. If that sign is pain, he can handle it; he can't stand the ambiguity.

Somewhere deep in the meta tag I saw a comment to the effect that Porsche's change of attitude to Kinn seems to be very quick. He goes from a state of high tension at the end of 5 to being much more relaxed going into 6. That struck me as odd, too, so I went back to the scene at Porsche's house, and I think that's the answer.

Because yes that was awkward AF and Kinn you do not visit your employees while they are supposed to be on vacation, and it was stupid of him to go alone, but? Kinn put himself into a socially awkward, dangerous situation that could not possibly benefit him. Everything that happens between them at the main house has the power dynamic in the background if not the foreground. By trying (however badly) to talk to Porsche outside of that setting, by leaving behind his bodyguards, Kinn is giving up control of the conversation.

Even though Porsche remains legitimately angry with him through that scene, this is the sign that he was looking for. That whatever the fuck is going on with Kinn, he isn't actually trying to hurt Porsche, who can forgive an unintended hurt -- even a very bad one -- in a way he wouldn't forgive deliberate cruelty. Which leaves him free to work on what this guy's fucking deal is, then.

Episode 6 is largely focused on addressing the power dynamic, which has to happen before they can get anywhere. It temporarily erases all the money and status and employer/employee business and puts them on equal ground in a very literal way. The early part elevates basic survival needs, which fosters trust and leaves no room for head games. The stream kiss establishes that there's still plenty of physical attraction on both sides and that Kinn has learned his lesson by being the one to break it off.

By the time they start talking, they've already reached a much more balanced state. Those conversations redress one of the remaining imbalances: information. Kinn knows a lot more about Porsche than vice versa. Porsche doesn't keep secrets about himself; Kinn does, but he starts to open up here, and again it's a situation where he doesn't stand to gain anything from doing so. That makes an emotional connection possible.

Finally, there's the ending. Kinn telling Porsche to leave -- essentially firing him -- at least symbolically vacates their previous agreement, resets the dynamic that threatens to come back into play before it can distort things between them. The fight then replays their introduction scene. Kinn is in danger, and Porsche can choose whether or not to intervene. This time around there's no money trouble, no coercion, no veil of ignorance; Porsche knows exactly what he's getting himself into when he comes back.

Freely chosen.

[rottenbrainstuff]

BG3 playthrough - Wasting time at the southern checkpoint

Spoilers below

Guess who backtracked about 5 hours of game time because they only just discovered that the newspaper actually changes every day based on what you did that day, and now they need to go back and collect them all? This is why I’ve been playing since October, have over 500 hours on my steam account, and still haven’t finished one single playthrough yet…

I’ve been playing since October. Wow. This game has just totally taken over my brain. On the one hand it’s been amazing to have my brain so thoroughly distracted, cause things have been getting really rough, and I appreciate the distraction, so so much. But on the other hand… I do sometimes wish I could be spending all this effort doing something actually useful. Last year I had been making some progress on personal projects, and I’ve had no desire to touch it at all since October. Sigh.

After finishing the backtracking and collecting all the papers, guess who found Carm’s Garms and wasted a few hours dressing everyone up like barbie dolls? I am NEVER going to finish this game!!! Look, it’s not my fault that Astarion looks so fabulous in so many things. I think my favorite dye for him is the white and scarlet, but sometimes the black and furnace red has good results. My tav used to wear a lot of red but has lost his taste for it - reminds him too much of what he wore as a bhaalspawn. He’s been using the azure and blue dye a lot.

So of course I finished the Open Hand Temple investigation. That was super interesting but also super sad, more tiefling refugees getting shit on, and the only person who really cared about them got murdered for his trouble. I like the little touch that Astarion disapproves of any religious comments that you make: on brand. I only just noticed getting a statue made gives the subject a permanent buff. Enjoy, Astarion. (and everyone else in the camp: enjoy Astarion) Found Petras and Dalyria at the flophouse. Trying to kill each other - that’s how you know they’re really siblings.

Obviously if I was at the clothes shop, I ran into Naaber. Oh boy. I didn’t get the joke at first and was quite bowled over by how strange and out of place he is, though I did find it funny and listened to everything he had to say. Then I looked him up online and found out he’s a running gag brought over from BG2 which is funny… But I ALSO came across a discussion where people were, as far as I am able to tell, asking in complete earnest if there was any way to deal with him besides killing him. ??? Look I know there’s no “wrong” way to play and whatever way makes you happy is the right way, but like damn. WTF are some of you doing? He’s an annoying dude to be sure, but it is a LITTLE bit funny, and if you don’t like him, you don’t have to even talk to him at all. (right? It almost sounded from what people were saying that he was following them around being a nuisance, but he definitely didn’t follow me. Did he used to follow players in previous patches or something?)

And then I went to Sharess’ Caress. Boy oh boy, the devs really liked this location didn’t they, they put in a ton of detail, lol. It’s kind of funny how everyone wants to meet at Sharess’ Caress. I thought it was just a funny brothel, but apparently it’s a respectable taphouse as well, judging from how many people just hang out here / conduct business meetings? Or is this like the people who claim they like to go to Hooters for the wings? Anyways I adore the cat, I adore mamzell Amira, I adore the put-upon chef. I adore how Amira introduces Raphael and makes the services he’s offering sound ambiguous. I wonder if she knows full well what he’s actually doing in that room, but this is how she introduces him, and some poor asshole who just wants a quick blowjob gets talked into selling his soul instead, or if she really does just think he’s some kind of freelance gentleman whore, temporarily renting out a room from her. I can’t decide which is more funny.

Drow twins: god the dude is hilarious and the girl is interesting. I must have spent at least one solid half hour just reloading and trying out all the different dialogue branches with them. What do other races get to talk to them about, I wonder? Being a drow I had some options to ask about their history and how they ended up here, and also point out that Sorn’s Menzoberranzan Love Trick is just a name to make customers excited. I assume at least that non-drow characters have other paths to get to their backstory? I wasn’t able to see the foursome because I was romancing Astarion, and he’s not comfortable with that, but I checked them out each on their own. Everything with Sorn made me laugh and laugh. If you say you aren’t sure what you’re into, he chats with you a bit, and dark urge has a few extra little options that are so funny. The only thing I didn’t get to see was what happens if you fail the athletics or persuasion checks. Nym was kind of an interesting encounter - first you have the humour option of just complaining and crying to her for a couple hours, or you can actually just talk, listen to her talk about herself or get some weight off your own chest. If you choose to talk about boundaries, she will talk about how the female drow stereotype is a spicy dominatrix, but she doesn’t feel comfortable doing the rough stuff. That suits my drow just fine - as his boundary, a male drow can say he’s uncomfortable with dominant drow women. It was very interesting. And apparently my tav keeps his gauntlets on during sex. Not sure if that was a bug or on purpose but it was funny, lol.

That was just me checking things out for my personal curiosity anyways - in my actual save game, I didn’t do anything with either of them. I know Astarion says he’s ok if you fool around, and whether he actually is or not is debatable (he seems more comfortable here than when you talk to him about Halsin, IMO), but my tav just really has no interest if Astarion isn’t there.

I walked in on the nymph and her client… I had no idea what happened there so that was a shocking surprise.

I was stuck for a while trying to decide what to do about Raphael offering the contract. I had said that I would do anything in my game to trigger his hilarious little monologue at the epilogue party. It sounds like you must sign the contract then break it in order to get that. But everyone in the party is so freaking mad about it, I don’t have dialogue options to indicate I’m doing it fully intending on going back on it later, I don’t really want to deal with the Emperor being pissed off just yet, but if I lie to him, what do I do with Voss? Lie to him too? Man I dunno. I think it’s simpler just to tell Raphael to fuck off. Plus it’s also pretty funny to go and steal the hammer from him later. He’s the one who made me aware of the hammer: if he hadn’t mentioned it at all, I wouldn’t have known about it, but now that I know that he has it, BECAUSE HE TOLD ME, I’m going to go steal it? I just think that’s hilarious. Idiot.

HOWEVER IN THE END: I decided to do the contract. I have a second playthrough that I started and put on hold with a tiefling paladin, and since she would NEVER sign a contract with Raphael, I think I’ll make my durge do it. But besides just meta game reasons, I also reasoned… he just recently found out he’s a bhaalspawn, and I think he’s feeling like his crummy soul is forfeit. No big deal signing over his soul to a devil when he’s already completely fucked. Who knows, maybe Raphael and Daddy Bhaal will have a fistfight over it later and that would be hilarious. That’s where my tav is coming from.

I also did Gortash’s big fucking coronation but I’ll write that up as its own thing I think. Goddamn I am enjoying this game so much.

[shihalyfie]

I've watched Appmon thanks to your recommendation and it was amazing! Eri, Astra and Rei were my favorites :) But after looking at past discussions online about the episodes, I've noticed so many people had a problem with its 'filler' (which i think didn't feel like filler at all), much more than any other series in the franchise (besides ghost game, probably) Why do you think this is so? Is it something in the context of its original airing's run?

First of all, congrats on finishing Appmon! I'm so glad my recommendation could get someone else to enjoy it!

Well, I'm going to be honest: I think the prejudice against Appmon having "filler" is, quite simply, a double standard. Savers actually gets this as well in regards to its first eleven episodes (it's just that since it's a fast-paced narrative after that, it's hard to make any accusations of it having "filler" after that no matter how prejudiced you are). But if you look at Adventure through Frontier, there are a lot of episodes that don't advance the plot much. Most Frontier fans agree that the hamburger episode is one of the finest episodes in the franchise despite it technically also being one of these. In fact, if you actually sit down to think about Tamers and ignore the cult that constantly insists it's incapable of having anything wrong with it, its beginning is extremely slow and there are a bunch of early episodes that don't actually advance much of anything "plot"-wise. Adventure through Frontier will automatically get a lot of passes for things that later series won't just because they have the My Childhood Nostalgia™ pass attached to them.

(I do think Appmon episode 26 is entirely skippable, but that's purely because it's a recap episode made to accommodate a timeslot change and any newcomers jumping on at that time, which obviously isn't relevant for people watching it now.)

That being said, I actually despise the word "filler" the way it's used now. The word was supposed to be used in the context of anime adaptations, especially adaptations of manga or video games; anything that was original to the anime and wasn't from its original source material is "filler" (because just sticking to the original material only won't fill enough episodes). Filler in that context was never supposed to inherently be a bad thing, it just was more often than not in practice because it was too obvious the original story wasn't made for it, and it can't advance much character or plot status quo because otherwise it'll derail it from the originally intended storyline, so it usually would end up being kind of boring. But that wasn't always the case, and I've definitely met a lot of One Piece and Dragon Ball fans who have said that some of its filler episodes are its best ones because they have interesting ideas or do interesting things with the characters even despite being so limited in what they could do.

But nowadays, people just use the word "filler" to mean "an episode I don't like" or "an episode I think is boring" -- very subjective. And even when they aren't trying to be condescending about it, they still use that word to apply to "any episode that doesn't 'advance the plot'" completely ignoring the fact that "not advancing the plot" can still have fascinating character studies or interesting ideas, oftentimes even moreso than series that don't. I've seen anime that are entirely minimal-plot that have interesting character studies and/or are episodic. Hell, I don't know many people who watched Digimon Adventure for its totally riveting plot of (checks notes) some isekai where they defeat some bosses who want to take over the world...like, how many people actually watched early Digimon because the "plot" was oh so spectacular?

I do think there's room to criticize Appmon's early pacing (in that it's kind of hard to tell where exactly they're going with the plot in the first handful of episodes, and I honestly wonder if it should have taken so long to introduce Eri and Astra), and frankly I would actually apply those criticisms to Adventure, Tamers, and Savers too -- in fact, I've had very little success introducing new fans to Adventure because it takes almost half the series to feel like it's going anywhere, and it makes it easy to get bored and drop it. But if the problem is pacing, I wish people would actually say it that way instead of saying something is "filler" and therefore useless and unnecessary just because it focuses more on characters than background plot intrigue.

[gatheringbones]

["Dannia and I did several anti-racism trainings together. Our workshop model began in the morning with written personal reflections, moved on in the afternoon to role-plays of interrupting racism, and was supposed to end with a discussion of anti-racist activism. Our most effective ploy was a role play in which a white daughter or son returned home for Thanksgiving and had to deal with the father's racist comments over turkey— a scenario guaranteed to generate collective meltdown. We found that participants became so absorbed in the interpersonal issues that we never got to the activism. Were we starting at the wrong end of the process?

These politics will be recognizable to many lesbians who lived during these years. We had an ideological unity then that did not survive the 1980s, for better or for worse. Class and race divisions did not dissolve so easily in the solvent of our sisterhood. "Sex radicals" raised questions about the nature of lesbian and female sexuality that many feminists, straight and lesbian, had no tolerance to hear, and the "sex wars" tore through the community. AIDS soon began to impact all of our lives. There were deeper schisms among women, and new alliances with gay men. A younger lesbian generation began to shape a different politics in the space that we had worked to open for them.

(...) Lesbian-Feminism in the 1970s taught that you should not work with straight women because they "gave all their [and therefore your] energy to men." After Feminary imploded, I figured, Shit, nothing could be worse than this. That's when I went to a meeting in Durham of the National Anti-Klan Network to hear from Leah Wise, Lauren Martin, and Reverend Wilson Lee that North Carolina had the worst Klan/Nazi movement in the country and they were looking for local people to organize. It was 1983 and I was ready to take the plunge. In this border crossing between the lesbian and feminist and the anti-racist movement, I began to realize how such movements separate people as much as bring them together. I found a compelling and complicated reality that neither race theory and organizing, nor class theory and organizing, nor feminist theory and organizing is capable of handling.

Lesbian-feminism had given me a clear analysis of how power operates among people and in a culture's institutions. But it gave me few of the specific skills I needed: how to put on a press conference, build up a computer database, interact with community agencies, organize white and Black people in small towns and cities, or monitor and call to accountability the criminal justice system. With Feminary, our battle had been largely interior, a psychic confrontation with the lethal forces of the culture as we had internalized them. It was an intense, revealing, but sometimes insular process. The "politics of identity" could easily slip into a politics of victimhood and guilt, its focus more purity of consciousness than effectiveness of social change. By 1983, I had hit the limits of this internal work. (I was not the only dyke to think that lesbian-feminism was dangerously over-literate and under-strategic.) Guided by the people who eventually incorporated North Carolinians Against Racist and Religious Violence, I set to work to learn to organize.

(...) The shit hit the fan about a year after NCARRV had begun our work in Statesville. A woman involved in the national work suddenly brought up gay issues across Flora's kitchen table. Flora and I were friends by that time. I had come out to her the evening she had asked me whether my interest in the Statesville work came because I also had a Black lover. She was on the right track, I had explained, telling her of my different outcast status. "We still love you," she had said, and reached across the table to take my hand.

Okay, I thought when the woman confronted me. You want this discussion, you'll get it.

Soon everybody had fled the room except my opponent, Flora, and me, as I heard how being gay was like being on heroin, and how this particular woman was raising her daughter to be heterosexual, and how she wouldn't want her organization to take a stand on homophobia because it might promote heterosexuality.

"If I ever have a child," I countered, "the main thing I will teach her about relationships is that she deserves love and intimacy and should never let herself be abused. What this is all about— gay rights and these cross burnings to which Flora and Joe have been subjected— is the right of human beings to love."

Flora stayed beside me, nodding agreement.

When I got back Durham, I called Leah Wise to report. Whenever an emergency arise, I could count on her to let me sit down near her desk for five or ten minutes to think it through. It was natural that I take the incident at Flora's back to her. She responded immediately, "This homophobia is like racism; it's got to be opposed." We arranged a further discussion with the woman in question, and Leah came with me for support. On the way back, Leah took the time to share with me all the things she saw me doing right.

I was intensely grateful. "Shit, Leah," I replied, wedged in the seat adjacent to hers on the plane. "I feel like I do not know what I am doing most of the time. All you folks have all this political history, and here I am flying by the seat of my pants."

"Actually, it's better that way," she said. "A lot of times, that other sectarian stuff just gets in the way."

Her ready support in challenging homophobia and her affirmation of my work marked a major turning point for me. If I knew my enemies, I also knew my friends. Perhaps I could stop looking over my shoulder.

Leah affirmed my instincts to build not just coalitions, but movements grounded in relationships. I figured I was doing work on racism and anti-Semitism because it was the right thing to do, and once I laid out the case about homophobia, the people I was working with would do the same for me and mine. I was not disappointed. The result was friendships that come among people who catalyze changes in each other. Our work carried a lot of risk, but the risk gave us occasions to develop substantial trust. I was scared shitless a lot of the time, but I never regretted what I was doing.

After thirty-five years, my life was no longer segregated.

Somewhere in my metamorphosis, I realized that I could not longer settle for "lesbian space" as just one room, or camp, or building, although I was, and am, still grateful for those gathering places. The Reagan era made it clear: there is no separate safety. "Lesbian space" had better be a world where everyone belongs."]

Mab Segrest, Memoir of a Race Traitor, The New Press, 1994

[azenkii]

A Long List of Trash Fire Lord Zuko Headcanons

...that i couldn't get out of my head:

(warning: SUPER LONG POST i havent figured out how to trim posts yet)

he's the one who unchains azula despite iroh's protests. she doesn't even try to fight him, just cries into his shoulder and keeps mumbling about how father's going to be so disappointed in her. he takes her to her rooms and has her drink a sleeping draught, then stations the best guards he has left outside her chambers.

his first council meeting takes place literally a day after sozin's comet. he hobbles into the council chamber shirtless with his entire torso covered in bandages and every council member just looks at him like '...what'

he does NOT sleep for like,,a week after sozin's comet and then another two weeks after his coronation. katara, aang and suki try to persuade him to sleep and he doesn't listen. eventually sokka, toph and mai team up to literally drag his ass to bed and tell him he's not allowed to get up until he sleeps (does mai pin him to the bed with her knives? yes. is it kinky or sexual in any way? definitely not.)

he drinks So. Much. Tea. at this point it's practically tasteless to him but he drinks it anyway because he just needs something to do and tea is something familiar. he keeps iroh on his toes because he's constantly asking for new tea blends, uncle, i think i actually tasted the last one,

he flat-out refuses to grow his hair for at least a year after ozai's defeat. the second it starts getting close to his chin he shears it off himself, with his knife, and his stylist has a heart attack every single time

when he's tired he'll occasionally jump up when one of his guards moves. it stops after a bit, but for the first month and a half or so he's really twitchy. when sokka asks, the only explanation he can come up with is that he's not used to having people stand behind him silently and not want to kill him, much less want to protect him (sokka immediately takes him out for a shopping trip and makes a point of walking behind him the entire time, but only on zuko's right side, where he can clearly see it if sokka moves towards him)

when the healer declares azula mentally unstable and in need of an institution, he shuts himself in his office for the rest of the night. no one's allowed in, not even iroh. he finally emerges in the morning, eyes red from crying and sleep deprivation, and tells the librarian that he'd like a list of the best mental institutions in the country, please, the best in the world if you can get them

he loves theatre (is this even a headcanon?). unfortunately it practically died out in the fire nation along with the rest of the creative arts, leaving nothing but small troupes like the ember island players. one of zuko's personal goals (meaning things he wants to accomplish that aren't as important as restoring his country) is to bring back theatre; he finally manages to do it after about eight months or so of being fire lord, along with other arts like dancing, music and sculpture

he establishes a national day of mourning, on the first day of autumn every year, to commemorate the genocide of the air nomads. from 100AG onwards, every calendar printed in the fire nation has it marked. at first it was called the day of repentance, but aang persuaded him to have it changed (by arguing that he didn't want guilt to be a literal staple of fire nation culture)

he introduces literally So Many educational reforms, plus a mandatory class that teaches students about the cultures of the other nations (air nomads included) and how some of their traditions overlap

he turns down the offer of having a statue put up of him in the capital. toph ignores him and does it anyway.

he visits azula regularly, makes sure she's (relatively) comfortable and well-fed, and sometimes just sits down outside her door and tells her about everything that's going on right now ('some of the far colonies have developed their own standardised writing, azula, you wouldn't believe it, and i've asked the fire sages to come visit more often—but you never liked them, did you? oh, well; i'll make sure none of them go into your chambers by mistake')

(he doesn't know it, but when he does this azula sits by the door and listens. she wonders what kind of writing the colonists have developed, and whether or not the fire sages have taken on some new recruits.)

he hates being above anyone else. never sits in the throne if he can help it, nor does he sit on the dais in the council room. when he talks to people shorter than him, he finds himself stooping a little bit to talk to them on their level (the exception to this rule is sokka, who he mocks for being shorter all the way up until sokka grows taller than him, the bastard)

the first time he visits the earth kingdom, the earth king's ministers call a toast. he ends up being the only one who has to sit out, because he's too young to drink by earth kingdom law

once his servants figure out he won't kill them for talking to him, they start becoming a lot more bold, telling him off when he doesn't take care of himself. at one point, they force him to let them take care of him so much that he literally just bolts into the gardens and hides there until the staff rope in mai and ty lee

when he needs to escape, he does one of two things: (a) he dresses up as the blue spirit and does some parkour until he calms down, or (b) he goes to work at the jasmine dragon. (b) happens less often bc the jasmine dragon's in ba sing se, but there's been a few memorable incidents when an earth kingdom diplomat walks in and yells, 'LEE?!' when they see the fire lord

the first court artist who draws him also happens to be the one who drew azulon and ozai. he draws zuko without his scar. zuko takes one look at it and tells him, very calmly, that he'd like him to leave, please.

zuko burns the portrait. he doesn't fire the court artist, but he never calls on him again unless he has to. a second court artist is called, and can't help but be a bit confused when the fire lord tells him to be sure to include the scar

he forgets the crown. a lot. sometimes he walks into council meetings in his sleepwear with his hair tied up in a messy ponytail and a bunch of scrolls tucked under his arm. none of his councilmen have the guts (or the heart) to tell him that this is not, in fact, formal council wear

he goes to feed the turtleducks when he's stressed. he thinks he's being subtle. he's not. the entire palace knows, and they consciously give him space when they see him in the turtleduck garden

most of his staff are older than him, so they look at him and see this teeny tiny fire lord who is So Small and who Must Be Protected. the day after zuko's coronation, the head chef holds a meeting where they commence Operation Do-Not-Let-That-Boy-Turn-Out-Like-His-Father (subsection He's-The-Only-Good-Thing-We-Have)

one night he wakes up to find suki sitting in his room, decked out in full kyoshi warrior garb and makeup, and just about screams blue murder. suki tells him there are suspicions of an assassin in the palace, and would you please stop yelling it's very distracting, we won't be able to hear anyone coming over that racket

zuko gets very, very paranoid of random spirits after that. yeah, suki looks like a possibly malevolent spirit when she's wearing her makeup, what about it? (when he tells sokka he's highkey terrified of spirit shenanigans, sokka just looks at him and says, 'man, the stories i could tell...', and THAT'S when zuko remembers sokka spent like six months more than he did travelling with the avatar)

on his first visit to the southern water tribe, he removes his boots and leg guards, rolls up his pants and kneels barefoot in the snow. even though chief hakoda immediately starts trying to pull him up, he's stubborn as hell and stays kneeling for the entirety of his very long, very sincere apology-on-behalf-of-the-fire-nation speech. he nearly loses his toes to frostbite after that, and both sokka and katara never stop giving him shit for it

the first time he grows a 'beard' is completely accidental. he's stressed over some trade miscommunications with chief hakoda, hasn't slept in a few days...and then when sokka arrives as water tribe ambassador to help smooth things over, he takes one look at zuko and says 'man, facial hair does not suit you'

zuko: facial what now

he checks a mirror to find that he's got stubble covering his chin, dark enough that it almost looks intentional, and holy gods how the fuck did he not notice this before

'UNCLE WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL ME' 'i assumed you were doing it on purpose' 'WHEN HAVE I EVER DONE ANYTHING ON PURPOSE'

he shaves it all off immediately, of course, which prompts a lot of teasing and rib-poking from sokka until zuko finally snaps that he's scared it'll make him look like his father. sokka stops after that.

(the day after sokka leaves, zuko finds that a mysterious someone has scribbled all over ozai's royal portrait, giving him a frankly ridiculous beard and moustache that literally CANNOT be grown in real life. oddly enough, he can't bring himself to care about the defamation of royal property. he's too busy laughing.)

his paths cross with toph and sokka more than any of the others, because sokka is ambassador and toph is technically still a beifong. most of the time, at formal functions, he ends up sequestered in the corner with toph and a hoard of snacks, and they talk and swear much more than they usually do (zuko's ministers once heard him when he was drunk with toph, and the servants swear the older ministers' ears started bleeding)

he restores fire nation cultural festivals, and in doing so subjects himself to learning a lot of complicated dances

during one memorable week, he wrote so many letters and drafted so much legislation that he ran out of paper. he had to go visit the nearest school and ask for some

he keeps up with his firebending and sword training even though it's hard to fit into his schedule. his ministers refrain from reminding him that he has guards to protect him now; it's still hard for zuko to trust his safety with anyone but himself (team avatar is the exception).

he started sleepwalking about two months into his reign. no one knew why. one time, he nearly sleepwalked right off the edge of a balcony, and one of his guards had to grab him by the back of his robes.

the sleepwalking stopped after around a month and never happened again. at this point it's practically palace legend.

after freeing the war prisoners, he went around collecting every single earthbender-proof wooden cell he could find in the capital and surrounding areas. when he'd gotten most of them, he gathered them into a huge pile in the city square and set fire to them with his own hands.

unfortunately he couldn't do that with the waterbender metal cells but he did get toph to come in and bend them all into pretty shapes (well, toph thought they were pretty shapes. everyone else thinks they're meaningless squiggles)

he learned how to write with both hands at the same time out of sheer necessity (he refused scribes until it became clear that he'd be putting some people out of a job; that was when he started letting scribes write very, very minor things, but all important documents/drafts/letters are still written by him)

he once put the wet end of an ink brush in his mouth instead of the wooden end by mistake. didn't even realise until he bit down to keep it in place and ink went oozing everywhere

when his guards rushed in to find him coughing and spluttering black liquid all over his desk they thought he'd been poisoned but no he's just stupid

on his 17th birthday, his first one after being crowned, he got tackled by team avatar in the middle of the ballroom and ended up at the bottom of a cuddlepile for like ten minutes

this cuddlepile happened at an event that was very much public and very much formal. it was a scandal for weeks

just. fire lord zuko, guys. so much potential

[minniethemoocherda]

Sins of the Past: Day at the Museum

Summery:  A collection of drabbles set in my modern au where the Bad Batch raise Omega after rescuing her from the abusive hands of their mother. In this chapter, Tech accompanies Omega’s class on a trip to the museum. Written for Day 7 of @bad-batch-week 2021. 

Ao3

FF.net

Omega's class were going on a trip to the Museum in the city and they needed parents to help chaperone that many kids. As predicted, not knowing the potential adults looking after Omega, had sent Hunter into an internal panic, so Tech had volunteered to be a chaperone. He had been meaning to see the new space exhibition anyway.

As soon as the morning bell rang, Mrs Organa ushered students and parents alike on board the coach. Tech was planning to sit near the front with the other adults as per social protocol which he remembered from the few trips they could afford to attend when his brothers were at school, when Omega grabbed his hand. Before he could ask what she was doing, she had dragged him further down the coach and pulled him into a seat next to her.

"I do not mind if you want to sit with your friends." He told her, pointing to where Hera and Numa were seated nearer the back.

"I'd rather sit next to you." She beamed at him, leaning her blonde curls against his shoulder. Tech couldn't help but smile back.

As the coach rolled out of the parking lot, he had to admit to himself that he had missed spending one-on-one time with his little sister. He had greatly enjoyed that fist month teaching her at home. To use his intelligence for something more than fixing ancient ovens; to talk about subjects he was actually passionate about to someone who not only listened but constantly asked for more. Although if he was honest with himself, their lunch breaks, curled up on the coach watching old sci-fi movies had been the part Tech had enjoyed the most. When the decision had been made that Omega would go to public school, logically he knew that it was more practical for their work schedule and more beneficial for not only Omega's educational development but also her social. Still, despite seeing Omega every day, he had missed her.

The drive was about an hour long. Tech spent most of it playing on his phone with Omega watching vine complications, completing sudokus and seeing who could get the highest score in candy crush. It reminded Tech of the first day they met, sitting in the waiting room of the police station. How things had changed since then.

Eventually they arrived at the museum. It was old, built in the early eighteen-hundreds out of stone with grand pillars lining the front entrance. Tech guessed that it was probably one of the oldest buildings in the city, if not the state and looked out of place next to the modern high rises on either side of it.

"Alright everyone!" Mrs Organa called out as everyone piled into the main entrance. "Remember that even though we are not on school grounds, we are still representing Alliance Ellemntary. So I want you all to be on your best behaviour, understood?"

"Yes Mrs Organa." Replied the chorus of school children, already distracted by the grand marble floors and gold covered statues of the entrance.

"Good. I want everyone back in the cafeteria by twelve. Until then, as long as you stay within your chaperones' eyesight, you can explore the museum as much as you want. Now go and have fun!"

The students didn't need anymore prompting and Tech had run to keep up with his group as they raced down the hallways.

In his group were Omega of course and his niece Numa, whom Tech had seen more of in the last few months than in the previous ten years of her life. He regretted not having spent more time with the inquisitive young girl. There was also Omega's best friend Hera, plus two boys Tech hadn't met before called Kanan and Cal.

The first exhibition they entered was on American history. Although, Tech thought that it would be been more accurate to have called it American history Post 1492.

A primary coloured display made of puppets, detailed the expedition that lead to America's 'discovery' by Christopher Columbus.

The children crowed around the display, as Numa read the information out loud.

"... and that was how Thanksgiving was created, as a way to give thanks to the Native Americans who gave them food to survive the Winter." She finished.

"Well that is partly true." Tech corrected.

"What do you mean?" Omega asked.

"Yeah that's what's we've been told since kindergarten." One of the boys, Kanan spoke up.

"I mean exactly what I said. That it is partly true. At one of the earliest harvest festival, the pilgrims did share food with the Native Americans in thanks for giving them food to survive the precious Winter. However, Thanksgiving was already a holiday celebrated by Puritans before this event and after it, the Puritans would later declare that Thanksgiving would be held in thanks for and I quote their 'bloody victory' thanking God that the battle had been won over the native pequot people being killing the ones that had helped them only a few years later."

"Really?" Omega wondered out loud, turning back to the display. For a moment, Tech was worried he'd encouraged Omega's the distrust in authority that Hunter was so afraid off, but in her eyes he found only curiosity. Unlike the other children, she hadn't been indoctrinated into this misinformation for their whole lives, and as such was less likely to believe it. Perhaps the only positive of Nala Se's upbringing.

"And why should we believe you instead?" Kanan argued.

Before Tech could speak, Cal piped up.

"Actually I think he's right." He said, fiddling with the ends of his brown coat. "My Foster Dad is pequot. He says the same thing. That's why we don't celebrate Thanksgiving in our house."

Tech nodded in encouragement.

"Thank you Cal. As I was about to say, first hand accounts are more likely to be true. Especially when you can find a different source that confirms the other."

He was worried he might have upset the boys but Kanan appeared to be taking his words to heart.

"Why wouldn't the museum just say that?" Kanan grumbled.

"For numerous reasons. They might deliberately be omitting the misdeeds of their own history or they might not think that children like yourself would not be enough to understand."

"We're not stupid! We can understand it fine!" Omega protested and her friends nodded.

"Yeah!" They cheered un agreement.

Tech smiled. He did not doubt that they could.

The tour through the rest of the history exhibit went much like with the children reading the plaques, debating amongst themselves when the facts didn't quite match up then asking Tech for clarification. Tech was more than happy to expand on the stuff that had been simplified, and in some cases left out altogether. The children listened intently to his words and he couldn't help but feel a swell of pride, when they're eyes lit up in new understanding.

Finally, they made it to the Space exhibit, what Tech had claimed was the reason he'd come in this trip in the first place.

Tech felt like a child himself, staring up at the ceiling of lights resembling the current night sky. Constellations were linked with fairy lights, the galaxy beyond swirling behind them and a projection of shooting stars.

"It's beautiful." Hera said in awe, gazing up at the sight.

"Yeah." Kanan sighed, though Tech noticed that he wasn't looking at the ceiling.

Displays lined the walls, revealing information about the sky above. One discussed the possibility of life on other planets.

"Do you think aliens are real?" Numa wondered aloud.

"No way!" Kanan snorted.

"I do," Hera disagreed. "I'll find them one day when I become an astronaut."

"I mean yeah way actually!" Kanan said, quickly changed his mind.

"What do you think Tech?" Omega asked.

"Studies have already found evidence of bacteria on other planets. I see no reason other that organic lifeforms such as pants and animals shouldn't exist too. Whether any of those lifeforms are intelligent is less likely. Although it can be hard to define if a life is intelligent or not." Tech said with a pointed look at Kanan who was about to climb up the railings to grab at one of the display rocks. The boy smiled sheepishly, stepping away.

After they'd explored the space exhibit which was the only place Tech didn't have to correct any of its information, it was time to find the cafeteria for lunch.

They sat at one of the long designated tables with another group of children and their chaperone. Some of the children bought hot food from the cafeteria, but Tech pulled out the packed lunch Echo had made for him and Omega.

Tech listened with a small smile, as his charges, told the others all that they had seen today. His smile growing bigger when Omega said that she'd learned more from him than the museum.

He left them in the care of the other group's chaperone, who was dressed in an oddly accurate eighteenth century pirate costume for some reason, to treat himself to a coffee. Looking after the kids had been more draining than he thought it would be even if he had quite enjoyed it.

As he waited in the line, Mrs Organa joined the queue behind him.

"I saw you with the kid's earlier. You were a natural with them." She said. "Are you a teacher?"

Tech shook his head.

"I'm a handyman."

"Really?" Mrs Organa exclaimed sounding genuinely surprised. "Have you ever thought about going into teaching?"

"You're a natural with them." Mrs Organa said. "Have you ever thought about going into teaching?"

"No." Tech replied because that was in impossible so there was no point in thinking about it.

"You should."

Tech glanced over to Omega, to find the girl already looking at him. With a beaming smile she sent him one of her signature little waves. Tech waved back. He watched with a soft smile as she returned to chatting with her friends.

"Thank you. But I am happy here."

Following his gaze, Mrs Organa nodded in understanding.

Tech paid for his coffee and bought a hot chocolate for Omega as well.

He later wiped her mouth free of whipped cream when she got it all over face, ignoring her half hearted protests of embarrassment.

After lunch it was time to head back to school. Once again Omega insisted on Tech sitting besides her and the spent the journey much the same way they had on the way there.

Hunter was waiting for them when they stepped of the coach. Tech watched as Omega ran into their brother's arms, Hunter subtly checking her over to make sure she was okay. Tech listened contently as she repeated all she had learnt that day in the car ride home.

They were the only ones in the house when they got home so Tech took the opportunity to have a long shower.

With nothing to distracted him, his mind couldn't help but over think Mrs Organa's word.

Perhaps sometimes he did want more than what life had given him. But that didn't mean he wasn't happy. He loved his brothers. He loved being able to work with them. And whilst working as a handyman for Cid was not his ideal career, he still liked it.

Ninety-Nine had given the four of them more than they could ever repay him for; a childhood, a home and a family.

After spending what little money he had saved on therapy, toys and everything else that not just one, but four growing kids needed, plus part of Echo's medical bills after he moved in with them, Ninety-Nine barely had enough to pay the mortgage let alone college.

Besides, school had never been their forte. Nala Se had taught them the biology of how to clone flies and space faring maths but very little else. The school system never suited them. Hunter did not do well in exams, overwhelmed by his sensory issues that were heightened by his stress. Despite being the moat emotionally intelligent out of all of them, traditionally academically gifted Wrecker was not. And ever the rebel, Crosshair would turn up to half of his exams out of his mind with whatever substance he was currently hooked on then fail the rest on purpose. Of all of them, Tech was the only one who finished school with good grades. Good enough that he could have gone to college, but without the funds necessary to do so and without the desire to leave his brothers even if he did.

Tech shook his head, trying to dispel his thoughts along with the water in his hair. He reminded himself that there was no point thinking about things that didn't happen. As Ninety-Nine had once told him, the best way to love was to simply keep moving forwards.

Done with his shower, he headed downstairs to make a start on dinner, to find Hunter waiting at the kitchen table. Tech immediately knew that he woild be forced to have a talk.

"Omega over heard what Mrs Omega said to you." Hunter said in a way of greeting.

Despite knowing it was a futile effort, Tech still tried to end the conversation by putting a pot of coffee on.

"I meant it." Tech said, busying himself with the kettle so he wouldn't have to look Hunter in the eye. "I'm happy where I am."

"I know. But you could be happier. If you wanted to go to college and become a teacher, you know we would support you."

For the first time, Tech allowed himself to think about what being a teacher would actually be like. A teacher's salary wouldn't be a lot but it would be more than what he earned from Cid. It could be enough to buy Echo a new prosthetic, a bed big enough to fit Wrecker, Omega wouldn't have to worry about not being to afford college herself and-

Hunter's hand on his arm startled him from his thoughts. He hadn't even noticed that his brother had gotten up from the table. Hunter shifted his grip on his arm, this time forcing Tech to look his brother in the eye.

"I wouldn't want you to do this for us." Hunter said, knowing exactly where his mind had gone. "I would want you to do this for you."

So Tech did what he did best. He let himself think. He thought about what it would be like, to teach children like Omega every day. To tach what he was passionate about to those who felt the same. And to help the children like his brothers who never got the support that truly needed from their own teachers. In fact, Tech realised that this was all he ever wanted. That didn't change one thing though.

"How would you get the money?" He asked.

Hunter's gaze drifted for a moment, before his grip on Tech arm tightened with determination.

"I'm going to sue Jango's ass for child support."

[kasienda]

thanks for tagging me in the WIP ask game! i'm still working on my own post, but in the meantime: celebrity status? 👀

This story is basically Marinette having to deal with being a celebrity. She's constantly hounded by fans and reporters wanting pictures or quotes, and it's making it harder for her to find safe places to transform and her parents are constantly frustrated/worried with her for being late or absent to things. On a bad day, she snaps at an akuma victim, and even though she immediately apologizes her snapping is the thing that's all over the internet. She goes to Adrien for help with her PR problem, and they get close. And things improve for her... until someone snaps a picture of Ladybug and Adrien making out. And then to protect him, she kinda throws her own reputation to media wolves. ...

Preview:

"Thank you, Chaton. I never know what to say to reporters. You’re a lifesaver."

"I'm always at your service, my lady." He said with his trademark grin and a two fingered salute.

They were about to part when his cat ears swiveled. So weird!

"We have picked up an extra tail," he pointed with his eyes. She glanced and saw their stalkers.

"Thanks for the intel. I'll be careful."

He waved her good-bye and they took off in opposite directions. Unfortunately, this meant she couldn't go straight home, which is what she wanted more than anything. She just wanted to curl up into a bath.

Her earrings beeped. Three minutes.

Some quick yo-yoing spiderman swings meant that her tail on foot or in a car would never be able to follow her, but she had to always set off in a different direction. She couldn't be seen always headed towards the same neighborhood day after day.

Another beep. Two minutes.

She had lost her tail. But she was in the wrong part of the city - the buildings here were huge overflowing mansions, with wide open spaces. She needed an oasis.

She turned a corner and suddenly knew exactly where she was. She turned toward the Agreste mansion. Adrien had a window open and everything.

Beep. One minute.

She didn't think about it, just quickly dove towards the potential haven. It wasn’t ideal, but it was better than throwing herself at the mercy of some stranger. Hopefully, if she didn't quite make it she'd be able to trust Adrien not to look.

She landed on the smooth marble floor with a thud.

"Ladybug?" surprised green eyes greeted her.

"I'm about to time out," she stated without preamble.

He pointed to his bathroom. She had barely closed the door, when her transformation dissolved, and an exhausted Tikki fell into her hands. She let herself release a sigh of relief. That had been far too close.

"Uh... Ladybug? Are you okay?"

She suddenly realized where she was and exactly who was on the other side of that door. Heat flooded her cheeks.

"I-I'm fine," perhaps she should explain. She opened her purse, only to find it cookie-less. She cursed.

"You sure you're okay? Can I get you anything?"

"Ummm... Do you have any cookies? Or sweets?"

"Cookies? That's not fair..." his words faded into dissatisfied mumbling.

"Y-yeah. Cookies. Is that okay?"

"Just a second!"

His footsteps faded for a second. Only to return a few seconds later. He tapped on the door. And she started.

She opened the door a crack. And his hand slipped in, holding out the treat.

"You're in luck! My diet usually prohibits sweets. But my friend, Nino, occasionally hooks me up with some black market macarons from the best bakery in all of Paris."

Tikki inhaled the pale sandwich cookie in one bite. Before giving Marinette a nod.

"Spots on," and in a flash she felt the rush of Ladybug's power flow over her, somehow making her both less and more anxious. She opened the door.

"I'm sorry for stealing your rare treat. I promise I will make it up to you."

He waved away her concern. "Don't worry about it. I'm always willing to make a sacrifice or two for my favorite superhero."

"Me? I'm your favorite?" she asked, heat blooming under her mask.

"No competition!"

"T-thank you."

They stared at each other awkwardly, before looking away.

"Uhh... Do you mind if I lay low here for a bit? I was trying to lose a reporter who was following me. I'm confident they lost track of me by the time I ducked into your room, but I'm worried they'll keep combing the neighborhood for a while."

"You don't have to explain. I completely understand," his eyes were so soft. Green like a meadow in the spring.

She was struck by his sincerity. Of course, as a celebrity he probably had a lot of experience with dealing with the press. And she let herself relax.

"My room is your room!" he gestured grandly for her to take in the whole area.

She giggled. "I don’t know if this actually counts as a room," she commented, taking in everything from the grand piano to the foosball table to the rock climbing wall to the arcade. "It's more like an amusement park."

Adrien shrugged, some of the brightness in his eyes fading a bit. "My father tries to make sure I never have to want for anything."

"Do you not like it?"

He shrugged again. "It's pretty cool, but what’s the point if there's no one to share any of it with?"

She took another look around. With that context the room felt positively cavernous.

“Sounds lonely.”

He ducked into her line of sight, a smile stretched across his face. “I don’t have to be lonely today. You’re here.”

She blushed, and offered him a shy smile.

“So, what’s it like being a superhero?” he asked.

He was obviously trying to change the subject. She allowed it.

"Flying over rooftops is pretty cool. Constant life or death situations are stressful. What’s it like being a supermodel?"

He laughed. "Lots of responsibilities. Very little freedom."

"Sounds boring."

"Yeah."

"Let's do something fun then."

...

"Why did you come here?" Adrien asked, pulling out a passionfruit macaron from her gift box.

“I may have heard that you were grounded for defending me on the Ladyblog. And wanted to come cheer you up!”

He smiled. “Mission successful then!”

"And uh... this may sound stupid... but I also need some advice."

"Advice? On being a superhero?" Adrien asked with furrowed eyebrows.

"On how to deal with being famous,” Ladybug said.

"So... why'd you pick me?"

"Umm... you're the only famous person I know?" Which wasn’t strictly true, but Jagged Stone wasn’t going to give good advice. And it’s not like Ladybug knew Jagged. Marinette did.

"Glad you think so highly of me..."

"I-I didn't mean it like that! I wouldn't be here if I didn't trust you!"

[diavolosthots]

Hi there! I love your writing so much, your angst is one of my favorites to read because they always hit me in the feels. Can I request a hc or imagine (I can’t remember what they’re called) about Diavolo x Satan where Satan feels insecure because he thinks that Diavolo is with him as he was once a part of Lucifer, who doesn’t hold romantic love for Diavolo. You can add some smut if you want, I’m perfectly okay with the angst either way 😁!

I wrote this and posted it on AO3 first but here it is. Hope you like it anyway!

Warning: like 1 dust crump of slight NSFW if you look hard enough

Love's Poem (SATAN X DIAVOLO)

Love is such an unpredictable thing.It comes so unexpectedly and knocks you over, or it will come gently and embrace you in its arms. Love is also odd. You may feel it strongly, almost too overwhelming, you will find peace in it, almost as if a blanket is draped over your shoulders. Love may come in full force, or it will come agonizingly slow. In Satan’s case, love could’ve been anything, but it was always there, he noted. Despite his exterior and the picture people painted of him, he always wanted to feel it, to experience it, to have it… and only in his books did he ever find it. It’s almost sad, really, pathetic. Or at least, Satan thinks so. A millennia old being holding on to such a childish dream, and yet… he can’t seem to let go of it. He has hope for it and he longs for it, but he isn’t foolish. He won’t blindly reach out for it. “Patience is a virtue.” he says, even if he finds it hard to be patient for a lot of things. He craves to be in love so desperately, laying there day and night with his nose buried in a book that tells of things he has yet to experience. A poem. A poem is what he yearns to create with someone else; a poem of their lives together. 

In all his yearning and waiting and desperation, though, he failed to realize that the poem had long started to be written. He failed to realize its soft touches, its gentle glances, and its sweet words calling out to him. He was so preoccupied with the paper it was supposed to be written on that he failed to notice the ink creating words on it. When he finally did notice, though, it was neither calm nor overwhelming. It was there, and Satan felt as if it had always been, because it had been. Still, when he realized whom he held it for, he was taken aback. Diavolo was never someone he excessively thought about… or so he thought. Diavolo, too, took a while to see Satan in such a new light and only when the two of them shared a moment over some literature did the Demon Lord realize just how deeply he could feel for the fourth born.

But Satan was unsure. He was questioning the demon’s motives, and quite honestly, he was scared. Scared of giving his all only to be left in the dust. To him, as much confidence as he bears and he truly does, coming from the Avatar of Pride himself and all, to himself, Satan was no one special. He’s attractive, very much so, and of course highly intelligent, but he also realizes how much of a brat he can be, or a bore, depending on the day. Diavolo was a manchild with insecurities, and Satan had said that more than once. Yet, their relationship blossomed and Satan found himself quite attached to the man, and vice versa. Diavolo felt like he had someone to confide in, someone who gave it to him straight but also comforted him. Someone he could experience things with and have a calm, peaceful evening with every night. Satan appreciated being brought out of his room, in which he would otherwise have been holed up in, and although he wasn’t after Diavolo for the money, status, or fame, he also appreciated the extravagance that his life brought to him. They balanced each other out, in the most unlikely ways, and both of them knew it.

Still, on one some days, Satan felt more like a shadow than anything. “Lucifer will come by today” again. “You won’t believe what Lucifer told me earlier” yes he will. “Lucifer” this “Lucifer” that. He understands that the two of them are close, after all Diavolo considers the first born his best friend. It angered Satan, though. Was he not enough? Does Diavolo still have to bring up Lucifer when he knows how the former feels about him? It’s not for a lack of communication, either. Satan has voiced his distaste quite a lot and changed the subject on more than one occasion, but a part of him also feels terrible for wanting to keep the Prince’s best friend away. “Satan!” especially when the guy so happily calls his name. “Hm?” It was nice outside, although when is it not in the Devildom. It rarely ever rains or snows or storms, and the temperature is always perfect to the demons. Satan was sitting under one of the trees in the courtyard at the House of Lamentation, reading one of his many books although he had a feeling that won’t last long. “Hm? That’s all I’m getting?” The pout that graced the Prince’s lips made Satan smile and a soft blush tint his cheeks. He looks up at the man, pursing his lips up into a kiss and waiting for Diavolo to take it. This is what he means when he says he wants a romance like in the books he reads. 

Diavolo leaned down to give one to him happily before falling into the grass. Somewhere behind them, they could hear Barbatos gasp, probably because the butler knows just how clumsy his Lord could be, but Diavolo waved him off and laid his head in Satan’s lap, who laid his book on top of Diavolo’s face. “Hey! I came all the way here and I got the cold book?” “You disrupted my reading” all meant in good humor, of course. Diavolo pushed the book off of his face and reached a hand up to brush along Satan’s cheek, which made the latter blush deeply. He’s still not fully used to this type of affection. “Hm… you look so handsome today. Did you do anything special to yourself?” Satan rolled his eyes although he did manage to turn his head and kiss Diavolo’s hand before it moved behind Satan’s ear to scratch it. Satan groaned softly, shivering slightly. Diavolo knows damn well that that is one of his weak spots. “There it is…. Good kitten.” Satan knows it’s a mock and although he’s blushing profusely, he’s also flicking Diavolo’s forehead, making him laugh. “Watch it. Kitten’s can claw.” Diavolo only growled playfully in response. 

“Can you believe us? A few months ago you didn’t even like me.” That’s not entirely true, he was just vary of the Demon Lord for over a few millennia, “and then Lucifer told me to just go for it.” Ah yes, Lucifer. Satan held back the urge to roll his eyes. “And then he said ‘Lord Diavolo, you would be not only blind but also a fool if you let this opportunity pass’ because he knew way more than either of us did.” The hell he did. “And you know what I said?” No, but he’s sure that Diavolo’s about to tell him. “I said, ‘Lucifer, my friend, don’t you worry. I will never take your beloved brother and son without first asking for permission’” Satan’s eye is twitching now and he finally found it in himself to say something, too, “is that all?” Diavolo’s smile slowly dropped when he saw Satan’s reaction and he was genuinely confused, slowly lifting his head from the guy’s lap and looking at him confused, “yes? Is something the matter?” He’s trying. He’s trying so hard not to snap right now so he just closes his eyes and just breathes for a couple of moments, “you know Lucifer said that when you--!” 

A growl escaped Satan and this time he actually did snap, whipping his head around to look at Diavolo. “Yeah? He said that? Must be nice. Anything else he said? Anything else he would like to add to our relationship or does he want to include himself next?!” Diavolo just stared at him blankly for a moment, unsure on how to approach this, “what? No. No, it’ll always be just us.” Blatant. Fucking. Lie. “apparently not! It’s Lucifer this, Lucifer that, and if you want Lucifer that badly, you can go and get him. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to know that he ruined yet another thing!” anger is getting to him and the next thing he says was neither thought out nor actually meant to ever leave his lips, “you’re probably just with me to get back at Lucifer, am I right? Poor little Lucifer wouldn’t give you his heart so you go to the next best thing; me!” Diavolo was taken aback by that last statement and for a moment he just stared at Satan, his mouth hanging open, but it soon turned into a glare. 

“Is that what you think? That my feelings are a lie? If you believe me to be such a liar, why are you with me?” Because he loves him, duh. He hates how much he feels for him but he can’t stop it, that’s why constantly hearing about Lucifer drives him insane. “I only want you, Satan, and I thought I made that pretty clear, but apparently not.” Diavolo sat up on his knees and for a moment he thought the guy was going to get up and leave, but he didn’t. Instead, he slammed his hands flat against the tree Satan was leaning against, glaring down at the fourth born before his eyes soften. “Stop being so jealous of your brother.” “I’m not jealous! You’re the one who only ever talks about him when your attention should be on me!” No matter how nice Diavolo was being right now, Satan is still glaring at the Lord, who turned his head and nodded at Barbatos. For what, Satan didn’t know, but it was for something. “Look at me Satan.” His eyes turned back up to look into Diavolo’s gold ones, holding so much softness and love, “I love you and only you.” 

Satan rolled his eyes and he was about to push Diavolo off and away, but the latter cupped the blond’s face and kissed him softly before resting his head against his. “Lucifer is my best friend, yes, but you’re my lover and if I wanted to pursue anyone other than you, I would’ve, but I didn’t. Don’t be angry.” Although it is hot when Satan gets angry and if this wasn’t such a serious discussion, Diavolo would’ve definitely made a move. The blush returned to Satan’s cheeks and he tried turning his head away, but Diavolo wouldn’t let him. “No. Say it back. I know you do.” Satan mumbled it under his breath because he knows he loves the guy too. “What? What’s that?” “I love you too…” “a little louder, Satan.” The blond glared at him and Diavolo couldn’t help but laugh, kissing him again, this time a bit deeper before he grabbed Satan’s hips and fell back into the grass with him, making sure the demon landed on top. “I said I love you too…” He’s been atop Diavolo so many times, but every time he feels like it’s the first time. “There you go. It’s way easier being honest, isn’t it?” Diavolo’s hips playfully snapped up against Satan’s and the blond’s blush deepened, barely able to steady himself on Diavolo’s chest.

“Whatever… Just don’t forget I’m your only one.” 

[whitehotharlots]

A movement that cannot be criticized cannot achieve positive goals

The hardest part of talking about malignant trends on the broad left is that, well, you’re not allowed to talk about them. It’s no exaggeration to say that criticism has become fully conflated with violence. If you attempt to engage critically with a left-liberal writer--regardless of how thorough and respectful you may be, and regardless of how powerful, public, or insulated the subject of the criticism--you will be accused of dismissing and erasing the writer, of inciting violence against the writer, and of committing some form of genocide against whichever identity groups the writer belongs to.

Conversely, if you don’t provide specifics, you’ll be accused of making stuff up. The same people who claim it’s an act of aggression to ask for proof when they make claims of victimization turn into immense pedants the moment they encounter a heterodox opinion. 

Unsurprisingly, a discourse milieu in which critical analysis is forbidden is a prime breeding ground for unsustainable (and even horrific) behavioral standards. Never mind improving the world that exists outside their sphere of influence... these people are perpetually on the brink of destroying their allies, their institutions, and themselves.

Today I dug into an especially profane case that highlights both of these points. It’s a matter of public record, so I hopefully won’t get accused of “doxing” anyone for discussing it. It’s also the sort of story where if someone cares about it, they’ll have an opinion of it within a second or two of reading a headline describing what happened. This means it’ll only be of interest to the sort of cranks who read this blog. My goal here isn’t to express outrage or advocate for one side or other--although it is outrageous, and you won’t have to try too hard to see which side I favor. Instead, I’m going to try to move beyond that, to use this instance as a broader cautionary tale in regards to the more horrific tendencies of the identitarian left, and to begin formulating some means of resistance. 

In other words, this might get boring. Even more so than usual. 

The story involves a court case, documented here, in which a young man named Kieran Bhattacharya is suing the University of Virginia Medical School. Mr. Bhattacharya (a white supremacist name if I’ve ever heard one) was subjected to formal censure, repeated psychological evaluations, suspension, and eventual expulsion. This all happened because he raised some concerns after a White Fragility-inspired panel on microaggressions.

This is one of those cases where both sides are going to assume there’s a lot more going on beneath the surface and, like I said, are going to be disinclined toward actually reading the available evidence. Thankfully, the court brief is fairly exhaustive and--importantly--the account provided in the brief has received the approval of both plaintiff and defendant. To stress, everyone involved in this case agrees, legally, that the account provided herein is an accurate picture of what happened. Additionally, we also have audio of the initial microaggression seminar (Mr. Bhattacharya’s comments start at around the 28:30 mark), as well as of the pursuant committee meeting that ended in his expulsion. 

Here is the initial exchange, as documented by the brief:

Bhattacharya: Hello. Thank you for your presentation. I had a few questions just to clarify your definition of microaggressions. Is it a requirement, to be a victim of microaggression, that you are a member of a marginalized group? 

Adams: Very good question. And no. And no— 

Bhattacharya: But in the definition, it just said you have to be a member of a marginalized group—in the definition you just provided in the last slide. So that’s contradictory. 

Adams: What I had there is kind of the generalized definition. In fact, I extend it beyond that. As you see, I extend it to any marginalized group, and sometimes it’s not a marginalized group. There are examples that you would think maybe not fit, such as body size, height, [or] weight. And if that is how you would like to see me expand it, yes, indeed, that’s how I do. 

Bhattacharya: Yeah, follow-up question. Exactly how do you define marginalized and who is a marginalized group? Where does that go? I mean, it seems extremely nonspecific.

 Adams: And—that’s intentional. That’s intentional to make it more nonspecific . . . . 

After the initial exchange, Bhattacharya challenged Adams’s definition of microaggression. He argued against the notion that “the person who is receiving the microaggressions somehow knows the intention of the person who made it,” and he expressed concern that “a microaggression is entirely dependent on how the person who’s receiving it is reacting.” Id. He continued his critique of Adams’s work, saying, “The evidence that you provided—and you said you’ve studied this for years—which is just one anecdotal case—I mean do you have, did you study anything else about microaggressions that you know in the last few years?” Id. After Adams responded to Bhattacharya’s third question, he asked an additional series of questions: “So, again, what is the basis for which you’re going to tell someone that they’ve committed a microaggression? . . . Where are you getting this basis from? How are you studying this, and collecting evidence on this, and making presentations on it?”

You can listen to the audio if you like. There’s nothing there, in my opinion, that is not captured accurately in the written description. Bhattacharya does not yell or raise his voice. He sounds skeptical, but in no way violent or threatening. Nor does Adams, the presenter, signal that she is experiencing anything that approaches fear or trauma. 

Immediately after the event, a professor who helped organize the discussion filed a “Professionalism Concern Card”--a cute academic euphemism for a disciplinary write up--against Bhattacharya, alleging he had displayed a troubling lack of respect for differences (the irony here probably does not need to be explicated).

Soon after that--literally still the same day of the panel--Bhattacharya received an email from faculty asking him to “share his thoughts” so as to help him “understand and be able to cope with unintended consequences of conversations.” The tone of the email is polite and professional, but the text hints toward an attempt at entrapment. You’ll see this a lot in woke spaces--invitations to come to an understanding with one another that are, in actuality, attempts to get a person to say something cancellable.

Bhattacharya took the bait, and, well… 

During Bhattacharya and Peterson’s one-hour meeting, Peterson “barely mentioned” Bhattacharya’s questions and comments at the panel discussion. Dkt. 33 ¶ 73. Instead, Peterson attempted to determine Bhattacharya’s “views on various social and political issues—including sexual assault, affirmative action, and the election of President Trump.” 

At this point, the kid was fucked. He soon after had an uneventful-seeming meeting with a dean. Two weeks after that, a separate panel found him guilty of “patterns of unprofessional behavior and egregious violations of professionalism” and strongly encouraged him to seek psychological counseling. 

Pre-Trump, Bhattacharya still probably would have been fine if he had just kept his head down, gone to a couple therapy sessions, and maybe issued an empty apology. Since 2016, however, the rules have changed. An accusation is now absolute proof of guilt and no amount of ablution can save someone in a vulnerable position. 

Eleven days after receiving the ostensible suggestion that he receive counseling, Bhattacharya was informed that he would not be permitted to return to classes until he had been evaluated. A day after that--before even having the opportunity to seek the mandated counseling--he was given a mere 3 hours notice before having to attend another disciplinary committee meeting. 

This meeting found that Bhattacharya’s continuing behaviors were proof that he posed an imminent danger to the campus community, although the committee did not bother to explain what those behaviors entailed. His behavior was simply noted as “unusual” and this was proof that “Any patient that walked into the room with [Bhattacharya] would be scared.” The following day, Bhattacharya was forcibly removed from campus and told he could not return until he had been screened. He was, subsequently, not allowed to receive sanctioned screening, because of his status of having been removed from campus after being deemed a security risk.

Again, none of what I have described is an exaggeration. None of these details are even being contested. 

Now for my own conjecture: the problem isn’t that anyone genuinely believes Bhattacharya poses a threat to anyone’s safety. The problem is that he attempted to question the ideological firmaments of contemporary anti-racist training. These firmaments are protected with aggressive viciousness precisely because they cannot withstand scrutiny. Had Bhattacharya merely scoffed at them, or even if he had been outright condescending and dismissive, he probably would not have received such a severe punishment. The problem was that he was right, and his accusers knew it.

Understanding speech in the manner prescribed by the peddlers of microaggression theory cannot possibly be codified in a way that won't result in arbitrary punishment. Bhattacharya’s experience demonstrates that with horrific irony. 

The assertion here is that the intention of a speech act should have no bearing on how we adjudicate the morality of that speech act--such a point was made repeatedly in the initial discussion, and stressed once again after Bhattacharya’s concerns have been raised. This standard contradicts how we've processed the morality of speech for centuries, but that's what people are very explicitly demanding.

How is this workable, when literally any statement could, conceivably, be considered offensive by at least one individual? This, I feel, was the point Bhattacharya reaching toward. If you were to say, I dunno, "I love trees" to a group of 1000 people, 999 of them could regard that statement as benign. But what if one person takes offense to it? What if they work in the lumber industry, or they were molested by guy in a Smokey the Bear costume? What if that person then files a report accusing the tree lover of offensive speech? Will the speaker be disciplined? Or will the powers that be take intention and effect into account?

Of course, we're not going to criminalize all speech in this way. Like all extreme and broad-reaching disciplinary standards, this one will only be selectively evoked in order to punish people with heterodox opinions and/or those whose presence threatens the status quo. Someone who says something much more incendiary, like "all men are rapists" or "white people shouldn't get social security" would not receive a reprimand regardless of how much offense their statements caused, because they're saying something that's acceptable in our current milieu. And right now, the least acceptable speech is that which shines a light on the manifest flaws and hypocrisies of corporate anti racism. 

Back to my hypothetical example, if the tree-loving speaker was on good terms with everyone, the complaint would most likely be ignored. But if he had said or done other things that for whatever reason displeased the people in charge, the specious accusation could still ruin him. What's worse, the person who filed the allegation of offense might not have even actually taken offense at the statement--they were just looking for a way to get rid of him.

Bhattacharya was attempting to voice legitimate criticisms about a political movement whose suggestions are functionally unworkable and that, even if it were implemented fully and uncritically, does not contain even a hypothetical explanation in regards to how its goals would result in improved racial equality/equity. Because of that, he was cynically labeled dangerous and expelled from a public university. 

You'd think a group that obsesses over power differentials and their own marginalization would have some grasp of this. Regardless of which side you fall into with this particular culture war, it should fucking terrify you that a movement that’s been tasked with addressing pressing social problems is designed in such a way that any substantial criticism is met with aggressive punishment. 

There’s no way you can win if this is you is how conduct yourself. This is why we’re losing. This is why even if you get all the censorship and deplatforming you can ever dream of, even if every major bank and multinational corporatation professes fealty to your movement, you will still lose. Because there’s no way you can win. 

[aprilsrant]

Cariad | Young!Remus Lupin x Slytherin!Fem!Reader.

SUMMARY: (Y/N) absolutely hates when professors make their students work in pairs, but the outcome of this particular project may not be so bad.

WORD COUNT: 2,971, more or less.

REQUEST: can i request another half-blood slytherin reader x remus where she tries to learn welsh for him and i hope you can include smth with the lovespoon! 

This was requested by @cantstopmebitch Thank you so much for requesting something, I hope you enjoy it!

WARNINGS: a kiss? And nothing else I think.

A/N: Please remember English is not my first language, so if there are any mistakes, let me know! In this fic, I’ve used some Welsh words, which I didn’t know a single thing about so I did some research but it may be wrong, so sorry if these are not correct! 

Masterlist.

You can always reblog to help me or request something you’ll like. 

TRANSLATIONS: the title, cariad, means “love, affection, lover, darling”; the phrase fy annwyl un means “my dear one”; and the last one, fy nghariad aur  means “my golden darling”.

Advanced Arithmancy Studies, or simply Arithmancy, was not the most interesting subject Hogwarts offered as an elective course for sixth and seventh years, hence why there weren’t many people taking it, but (Y/N) seemed to be a natural — according to the professor’s opinion — and she loved being good at things without trying too much or else she would lose any interest immediately.  

Sitting down on one of the desks at the back of the classroom, she left her brown leather satchel on the cobblestone floor. (Y/N) watched as the students took their usual seats and started to chat with their partner, but all conversations were shut down by the loud voice of the professor, an old and strict woman who didn’t seem to have control of her voice’s volume as she was always screaming and someone who didn’t have any consideration with those who forgot to do her assignments. 

The minute the woman’s body was an inch inside the classroom, she began to give directions about a project expected for next week and how they would have to work in pairs, (Y/N)’s eyes rolling to the back of her head upon hearing the news. She absolutely detested working with other people for two reasons: the first one being that, if they happen to be from a different House, they would judge her for being a Slytherin; and the second, because she was always the one ending up doing it all on her own, but that was mostly her fault. She wanted to be in control all the time if it was something related to school. 

Once again, (Y/N) was observing how some of her classmates changed desks so they could work with whoever they wanted. No one took the empty seat beside her. She never minded being alone in this class (none of her close friends capable of dealing with the intensity of it or not being too interested in numbers), she was not going to start now. It was better anyways, not having a partner meant less headaches. 

But, apparently, the odds were not in her favor.

A diveleshed looking Remus Lupin crossed the entrance door with his arms full of books, parchments and quills; uniform poorly accommodated and a sad dog look on his eyes, definitely trying to avoid the professor’s rage for being late. His lips curved into a hesitant smile, that to (Y/N)’s opinion came out more as a grimace, and when she thought they all were about to hear a pathetic and improvised excuse from Perfect Remus, the old witch shook her hand into a dismissive gesture and signalised the wooden chair next to the Slytherin girl while she informed him about the task. 

Now that Lupin was beside her, shoulders almost touching, she took a closer look at him. (Y/N) had the impression he was sick because of the dark circles below his dull brown eyes, his skin a lot more paler than usual, and the small noise that left his mouth once he sat down, like his chest hurted. She had also noticed scratches and scars on his neck and cheeks, but kept quiet about them too. It wasn’t her place to ask. 

The first ten minutes passed slowly, neither of them uttering a word, and listening to the expectations the professor had for the project. Well, more like (Y/N) was the one actually listening, because Remus was busy running through his things while leaving them scattered all around their shared desk and muttering curses under his breath. She watched him with a weirded out expression on her face, eyes narrowing and eyebrows furrowing with her mouth pressed on a thin line, while he read the first lines of a parchment and then, obviously not being what he was looking for, leaving it on her side. 

“You forgot the essay, didn’t you?,” she leaned closer to him and whispered in the boy’s ear. He turned around to look at her, but it wasn’t necessary for him to confirm it, (Y/N) already knew she was right. 

Picking her satchel from the floor, she took her own assignment, grabbed one piece of empty parchment and, making sure the professor wasn’t looking in their direction, she muttered a spell under her breath. Instantly, the black paragraphs on her paper copied and travelled to the empty one. With another flick of her wand, some of the words transformed, other changed places and a few of them even disappeared. Grabbing one of Lupin’s parchment that had his calligraphy, and corroborating once more the old witch had her back turned to them, (Y/N) copied his writing style to transfer it to the parchment she had just enchanted. With a proud smile on her face, she handed it to him. 

Lupin’s face was now a little brighter, of course he still had those horrendous bags, but it was an improvement. His eyes wide and shining with interest, his face less tired and his mouth opened in surprise. 

“How did you do that?”

“One of my cousins taught me. Him and his friends had been perfectioning this spell for a long time now,” she mumbled, trying not to catch the other’s attention, while she shrugged her shoulders. 

“That was amazing,” an astonish sound accompanying his words, “thank you, by the way, for helping me.”

“Oh no, I don’t accept thank you’s.” (Y/N) sat straighter on her chair, beaming at him while she crossed one of her legs on top of the other. Before he had the chance to ask what she meant, she spoke again. ”I did you a favor, now you owe me one.”

And after that particular conversation, Remus’s and (Y/N)’s destinies were sealed in an unbreakable and everlasting bond.

That following week was spent in the safety of the Room of Requirement, the place where none of their friends would bother them if they happened to see them together, a Gryffindor and a Slytherin, working together. (Y/N) believed it was stupid at first, not going to the library because someone may or may not catch them in such a forbiden act, but it was all forgotten when the idea that she could become the next target for one of their pranks popped in her head. She had seen what they’ve done to other housemates and she never wanted to be in the receiving end of one. 

The way the Room looked was another major point in why they continued to meet there. (Y/N) had never visited but she had heard about it and how it changed according to your needs. Right now, the chamber resembled a greenhouse, more beautiful than the ones where they had Herbology with Professor Sprout. All kinds of plants covered the walls (not one was the same as the next), coloured carpets underneath old white marble statues and high columns of the same material, reminding her of all the times she’d read a book about Ancient Greece and it’s Gods. In the middle of the Room were two dark red divans, contrasting against the green on the rest of the place, surrounded by piles of books — (Y/N) had the feeling they were all about Arithmancy and Numerology — and, in the centre, a small coffee table made of wood. 

Not even after hours of working in the assignment they were able to finish it in that afternoon. Both of them were perfectionists, ending up in some small arguments about how they should approach certain topics but had also pushed them in coming up with better and more interesting ideas. No one could deny the pair worked marvelously, complementing each other.

To (Y/N)’s astonishment, Remus Lupin didn’t fit the ideal her mind had set a long time ago for Gryffindors. All the ones she’d encountered were boisterous, incredibly annoying, short-tempered and just general prats. The boy with whom she had spent a whole afternoon was utterly the opposite and (Y/N) would’ve discovered that earlier if she’d hadn’t been so prejudiced.  

The day the assignment was due to, arrived quickly than expected and with it came a sudden and small pang of sadness that startled her. 

When she sat down beside Remus, he had made sure of arriving extra early to compensate the professor for the week before, the boy perceived something was off — his superpower according to his three best friends, he was always capable of reading a person perfectly, even if they hadn’t known each other for too long — because of how she was acting, trying too hard to show an unbothered facade but not hard enough for him to not notice.

The truth was (Y/N) didn’t want this class to start since once it was over so would the partnership with Remus. She had enjoyed his calm and warm company, sometimes a little crazy, in the Room Requirement while they worked on the project. And she was one hundred percent sure she would miss the moments when they both agreed on taking a break after many hours of reading and began to talk about nothing and everything, all at once. Was she supposed to forget that he always carried one chocolate inside his bag, and that he’d started to bring one more after their first afternoon studying together? Was (Y/N) expected to ignore the fact Remus wanted to become a professor because he liked the idea of being there for young people in case they needed someone? Was this girl meant to fail to remember about how this boy had asked his mum to teach him Welsh so they, mother and son, could have one more thing in common? 

When the professor dismissed them, not without praising (Y/N)’s and Remus’s essay first, he noticed the girl next to him hadn’t even smiled at the mention of how perfect they’d worked. Now he knew for sure something was wrong with her and Remus Lupin was not the kind of person who saw his friends feeling down and did nothing about it. 

Following her across the corridor, he tried to catch her attention but she was either not listening or down right ignoring him. Finally being able to reach her, Remus grabbed her arm softly and called her name in a whisper. She turned around, head low and eyes fixated on her jet black loafers, not looking at him. 

“Are you alright? Because if something happened, you can talk to me,” Remus asked in a faint voice, almost swallowed by the noise the other students in the hallway were making, moving his hand towards her shoulder and rubbing tenderly the fabric of her grey sweater that covered her skin, “I know we hadn’t been friends for too long, but you can come to me for anything you may need.”

(Y/N) raised her head after hearing the last part.

“We are?” An incredulous look appearing on her face. “We are friends?”

“Of course we are, (Y/N),” Remus announced while letting out a snicker, as if the thought of the two of them not being friends sounded ridiculous in his mind, “I wouldn’t have shared my chocolate with you if we weren’t. And as a half blood… you are one of the few people who actually understands my movie or book references from the muggle world.”

Her mood better now that she knew Remus considered her a friend and for once since she initiated her education at Hogwarts, she was glad the Arithmancy professor had made them work in pairs.

|||

Weeks and months passed by, and with each one of them the friendship between Remus and (Y/N) grew stronger. There were still several things the Gryffindor was not ready to discuss, like him being a werewolf, his other friends becoming animagi to help him during the nights of a full moon; the creation of the Marauder’s Map and how much he wanted to kiss her whenever she began to ramble about a subject she was really passionate about. He kept quiet, and for several months he came up with excuses, not only for the scars and the nights on the Infirmary, but for the random loss of concentration every time she was too closed to him, cracking up a joke or cursing at the professors for thinking they couldn’t have five minutes without being buried in assignments and deadlines. 

His feelings, unknown to him, were not one sided. 

(Y/N) wasn’t one to go for the boys she liked, she was used to just admiring them from afar, never making the effort to start a conversation and she was fine with it. But Remus was a whole other story. She knew him, and his fears, and the books he would read over and over again, and how much of a good friend and amazing person he was. And all of that made it even harder for her to take that quick but impossible last step. Her friends had been trying to make her pursue him since the moment the Firewhisky in her system led her to overshare. They’d said he felt the same and for a moment she believed it, but long nights of overthinking convinced her that Remus was just being kind to her, his specialty.

She tried to push her feelings away, to calm her heart that couldn’t stop jumping whenever she saw him smiling, to control the sweat on her hands every time he whispered something funny in her ear; to put a stop to the flips her stomach suffered the moment he said her name; to even her breathing on the occasions he would utter random Welsh words — one of the reason why she started to learn the language four months after their friendship began —  to see her confused expression. 

One night after a long and stressful day in the midst of their seventh and last year at Hogwarts, while the last quarter moon shined down from above them and illuminated her features, Remus Lupin decided he would honor the reason he was supposed to be in Gryffindor.

Taking a small object from the pocket of his trousers and releasing a shaky breath, he took (Y/N)’s hand to catch her attention. She turned around, looking away momentarily from the moon and the stars, the things she admired the most, grinning softly at him with such alluring eyes.

“I don’t know how to say this and what I’m doing is barely planned, and so many things could wrong but…,” Remus started, taking a large gulp of air before talking again, “I can’t help myself with you sitting there like that.”

She didn’t respond, understanding there was something bugging him and that it was crying out for someone to just let it out.

“I like you and not as a friend, I mean, yes, I do like you as a friend but I also like you as much more than that,” he confessed briskly, shortly after closing his eyes and chewing his bottom lip, “and I did this for you.”

(Y/N) took the tiny object silently, not knowing what to say, and held it up towards the sky so the moon would cast a light upon it. 

The minute she realised what it was, she confirmed that Remus’s feelings were the same as hers. With a large smile on her face, she traced her fingers delicately across the wooden figure. It had an intricate design, with two hearts in the middle and two fine lines lacing with each other, reminding her of a simple braid. On top of the heart, were three threads forming a knot.

“It’s a lovespoon, isn’t it?,” she mumbled just to be sure this was all truly happening. Remus nodded, still not knowing if she liked him too, “It’s gorgeous, Rem.” 

Locking eyes with her, he didn’t need her to say she liked him back because he already knew the answer. (Y/N)’s eyes were brimming with a few tears, holding such intense emotions and staring at him the way his mum did whenever his dad was in front of her. 

“I like you too, fy annwyl un,” she confessed back. A laugh escaped his mouth while he shook his head.

“Since when do you know Welsh, fy nghariad aur?”

“I learned it to impress someone.”

Remus leaned his body closer towards her, putting his hand over her cheek and running his thumb gracefully across it. Both of them shift their weight at the same time to be nearer each other. 

(Y/N)’s heart shaking violently in her chest, anticipating what was going to be her first kiss. 

“Remember that favor you owe me since last year?,” she reminded him. Their warm breaths mixing, lips so close and yet so far away. Remus nodded slightly as his hand descended from her cheek to caress cautiously one of her bottom lip’s corners. His other hand travelled to the back of her head, intertwining slowly with her hair, “well, I’m asking for it now.”

He smiled while their lips brushed against one another. Taking the lead, Remus finally pressed their mouths together. And it was everything and so much more than she had ever imagined. Eyes closed but still capable of seeing a mixture of red bright fireworks and shining stars.

One of her hands, the one clutching the lovespoon tightly, stayed put on his arm, while the other moved towards his neck, not knowing where else to leave it. Instantly, Remus dropped his hand from her cheeks to her waist, pulling her closer and almost sitting her on top of his lap. He moved her head slightly backwards, making (Y/N) to open his lips more and allowing him to explore her mouth with his tongue. 

None of them cared about what the rest of the school would think when they entered the Great Hall, hand in hand, a dark brown lovespoon decorating (Y/N)’s satchel.

Under the moonlight, no one else had felt more alive than them.

[princess-of-the-corner]

Can't draw right now but I wanted to make some Danny Phantom OCs. So have Vesta and Sasha. Individual info under the cut

Vesta:

Vesta is a Ghost. She died in the mid-2000s at age 13.

In life, Vesta was a teenage paranormal investigator. Well on her way to becoming a Ghost Hunter.

Unfortunately, she died while investigating a haunted house. Which was real awkward for the Ghost that killed her.

As a Ghost, Vesta is like a (relatively) harmless version of Skulker. She hunts down interesting Ghosts, Ghost-adjacent beings, or Ghost Hunters. But instead of killing them she wants to take pictures, interview them, and get their autographs.

She can be a bit much though, if there's multiple reasons she wants your autograph. She had Danny sign many times for things like "being from a famous family of Ghost Hunters", "being Phantom", "being a Halfa", "becoming the Ghost King", "being the first Halfa Ghost King", etc. She also nearly exposed Danny's secret identity when trying to get autographs from the rest of the Fentons.

She also has no sense of danger, as not only will she enthusiastically approach Ghost Hunters, but she'll approach more dangerous Ghosts. Like, she is trying to figure out how to convince Clockwork to let Dan out for 5 seconds just to get an autograph.

Aleksandra 'Sasha' Masters.

Sasha is from the Alternate Timeline we see in the episode"Masters Of All Time", where Jack was hit by the proto-portal and developed Ghost Powers, while Maddie married Vlad instead. Quite obviously, Sasha is Maddie and Vlad's daughter. I am sliiiightly rewriting that episode mostly to include her because god they should've done that but I understand the time constraints.

She's the same age as Danny, since it took a few extra years for her parents to get together.

Sasha did inherit Vlad's need to be a dramatic motherfucker, smug attitude, and stubbornness. However, she did get Maddie's more solid morality, her intelligence, and overall ability to be the one person in the room with a brain cell.

Sasha knew her parents' marriage was... Off. That Maddie didn't 100% love or trust Vlad, and that Vlad's idea of love was very obsessive and controling. She can't do much but try to ignore it.

Both Maddie and Vlad were secretly still researching Ghosts, and both involved Sasha. However, while Maddie does what she would with Danny and Jazz in the original Timeline, Vlad's research is more experimenting on her, which results in her becoming a Halfa and being subjected to even more tests to see what all she can do and handle. Maddie has no idea about that, other than the fact that Sasha tends to set off weapons when she's included in research.

Sasha's status as a Halfa is revealed during the rewritten episode, when Danny shows up in her life and reveals a lot of other secrets.

I have to rewrite the episode, but it will have a more solid ending to the fight, though there's still more to go. But after that a lot of things change for them.

Maddie kicks Vlad out and takes pretty much everything in the divorce(mostly out of spite). Maddie and Jack are reconnecting and beginning to build a new life together. Sasha and Jack actually get along very well, especially on the "both became Halfas" thing. Sasha also ends up sometimes taking trips to the Ghost Zone and asking Clockwork to let her visit Danny's Timeline.

So yeah she can show up and stuff in the Original Timeline. Not often, and rarely when "needed". But she likes getting to know her alternate timeline half sibling.

[numberonephantompizza1]

Poppy Fanfic: “Ask Her”

For context: This is a fanfic I wrote in order to join the Poppy Milk dev team and show off my writing skills. Since the callout at the time said we’d need to write a lot of sidequests, I wanted to ask the question of what a Poppy-centered side-quest would be like. I got the idea that it would be from an Asker’s perspective, and everything sort of came naturally after that. Even though I’m on the dev team right now, it’s not canon to Omega Timeline: Poppy’s Story and even has some inaccuracies that contradict canon. With that said, please feel free to read the story below the cut.

---

You noticed something very different inside your room when you woke up. The lights were off and the sun hadn’t yet risen, but there was a certain… aura, coming from your door. You were filled with a certain trepidation, but… you approached it. It was hard to see in the light, but it looked… grey. 

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you stepped through...

...and found about the last person you would’ve expected. The spitting image of Frisk - CORE!Frisk, that was, looking up at you, in the middle of a white void.

“Wh- You’re real?!” you asked, dumbfounded.

“Of course I’m real. Have you been taking all this multiverse stuff for granted? Everything is real somewhere,” Core answered, simply. 

“I… I don’t… and you, me…” you panted, starting to feel a small panic attack coming on.

“Focus,” Core snapped their fingers, grounding you back in reality. Okay, this was happening now.

“Let’s get down to business. Simply: you don’t like me. And I don’t like you. But we BOTH like Poppy. Poppy, my dear, sweet angel… has unfortunately recently come to the realization that Askers ALSO exist in the multiverse. And now she wants to do a ‘meet n’ greet’ with one of her fans. Trust me, I TRIED to talk her out of it, but she can be darn persuasive when she wants to be. And as you’re now realizing, that’s where you come in. 

“I wanna make you a deal. You play along with whatever Poppy wants until she gets bored of this. If you’re on your best behavior - and that means, don’t give her anything bad, don’t tell her anything you KNOW she shouldn’t know, don’t use any magic, and be a general good influence - if you play nice, in exchange, I will allow you to hang out with ANY resident of the Omega Timeline. 

“Want to spend a day full of wacky hijinks with a Papyrus, or even an Underswap Sans? Consider it done. Want to know how Deltarune Chapter 2 plays out ahead of time? I know a Susie with your name on it. Whatever you want, so long as you play by the rules, and don’t ask for anyone obviously ridiculous. So… do we have ourselves a deal?”

You contemplated that offer, and everything that was happening, trying to suppress your inner urge to geek out for just a few moments. The Omega Timeline, Poppy, and all the AU’s you could think of and more were real. And you just got an invitation to visit them.

“Yeah, of course!” you nodded excitedly, though your enthusiasm only seemed to make Core more anxious.

“Don’t make me regret this…” Core sighed, as the whiteness seemed to melt away into a cozy-looking house with wooden floors and lime walls, where you were standing directly outside of a white door. Core seemed to have disappeared.

Technically, there was nothing stopping you from exploring. So you did just that. You walked up to a shelf with some family photos. One was a photo of Poppy, Core, Dusted and Rust all together, in some meadow, looking happy. At least, you assumed Dusted and Rust were happy, they didn’t show up well on camera. There was another photo of Poppy alone, looking somewhat younger than she did on the blog, seated on a chair in a photo that looked far more staged. She held an actual poppy flower in her hand and smiled brightly.

You opened the cabinet doors, curious of what knick-knacks you might find in there. Some crayons, a few random glass cups, some art by 3-year-old Poppy that was so poorly done its meaning was hard to decipher, and a locked box. You reached for the box--

“Getting a bit sidetracked, aren’t we?”

You jolted up, and faced Core behind you. Even though they were child-sized, they crossed their arms with the poise and authority of a stern parent. You laughed anxiously. “Ahahaha… ahaha… ha……..”

“...Strike one.” Core said, and vanished. The meaning of that was all-too clear. Deciding not to dilly dally any longer, you went to the room you suspected to be Poppy’s, and knocked. 

“Just a sec!” Poppy said, and opened the door. She looked up at you, and gasped. “Wow, Granpa really did come through…!” She twirled excitedly. “You must be my adoring fan, aren’t you?” she asked.

You stared down at the girl in stunned silence.

“To be honest, I kinda figured you’d be some gray guy with sunglasses, but that’s kinda silly in hindsight. How you doin’?” She asked that last line in a mock accent as you continued to stare.

“Baby,” you said.

“What?”

“Nothing,” you quickly tried to change the subject. “Yeah, it’s… y’know, it’s great to be here…” You clasped your hands together, biting your lip. You were in an Undertale AU, faced with the AU granddaughter of another AU character. You still weren’t entirely over that. Was this fever dream? Fandom heaven, or fandom hell?

“I know! Once I heard you guys weren’t from the Omega Timeline, I realized I hadn’t met even ONE of my fans… even if you guys are super annoying some of the time.” 

“Uhhh, yeah…” you wondered if you should apologize on behalf of the askers who put Poppy in the hospital that one time. Then again, it seemed kind of awkward, and it might have been best not to bring that up while Core was watching, which was always. Looking down at the cutesy girl, it was almost tempting to pull her into a hug, but you managed to keep your composure. 

“I wanted to do something a little more special than just some sorta interview, though, because you ask me questions all the time anyways,” Poppy said. “Granpa said you’ve never been to the Omega Timeline before, so I wanna give you the big tour!” Poppy went to the door. “I’m gonna be outside when you’re ready!” She left the room.

Seeing the empty room in front of you, you were tempted to snoop again, but you’d learned your lesson after last time. You headed straight out after Poppy.

You couldn’t help but gasp in awe of the serenity of the great outdoors as you were beckoned to it. You’d been outside before, obviously, but everything just looked so… nice. The blue sky, the grassy grounds, the ornate buildings… you’ve seen this place in pixel art and a couple drawings before, but seeing it with your own eyes was another story. And the next thing for you to nearly faint at was seeing the Undertale characters running around, Sanses, Undynes, Frisks, even goat moms. 

Poppy smiled. “...It’s nice, isn’t it? I KNEW taking you on a tour was a good idea.” She smirked. “Now remember, just because this is a meet-up doesn’t mean it’s free, and there WILL be a fee at the end of our ride.”

“...Uh… I left my wallet at home,” you said, patting your pockets, “And I don’t have any, uh... ‘G,’ I think. Unless the G stands for ‘Gratitude,’ amiright?” you did finger guns.

“G stands for Gold,” Poppy corrected you bluntly, unamused. She returned to her chipper attitude just as quickly, though. “Now, let me show you around!” She led you down the street. 

Walking with her, seeing so many versions of your favorite characters in the flesh, walking around… well, the temptation to talk to SOME of them was irresistible, Core be damned. You did resolve not to go too far off-track, but you shared some words with the folks you passed by, Poppy thankfully stopping each time you did. You met two Frisks - one boy, one ambiguous - an Underswap Undyne, a human version of Toriel, and surprisingly, a version of Princess Peach.

You and Poppy approached an elegant fountain, stood upon proudly by a statue of a mustachio’d CORE!Frisk. “This is the Timeline Plaza! It’s sort of the local park, where people meet up to do... stuff. Just hang out. Make a picnic. Play ball. All that good park-y stuff, y’know? And there’s stores in all directions, so it’s pretty good.” She proudly showed off her home to you, with a smile.

You talked to more on the way to the next place. An Inverted Fate Papyrus. A weird Ralsei who said his name was “Noyno.” An Asgore wearing a hoodie, who you assumed was swapped with Sans. (Poppy did scold you a little bit for this, telling you that just because someone has a hoodie you shouldn’t assume they’re swapped. You apologized.)

“This is Grillby’s! One of them, anyways. The nearest one to my house. It’s pretty good if you want an OK burger. Sanses love the place, though. It’s… kind of unhealthy. And a little gross.” Poppy said. “Especially when they just drink… raw… ketchup.”

“Can’t handle a little ketchup?” you smiled mischievously. “We drink it by the gallon back in my universe,” you lied.

“...I really hope you’re joking,” Poppy said, alarmed.

“Am I?” you smiled brighter.

“...W-well, we’re not going in there, so you can FORGET about drinking that much ketchup!” Poppy said, afraid of the sheer power of your ketchup-drinking.

You and Poppy moved onto the next spot. You met an Underswap Alphys who seemed to be trapped in a red-and-gold palette. You met a robot dressed as a circus ringmaster, who claimed to be a Chara. You met a Dummy dressed in a Frisk shirt. (You didn’t assume it was swapped with Frisk this time, which turned out to be a mistake, because it was.) Poppy stared at you awkwardly now, wondering why you were talking to all these random strangers. Finally, you and Poppy reached your next destination.

“The theater! Where we show off all the greatest hits! Including MY movie, which, not to brag, but it’s--”

Except, you’d been distracted by a hyperdeath Asriel, and were ignoring Poppy for the moment.

“...” Poppy spoke up. “That’s what I don’t get about you.”

“Huh?” that seemed to wake you up, and you looked at her. 

“Everytime it’s always, ‘have you met Underswap Sans,’ or ‘have you met JangoTale Frisk,’ or some other weird thing. You always ask that. But… they’re just people. Why do you always assume I know some random Sans or Frisk or someone?”

“I…” you were a bit taken aback. “...I don’t… we don’t assume you know them, they’re just… they’re just important.” 

“Important?” She asked. “...I-I mean, yeah, EVERYONE’s important, but, I don’t really get what you mean…”

“They’re all--” You paused, trying to collect your thoughts, think of everything you knew from the blog, and tried to actually talk to her. “...They’re like friends to me. Kinda.”

“...You guys are friends with them? I thought you were stuck in your world…” she frowned.

“No, it’s like-- I’m not ‘friends’ with Underswap Frisk, or-- or Storyshift Frisk, or Shifty or whatever, I’m just friends with… Frisk.”

...Poppy stared at you like you just said the ground was turning to jelly, or something equally bafflingly inane. “...I… think you’re confused. Look, sometimes newcomers struggle with this. Your Frisk isn’t the only Frisk--”

“I know! It’s… You don’t get it. This world, these worlds are so special and creative, and they mean a lot to me. I know we can be really edgy, and I know we ask weird questions about Dusted and Rust, but that’s all because… because...” you paused.

Poppy looked, seeming upset about hearing her siblings mentioned in the context of ‘edgy’ questions, not seeing what you were seeing. Core, standing behind her, holding up a hand signal.

The number two.

You were getting carried away. You overstepped.

“...Um… I’m sorry.” You pulled her into a hug as Core vanished. “There’s really no reason for us to ask those questions. We can just be dumb sometimes.”

“...” She hugged back. “Yeah, it’s okay. I knew you guys were super weird and dumb before I convinced Granpa to let you in here, so I guess I should’ve seen this coming,” Poppy smiled, regaining her confidence as you did your best to not be offended at being called weird and dumb.

“Okay! I think I have just one last stop in mind to cap this tour off on a high note! Literally, hehehe…” She giggled mischievously. This time, you didn’t stop to talk to others, following her directly as you approached a peak overlooking the town. For yet another time, and probably the last, you couldn’t help but ogle at the town’s beauty. “Pretty good, right?” She sat down.

“Ha… with all the climbing, I was worried we’d fall down a mountain,” you joked. Poppy seemed to roll her eyes, as you sat beside her. “...I guess I get how you can call this place home. I mean, once I stop nerding out, anyways. You don’t see stuff like this in my… reality.”

“Just gallons and gallons of ketchup, huh?” she commented. You couldn’t help but laugh. 

“Yeah.”

And you two just stared into the distance for a while. ...She wasn’t just a character. She was a human being.

...Or, technically just a ‘being,’ scratch the human part. Still, you felt a bit desensitized to all this. And so did she. You related in that way.

“I can’t say you exactly passed with flying colors, but you fulfilled your end of the agreement well enough.”

Without any warning, you were back in a white void with CORE!Frisk, just like before. You almost forgot about the deal you made, what with all the time you spent with Poppy. You stood.

“Uh… yeah. So, my reward…” you drifted off, remembering the offer Core gave you. The chance to meet just about any AU character of your imagining… or at least, any that would be peaceful enough to be in the Omega Timeline. Which still left a WIDE variety of options…

Who did you want to see? What mattered most to you?

...

Thinking deeply… you told Core their name.

“...Oh. Really? Well, I guess it makes sense for you that you’d want to see them,” Core remarked. “I can’t guarantee they’ll give you what you’re looking for, but a deal’s a deal. Let’s head off.”

You and Core went somewhere else.

---

And that’s all she wrote! If you read this far, thank you. Working on the game since then has been fun, and I think you’ll like what we have in store. Until then, ciao.