#anyways time to bring back the pizza thread

[weathrs]

        gale  is  sitting  on  the  edge  of  their  bed,    hot  tears  burning  in  her  eyes  as  his  gentle  voice  flutters  into  her  ears.    god,    he  was  so  patient  with  her.    she  didn't  deserve  it.    all  of  her  suppressed  feelings  were  manifesting  themselves  in  a  verbal  bite  that  would  turn  anyone  else  away  without  a  second  thought.    yet  he  doesn't  budge.   she  sighs,    blue  eyes  lifting  to  meet  the  warm  brown  of  his.    "    i'm  sorry.    "    it's  a  genuine  apology  and  shows  in  the  way  she  intertwines  their  fingers  together  when  she  reaches  for  his hand. a gentle pull acts as her  wordless  way  of  asking  him  to  come  sit  next  to  her.    gale  thought  she'd  have  gotten  used  to  the  aftermath  of  these  attacks  by  now,    but  the  spree  fifteen  years  since  the  original  still managed to  send  her  on  an  emotionally draining  journey she wasn't prepared for.

        "     i  don't  actually  want  you  to  leave  me  alone.    "    there's a soft, watery smile as she  releases  her  legs  from  underneath  the  t-shirt  she'd  snagged  from  dewey's  drawer  and  pulled  over  her  knees.    "    remember  when  you  said  i  bottle  things  up  too  much?    "    a  truth,    and  a  fact  anyone  who  knows  her  even  slightly  has  come  to  realize.    and  dewey,    well,    he  knows  her  better  than  anyone  else  ever  has.    "    i'm  pretty sure  that's  what's  happening  right  now.    "

where  is  all  this  coming  from  ?  @dewyriley

[idyllcy]

spiderman!Leon is on the brain... i am not immune to mari's art

spiderman!Leon who's got the fattest crush on you in school, fighting every thread in his body to not go insane

spiderman!Leon who juggles his books in his hand when you even glance at him, face flushed red and ears on fire

spiderman!Leon who's absolutely exhausted from spiderman duties, noticing that you're equally exhausted in classes. His fault, oops

spiderman!Leon who drops by your apartment after you dragged him the first time, wounds fixed always by you with a grumble

spiderman!Leon who calls you "pookie" and whom you call "princess", thanking you by bringing you pizza at ungodly hours of the night, as the two of you huddle on your bed to binge another movie

spiderman!Leon who dreams of a super cute reveal while watching said movies — you know, maybe saving you from a fall or something

spiderman!Leon who's identity is revealed to you at 3am on a gauze run for you and an undressing session for him, your eyes wide as he blinks at you, flustered, dying, horrified.

"...Le—" You decided that blurting out his name is probably not the smarter thing to do, staying still as you wait for him to react instead, watching as he holds his breath, puffing his cheeks and looking away.

"You weren't supposed to know."

"Are you going to start calling me pookie at school now?" You raise a brow, laughing when he shoots a web out of his hand to leave. "Hey, hey! Don't just leave me hanging!"

"I'm embarassed." He mumbles, holding his face through the mask he's decided to put back on. "Oh, god. I'm so embarrassed. This is now how I envisioned the reveal."

You laugh, stepping up to him as you drop the supplies on the ground, reaching for his face as you reach to peel it off. "Can I?"

"Well, you already know anyway." He mumbles, and when you reveal his face, he's got an god-awful pout you just want to kiss away and a blush that could power a nuclear reactor. He's so cute you could kiss him.

"What did you envision the reveal to be?"

"Maybe one of those spiderman shows we both watch..." He mumbles. "Definitely not this."

"Did you wanna sneak in an upside-down kiss in too?"

He pouts, and you laugh as he huffs.

"I'll let you kiss me next time you get injured— do NOT go and get injured right now." You clarify. "We can swing back for a movie, but do NOT go injuring yourself."

He huffs. "How'd you know?"

"You're my spiderman, princess."

He pauses. "Hey— wait, I'm not a princess—"

"Meet you there!"

"Hey, I said—"

You're off with a wave, grocery bag in tow as he yells after you.

He's not a princess!

[oneatlatime]

Lake Laogai

This Lake had better have Appa in it. With little water wings on.

Skipping the commentary as usual.

The Previously On section suggests that a whole lot of plot threads are about to crash into each other. Strap in folks.

Lefty Sokka!

Beat up Sokka quota fulfilled by his sister's critique of his art skills. It's not like he had paper to practice with at the South Pole.

Sometimes I forget that Aang is 12, then he does something like attempt to rescue his pet from a nefarious city-wide conspiracy of silence with lost cat posters.

"Good tea is its own reward." That means no, he isn't paid enough.

Remember what I said in my last post about Iroh bringing too much attention to himself?

"senior executive assistant manager" someone on the writing team has worked retail I see. Nothing like meaningless promotions with no raise attached! It's right up there with employee pizza party.

I have to pause here and point something out. This whole scene with Iroh? This is an adult fantasy. I don't mean dirty, I mean this whole scene was put in specifically to appeal to the adults who got roped in to watching this kids' show by their children. A rich man walks through the door of your shitty retail job, immediately spots your natural greatness, and offers you a much better paying job with unlimited creative freedom and a better house to go with it? Find me a burnt out retail worker who hasn't conjured up this fantasy five times a shift.

And so the plots come crashing back together. This won't end badly.

"patience really pays off" I checked. He waited literally three seconds.

Shout out to Toph in the background playing catch with a ball she can't see. Casual flex of epic proportions.

Remind me never to go to Lake Laogai. Sounds like it's lousy with Ju Dees.

So the Ju Dees don't know about each other? Because she seems honestly confused. Does Ju Dee think she's the only Ju Dee? What happens if two Ju Dees run into each other in the street?

Posters are illegal but I haven't heard a peep about recarving a bunch of fields into a zoo.

This is maybe the second time Aang's blown up over Appa. Frankly he deserves more blow ups about the whole situation.

I don't think knocking down walls will help find Appa, but I applaud Toph's spirit.

They took out a whole wall and then exit by the door anyways. That's funny.

I really hate this guy, but I have to admit that he may be the first truly competent villain of the series.

'The Jasmine Dragon' also lets anyone with half a brain know that you're Fire Nation. Try the Jasmine Badgermole instead.

Zuko really can't catch a break, huh? He wasn't happy being a tea server, but at least he was resting. But every time he gets five minutes to himself, the main plot reappears to drag him back into the action, whether he wants to or not. Although he hasn't figured out that he doesn't want to be dragged back yet.

Every line of dialogue in this scene is a good point. Zuko's right, Iroh's right. The Zuko's right again, then Iroh's right again.

YES YES YES GET HIS ASS

That was satisfying!

I'm not understanding why Sokka is the voice of reason here. Is he incapable of holding a grudge? He's the one that had all the animosity with Jet to begin with. Shouldn't it be Aang who wants to hear him out?

Toph is a living lie detector now? I can't think of an example off the top of my head, but I'm sure that could have come in handy previously. Any other incredibly useful skills we should know about?

Jet is oddly defensive for someone who claims to know he did wrong.

Ever get so excited that your spine malfunctions?

Sokka just has a metre long map in his pocket. Good friend to have in a pinch.

Avatar first! Katara is rude to an old person!

I'm going to have fun with Toph's new ability.

Toph, you have never been more right. It is the worst city ever. You are really shining this episode.

I know this is a serious scene, but I need to point out that Jet's guyliner is on point.

This shot is jarringly out of place. I think it's because it both black and white, and live action. Those have to be real clouds.

So the Blue Spirit can talk after all. Careful, your Zuko is showing.

Wow Zuko is good at sewing. And fast too.

Sokka is having far too much fun with this whole 'prompt Jet's memory' thing. Maybe he does have a bit of a grudge after all.

Katara can reverse brainwashing now too? Everyone's levelling up this episode.

This scene with the planks is a very cool and disorienting visual.

Didn't have 'the gaang breaks into a brainwashing facility' on my ATLA bingo card.

Pretty.

OMIGOD IT'S AP- did Zuko just break the fourth wall?

Everyone always forgets to look up.

So this fight is going to be Toph v. all of the Dai Li while everyone else tries not to get in Toph's way.

That's a boat.

Toph could probably take all these guys out faster if she wasn't having to constantly break off to save everyone else from them.

The Dai Li prancing up walls is a really cool visual. It's very Ty Lee of them.

I love watching her work.

Why don't you let Long Feng escape? He's no longer threatening you, and you're down there to rescue Appa. Just let him go.

The security on Lake Laogai is a joke.

Big words from someone who also had no plan whatsoever at the North Pole.

Zuko knows that Iroh's right. He knows, and that's important. I don't think Iroh is saying anything that Zuko hasn't thought and then hurriedly pretended to have never thought about before. It's why he says 'stop it' rather than being completely confused as to what Iroh is referring to.

Poor Appa's like 'can you have a crisis of self after you free me please?'

'You've chosen your own demise." No. You chose it for him. That's some top tier deflection/victim blaming right there.

Longshot can talk!

That's one hell of a set up and pay off re: Toph's lie detecting abilities.

Poor Jet. A double tragedy: to be likeable only when you're brainwashed, and to dedicate your life to wiping out the Fire Nation yet being killed by the Earth Kingdom.

Hi Appa. It's about time buddy.

Shockingly in character for Appa's first actions to be to single handedly save the Gaang from a threat.

You skip that bastard like a stone.

Everyone go and listen to the sound Appa makes when he spits out Long Feng's shoe. It's delightful.

I am framing this.

And this too.

I can tell there's some shmymbolism here, but it's gone right over my head.

Final Thoughts

Appa is back. The Gaang has Appa back. I have Appa back. Ok. I can relax now. With any luck, this means we can leave Ba Sing Se.

This episode felt like City of Walls and Secrets, Part 2. I think it was a good decision to have a couple of episodes between the two, but I think there would be some tonal whiplash if you binged this section of season 2. Which wouldn't have been a problem for a show designed to air once a week, so it's a moot point.

So Zuko freed Appa from his chains, and presumably pointed him in the direction of a door or something. Or maybe not; Appa has a ridiculously hard head, he could have busted his way out. Either way, Zuko broke the chains. Thanks Zuko!

In season 1, Zuko finds the Avatar the world had lost. In season 2, Zuko finds the Sky Bison the Avatar had lost. So in season 3, Zuko will find something Appa has lost. I wonder what that will be?

Jet being killed by the Earth Kingdom is so deliciously ironic, and tragic, yet very in character for the Earth Kingdom's approach to this war. It's also literally this:

Smellerbee and Longshot have really gotten the short end of the stick over and over this season. They were the only ones to decide to stick with Jet. Presumably they were the only ones who believed that he had had a legitimate change of heart. And they were kind of wrong. They get to Ba Sing Se only for Jet to immediately backslide way past even where he was at his worst in Season 1. He completely discounts and dismisses their legitimate concerns for his methods and his overall health. Then Jet gets arrested and disappears for two (?) weeks. So what do they do now? Get jobs? Steal so they don't starve? Then suddenly Jet's back but he doesn't even remember them. Then suddenly Jet's dead. The whole point of coming to Ba Sing Se just died, in a way that shows very clearly that their desire to help with the war is not welcome at all in the city. So what now? Do they leave and try to fight in the war from outside the walls? Do they settle down and try to forget about the war? Things did spiral completely out of Jet's control once the Dai Li got involved, but you have to admit that he's left his only remaining friends up a creek.

Sokka had some good jokes but was oddly ok with this episode's events. Toph had some great lines and got to shine with a new skill that any writer with half a brain will bring back in future episodes. She felt like the audience substitute this episode, which is usually Sokka's role. Toph was episode MVP for sure. Poor Aang took a bit of a back seat this episode. Zuko finally hit the crisis point, and may well have made his first indisputably correct decision of the series. But, as previous episodes have gone out of their way to show me that Zuko being good always goes badly for Zuko, I'm sure freeing Appa will somehow come back to bite him.

Iroh's question of "who are you? And what do you want?" was Zuko's entire character arc this season. He took a shot at answering the "who are you?" portion in Zuko Alone, and sort of halfway got there before messing up at the end of the episode. As for the "what do you want?" Zuko will tell you (often and repeatedly) that he wants his honour back. But I think he just wants to go home. The thing is, I strongly suspect that the home Zuko wants to return to hasn't existed since his mother left, if it ever existed at all. Which means that while "who are you?" has an answer Zuko can work towards, "what do you want?" has an answer that is kind of impossible. So Zuko is going to have to learn to want something new.

RIP Jet. Your life was fucked to Hell long before you were old enough to try and salvage it. You'll probably be missed by more people than you strictly deserve. War sucks, amirite?

[madaqueue]

playlists

such a pretty house | "no surprises" x radiohead

synopsis: walking through the empty halls of what should have been your home, you reminisce on the life you could have had with gojo

pairing: satoru gojo x reader

themes/content: semi-canon curse au. angst. language. mentions of death/loss.

word count: 2.5k

a/n: thought of this mini series idea since i found this song and literally could not stop thinking about a tragic backstory to it with gojo, so if you wanna get the "real" experience listen to it while you read ! this is like...not conventionally happy lmao but here it is anyways :) i'll get back to the regularly scheduled series tomorrow but i just had to write this one

a sigh leaves your lips as you walk up the familiar stone path, now overgrown with long grasses, tickling against your bare ankles. the cool autumn air bites at your skin, dead leaves falling from the old maple trees and crunching under your shoes as you make your way up to the house.

this house.

reaching the front door, you turn the now-tarnished gold handle and step inside. the old wooden floorboards creak under your weight; it’s likely been years since anyone has been here, further evidenced by the thin layer of dust settled over the empty space.

the space that was supposed to be your home.

your eyes gaze to the right and your legs follow, taking you into the living room. the bay windows overlook the front yard, the wooden bench beneath them bare. it was supposed to have red pillows, a reading nook for you. he always knew how you loved those books, consuming knowledge like it was the only type of nourishment you needed. the stories, the worlds that let you forget time while he was away on missions. but now, every word you read feels baren. you haven’t picked up a book since then.

continuing your journey through the empty house, you find yourself in the kitchen. the cabinet doors are now falling off, and surely the stove wouldn’t turn on anymore - not that it really worked in the first place, but the two of you made do. you’d bring in pizza on nights when the shitty electricity died out, sitting on the floor lit only by candles, talking about your futures.

well, what was supposed to be your future.

the window above the sink looks over the backyard, the remnants of the flowers you planted now overgrown with weeds. what a pretty garden it could have been.

“can you plant me the blue ones?” he asked, his arms wrapped around you as you stood outside under the heat of the summer sun.

“you only like those because they match your eyes,” you tease, turning your head to face him.

“maybe so,” he grins. “how ‘bout this, let’s find ones that match your eyes too, so it’s like i’m lookin’ at you every time i see ‘em?”

“deal,” you giggle, leaning against him.

you find yourself at the stairs, slowly making your way up as your hand traces along the railing, dust collecting on your fingertips.

you aren’t even sure why you came here, after all this time, back to this house, the physical tomb of your past.

it was supposed to be for you and satoru.

–

you were just kids, stupid, young kids. when you met in your first year at jujutsu high, the two of you were inseparable. every class, every meal, every mission you did together. it got to the point where you practically lived together, trading off which dorm room you slept in so you wouldn’t have to be apart. the two of you were attached by an invisible thread that kept looping itself around your necks until it became too tight.

the mission was supposed to be easy: exorcise a grade 2 curse and save the family it had kidnapped. you’d done it before a hundred times, and having gojo by your side only simplified the whole thing.

that is, until you got hurt. until you were unconscious, at the brink of death. until you found out why they had sent gojo with you - you didn’t think much of it at the time, but this was the lowest grade curse he’d been assigned to for a while.

it was a test. the higher ups wanted to see what gojo would do when he lost someone. they needed him to prove that he was what they thought he was: the strongest.

except, like always, he never failed to surprise everyone. he wouldn’t let you go that easily; not you, his world, his love, his everything. they picked the wrong person to sacrifice.

by the time you awoke, it was too late. you couldn’t quite place it, but something was different inside you, inside your very essence. as your eyes fluttered open, all you could feel was the warmth of his embrace around you, his hair hanging forward as he clutched your body. hot tears streamed down his face and landed on your chest.

“i’m so sorry, i’m so sorry,” he muttered over and over, softly rocking on his knees as he holds you.

“s-satoru,” you manage to croak out, the taste of blood in your mouth.

his eyes shift up to yours, a darkness and fear in them you’ve never seen before.

“it’s okay, it’s okay now, i’m here,” he whispers, his voice shaking, pulling you into him.

–

reaching the top of the stairs, the empty hallway looms before you. you turn into the first room on your right, what should’ve been the library. empty shelves line the walls as you stand in the middle of the space.

“y’know,” his voice smooth as he sits across from you, “eventually i’m gonna get promoted, and i’m gonna need a big office.”

“oh yeah?” you respond, shifting so your head rests on your open palm, propped up against the table between you. “what makes you so confident about that? you know the higher ups literally hate you, right?”

“psh, they love me,” he pauses, reaching across the table to shut the book in front of you so your full attention was on him. “and then, i’m gonna fix up this house, and i’ll build you a library and an office for me, and we can spend every day in there together.”

you pretend to consider the option for a moment. “fine, but it’s still gonna be my library. i’ll let you put a desk in there but don’t you dare forget that it’s mine,” you joke.

his hand reaches up to the side of your face, his thumb gently caressing your cheek. “as long as i’m with you, sweetheart, it can all be yours.”

you sigh, leaning against the wall before sliding down to sit against the old wood beneath you. he would’ve given you everything, he would’ve done anything for you.

–

it didn’t take long after the mission to figure out what had really happened: the grade 2 curse was actually a special grade, something you were woefully underprepared for. however, the higher ups had planned for that, even wanted it - they needed you to die. not because of any inherent value you had, no, but for satoru. they needed to see if he could handle a special grade curse on his own, something he had already proven he could do, but with a new challenge: loss. could he control himself, his emotions, his power, when he was forced to confront your death?

no. he couldn’t.

the only good thing about this being a special grade curse is that it was smarter, more cunning, than an average curse. not smart enough to beat gojo, but still.

when satoru saw you, your body slumped in the corner of the room, blood covering your face, something happened inside him. he snapped.

so, he did what any completely irrational person would do: he made a deal with the curse.

if it would heal you, it could have your cursed powers. this sounded like an exceptional deal to the curse, thinking that surely with your cursed technique it could easily kill gojo and leave the ordeal more powerful than when it began.

but, like always, gojo surprised everyone. even with your cursed energy he managed to exorcise the monster. he was glad you weren’t there to see it, the way his body took over as he pulled it apart limb by limb, eviscerating any remnants of the thing that dared to harm you. he didn’t even use his cursed technique, he needed to feel the life draining from it in his own hands.

when it was done, he ran to you. he held you. he cried over you. until you opened your eyes, whispering his name.

–

stepping out of the library, you continue down the hall and into the next room. the bedroom, the one you and satoru spent weeks planning.

“okay, what about purple?” you ask, holding up paint swatches to the wall.

“bleh,” he stuck out his tongue. “no purple. what about a nice green?”

you rolled your eyes at his theatrics. “honey, we have too much green already. by the time you’re done with it this entire house is gonna be green.”

his eyes light up. “what about honey?”

“what about it?” you ask, tilting your head.

“that’s it, that’s the color! it’ll be perfect, it’s warm, and sunny, and it’ll make me think of you whenever i’m in here,” he explains, nearly running over to you and picking you up, spinning you around. your arms wrap around his neck as he holds you in the air, both of you smiling with joy.

as you look at the room around you, the unfinished grey walls feel more empty than any other part of the house. it’s like looking at a skeleton, the raw, old bones of something you once loved.

–

of course, after you lost your cursed technique, you weren’t allowed to continue at jujutsu high. they had no purpose for you there, and you felt out of place with everyone anyways. gojo begged them to let you stay, offering to let you live in his dorm so they wouldn’t even need an extra room for you, but his request was repeatedly and ubiquitously denied.

“fine,” he huffs, pacing around your room as you sit on the bed, all of your belongings stuffed into boxes around you. “if they won’t let you stay, then i’m going with you.”

“gojo, you can’t. you know you can’t,” you explain calmly yet sternly.

he stops momentarily, looking over at you. “i have to,” he murmurs, “this is my fault, anyways.”

you stand up and walk towards him, reaching a hand up to his face, cupping his cheek in your palm. “the only thing that’s your ‘fault’ is the fact that i’m still here, and you better not be blaming yourself for that.”

“but-”

your lips press into his, the only way you could think of to get him to stop talking. he’s soft against you, his arms lowering to loosely hang around your waist. for a moment, you stay like that, just the two of you in your empty room.

pulling apart for a moment, you just stare at each other. finally, he breaks the silence. “okay, but if you won’t let me officially leave with you, can i at least sort of leave with you?”

“gojo, what the hell does that mean?” you smirk, not understanding what he’s even asking.

a smile breaks through his lips as he looks down at you. “i have something i want to show you.”

the house.

he holds your hand, pulling you up the stone pathway next to him, leading you to the freshly-painted front door, gold handle practically glowing in the sunlight.

“ta-da!” he shouts, throwing the door open and allowing you to see inside.

“it…it’s an empty house?” you ask jokingly.

“no,” he turns to you, holding your waist, “it’s our empty house.”

“what-”

“i got it for us,” he cuts you off, beaming down at you. “when i first heard that you might be asked to leave jujutsu high, i bought it, thinking we could move in here together.” you don’t say anything, stunned by his kindness, tears beginning to form along your waterline as you think about just how much you love him. “i wanted to give you a home. i hope we can make it one, together.”

leaning up, you kiss him again. finally, together, in your home.

–

why did you even come here? the cold, stale air stirs around your lungs as you rest your head back against the wall.

despite everything that happened, you had to see it one last time. you overheard someone at the store saying how they were finally going to be tearing this place down, putting in some new luxury apartments or something. it’s not like anyone lived here anyways, maybe it’s for the best. give the grave of your past a new life.

it had been nearly ten years since you were here last. a part of you wanted to move on, to forget it, but it hung in your mind like it had been nailed there.

you finally stand up, dusting off the grime that clung to your clothes from the floor. every step another memory you had here, another painful reminder of the life you never got to have.

–

it started slowly, at first. gojo kept getting tasked with harder missions, and he kept handling them with ease. even the higher ups were at a loss with what to do with him, his raw power developing into something they had never seen and had no idea how to control.

as you sat in the empty house, alone, you tried to not let it get to you, but the feeling ate away at you all the same. the glares you’d get when the two of you went out together, the whispers from other classmates or the higher ups, they clung to you.

you knew you were less than gojo - you always were, and it never bothered you. but now, with no cursed energy, you felt like nothing compared to him.

the words replayed in your mind, reminding you what you were.

failure. broken. fragile. useless. a burden. a hindrance. a flaw. a weakness.

of course, satoru never said any of these things, going out of his way to make sure you never heard the insults his so-called colleagues muttered about you, but it wasn’t enough. it ate and ate and ate away at you until you were empty.

when you left, his world collapsed. he begged you to stay, pleaded to let him come with you. he’d leave jujutsu, all the sorcery, all the hierarchy, all the bullshit behind if it meant he could be with you. but you knew he couldn’t; if he left with you, you’d just be proving them right. you’d be dragging him down with you.

“i love you, satoru,” you whispered, your thumb wiping away the tears that fell slowly down his cheek as you stood in the doorway of the house you promised would be your home. “that’s why i have to leave.”

–

making your way back down the steps, you sigh again, a single tear rolling down your cheek, your heart heavy with loss, the loss of the life you should have had. you and satoru, making breakfast together in the morning, falling asleep next to one another, planting flowers in the garden. the simple, quiet life. but instead, you’re here, alone.

your steps are heavy as you trace back through the rooms, the last time you’ll likely ever see them.

the floor creaks in the entryway.

slowly, your eyes follow the sound.

white hair, black uniform, and those bright blue eyes. he has a few more wrinkles around his cheeks, but it is absolutely, unmistakably, him.

“satoru?” you whisper.

he smiles at you.

[jungle-angel]

🌺🎄Mele Kalikimaka🎄 49.

The kids writing letters to Santa

With Bob

I need to see this auggie's letter to Santa pls!

And thanks for the update abt his first drink with Phoenix so excited to hear it!

EEEEEEEEKK!!!! A iā ʻoe nō hoʻi e kuʻu hoaaloha (And to you as well, my friend). Sorry, I had to use translate for that one, I've picked up a little of Hawaiian here and there but definitely not fluent (lol).

December 14th, 2022

Bozeman, MT

"So are you ok picking them up and bringing them home?" Bob asked Jake over FaceTime.

"I've gotta run up that way anyways and grab the girls from school," Jake informed him. "You guys need anything before the storm hits?"

"I might need Evan Williams with extra honey," Bob chuckled. "It's gonna be a long night from the looks of it."

Jake laughed and shook his head before he hung up. Bob stuck his phone back on the charger before he made his way back over to where you were snuggling with Deidre, quietly rocking her to sleep as a movie played in the living room and the wooden rocker creaked a little bit. "Thing's getting kind of old huh?" you chuckled.

"Great-great-grandpa Jacob had it built when he came home after World War One," Bob explained. "Dad was always afraid it was gonna break one of these days but it's sturdy as ever."

You smiled a little bit as Deidre turned her head in a little bit, still asleep with the tip of her little nose brushing against the threads of your sweatshirt and through the layers against your nipple. "Guess our little snow bunny's getting sleepy," Bob remarked, his hand brushing the thin little wisps of blonde hair on her head.

"Let her sleep," you told him. "When Auggie and Patrick come home, she's going upstairs and those two are either gonna hang with their ants and uncles or your mom and dad are gonna come and get'em."

"I already bribed Dad into coming and getting them," Bob chuckled. "The squad on the other hand....."

You laughed a little bit, knowing that Penny and Maverick, Rooster and the rest of the gang already had their hands full with their own little brood of kids. You heard a truck pulling into the driveway and Jake entering the house with Auggie, Patrick and his twin girls.

"Momma!!! Momma!!! Daddy!! We wrote letters to Santa at school today!!" Auggie declared excitedly.

"Oh you did?!" you asked.

It was times like this that you, Bob and the others were relieved beyond words that you had sent the kids to one of those hippie schools that allowed the kids to write letters to Santa and do all of the other things that you and the gang remembered doing as kids......even snowball fights during recess.

Auggie quickly dug his envelope out of his Luke Skywalker backpack and handed it to Bob who carefully opened the envelope and read the letter.

"Dear Santa, please send my Dad two billion dollars and a fighter jet for Christmas," Bob read aloud before you, him and Jake burst into an unexpected bout of laughter.

"And please help me find my pet iguana, his name is 'Chicken Nugget, but we call him Nugget sometimes," Bob continued on, wiping away a tear from his eye. "I think he ate too many of Mimi's brownies, got fat and couldn't get out the dog door. Please help us find Chicken Nugget if you see him. P.S, my brother Patrick wants some roast beef, a chicken, a pizza......"

You guys could hardly contain your laughter, even as you carried Deidre back up the stairs to quickly put her in her crib. When you came back down, Jake and Bob were all practically in stitches.

"Think this is worth sending to the others?" Jake asked.

"Oh believe me it'll be worth it," Bob answered. "And just so you know, we're showing these to the kids when they go off to college."

[ezrabridgerwrites]

[charlie/ripley] “you’ll always regret it if you don’t.”

“That’s so much pressure!” Ripley whined, as if she hadn’t dragged Charlie into her apartment as soon as she heard the buzzer with the sole demand that he help her come to a decision. Fortunately for Ripley, Charlie was patient with her. While he might have thought that their night would end up with her sweat-slick and writhing against him, he’d instead been condemned to an evening of Ripley pacing back and forth across her apartment and occasionally propping her chin on her arms to stare at Jonesy through his tank as if her axolotl held all the answers she needed.

The invitation had come yesterday morning, throwing Ripley into nearly forty-eight hours of turmoil. As a child, horror conventions had been fun and exciting and another excuse for her to ransack the kitchen for all the corn syrup she needed to perfect her Carrie White cosplay. She’d wander around the booths, hand enveloped by her father’s much larger one as he was stopped time and time again by yet another fan who wanted to take a photograph with him. It would give Ripley time to look at all the vintage and hand-made memorabilia on display, although sometimes a fan would recognise her and request her to be in the picture as well.

She hadn’t been to a convention in years though, and certainly not as a speaker. But Daniel Mendoza had a legacy that she was supposed to inherit and yet she couldn’t bring herself to accept that she was the right person to carry it on.

“It sounds so stupid but…” she trailed off, suddenly feeling self-conscious as she eventually sat down opposite Charlie, perching on the edge of the coffee table while he lazed on the sofa and polished off the remaining pizza she hadn’t been able to touch.

The man in front of her had stripped her bare more times than she could count by now. He’d made her feel things no other man had ever been able to and there were little boundaries that she had with him now, but this was the most naked she’d ever felt in front of him, and the closest she thought she’d ever been to presenting an uglier side of herself.

“Is it bad that I don’t want to share my dad with them?” she said eventually.

The cult of Daniel Mendoza, as that was what the internet and various Reddit rabbit holes she’d fallen down had called it, had loved her father with a ferocity that Ripley had been able to pick up on from the get-go. But sometimes she had to wonder if they loved him the way consumers loved a product. She’d seen the forum threads, knew that when the mourning period had passed, fans had swooped in and began theorising on his unfinished movie and how they could find the answers. And that’s when her name had started cropping up. Perhaps Daniel Mendoza’s daughter held the key to all their unanswered questions.

Ripley had slowly been piecing the movie together, decoding her father’s manic scribblings and letting the narrative unfold before her, but why did everyone else think that they were entitled to it as well?

But her father had wanted to share that story with the world, he’d just never had the chance to. Ripley would be selfish if she kept it to herself, all because she felt it was the only part of her dad she still got to keep.

Sighing to herself, she leaned forward and unthinkingly swiped her thumb against the corner of Charlie’s mouth, cleaning off the smudge of tomato sauce that had been left there. Slowly dropping her hand, she felt herself reach a new level of nervous that she had never felt with Charlie before. Charlie, who grinned like he knew the world had to see it to feel better. Charlie, who had sat with the cap of a highlighter clenched between his teeth as he read over her college applications. Charlie, who’d allowed her to take from him way more than she could give and still stuck around anyway. It would be miserable of her to ask for another thing from him, but she couldn’t think of anyone else she’d feel more comfortable with.

“Would you come with me? Maybe?” she asked, timidness taking over as she displayed that first-day shyness Charlie had probably assumed would be long gone by now. Pressing her palms together and sandwiching them between her knees, she blushed as she admitted, “It’d make me feel calmer if you were there.”

After all, her father was never going to get the chance to meet Charlie and acknowledging why that devastated her so much would prompt a conversation she wasn’t ready to have with herself just yet. But this? Asking Charlie to step into her dad’s world for a bit? It felt close enough.

[marcholasmoth]

OSRR: 3015

guess all i needed was to complain one too many times about not being able to think to be able to think. figures, right?

i was able to write a message to my classmates and start doing research and make a bibliography for my part of the capstone project. i'm glad to be doing things.

also?????? someone at northeastern's financial aid department was exuding major big dick energy today because my application for my student loan (the second one) (the one i submitted yesterday that got sent to the school TODAY) got approved and certified within half an hour of being submitted. i have dispersal dates, too. i'm gonna be able to get new tires. but more importantly, i'll be able to pay for my classes!!! i just need to accost someone to waive the healthcare bullshit for me. because for real???? i don't need northeastern healthcare. i don't go to the school. i don't live near campus. i don't go to campus. ever. the one time i'll go near campus is for graduation in may, and maybe once before that if i can't get my problems solved over the phone. but then i'll be their problem! i'll sit on a desk and cross my legs and get leaves and shit on their paperwork until they fix it! i won't actually do that, not literally because as my mom stated yesterday i'm "too nice," but it's a nice thought. i'm not like that. which is unfortunate for every problem i've ever had. but it's nice to have advocates and people who will help me not be abused and mistreated, whether at work or in general. it's nice to have people in my corner. which is fuckin wild.

also i sat and worked with nancy for a couple hours today on biology. it's a lot of words that definitely aren't english and concepts that are still foreign to me despite having taken it before, but i don't care. i'd walk across hot coals for nancy and her family. for real. she's a delight and deserves to do well in everything.

this morning i went with my mom to the quilt shop in goffstown, where we dropped off the quilt top she just made and picked the quilting design and the thread color. she has me go with her because i have a good eye for it and she can't see things in her head. for both the pattern and the string, we went with both of my first picks. i love being right.

after the quilt shop mom and i went to ihop where our waitress was also named molly and who ALSO applied to go to grad school at northeastern but decided to go somewhere else because of how expensive it is. i'm like "hah, yeah, it's expensive all right lmao." so that was fun.

so the day went awake, shower, dressed, quilt shop, breakfast, i had mom bring me to joel's so i could pick up my chargers and let the doggo out, we took the long way home, stopped to buy pumpkins, stopped to look for plants, stopped for ice cream, finally actually went home, sat down and worked, went to work with nancy, and then came back to town to hang out with the eggs. we went to shaws for ice cream sundae supplies and then the wilton house of pizza for dinner, and we stopped at home to eat with mom because we got her stuff too. we got back to the eggs and eggy and i watched the first six episodes of the dragon prince s4 which is SO GOOD. i'm yelling. anyway, it's really good.

but now i'm home and in bed and it's late and i am so excited to sleep.

but also since joel and his dad and MY dad are at the same convention, joel sent me a picture of my papa from the back and papa sent me a text saying he'd seen joel and his dad at a table playing. it was so funny to just see a picture of my dad at some random place from joel, who also happened to be there. 🤣🤣🤣

[shxwmaster]

.

[phykios]

Five Times Percy Jackson Cheated At School (And One Time Someone Cheated Him) [read on ao3]

thank you as always to @darkmagyk for inspo and beta-ing 💙💙💙 and thank you to @arosnowflake for the homer idea!

1)

Percy squints at the paper prompt again, tilting his head, as if the new angle will extract some hidden information. It doesn’t change. The font is the special dyslexia-friendly one used by most departments at NRU, so he isn’t misreading it, either.

Your final will be an 8-10pp (TNR, 12pt, double-spaced) research paper expanding on one of the topics discussed in our class so far, or an alternate idea of your choosing, to be submitted in writing by May 7 with footnotes and bibliography. By 10am on the Wednesday before the Thursday class you will submit online a 750-word essay (word count does not include footnotes) on the research thread you have pursued that week (no written assignments due Week 6 or Week 12). 

Percy might hate college.

“Your neck bothering you again?” Annabeth asks, coming up behind him, her hands already on his shoulders. She’s sweaty, dressed in workout clothes, having just come back in from a jog. 

“My neck is fine,” he says. “Just preemptively freaking out over my Roman history final.”

He tilts his head back over the top of his chair, staring into the upside down, prettily frowning face of his girlfriend, and it does nothing to improve his mood.

“How bad is it?”

“Eight to ten pages,” Percy says, “not including footnotes.”

“Ouch.”

“And,” he grimaces, “it’s a topic of our choosing.”

Her mouth twists in sympathy. “Sucks.”

“Yep.”

“Anything I can do to help?” She squeezes his shoulders lightly, an open invitation. 

He shakes his head, stretching his arms back to grab her waist. “Promise not to break up with me when you catch me crying at 4AM over it.”

“Promise.” And she seals it with a kiss, bending down to reach him. “Dad wants to know if you’re free on the 16th.” 

“The 16th?” He wracks his brain. He’s pretty sure it doesn’t conflict with sailing, or Greek Club, or the monthly intra-pantheon relations council meeting that Chiron and Clarisse both guilted him into joining. “Pretty sure. Why?”

“Dinner--Charlotte’s out of town that weekend.”

“Sounds good.”

“Great, I’ll let him know. Now,” and she grins, “are you going to stare at that computer all day, or do you want to come and take a shower with me?”

Percy slams the computer shut. 

He doesn’t think about his paper topic for a while after that.

***

To his great dismay, Percy gets to her dad’s house first on the 16th. Drama in writing group 🙄 she texts him as he gets to the door, be there asap.

Great. Alone in the house with his girlfriend’s dad. Taking a deep breath, he knocks on the door. 

Not a minute later, Dr. Chase opens it. Last time they went to visit, Percy and Annabeth had ended up waiting outside for almost a quarter of an hour. “Oh, Percy,” he says, fumbling his flight helmet off his head. “Goodness, I thought I’d lost track of time again. Come in, come in.”

“Thanks,” Percy says, stepping inside and shedding his jacket. “Annabeth’s running late, but she said she’d be here soon.”

He frowns, looking so much like Annabeth that it throws Percy for several loops. “Well, that’s alright,” he says. “I’m sure we can entertain ourselves well enough until she gets here.”

“Yeah,” Percy chuckles, uneasy.

Several seconds pass. 

“Oh!” starts Dr. Chase. “Right, yes. Come in. Would you like something to drink?”

Spoiler alert: it doesn’t get much better.

A few minutes of staggered conversation later, it becomes eminently clear why they need Annabeth between them. It’s not the awkward small talk that doesn’t go anywhere (“How’s school going for you?” “It’s okay.” “Good, that’s good to hear.”) or the fact that Dr. Chase doesn’t really grasp how to relate to younger kids (“Have you heard of this website called ‘Vine’?”), but more that it’s just painfully obvious that the two of them don’t really know where they stand with each other. 

Now, he knows that Frederick Chase doesn’t hate him. Objectively, he’s aware of the fact that, if it weren’t for him, Annabeth never would have reconnected with her father in the first place, and he kind of owes him for that. Also, Percy knows that he’s a pretty chill guy--a little scatterbrained, but chill. 

That doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to make a good impression, though. Or that Dr. Chase thinks that Percy is smart enough for his daughter. Because, like, Percy isn’t smart enough for Annabeth--that much is obvious. Dr. Chase was courted by Athena. Percy barely made it out of high school calculus.

“Would you…” Dr. Chase hedges, plucking off his glasses and giving them a quick wipe with his shirtsleeve. “Would you like to see some of my current research?”

“Uh… sure. I’d love to.” 

At the very least, hopefully Dr. Chase will talk enough for the both of them, eating up time until Annabeth gets here.

A new spring in his step, Dr. Chase leads Percy to his study, where he’s got a setup worthy of Cabin Six: on his desk is a massive map of the Mediterranean, littered with miniatures of tanks, planes, and ships. Ringing the room are wall-hangings, depicting different types of planes, half of their structure in x-rays like people in an anatomy textbook, sandwiching the giant viking sword which hangs directly behind his chair. Every inch of floor space is occupied with a pile of books, some serving as additional desk space for mugs, notepads, spare toy soldiers, and, in one case, what looks like the leftovers of a handful of celestial bronze spearheads, melted down into shiny, useless nuggets. 

“You know I primarily study aviation,” Dr. Chase is saying, tidying up as he walks around the room, “but my colleagues and I are collaborating on an interdisciplinary re-evaluation of the entire North African theatre in World War II. It’s fascinating stuff; until very recently, they used to call it the ‘war without hate,’ given the lack of partisan roundups and, ah, ethnic clashes that you see in Europe--absolute garbage, of course. As if there weren’t civilians caught up in the fighting, too!” He chuckles, pleased at his own joke. Percy forces a laugh out of himself. “Anyway, with my prior experience studying the invasion of Sicily, I was brought on to assist in piecing the timeline together, working backwards from 1943.”

“Cool,” says Percy, filling the natural gap of conversation.

“Extremely! Operation Husky was a terrific endeavor of airborne, amphibious, and land-based combat.”

Percy nods. Amphibious? “Uh-huh.”

“Though, I must admit, I am having a little trouble retracing some of the ships.” Peering over his map, he leans down, fiddling with one of the ships. “You see this one here? The Palmer?”

Stepping up to the desk, Percy crouches down so the little toy ship is at eye level.

“Well, based on official records, the Palmer was supposed to have arrived at the rendezvous point at the same time as all the other ships, but ended up delayed by two days, and I can’t… quite…” He moves the ship again, frowning. “Figure out… why…” 

“Where were they sailing through?” Percy asks. 

Dr. Chase points to the map. “From Alexandria to Malta.” 

“They probably just hit a bad couple of currents,” Percy says, standing up. 

Tilting his head, Dr. Chase peers at him. “How do you mean?”

“If you’re going through the Cretan Passage, you’re going to hit all kinds of West-East currents which will push you backwards.” Snatching up a pencil from a nearby book stack, Percy lightly sketches on top of the map, tracing along the North African coast. “There are tons of overlapping currents in this area that push boats around in circles, especially around Sicily. That’s one of the reasons why so many historians figure that Homer was referring to the Strait of Messina when Odysseus goes through Scylla and Charybdis, here.” And he circles the strait, with a confident flourish.

When he pulls back, Dr. Chase is staring at him.

Percy blinks. “Um… sorry I drew on your map.”

“You--I have been trying to figure that out for weeks.”

He coughs, shrugging his shoulders. “Sorry.”

But Dr. Chase just laughs. “You can make it up to me by helping me with these next.” Clearing crumbs off of southern France, he bends over, pencil in hand. “So, say you were trying to get from Marseilles to Tunis…” 

Forty-five minutes later, still embroiled in battle recreations of the Mediterranean theatre, they don’t hear Annabeth letting herself in with her key, not even registering her presence until Dr. Chase, grasping for a notebook, spots her leaning against the doorway. “Don’t stop on my account.”

“Oh, Annabeth, dear! I’m sorry,” says Dr. Chase, going over to give her a hug. “We didn’t hear you come in.”

“I can see that,” she says. “What are you guys doing?”

“Percy here has been assisting me with naval movements,” he says, proudly.

Lacing her fingers with his, Annabeth steps over to Percy, studying their battle map. “Really?”

“Oh yes, he’s been phenomenally helpful.”

She kisses his cheek, pleased. “Look at you, Mr. ‘Phenomenally Helpful.’”

“It was pretty fun,” he admits, warm all over.

“I’d bet. Although, I guess this means we should probably order in for dinner…?”

Rubbing at the back of his neck, Dr. Chase smiles. “Yes, I suppose we should. Does pizza sound all right to you two?”

“Let me take care of it,” she says, slipping from Percy’s side. “You guys looked like you were in the middle of something. Extra olives, dad?”

“Don’t forget--”

“And anchovies, Percy, I know.” She rolls her eyes, taking out her phone.

Rather than the three of them move into the kitchen, Annabeth ends up bringing the pizza in with her, because of course she has opinions she’d like to share about the Allies’ naval movements. 

“You know, Percy,” says Dr. Chase, “I must say, you have a real knack for this kind of thing. Have you thought about what you might major in yet?”

Ah, the million drachmae question. “Not yet,” he says, fiddling with a pencil. “I figured I’d get through my gen eds first and then see which one I hated the least.” 

“I think you should consider majoring in history.”

Percy’s head snaps up. “History?”

“Specifically maritime history, I suppose. Your predisposition to sailing and ocean currents would be a huge asset to your research.”

“But--wouldn’t history have, like, a metric ton of required reading? I’m not really sure that’s my area.” He has a daughter with dyslexia and ADHD; surely he’d understand Percy’s hesitation.

But he just shakes his head. “Graduate programs these days are very favorable towards interdisciplinary methodology, I sincerely doubt you’d have to barricade yourself in the library. And recently there’s been a significant push to make the field more accessible to students with disabilities, including things like digitization, screen reading for people with vision impairments, and even restructuring programs all together so that students no longer have to memorize the Encyclopedia Britannica in order to pass their general exams.”

“That’s really nice of you to say, Dr. Chase,” Percy says, “But history class isn’t like talking over naval movements with you.” He thought back to the paper that had lowkey been haunting his dreams. “Like, in my classical history survey, I can’t just… talk about currents and battle plans. I have to come up with a topic on my own, and then write about that.” 

“Surely something involving Roman naval movements would be well within your skill set. You have a second sense about these things,” he chuckles, “clearly.”

Percy glances towards Annabeth, hoping she’ll back him up, but she looks thoughtful. Considering. Like she’s actually thinking about her dad’s proposal. “I can’t just choose something in naval history.”

“Why not?”

“Because… it's too easy?” 

If it was anything like his afternoon with Dr. Chase, it might even be fun. And school isn’t supposed to be fun. 

He repeats that thought to Annabeth as they drive home. “School isn’t supposed to be fun.” 

“No,” Annabeth agrees, “but I don’t know… I like my intro art history class way better than anything we ever did in high school because I actually care about it. Maybe if you write about stuff you’re good at, like my dad suggested, you’ll like it more.” 

The idea follows him all the way to bed, where he’s still mulling it over at 2 in the morning. Before he can chicken out, he grabs his phone, shooting off a quick email to his professor with his potential paper topic, then rolls over, eventually falling asleep.

By morning, he has a response. 

Sounds good! Looking forward to it.

***

With shaking hands, Percy calls his mom. “Yes?” 

“Hey mom.”

“Percy?” He hears her perk up, almost visualizing her sitting up in her chair. “What’s wrong, sweetie?”

Mom instincts. They can always tell when something is different. His heart throbs in his chest. “Nothing’s wrong,” he says, smiling stretching across his face. “It’s just--I got my paper back.” 

Percy had ended up writing his paper about the Roman navy movements in the Battle of the Aegates in 241 BC. It was probably the most fun he’s ever had on a school assignment, or at least the most fun he’d ever had writing a paper. 

“And?” She sounds expectant, hopeful. His mom has always had such faith in him, even with thirteen years of schooling to prove her otherwise. 

He looks back at his email, just to make sure he’s reading it right. “I got an A.”

She gasps. He can hear the scrape of the chair as she stands up. “Percy, that’s wonderful!” 

“Thank you.”

“An A!”

He smiles into his fist, inordinately pleased. “Thank you.”

“Oh, sweetheart, I am so happy for you!”

“Thanks, mom.”

“I’m so proud of you, Percy.” Her voice is soft now, like twilights on the beach with blue marshmallows. “I know how hard you’ve worked for this. You should be very proud, too.”

“I am.” And he is, weirdly enough. “I just can’t believe it.”

“I can.” His mom must be grinning, her eyes sparkling. “I always knew you could do it.”

“Sally?” He hears in the background, muffled. “Is that Percy?”

“Paul, Percy got an A on his Roman history paper!”

A second voice crowds its way in, equally excited. “An A? That’s great, kiddo! Congratulations.”

Why can’t he stop smiling? “Thanks.”

“I bet that feels pretty good, doesn’t it?”

“It does.”

“Well, it is very well-deserved,” says Paul. “That was some great work you did. I could tell how passionate you were about your topic just from your first sentence.”

“Thank you.” Maybe he should be worried about all this praise going to his head, but damn, is it nice. “Listen, I have to go get started on dinner, but I just wanted to give you a call.”

“Of course,” says his mom. “I want to hear from you more, okay? Tell me more good news! Like when are you and Annabeth going to--”

“I’m working on it, okay?” says Percy, smiling even more broadly. “I’ll keep you posted, promise.”

She laughs, tinny and happy. “You’d better. Congratulations again, sweetheart.”

“Thanks mom. Love you.”

“Love you, too.” 

And he hangs up, puts his phone down on the table, tilts his head back, and sighs, full, happy, a release. 

Maybe college won’t be so bad after all. 

2)

“You don’t have to do this,” Frank says, hushed. “All you have to do is walk away.”

Five Greek Fire bombs, cloudy yellow, are lined up on the table in front of him, neatly laid out in front of five twenties. From the side, Frank stares him down, surrounded by an army of morbidly curious Romans. Someone turned off the music and turned on the lights a while ago, stopping the party in its tracks, every eye on Percy and his opponent. Figures, his first college party all year and he causes a scene. 

Percy grips the edge of the table. “He insulted the Mets,” he says for the millionth time. “I can’t let that shit stand.”

Frank sighs. “Annabeth?” he asks, hoping to stop this nonsense.

Turning to his side, Percy sees his girlfriend, two drinks in, her cheeks lightly flushed, but solid as she stands beside him, supporting him. Her eyes are hard, fierce, the warrior gaze of Athena all but leaping out of her. “Do it,” she says. 

William, the sour-faced Roman legacy of Juventus, scowls. “A hundred bucks on the table. Sixty seconds. No throwing them back up.”

“Deal.”

“Frank,” Annabeth calls. “Start the clock.”

He sighs. “You guys are idiots.”

“Frank!”

“Okay, okay.” He holds out his phone, thumb primed, hovering over the screen. “On your marks, in three… two… one…” 

He hits zero, and Percy grabs a shot glass. Squeezing his eyes shut, he brings it to his lips, and throws it back.

It’s… not what he expected.

The tequila is awful--no getting around that. Even to Percy’s untrained taste buds, having really only ever had some of Gabe’s sour beer (under duress) and some of the Demeter cabin’s strawberry wine (on his eighteenth birthday, a celebration for actually getting to graduate high school), he can tell it’s cheap, rank, unrefined shit, like he’s drinking straight toilet cleaner. But the garum, the weird Roman condiment that the shot is mixed with, the one that Percy had never heard of before, it’s… it almost tastes like the fish sauce that comes with the pork and rice noodles from the Vietnamese place down the corner of his mom’s apartment, only less… fishy? Yeah. Less fishy.

It’s a weird taste. It’s not bad, by any means, it just--straight up, it just tastes like saltwater. Like the sea. 

And, well. Percy can handle the sea.

He looks at William, and grins. “You are so fucked.”

The assembled Romans cheer, spectators at a gladiator show, as Percy knocks back the rest of the Greek Fire bombs, one after another, clearing them all in under thirty seconds. Annabeth swipes up the cash, shrieking as she throws her arms around Percy. William wanders off, red-faced and glaring, as whoever turned the music off before flips it back on, the night, and the party, saved.

Silly Percy. He should have known what was coming next.

Thirty minutes later, he is well and truly wasted.

“You’re, like, really pretty,” he shouts at Annabeth over the loud music.

She snorts, grinning at him. “Thanks.”

“Seriously,” he slurs, tipping forward on his feet. “You could be a model.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Remember when we were fourteen,” he yells, bracing himself against the wall, “and you got kidnapped by that monster?” Slightly soberer but still a little flushed, she bites her lip, nodding. “Well, I followed the rescue party--I told you that, that I snuck out of camp to follow the rescue party? Right?” 

“You did.”

He takes a sip of water, running his tongue around the inside of his mouth. Feels goofy as fuck. “We got hijacked by Aphrodite halfway through, and when I saw her, I thought--I thought, ‘Holy shit, she looks a little like Annabeth.’”

Her brows shoot up, smile pulling at her lips. “Really?”

He nods. “Totally! But you’re way, way p--” 

Still smiling, she silences him with a kiss, the lingering taste of hard cider on her tongue. “I appreciate it,” she murmurs, grinning, “but you probably shouldn’t say that out loud.”

“Gross.”

From out of nowhere, like he always does, the weasley little shit, Nico di Angelo is suddenly in their space, looking surly and emo as ever, red solo cup in his left hand. “Nico!” Percy crows, grabbing for him and missing. “How’s my favorite cousin?!”

Ducking his wildly swinging limbs, Nico grimaces in the way that Percy has to come to recognize as his attempt at a smile. “Better’n you,” he says, a little wobbly. “What’s up with him?” he directs towards Annabeth.

“Greek Fire bombs. Five.”

“You’re a psychopath.”

“What!” Percy pouts. “He insulted the Mets.”

“Aren’t you s’posed to be, like…” Nico snaps his fingers, words momentarily escaping him. “A--representation… person? For the Greeks?”

Percy waves his hand, hitting the wall. “Fuck that. The Greeks can handle themselves. The Mets are sacred!”

“Are you with anyone?” Annabeth asks, momentarily taking up Percy’s usual role of concerned parent friend while he is drunk off his ass. Theoi, he loves this girl so much. 

Nico shakes his head. “No, but Will and I are staying with--”

A thought suddenly blooms in Percy’s tequila-soaked brain. “Nico!” He shouts.

“What?” he hisses, glaring.

Percy pushes himself off of the wall, outstretched arms managing to box Nico in, falling on his shoulders and trapping him. He’s still a short, skinny little shit, the fuck, when are his Big Three genes going to kick in? “I need to talk to you about the thing.”

“The what?”

“The thing! The--the,” then he leans in, scream-whispering over the pounding bassline. “The thing.”

“That doesn’t help.”

“You know, it’s…” Percy licks his lips, language escaping him for a hot second. “Round. Metal. Jewelry thing.”

A beat, then Nico’s eyes widen. “Oh, that thing.”

“Yes, that thing!” Pulling back, he pulls Nico towards him, slinging an arm over his shoulders in a half-headlock. Annabeth watches, bemused, lips pursed as she tries not to smile. “I need to borrow Nico for a sec,” he says, words spilling out of him. “Back soon. Later. Soon.”

Her eyes crinkle, grey sparkling. She’s so fucking pretty. “Drink your water.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Then together, like some three-legged beast, the two boys lurch away deeper into the party, Nico leading them towards the kitchen. “Where’re you taking me?” Percy slurs. “‘M I being kidnapped again?”

“If I’m helping you plan out this stupid proposal,” he grumbles, pouring himself more vodka, “then I need to be less sober.”

***

Some mistakes may have been made.

“Where’s Annabeth?” Percy mumbles, looking back towards the house. The party is still raging, someone’s muffled Spotify playlist making a real racket, the greatest hits of ABBA still bouncing around his skull.

“Simp.” Nico, swaying a little, tries to stand up from his kneeling position, only to fall heavily back down on his knees. “She’s right where you left her.”

Discussing Percy's proposal plan had led to more drinking. More drinking had led to the two of them discussing their shared preference for blondes. (“Malcolm is pretty cute,” Nico admitted, flushing, and Percy almost screamed, “Isn’t he?! Sometimes I think about Annabeth with short hair looking like Malcolm and I almost start crying because she’d be so cute!”) Which then led to even more drinking. Which then led to general bitching about their lives, about Percy's hard-ass classics professor Dr. Bauer who he actually really liked but just pushed him so hard and expected so much of him, and Nico's half-brother Zagreus who was causing some family drama by picking fights with Hades all the time and also hooking up with both Thanatos AND the fury Megaera, which, ew, which then led to Percy inhaling his drink, nearly choking to death on unspecified college punch, Nico laughing at him all the while, as he had the most incredible idea.

"Nico!" He shouted, crushing the red solo cup. "Can you resurrect Homer for me?"

Nico gaped, staring. "What."

"Seriously! I need to ask him something for my paper."

"Percy." Nico gazed at him, all the power of the Ghost King boring into his soul, deep and haunting. Percy stifled a burp. "You're a fucking genius."

Which is how they found themselves around a shallow hole they had dug in the backyard, a large bottle of Pepsi originally intended as a mixer pilfered from the kitchen along with two slices of pepperoni pizza dumped on the grass beside them.

"Maybe we shouldn't do this," he says, uneasy even through his drunken haze.

"It was your idea!"

"I don't have good ideas."

“Fuck you, I’m doing it.” With all the force of a tiny, angry kitten, he snatches up the Pepsi bottle, wrestling with the twist cap for a good ten seconds. “I wanna give that bitch a piece of my mind for making me cry in school.”

Percy looks at him sideways. “Hector killing Patroclus got you, too?”

He snorts. “Fuck no. Achilles didn’t pay his dues to the dead.”

“Seriously?”

The cap pops off, and Nico tips the bottle over, dumping flat, lukewarm soda into the shallow hole. “It’s the ultimate dishonor!”

Freak. Percy would die for the kid.

“Let the dead taste again,” Nico mutters. “Let them rise and take this offering. Let them remember.”

“You’re so weird.”

“Says the guy who’s related to both horses and water.”

“I’m not related to water, I just control it.” 

The dirt turns black, dead soil mixed with sticky sugar water. Nico drops in the pizza, and begins to chant, that same ancient Greek that Percy heard in a dream once, talking of death and memories and returning from the grave or whatever. It’s still creepy as shit. 

Despite the warm California night, the air thickens with chilly fog. Silence, impenetrable, surrounds them, blocking out the noises of the party. From the earth, blueish, vaguely person-shaped figures begin to form, like thunderous clouds before a storm. “Which one is Homer?” he asks, hushed.

“Shh!” Nico hisses. 

Like little wells of gravity, the fog begins to coalesce. On one of them, Percy can almost make out, like, fingers. “Um, Mr. Homer? Sir?”

The figure doesn’t say anything. It lowers its mouth, drinking the soda out of the dirt. When it raises its head, Percy can see it more clearly, curly hair and milky white eyes and a straight nose. It--he?--seems a little more solid than your average run-of-the-mill ghost.

Nico frowns, eyes closed, concentrating. “What’s your name?” he mumbles. 

That mouth opens, soundlessly, jaw working on nothing.

“Speak.”

It--there’s a sound, like hissing, only it’s not coming from the mouth, Percy thinks. It sounds like it’s coming from the earth. “Nico?” he asks. “You good?”

The ghost opens its mouth again, moaning, raising its hands. Weakly, unsteadily, it stumbles forward on feeble legs, tripping over the shallow hole in the dirt.

“Nico?” he asks again, a little more forcefully. “What’s going on, dude?”

Nico blinks, slowly, mouth hanging open a little. “Uh.”

The… thing… raises itself up on its hands? He guesses, and knees, crawling its way over towards them.

Now, Percy may be drunk off his ass, but he has seen enough movies to know exactly what the fuck is up.

Moving with a speed he didn’t quite think was possible right about now, he grabs Nico’s wrist, and pulls him up, dragging him along as he lurches towards the house. “Percy…” Nico moans, stumbling over a rock. “I think I fucked up.”

“You think?” Percy wrenches the door open, tossing Nico inside, before following in after, throwing himself against the door. 

Nico groans, throwing his arms over his face. “Dio santo, my head.”

“Forget your head,” he says, “did we just raise a Homer zombie?!”

Panting, Nico stares up at him, sprawled on the floor of the house. “Oops.”

Percy thunks his head against the door. He does not have nearly enough mental capacity to deal with this right now.

But, he thinks ruefully, at least it’s just one. Even drunk, he’s pretty sure he can handle one zombie.

Nico’s eyes widen. 

Percy stares. “What.”

“I didn’t stop the ritual.”

His stomach goes cold.

Turning around slowly, he pulls aside the little curtain on the window. “What?” Nico asks. “What do you see?”

Percy can’t speak, mouth dry.

Slithering up behind, Nico peers over his shoulder. “That’s… not great.”

“Nico,” Percy says, eyeing the horde which slowly shambles closer, half-decayed bodies in togas bumping into each other, almost identical to the drunk college students inside, as the song changes, once again, to ‘Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! (A Man After Midnight).’ “Please go get Frank and Annabeth.”

The following Monday, an announcement is sent out to the entire campus: Per new department guidelines, students may not utilize the ambassador of Pluto to interview the dead for academic purposes.

3)

Percy attempts to flatten his hair. He readjusts his shirt. He almost wipes his sweaty palms on his pants, before he realizes what he’s doing, and clenches them instead, nails digging into his palms. He turns to Annabeth. “Do I look okay?”

“Ooh, ‘Mapping Funerary Monuments in the Periphery of Imperial Rome.’”

“Annabeth.”

She looks up from her brochure. “Relax, seaweed brain, you look fine. You look better than most people here.”

“That’s because I bring down the average age of presenters by about thirty years,” he hisses, eyes darting about at the milling mass of attendees, all packed into the hotel ballroom. 

Dr. Bauer had alternately convinced/pressured/guilttripped him into attending this year’s annual conference for the Society of Classical Studies to talk about the research he’d been doing with her. This year, the conference was held in San Francisco, so at the very least Percy didn’t have to spend five hours stressing about his poster presentation while simultaneously up in the air. But now that he’s here, in the ballroom, surrounded by strangers who know way more about this subject than he does, who are actually smart and probably never nearly flunked out of school or got kicked out or--

“Hey.” Annabeth takes his hand. “I know that look. You deserve to be here just as much as any of them.”

“Do I? I feel like any moment someone is going to come over and throw me out for trespassing.” He vaguely recalls something similar happening to him as a kid after he had ducked into the lobby of a semi-nice hotel to dodge what he had thought, at the time, was just a weird stalker, but had later realized had only had one eye. In any case, the hotel security guard had practically picked him up by the scruff of his neck, tossing him back out into the street. 

“That’s just your imposter syndrome talking,” she reassures him. “No one is going to throw you out.”

He sure as shit hopes so. It would be a shame to have done all this work for nothing. 

Glancing back at his poster, Percy can’t help but feel… good. Accomplished. Proud. About a school assignment, of all things. 

His poster traces the development of the prow from the Greek penteconter, to the Roman liburna, and finally to the Byzantine dromon, looking at artistic depictions in history. Percy had picked the topic himself, spending hours in the library reading, writing, and hand-drawing cross-sections of the ships on the poster board when the images he had gotten from the Cambridge University library had been too small. It had been grueling, frustrating work, but fun, too. And not nearly as much reading as he had feared.

Dr. Chase proofread it for him. Dr. Bauer signed off on it. And Annabeth had taken one look at it, smiled, then kissed his cheek.

That was the best compliment he had gotten.

Though now he’s kind of torn between showing it off and hiding it away before one of these attendees figures out that he doesn’t belong.

He rocks back and forth and his feet, pursing his lips, randomly clicking his tongue. Annabeth nudges him. “Your ADHD is showing.”

That’s when, finally, one of the attendees steps up to his poster. He certainly has the look of a professor, in a black cable knit sweater with grey, curly hair and a receding hairline, thin, rimless glasses perched on his nose. He squints at Percy’s poster, rubbing his chin with one hand. “Interesting,” he murmurs, in a thick German accent. “Very interesting. This is yours?”

“Um.” He glances at Annabeth, who is frowning at the brochure, silently sounding out words that she can’t read. “Yep. All mine.”

“Very interesting.” He leans in closer, tilting his head. “So you agree with Pryor and Jeffreys about the skeleton-first construction, then?”

Percy blinks. Pryor and Jeffreys had written The Age of the Dromon, arguing that the ram, which had been a key feature of Roman liburnians, had gone away in ancient ship construction because of developments in how they built the hull. Right. “Yes,” he says. “The skeleton-first construction is a lot stronger than the, um,” shit, what was the name for this, Leo had only told him about a million times--oh! “Mortise-and-tenon!” He nearly shrieks. “The mortise-and-tenon method. It, um, it wears out a lot more quickly than the frame, so… yeah.” He clears his throat.

He nods. “Very interesting.” 

Percy stares. Can this guy say anything else? 

“This is very well done, young man.”

Oh. “Thank you,” he says. 

“Who are you working with?” 

“Um, June Bauer?” He winces at the accidental question. 

He frowns. “I’m not familiar with her work. Where does she teach?” 

What a loaded question. “Uh… New Rome University.”

“I’m sorry?”

“It’s--she used to teach at Northwestern, if that helps. Um, retired,” Percy says.

The frown stays, but at least he doesn’t ask any more questions. “Hmm. Well, this is excellent research, nonetheless. I look forward to reading your dissertation.” Then, distracted by something else, he wanders off, chin still attached to his hand. 

“Who was that?” Annabeth asks. 

Percy shrugs. “Beats me. Also, what’s a dissertation?”

“It’s like a senior thesis, but, like, five hundred pages long.”

Five hundred?! “Fuck me.” 

“Maybe later,” Annabeth smirks. “It looks like you’ve got company.”

Sure enough, a smallish group of four people are approaching, led by Dr. Chase, making a beeline straight for them. “Here we are,” Dr. Chase says, gesturing. “This is the project I was telling you about. Percy, would you mind going over your poster for us?”

“No problem, Dr. C,” says Percy, smiling his least-grimace-y smile. 

As one, the adults all turn to look at him, faces politely blank, expectant.

Percy swallows. “So,” he begins, “um, this research is about the development of ship construction in the Roman empire…”

He trips up on some of the words, and at one point, he sees Dr. Chase squint in the way that usually means that Percy is speaking too fast, but all in all, he doesn’t totally fall flat on his face. His audience looks engaged, nodding along as Percy moves from point to point, and no one accuses him of being a giant fraud, which is pretty nice. 

At one point, Percy turns to the poster to indicate a specific point on his ship diagrams. When he turns back, his audience has suddenly multiplied, four people turning into a whole goddamn crowd. Each person gives him their undivided attention almost unblinking.

His mouth goes dry. “Um…” 

Dr. Chase, bless him, saves his ass once again. “Would mind starting again from the beginning, Percy?” he asks, a little bemused himself at the amount of people that had suddenly appeared. 

Silence stretches on for a moment, the muffled noise of the rest of the conference like a dull roar in his ear. 

Annabeth, behind him, coughs. 

“S-sure. No problem.” 

Swallowing, he closes his eyes, breathing in through his nose. Why, oh why did he let Dr. Bauer talk him into doing this again?

He pictures the tides of Long Island Sound, gentle and rocking, unhurried and unbothered, tries to match his breathing to them. When he opens his eyes, unfortunately, the crowd hasn’t disappeared. Everyone is still staring at him. 

But Annabeth stands next to her dad, flashing him a big smile and two huge thumbs up.

Percy relaxes. He’s got this.

“Okay,” he says. “So, about the middle of the first millennium CE, ship construction went through a couple of major developments…”

This time goes much, much more smoothly. He’s not sure what it is--though it’s probably Annabeth, her face fixed in a gentle smile as she watches him speak. Gods, what did he do in a past life to deserve someone as amazing as his girlfriend? 

That’s the only reason he can do this. Hell, that’s the only reason he even thought to do this. If he didn’t have Annabeth there, encouraging him, cheering him on, he never would have had the confidence to put himself out there like this. She’s there to pick him up when he doubts himself, there to listen when he can’t explain himself, there to give him feedback when he needs to practice. 

She makes him feel so strong. She makes him feel like he can take on the world--or at the very least, that he can impress a handful of academics.

And they certainly seem impressed with his talk so far. 

“Excuse me,” says a nasally, pinched looking older British guy, face lined as though he lived his life in a state of perpetual squinting. “I find your conclusions to be suspect--wouldn’t the frame method be more susceptible to breaking than the mortise-and-tenon?”

Well, most of them, anyway.

Percy shakes his head. “You’d think, but no. If you look at the study by Steffy, you’ll see that the three-finned ram from the Athlit wreck was designed specifically to break the mortise-and-tenon hull by causing the planks to flex, so that they’d dislodge the joinerys right next to them. A blow like that can cause the wood to split right down the middle.” A blow like that had sunk Sherman Yang’s ship when they tested it out on the lake at camp last summer, the naiads practically hurling him out of the water so quickly Percy didn’t even have to dive in to save him.

“How were you able to do these strength tests?” asks another listener, an older woman with a thick Hungarian accent.

“Hands-on battle simulations,” Percy replies, easily. “We took our models and tested them in as accurate a simulation as we could make.”

“And how big were these models?” 

Percy holds his hands apart, a vague, entirely inaccurate estimate. “About thirty meters, give or take.”

Her eyes widen. “How on earth did you get your hands on such a large ship?”

Percy freezes. “Uh.”

Oh, shit.

He had forgotten--most people didn’t have dads who could summon shipwrecks from the bottom of the sea, dropping them off at Camp Half-Blood with nothing but a sand dollar and one or two exhausted, pissed off hippocampi who had had to drag them all the way there.

“Um,” he stammers, licking his lips, thinking fast--c’mon, Percy, think! “I…” He swallows, panicking. “I… b… built one.”

In the corner of his eye, Annabeth facepalms.

Simultaneously, every mouth in the crowd drops--in shock, outrage, and even excitement. “You built one?!” the woman yelps. 

Oops. “I had help,” Percy says, quickly. 

Annabeth adds a second hand to her facepalm.

“Where?” The first man asks, his bushy brows flying above the rim of his glasses.

“At my… summer camp…” 

Dr. Chase sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I mean,” Percy chuckles, shrugging his shoulders, trying not to sweat too obviously, “it was either that or lanyards, am I right?”

Dr. Chase, thank Athena, raises his hand, ready to step in. “What Percy means to say, I believe,” he says, attempting to draw their attention, “is that--”

“That’s amazing!” says another woman, probably a grad student attendee based on the fact that she’s wearing jeans. “Do you have pictures?”

Oh this is not good. “Um, not--not on me, but--”

“I do.” Annabeth takes out her phone, holding it up to the person next to her.

Percy blinks. “You do?” He doesn’t remember her taking any pictures.

She shoots him a look, two parts exasperated and one part “shut up and let me handle this,” with just a dash of fondness in the mix. Pointedly, she looks at him, eyebrows raised, indicating that he should continue.

Oh. She’s using Mist. And he needs to keep their attention on him so that they buy it. “Right,” he says, clearing his throat. “Any more questions?” 

His audience placated for now, passing around Annabeth’s phone, he manages to finish up his presentation. After fielding a few more questions, people start to peel off, distracted by other posters and presenters in the ballroom. When everyone has finally wandered away, Dr. Chase comes up and pats Percy’s shoulder awkwardly. “Nice work,” he says, and he seems like he means it. “A little touch-and-go there for a while, hm?”

“A little.”

He chuckles. “Still, you should be proud. I don’t know how many undergraduates would be able to handle that kind of pressure.”

“I mean,” Percy says, shrugging a shoulder, “it’s about on par with leading an army. Maybe a little less.” Honestly, maybe even a little more stressful. If a monster had decided to attack the convention center and interrupt his presentation, he probably would have been relieved.

He’d been worried for a moment that he’d undone all those years of work in making Annabeth’s dad like him. And that he’d be charged with some sort of academic fraud, for the whole “I have a boat” thing without proof. Thank the gods for Annabeth, as always.

She’s looking at him now through narrowed eyes. She at least can’t be surprised--that was far from the dumbest thing she’s ever seen him do. At least his “I spent most of my time at magic greek mythology summer camp” covers are normally better than hers. As someone who spent his formative years in the real world, he’s usually pretty good at keeping the demigod thing under wraps. 

“Come on,” she says, grabbing his hand. She pulls him off, through the dispersing crowd, lacing their fingers together, sweet and intimate, out of the hall and then down another one, and through a smaller corridor. Bringing them up to a little door, with a shake of her wrist, she pulls out her Estruscan keyring bracelet. About several of the keys have found themselves used in various misadventures, vanishing once their purpose is fulfilled, but her favorite key is still there. And, just like a clever child of Hermes, it can pick just about any lock. 

Inside is just an empty room, a little staging area surrounded by tiered desks going up, no more or less remarkable than any of the other conference rooms they’d visited before. 

“What--?” His question is cut off by Annabeth’s mouth on his. 

Surprising, but definitely not unwelcome.

It's a while before they separate again. “You’re so good at this,” she tells him, unbuttoning his shirt.

He runs his hands along the lines of her flanks. “I’ve had a lot of practice,” he grins. He’d practice kissing her all day long if he could. 

She smiles, shaking her head. “No, not this,” though she does lean in for another kiss, pulling at his lower lip with her teeth. “I know you’re good at this.” They break away, Percy pulling her shirt over her head, Annabeth shucking off his. “But history. Presenting.” She runs a finger over his chest, kissing his cheek, headed towards the sensitive spot on his jaw. “Gods, you’re so smart.” 

Something about the praise vibrates through his chest. She doesn’t sound surprised, or anything, just--turned on.

“You had all those crusty academics eating out of your hand. Just, so impressed by you, knowing you know way more than they do about naval history. When you were explaining the--” Her compliment is cut off with a moan, as he leans down and starts sucking on her throat. Her blouse has a high neck, so he feels no guilt for using his teeth.  

“Watching you today, gods.” Her breath is labored as his fingers play at the waistline of her skirt. “And then thinking of you defending your dissertation.” He bites at her jugular, and she lets out a long, deep moan. 

“I don’t know what that means.” Do academics fight each other? Like, with weapons? He’s pretty sure he can take most of the people he met today. 

“It means you get to show off how smart you are,” Annabeth says, grasping his shoulders, pulling him in for another kiss. “I was born the day my dad defended his. Gods, it's going to be amazing to watch you go.” She yanks his belt out of his pants, tossing it to the floor. 

They miss the panel on recent translation efforts. But Percy can’t say he minds one bit. 

And when Annabeth presents him with a positive pregnancy test two months later, Percy definitely knows he made the right decision. 

4) 

He almost doesn’t realize he’s having a dream-vision at first.

It has been literal years since he’s had a demigod dream. Hell, it’s been a long while since he’s had a dream, period--being a new dad to a one-and-a-half-year-old saps too much of his energy to even think about dreaming. Once Junie is put to bed, when he’s out, he is fucking out, and he does not have the brainpower to spare to manifest any messed up subconscious fears.

Which is why when he blinks open his eyes, taking in the too-bright colors of the Parthenon and the gleaming shine of the bronze statues which are somehow all looking at him--also, you know, how the Parthenon is complete, standing as it did thousands of years ago, and not crumbled into ruins--he knows, immediately, he is being contacted by a god.

And only one god in particular would bring him to Athens.

Without even checking, he heaves himself up off the ground, folding into a kneel. “My lady Athena,” he says, “can I ask for what quest you’ve brought me here?”

“Impertinent as ever, Percy Jackson,” rumbles the goddess, but Percy doesn’t think he can sense any ill will towards him. He hopes, anyway. “Perhaps I have summoned you here for a social visit.”

“Perhaps,” he says, choosing his next words as carefully as possible. “But I assume you have too much to worry about to randomly check up on your daughter’s boyfriend.”

He lifts his head, catching her expression--stoic as always, but maybe with just the barest hint of a smile. “You assume correctly. You have become, contrary to my initial expectations, very wise in the time that I have known you.”

“Thank you.” He knows better than to do anything but accept the compliment for what it is.

“I have observed your work as a scholar in recent years, and I must say that I am surprised, yet pleased, that you have chosen to pursue such a path. I had not thought you to be suited for a world of old men and dusty papers.”

He grits his teeth. Don’t rise to the bait, don’t rise to the bait, don’t rise to the bait--

“I understand, as well, that though you and my daughter have,” and here her careful composition cracks, just the slightest, the tiny lift of her lips falling, “made a child together.”

Percy swallows. He figured, you know, in the abstract, that Athena would know about Junie, but hearing her say it out loud is… well, he’s just glad that Dr. Chase has always liked him. “Yes, my lady.”

“It is customary in your time to marry prior to childbirth, is it not?”

“It is.” Oh, fuck, is she going to smite him for that? “I--that is to say, we, Annabeth and I, we, um, we definitely want to get married, but, Annabeth kind of…” 

He trails off. He can’t tell Athena, goddess of war, that his daughter pissed off the queen of heaven! And if he does, he definitely can’t imply that it was because she was being too stubborn!

“I know well of my daughter’s history with my father’s wife,” Athena says, smoothly. “I come to you now with an offer of peace.”

Percy straightens his back. Peace?

Raising one graceful arm, Athena turns, indicating the structure behind her. “Look upon my temple,” she intones. The white marble shines even more powerfully against the blue and red paint, intricate scenes and figures ringing the top of the columns. “In the time of Pericles, it was built to commemorate the victory of Hellas over the armies of Xerxes the Great. It was to be the shining beacon of our world, a triumph of our power and influence over the race of men.”

The race of men might have had something to say about that, he thinks to himself.

“But it was not to be,” Athena says, mournfully. “As our influence waned, so too did our temple, until its might was all but forgotten.” 

Before his eyes, the paint fades away, ceilings and columns collapsing, the destruction of the Parthenon playing out in front of him. 

“Some two hundred years ago,” she says, her voice taking on a darker, more dangerous tone, “a grave insult was paid to the ruins of my ancient sanctuary.” Like curtains falling on a stage, darkness swallowed up the structure, swift and impenetrable. “Many treasures were taken from my temple, stolen, by foolish, greedy men, spirited away far to the north, where they have languished in unworthy hands.”

He narrows his eyes. She can’t possibly be talking about--

Athena turns back to him, her eyes blazing, somehow twice as tall. “Retrieve my treasures,” she commands, war personified, “return the prizes of Athens to their rightful place, and I shall give you my support against my father’s wife.”

“You…” Percy leans back on his haunches, staring dumbfounded up at the goddess. “You don’t happen to mean the Parthenon Marbles, do you?”

“Yes.”

“The ones in the British Museum.”

“The same,” she says, imperious as ever.

Fantastic. “Welp,” Percy says, slapping his thighs, scrambling up. “Thanks for the offer, but I’ll have to decline. Nice seeing you, by the way. I’ll tell Annabeth you stopped by.”

Her sharp gazes pierces him, full of fury. “You dare to refuse my support?”

He snorts. “When it means trying to get the UK to give the marbles back, absolutely. Do you know how stubborn they are about this?”

Lightning flashes behind her, nearly blinding him. “You will regret this,” Athena says, dark and foreboding. “You may have your father’s goodwill, but the queen of Olympus is clever and cunning, her displeasure swift and merciless.”

But Percy still shakes his head. “When Annabeth and I get married,” and it’s definitely a ‘when,’ it’s just a matter of when precisely, like after Junie can sleep through the night maybe, “I’d rather take my chances with Hera than try and untangle that particular can of olives.”

A growl, and a snap of her fingers, and Athena disappears.

With a start, Percy wakes up. Junie had gotten her chubby little hands around his nose, and had decided to pull.

“Ow, ow, Junie, hey,” he squawks, attempting to dislodge her grip from his face. “Hey, I’m awake, it’s okay.”

She laughs, illegally adorable, her grey eyes sparkling, squeezing harder. 

“Okay, okay,” he laughs along with her. “You got my nose, you win.”

As if she were waiting for him to admit defeat, she lets go, clapping her pudgy toddler hands together. 

“That’s right,” he picks her up, raising her above his head. “Barely sixteen months old and you already know how to take me down, don’t you? Just like your mommy.”

She smiles, waving her little fists.

Gods he loves this little monster.

Junie really is the best parts of both of them. She’s got her daddy’s hair but her mommy’s brain, quick and sharp and painfully adorable. She’s already learning to read Greek, Annabeth sitting her in her lap and sounding out vowels together, Annabeth taking her finger and tracing it over the letter shapes. This kid absorbs information like a sponge, which Percy can only assume is the natural conclusion of taking a son of Poseidon and a daughter of Athena and mixing their DNA together. 

Thinking about his dream, he frowns. “What do you think, Junie,” he asks his toddler. “Should I take her up on her offer?”

The baby says nothing.

“I mean,” he tilts his head, “Greece has been trying to get the marbles back for two hundred years. UNESCO has top lawyers on this. What does Athena think I can do?”

Junie blinks at him.

“On the other hand, I do really love your mom,” he admits, “and I really want to marry her. You’d like that, right? To have your parents be married?”

There’s no way she can understand what he’s saying, but she moves her head like she’s nodding. Or maybe she does understand. She is Annabeth’s daughter after all. 

Percy sighs. Dammit.

Time for a new project, he guesses.

***

Several months, a college graduation, and one relocation to Boston later, Percy growls, hurling his pencil at the wall. Mother fucker. Fuck the British Museum, fuck his tiny laptop screen, and fuck the Italian prick who decided to have the least ADHD-friendly handwriting of all time. 

Why the hell is he doing this again? Like, seriously. Why in all of Hades is he, an inexperienced, snot-nosed, first year master’s student deciding to tackle the return of the fucking Parthenon marbles of all things. Like, what is wrong with him? 

Roughly scrubbing his fingers through his hair, Percy stands up. He has to go for a walk, clear his head, or he might actually explode. 

Then he catches a glimpse of the photo pinned to the fridge.

Percy’s mom had taken it, a candid of Percy and Annabeth and Junie on a sunny day in Central Park. There, in perfect 1080p, Junie is laughing, at what he can’t even remember, her pudgy fists yanking on Percy’s hair, while her mother and the love of his life does nothing to extricate Percy from her grip, her face screwed up so hard she had tears in her eyes. 

Percy had talked a lot of shit to the goddess of war’s face, but truth be told… Hera still terrifies him a little. Which, he assumes, was her goal all along, but it would be nice to marry Annabeth without fear of something going terribly wrong--or, gods forbid, something happening to Junie. That simply was not a risk he was willing to take. Percy is content to spend the rest of his days as Annabeth’s life-partner and roommate, if it means that the queen of the heavens won’t have a reason to take out her issues on his children.

Even if the engagement ring in the back of the pantry is gathering dust. 

Sunlight, wan but warm, falls in from the window, landing perfectly on his pile of open books. “I know, I know,” he growls, speaking to the air, rubbing his face so it doesn’t get stuck in a permanent glare. “I just--I just need a few minutes, okay? Let me go down the block and get a coffee or something. Two minutes, Lady Athena.”

The light fades. Percy takes that as an acquiescence, angrily scribbling a note. He’s not sure when Annabeth and Junie will be back, but even angry as he is, he doesn’t want to worry them.

Snatching up his jacket, he slams the door shut, stomping out of his apartment building and down the streets of Boston. He must be accidentally doing his wolf stare, because people are practically flinging themselves out of his path as he hurtles down the sidewalk. Literally--some girl is walking her husky, and the poor dog actually whimpers, cowering as Percy rounds the corner. 

Coming to a stop, Percy slaps his hands over his face, drawing in a deep, shuddering breath. 

He might be in over his head a little.

Sighing, he looks to his right. He’s standing outside of a Starbucks. 

Percy doesn’t drink coffee, Annabeth does. And he knows exactly how much of a coffee snob his girlfriend is. Starbucks? Overpriced, overrated, over-sweetened garbage.

He pushes the door open, sliding up to the counter. “I’ll take a… iced mocha, I guess,” he says. “Large.”

“No problem,” chirps the barista. “I’ll have that out for you in a minute.”

“Thanks,” he mumbles.

One thing Starbucks does have going for it, though, are really good napkins for doodling.

Slumping down in his uncomfortable metal chair, elbows resting on the hard, faux-wood table, Percy takes out his pen, and doodles aimlessly on the brown napkins. No, not that pen. Just because it can write doesn’t mean that Percy wants to risk slicing his face open every time he has a stray idea. Completely out of the blue, Annabeth had gotten him a nice set of pens, and ever since then, Percy always keeps one on him. Now, if he could just remember to use the little notebook she had gotten him, too.

Percy is not an artist by any stretch of the imagination. He doesn’t have an image in mind, just lets his pen move, drawing endless chains of triangles and stars, nebulous shapes which form themselves into Greek letters. After he catches himself writing γλαυκῶπις for the eighth time in a row, he sighs, dropping his pen, and picks up the cup, taking a sip.

Yuck. At least the chocolate outweighs the coffee taste a little.

Gods, and their cups are always, like, drenched from condensation--not that Percy can feel it, but there’s practically a whole other drink on the outside of the plastic, dripping all over Percy’s pile of doodle napkins. That must be why they give out so many.

Grumbling, he mops up the mess, ink smudged into a blue-brown slurry.

He stops. 

He squints at one of his doodles. 

Not that anyone else could tell, but Percy had apparently been trying to recreate the signature of Ottoman sultan Selim III, the guy who had supposedly authorized the Earl of Elgin to take the Parthenon Marbles. Percy had been staring at copies of his signature all damn day, trying to tell if it had been forged or copied, but classical Arabic was just so far beyond anything he could even begin to wrap his head around. It was gorgeous work, but even looking at it made Percy’s eyes swim.

This particular doodle is not his best attempt. It looks nothing like the signature. It’s smudged, blotchy, but in a way that’s… weirdly familiar. 

Snatching the napkin up, Percy bolts from the Starbucks, leaving his mocha behind.

Taking the steps of his apartment building two at a time, he bursts into his kitchen. His set up is exactly how he left it, books spread out all over the table, laptop shut and laid askew, the dry, half-eaten remains of his morning muffin on a plate on top of his encyclopedia of illuminated manuscripts--except for one book, the one on Ottoman history of the nineteenth century. It’s been opened, its pages facing the door, in the exact opposite direction of all the other books. 

“Hello?” he calls into the apartment. “Anyone home?”

No response. 

Percy approaches the table. 

From the pages, Selim III stares at him, his portrait rendered in black and white, sitting just above a figure of his signature, his tughra. 

Percy picks up the book, squinting. 

The signature is crisp, clean, a work of art all by itself. 

He looks at his napkin drawing. Blurry and smudged.

Opening his laptop, he pulls up the scans of the documents in the British museum, zooms in on the letter’s seal.

Blurry and smudged.

Percy stares. 

It… can’t be that simple, can it?

In a daze, he fires an email off to his new grad advisor. Hopefully he won’t mind Percy sticking his nose in where he doesn’t belong. Hey Dr. T--was looking at the Parthenon marbles docs in the BM (don’t ask) and I noticed this weird smudge on the tughra. Lazy scribe, maybe?

And he closes his computer.

Later that night, while he puts Junie to bed, he gets a response. not sure. sent it to a colleague for a closer look. 

He can’t even be bothered to really think about it though, not with Junie looking up at him with Annabeth’s eyes, and asking for another book. “Alright, kiddo,” he acquiesces, settling in beside her. All her story books are in ancient Greek, and at age two, she’s starting to recognize the letters. “Which one are you thinking?” 

“Daw-fins, daddy,” she says, smiling.

“Dolphins, eh? Getting Mr. D on your side early, I see. As smart as mommy.” He leans down and kisses her forehead before he starts to read her the story of the sailors and their sudden dolphin madness. 

***

“Huh,” Percy says to himself a few weeks later, as he and Annabeth are chilling on the couch, watching some Netflix.

His advisor has forwarded him an article from the BBC (New evidence suggests Elgin documents to be forgeries) with an accompanying note: Amazing catch! 

“What is it?” Annabeth asks, nudging him with her elbow--a feat, since she also has an armful of a squirmy Junie to deal with.

“Update in the Parthenon marbles thing.”

That gets her attention. Anything Parthenon-related does. “Really?”

He shows her his phone.

Her eyes go wide as saucers. “Damn.”

“Yep.” He doesn’t realize he’s smiling until he feels his lips pulling at the sides of his mouth. 

“My mom is probably your biggest fan right now.”

He starts. “What did you say?”

Turning back to the TV, she still manages to cast him a weird look. “I said, my mom will probably love you for this.”

A beat, then Percy practically somersaults over the couch, darting into the kitchen. Wrenching open the pantry door, he shoves his hand behind their collection of flours, fingers grasping for--

“If you’re looking for any more sacrificial cookies,” Annabeth calls after him, “we burned them all when Junie got a cold.”

“Remind me to make some more,” says Percy, pulling out his prize. It’s a little dusty, streaks of flour clinging to the blue velvet. “I have a feeling we’ll need them.”

“Oh yeah?” She chuckles. “What, did Olympus put in a special order?” 

Percy slides back down next to her, ring hidden in his closed fist. “Can I have the baby for a sec?”

Eyes fixed to the screen, Annabeth passes her over. Junie’s hands automatically reach for his nose, ready to grab, but Percy places the ring in her grasp instead, kissing her forehead. “Hey, babe?” he asks Annabeth, handing her back. “I think our daughter has something for you.”

Annabeth takes her without a second glance. 

Then she does take a second glance.

Ring closed in her pudgy toddler fist, Junie holds it out to her.

Annabeth gapes. 

“So,” Percy says, wrapping an arm around her shoulder, “quick confession: I wasn’t just working on the marbles for fun.”

Annabeth just stares. Junie babbles.

“Your mom told me that if I helped get the marbles back, she’d back us against Hera if we ever got married. So…” He trails off, waiting for her response. As close as he is, he can see the tears start to well up in her eyes--a good sign. “Shall we?” he prompts.

“Oh thank all the gods.” Annabeth is crying, because she's Annabeth. And because she's Annabeth, she also wastes no time in transferring Junie to her other side, and holding out her hand so Percy can slide the ring on her finger. “I was so worried I'd have to have Chase on my Masters’ diploma, too.”

5)

Percy is making sauce when his phone lights up. He hits speaker. “Hey.”

“Hey man,” comes the tinny voice of Magnus. “Sorry I missed your call earlier.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Percy says, “I figured you were dying or something.”

Magnus’ eye roll is almost palpable. “Very funny. What’s up?”

Bringing the spoon to his lips, he blows on it, taking a taste, before reaching for the salt. Needs way more. “Do you happen to have any Varangian guards in Hotel Valhalla?”

“Varangian guards? Uh, maybe. Probably. Why?”

“I’m doing a thing on the attempted reconquest of Sicily,” he says, lowering the heat a little to a simmer, “and I’m having some trouble piecing together the Battle of Montemaggiore. Know anyone who was in it?” 

Magnus hums. “I’ll ask around. Anyone in particular you’re looking for?”

Rifling through their little spice cabinet, he makes a mental note to get a new thing of hot sauce, tipping the rest of it into the pot. “If you have anyone who fought under Harald Hardrada, that would be great.”

“Hardrada? I’m pretty sure he lives on the fifth floor.”

Percy nearly drops the bottle. “No shit?”

“Big dude, long mustache, writes poetry?”

“Yes!” He picks up the phone, grinning from ear to ear. “Do you think I could come up and talk to him sometime?”

“Sure, but I thought you were doing something on Homer’s identity?”

He groans. “Backburnered for now until she stops driving me crazy.” No matter how many times Percy tells her, he can’t just drop the “Homer was actually an Egyptian woman” bomb without some serious evidence backing that up. And forgery is not one of his strong suits. Hence the need for a different topic for the time being.

“Has everyone ever told you your life is weird?”

“No, why do you ask?”

His phone suddenly vibrates, shocking him so badly he nearly drops it into the saucepan. Almost home, texts the love of his life, a shot of serotonin directly into his bloodstream. V hungry

“Sorry, Magnus, but I gotta run. Thanks for your help.”

“No problem. Say hi to my cousin for me.”

“Can do.”

“And make sure you pick a date soon! Sam needs to know so she can schedule her flight home.”

“Soon as I can.” You know, when his brain isn’t melting from grading undergrad papers. And making sure Annabeth and Junie are fed. And that Annabeth doesn’t lose herself in graduate school. And finding Junie a new preschool after she destroyed a classroom last month because of a monster. His toddler is a badass. But he’s a little worried she’s gonna follow Mommy and Daddy’s example as far as school goes. 

Sometimes, he thinks that their wedding just won’t ever happen. With Athena on board, he figured it would happen sooner or later, but time just… keeps getting away from them. Which isn’t the end of the world. A lifetime at Annabeth’s side is all he really needs, Mrs. Jackson or no. But he’s seen the silver fabric she weaved for her wedding dress. It would be a shame for all that hard work to go to waste.

And, yeah, he wants to see his little Junie dancing down the aisle flinging seaweed before her mother. He wants his mom to cry a little and he wants all his friends to be there to celebrate with them. Is that so much to ask? 

Speaking of his two favorite girls--”We’re home!” Annabeth calls from the hallway. “Junie, go say hi to daddy!”

Her bare feet slapping against the floor, his daughter comes toddling in, making a beeline for him. “Hey, kiddo,” Percy says, scooping her up. “How’s my best girl?”

“She’s just fine, thanks,” Annabeth says, setting her work bag down on the table. “Tell me I don’t have to wait for dinner--Margie kept me for the entirety of my lunch break, and I am starving.” 

“Just gotta make a salad and we should be good to go.” But he makes no move to finish chopping vegetables, entirely too enraptured with the way Junie smiles when Percy sticks his tongue out at her. “Let me guess,” he says. “Does my best girl want some olives?”

“Peas,” Junie says. 

“Oh, you want peas instead?”

She giggles, waving her arms. “Elaia, daddy!”

“Fine,” and he kisses her nose. “Extra olives for you.”

“Chip off the old block,” Annabeth says.

Handing her back to her mother, Percy sighs. “When am I going to get a kid who likes anchovies?”

“I’m doing my best here, okay?”

***

Hardrada is… not what he expected.

“Reputation isn’t that bad.” Hardrada is saying. “The production isn’t what it should be, but lots of her lyrics are still on point.” 

“The production ruins it,” Percy insists. “And as a follow up to 1989? It's just bad.” 

“And what about Lover?”

“What about Lover?”

“You can’t argue with the genius of that one.”

“It is terribly inconsistent,” Percy shoots back. “Yeah, ‘The Archer’ and ‘Daylight’ and ‘Miss Americana’ are sublime, but ‘ME!’? Come on!”

“Are you one of those people who thinks she peaked at Red?”

“Red is a bop from start to finish,” Percy fires back. “But she definitely peaked at folklore.”

“Thinking she peaked at folklore is just pedestrian when ‘tis the damn season’ exists!” Hardrada yells, drawing his axe, which is then promptly flung over Percy’s head. 

As the only mortal in a room full of armed, excitable, undead Taylor Swift stans, Percy beats a hasty exit, Magnus and Jason covering him as he flees, because they’re just so thoughtful like that. Percy’s pretty sure he saw Magnus take an arrow to the knee, going down in a heap, before he shuts the door to the hotel, finding himself in a Forever 21. 

Looking over his notes later as he gets back to his apartment in the North End, he frowns. They had spent… approximately twenty minutes talking about Sicily before getting solidly off track. Who knew an eleventh century viking would have such intense feelings about pop music? 

And now he’s singing “seven” to himself as he unlocks the apartment door, because it's a good song, and because it made him think of Annabeth. And he always wants to think of Annabeth. 

“Hey, babe,” he calls into the apartment, toeing off his shoes. “I’m back!”

He gets no response.

Percy looks up, confused. “Annabeth?”

“In the bathroom,” he hears, faintly. 

“Everything okay?”

“Yep! Totally fine!” she says, unconvincingly. 

“Alright,” he calls back. “Let me know if you need something.”

Moving Junie’s toys out of the way, he drops down onto the couch, grabbing his laptop. Hopefully he can make some sort of sense of the… notes… that he got from Hardrada. Though he’s probably going to have to trek out to Beacon Hill again, which, while not really out of his way, does mean he has to hike a bit from the Park Street station through the Commons, which makes him super sweaty and out of breath. It’s just embarrassing, walking into a hotel full of the greatest warriors of Valhalla, and Percy can barely handle a hill. 

However, he’s not so out of practice that he can’t sense Annabeth coming up behind him. “You good?”

“What do you think about getting married by the end of the month?”

“Sure,” he says, pecking at his computer. Damn autocorrect ruining all the Norse names. He keeps forgetting to download the right language package he needs. “But I thought you wanted to wait until after you turned in your portfolio?”

“Well… I might not be able to fit in my dress if we wait much longer.”

That gets his attention.

Percy turns around, slowly. Annabeth is grinning, holding a thin little piece of plastic with a circle on the end. She wiggles it. 

“Is that…?”

“Yep.”

“Oh.”

Her smile falls. “Are you mad?”

“What? No!” Percy slides his computer off his lap, twisting around to face her, up on his knees. “No, no, not at all. I’m not mad.” She slings her arms around his neck, pregnancy test warm against his skin. “I just…” 

Eyes warm, she looks into his, unafraid. “What is it?”

“It’s…” It’s silly, is what it is. But this is Annabeth. If he can’t tell her, who can he tell? “I just feel bad that I’ve gotten you pregnant twice before getting married.”

“Well, at least I’m not nineteen this time,” she says, raising an eyebrow. “But maybe we wouldn’t have this problem if you weren’t such a horndog.”

Percy snorts. “Me? What about you, Annabeth ‘3 AM anal before my first lecture’ Chase.”

“Jackson,” she corrects.

“Huh?”

“It’s Annabeth ‘3 AM anal before your first lecture’ Jackson.”

Grinning, he presses his mouth to hers. After all this time, she still smells like lemons, her lips soft and warm. “Not yet it’s not.”

“Then let’s make it happen.”

And, well, Percy can’t think of a better plan.

+1

Jamie hisses. “Fuuuuuck,” she whispers, the sound dropping like a stone in the dead lecture hall. “Goddamn shit fuck ass.”

And the worst part is, she’d actually spent a lot of time preparing for her Latin midterm. She’d made flashcards, she’d drilled noun endings, she’d even slept with the textbook under her pillow for fuck’s sake. 

Typical--the moment she sits down to take the test, it all goes out the window. 

“Legistne carmen longum de Troiano,” she reads under her breath, as though saying it out loud will unlock some hidden secrets of the cosmos. 

Nope. Nothing. The multiple choices remain as inscrutable as ever.

“Psst.” 

Jamie looks up. 

There’s a four year old staring at her. 

“Hi,” Jamie says. 

“Hi,” says the four year old. Junie, her name is, she thinks. 

Mr. Jackson, Jamie’s Latin TA, will bring his kids to class with him sometimes--his wife works full time, and Jamie guesses that they can’t afford a babysitter. She’s a cute kid, quiet, usually sitting in the corner of the lecture hall, drawing or even knitting, sometimes with her little sister playing with toy ships next to her. 

Now, she’s still staring at her. “What’s up?” Jamie asks.

“Bello,” says Junie.

Jamie blinks. “Sorry?”

“Legistne carmen longum de bello Troiano.” 

She squints down at her test sheet, attempting to visualize her flash cards. That’s… “Bello” is the right answer.

The fuck? The fucking four year old can speak Latin? “Thanks,” she whispers. 

Junie beams at her.

Darting her eyes to the front of the lecture hall, Jamie spies her professor, Buck, completely conked out at his desk, his chest rising and falling with his snores. Percy is nowhere to be seen, his laptop open at his chair. “What’s the next one?” Jamie turns her paper so that Junie can see better.

“Pluto Proserpinam infelicem cepit,” she announces, perfectly accented.

Jamie points to the one after that.

“Rex qui pontem fecit erat Ancus Martius.”

“Awesome.” 

The door to the lecture hall opens. Jamie whips around in her seat, startled, and sees her TA, walking down the steps. From the corner of her eye, Junie disappears, booking it to her dad, who scoops her up without missing a beat. “Hey kiddo,” he murmurs, smiling crookedly. “Were you bothering my students?” Then he glances at Jamie. “Sorry about that--hope she wasn’t too annoying.”

But Jamie shakes her head. “It’s fine.” Dammit. 

Still smiling, Percy makes his way back down to his seat. Junie grins at her over his shoulder, her arms wrapped tightly around her dad’s neck.

At the beginning of the semester, Professor Buck had droned on and on about Mr. Jackson, about how he was one of the best up-and-coming classics scholars in the world, how he could have had his pick of PhD programs, and how NYU was lucky to have him. He got first pick of assistantships this semester, apparently, but had volunteered to teach Latin 1001, and they should all be grateful, because he had done some beautiful new translation of Virgil for his Master’s thesis, and they were all going to learn a lot from him. 

Turning back to her exam, Jamie snorts. Of course a guy like that would have a kid who could speak perfect Latin. 

She really should have just stuck with German instead. 

[hrwinter]

the emergency room fic snippet took me out hgjgjghfh

Kara's not sure if it's the recently waking up from anesthesia or if she really is witnessing the most gorgeous creature to ever grace this planet seated, cross-legged in the outpatient waiting room.

"Hi!" she finds herself sitting right next to the woman and practically shouting directly into her face.

Smooth, Danvers, she thinks. What can she say, she's always had game.

The woman stares back at Kara's suddenly very close proximity, doe eyed, irises round and the most tantalizing shade of sea foam green Kara's ever seen.

"Did you just—" Kara points inelegantly back at the door a nurse had just ushered her through, "have a surgery?"

The woman eyes her, a little wary, before replying.

"An endoscopy."

Kara gasps, reaching for the woman's hands (a little cold) and holding them in her overly warm ones. She rubs them together in an effort to bring heat into the stranger's fingers. The woman simply continues to stare, perplexed.

"Me too! Did yours go well? What are you in for?"

"You're very friendly," the woman states bluntly.

"Oh, sorry," Kara pulls her hands away. "I'm Kara."

"Lena," the woman says, still a little stiff but a small smile forming at the corner of her mouth.

Kara makes a conscientious effort to keep her hands in her lap like an overeager child as she waits for Lena to answer.

"And I have an ulcer, they think," Lena says, touching delicately at her stomach. "Too much coffee and working, not enough eating."

Kara winces. "Those are painful, right?"

Lena nods. "What about you?"

"I ate four mega sized bags of candy corn."

The face Lena pulls is one of total, abject disgust.

"Candy corn? Why?"

"It was a Halloween dare from my sister," Kara shrugs. "My stomach hasn't been the same since."

"I should think not."

Kara laughs at the woman's impeccable diction, like she could be one of those reading voice models. Or a librarian. A sexy librarian.

"Honestly right now I feel more woozy from the anesthesia."

"Me too," Lena agrees, staring down at her hands and flexing them open and closed. Such lovely hands. Big, Kara thinks.

She's not sure how long they both stare down at Lena's hands, Kara's elbow bent on Lena's armrest, holding her chin in her palm, before she thinks to add,

"Can you believe they warned us not to gamble? Or buy a car? Isn't that crazy?”

"Completely."

"Although," Kara adds with an unnoticed slur to her words, her voice sing song pitching up and down. “If I could buy any car right now, I'd totally buy one of those sports cars with the butterfly doors."

"Like a McLaren?"

"Sure."

"My friend Bruce has one. I think I've seen it in his garage."

"Damn, is he rich?"

“I’m rich too,” Lena holds out her hands as if she's dropping invisible dollar bills all over the waiting room floor.

“But I'm boring," she says with a slump of her shoulders. "I always use a town car. My driver's name is George."

"George," Kara echoes. "Why do guys always get to be so flashy? You should get yourself a sports car for, like, female empowerment and stuff."

"You're right," Lena agrees with an unsteady nod of her head. "It's not fair. Let’s go buy one.”

Kara swoons closer, heavily encroaching over the boundary between their two respective chairs. The space between them is nearly nonexistent. The anesthesia side effects are definitely feeling more present.

“I think you’re my soulmate," Kara says, entirely uncensored.

Lena locks eyes with her for one boundless moment before she shakes her head hard, like a puppy trying to shake out wet fur.

"No, you wouldn't like me if you knew me. I am so scary," Lena tells Kara with such sincere earnestness, head bowed towards her. "Like so scary. I’m a CEO."

"That's cool!" Kara cheers, and before she can stop herself she's holding Lena's hands again. "And there's no way you're scary. You’re so nice and soft," she rubs Lena's fingers.

Kara's not quite sure what happens next. Lena sort of pulls at her hands, an unspoken invitation, and Kara's already halfway out of her seat, and it just makes… sense for her to fully get into Lena's lap.

The waiting room chair is perfectly sized for the both of them. Lena's hands anchor Kara, squeezing at her backside. It's heaven.

"You smell good," Lena comments dreamily, leaning forward to inhale at Kara's neck. Then suddenly she jumps back, jostling Kara in her lap.

"Oh my god, I’m gay!"

Kara stares at her, hypnotized by the river of small blue veins at Lena's temple and forehead.

"Oh," she starts. "Did you just… realize?"

"Yes—" Lena half shouts, then, "I mean no, I just had to tell you. So, be careful."

Kara laughs, wrapping her arms around Lena's neck. She massages her fingers into Lena's shoulders, and Lena sighs, reluctantly relaxing by degrees. Kara smiles, goofy.

"With what? Your feelings? Anyways, I’m bi."

"Oh." Lena mirrors Kara's words. "Are you single?"

"Give me your number," Kara replies in lieu of an answer.

They both scramble for their phones, Kara reaching into her back pocket and Lena fishing into an expensive looking hand bag. Kara sits backs on Lena's thighs and proceeds to ignore several texts from her sister. And what should be a simple swap of phone numbers becomes an impromptu photo shoot with lots of giggling and vaguely inappropriate touching.

"What is going on here?"

Kara pivots in Lena's lap, recognizing the voice of her sister coming from the open doorway.

"Alex?"

Lena's head has snapped to the door, too, eyes narrowed.

"Who are you?" she says with a squeeze of Kara's hips.

Alex's eyebrow raises, challenging.

"Who are you?"

Kara might actually hear Lena growl then.

"Lena?" another voice joins them.

Alex swivels to look at a woman just over her shoulder, tall and stately with legs for days. She has curly brown hair and soft, bedroom eyes.

"Who are you?" Kara finds her own voice grumbling.

"Sam!" Lena glows.

Who is Sam?!

Sam's eyes rove over the pair of them, and she raises a hand to her mouth to cover a smile. Kara reluctantly extricates herself from Lena's lap, standing but keeping hold of her hand.

"Um, Kar," Alex says, eyebrows threading closer and closer together by the second. "We have to go, so maybe let go of the stranger's hand."

"She's not a stranger, this is Lena!" Kara announces. "And I want her to come with us."

Sam snorts.

"What? No, Kara, we're going home," Alex takes a step into the room, and Lena squeezes Kara's hand possessively. "You need to get some sleep and recover."

"You, too, Lena," Sam intones, still lingering in the doorway.

"No!" Lena practically shouts, standing too. "I feel fine. We’re going to buy a car, actually."

Alex's jaw drops open.

"No, honey," Sam steps toward the pair of them then.

"Honey?" Kara asks, back bowing.

"Down girl," Sam quips in her direction. "We’re just friends."

"No, I’m your boss," Lena snaps at Sam, pointing, but it's as threatening as a five year old making demands about bathtime. "I tell you what to do."

Kara giggles.

"See, I’m mean," Lena gloats to Kara.

"No."

"Oh my god," Alex pinches the bridge of her nose. "This is a fucking mess, we're leaving. Now."

Kara stands taller at the warning nature of Alex's tone, and what follows is an absolute spectacle. It involves Alex chasing Kara around the room, Sam laughing loudly, and Lena threatening her and the entire hospital staff. It ends with Alex rough housing Kara inside of her Tahoe with threats of 'you owe me for life' and 'I can't fucking believe you." But Kara doesn't hear any of it, asleep by the time Alex gets into the driver's seat.

---

The next day, Kara wakes up late. There's a gloomy dark space where her memory of the day before should be, but she can't worry about that now. Instead, she groggily makes her way outside of her room, in search of the delicious coffee smell emanating from the kitchen. Alex stands there at her island, a sentinel, as if she's been up all night and waiting for this moment.

"How are we feeling today?" she asks neutrally.

"Terrible," Kara pours herself a cup of coffee.

"So…" her sister trails off, drumming her fingers, and Kara gets the distinct impression she's not going to like what comes out of her mouth next.

"Remember when you mounted Lena Luthor in the waiting room?"

Kara gapes at her.

"What? No, I didn’t. And who?"

"Lena Luthor," her sister repeats. "You were full on in her lap."

"You're lying," Kara splays herself over the couch. "I don't—remember anything. And Lena Luthor? The tech mogul?"

Alex ignores her.

"I had to take away your phone, and then you threw up in the shower. You don't remember that?"

"I was under anesthesia. I can't be held accountable for my actions," Kara shoves a pillow over her face, hoping it will block out the sound of her sister's voice.

"You're telling me you don't remember this woman?"

There's a slap of paper on her coffee table. Kara moves the pillow away, cracking open one eye to gaze down at the cover of a Popular Mechanics magazine. It's graced by a woman with gorgeous black hair with eyes an endless emerald green. She looks familiar, but Kara's not going to let her sister pull her chain today.

"Stop messing with me, Alex, it's not funny."

Alex glares back at her. "You really don't remember."

Kara grumbles and places the pillow back over her face.

"Check your texts," Alex lobs Kara's phone, and it hits her square in the stomach.

"Ow!" she shouts, chucking the pillow at Alex who dodges it easily. She sips at her coffee smugly.

Kara unlocks her phone, eyebrows furrowing, and reads her last text.

"OH MY GOD!"

"When we came back to your apartment," Alex continues, enjoying herself too much. "You kept trying to make out with your fern plant. You kept calling it Lena."

"STOP!"

"You tried to eat a frozen pizza."

"SHUT UP!"

[wh0lemilk0vich]

I just wanna talk about Argyle coz I love Argyle

The Byers are back in Hawkins - but Argyle visits his bestie Jonathan as often as his pizza boy paycheck will allow

Argyle likes all the Hawkins crew, but He and Eddie are such easy buds, from first sight. Eddie’s boy Harringtons harder to figure out, more uptight, and maybe him and Argyle just don’t mesh? but Eddie loves him n vouches for him so Argyles cool whatever

Periodic visits means he truly gets a time stamped show of the ahem “growth” of Eddie and Steve’s relationship- like dude is looking happier and heftier each time he travels out here bro good for him

Maybe one time - when Argyles visiting and Eddies definitely gone from overweight and pudgy one visit, to noticeably chunky and fat this meeting - Jonathan brings it up with Argyle - maybe not even meaning to in a mean way, just in that typical gossiping about what’s-changed-since-you’ve-last-seen-someone-way, but Argyle just shuts that convo dead right where it starts just like “whatever dude, what’s theirs is theirs. Live and let love. Chase that fuckin bliss bro” and Jonathan just like laughs and agrees and happily backs off

Anyway - argyle noticing Eddie’s band tees are DEFINITELY on this side of indecent one visit, even noticing that a few times he’s seen Eddie he’s wearing just basic black tees?? No label??? Bro this will not do

Coz Argyles not a skinny guy, and he’s a stoner who works in a pizza shop, he’s got plenty of hefty homies bro, bigger than Eddie even, and it’s not even a thing dude

He’s also super in the know about threads, and he’ll hook a friend up

So Argyle surprising Eddie with being able to source a retailer for plus sized metal band tees - gotta pay delivery from California but Argyle let’s Eddie know, if he doesn’t run thru sizes too quick , he can always just pay for tees and Argyle’ll cart them in his luggage on his frequent trips to the Byers abode

Eddie is definitely super touched and absolutely blown away by argyles generosity and thoughtfulness. Cue happy stoner tears and handholding

Steve is obviously happy for his boyfriend, and ON the surface like “wow that’s really kind of you 🙂🙂 thanks Argyle”

but secretly PRETTTTY annoyed with Argyle ACTUALLY that this means Eddie might be retiring some of his tighter fits - he knows it’s totally unfounded and irrational to be irritated with Argyle YES I KNOW ROBIN and Argyles just being a good friend, and that YES some of those tee shirts could no longer be called such and YES some fits were so tight as to challenge public decency laws LIKE I GET IT ROBIN I KNOW ITS A GOOD THING

Anyway Argyle doesn’t catch this and still thinks Steve’s got a massive stick up his butt, but he respects a clean cut dude who’s into some kinky shit

My guy, this is so cute. I love this so much 😭

Like, yes, 💯💯💯 Argyle meets Eddie and is like, "This is my guy. This spooky-ass metal-head dungeon master is a kindred spirit."

They're high on Eddie's couch and Argyle relates something deep to a game of D&D he's played and Eddie immediately gets misty, like 'this motherfucker gets it, man' and he places a hand on the back of his head and presses their foreheads together and just holds them there for a bit to feel each other's energy.

Meanwhile Steve's in a recliner to the side jaw set and seething. It's not his fault that he just can't wrap his head around dungeons and dragons. What the fuck does argyle know. Steve takes care of Eddie. In more ways than one.

In an immature and petty bid to remind Eddie who takes care of him in fact. Steve vicariously stuffs Eddie, encouraging him to get high, glut himself and put himself in a food coma, then gives him spite head. 'I'd like to see Argyle do any of that' he thinks to himself smugly, rubbing sleeping Eddie's belly.

This kind of thing repeats time and again but almost always when Argyle is visiting Jonathan. And eventually Argyle just has to address the elephant in the room, which ironically is not Eddie.

"Edd, my man. It's so good to see you! It's been too long. Yo but bro, real talk," pulls Eddie off to the side "your boy, shirt-pants, what's his damage? Like he's always giving me mad evils."

"Ahhh ignore him. I think he's just pissed that I rearranged some things this week to make sure I got to see you."

"Man, if you say so. Hey by the way, my guy, I say this with love in my heart but this Megadeth shirt's seen better days. Dontcha think you'd be more comfy in a shirt with some growing room, hell just breathing room. Man, I got a buddy built like an industrial fridge that I can get threads for no problem. Just say the word and we'll get you straight, my guy!"

Eddie getting misty again and pulling Argyle in for a crushing hug "I'm not gonna lie brother, it's been hard. I've had to wear Hanes, Gildan for Christ's sake. Just can't ever bring myself to part with these though... they've got so many memories attached, you know? Hey, Stevie, Argo here's gonna hook me up with new merch! Isn't he the fucking, man!?"

"Wow. Thank you SO much, Argyle. Really, you don't have to do that. It's too generous."

"Aw man it's no biggie! I end up out here all the time, I'll just hit up my man Eddie for sizes and bands, and we can square up later. Gotta keep my main man looking fresh and decked out!"

Steve is absolutely raging and it cues another 'i don't know why i feel the need to stuff you like a Thanksgiving turkey when I'm upset like this, but it's either feed you or run Argyle over with my car, so let's get you fed, big boy' night, leaving Eddie sated and drained while Steve forces himself to get some sense talked into him by Robin.

This is all so good. I would love to write some of this with you if you're ever interested!

[honeypiehotchner]

intelligence & issues (Hotch x Fem!Reader) -- chapter twenty-eight

Hi babes! I forgot to say this last chapter, but I made a playlist for this story! Here’s the link xx. You’re welcome to snoop around my Spotify! I make tons of playlists haha (Here’s the link to the “pov: you’re falling in love with aaron hotchner” one <3)

Chapter title is from “Let’s Get Married” by Bleachers!

Warnings: lots of ~suggestive~ comments (no smut), angst if you squint (i think), loads of fluff

Previous chapter || Fic Masterlist

Chapter Twenty-Eight: I know it’s hard enough to love me

Aaron doesn’t get done at the BAU until seven. Much later than he wanted, but he had work that he couldn’t abandon. The case still wasn’t closed yet – all the paperwork is done now, but it normally doesn’t take him this long.

He shouldn’t overanalyze his every move, but he can’t help it. He knows he’s walking a thin line, dating a member of his team. A fellow agent, a much younger fellow agent, when he’s a divorced father who doesn’t even have custody of his own son, only visitation.

It’s tearing him apart. But the one thing that puts him back together, is seeing you.

So, that’s what he does.

He didn’t like leaving you this morning. He didn’t want to. But he didn’t expect the psych eval to upset you as much as it did. He truly was only trying to give you a heads up – even though that’s against his rules, too.

He’s breaking all his rules for you. Every last one of them.

And yet, you don’t care.

You open your apartment door to him, and you throw yourself in his arms like you’ve waited all day for him.

“I’m sorry I’m so late,” he says, kicking your door closed with his foot. His arms are around your waist and yours are around his neck, so he’s lifting you off the ground just enough to carry you over to the couch. He’s careful when he shifts your weight as he sits down, so he can swing your legs around gently so you’re sitting in his lap, your arms never having to leave their place around his neck.

“It’s okay,” you say, your voice muffled due to the fact that you’re hiding your face in his neck. “I’m sorry I was so grumpy this morning.”

Aaron sighs, rubbing your back. “You’re forgiven, I promise.”

You lift your head a little to press a kiss to his cheek, your apology in two parts. “My mom and I talked about it.”

“What did she have to say about it?”

You smile softly. “That you look at me the way my grandpa looked at my grandma.”

Aaron hums, curious.

You continue. “She said you looked like you’d bring the moon down to Earth if I asked you.”

He chuckles, pressing a kiss to your lips. “I would.” Another kiss. “I’d need some help.” Another kiss. “But just say the word.”

Another kiss and you’re giggling. “I don’t need the moon, Aaron.”

“No?” He raises an eyebrow. “Or are you too afraid to ask?”

You shake your head. “I’m not.”

He tilts his head, giving you another look. “Little girl…”

“No,” you stop him, pulling him closer, staring into the glass of whiskey that is his eyes. “I don’t need the moon…because I have you.” You pause, watching his eyes, seeing his reaction. “And that’s enough,” you whisper. “I don’t know how to let you love me, but I’m gonna try.”

“Y/N…”

“Mom told me you just love me too much. You’re not trying to upset me, you’re just…trying to make sure I’m okay and that I can do this without killing myself, I guess.”

“She’s right,” he adds softly.

“I know she is,” you chuckle. “She’s right a lot more than I want her to be, but point is, I’m not mad at you. Thank you for the warning about the psych eval. I know you weren’t trying to be a dick by doing it.” He’s not out to get you. You know that now, or you’re trying to.

“Thank you for saying all this,” he says quietly, the one hand that isn’t holding your back coming up to brush your cheek. “I owe you an apology, too. I didn’t do a good job of explaining earlier and I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have sprung that on you right before I had to leave. That wasn’t fair.”

“It really wasn’t,” you laugh, “but thank you.”

He hums, sealing the resolve with another kiss. “Have you eaten dinner?”

You shake your head. “I was waiting for you.”

He sighs, smiling despite his better judgment. “I appreciate that, but it’s late. You didn’t need to wait for me.”

“Well, tough.” You lay your head on his shoulder, biting your cheeks to keep from smiling. You’re more than well aware that that little comment will poke Aaron’s buttons. His hand tightening around your waist is evidence of it.

“What do you want to eat, brat?”

Your breath hitches. Then, as if you want to make it worse, you say, “Do you want me to answer that honestly?”

Aaron sighs again, this time tired and ragged, holding on by a thin thread. “Food, little girl. Food. My cock isn’t food.”

“Well…”

“Y/N.”

“Fine, fine. I don’t know, pizza? Pizza is a safe bet.”

“Pizza it is then,” he says, pulling his phone out of his pocket. While he’s looking up the number of the pizza place, he says nonchalantly, “You know I’m not fucking you until you’re fully recovered. I won’t say it a third time.”

You want to argue because technically sucking him off isn’t him fucking you, but you decide not to. Right now.

Later, you will. He’ll cave eventually. You’re sure of it.

+++

Aaron curves your every attempt to steer things in a more sensual direction. You don’t mind it really, you like teasing him like this – even if you know it’ll come back to bite you in the ass when he decides to punish you for it all. But he insists on not fucking you.

You know you were just shot, but you wish he’d just slam you into the wall already.

Unfortunately, your injured leg doesn’t coordinate with your desire because rough sex – or any sex – is off the table now.

You weren’t going to take any pain medicine for it because it wasn’t hurting that bad, but then it got worse, and you think it’s probably because you did laundry today when you definitely shouldn’t have. You’re not telling Aaron that, though. No way.

Still, he made you take some pain medicine, and now you’re settling into the first Harry Potter movie. He kept his word and you did, too. He needs to watch all of them.

You’re lying down now with your head in his lap – on a pillow, of course, because he doesn’t want you getting any ideas – as the familiar tune of the opening scene plays.

You doze in and out, falling asleep quickly because Aaron’s hands are massaging small circles into your head. You recall him throwing a blanket over you at some point, so you must’ve been shivering.

It’s not long before you’ve fallen asleep completely, waking only after the movie has ended and Aaron has you in his arms bridal style, carrying you to your bed.

“What time is it?” You mumble, turning to bury your face in his shirt, inhaling the familiar smell that is your man.

“Almost eleven,” he whispers back.

You hum, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Are you staying?”

“Of course,” he replies almost instantly. “I stuck a bag in here when we surprised you.”

“You did?” You ask, smiling stupidly. “Cheeky motherfucker.”

He laughs, catching himself and muffling the sound so it doesn’t rattle your eardrums as hard. “Just looking out for my little girl.”

You hum again, pressing a kiss to his collarbone. “Your little girl loves it. And you.”

“And I love her too,” he murmurs. “Can I put you down now?”

Your eyes pop open lazily, seeing you’re in your bedroom. “Have you just been holding me?”

He nods as he lowers you onto the bed. “I felt like holding you.”

You hold onto his neck, and he doesn’t seem to mind as he stays bent over you, his nose brushing against yours. In the dim light, you take him in, searching his brown eyes, trying to find some reasoning, some magic spell that made it possible for him to love you this much.

“You better stop,” you whisper, not knowing where this is going.

“Or what?” He asks, inching closer, his lips ghosting over yours.

“Or I’ll wanna marry you for real,” you mumble. You’re aware of what you’re saying, but the exhaustion from the pain medicine makes it hard to fully process your own words. All you know is you mean them, every syllable.

“I already want to marry you,” he replies quietly. He’s not sure if you’re even coherent right now. You look like you are, but it seems too good to be true.

And as if his thoughts are confirmed, your eyes slip closed, sleep taking over.

You probably won’t remember this in the morning.

But he hopes you will.

+++

When you wake up, Aaron is long gone.

There’s a note next to a glass of water on your nightstand. He’s left for work and is going to try to be back earlier this evening. You smile at the thought, knowing he’ll get caught up again, but you don’t mind. It comes with the job.

You would love to go to the office for lunch. Maybe surprise him this time? You wouldn’t need a ride, as long as you don’t take anymore pain medicine today. The affects from last night’s is already gone.

He might kill you for it, but you’re doing it anyway. You miss everyone.

So, on that note, you get up and eat a quick breakfast before throwing on the comfiest clothes you own. It’ll be weird going into the BAU in these clothes with your badge clipped to the edge of your sweatshirt instead of to a blazer.

And sure enough, it does.

Stepping off the elevator on the floor of the BAU feels more nerve-wracking than it should.

On one hand, you’re excited to be here again, to see the rest of the team and to surprise all of them. On the other hand, you know Aaron won’t be happy with you (at first) for coming here. And you have this strange pit in your stomach, but you’re not sure what that’s about.

You push the negative feelings away and try to stay positive, focusing on the reactions from the rest of the team. They’ll be happy to see you, no doubt. That’s what you should be focusing on.

You’ve barely rounded the corner when you run into Penelope.

She grins, shaking her head. “You’re not supposed to be here, you sneaky little weasel.”

“I know, I know,” you groan. “But I was going insane and I miss you guys! I had to come visit and surprise everyone for lunch.”

“I can order in your favorite,” Penelope winks. “Come, come. Let’s grab JJ.”

Penelope links her arm with yours and the two of you walk to JJ’s office. JJ is at her desk and not on the phone for once, but the stacks of case files are as tall as ever. She looks up when you knock on her doorframe, and her face breaks into a grin.

“Hey you!” She stands, ignoring the open file to give you a hug. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to say hi,” you chuckle, squeezing her tight. “I’m going insane doing nothing.”

“It’s barely been two weeks,” JJ laughs. “What are you gonna do for the other two months?”

“Don’t even tell me that,” you groan. “I don’t know. I’ll just come bug you guys every day off the clock, I guess.”

“And if they’re gone, you can come camp out with me in my lair,” Penelope offers.

“Of course,” you nudge her arm. “I’ll probably hide out with you to avoid the wrath of Hotch.”

“He doesn’t know you’re here?” JJ asks. She grimaces when you nod. “Good luck with that one, sister.”

“Why do you think I want to walk in there with you guys? I’m not going into the lion’s den alone.”

“Oh, you’d be fine,” Penelope laughs. “We’re still having a girl’s night, right? We still need details and you are not getting out of it.”

“Yes, yes, we can, we’ll find time,” you promise.

After another moment of idle conversation, the three of you head up the hall to the bullpen. Through the glass doors, you can see Reid doing another magical science trick, and he must be practicing because Derek and Emily are working on some paperwork instead of watching him.

You decide to surprise Emily first since her desk is closest. Derek spots you, but doesn’t say a word, letting you sneak up behind Emily.

“Did you use my shampoo?” You ask right into her ear (don’t ask why, it’s the first thing that came to mind).

She spins around and jumps up, pulling you into a hug. Derek gives you a hug next, and Reid waves from his desk before going back to whatever experiment he’s in the middle of doing.

“Where’s Hotch?” You ask, glancing between everyone.

“Your man is in his office,” Derek snickers. “What? Did you not get enough lovin’ this morning?”

“Shut it, Morgan,” you try to smack his arm, but he dodges your swing with a laugh. “And since you asked so nicely, I’m never satisfied.”

Your shit-eating grin earns cheering from the girls, but Morgan groans loudly, shuddering.

“I did not need to know that, L/N. Seriously.”

You shrug. “Don’t ask then.”

Morgan shakes his head, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “I’m glad to see you’re just as feisty as always.”

“That’ll never leave me,” you wrap an arm around his waist, accepting his hug. “Where’s Rossi?”

“He took today off,” Emily answers.

“Something about his publisher,” JJ shrugs.

“Another book?” You ask. “I thought he was done with that.”

“Maybe,” Morgan says. “And I thought you weren’t allowed back here for at least another month.”

“To work,” you clarify, poking his stomach. “I’m just here to bug you guys and have lunch. I’m enjoying my time off, thank you very much.”

“You’re bored, aren’t you?”

“Out of my fucking mind,” you admit with a laugh.

You’re too busy talking to Morgan to realize Hotch has walked out of his office and is standing on the balcony, arms crossed over his chest, and a near death glare settled on you.

“Uh oh,” Morgan mutters, sliding his arm off your shoulders.

Your arm slips from around his waist, your eyebrows furrowing. “What—Oh. Oops.”

“Y/N,” Hotch says firmly. “Can I speak to you in my office?”

“You’re gon’ get it now,” Morgan says under his breath.

But you hear the remark, so you punch him in his side. “Of course, sir,” you say to Hotch, adding another jab to Morgan’s ribs when you hear him snickering at you. You’re gonna get him back later. So bad.

Aaron turns and walks back into his office. He’s closing the blinds when you walk in.

“Shut the door,” he says sternly.

You do as you’re told (for once), shutting the door behind you. “Aaron, I can expl—”

You don’t get to finish your sentence because the wind is knocked out of you, and Aaron lips are smothering your own. He nips at your bottom lip, and you open up for him, moaning when his tongue doesn’t even fight for dominance, just takes. The kiss has you hot all over, thanks to his wandering hands that run under your sweatshirt, leaving goosebumps everywhere his fingertips touch.

When he pulls back, you’re breathless, your chest heaving, your eyes wide, lips bruised.

“Um,” you pause to take a deep breath, licking your buzzing lips. “I’m sorry?”

“We’ll talk about this later,” he says sternly. “You’re lucky they’re out there or I’d bend you over my desk.”

You swallow thickly. “You still can.”

He smirks, but shakes his head, his thumb stroking your cheek softly. “No. And if they ask, you can say we were discussing your psych eval.”

You deflate at its mention. You try not to show it, but Aaron sees it. “When is that, by the way?”

“The Friday after next,” he says quietly. “At noon.”

“Okay,” you murmur. “When are you supposed to formally tell me?”

He chuckles. “Today is fine. I can tell Strauss I called you in to discuss it and you decided to have lunch with the team – if she asks.”

“Are you okay with lying to her this much?”

“Believe it or not, I’ve lied to her more often than you think. Before you joined us.”

“I don’t believe it,” you smirk. “You’re always such a stickler for the rules.”

“And yet here I am,” he pauses, kissing you again, “in love with you.”

“Loving me is dangerous, huh?”

“You have no idea.”

Next chapter

[aching-tummies]

If I was your partner...I'd bind you. Arms behind your back or tied to an armrest or something. I don't got a preference for what state your stomach is in except maybe an extreme one (hungry, stuffed, sick, etc.). I want you moaning and squirming and begging for rubs. Maybe I will grant them...but the more sadistic part of me wants you on the floor, arms bound to a table leg, with my sock-clad foot prodding into your tummy causing you to moan and something to happen in that gut gu yours.

I wonder if cradling my stomach when it hurts actually does anything. Like…I instinctively try to at least put my hands on it when it starts to ache in public…but it still hurts. Would it hurt even more if I didn’t have anything pressing against it?

My musings gave you the perfect excuse to combine our mutual love for tummy kink with your binding kink. The blindfold was the first to come on. It’s just a scrap of fabric from my sewing projects and not necessarily a true blindfold. The low thread-count is one thing, so I can see silhouettes if I try hard enough. That and the little slivers caused by the gap created by the bridge of my nose…but those slivers barely allow me to see my front if I try hard. More strips of fabric fasten my arms behind me. Not in a way that gets me to cramp and ache, but enough that I can’t bring my arms up to my stomach. I’m leaned up against a leg of our dining table with my legs sprawled out in front of me and my arms fastened to the leg. If I start to panic I could easily push the table up and slip my bonds out from under it, or I could use the safe-word.

A deep, angry grumble quakes in my tummy. It’s audible and it brings an intense cramp with it. I bite back a moan, my eyes squeezing shut against the intensity of the cramping ache as it builds and builds to a head. My arms tense, fighting the bonds as my body instinctively tries to reach over to soothe my upset tummy.

“Ugh…babe?” I don’t even know if you are in the room. You made me ingest a bunch of stuff and I’ve been left to sit for a long while. The plan today was to cook up a stomach ache and we both knew that I’d subconsciously avoid eating stuff that was guaranteed to give me a tummy ache, so we sort of removed my autonomy with the blindfold. “Babe—urgh…ouch—i-it’s s-starting—ah! Ow!” A sharp growl splits the air and I can see my stomach clenching and convulsing as my body squirms involuntarily.

You didn’t just stuff me, but you were careful with the combinations to ensure that it’d cause a stomach ache. There was orange juice to start, something I usually avoid because I’m not a big fan of tart and sour flavors. At least two glasses went into my gut via a straw to start and I was sated after the two glasses. Of course, one never says ‘no’ to pizza. The next thing to nudge my lips ended up being a pizza. You’d give me a few bites and let me swallow, pausing periodically to give me a sip of something through a straw pressed to my lips to ensure my mouth didn’t get too dry. Sometimes it was water, other times it was some carbonated drink. I don’t know how many slices of pizza I ended up eating, but it felt like a lot. The liquid travelling up the straw eventually transitioned into milk tea and my dread ramped up in tandem with the pressure in my tummy as I thought about the lake of acidic orange juice it would clash with. My stomach churned as I continued to suck on the straw and that definitely didn’t help matters. Maybe it was my overactive imagination, but I could feel chunks bobbing around in my gut and I’m not entirely sure all those chunks were pizza.

You left me alone after the feeding. Tempted as you were to put your hands on my belly and slosh it around, that would defeat the purpose of our little experiment. Now we wait. You had retreated out of my sight (not hard to do) and left things to stew.

I sat there with nothing to occupy my mind except for the sensations in my tummy. It didn’t take long. My stomach cramped a little, but it was more discomfort than an actual ache. That went on for about twenty minutes. I guess those minor cramps were my body’s way of churning the mess in my belly. The aching intensified as the mess got more and more churned around. The milk and cheese reacting with the acidic orange juice and curdling terribly. My intestines were alright with the liquidy orange juice dripping into it b, but the easy-to-digest liquid soon stopped dropping in, replaced by a nasty, semi-solid glop of curdled garbage. My intestines reacted almost immediately. Peristalsis stalled for a little while, allowing the nastiness to stew for a bit. When it re-started it was clearly having trouble finding the right rhythm to get the mess moving.

I needn’t have called out. You’ve been watching from the other side of our combined living/dining area. You knew the stomach ache was forming when my mewls and bitten back moans joined the griping grumbles from my unhappy tummy. The noises had started out liquid-y and clear, sounding infrequently and gradually morphed into a sticky cacophony of nastiness. Tell me you’re sick without telling me you are sick. Came to mind. The noises from my gut just screamed ‘sickly’ to you and you were tempted to find me a bucket, but you didn’t want to miss a moment of the action. Not like I’m sitting on carpet—the smooth flooring is easy to clean, even if it’ll be a bit of a pain to do so if I hurl.

“Ugh—urlp—b-babe? Sweetie—it hurts! It really hurts—ulp—” Those aborted hiccups sound wet. Forget ‘if’ I hurl, that sound is basically a guarantee that we’ll be cleaning our floors. Well, if it’ll end up being a mess anyway. A smile forms on your lips as you quietly pad your way over to where I’m bound. Your sock-clad feet make no noise as you creep closer. “Ullf…uhhmm…ugh…’m so full—urp—s-so sick..oohh…” A moan and a coo at directed at my tummy reverberates, blending with a smooth growl from my guts. I’m still completely unaware of your presence.

“Ah—Oww—URLPK!” I was unaware of your presence until a sharp pressure drove into my bloated belly as you nudged your sock-clad foot into the crest of it. Something sour and chunky surged up my esophagus. My surprised gasp at the sudden pressure was just enough to keep the sick from coming all the way out but the back of my throat burns as my stomach churns violently. “Ugh…babe…that hurts. Ugh…forget the stupid experiment. Untie me. I need to rub—my stomach hurts.” I hiss and bite back something as my stomach clenches tightly. You watch me arch slightly, my stomach seeming to seek out any sort of comforting pressure and finding none. For a second you entertain the idea of alien chest-bursters or something from the way my arching spine brings my belly up and out for a moment before my straining body goes back down. Maybe that was an attempt at nudging up the table, but I know you are here and still haven’t used a safe-word so the scenario is still going.

While you were feeding me, you had sneakily unbuttoned my jeans and unzipped my fly on a whim. The experiment was for a belly without any sort of comforting touch. I wasn’t willing to go naked for the experiment so the undone jeans would have to do.

My breathing comes quickly and in short gasps. My stomach heaves and squirms with my breaths. It’s almost like the labor videos you’ve seen before. You nudge at my stomach, prodding it with your big toe. I groan again and shift, seemingly trying to get away from your foot. I end up pressed against one of the dining chairs that has been tucked in, not really offering me much more room to go. I’ve got you on one side and the chair on the other—talk about a rock and a hard place.

Moving was a bad idea. The movements jostled my already upset guts and the churning intensifies. The cramping pains shoot through every which way and my arms continue to fight the restraints, my body desperately trying to get any sort of comforting pressure to my sick tummy.

A warm pressure pushes at my belly. It’s your foot. You run your foot over my stomach with minimal pressure. It’s still more than a hand would do with a lazy rub because legs are generally stronger than arms. The constant pressure of your foot squeezes my guts uncomfortably and shifts things around. I feel the semi-solid mush occupying my duodenum get squeezed, seemingly pushing out of both sphincters at either end at the same time. My stomach revolts. The sensation of forced back-flow upsets the swirling contents. More gastric contents work their way up my esophagus. I feel the level rise to mid-chest and climb and ebb. My aborted groans are cut off as I try to fight the vomit.

Your foot leaves my belly just as the level reaches the back of my throat. You were worried because I had seemingly stopped breathing. Once the pressure leaves, the sour liquid falls back into my stomach. I feel my stomach expand with it as my abdominals barely unclench in time to accommodate for the returning contents. Once everything is back in my belly I finally trust myself to let out a groan and to take a deeper breath.

“Ugh…I want to rub my tummy so bad. ‘m so sick. Hurts so much. Tummy…sick…too full…too much…ugh…” I’m mumbling. Clearly, the ordeal has been overwhelming for me. A part of you worries that we’ve gone too far now. Maybe this was too much and it broke me enough to forget the safety checks we have in place? You reach for the blindfold, finding it a little damp with tears. It worries you.

Settling to sit down on the floor with me, you reach over and gently rub my tummy. I moan softly, finally feeling some relief. My stomach tenses at the first touch but gradually unclenches under the comfort of your massage.

You can feel the sickly churning and sloshing of my guts. You can feel it each time my duodenum spasms—taking in new contents and occasionally allowing back-flow that upsets things all over again.

“Sweets…do you still want this?” You ask tentatively after I’ve been silent for a little while. It’s clear I’ve calmed down slightly from your massage.

“Hmm?” You can tell I’m out of it. Whether it’s a food coma, exhaustion, or me being too influenced by the scenario to be in the right state of mind—you don’t know. You reach over and begin to work on the strips of fabric securing my arms. It’s only because you are leaning in that you catch my words. “I want—I want it all out. Now. Please?” As my hands loosen, I reach over not for my stomach, but for your leg. Realization dawns. The game is still on…though this might be the big finish.

A dull but sudden pressure rattles me as you plant your foot solidly into my belly. It sinks in despite how full I am as my stomach-contents shoot up, up, and out. You hear the sound of something slapping at the back of my throat a millisecond before it splatters onto the smooth floors of our apartment. I’m on my knees and you are standing above me. Some of the sick inevitably got on your pant-leg and sock, but those can be cleaned. You nudge at the side of my belly with your foot, bringing up more sick.

Four productive heaves later I am left dry. My stomach aches something fierce. With a groan, I flop over to the side, barely avoiding the puddle of sick. My hair is definitely in it but I’m too exhausted to care. You tower over me, my back pressed up against your shins. You raise a foot and nudge it into my belly. I close my eyes as I feel your foot providing my clenching belly with a deep massage, deeper than anything hands could do. My stomach gripes and growls around your foot and you can feel the reverberations as you knead and churn it around. You press until you hear me gasp and push at your foot with my hands. You relent the pressure and offer the massage again, lulling me into a sense of security before you’ll inevitably do it again.

[elisela]

above the ground (ao3) buck x eddie, 1.3k, domestic fluff, trees of vermont for the second day of @eddiediaz‘s birthday week celebration!

--

The first time Eddie catches Buck staring up at the trees in the backyard he’s just finished pulling all the yellow tile out of their bathroom, plaster dust still coating his arms. Buck had heaved a box full of the cracked clay into the outdoor garbage can, turned to walk back to the house, and just—stopped. “You good?” he asks, and Buck visibility shakes himself out of his reverie.

“Yep,” he says, glancing down at Eddie’s empty hands. “Was that the last of it?”

“Still another pile,” Eddie says, and follows behind him when Buck claps him on the shoulder and pushes past him on the way back into the house.

--

The second—and third—time they’re barbecuing. Or, well, they aren’t, but Bobby is, taking over their backyard because theirs is being reseeded. Eddie’s not doing much of anything; the kids are running around the yard, Buck and Chim are in the middle of dragging Bobby’s patio table over so they all have places to sit, Karen is swatting at Athena’s hand when she reaches into the salad bowl to pinch an olive between her fingers.

Buck drops into the chair next to him after the table placement is approved by Hen, threading their fingers together with an easy sigh and accepting the cold bottle Eddie hands him gratefully. His head is tipped back, eyes trained on the far corner of the yard, one of the corners of his mouth pinched thoughtfully.

“Planning something?” Eddie says, because he knows that look. That’s the look that caused them to strip and restain all the hardwood floors downstairs the weekend before, the look that preceded Buck’s proposal that they rip out the out-of-place island in the kitchen, take out the crappy wire shelving in the pantry and replace it with wood, and while they’re at it, Buck’s never liked the placement of the refrigerator anyway.

“Maybe,” Buck says. He sounds far away, and Eddie wonders what havoc he’ll bring to the house now.

“Cool,” is all he says. There hasn’t been anything Buck’s done that he hasn’t liked—fish scale tile in Christopher’s bathroom aside, because that was one hundred percent his son’s choice. “You know where the credit card is.”

--

In retrospect, he shouldn’t have been surprised when he comes home a week later and there’s a pile of lumber sitting in the corner of the backyard.

--

The plans for the treehouse are stretched across Buck’s desk, and Eddie runs his fingers over the detailed sketch, the trunk of the tree it’s all built around. If he’s reading it right, it’s meant to be just fifteen feet off the ground, an octagonal structure with a deck that faces the backyard, an enclosed room at the back, a staircase that spirals up to it.

“I would have put it up higher, but I had to work around city ordinances,” Buck says from behind him. He’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed loosely over his chest. “That’s as tall—and as big—as I could make it without applying for waivers.”

“This is amazing,” Eddie says, glancing back at the plans. “I didn’t even know Chris wanted a treehouse.”

Buck huffs out a laugh. “Well,” he says, “he hasn’t said anything to me, either. But one of his classmates was talking about backyard camping and how cool it would be to have a treehouse to live in during the summer, and the look on Chris’ face—I just thought it would be pretty easy to give him.”

Eddie’s going to marry this man. “You need help with it?”

“Yeah, but I’m not sure when we’ll get started. I called an arborist—don’t look impressed, it was Bobby’s idea, he said we should get the whole yard checked before any more trees decide to crash through the roof—and I’m waiting to schedule with them. Don’t wanna start building before I know if the tree can hold it.”

“Chris is gonna be thrilled,” Eddie says. “But I hope you know that you’re the one sleeping out there with him. I’ve done my time sleeping outdoors.”

Buck laughs and pulls him close. “He’s almost eight, Eds. Let him and Denny go out on their own, and we can have some fun in here.”

Eddie pauses, hands on Buck’s warm, solid side. “You know he’s gone for the next few hours, right?”

Buck still closes the door behind them.

--

Maybe Eddie should be over a shirtless and sweaty Buck, but it’s a sight he never wants to drag his eyes away from. The last weeks of summer have been blisteringly hot, so naturally Buck decided that it would be the best time to build.

Eddie has no complaints—except when Chim starts calling him over to help.

They’d started early, driving a rented lift into the backyard just after sunrise so they could get the frame built out around the tree. Eddie had done his part by staying out of the way and making sure there were enough bagels to satisfy even Buck’s insatiable hunger, picking up lunch from Bobby’s when they took a mid-day break, and was about to disappear again when Chim called his name.

“Eddie,” he says, hands on his hips fifteen feet up, straddling two of the cross-sections that radiate from around the tree, “getting the base down would go a lot faster if you could hoist the planks up to us.”

In the end, Eddie is almost as sweaty as they are, arms pleasantly sore in a way they haven’t been in a very long time.

The build takes three days; they finish the round base and railing on the first day, the staircase takes them all of Sunday, and Buck is antsy all week, never getting home early enough to get started on the enclosed section without losing the light. Christopher walks up the stairs daily, spreading himself out on the base and laughing when Eddie aims the hose up at him.

Buck’s up at daybreak the next weekend, the sound of hammering waking Eddie from what had been a good dream. He’d made Eddie promise not to let Chris watch the progress, so as soon as Chim knocks on the door, Eddie takes Chris and leaves, spends the day running errands and waiting for Buck to give them the all clear, a text that doesn’t arrive until it’s nearly dinner time.

He picks up pizza on his way home, tries not to laugh at the way Chris bypasses the front door and goes immediately around the side of the house, yelling for Buck as he does. Eddie slows his steps—he knows Buck and Chris are already bonded, that they love being around each other, but he wants to give them a moment that’s just for them after Buck has done something so incredibly huge for his son.

Chris is already in the enclosed section when he makes his way up the staircase, and it’s nothing like he had imagined. This isn’t the cheap, hastily built treehouses he’d seen while looking for houses—it’s like a log cabin up in a tree, and although he can see the exhaustion in Buck’s body as he walks around with Chris, the only expression on his face is the excitement that’s mirrored on Christopher’s.

“Buck says we can sleep up here tonight!” Chris says excitedly, tugging on his hand. “I’m gonna go pack my stuff!”

--

“Air mattresses are less comfortable than I remembered,” Buck says much later that night, after Chris had already dropped off to sleep. “Maybe we should get real beds in here.”

“Maybe you were right about letting him be on his own,” Eddie says, linking their fingers together. It’s far from the worst place he’s slept, but Eddie’s a creature of comfort now. “We can give them walkies to check in. I’m calling Hen first thing tomorrow.”

[kate-likes-this]

Pedro for GQ Germany (09-10/20)

By Esma Annemon Dil • Photo by: Doug Inglish  Related: photoshoot / list of articles / Auf Deutch

It's almost eerie how empty the streets of Los Angeles are under the bright sun. While Europe is groping its way into its “new normal”, here in LA even those who are not neurotic are still apprehensive. Many of them haven't met their friends for six months. The pandemic is out of control. The reactions to it, too. Inviting someone to the garden for a “distance drink” can lead to exactly the same amount of annoyance as suggesting a partner swap.

It was all the more surprising that Pedro Pascal immediately accepted. So for a drink, not to swap partners. He's one of the big climbers of the year - and if Corona hadn't put the film industry on compulsory leave, there probably wouldn't have been time for this drink. After “Game of Thrones”, the series in which his skull was suddenly crushed, the lead role in “Narcos” followed in 2015 as a DEA agent on the hunt for Pablo Escobar, and now the step into the big Hollywood cinema. From October 1st, the native Chilean will appear in the blockbuster "Wonder Woman 1984". In addition, the second season of the “Star Wars” series “The Mandalorian” starts in October on Disney+ with him in the lead role - but under his helmet. And somehow we are all under a helmet in 2020. We want to meet this man who worked as a waiter in New York a few years ago, whose parents are political refugees who found asylum in Denmark, settled in Texas and whose son went to the theater company one day in high school.

Then the rejection! While we were just preparing the house and the garden for a drink with Pedro, and organizing the fashion shoot - which is not easy under the current security precautions in LA -, his management called us with an unfortunate news: Pedro had - no, no Corona - to be operated due to an accident, and now in bed with a swelling face that does not allow any conversation or photo-session. 

A few days later he was standing in front of the door, puffy, still with threads in his mouth, not been brought by a limo service, but in his own car - and a make-up artist he also picked up at home and brought with him. He helps her bringing in her work utensils - what a gentleman - and lets you know first: “Now I have time today!” At first we didn't want to ask him about how he made it onto Hollywood's A-List, but he promopts us. 

Pedro Pascal: Sorry that I messed up your plans. The operation was an absolute emergency.

GQ: Really? We wondered if the swelling wasn't the result of a secret visit to the cosmetic surgeon. They should currently not be able to save themselves from orders due to the quarantine in Hollywood.

I have to disappoint you there. I sped to the hospital a few days before our appointment with a tooth fracture and the worst pain of my life - one where the severe corona cases end up. I couldn't reach a dentist! A specialist called me back shortly before the parking garage. I'll spare you the details of the operation, truly scary. Anyway, the pain was hellish, despite the ten injections. The doctor said that I was not an isolated incident, as people grind their teeth extremely from stress at night.

What are you most afraid of at the moment? 

How the government is dealing with the pandemic worries me even more than the virus itself. This lack of intelligent crisis management is a moral shame. The leadership crisis in the country makes us all orphans - penniless left to our own devices.

How have you spent the last few months? 

With frozen pizza in a jogging suit in Venice Beach. I live in a back building that is in a family's garden. There are actually plenty of good take-out restaurants nearby, but for some reason I like salami pizza from the supermarket.

That doesn't exactly sound like a movie star lifestyle. How does it feel when you are slowed down from top speed to zero? 

If you look at what else is going on in the world, you should keep your own sensitivities in check. I would have to lie if I pretended not to be disappointed. The whole team put an incredible amount of heart and soul into the production of “Wonder Woman 1984”. We had a lot of fun on set. I would have liked to travel the world with this feeling of liveliness, and present the film.

You come from a politically active, socialist family who fled Chile from the Pinochet regime. What do you remember back then? 

My sister and I were born in Chile, but I was only 9 months old when we first found asylum in Denmark. From there we moved to San Antonio, Texas, where my father worked as a doctor at the university clinic.

Texas isn't exactly known as a socialist utopia. How did you settle in there? 

San Antonio is not a cowboy city, but rather diverse, with large Asian, black and Latino communities. I remember it as a romantic place, culturally open. The culture shock didn't come until we later moved to Orange County, California. There the atmosphere was suddenly white, preppy and conservative.

How were you received in California? 

I am still ashamed now when I think about the fact that my classmates just called me Peter and I didn't correct that. I am Pedro. Even if I didn't grow up in Chile, the country and the language are part of me. I was pretty unhappy in this environment. But at least I was able to switch to another school near Long Beach where I felt more comfortable. I found my way through the school theater there.

Were you able to visit your family's home as a child? 

Yes, when my parents landed on a list of exiles who were allowed to return without consequences. First, there was a big family reunion, then my sister and I were stayed there with relatives for a few months while my parents went back to Texas. They probably needed a break from us. They got us pretty young, a lively social life, and my mother was doing a PhD in psychology.

Was your mother a typical young psychologist who wants to apply her theoretical knowledge at home?

You mean, was I a guinea pig? In any case. I still remember weird tests and sessions disguised as a game, where someone watched me react to different toys. Although I couldn't have been more than six, I was aware of the dynamic. I preferred to be asked about my dreams. It was always a wonderful opportunity to come up with fantastic stories. 

Was that your first performance?

Without doubt! My mother was troubled by my strong imagination, as I would rather live in my fantasy world than reality. I hated school. I ended up in the “problem child” drawer. At some point the topics got more interesting and my grades got better. So many children are unnecessarily diagnosed with learning disabilities without considering that class can be downright daunting. Why is it acceptable to be so bored in class when there are more stimulating ways to impart knowledge?

With all that is happening in the world this summer, do you think that we are now taking social change seriously enough? 

Hopefully. I went back to people for the first time after the lockdown to take the streets for “Black Lives Matter”. The energy was peaceful and hopeful until the police interfered and provoked serious rioting. After all, we cannot run away from the problems as we usually do and are less likely to distract ourselves. It seems as if the pressure of the pandemic has led to a new clarity: we do not want to continue like this.

The trailer for "Wonder Woman 1984" revives the optimism of the 80s. From today's perspective that is almost nostalgic.

Not without a reason. You're really happy for a full two hours. The director Patty Jenkins has made a film full of positive messages. We shot in Washington, DC, then in London and Spain - which sounds like I'm telling from a bygone era. 

Do you miss traveling?

It is only now becoming clear what a privilege it is to be able to pack your things and fly anywhere. With an American passport you could always move freely. And that is why it is actually unimaginable in what small radius our life now takes place. In the last few years I have often withdrawn between filming because I was so much on the go and overstimulated. Friends have already complained about how comfortable I have become. We all took social exchange for granted and are only now realizing how much we depend on human closeness. In the past few weeks I have often wistfully thought of all the party and dinner invitations that I canceled earlier.

In LA, you spend more time in private spaces or in nature than in other metropolises that are more oriented towards public life. Could this city be your retreat after New York?

My real home is my friends. I lead a nomadic life from an early age and have never taken deep roots anywhere. Until recently, the physical home was a place between arrival and departure and therefore not something I wanted to complicate with the accumulation of things. On the contrary: without having read Marie Kondo's book beforehand, I have freed myself of ballast in recent years and have already lived quite reduced.

Is there nothing that you collect or that you wouldn't say goodbye to?

Books! I even have the literature I read as a teenager and in college. The other day I came across a box of old theater manuscripts and materials from my studies at New York University. I can't easily part with art, just as I can't part with lamps or old photos. On the other hand, furniture and clothes are not a problem.

Do you remember roles that the costumes really defined?

Yes, “Game of Thrones” comes to mind primarily. During this time I first understood what it means to be supported by a look as an actor. I owe that to the costume designer Michele Clapton. For my role, she developed these very feminine robes and brocade coats, which looked dressed but manly and in which I felt sexy. And of course Lindy Hemming's power suits and Jan Sewell's bleached hairstyle for the tycoon villain Maxwell Lord in “Wonder Woman 1984” were also very important. In terms of style, I didn't see myself in this role at first, as the cuts and colors of the 80s don't necessarily suit my body. I'm seventies by type.

Do you take inspiration like this into your private wardrobe? 

In my spare time, a cool look is now being abandoned in favor of comfort. Occasionally, I feel sorry for the times when I expressed myself through a certain style. Hard to imagine that I went to raves as a teenager in the 90s; a real club kid with insane outfits: overalls, parachute pants, soccer jerseys and a top hat, as in the children's book "The Cat In The Hat" by Dr. Seuss. Later in New York I was out and about with a clique in which it was very important to have a certain style. The fact that I am now only out and about in jogging pants is not really possible!

Anyone who plays in comic book adaptations actually becomes a bodybuilder and eats ten steamed chicken breasts a day. How about you?

My body wouldn't go along with that. I find it hard enough to keep in shape. From your mid-40s you have to be a lot more disciplined. Until the tooth incident, I worked in the garden with a trainer several times a week to get the quarantine body under control. 

Apart from this coach, is there any steady relationship in your life?

I am not that far yet. Maybe someday, but until then, I'll show mercy. Unfortunately, I don't even have absurd corona dating stories to offer.

What would get on your nerves the most if you had yourself as a roommate?

I can be pretty decisive. I have to scrape together all of my humanity so as not to push through my film selection every evening. If I want something, I don't approach it from behind or passively-aggressively, but in frontal mode. I also tend to tunnel vision: if I feel bad, I cannot imagine that it will eventually get better. I find it difficult to put emotions into perspective or to cast off problems. Method acting really wouldn't be for me at all. And that's why I try to only work on projects that feel good, where you support and encourage each other.

Before trying on clothes [for the photoshoot], you spoke of a lack of self-esteem. How does that go with a career like yours?

Isn't it interesting how these properties and conditions are related? Self-worth comes from within, but it is also influenced by what society values, as we often adopt critical views from outside. I lived in New York for 20 years, studied there and then, until my mid-30s, earned my living as a waiter because I couldn't keep my head above water with theater and occasional film roles. Again and again it almost worked. The disappointment of repeatedly missing a perfect role or opportunity can be weary. When should you give up and what would plan B be? These questions arise not only for most actors, but also for many others,who struggle to survive professionally - no matter how much potential they have or how close the tip seems to be within reach. We are just realizing how much our narrow definition of success is destroying society. At the same time, we also become aware that origin and skin color still determine the likelihood of being able to lead a dignified existence.

What are the positive aspects of relatively late success as a leading man?

I have the feeling that I can shape my life myself - without being under pressure of accepting projects or having to develop a certain identity on social media. That certainly has to do with the fact that I am a man. Sadly, it’s different for women, and needs to change that - regardless of age -, they have been constrained by social conventions where they either expected to play a predefined character, or go through even more struggles to get their talent and skills recognized. 

Life is always a risk management, but even more so than usual. What would you be ready to lose?

Generally speaking, if you don't risk anything, you run the risk of achieving nothing. That goes for friendship, love, work, creativity. For everything that really means something to me, I have to be ready to take risks.

[alphadaddyderek]

Not all math puns are awful, just sum (sterek fic, high school au)

ao3 link: click if you dare

summary: ’what is the probability that anyone will pass this fucking class? I’m thinking 1 in 100’

Stiles shakes his head because that was such a bad math joke that it was actually kinda funny. And, based on the expressions on people’s faces during class, also very true.

'i think there is statistical data to back up your theory’

AU where Stiles and Derek have to share a textbook and they write terrible math puns back and forth to each other.

Stiles sincerely, genuinely, regrets taking AP classes.

Well, kinda.

They would look great on his resume. Colleges wouldn’t even second guess accepting him and he would receive so many scholarships which would help his dad big time.

AP classes will also raise his GPA crazy high which, again, looks great to colleges.

Sometimes they just suck.

His AP Statistics class is definitely #1 on the ‘classes that suck straight ass list’.

It’s boring and it can be kinda hard. Plus it’s math so it’s automatically gross.

Stiles is good at math, but it’s not his forte, that’s more Lydia Martin’s thing.

Anyway, Beacon Hills High had to have some budget cuts this year, like, serious budget cuts. The sports teams are lucky that people care about people throwing balls all over the place, otherwise they would’ve gotten cut too.

Since the school has had budget cuts, the students don’t get individual textbooks anymore. Meaning, that they can only use it during class and then they have to leave it in the classroom for the next class to use.

So, yeah.

It’s the third week of junior year, AP Stat is as boring as always. He has Lydia to talk to sometimes but she has other friends in the same class, so he's not always entertained.

The teacher didn’t really care about whether or not students did the work, he just played chess on his computer the whole class anyway. He gave the page number that we were supposed to work on and that was that.

Stiles prefers that to lectures, but still. When he’s done the work there’s nothing left for him to do. He could go on his phone, but even that gets boring eventually.

What he’s trying to say is that he’s bored, okay?

Turning to the page that the teacher assigned, Stiles is shocked and wildly amused, to already see writing on the margins of the page. He figured it would take at least half the school year before people started vandalizing the textbooks. Although, it’s written in pencil so it’s easily erasable.

When Stiles actually reads what was written he snorts. Luckily, it’s loud in the class so the most attention he gets is when Lydia shoots him a weird look which he ignores.

'what is the probability that anyone will pass this fucking class? I’m thinking 1 in 100'

Stiles shakes his head because that was such a bad math joke that it was actually kinda funny. And, based on the expressions on people’s faces during class, also very true.

Should he write something back? Stiles doesn’t know if the person who wrote this is hoping for a response, or if they wrote in the book because they’re just as bored as Stiles is.

Eh, fuck it. Why not?

'i think there is statistical data to back up your theory’

Stiles snickers at his equally bad math joke before finally deciding to focus on the actual work. He didn’t want to be one of the ones who didn’t pass the class, because that would suck. So he does the work and for the remainder of the class he lets out a giggle or two every once in a while because even though he’s 16 years old, he apparently still has the sense of humor of a child.

π π π

It’s the next class and honestly, Stiles kind of forgot about the writing in the textbook. After he left that class he went to AP Geography where there was immediately a test, which he nailed by the way. Plus, with all his other classes, he just didn’t think it was important to remember a bad, but still funny, math joke in a textbook.

The teacher assigns them another page number full of questions to work on. And, just like last time, there’s writing in the margins.

‘i’m sorry, that was pretty mean of me to say’

That one has Stiles laughing out loud. Not too loud though, because he doesn’t have that much of a death wish. He just laughs loud enough to make Lydia send him another weird look, except this time Lydia questions him about it.

“What is so funny?” she asks, twirling her hair with her pencil.

Stiles shakes his head. “Nothing really. Just somebody writing lame math jokes on the book pages.”

“Well, you’re laughing at them. So doesn’t that make you lame as well?”

Stiles dramatically gasps.

“Wow, Lydia, that was pretty mean of you to say,” Stiles replies before bursting into more laughter.

At this point, Lydia is looking at him like he has brain damage but he really can’t bring himself to care. It’s hilarious and if she doesn’t think so then oh well. Her loss.

Well, she doesn’t know that that was the joke inside the textbook, but still, whatever.

It’s funny.

π π π

By this point, it’s kind of like Stiles and this unknown jokester are pen pals.

It’s been a week filled with terrible math jokes and Lydia probably losing more and more respect for him as the days pass.

He’s told Scott about his little pen pal and of course, Scott doesn’t really get it, but he’s supportive nonetheless.

It’s a Friday night and Scott is at Stiles’ house. They’re playing video games and eating so much pizza that Stiles will be bloated for an entire week.

Thankfully, his dad is on the night shift, otherwise, he would be heavily judgmental of Stiles’ life choices.

After several rounds of Mario Kart, they take a break to eat said pizza and talk a bit.

“So,” Scott takes a huge bite of his slice. “how are you and your math buddy doing?”

Stiles takes a bite of his own slice. “Why are you asking? Jealous?”

Scott laughs. “Oh yeah, I’m so jealous. Please, Stiles, make terrible math jokes with me.”

Stiles flips Scott off. “You only mock because you really are jealous.”

Scott rolls his eyes and then the topic is dropped.

At least for the next hour or so. Then after that, it gets brought back up.

“Do you think it’s weird to have a crush on someone you’ve never met?” Stiles asks, playing with a loose thread on his jeans.

Scott looks at Stiles, and Stiles does not want to see the weird look Scott has on his face so he continues looking down.

“You have a crush on this person?”

Stiles shrugs. “I don’t know. They’re funny, and obviously, they’re smart if they’re in AP Stat. I would like to meet this person though, maybe. I don’t know.”

Stiles feels his cheeks heating up.

Scott nudges Stiles with his elbow. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s not weird at all. It’s kinda like online dating, but like medieval style.”

Stiles can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of his throat. “What?”

It’s like medieval style! ‘Cause, it’s in a book. Instead of online.”

Scott is always able to make Stiles feel better, no matter the situation. His goofiness especially lightens his mood.

“Okay, Scott. Are we going to go jousting next?”

“I don’t know. What you guys do on your first date is none of my business,” Scott says with a sly smile.

Stiles snorts and grabs a pillow off the couch behind them and smacks Scott in the face with it, resulting in a pillow fight ensuing.

And if anybody asks, Scott did not win. He didn’t!

π π π

2 weeks after he and Scott had that talk, Stiles continues talking with his pen pal. Although, maybe Stiles is looking too deep into this, but it kind of seems like flirting now?

Hear him out.

In the margins, the person started adding smiley faces and winky faces after every message.

Ooh and they actually put their initials! D.H.

Stiles doesn’t think he knows anyone in school with those initials. Granted, Stiles isn’t exactly a social butterfly so he’s not doubting their existence at all.

AP Stat only has 5 minutes left in the class. Stiles has already embarrassed himself in front of Lydia more times than he can count, so he decides to ask Lydia if she knows someone with those initials.

She purses her lips. “Why do you ask?”

Stiles sighs inwardly before answering. “Uh, well. I was just...wondering. Ya know. Trying to expand my friend circle.”

Lydia raises an eyebrow. And Stiles sighs outwardly this time.

“Fine. You know the jokes that were in the book?”

“You mean from like a month ago?”

“Well...we’ve kinda been continuing to exchange jokes and notes and stuff. And then recently they put their initials. Or, at least I think it’s their initials. I don’t know what else it would be. So, yeah.”

Lydia looks at him for a moment before her lips curl up into a smile. “You mean you’ve finally found someone who has a worse sense of humor than you?”

Stiles returns the smile. “I’ll have you know, my sense of humor is advanced. Way too advanced even for you.”

“Uh-huh. Anyway, the only name that comes to mind is Derek Hale.”

Stiles chokes on his own spit. “Derek Hale? You mean the star of the basketball team? The guy with eyes that are like fifty different colors and bunny teeth that would look ridiculous on anyone else but he somehow looks gorgeous with them? That Derek Hale?”

“Yes. Other than that, I don’t know anyone else with those initials.”

“Does he take AP Stat?”

Lydia shrugs. Stiles takes that as a no.

There’s no way that Derek Hale is the one writing these notes. No way in hell. Stiles isn’t that lucky.

Plus, even if Derek is the one writing these, hypothetically speaking, Derek wouldn’t be interested in him. Don’t get Stiles wrong, he knows he’s a pretty attractive guy. But nobody in this school is as attractive as Derek Hale. Let's be real here.

Okay, maybe Danny. Danny is kinda gorgeous.

But besides Danny, nobody is even on the same level as Derek.

Well, Lydia is too.

Okay, dammit. People are on the same level as Derek Hale. The point is that Stiles isn’t.

Stiles sighs for what seems like the eighth time in. “Okay. Thanks.”

Lydia gives him a scrutinizing look before nodding and getting on her phone.

Stiles sits there and ponders why his life is like this before deciding that he must've done something to piss off fate in a past life. Pleased with his conclusion, Stiles shoves his notebook and pencils into his backpack just in time for the bell to ring.

π π π

Okay, so, Stiles must be going crazy.

When he saw that his pen pal had written his initials he figured, ‘hey, I might as well do the same. It’s only decent right?’ so he had, and ever since then Derek Hale has been shooting him looks in the hallway.

Maybe he’s hallucinating, because Derek Hale is, well, Derek Hale. Out of everyone in the hallway, why would he be looking at Stiles?

Also, Stiles can’t be the only person in the school with the initials S.S. although, he probably is the only S.S. that’s taking AP Stat so there’s that.

Stiles doesn’t know what to do, should he wave? Shoot him a smile?

Actually no, he should do neither of those things because if he does, and Derek actually wasn’t looking at him, that would be so unbelievably embarrassing. So embarrassing that Stiles would have to transfer schools immediately.

Stiles shakes his head and opens up his locker to gather his things for his next class. When he closes the locker Derek is standing right there like they’re in a horror movie and Stiles jumps so hard that he drops his notebook.

“Shit. Sorry,” Derek says and bends down to swipe Stiles’ notebook off the floor.

“No, it’s okay. You’re awfully quiet for an athlete.”

Stiles holds his hand out for his notebook but Derek doesn’t seem all that interested in returning it to him just yet. Derek looks at the front of his notebook.

“Hmm. AP Stat. Interesting.”

Stiles bites his lip and nods. “Yep,” he says popping the ‘p’. “it is interesting. Well, actually it’s not. AP Stat is yuck sometimes and it can get boring but it’ll look great on my resume so.”

Derek nods. He looks at Stiles for a few more seconds before he opens his mouth, and the second he does, Stiles’ stomach fills with butterflies.

“What is the probability that anyone will pass that fucking class? I’m thinking 1 in 100.”

Stiles bites his lip to stifle his smile. He doesn’t want to cheese like an idiot in front of Derek Hale but he thinks that ship has already sailed cause Derek’s lips stretch into a big smile.

Stiles clears his throat. “I think there is statistical data to back up your theory.”

“Oh, is there?” Derek asks, smile turning into a smirk.

Stiles nods then looks at his notebook that is still in Derek’s hand. “Can I have my notebook now? I’m not sure what exactly you’re plotting but I don’t like it.”

Derek scrunches his face up. “Wow, that was bad.”

Stiles’ mouth gapes. “Like yours were any better.”

Derek shrugs, smile returning to his face. “I thought my mean joke was pretty hilarious.”

“Yeah, hilariously bad. I didn’t laugh at all, not one bit.”

Derek looks like he doesn’t believe a word Stiles just said, which is fair, he shouldn’t.

“So,” Derek begins, eyes boring into Stiles’— seriously, what is up with Derek’s eyes? — “what is the probability that you will give me your number?”

Stiles pretends to think about it for a second. “I'm thinking 100 in 100.”