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eowynstwin · 5 months ago

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professor price

professor price x reader. age gap. older man/younger woman. pining. pre-relationship. jealousy. angst. guilt. voyeurism. mvp alejandro. lightly explicit. - A Christmas gift to my friend @guyfieriii, centered around her own Professor Price au from all the way back in early 2023. I have linked each fic of hers that I reference in this work—highly recommend you check them out.

The first day of class you’re in the front row—center seat.

Old instincts never really retire even if the body leaves the field; a moment’s evaluation opens you like a book. Pencil pouch on your desk, set parallel to the edge. Syllabus in the middle, creased at the stapled corner but otherwise pristine. Water bottle at the corner, solid blue.

You: hair neat. Wearing clean slacks and a knitted sweater like a uniform, ankles crossed, buckled straps of your Mary-Janes intersecting in an obtuse V. Like a flock of birds in formation, flying southwards for the winter. There’s a curated look to you, a careful arrangement of details meant to declare the essence of who you are and what you’re about.

It’s clear immediately; from only a glance.

You’re a good girl.

The eager-to-please kind. The five A-levels kind. The kind who does her bonus assignments because they’re available, not because she needs them. Prim, polished, ironed at the creases.

Straight from a 90s teen drama, or porn of an equal vintage.

You meet his eyes—

And Price knows how it goes.

Boredom and professional stagnancy are the bane of active men. Men with egos. Men who long to fix things. Men who have reached the heights of every achievement now looking for the next peak to summit.

It’s the curse of middle age’s collision with machismo. How does a man prove his masculinity when there’s no proving left to be done? When the panopticon has finally turned its eyes away, satisfied at his self-regulation enough not to constantly surveil it?

Suddenly the performance can end, if he wants it to. Only, if it ends, how does the actor not disappear, when the role is the only identity he’s ever had?

In academia, the answer is—of course—simple:

Fuck a student.

And oh. It’s right there, in those wide, sweet eyes, looking up at him with the reflexive veneration of a star student.

You’re begging to be fucked.

Fucked right. Fucked by someone who knows what he’s doing. Fucked so good that it upends every clean line of you, like breaking furniture, like smashing crystal. Fucked crying, whimpering, groaning beyond recognizable language, sweaty and gross until it’s impossible to tell whether or not his body and yours have begun to fuse.

Fucked the way no snot-nosed twenty-something twat, the age-appropriate kind that sleeps in the back of his lecture hall and then emails him at the end of every semester begging for extra credit to fix his grade, could possibly fuck you.

He holds your gaze for too long. You smile at him, shyly, and he gives you a brusque nod before distracting himself with the papers on his lectern.

You’re too young for him.

Not that it matters.

Price is all about lines. Stark delineations between will and won’t. Before his untimely retirement, the lines had meant everything. They separated the kind of man he was from the kind of man he did not want to be, and they kept those men separate, even when the distance from one to the other narrowed so sharply that the differences between them were a matter of context rather than consequence.

The important one now is the one that splits his lectern off from the rest of the lecture hall. Students are allowed to cross it, of course, or else he would be neglecting his duty to them as their instructor. But they must inevitably leave, and his feet must remain planted squarely on his side of it.

It’s not even a line he drew himself, although he would have if need be. No—professors, at the beginning of their tenure, are warned. Students will construct feelings of intimacy with their teachers, interpreting their passion for academics as passion for the conduit thereof. Close relationships between mentor and mentee, to be sure, can be deeply beneficial for the young scholar’s development—

But they must remain impersonal. The work must be the lens through which student and teacher look at each other. That barrier must never be lifted.

So it doesn’t matter how old you are or aren’t, or that you’re a second-year grad student, or that every time you walk into the classroom Price wants to drag his desk chair over to yours because you’re the only one who seems like she gives a damn about what he teaches.

He may draw his lines, but he never crosses them.

He’s seen it before. Never done it himself. Phillip Graves has a reputation for it.

Of course, as the Americans like to say, innocent until proven guilty, but it’s hard to argue with the pretty girls Graves always seems to have floating around him every semester. Undergrads, even, though to his credit they seem usually to be the older ones.

Price doesn’t think that even Dean Shepherd’s lapdog could get away with fucking freshly legal coeds—mostly because, if Graves tried to pull something like that, Price might actually take matters into his own hands and kill the bastard himself.

As it is, he can’t actually prove that his colleague is sleeping with anyone he shouldn’t be. He’s not in the army anymore; he has no desire to lose sleep over staking out the man’s house.

The only consolation is that no one besides his students and the Dean seem to like Graves—something the man doesn’t seem concerned to rectify, if he even notices. Though Price can’t imagine that he hasn’t noticed. He’s always sitting alone at staff meetings if Shepherd isn’t present, and if he does try to talk to anyone, it’s usually the adjuncts, young women just beginning their careers in higher academia who know the drill by now and merely humor him.

So it shouldn’t surprise Price when, one day, he catches Graves chatting you up.

“Hey, congrats on the election, kid,” he hears him say to you, referencing your recent appointment as president to the student association of his department. Graves smiles, dimpling, all that American charm amped up to the maximum.

And Price sees red.

“Thank you, Professor Graves,” you say politely. You have your arms crossed over your binder, held to your chest, as if a makeshift shield.

“I’d have voted for you if I could’ve,” the other man says. “And hey, I know you Brits like your formalities, but it’s just Phil with me.”

“Erm…”

“There you are,” Price announces from the other end of the hallway.

You turn, and give look you shoot him is so relieved that, almost immediately, it clears the haze from his eyes, like a cool breeze moving through the hottest part of a summer day. Relief of his own floods him, washing the jealousy he’d barely had time to confront completely away.

“Hello, Professor,” you say, “I was just on my way to your office!”

“Good,” says Price, approaching. “Wanted to talk about your last paper. Had some issues with your secondary sources.”

You blanch, and he immediately feels guilty for the lie.

“Ah, go easy on the kid,” says Graves. “I keep telling you, John, no one likes a hardass.”

For some reason, there are two men in the department that Phillip Graves makes a consistent effort to interact with, and Price has the misfortune of being one of them. He’s not sure why—he thinks he’s made his distaste for the man very clear. It’s probably some dick-measuring contest for him; Price’s standing in the department, even despite Shepherd’s favoritism, is secure.

Whether it’s secure enough to withstand this…thing happening between you and him has yet to be seen.

“I hold my students to a higher standard, Graves,” Price says shortly. Then, to you, “Come along, and we’ll talk about it.”

He turns and leaves, and as he hears you hurry after him, an ugly kind of gratification begins purring behind his sternum. The two of you walk for a ways in silence.

“Was it the interviews?” you finally ask him, sounding genuinely upset. “I thought they would be okay, given that they were original transcriptions…”

“Your sources were fine,” Price soothes, unable to take it. “Just needed to give you a good out, didn’t I?”

You falter beside him, but quickly catch up. “Oh no, was I that obvious?”

He looks to you as he walks, catching the anxious expression on your face, and smiles, amused. “Don’t worry, promise you he couldn’t tell.”

Then you laugh. It enter’s Price’s bloodstream and pumps through his veins, all the way to the arteries in his neck. It fills the lobes of his brain, rapidly bringing the world into sharper focus.

“I’ll hold you to that, professor,” you say, and it’s a tether he welcomes, a sting of pleasure as its hook lodges in his ribs.

Price looks over his shoulder, and finds Graves watching the two of you walk away. He doesn’t like the expression on the other man’s face. It’s…knowing. Understanding, in the way of a man having competed for something and lost to the better opponent.

He catches the Graves’ eye, scowling at him; he means for the expression to be disapproving. For Graves to know that Price knows what he’s about, and has no intention of humoring it.

But he knows how it actually comes across.

Back off. She’s mine.

Price’s colleague and friend Alejandro Vargas is the only other man in the department that Graves cares to know, and, luckily for Price, Alejandro shares his dislike.

“He is too young to be acting the way he does,” he says one evening after work. He and Price share a pint at a pub nearby campus on a regular basis.

“Too young?” Price repeats. “What is he, thirty-five? Forty?”

“Who cares,” Alejandro says. “Anyone chasing after his students the way he does should at least be fifty. That way a midlife crisis can at least be a valid excuse.”

Price’s stomach turns. His forty-sixth birthday has already come and gone.

“So you’re sayin’—”

“Man his age can get his ego boost somewhere else,” Alejandro mutters into his tankard. He has a strange way of looking at things, sometimes; as if he were a much older man himself, and not in his prime at thirty-eight. “Don’t they make apps for that nowadays?”

“No excuse for messing with students,” Price agrees, although he tastes the bitter note of hypocrisy in the back of his throat as he thinks of you, and that rainy afternoon.

Driving you home was a mistake, although he can’t think of anything else he would’ve respected himself for doing. He clings to that excuse like a buoy in the ocean—no matter his feelings for you, leaving you on campus to wait until the storm passed, no umbrella, no coat, would have been unforgivable.

He’d played it off as simply doing a favor for his favorite student. A willingness to go beyond his usual responsibilities to you, since you excel beyond what even his high standards demand of you.

Something the two of you should keep between yourselves, for professionalism’s sake, because he has an obligation to treat every student equally.

I can be discreet, you’d said, the tone of your voice playful and also…not.

The way one says something that they mean, while framing it as a joke, just in case it’s taken the wrong way.

Mitigation.

Something he could’ve brushed off, if your hand hadn’t moved toward his.

Good girl. He’d moved his away. Focused on the line. Accepted your apology with grace, determined not to embarrass you for feelings that are only natural—

That are reciprocated, even though they shouldn’t be.

“That is less the problem to me,” Alejandro muses.

“What?” Price exclaims. “Mate, we have a responsibility to these kids. We can’t go treating classrooms like bloody Love Island.”

“It is about the man,” says his colleague. “If a man shows respect in his relationships, then it is not so important where they happen. Graves, he is not a respectful man.”

“No one his age should be with girls that much younger than him,” Price growls.

Alejandro fixes him with an intense look, a serious expression tightening the sharp lines of his face.

“This is what I mean by respect,” he says evenly. Purposefully. “Knowing who is right and wrong to be with. Girls that young? No. They do not know themselves, and Graves will try to tell them who they are. But not every girl is that young.”

Price shifts uncomfortably on his barstool, remembering one late afternoon—when Alejandro had stopped by his office, to find you sitting on the small couch there, studying, as Price finished grading essays.

Innocent, he’d thought. A mentor and his student, sharing space, making room for scholarship to flow between them.

He realizes now, chagrined, that Alejandro has always been too perceptive to accept what he merely observes.

“Mate,” Price says, measured, “It isn’t like that.”

“No,” Alejandro agrees, “it isn’t. That does not mean it can’t be.”

“Alejandro—”

“You are not your father, hermano,” his colleague says, knowing exactly where to strike. “That is the end of what I will say.”

And he sips his beer while leaving Price to seethe.

You’re seeing one of the twats.

Price convinced himself the first couple of times you walked out with him—Will—that you were taking on a charity case. You’re a student leader, after all. Helping a classmate with their ailing grades falls under your purview. You’ve hosted tutoring sessions before, and the pride of it had nestled glowing in his chest so warmly that he couldn’t help bragging about your academic promise to his colleagues.

Even outside of the ache for you that sits in his gut every time he sees you, Price could not be prouder. The students’ Historical Society’s fundraiser last month had gone off beautifully thanks to you, and everyone who had attended was still talking about it: from the brilliant idea for a fifties dress code, to the truly impressive array of antiques you’d convinced donors to contribute to the silent auction.

You’d looked so beautiful in your little red dress, too. The sharp lines of your burgundy lipstick had made your smile so bright all evening that he’d fallen asleep thinking about it.

His student. His protege, really. Of course you’d notice someone struggling, and make an effort to help.

Except, Price has never been very good at fooling himself. The truth is too valuable an asset for him to disregard.

The first time you leave with Will, he feels it clench around something in his gut. He has to remind himself he has no right to feel anything about it at all.

The second time, it starts burrowing deeper. Gnawing a hole in his stomach. The look on the twat’s face, as he follows you out like a lost puppy, is too smitten to allow Price his illusions.

Then one day, you take that twat’s hand in yours at the end of class, slotting your fingers between his.

It descends again. That film of red over his eyes. He stares at the two of you as you make your way to the door—and you throw Price a look, Price, aimed straight for his center.

You’re his. His.

And what has he done about it?

The accusation is in your eyes. It’s honed by everything he’s done—and hasn’t. The late-night chips after fundraiser planning. The cigars between classes, and the scotch in his office he pours every time you stop by to discuss your thesis.

The cufflinks he wears for every single class you’re in, and the box you wrapped them in sitting open on his beside table. Like a conduit for bringing the warmth of your touch into his home.

The same warmth, in his weakest moments, that he imagines wrapped around his cock. As his fingers find the soft give of your cleft. As his tongue meets yours, and tastes the liquor he now only drinks in your company.

Imagines, but never pursues.

Why had he believed you wouldn’t search for the same elsewhere?

The anniversary comes up faster than Price would have liked, despite the fact that the calendar isn’t missing any days.

He goes to the cemetery alone. Bouquet of English roses clutched in the vice of one hand. It feels like a day it should be raining, but the sky betrays him, the gray covering of clouds thin enough to let the dyed sunlight through.

He buried his mother in the plot she’d bought for herself and his father, Price the elder, according to her wishes. He’d buried his father beside her against Price the younger’s own.

It had happened within a year of each other. The chemotherapy hadn’t worked, after years of fighting it, and the last months of Mrs. Price’s life happened far sooner than it was fair. She hadn’t left any regrets behind, she promised in her will, but young John Price knew it for a lie.

He remembers sitting with her in the mornings as a boy, flipping through old issues of National Geographic. His mum would ooh and aah over exotic pictures of the American west—the Russian steppe—colorful bird’s eye shots of the Taj Mahal or Burj Khalifa.

“We’re gonna go there someday,”she would enthuse, squeezing him around his toddler-belly with one arm as he perched in her lap.

Even then he’d known it was a dream, and not a goal. All he had to do was look around at the yellow tint of their kitchen with its laminate countertops, the scuffs on the corners of its scratch-and-dent fridge, the mismatch of cookware hanging on a smoke-stained wall. Peeling wallpaper they didn’t have the right to tear off, because they needed their deposit back very badly when they moved out.

His father was a tradesman—they could barely afford to visit Wales.

And his mother, at the elder Price’s insistence, did not work.

It’s in a nice place, the grave. Far back away from the entrance, where it can’t be trivialized by passing cars or dog walkers. Price can stand at the end of it and reckon with death without having to think of life going inexorably on right behind him.

Except, it’s the years to the right of the dash that he stares at, not the left. Even as a boy, he’d always noticed the disparity between his mother and father. How, before the younger even turned fourteen, grey streaked Price the elder’s temples, scars of age furrowing deep from the corners of his nostrils— while the decades his mum still had left to face radiated from her so brightly that sometimes people took her for his father’s eldest, and not the baby she bounced on her hip.

Decades she never even got to see.

Price rounds to his mother’s side and lays the bouquet beneath her epitaph—Loving Wife and Mother. He’s almost as old now as she was, in her last year, and he feels the epicenter of it sit somewhere between his heart and lungs. It burns, furious, indignant.

“Got tenured this year, Mum,” he murmurs to her. “Probably pay off the house next.”

He hears birdsong in the tree line beyond the border fence. Tries to feel her fingers running through his hair in the breeze, and fails. It’s just wind.

His father—who he sees in the mirror too often lately—he does not address.

He makes the mistake all men eventually do—

He calls his ex.

“Hallo?” Ada says, after picking up on the second ring. She’s one of the few people he knows to keep a house phone these days. She’d explained she enjoys the novelty, and the surprise on the rare occasions it actually rings.

“Hi, darlin,’” says Price.

“John, hi! How you doin’?”

“I’m alright. How’s the new place?”

He hears a shift in the background, like she’s thrown herself at a haphazard angle into a chair. She’s always been like that; she moves through any space she occupies unafraid of what she might bump into.

“Tidy!” she enthuses. “Got a view of the sea down the hill. And there’s a market on Saturdays! I got the loveliest Gruyère from one of the stalls, says he ages it himself. Can’t wait to put it in a sauce.”

“Sounds nice,” Price says, meaning it.

“Yeah, it is,” Ada replies. He pictures her twirling the cord between her fingers. “Heard about your promotion, by the way, congratulations—you earned it, John.”

“Thank you,” he says. “Have you settled in okay there? Students giving you trouble?”

“Not at all! Bit touch and go at the start of the semester, but you know me,” she laughs. “That’s how I thrive.”

“I know.”

A pause. Long enough for Price’s regret over dialing her to make itself a part of the conversation.

She sounds good. She sounds better than good—she sounds great. Happy with where she is in life, and where she’s going.

Nothing like she did when she lived with him.

“So…” Ada trails. “I know you didn’t just call to chat, John. Not that I don’t appreciate it.”

“That obvious, am I?”

He can hear the sympathetic smile in her voice when she replies, “I can look at a calendar too.”

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I just—just wanted to hear your voice. Hope that’s alright.”

“Yeah, it’s alright,” she says. “Didn’t stop caring just because I left, you know.”

He hears the unsaid: just because you didn’t follow.

“I know,” he replies. He leaves the me neither unsaid as well. “Ada, do you—do you regret it, at all?”

“Regret…what?” The tone of her voice edges toward the defensive.

“Being with me.”

“What? John, of course not!” She laughs, tension evaporating. “We had some bad times, sure, but we had some good ones too. I’m grateful for all of them.”

“Even the bad times?” he asks, frowning.

“Yeah, John, even those. They showed me who you were. And I liked that person, a lot. If you had—”

She cuts herself off from the what if John knows had been coming. The speculation about what their relationship might have looked like, if he’d made a different decision. It would only hurt both of them more to think about it.

“If you’d been a worse man I’d have left a lot sooner,” she amends. “But like I said. No regrets. It’s over now, and I’m sad about that. But I’m glad it happened.”

Something happens behind Price’s ribs—something hard, trying to claw its way upward, that he has to draw his lips between his teeth and sniff hard to foil its escape.

“Thanks, darlin,’” he says, hearing the tremor in his own voice, and, for once, not hating himself for it with her listening. “I feel the same way too.”

He catches you with the twat in the library. It doesn’t surprise him—he hadn’t expected anything else. You hadn’t even looked at him this time as you’d pulled Will out of the lecture hall, nor had you noticed him following at a remove behind.

So when he opens the door to the sound of smacking flesh, it doesn’t shock him in the slightest.

You’re on a reading table with your skirt flipped upward, underwear dangling from one ankle as you curl your legs around the twat’s hips. The boy’s arse quivers and clenches as he jackhammers into you with neither art nor precision.

The look on your face is one of concentration. Focus. Like whatever pleasure you could derive from this is something you must actively keep hold of, otherwise you’ll lose it.

Your eyes land on him then, and for a split second—a fraction of a heartbeat—you seem relieved. Pleasure radiates from you, and you begin to roll your hips as you hold him in your gaze—and then, suddenly, horror overtakes it. Your eyes widen. You raise a hand to grab Will—

Price shakes his head.

You freeze. Your chest heaves. (The twat is oblivious.)

He stares you down. Leans against the bookshelf with his hands in his pockets, unblinking.

His.

The thing about lines is that they can be redrawn.

You run your tongue along your parted lips, hands coming up to rest on the twat’s back. Price looks down at the place Will’s body hides yours from his gaze, then back up.

He inclines his head. Go on, then.

And again, you move. Right as his command. Pull the body between your legs closer, brows creasing together, undulating into each thrust as you let Price’s eyes cage yours. You draw up higher and higher, the pitch of your breath thinning as your climax stretches taut inside you—you beg him with your eyes—

He nods.

You seize on the desk, throwing your head back, jaw dropping open. No sound escapes you—he sees the muscles in your throat work to contain it.

What will you sound like when he gets his hands on you?

By the look on the twat’s face next class, you’ve ended it. Price hardly cares. His phone is hot in his pocket, a grenade with its pin nearly out.

In case your memory fails when you find yourself thinking of me.

And, in the center of the photo, the exact thing the twat’s hips had been hiding away.

You’re there, in the front row. Every time his gaze falls on you, you shiver. The same skirt from before leaves the soft expanses of your thighs bare, for him, this time.

His. You know it now, too. It intersects the line, perfect in its perpendicularity.

You have lessons to learn. You’re already a good student; the despondent expression on Will’s face, even now, as he gazes at you like a lovelorn puppy from the back of the hall, proves it.

But you’re not there yet. You’re only just now catching up, after all. And only Price has the duty—the right—to teach you.

You’re too young for him—

Not that it matters.

a/n: If this seems disjointed or missing context, it's because a few things I reference are no longer available on the internet. Ash, I mourn daily what you have withdrawn from us.

Thank you for reading!

#john price #price x reader #price x you #captain price #john price x reader #john price x you #john price x y/n #professor price #does tagging even work anymore or are the tags all just clogged by now #mwritesprice #madi writes #that is in fact a photo of barry

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moonstruckme · 9 months ago

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Mae!!! I am so happy to see you opening up requests for Thawing Out because I am genuinely OBSESSED and I haven’t stopped thinking about it 💖💖💖 So, what if during practice, Remus (unknowingly, obviously) said something to r, like making a correction or something, and it’s something Peter had said. And Sirius recognizes it too!! And you can decide what happens 🥰 Love you! 💖

Thank you for requesting lovely <33

collab with @ellecdc

cw: modern au, chronic pain, Peter mention

poly!wolfstar x fem!reader ♡ 2k words

You’re an angel on the ice. Gliding and sweeping, your movements so ethereal Sirius half expects to look down and find that your skates are floating above the surface of the ice, or that you’ve etched the next great work of art into the canvas beneath your feet. But he doesn’t, because it’s clear as day that the true art is in the creation, and it’s got its fingers clasped around his. Sirius feels lucky to bear witness.

You have the look of someone who’s given themselves over to their craft, your expression poised but eyes sparkling as you transition neatly from one move to the next until you’re coasting alongside Sirius. You’re wearing leg warmers today, far from unconventional in your sport but it’s humiliating how adorable he finds it on you. Your nails are short and neat, fingers surprisingly warm in his own, eyelashes fluttering as you tilt your head back.

You make it look easy. The way you arch your back until you’re nearly parallel to the ice, skating on only the edge of one skate while Sirius draws you in a circle around him. He starts to lower himself, finding the position you’d practiced off ice. Your grip on his hand is strong, your head tilting until the hairs escaping from your bun are whipping just above the ice, until Sirius is sure you can feel its chill on the back of your neck, and he can’t do it.

He keeps you a few inches above where he knows you’re supposed to be, holds you there with the momentum of his spin, and then hoists you up and into your spin.

You look at him bemusedly as you land on your other skate, a questioning flicker of eye contact Sirius pretends not to notice. You finish out the rest of your routine perfectly.

“That was great,” Remus says from the entryway. Sirius has noticed that he’s taken to watching you from there rather than from the bleachers on days when his hip isn’t giving him as much trouble. He wonders if Remus is almost tantalizing himself, standing on the edge of the ice but knowing he can’t go further. “Y/n, you had a lovely arch going into the spiral, but I want to see you stay more on that outside edge during the lutz-loop combination. Just play it safe on that one, alright?”

“Yeah.” You nod, looking encouraged. “Sorry, I felt myself slip a bit there.”

“You managed it just fine,” Remus reassures you. He gives you a gentle smile, and Sirius stomach does something fluttery and unsanctioned. “It’s good that you noticed, we only want to keep an eye on it, yeah?”

You smile in reply. The commotion in Sirius’ stomach worsens.

“And Sirius,” Remus turns to him, “we still have to get a bit lower on the spiral. Her head should be below her knee.”

Sirius frowns. “I know.”

It’s a non-answer and Remus knows it, but he doesn’t snipe back at him. His brows twitch together thoughtfully. “We’ve still got a few days. Do you need more time to practice off ice?”

“No,” Sirius replies. He wishes the other boy would get angry with him, give him something to shoot back at, something other than kindness and temperance and this lame, irksome understanding. He almost wants to roll his eyes as he adds, “I’ll work on it.”

Remus seems (frustratingly) appeased with that. “Alright, just be careful on your left pick when you get down there.” His voice takes on a teasing lilt. “We don’t need any more accidents this close to competition, Pads.”

Sirius waits for the flash of irritation. But your laughter rings out brilliant and lovely, and Remus is smiling at the both of you with something like fondness, and he can’t seem to find it.

Fucking James. Sirius ought to know better than to automatically trust anyone his best friend likes—you’ve both suffered the consequences from that once already—but it’s difficult to summon his usual disdain for Remus after watching the two of them chinwag and snicker like old friends at practice the other day. It was odd seeing James so familiar with someone else, but Sirius found he couldn’t muster any jealousy. As much as he loathes to think of it, you were right—learning James and Remus were old friends did make him think. In ways that remind Sirius why thinking is one of his least favorite activities.

He shoots Remus the bird over his shoulder. Unfortunately, in doing so, he fails to notice a blemish in the ice which catches his skate, causing him to pitch forward before righting himself.

Remus’ lips twitch, but Sirius holds up a hand. “You can keep your quips to yourself.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Then you can keep your looks to yourself.”

You implement Remus’ alteration to your lutz-loop combination flawlessly. It’s something you’ve always been good at, confident enough to take feedback and skilled enough to make the changes stick. It’s part of why you’re as good as you are, the amalgamation of every scrap of advice you’ve ever received and a fierce determination that's all your own. You jump and spin and twist your way through the routine beautifully.

Sirius, on the other hand, is not so great with critiques. The death spiral stays exactly the way it is, with your head safely above the ice and neither of you low enough to get full points. And that’s likely how it will stay.

He can tell you and Remus are both getting more frustrated, more disappointed, every time he fails to take it all the way, but Sirius can’t bring himself to go any further. His heart won’t let him.

“We’ll do some more off ice tomorrow,” Remus decides for him as you both take off your skates. “We’ve got the time, everything else is looking beautiful. Sirius, maybe work on getting low on your own today, so we’ve less to cover tomorrow.” Sirius nods down towards his skates. He doesn’t feel like looking at either one of you. “And y/n, the only thing I’m still noticing from you is that landing on your triple axle. You’re a bit wobbly. I want you to focus on controlling your descent and really sticking it. It looks nearly perfect, you’re just making me a little nervous—this would be a shit time to have to go into an early retirement, wouldn’t it?”

It’s said lightly, a hint of a smile at the tail end, but your face twinges like he’s snapped at you. Remus’ brow furrows in mild confusion, and Sirius feels a hard fist clench in his chest. He wouldn’t know what had made you react like that either, if you hadn’t repeated Peter’s words to him yourself.

He told the other coach that I was one bad jump away from injuring myself into an early retirement.

“I’m not actually worried about that—you’re too skilled for an injury that severe to be very likely, I just,” Remus is watching you carefully, clearly trying to reason out where he went wrong, “thought I should bring it to your attention. Only as a precaution.”

You nod several times, quicker and harder than necessary. “Yeah.” Your lips press into a smile. “I’ll be careful, thanks.”

Sirius sets his hand on top of yours, shit at comfort but meaning to try anyway, but your hand slips away as you get up and sling your bag over your shoulder.

“I have to get home,” you say, squeezing Sirius’ shoulder as if in apology. Your expression is tight. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay,” Remus echoes. He watches you go with a half-remorseful look on his face, like he doesn’t know what he’s done but he feels bad for it anyway.

Seeing as you haven’t waited for him, Sirius supposes he’ll be walking home on his own today. He sets his skates in his bag, beginning to tug on his shoes.

Remus broaches the silence almost tentatively. “Did she seem alright to you?” Sirius doesn’t know how to respond to that, but the other boy goes on before he has to. “Did…do you know if I said something to upset her?”

Sirius shrugs. “Nope.”

Remus can probably smell the lie—he’s not gone to any great lengths to conceal it—but Sirius doesn’t care. The look of hurt on your face has set a familiar protective ire buzzing beneath his skin, and Remus is the one who caused it. Neither of you owe him any explanation.

Remus falls quiet again, but he waits while Sirius finishes packing up, walks with him towards the exit.

“How long have you and James been friends?” he asks.

“A long time,” Sirius answers shortly. “I moved in with him and his parents when I was sixteen.”

“Oh.” Remus turns to look at him. Sirius feels his gaze, wide and curious, on the side of his face. “Yeah, a long time, then. It was nice to talk to him again. We used to run into each other so often, but I hadn’t seen him since…well, since I left, I suppose.”

There’s a melancholy that lays itself down over those last few words, the nostalgia in Remus’ voice smothered underneath. Maybe it’s that quiet tone, maybe it’s the image of James and Remus together, laughing and talking about their futures on the ice during early mornings at the rink, but Sirius feels himself softening.

“He mentioned something,” Remus says tentatively, “about your last coach. It didn’t sound like things ended well.”

Sirius pushes out a breath. “They didn’t.”

“Was he not very good?”

“No,” he can hear the frustration seeping into his voice. He wishes Peter were worse at his job. That he’d been an idiot, didn’t understand your styles, and none of you had ever managed to get along. It would have made everything so much easier. “He was good.”

“I’m not trying to pry,” says Remus, “but if what happened with him is going to affect how you two are with me—if it has anything to do with how I upset y/n today—I would appreciate if you told me.”

So Sirius does. He’s not sparing with the details, and Remus doesn’t begrudge him the anger that grips him as he talks about Peter’s betrayal, where it left the two of you, how it’s still coming back to hurt you even now. It makes him furious, but where he’d expected Remus to take it all in calmly, Sirius is surprised when the other boy’s jaw gets tight as he listens. He has questions: How long had you worked with Peter? Did either of you have to get involved with the case, or did his emails speak for themselves? Does Sirius know how long Peter was playing double-agent?

By the time they’re on Sirius’ block, Remus has begun alternating between shaking his head and huffy, revolted exhalations.

“I can’t believe he said that to her.” He shakes his head, guilt digging into the space between his brows. “I can’t believe I said it, either, but I was only trying to make a joke about myself, not…she’s far too skilled to have a fall like that—well, anyone could, but she’s only as likely as anyone else at her level. Which isn’t very many people.”

“That’s what I told her,” Sirius agrees. “I think she was mostly over it, but…”

“I reminded her.” Remus sighs. “I’ll have to make it up to her.”

“She’ll be alright,” he says honestly. “I think it just surprised her.”

“She’s really good.”

“I know.”

“She has to know that.”

“She…” Sirius hesitates. “Do we ever really know it, about ourselves?”

“Oh, come off it.” Remus gives Sirius a knowing look. His mouth tugs up on one side. “You clearly know how good you are.”

Sirius feels a pleased tingle of warmth in his face. He walks backwards up the stairs to his flat, leveling Remus with a cocky grin. “Am I?”

“Don’t. You maintain your own ego well enough without my help.”

“Oh, but it never hurts to have disciples.” He fishes out his key, unlocking the door. “You could remind me from time to time, just for fun.”

When he turns, Remus is watching him from the sidewalk with a gleam of something like amusement in his eye. “Nail the spiral,” he says, “and we’ll see.”

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eyebrow-incident · 1 year ago

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Pattadol and Mithrun’s friendship is really sweet.

They both have the same deep seated insecurity / resentment about being the sibling who was chosen to join the canaries, the least favorite of the family. I doubt they ever spoke to each other about this, but it’s an interesting parallel. They’re connected in this way, though they may not know it.

Pretty soon after she’s introduced in the manga, we see Pattadol stand up for Mithrun when the other canaries are teasing him.

Her insistence that the other canaries show respect to him at first seems like just a side effect of her deference to authority, but it turns out she really does respect him and thinks he’s capable.

When Mithrun was missing for 6 days, Pattadol was clearly incredibly stressed and worried for him. Look how frazzled she looks by the time he gets rescued, none of her usual meticulous hairstyling in place, and how relieved she is to see him safe and alive.

It’s notable that the first time Mithrun disobeyed one of Cithis’ commands was when she told him to hurt Pattadol.

He claims it’s because he would get kicked out of the canaries, but would he really risk getting kicked out if he made it look like an accident? At this point in time he’s not aware yet that he can form new desires, so he probably didn’t realize that this resistance came from a genuine desire he had not to hurt his friend.

Pattadol is the one who creates the dungeon master support group after the events of the manga. The fact that she went out of her way to do so that is a very sweet show of support for Mithrun, and a sign that she cares deeply about his wellbeing.

And Mithrun seems to genuinely appreciate her efforts, referring to her as one of the people in his life whose love fills the hole, and acknowledging that he’s lucky.

I just think they’re neat.

#dungeon meshi #delicious in dungeon #dunmeshi #Pattadol #Mithrun #the canaries #Cithis #not a ship post #the daydream hour

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kalied0skull · 2 months ago

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“ front and center, girly! ”

— “ yeah, I'm hearin'! ”

now playing: Hey Cowgirl — Mac Demarco ♪

★ ramble & extras under the cut !

it was only a matter of time until i got my grubby hands on cowgirl curtis, i have been running around grabbing EVERRYYY SINGLEEE trans headcanon and absolutely eating that shit UP!!!

shout out to @trevination & @broareweabouttoviberightnow because when scrambling around for ideas to draw her I've discovered that she is your guys' collective daughter and it feels only right to show her to you (so sorry for the @'s I'm not prone to tagging people but i take it you both wouldn't mind much 💀)

this is my little take on cowgirl! and AAAUGHHHH I LOVE HERRRRR I DOOOOO!!!! i am holding her so gently in my hands and brushing her hair with a tiny little comb ,, she's my gal. ..

soemthing about transfem curtis brothers makes my heart go wah, i love them really i do they're so lovely to me

I don't have many headcanons of cowgirl at the moment, but i am obsessed with the idea of calling her "girly" (thankyou to my memaw, who uses girly and inspired the idea) — like... pony / girly? the parallels... okay whatever I'm shutting up i promise /j+silly

anyways, whilst trying to make up a little design for her, i got a bit sidetracked and made this drawing of ponyboy and cowgirl sharing a cigarette and having a real short talk

the specific ponyboy i have there IS post-story, his bleached and overgrown hair making a weird appearance in the drawing. i dunno, i like to imagine post-canon pb would have a way more enamored response to cowgirl compared to pre or during.

he's really in love with the girl he becomes in another universe, even if it might not be him. he still loves her no matter what, and i think that's really neat :D

my favorite little detail of cowgirl has to be the little designs i put on her clothes, something tells me she is a girl who is in LOVE with embroidery. i think it might be one of the things she picked up when transitioning, because you always have to be a little punk in terms of being transgender in my opinion — and i take cowgirl to be quite crafty :3c

i just think she'd fawn over tiny flowers and spirals all over her stuff, because "they are so cute n' simple, right?! but they're so complex and cool!" and awawawahhh... she just likes her details in my eyes

anyways i really really REALLY enjoyed making this drawing, mostly digital though – the traditional sketch was a hit of a process, i accidentally made her too tall at some point and was like "??? nuh uh" 💀 but she's beautiful and she's such a doll and wahhh my babyy...

i hope all the transfem pb fans out there can appreciate another addition to the gallery, I'd also like to shout out GLORBIEZ' ART !!! who also inspired me very heavily to make my own version!

please please please go look at it glorbiez is an amazing artist and i really love their take on cowgirl /BEGGING, DESPERATE (/silly)

who am i if not to jump on a trend with a very niche headcanon amirite ;3

#yeehaw !!! :D #cowgirl curtis who goes full... cowgirl when transitioning you are very dear to me #not a lick of grease found on that girl #in this photo at least 💀 i imagine she still is quite the greaser gal #i am obsessed with this little doodle #maybe it's just the pose idk man it was just a lot of fun #peep the body hair which i thought was a nice addition because i often don't MAKE that detail in my art #but with a pose like that it felt necessary #anyways enough of me rambling #cowgirl curtis #transfem ponyboy #transfem headcanon #ponyboy curtis #the outsiders #the outsiders fanart #the outsiders headcanon

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drawnfamiliarfaces · 3 months ago

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I think it would be great if Clockwork and Professor Paradox knew each other personally, since technically they could be called colleagues.

If they could be considered colleagues, I actually think they would be the sort that would absolutely loath and very reluctantly respect each other.

I mean, they are both kinda schemy and manipulative (not like outright, but they clearly set stuff in motion in background, so things would go/end a certain way), so it feels like they would be a thorn in each other's sides, or the other would try to use the other in their schemes. Like you know what I mean??? They seem like they could be that sort of colleagues.

On a complete side note, I am a big fan of 'Clockwork is a Ghost of Professor Paradox's original human self' AU idea that I saw floating around!

Like - during the experiment Professor Paradox died, but also not, so it created a ghost that then fused with the concept of time which created Clockwork, who just now exist as a Spirit from the beginning of time (because time is not linear for him), which would explain why he exists in Ghost Zone from the ancient times. Meanwhile, since Paradox is not actually dead dead, but now he doesn't actually exist in the linear material world properly (like, this man also jumps dimensions Im pretty sure???) he is straddling that weird line between existing and not.

I just think it would be a neat concept, of two different entities born from one person, now existing separate but also unfathomably tethered by something invisible.

Also it gives nice little parallels, because Clockwork is the Soul that has a lot of power but can't do much and mostly observe, while Paradox is the Flesh, that can actually do stuff and travel around, but he is not all that powerful in comparison.

#que?#clockwork #clockwork dp #dp clockwork #professor paradox #i think a lot of people a couple of years ago had ideas for Paradox\is\Clockwork aus but for the life of me i cant remember any rn xD

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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 4 months ago

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Since the Yus of the Manga are (Maybe) meant to be foils to the OB characters. What do you think the foils of Vil, Idia, and Malleus will be like?

I think there's a variety of ways Vil, Idia, and Malleus could be "mirrored", depending on which traits of theirs you focus on and how you interpret the "opposite" of those traits. This post only covers MY ideas; these are by no means the only ones, nor the definitive ones.

For Vil, I see his Yuu being someone that isn't conventionally attractive (scraggly hair, dark circles, imperfect skin) but has a very pleasant personality if you look beyond their appearance. Agreeable, generous, always willing to lend a hand and listen, etc. Or maybe his Yuu is someone who is similar n Vil's beautiful appearance but is humble about how they look or doesn't really care how others perceive them. This could parallel Vil/the Fairest Queen, who look beautiful but are made rotten and ugly by their envy. I’ve also seen people suggest a hypermasculine Yuu that has traditionally feminine interests or someone who is gender nonconforming in some way.

For Idia, I've seen a lot of joke posts about how his Yuu should be a fujoshi, two Yuus (siblings), or simply "a woman" because that's an otaku's greatest weakness 😭 and while those can be funny, I don't think the parallels to Idia would be on such a surface level. Since Idia's trauma is deeply related to that of his brother's passing, I wonder if his Yuu will be an older sibling (to parallel him) or a younger sibling (to parallel Ortho). Maybe it's someone who has already overcome the grief of losing a family member, or a Yuu that got isekai'd but the carriage while rushing in to protect their sibling from the truck or carriage.

For Malleus, I think it'd be neat if they did something "meta" to sort of tie everything together, since book 7 has had meta themes such as Lilia talking about dragons like Malleus becoming fairy tales, dream hopping, and Malleus himself likening the changes to the real world to the changes in Gao Gao Draco-kun's life cycle. What if his Yuu is a storyteller? Someone familiar with fiction tropes and can read others + situations well? That way we could wrap up the main story with something meta too, like how all the characters' stories have woven together to become one. Alternatively, it might be interesting to parallel Malleus with a Yuu that's a chunnibyou... because he is someone who relies on his magic to make people happy, yet is always alone--yet maybe his Yuu is someone who claims to have powers and broods, but is actually an average person that's a bit silly and attracts people to them.

#disney twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland #twst #disney twst #twst manga #twisted wonderland manga #Vil Schoenheit #Idia Shroud #Malleus Draconia #notes from the writing raven #question #Ortho Shroud #Ignihyde

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agentc0rn · 3 months ago

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this was an addition to a heartwarming comic done by @//quikyu (posting separately for visibility) because the vision became real 😭

it was always interesting to note the parallels (in some ways reverse) between the two. It actually makes me think if we get to see cameos of other characters in the hotel...would be neat, i think.

#trainer juliana #pokemon juliana #ogerpon #pokemon legends za #pokemon fanart #hotelier az #az pokemon #i havent drawn ogie in a long while 😭#ogerpon was at the enter of my focus when I was still getting used to the site #so it's really nice/bittersweet to see my two focus of interests come together 😭

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blushingdread · 5 months ago

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The thing about Cold that gets me the most is that Cold barely gives a fuck about any of the vessels, the only one he feels anything about is Fury, and he talks about how he hopes your actions put the Adversary's spark out. This man is a little asshole who doesn't care about anything. Anything but change

What does Cold hate the most? Boredom, endless nothingness, doing the same thing over and over again... which is sorta of what he is. Both in the sense that he's a part of the Long Quiet, God of all those things, but also because Cold is the most stagnant of all the voices. He's resistant to pain, emotions, changing, everything except boredom, really. The only time he's ever changed changed is in Molment of Clarity, where he's a lot more terse and seems annoyed the entire time

On top of that, Cold is the most comfortable and intuitive about your godly nature. Poping in at the Tower Fury fight when she calls you noting and he immediately is like "yes,". When going into oblivion, he says it feels like home. He seems to be kinda subconsciously aware of what you are in a way the other voices aren't

So, Cold. The voice that most embodies stagnation, being frozen in time if you will, that seems to grasp the true nature of TLQ the best absolutely hates boredom and is constantly seeking out change. He's constantly seeking out their other half, the Shifting Mound

I think that in the same Wild and Stanger are "a smaller version of me" and "a peek behind the curtain" to the Shifting Mound, Cold is like that to the Long Quiet. He is kinda like TLQ at its most basic, cold, and unmoving, constantly seeking the waves of change to crash upon him. Constantly seeking her, while she constantly seeks him, going around and around getting what their missing from each other

But thats not all!!

Cold talks like the Shifting Mound. They share similar thoughts on what exactly "the end of the world" means

They also feel similarly about all the horrible things that happen during the game

Cold doesn't care if what he's doing is good or bad, good or bad don't even register on his radar. The only thing that matters to him is new and interesting experiences

A perspective that's also surprisingly close to how the Shifitng Mound feels except she's affected by her emotions and about the other person in this lol

I don't really have an end point with this, I just think the Cold and Shifting Mound are neat

It's just. So !!!!!!! that the most Long Quiet nothingness voice is both super into their other half as her entire domain and not just a single vessel and sees the world in a parallel way

What if there was a part of me that was so much like you that loved you more than anything that seeked you out in everything??? What then

BTW, can you imagine Cold and Wild together? Cold being plugged into eveyrhing? Connected to the Princess in the most direct way possible. Change would be constantly happening around him because he'd be interconnected to her. He'd be able to feel it all, and maybe her powers would even push through his eternal apathy and make him feel something like Fury did, but even more

Would Wild like that? Like him? Having a rock to wrap around and anchor herself to? Cold doesn't really feel hate except for the Narrator, so him getting mad at her wouldn't knock them out of being connected to each other. Would she drop her sorta mind control that made the voices much more willing to go along with being one than they frankly would otherwise because of this trait of Colds? Would she find his apathetic temperament comforting and grounding, able to keep her from violently trashing from calm to agitated

Unsure, but it think they'd have an interesting dynamic

#slay the princess #stp #slay the princess the voice of the cold #stp voice of the cold #stp cold #slay the princess the wild #stp wild #slay the princess shifting Mound #stp shifting mound #shifting mound #voice of the cold

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di-daynamic · 5 months ago

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An interesting parallel between James and Ginny is that while they will fiercely defend those they consider friends, they don't particularly care about others, even mocking them about the exact same thing.

I doubt Remus is as poor as Snape, or Peter quite as not-good-looking, but the same things James mocks Snape for (excluding, obviously, the dark magic) are present in those two and I'm pretty sure he would've killed someone insulting them.

And in OotP we see Ginny defending Neville and casually insulting Luna in almost the same breath (“What are you talking about?” said Ginny, who had squeezed past Neville to peer into the compartment behind him. “There’s room in this one, there’s only Loony Lovegood in here —” and “I’m nobody,” said Neville hurriedly. “No you’re not,” said Ginny sharply.)

And yet once they've grown closer in HBP she's defending Luna too (Ginny’s been nice, though. She stopped two boys in our Transfiguration class calling me ‘Loony’ the other day — and “Don’t call her that, Ron,” snapped Ginny, pausing behind Harry on her way to join friends. “I’m really glad you’re taking her, Harry, she’s so excited.")

And while Hermione has no problem disparaging Luna and her beliefs to her face, she is angry at anyone else doing it (“Neville is not an idiot and Luna is not an oddity!” said Hermione.)

We see Harry doing the same thing, if not as overtly. (he would not have chosen to be sitting with Neville and Loony Lovegood, clutching a toad and dripping in Stinksap. and You don’t have to sit with them,” she added in a stage whisper, indicating Neville’s bottom, which was sticking out from under the seat again as he groped around for Trevor, and Luna, who was now wearing her free Spectrespecs, which gave her the look of a demented, multicolored owl. “They’re friends of mine,” said Harry coldly.)

You know who else is content to ignore characteristics in their friend they'd hate in anyone else? Lily. An interest facet of her character that is so rarely explored even though it's a clear indication she isn't the angel most people think she is is that she knew Severus was calling other people slurs and was involved in dark magic - almost as evil as Avery and Mulciber - she still defended him and hung out with him and ignored that he wasn't taking any of her admonishments to heart (“It’s too late. I’ve made excuses for you for years. None of my friends can understand why I even talk to you and – to call me Mudblood? But you call everyone of my birth Mudblood, Severus. and Harry doubted that Snape had even heard her strictures on Mulciber and Avery. The moment she had insulted James Potter, his whole body had relaxed).

I don't know. I just think it's a neat parallel between all these characters.

#harry potter #ginny weasley #james potter #lily evans #lily evans potter #harry james potter #hermione granger

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bayetea · 5 months ago

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jason and hazel's beef in hoo was always way more interesting than whatever percy and jason had going on sorry. the differences in gravity and intrigue in the jason/hazel relationship vs jason/percy are only further compounded by the ways they're connected and the ways that their stories are similar

because 1. they have a HISTORY they knew each other before he went missing!!!!! they were in the fifth cohort together!!!! hazel is the ONLY person in the prophecy 7 that was in jason's life before he disappeared and had his memories stolen. yes they didn't know each other well but if you ask me that was just a bad writing choice rick made. can you imagine if they used to be friends/if jason had grown to be a big brother figure to hazel only to go missing for months and then they have a very awkward reunion on the argo because he barely remembers her and then she's even more betrayed because he doesn't wanna save nico initially. the drama. we could have had it all man

2. beef between a son of poseidon and a child of zeus/jupiter from the grace family? yeah been there done that why are we doing this again (and it was way more engaging the first time). god I wish we had gotten a big fight between a child of jupiter and a child of pluto instead

3. their issues regarding nico were way more high stakes than the silly alpha male posturing rick was trying to force between jason and percy especially considering how mega nerfed jason is written in hoo because no one's allowed to be on equal footing with percy

4. the tacit layer of betrayal in jason being hazel's ex-centurion/praetor only to end up preferring chb (to be clear this particular conflict belongs to jason and reyna and is more impactful between them - but since hazel is actually on the argo and reyna isn't she can still be an opportunity for this camp jupiter/camp half-blood conflict to be explored with jason)

5. I'm just gonna say it - I think hazel ought to have complicated feelings about white authority figures in a military camp as a black girl from the freaking jim crow era (not that this would have ever been explored satisfactorily in the books because as far as rick is concerned hazel is colorblind and hardly ever thinks about race despite growing up segregated. which is crazy unrealistic but whatever)

6. something something about the parallels that jason and hazel have about making hard choices about their pasts in order to have a more fulfilling future

7. this isn't necessarily interesting in and of itself but I just think it's neat that they're both big three roman kids with greek siblings that they didn't grow up with. what could have been interesting is jason seeing how close hazel and nico are and feeling some type of way about everything he never got to have with thalia and some exploration into how that impacts his feelings about the rescue mission. I'm starving for more grace sibling content by the way

8. they both have really awkward romantic conflicts in their pasts that intrude upon the present (whether he and reyna were ever even slightly romantically involved or not) because the jason/reyna thing is written as a initial source of conflict/uncertainty for jiper in the same way that hazel/leo (sammy) was a conflict for frazel to grapple with. this is interesting to me because like... hazel is connected to reyna and jason is connected to leo. like there could have been a moment of connection over letting go of pasts loves to wholeheartedly pursue new ones in the way that both of them are (were) with piper and frank

9. they both died. this bullet is a joke but I just thought I should put it here

10. percy is a well-established character and hazel and jason are new in hoo. percy has 50 povs in hoo and hazel has 28. economically speaking it would just be a more effective use of your limited pages to spend more time developing important interactions and conflicts between two new characters (esp new big three kids) who already have a more interesting foundation than the one involving our previous protagonist of 5 entire books

11. beryl grace and marie levesque. think about this for a second. ok that's all

12. both had their pasts taken away from them from major deities and are continually haunted and influenced by their presence throughout hoo

imo hazel and jason are the most weirdly written new additions to the main cast but I strongly feel that rick severely underutilized the way that characters like those two could play off of each other. hazel isn't just a sweet little cinnamon roll she is passionate and contemplative and morose and guilt-ridden and jason isn't just a bland rule-follower he is kind and committed and loyal and conflicted and they're both painfully self-sacrificing and I just think it's such a shame that these two characters with great concepts on paper and so many obvious threads to connect them didn't get as much as attention as.... whatever happened in kansas did

and I mean if you like the jason/percy conflict that's fine, but I think it's worthwhile to compare the merit of them because rick chose to centralize and build up to one more than the other when he had such perfect material to expand on the other instead and I think that says something about his biases. and I think part of the issue is that rick struggles with strengthening tension and applying complexity to conflicts between male/female characters that aren't romantic or onesidedly antagonistic like clarisse/percy. we have several noteworthy conflicts between male characters but when women are involved it's like rick doesn't know how to put them on equal footing and apply platonic depth. imo this is just another reason why big three girls (hazel/thalia/bianca) don't get to be as powerful and transformative in the overall narrative as big three guys (percy/jason/nico). all this world-changing narrative weight is afforded to big three kids but hazel in particular is weirdly excluded from all of that and doesn't get to have much impactful interconnectedness with the prophecy or with other big three kids. what happened to big three kids being super dangerous when put together or when they're on opposing sides of conflicts!!!!!!!! we had impactful percy/thalia and percy/nico and jason/percy and jason/nico conflict where is the fleshed out jason/hazel beef - it's right there!

anyways tldr all I'm saying is that jason and hazel complement each other well and rick was too hung up on the Colliding Of Alpha Male Strong Dudes (that he didn't even write well) to see everything that hazel and jason could have had instead

#make no mistake I am Always thinking about jason and hazel #the hazel/jason cliff scene was Not enough. it doesn't satisfactorily resolve anything either #look I love percabeth in tartarus I know it's iconic but can you imagine if the jason/hazel beef culminated in them falling into tartarus #children of jupiter and pluto who don't get along in the deepest depths of the underworld? god. the drama #(points at jason) Put that boy in hell this instant /j #yes I know it was crucial for hazel to Not Be in tartarus in hoh but look. with some creativity we can make it work #hazel can discover her potential with magic in tartarus somehow hecate doesn't need to be involved tbh #jason and hazel's most popularly discussed dynamics are with other people but I just think jason fans and hazel fans need to come together #and chew on all of this for a bit because hoo failed them and they're so interesting together #pjo hoo toa #percy jackson and the olympians #heroes of olympus #hazel levesque #jason grace #rr crit #toa spoilers #the burning maze spoilers #the trials of apollo spoilers #piper mclean

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