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aastarions · 2 years

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stay gold [three]

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Pairing: Zhongli x Female!Reader

Series Tags: Eventual Smut (18+), Kinda Slow Burn, Reader has a Backstory/Lore, Heavy Liyue Lore, Lots of Fluff, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Reader uses She/Her Pronouns

Word Count: 5,100+

A/N: Here’s the 3rd chapter! Again, I had already posted these on AO3 so going forth I’ll be posting new chapters on both AO3 and Tumblr around the same time! I’m nearly halfway through writing chapter 4 so thank you in advanced for your patience 💕

It’s been a week since you explored a fraction of Liyue Harbor with your newest acquaintance– friend, Zhongli. Within the past seven days that have passed, you’ve come into contact with the funeral consultant for five of them.

He easily became a regular customer at Kai’s Teashop, stopping in every single morning for a large, hot tea and whichever fresh pastry was highlighted to be the special of the day. The only time you weren’t sure if he swung by was during the weekend, which you’re fortunate enough to have off for.

A routine developed between the two of you, though. One that has you looking forward to going to work specifically because you know you’ll get to witness the heartwarming grin that reaches his gentle, golden eyes as you hand him his goods. On a few occasions, you were even able to hold a brief conversation before the morning rush piled past those glass doors.

So imagine the disappointment that festers in your chest when the afternoon rolls around and you have yet to see him today.

You tell yourself that it’s truly not that big of a deal, attempting to apply your full attention to the last hour of work instead…but your mind keeps wandering, wondering if something might have occurred. He could have fallen ill, or injured himself, or he just didn’t feel the need to stop by today – the possibilities are quite endless.

The next and final hour goes by at a snail’s pace, finding yourself cleaning nearly every inch of the shop’s interior to pass the time while your coworker takes care of the very few customers that walk through. You manage to keep your mind somewhat occupied, at least until the very end of your shift. When a string of words from a patron’s mouth catches your attention.

“Do you happen to know where the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor is? I’ve just come from out of town to meet with Director Hu Tao, but I’m not sure where the building is actually located.”

You listen to your coworker give directions to the lost gentlemen just before you head to the back of the shop to gather your belongings, taking a mental note of the parlor’s location. Never did it occur to you that you actually hadn’t known where his job was located, only that it was in fact somewhere in the harbor.

It’s not until you reach into your tote for your shades – eyes catching on the history book that Zhongli had brought in earlier that week for you to borrow – that you decide you could use this newfound knowledge.

Maybe, just maybe, you could head over to the funeral parlor with the finished non-fiction novel, bringing some fresh pastries alongside as a gift for him – well, if he’s actually there.

Would it be too weird? Or strange? The doubts plague your mind as you teeter back and forth between going through with it or abandoning it altogether.

“Ah, screw it…” You eventually mutter to yourself, hoisting your tote onto your shoulder as you return to the front of the shop. Catching your coworker’s attention, you start to say, “I’m gonna grab a few pastries and some tea, could you ring me up–”

“No need for that, take whatever you’d like!”

The startling voice of your boss, Mr. Kai, has you nearly leaping out of your skin. Spinning on your heels, you turn to face him just as he’s fully stepped inside his shop, “No, it’s okay I can pay–”

“Nonsense!” He insists with a hearty laugh, rounding the counter and making his way over to the many jugs of freshly brewed tea, “So what did you want to get?”

You wind up leaving work with a large container of tea, specifically Zhongli’s go-to, and a dozen assorted pastries – much more than you initially anticipated on bringing with you. Nonetheless, you trudge up the hill through Chihu Rock, carefully balancing the box of sweet-smelling goods in one hand while the other holds tightly onto the heavy jug of hot liquid.

Wangsheng Funeral Parlor is much closer to your apartment than you expected, you think while crossing over the bridge to Feiyun Slope, making an immediate left towards an unmarked building. With both of your hands occupied, you resort to knocking on the wooden door with your foot instead and hope that the directions you eavesdropped on were correct.

The front door swings open violently seconds later, the lost gentleman from the tea shop stumbling past you as though he’s just seen a ghost. Following his trail is a short brunette calling out towards him, “Wait, wait! I was only trying to help you save money!”

“By suggesting I have a joint funeral with my late-brother?! You’re out of your mind, lady! I’ll take my business elsewhere!”

He wastes no time in storming off while muttering expletives under his breath, heading as far away as possible from the funeral parlor, at least that’s what you assume. You can only watch in complete and utter confusion, eyebrows knitting together as you recall what was shouted only seconds prior.

Something along the lines of a joint funeral…with his brother–

“Hiya! Sorry about that guy, come on in!” The young woman who’s name you have yet to learn suddenly ushers you into the building before you get a chance to fully comprehend what just transpired, “Welcome to the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor, I’m Hu Tao, the current director. Were you looking to arrange a funeral?”

The interior is exactly how one would expect a funeral parlor to look like. Dark wooden paneling on the walls, a crimson colored carpet lining through the center of the narrow hallway, vintage looking furniture that compliments the dreary atmosphere one often feels when stepping inside a place like this. An overall stark contrast to the bubbly personality that emanates from the Director you now know as Hu Tao.

You eventually shake your head, placing the pastries and tea on the nearest surface before your arms truly begin to ache, “No, actually–”

“Were you just looking for a casket, then? We have a huge selection of all shapes, sizes, colors, finishes–”

The sound of a door creaking down the hallway catches both of your attention, watching none other than Zhongli make his way over while interrupting with, “Director, would you please practice some self-restraint when speaking to new clients–”

“Hi, not a new client…unfortunately?” You send a shy wave in his direction, the visible signs of agitation that plagued his features dissipating as those golden eyes land on you.

“Oh, what a pleasant surprise,” Zhongli halts in his tracks only a few feet away, your name falling from his lips before he asks, “What brings you here? Is everything alright?”

Nodding, you begin your longer-than-necessary explanation, “Yeah, everything’s fine, you just uh…you didn’t come by this morning for your usual tea so I thought maybe something happened…like you were sick or got hurt so I thought I’d come by with some tea and pastries…though I guess if you were sick you wouldn’t be here – anyways…my boss gave me much more than I originally asked for–”

His raspy chuckle echoes through the narrow space, a much needed interruption to your rambling, “That is quite a hefty amount of tea, thank you for thinking of me, though I am quite alright. The Director and I had an early morning consultation in one of the nearby villages so I was unable to fetch my usual breakfast. My apologies for worrying you.”

“You know…” Your gaze swaps to Hu Tao, who’s currently sporting a rather mischievous grin on her lips, “We have an amazing friends and family discount. Since you seem to be close with Zhongli and all, how about fifteen percent off the purchase of one of our luxurious satin-lined caskets–”

“Director.”

“Okay, okay! I’ll stop, promise.” She insists, though that cheeky smile never wavers, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, any friend of Zhongli is a friend of mine!”

In the midst of shaking the eccentric brunette’s hand you quickly learn her alternative intentions, “And since we’re friends, you don’t mind if I take a snack or two right? I’m starving.”

Zhongli scoffs at her blunt attitude, but you can’t help but let out a few laughs at the entire ordeal.

“That’s fine, there’s plenty to go around!”

It’s not long after that you find yourself in Zhongli’s office, an assortment of documents pushed to the side in favor of his makeshift lunch. You glance around, any personal touches nowhere to be found. Only a wooden desk crafted with what appears to be sandbearer wood, a few chairs, and a filing cabinet make up the small space.

“It’s rather bland, isn’t it?” He notices your gaze follow around the room, “This office is a stark contrast to my abode – I’ve begun to run out of shelving for my books and antiques.”

“Oh! That reminds me!” You turn to grab your tote that’s hanging on the corner of the seat, fishing out the novel he had let you borrow and placing it atop the desk, “I, uh, I finished reading it.”

Zhongli appears surprised by your words, “That was certainly quick, I take it that you enjoyed Verses of Equilibrium?”

“I did! I’ve never had the chance to explore historical books before, especially one with such a poetic format…Rex Lapis did a lot to keep his people safe, the adepti too! You can tell how much the people here adore their Archon…it used to be like that in Fontaine, too…”

“I faintly recall overhearing about the original Hydro Archon’s passing, having been replaced with the God of Justice.” He says after a few bites of the sugary-sweet pastry, “I imagine it’s difficult for people to accept a new ruler without cause for concern.”

“Liyue seems to be handling the loss of their God better than Fontaine, just from what I’ve seen since living here.” You mention, thinking back to your conversation with him a week prior. Where he explained how the Liyue Qixing and the people themselves are in control of their own nation, rather than the God they once relied so heavily on.

Zhongli nods in agreement, “The Qixing have done a divine job of governing the nation both before and after Rex Lapis’ passing, using everything he taught them alongside their own beliefs in what will better this prosperous nation.

“I’m glad that you found the reading to your liking,” he continues, “If you’re interested, I can head upstairs and allow you to borrow another–”

“Upstairs?” You raise an eyebrow.

He nods once more, “Indeed, Director Hu was kind enough to allow me to rent the space above the parlor, though she certainly uses it to her advantage by occasionally pestering me on my days off.”

Despite only having known Hu Tao for all of a few minutes, this doesn’t surprise you in the slightest. If anything, it’s entirely befitting of the personality she exudes only seconds after meeting her.

“You don’t have to grab it right this second, actually I hope I’m not intruding with this sudden visit while you’re working–”

“Nonsense,” Zhongli reassures you, “I had intended on fetching something to eat soon anyways…besides, I find your company to be most enjoyable.”

The instant warmth that envelopes your complexion betrays you, exposing your inability to receive any and all compliments without turning into a flustered mess. Whether or not the man in front of you picks up on it, you’re unaware, the lower half of his face shielded by the cup of tea he’s brought to his lips.

“What do you do for work here anyways? Is it really just preparing funerals all day?” You ask, changing the subject.

“Not entirely,” he goes on to explain, “though I occasionally assist with every day funeral proceedings when needed, I’m mostly hired contractually through Wangsheng for my rather extensive knowledge on Liyue, specifically its history and traditions.”

“So…like a hitman, but for knowledge instead of killing.”

The loud laughter that spills from his lips is unexpected, watching pure and utter amusement adorn his usually stoic features. He sets the cup down before potentially soiling his paperwork with warm tea, responding after a much needed intake of breath, “That is quite a strange way to define it, but sure.”

For a little while longer, the both of you continue to talk about rather trivial, but enjoyable topics. Conversation with Zhongli comes so naturally – it genuinely feels as though he’s someone you’ve known for weeks, or months, rather than a measly single week.

Although he tends to go on long tangents about topics that interest him, he also knows when to press his lips together and avidly listen. Something many men of higher status in Fontaine lack, at least the ones that you had the misfortune of meeting.

It’s in the middle of one of your own tangents that you’re interrupted by three knocks at his door, your shoulders flinching at the sudden sound. When the door creaks open, you’re met with the familiar eyes of Hu Tao.

“Oi, Zhongli, did you forget we have to head to Bubu Pharmacy?”

“Ah, yes, we best make haste,” Zhongli begins to rise from his seat before glancing back over at you, “I apologize, we should continue our conversation another–”

Hu Tao interrupts once more, also turning to face you, “Why don’t you come with us? It’s not like it's top secret business, we’re just looking for ghosts.”

“Ghosts?” Your eyes widen, making sure you didn’t mishear.

She nods as though it’s nothing, “Yep! Since the usual exorcist is out of town, we’ve been asked to investigate some strange activity for quite a hefty amount of Mora, so what do ya say?”

You can’t help but look over at Zhongli for his opinion, only to find a small smile on his lips, “As long as it’s not intruding on the rest of your day, of course.”

“I really didn’t have any plans…'' This impromptu trip to the funeral parlor was anything but orchestrated in advance. The only thing you considered doing today was wandering around the harbor and taking some photos with your Kamera, but you could save that for another time, “Sure, why not?”

The three of you set off for Bubu Pharmacy only minutes later, walking through the entirety of Feiyun Slope until you’ve reached a part of the harbor you haven’t gotten a chance to visit before. Crossing a small stone bridge, you turn right towards the large building that’s settled atop a long and tall staircase.

There’s two people in the pharmacy…scratch that, one person? You’re not entirely sure.

You’re about to consider the purple-haired child with the pale complexion to be the ghost they’re after until she finally speaks with narrowed eyes at Hu Tao, “Oh. It’s you. I don’t like you.”

“Qiqi, Director Hu is here to help us!” The young man behind the counter nervously says, “Sorry about that, thank you for coming on such short notice, if Baizhu finds out we’ve lost merchandise while he’s away in Sumeru…”

“Don’t sweat it!” Hu Tao laughs, entirely unphased, “Now would you or the zombie mind telling me what’s going on here?”

“...zombie?” Just when things couldn’t get any more confusing; you fear your eyes might quite literally pop out of your head.

Zhongli nods, “Indeed, through the power of the adepti, Qiqi was resurrected, though zombies cannot function in the same manner as a mortal–”

“And it’s still outside of the natural order, but we have more important matters to deal with today!”

The Director urges the gentleman behind the counter to finish his explanation of the mysterious occurrences that have been going on within the pharmacy. You try your best to pay attention, though you still have a myriad of questions regarding this newfound information about zombies.

“Well, it started a day or two after Baizhu had left for Sumeru…”

He goes on to explain how their daily inventory numbers no longer match up with the amount of ingredients they’re using in their medicines – ingredients like milk and lavender melons are missing in excess.

“The milk isn’t as big of a deal, but we just had the lavender melons imported from Inazuma and we don’t have another shipment scheduled for a few weeks…” Perspiration settles on the young man’s forehead, his eyes frantically darting between all of you, “There haven't been any strange visitors either, so it has to be the work of a ghost!”

“Milk, you say?” Zhongli grasps his chin between two fingers, appearing lost in thought, “Sir, have you considered asking the only other employee who has access to the back of your store?”

He shakes his head, “Qiqi likes coconut milk, remember–”

“No coconut milk, we ran out. I drink the other milk instead.”

There’s silence for a solid ten seconds, before the one gentleman asks, “What about the lavender melons then?”

“I ate them.”

Silence again.

“Well would ya look at that! We solved the issue in less than five minutes. The Wangsheng Funeral Parlor continues to exceed people’s expectations.” Hu Tao claps before deviously rubbing her palms together, “I hope that you will hold yourself to your end of our contract now, yes?”

While the young man meticulously counts a large sum of Mora, you take a glance over at Zhongli and say, “So…that’s it?”

“I suppose so,” he muses, letting out a light chuckle. “Not nearly as exciting as witnessing a ghost, I presume?”

“Actually, I think I can live the rest of my life without seeing a ghost, thanks.”

“Ghosts aren’t that scary! I’ll introduce one to you next time.” Hu Tao turns on her heels, a decent-sized bag of Mora between her polished fingernails, “I’m heading to Wanmin for some dinner, I’ll catch ya later Zhongli!”

She then flickers her gaze onto you, “It was a pleasure to meet you! Don’t be a stranger, okay?”

With that, she’s off. Rushing down the stairs before either of you could respond. After wishing both Qiqi and the rather perturbed young man a good rest of their day, the both of you descend the large staircase, too.

“I’m assuming this ghost hunt was the last thing on your agenda today?” You ask, assuming that if Zhongli had more work on his plate he’d have long since left for the funeral parlor already.

“You would be correct,” he agrees, “I had not anticipated that we would solve their issue within such a short span of time…it’s a tad comical, wouldn’t you think–”

He cuts himself off suddenly, reaching towards you until his fingers hook under the straps of your tote that had begun to roll down your arm. You can only stand in place as he drags it back up and settles it onto your shoulder once more.

“Wow I didn’t even notice…thank you, I’d hate if anything happened to my Kamera the one time I bring it with me.”

“Oh? I recall you mentioning that you own one of those fascinating devices.” Zhongli appears intrigued at the mention of it, eager to see it for himself.

So you slip your hand into your bag, grabbing tightly onto the Kamera and exposing it to his curious stare, “I was actually thinking about taking some photos with it today…would you maybe want to join me?”

“I’d love to,” that tender smile returns to his lips, “though I’m not entirely aware of how they work.”

“My father told me it’s like painting on a canvas, only you can capture any moment in seconds instead of hours. I mostly like taking photos of flowers, though, oh and wildlife.”

Zhongli absorbs the newfound knowledge, listening intently before responding with, “The Yujing Terrace is home to a few native species of flora, allow me to guide us there.”

Once you agree, the two of you are off, walking towards another set of stairs opposite of Bubu Pharmacy. While following his lead your mind begins to wander, more specifically in regards to your aforementioned father. The man who gifted you this Kamera in the first place.

He had gone out of his way to procure one for you a few months after you saw one in use for the first time on a trip to the capital. Citizens were lining the narrow streets to have their portrait taken with the brand-new, exclusive Kamera and shops who were fortunate enough to sell them did so at a fortune.

After relentless pleading on your end, tied together with the promise of taking on extra responsibilities, the device was very soon in your own palms. Funny how only another few months would pass and you’d choose to abandon both your duties and your home altogether.

You start to wonder if the letter you received from Fontaine might be specifically from your father, or someone else from your family’s estate. Ever since the evening you received it, the letter remains tossed aside on your kitchen counter.

If it is in fact your father’s penmanship that decorates the pages, you can already gather what its contents will entail. The same way you begged for the Kamera, he’ll beg for you to return home.

If only it were that easy, if only returning home didn’t equate to tossing aside your freedom in the process–

Thud!

Having been so lost in your thoughts, you hadn’t noticed that Zhongli stopped in his tracks, not until you collide directly into his back of course. Your complexion blooms with warmth, taking a step back from the tall male just as he turns to face you, asking, “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, sorry, I was a bit distracted, sorry about that.” You attempt to wave him off, laughing through the waves of embarrassment.

Unconvinced, his concerned visage never wavers. Rather his eyebrows draw tighter together as he lays a gloved palm over your shoulder, “I won’t pry, but if you require someone to provide an ear, I’m happy to oblige.”

“Thank you, I’ll uh…I’ll keep that in mind,” your fingers curl against the Kamera that you fortunately hadn’t dropped in your daze as Zhongli allows his arm to fall back at his side, remembering the whole reason the two of you trekked up here in the first place.

Glancing around, you take quick notice of how secluded this upper level of Liyue Harbor feels in comparison to the busy main street of Feiyun Slope and the rambunctious crowds of Chihu Rock, “Are you sure we’re allowed to be up here?”

The dark-haired male in front of you chuckles before answering, “Yes, you’ll find that Yuehai Pavilion only truly sees heavy traffic when the Tianquan holds her occasional auctions or the Qixing gather for their regularly scheduled meetings. Prior to Rex Lapis’ death, citizens would also congregate here for the Rite of Descension.”

“Rite of Descension?”

He nods, explaining further, “Once a year, Rex Lapis would provide the people of Liyue with a prophecy, a guide if you will of the economic path the people should follow.”

“There’s so much tradition and history in Liyue…” You say more so to yourself. Of course, your nation has its own history, but it feels barren in comparison to all that you’ve learned already from Zhongli.

“For the record,” he captures your attention again, “If you ever find yourself uninterested, feel free to interrupt me. I will not take any offense.”

A frown settles on your lips at his words – though you’ve never been one to dwell too heavily into the subject in the past, you have yet to grow tired of listening to history from the highly knowledgeable consultant.

“I…like listening to you talk actually…” You admit in a quiet murmur, but you know he hears you when a rather large smile overtakes his features.

“That’s quite a relief, I’ve often been told that I put others to sleep when I ramble on about what many consider to be…boring topics.”

Further digging yourself into a hole of abashment, you say, “It’s not boring when it’s coming from you.”

“Ah, you flatter me too much…” Zhongli appears amused, “I am well aware it is not everyone’s cup of tea, but I appreciate your kind words nonetheless.”

It’s not long after that he guides you towards a section of well-manicured grass with colorful flora blooming along it. You first look at the small red bushes, noticing a pair of puffy, pink flowers protruding from them.

Just as you angle your Kamera towards the beautiful arrangement, Zhongli begins to explain what exactly you’re photographing, “These are Silk Flowers, one of many flora native to Liyue. They’re often used to create fabric, though most of that manufacturing is done by the Feiyun Commerce Guild.

“I’ve also been told that they make for a rather saccharine concoction when cooked with Sweet Flowers.”

The shutter of your camera clicks twice and you watch as the printing paper slowly slides out from the small opening at the bottom of the device. You know it takes a moment for the image to fully appear on the special parchment, but Zhongli stares at the blank results with a slight, albeit cute, pout, “Is the device malfunctioning?”

“No, nothing like that, it just takes a few minutes for the photo to show up.”

“Interesting…” He examines the slowly developing photo after you hand one over, gold eyes ignited with innate fascination.

The next flower your eyes land on is on the opposite side of the color spectrum – a pair of soft blue tones decorate the petals of this closed-off plant. While aiming the lens, you quickly learn of this one’s origin, too.

“Glaze Lilies once inhabited the plains of Liyue in great numbers until they were overpicked due to their beauty. The ones that appear to bloom in this harbor are artificially planted; only very few of them can be found within the wild anymore.”

You watch as Zhongli leans over and plucks the Glaze Lily out of the earth, spinning the flower’s stem between his fingers as he examines it further, “One might believe that these are real at first appearance, but the smell is slightly off.”

“The smell? Have you…seen a real one before?” It shouldn’t surprise you at all, but if they’re as rare as he states, you can only imagine the price one would have to pay to get their hands on one.

“A long time ago, yes,” he continues to examine the artificial flower with an unreadable, yet soft expression.

Click!

Zhongli glances up to find the Kamera pointed in his direction as the device slowly pushes out the eventual photograph. A sense of realization washes over you, an apology immediately tumbling from your lips, “Sorry, I should have asked you first–”

“I don’t mind, I’m quite curious to see the results, actually.”

Those results, along with the other photographs you’ve taken this afternoon, wind up fully developing within the next five minutes. By that point, the two of you decided to find a nearby bench to sit on as you watch the color bloom onto the unique paper.

“Truly remarkable,” Zhongli comments as he holds the array of photos between his fingers, “What a wonderful way of capturing memories, I imagine many historians would be interested in such a device as well to preserve and document their findings…”

“In Fontaine, they’re mostly used to photograph friends and family, at least that’s how they advertised it in the capital. It’s so much faster than standing for a painter.” You mention – remembering the gross sweat you broke out in having to dress in multiple layers of your finest clothing for a family portrait.

Although nothing can compare to the artistic styling of one’s own caliber, not having to pose for hours on end is a definite plus in your books.

“Oh, do you want to try using–”

The moment you put the question out there, Zhongli’s already nodding with an unexpected zeal, “I’d love to, after a lesson on how to properly use it, of course.”

You give a quick explanation of the Kamera, watching him fiddle with it between his fingers as you teach him of each component.

Bringing the device up to his complexion to peek through the small, square hole, he immediately points it in your direction and before you even realize–

Click!

“Wait! I didn’t know you were gonna take a photo of me!” You shout, already fearing the results, “I would have smiled or something!”

Zhongli chuckles, grabbing the paper from the Kamera that will eventually have your complexion plastered all over it, “It’s only fair you took one of me earlier, no?”

“Okay, fine.” He laughs once more at the narrowed glance you send his way.

Although you wish for this afternoon to never end, the feeling of your stomach churning in hunger grounds you in reality, “I…should probably get home now and make some dinner, thank you for joining me today, I had fun.”

“It is my honor and as I’ve stated once before, I thoroughly enjoy your company.” Zhongli stands from the bench after handing you back the Kamera, holding out a gloved palm to aid you in standing, too, “Allow me to walk you home.”

As the two of you travel from one end of Liyue Harbor to the other, your mind goes back to your previous thoughts of your family, more specifically the unopened letter. All this talk of Fontaine and your past has you undoubtedly a tad homesick, but you fear that the letter might just play into that.

You continue to teeter back and forth on your decision all the way to your home where Zhongli bids you a good night, promising to bring another book for you to borrow the next time he comes by your job. As he walks off towards the funeral parlor, you notice he takes something out of his pocket to glance down at, but you can’t tell from such a distance what exactly it is.

Once within the confines of your home, you head straight towards the letter that’s gathered a light coat of dust in the week it sat in place. With shaky fingertips, you bite the bullet and remove the royal blue seal, unfolding the paper and gazing down at the handwriting that decorates the page. Here we go…you think, beginning to read the words laid out in front of you.

To My Dearest Child,

I beg of you, please come home…

#zhongli x reader #genshin x reader #zhongli x you #n.writings

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madame-mimsy · 3 years

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Theory Behind the Reward Tier Levels in Janus’ Corridor.

Has someone done this, already? Probably. But nothing says mental exhaustion like procrastinating on schoolwork by over analyzing the levels of tiers in Janus’ Corridor of Stored Rewards.

So with the release of the amazing art by James von Hollen (@ignoreitforever on Instagram) of each of the tiers (and the honestly delightfully terrifying images of Janus ripping through a wall like the Shining), I’ve had some thoughts on what the levels mean in relation to them because I am a Fander and we cannot leave well enough alone gdi.

See, at first I liked the idea going around that Janus was just giving tiers based on people he liked, as he’s stated that he prefers Remus over the others in livestreams. But the thing is, he obviously does NOT like Virgil, so that doesn’t quite fit to me. And the idea that it’s just giving preferential treatment to the Dark Sides made sense to me, until the new images came out and we had padlocks galore.

Instead, my theory is that each tier is based on how deep into the secrets he’s promised in his Corridor you go. The further along the more he WANTS to keep them secret, and thus the more money it takes, meta-wise, to pry those secrets loose, and why there is no Janus level tier. There’s no way he’d want to reveal everything he knows, no matter the amount. He (Janus) even got downright angry when people tried bugging him for spoilers in streams.

So instead he has the tiers listed by how willing he is to make that Side “public” or not. (Longwinded theory under the cut)

So first we have the Logan tier: the Federal Education Budget

Rewards:

Scripts

Patron-Only Polls

Extended Videos

Monthly Livestreams

Exclusive Photos and BTS Content

Ad-Free Videos

From the Snake’s Own Mouth:

“Ohhh, so you decided to share with us? Then, I suppose I can share with you.”

Honestly, this startled me because of the fact that it looks so arcane and mystical, which doesn’t match how I imagine Logan at all. My friend @onnastik pointed out that the creature on the right, surrounded by sigils, is the demon Baur, who among other things is said to “teach natural and moral philosophy, (and) logic...” which fits the bill pretty perfectly.

Speaking of a bill, the name for the tier fits Logan perfectly, too, to me. The Federal Education Budget is not only the budget used in the American system to make sure kids have free education until the highschool level, but is also part of the college loan system. It signifies public education, and that’s why I feel that Logan is the lowest, and thus most accessible, tier. Janus considers him bland, safe for public consumption, and maybe even wants to put up a front of logical intelligence first and foremost, to make even the broadest view of Thomas seem as intelligent as possible.

And look at how much the basic tier gives! That’s a huge amount for just the lowest tier, and gives you plenty to enjoy. That fits the ideal of something like a broad education system, and gives a very open feel. Logan’s tier is literally an “Open Book” of all sorts of delights.

And with that horrible pun, we move to Patton’s tier: The Monthly Allowance.

Rewards:

10% Merch Discount

Members Only Sticker

Bonus Videos

Directors' Commentary

Bloopers

Ad-Free Videos

Exclusive Photos and BTS Content

Monthly Livestreams

Extended Videos

Patron-Only Polls

Scripts

Your Name In The Credits!

Exclusive Sticker

From the Snake’s Own Mouth:

“That not enough for you? Fine. I'll give you everything from that last tier, PLUS...”

For all that it is creepy as heck, the fact that Patton’s tier is also a pun is perfect. The candles heat must surely make this... heartwarming. And the addition of blooper reels in the rewards, and the commentary, feel more personal than Logan’s open tier. Which is why I don’t think Patton was the first tier.

Patton wears his heart on his sleeve too much for Janus’ tastes, I bet. All of those emotions just out there where anyone could see? Those bloopers that showcase how imperfect Thomas and the crew are? Yikes. That is definitely something a certain snek wouldn’t want to be the most public option, though, at the same time, Patton’s gentle qualities and general love of the fandom also mean he’s a good symbol to push closer to the front of the Corridor, and doesn’t need to be as hidden as some of the others.

Also the fact that Patton’s tier has a sticker as a reward is absolutely perfect and you can’t tell me otherwise. Can’t you just imagine him going “Thank you so much, kiddo! Let’s watch some bloopers and play with sticker books! I’ll get the cocoa”? He’s the good goofy dad and stickers are fun. Bloopers and being silly are fun. It’s perfect for the sweet lad.

Then we have the illustrious Roman’s tier: A Prince’s Ransom.

Rewards:

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From the Snake’s Own Mouth:

“You want more? Really?? … You can only half tell, but I’m blushing over the fact that we’re worth this much to you. How about, everything in that last tier AND...”

Hooo boi there’s suddenly a lot more to unpack here. This is in no way an insult to the lovely Crew as a whole, but doesn’t it feel like this tier has more bribery going on than the last two? More self-centered reasons to join? It’s not just your name in the credits like Patton offered: it’s your name as a writer. That T-shirt (which I 100% leaped at when I saw this because holy heck it’s so pretty), and of course the mysterious Writer’s Room.

This tier feels very creative as well: look at all the stuff about influencing the show, the art of the shirt, etc. This is all about being showy and creative like our wonderful prince. But it’s not the first tier, even though Thomas is very much a creator. Why? Why is the tier for the showiest, flashiest Side just randomly tucked in the middle, not even the highest for show?

Because Janus doesn’t want Roman to be the first thing everyone sees. Our sweet boy is definitely eye-catching, but he can also be vain to the point of pompous, even annoying. And his fragile ego isn’t something that Janus likely wants to show off. Janus’ statement about “blushing” and “being worth that much to you” even feels like it matches that pride and ego.

And that fragility is in the crown’s design, too. At first glance it seems fine. Very fantastic, with Roman’s sun symbol in lovely display. But a longer look reveals cracks, broken sections and fissures. And a slight, odd green shine, too. Hmm.

No, Roman couldn’t be made the first tier because of his pride, but his is also the last tier to not have any outright locks on it...

The Strange Dark Son’s tier: OK, Now You’re Making Me Feel Guilty...

Rewards:

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From the Snake’s Own Mouth:

“PLEASE, don’t give us any more money! I don’t know what we could possibly do with it! But alright… since I like you, you can have everything in the last tier, and I'LL THROW IN...”

“Now you’re making me feel guilty” is absolutely what I would expect Virgil to think about someone giving him money because they enjoyed Thomas’ content. He’d freak out, and want to make sure to do something equally nice in return, to say thank you. Hence the thank-you video.

NGL I can also imagine him panicking and rushing around his room to pick up a random mug and just thrust it out at the gifter in return too, before hiding away in an anxious mess, but anyway. xD

The artwork for this seems to very much be in homage to the Annabelle Doll: a supposedly haunted ragdoll, kept locked in a case at an occult museum.

Something interesting about this doll’s story, though...

Wiki: “According to the Warrens, a student nurse was given the doll in 1970. They said that the doll behaved strangely, and that a psychic medium told the student that the doll was inhabited by the spirit of a deceased girl named "Annabelle". The student and her roommate tried to accept and nurture the spirit-possessed doll, but the doll reportedly exhibited malicious and frightening behavior.”

Huh. Who else do we know that when confronted with too much coddling responds by lashing out?

And this is the first tier with a lock. The glass is chipped (from inside or out?) but the lock is holding. The doll is inert and doesn’t seem likely to do anything unless disturbed, if it matches the original story. Which seems to fit Virgil relatively well. Sure, he’ll make you anxious (maybe those cracks are where the influence leeches free), but doesn’t seem intent on outright harm. Also the cracks and the creepy living doll cabinet as a whole made me think of spider webs and our boi’s Halloween decor, so I thought that was excellent, honestly.

This tier is hidden behind Roman’s shining pomp. It’s outright locked away, as if to keep it from seeing the light of day. The Dark Side tiers both seem this way: hidden from prying eyes by the splendor of the first few tiers.

And the most hidden one of all... Gross Profit.

Rewards:

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From the Snake’s Own Mouth:

“Oh you bougie rascal, you! Your generosity is seen and I truly thank you for it… but a few kind words from me aren't enough, I'm sure... so how about, you get everything from the last tier ALONG WITH...”

Firstly we have exclusive tier level gifts that Janus won’t even reveal. Meta-wise, this is likely more because the team has to decide what those gifts ARE, and how to safely ship them, but the way it sounds in the description not only feels super secretive, but also very much like Remus to me, as well. I’m pretty sure any and all gifts from him are a surprise in some way. Whether that is pleasant is debatable, but it’s still a surprise!

The highest tier also looks to have the highest security. Look at that sturdy, metal bound chest and huge padlock. Not only that but it also has chains wrapped around it to hold it shut, and even then, the contents are actively seeking to escape, like our delightful trashman would. Even the shuggoth-like appearance matches his presence as a shifting, terrifying and likely quite gloopy entity, capable of squeezing even where he’s not wanted. Even the green fabric below looks stained with mud or blood or something equally as upsetting. The image does a great job of showing how hard it is to contain Intrusive Thoughts, as a whole, and is likely a main reason Janus drinks so much “juice” on his birthdays.

Unlike the last image, this one is outright trying to break containment, and oddly, it almost seems like someone left a golden key in easy reach for just that purpose... A key which also looks rather oddly shaped, to me.

It’s hard to tell from the angle, but it doesn’t look like the eye is a simple circle, but that it has a point, like a heart almost. Or even the ornate letter D from the Corridor logo?

I can’t be sure of that, but what I can definitely be sure of is the sheer amount of lock, key, and chain symbolism our Snekky Fren has to his name.

While Janus has no tier, the entire SITE has his symbol, like a brand.

Every post, the icon, the about page, it’s there. And the snake isn’t trapped by the lock, but guarding it. It looks to have a green highlight around where a chip is (hmm), but other than that, it looks quite solid, and well-guarded by watchful creatures that never blink.

The shape of the lock looks like it could be heart-shaped as well, like that golden key allowing the Remus tentacles to wriggle free.

They also do a heckin blep and honestly what could possibly be better?

So yeah, that’s my way overly long ramble about the tier levels and what I think they mean. Maybe if I’m not too lazy I’ll do one on the pictures of Janus playing peekaboo with my nightmares on the about page.

God but this art is amazing and y’all need to go preesh the artist holy heck.

#thomas sanders #sanders sides #Patreon art theory #I have no life and therefore must preesh good art #janus sanders

104 notes · View notes

what-big-teeth · 4 years

Text

Admire (Male Naga ; Fic Raffle)

And done! @glugenash requested a meet-cute between a male reader and a naga of any gender. I decided to go with a male naga and let my imagination take hold to make this wonderful idea even cuter. I hope you all enjoy this fic! Male Reader (POV) x Male Monster If there’s one place you can truly relax while curling up with a good book, it’s the library.

Ever since you moved into town for a better job opportunity, you attempted to combat the new stressors that turned up as a result. Exercise, meditation, doing the bare minimum on the weekends. Nothing could compare to the public library and its innate charm. This is why you’re seated at your favorite table.

Tucked into one of the historical building’s many corners beside a large window, there’s always just enough sunlight to happily bask in and use while reading. These simple reasons—and the woodsy, vanillin scent of the surrounding book collection—are why you’ve decided to revisit an old series. Something about embracing a nostalgic memory at your table alleviates your pent-up stress like nothing else.

Which is why the sensation of being watched feels so foreign.

You’ve attempted to look around as discreetly as possible. But your eyes haven’t encountered anything out of the ordinary. Just the usual, book-lined shelves and wooden lectern holding an old, massive dictionary.

Still, you can’t fully shake the feeling. Your gut has rarely led you astray, which is why you keep glancing around. After a fleeting moment, you think you see a dark shape shrink away behind a nearby shelf. You stand up, intent on finding out who your odd observer is. But an insistent buzzing from your jeans pocket breaks your focus. Knowing that your library hasn’t made the full transition to a ‘loud facility’ yet, you step away from your spot, leaving your book behind to take the call outside.

Unsurprisingly, it’s work. Or rather, your boss. One of your co-workers has taken ill suddenly, and he needs you to fill in for her shift until he recovers. There’ll be extra pay as compensation, which helps to sweeten the deal. But when your boss mentions the project your co-worker has been toiling over for the last few weeks, you silently wince. You honestly would rather not take on the extra work, but the extra money would really help.

Your boss says your name in a questioning manner. Looks like you accidentally zoned out.

“Sure thing,” you say with a forced, cheerful tone. You can already feel the mounting stress that’ll have you on edge. With a final, merry “thanks!” and farewell, the call ends. This new development calls for some extra self-care.

You head back inside the library, making your way over to the built-in cafe. It’s a welcomed new addition, especially since they make some of the best, homebrew tea and pastries you’ve ever had. With your cup of honeyed chamomile and warmed confection in hand, you return to your sunshine laden table.

Your book is in its usual spot, but it’s been closed with a tasseled bookmark keeping track of your place. You didn’t pick up one while greeting Jason at the circulation desk. After mentally marking which page you left off on, you untuck it from between the pages. The design is, well, it’s amazing. Hand drawn swirls of complimentary colors balance each other out while being lined with careful, fine-tipped black lines. And the tassel is uniquely soft to the touch, the threads feeling similar to silk. You’re so drawn to the workmanship of the bookmark that you almost overlook the neatly folded piece of paper on the table.

The Farandale Chronicles is one of my favorite series. If you’d like to read something similar, I’d like to suggest the Crystal of Might series, written by Malkus Morak. — D

You re-read the note a few times. But no matter how much you attempt to place the neat handwriting, you can’t. There isn’t anything untoward about the suggestion, honestly. And the bookmark is an unexpected, if creative gift. Decision made, you replace the bookmark and head over to the Science Fiction section.

It doesn’t take long to find the suggested book and read the blurb on the jacket’s interior. You can’t deny that it sounds like something right up your alley. Even better, there are three more books in the series.

“Think I will try this out,” you mutter to yourself. “Thanks for the suggestion, D.”

You bundle the new book together with your old favorite, being cautious of your food, and fall in line before the circulation desk. It doesn’t take long for you to reach the front and greet the tawny, curly-haired minotaur behind the counter with a smile.

“How are things going, Jason?” He nods in reply, stalwart as ever as he carefully checks both books for possible damage before checking them out to you.

“Three weeks, as usual,” he murmurs with a deep voice. He gestures to the new book you’ve decided to read. “Should I put the sequel on hold for you?”

“That’d be great!”

After nimbly using the keyboard to complete your request, he hands both books to you with a gentle puff of air.

“Anything else I can help you with?”

Wetting your lips, you tug the handwritten note from between the cover and first page of Morak’s book.

“Would you happen to know whose handwriting this is?”

Jason gently takes the note from you, his warm brown eyes scanning the contents. With a small cough, he hands it back to you.

“Sorry, I don’t. But I’m glad they wrote on a slip of paper instead of damaging the book.”

You can’t help but chuckle. Ever since you met him, Jason’s always been a stickler for the rules when it comes to the library. Quiet yet firm. You pocket the note, being careful to not crease it any further.

“That’s fine,” you say. “It was worth a shot, anyway.”

“Be sure to finish your food while on site,” he says. “The Director is still leery about folks taking off with the cafe’s food.”

“Don’t worry,” you say, smiling. “There’s a bench outside that called to me when I stepped out earlier. Take care.”

As you leave with your new reading materials and food, you can’t stop the thrill of excitement that wells up inside you. Besides being a place of reprieve, you beloved library has provided an interesting mystery as well. And it’s one you intend to solve.

_______________________________________________

Like clockwork, you return the same day next week. Thankfully, your boss was kind enough to give you the weekend off after you took on your duties and that of your sick co-worker. It gives you just enough time to destress at the library. This time, you make a beeline for the cafe, ordering some calming tea and a new, but delectable looking pastry. Jason greets you at the circulation desk and checks out Molak’s second book to you. Once you’ve checked that your usual spot hasn’t been taken, you swiftly lay claim with your purchased items and settle in your seat.

After drinking your tea and eating your pastry, you find yourself feeling better. You open the hardback’s cover, highly interested in seeing what’ll happen to the protagonists next. But two slips of paper flutter out from the book, like before. The material is thicker this time around, similar to reinforced sketchbook paper. Your eyes widen as you realize why.

The subject of the drawing is someone you know too well. It’s you. The sketch depicts a past you sitting where you are now, looking content with a soft smile on your face as you read. Little details jump out as you take in the entirety of the work. The slight dents on the side of the old table you graze your hand over time and time again. The way you hold a book that you find immensely but surprisingly pleasing. The almost starstruck expression lighting up your features as you leave this world for another while reading…

Underneath, in familiar elegant writing, the caption reads ‘Entranced Beauty’. Heat wells up within your cheeks as you read the words over and over again. Your fingertip glides against the lettering as you pick up the other slip of paper from the carpeted floor.

There have been many times I’ve wanted to tell you how wonderful you look when you’re lost in your own world. But I’m afraid that, verbally, words fail me. At least this skill of mine can say more than what I could ever hope. For a while now, I’ve hoped I could be invited to come along with you as another book takes hold of your imagination. But I refuse to think that such lofty hopes can be achieved, considering what I am. I’m merely glad that my suggestion was pleasing to you, and I hope I can continue to provide doors for you to walk through when you need a break from this world. — D

Your heart pounds loudly inside your chest and head as the heat in your cheeks spread throughout your whole body. All you can think about is discovering who your admirer is and meeting them face to face. After all, someone who can write and such sweet thoughts and draw so beautifully can’t be as bad as they think. With this thought as encouragement, you find Molak’s collection and take the third book of his series from the shelf. You wait in line behind a couple, a gorgon and gargoyle, as Jason helps them with their items. Once they’re taken care of, you step up to the circulation desk and set the book down.

“Find everything you were looking for?” he asks.

You’re tempted to say ‘yes’, but stop short.

“No,” you say. “I...I need your help.”

You show Jason the sketch and note, asking once again if he happens to know anything. After all, the note and sketch had to be put in place before you checked out the second book. And all holds are reserved behind the circulation desk for all patrons.

A strange silence falls between the two of you. It’s broken by Jason coughing into his closed fist as he averts his gaze.

“You do know something, don’t you?” you murmur.Jason glances your way before letting his eyes drop to the computer screen in front of him.

“I get it.” You pause to reign in your voice, surprised at the sudden loudness of it. “I understand you’re trying to protect D, especially because they feel like they can’t face me. But you know me, Jason. I won’t hurt them. I just want to meet them and tell them my appreciation.”

Once more, you bring out the sketch and place it on the circulation desk before you. “Please, help me.”

Jason’s gaze finds the sketch and settles on it. He finally lets out a soft huff of air then rubs the back of his neck with his hand.

“I didn’t realize how deeply D fell for you,” he says. “I thought it was just a crush. Alright. I’ll help you out. Not only do you deserve a happy ending, but so does D. Just...be gentle with him, alright? He’s been through a lot.”

“I will,” you say, letting your words carry your promise. “Thank you, Jason.”

“Don’t thank me just yet,” he mutters. “Gonna have to see how this goes, first. Alright, D always comes like clockwork on Wednesday evenings...”

You take Jason at his word and return to the library at the time and day he suggested. Sure, it involved rearranging your work schedule somewhat, but your now-well co-worker was more than happy to return the favor you showed her. Probably helps that she’s somewhat of a romantic and readily agreed after you explained the situation to her.With careful steps, you make your way towards your usual spot. The last few rays of the setting sun fall onto the table and the naga sitting at it.

The quiet breath you’re taking in stalls at the sight.

With rich, golden brown skin, you can’t help but wonder why D would think himself unattractive. More so thanks to his jet black hair, which is pulled back into a bun, and his matching scales. Even the slight creme of his underbelly, which you can barely make out due to his button-down shirt, is charming. Remembering Jason’s advice, you carefully approach the table as he remains lost in a book held in his clawed hands. It’s the third book in Molak’s fantasy series. You can’t help but smile at the realization.

“Excuse me,” you say.

D startles, tensing at your soft voice. His pupils dilate somewhat in reply as he looks at you. With him looking head on at you, you notice the scaled skin on the sides of his neck. A hood, like that of a cobra. He looks close to bolting right then and there, but you gently press on.

“By chance, are you D?”

D gulps down a few breaths of air.

“N-no, I’m…”

Your body intuitively moves, laying a gentle hand on his upper arm in what you hope is a soothing gesture.

“I want the same thing,” you say. “I want to let you into my world so that we can make one of our own. Together.”

The scaled hood at his neck flares somewhat, but you don’t feel any fear. If anything, you’re entranced. How can such a charming, handsome naga think he’s anything less? After a few tense moments, D finally relaxes then nods.

“I...I am D.”

He meets your gaze, and you almost feel yourself fall into the molten gold of his eyes.

“I didn’t want you to know because not too many people want anything to do with me. My lineage is from a King Cobra clan, which makes me venomous. And that tends to make others uncomfortable. I-I didn’t want you to feel the same, but I couldn’t hide how I felt about you after I first saw you a few months ago. Jason thought...he suggested I could let you know anonymously and I agreed. I thought that would be best. I’m just surprised you’d want to seek me out.”

You can’t help but smile while gently gripping D’s upper arm.

“You left me with an amazing mystery to solve. And as much as you want to know me, I found myself wanting to know the person behind the ‘D’ moniker. I still do, if that’s alright with you.”

D gives you a soft smile in return, which reveals a hint of his sharp fangs. They’re rather cute, just like the rest of him. He stands up and extends a hand towards you.

“Then, let me officially introduce myself. I’m Danilo.”

You take his hand and shake it while giving him your name. When he attempts to pull his hand away, you gently squeeze it. Danilo’s breath catches as you maneuver your fingers so they twine with his.

“B-by chance,” he nearly squeaks out, “do you like Filipino food? I know a place that serves dishes similar to what I grew up with back home.”

“I haven’t had it before,” you say, “but I’m excited to try it out. I hope you don’t mind acting as my culinary tour guide.”

Danilo gives you another soft smile as he huffs out a laugh.

“Not at all.”

You both head towards the circulation desk, where you see Jason positively beaming at the two of you. As Danilo tells you about his work as a graphic designer and animator, you find yourself hanging on his every word. As he hands Jason the third and final book of the trilogy, you smile.

You can’t wait to see what else you both have in common.

#monster boyfriend #monster/human #monster romance #exophilia #naga boyfriend #terato #300 Follower Raffle #I hope you all enjoy!

160 notes · View notes

pensivetense · 4 years

Text

A List Of (Mostly TMA) Fic Recs Sorted By Vibe

Not an exhaustive list by any means, just a few favourites that caught my fancy. I shortened many of the summaries for space.

I’m going to pin this here and update it as I go.

Also, I’m pensivetense on ao3

MELANCHOLY VIBES

for when you want to feel comfortably muted

(sad but not utterly bleak endings here)

Hope, Etc. (Dickenson, et al.) by yellow_caballero

Jonathan Sims, six months after the Unknowing, wakes to find himself without a daemon - without humanity, without a soul. It’s a cursed half-life, but existence as a shell without a heart isn’t so bad: between solving the mystery of a persistent illusion cast over his friends and some light pseudo-cannibalism, a life as a monster is better than no life at all. At least, it would be, if it wasn’t for the fucking Owl.

A freaking. Amazing. Daemon au. Ties the lore of Dust with TMA lore very satisfyingly, but is mostly about Jon navigating what it means to be human, or, in the absence of that, a person, and doesn’t require prior knowledge of His Dark Materials. Cannot recommend highly enough.

after one long season of waiting by nuinuijiaojiao

Annabelle is not used to having nice things. or, Annabelle heads to Upton House, muses a little, and gets some well-deserved rest

I love survivalist Annabelle and also the concept of the Web as kind of a horrible Patron, actually.

i love you. I want us both to eat well. by SmallishWormMasterOfTheUniverse

At the safehouse with Martin, Jon decides it's time to quit statements once and for all. The Eye disagrees. Martin just needs Jon to be okay. It's quite possible that nobody is going to get what they want.

Scottish Safehouse Era, Jon and Martin coping with their respective Entities... really, really good.

the friend by doomcountry

He always greets a new spider when he meets it. It’s instinct, born in childhood, the same way he instinctively counts magpies, or flicks salt over his left shoulder. A little harmless superstition. A bit of politesse.

A great Martin character study with eldritch spider horror included. The imagery regularly haunts me (in a good way).

autumn’s rare gift by bee_bro

Annually, the two meet, renewing the binding ritual where it had all started. The procedure simple: a waltz.

Singlehandedly made me ship Gertrude/Agnes so there’s that. It’s so bittersweet and bee_bro’s writing is, as always, incredibly poetic. (I’d recommend everything they write, actually.)

smile, you’re trending by Goodluckdetective

During an encounter with another Avatar of the Eye, Jon faces his past, Martin takes a turn at playing Kill Bill and Basira has a second look at the monster she’s determined to see. For three people associated with the Eye, they could all use some perspective.

Features an original Eye Avatar character who’s a YouTube personality; she is infuriating and inspired and genuinely frightening and I cannot say enough good things.

Humility by The_Lionheart

have you no idea that you're in deep?/i've dreamt about you nearly every night this week,/how many secrets can you keep?

An OC centric story but don’t let that put you off, it’s amazing. Very heavily focused around Jonah Magnus and the other Avatars as they change through the years. Also, I’d die for the OC.

oh, for one sweet second without the eye series by faedemon

Beholding does not like in the way humans do, but it likes its Archivist all the same.

I’m just so fond of the way this is done stylistically. I have a great weakness for dialogue only/dialogue heavy writing, not to mention all of the wonderful character beats and interplay of humanity/inhumanity for Jon and Melanie.

Rewind by WhyNotFly

It takes eight days of forced confinement for Jon to start hallucinating. [...] It’s Martin, though, that his exhausted brain conjures, because of course it’s Martin. After all this time, of course it’s Martin.

Jon willingly allows himself to be confined rather than hunting for statements, and examines his relationship with Martin.

for a firmament series by supaslim

There is beauty in destruction. There is art in becoming. In which Jon becomes the Archive, and the Archive becomes Jon.

Part two posted this morning and uhhh. Good. Also if you’re here for weird eldritch body horror (I am), this one’s for you.

ONES THAT JUST HURT

for when you want to feel sad

(somewhat bleaker endings here/everyone is NOT okay)

Feste by yellow_caballero

If asked, Martin would say that he became the shadow director of the Magnus Institute by accident. But nobody ever asked, and nobody ever cared, and it was in this way that Martin stopped lying to himself. Or: break free, Martin. All you have to lose are your chains. And your sanity.

Oh, this one totally didn’t go the way I expected it to. A study in isolation. Could go into the category above, as the ending is not bleak, but the tone of the whole is somewhat more depressing than most there.

Ghosts of Love by RavenXavier

Nothing made Martin more grounded in the world than yearning for Jonathan Sims.

Lonely!Martin that really captures a sort of visceral ache. Hurts me and yet I keep rereading.

i do desire (we may be better strangers) by godbewithyouihavedone

For ages, it only knew how to worship, taking human bodies and living off the fear of those who remembered. It never knew love until it became Jonathan Sims. Now it must fight against every instinct to save Martin Blackwood. Archivist Sasha, Not!Jon/Martin, and the worst kind of Fake Dating AU.

Oh, this one just made me sad. The poor not!them, which is something I never thought I’d say.

Apple Of Your Eye by fakeCRfan

In which the Eye is fond of Martin. Perhaps a little too fond for comfort.

Somehow manages to be both sweet and horrifying—the characterisation of the Eye is incredible. ‘The Eye loves Martin’ is a scenario that’s so utterly doomed to failure and yet the writing is packed with so much pathos that I just want them all to be happy. A fantastic use of themes of agency and choice, and the single best use of Beholding as a source of horror I’ve read.

The Last Press by copperbadge

Jon Sims is awake, and has begun preparations for the Rite of the Watcher's Crown. Peter Lukas, who woke him, would be content to rule at his side. Martin is very upset about all of this, and the Lukases aren't thrilled with it either.

I really can’t say anything without spoiling the end and it’s so good. An alternate take on the Watcher’s Crown. Not a pairing that I ever thought would work for me, but this made it work.

watch the blood evaporate by 75hearts

It starts, like so many things in Jon’s life have started, with a nagging itch of curiosity. Jonathan Sims uses his healing abilities throughout s4. Read the tags.

Dear God please read the tags. But this is some high quality pain if it’s for you.

the lighthouse series by low_fi

Peter Lukas is a lighthouse keeper. One evening, he gets a call from a cryptic overseer tasked with monitoring his work.

This is such a vivid and yet subtle story—from the setting to the emotions portrayed, it creeps up on you slowly. The ending was like the gentlest possible gut-punch. The sequel just completed, and yeah, just as wonderful. This one is very much LonelyEyes but I listed it here because it is just exquisitely painful.

SATISFYINGLY HOPEFUL VIBES

for when you want to feel cozy

Clutching Daffodils by Gemi

Martin has always liked the idea of love at first sight. It’s such a romantic idea, the whole thing of it. Seeing someone and instantly feeling that strange, twisting feeling deep inside that every single media likes to obsess over. Of knowing you are in love within the day, petals falling from your mouth and warmth filling your chest as love burrows deep, vines twisting through your lungs. He always liked the idea of it. And then Jonathan Sims starts working at the Magnus Institute.

Somehow manages to be lighter and fluffier than most hanahaki fare, despite the setting. I’ve reread this one a lot.

the least he could do by Prim_the_Amazing

Martin should in fact not pick this man, specifically because of how attracted he is to him. It would be the responsible thing to do. Except he’s already following him. And he’s hungry.

Fluffy vampire au which everyone’s probably already read, but was too good not to mention.

rather interesting by bee_bro

Jonah Magnus realizes that, for some reason, when he comes in contact with weed, Elias Bouchard's consciousness will come into his life banging pots and pans.

Oh boy. So these are all favourite fics but this one is a favourite amongst favourites. The way Jonah is characterised (i.e. incredibly sensitive to scrutiny) is my favourite depiction of him, and the slow-burn between him and Elias is far sweeter than it has any right to be. Also, it’s hilarious.

The Magnus Records series by ErinsWorks

In a world parallel to that of the Archives and the Institute, a supernatural sanctuary stands against a cruel and uncaring world: A world of bureaucracy and tyranny, of murder and carnage, of loneliness and surveillence, of plague and death. But in this world of fear and misery, 14 entities born of the hopes of the world have emerged. And one of them has made their home here, at The Magnus Sanctuary. Perhaps, the employees within may lead happier lives than their counterparts did in the Archives.

This is just so goddamn pure. The author writes a really imaginative, fleshed-out alternate world and alternate Entities with engaging, well-written short statements. All of the character voices are absolutely on point, and it’s overall absurdly hopeful without ever feeling overly saccharine. I love this series so much, you guys, you don’t even know. I want to print it out and paste it on my wall. I love it.

HARD APOCALYPSE

for when you want to feel dark and angsty (and eldritch)

Most of these are shorts/oneshots because it’s just that kind of genre, y’know?

Ashes to Ashes by marrowbones

A conversation at the end of the world.

Oliver Banks is one of those minor characters that I am overly attached to. Love him here.

Employee Benefits by equals_eleven_thirds

The Magnus Institute offered some normal employee benefits: a pension plan, holidays, travel subsidies, free lunch on the last Friday of each month. Rosie makes it work.

This manages to hit that perfect sweet spot of satisfying and hilarious. Rosie gets to torment Elias, as she well deserves.

a rose by any other name by Duck_Life

Part of Jon blooms in Jared Hopworth’s garden.

This one was sad and honestly too gentle to really belong in this category, but I love it.

Eye to Eye by Dribbledscribbles

In which Jonah Magnus attempts a post-apocalyptic pep talk.

Unreliable narrator at its finest, and the implications are suitably horrific.

commensalis by doomcountry

The tower is endlessly, impossibly tall, but Jon’s work is taller.

If you’re here for the eldritch imagery, then this has some of the best.

SOFT APOCALYPSE

for when you want to feel gently triumphant

apocalypse how series by sunshine_states

Humanity adjusts. The Entities have Regrets.

Some nice vignettes set in a kinder apocalypse.

ceylon series by Sciosa

The one in which Jonathan Sims decides that no, actually, he isn't going to let the world just end.

I include this only for the sake on completeness, as everyone has no doubt already read it.

rituals by doomcountry

Martin is the first person to knock on the Archivist's door since it arrived, fully, into its little waiting temple. The Archivist saw him coming from down the hall, but decides to feign interest when the knob turns, and Martin—still a little bit smaller, a little more translucent than before—stands uncertainly just outside the room.

This one’s a little less focused on the world at large and more on JonMartin specifically.

we raise it up by savrenim

Jonathan Sims reads a book and saves the world; although maybe the real salvation is the friends he makes along the way; (although perhaps the world itself and the darkness that exists behind it isn't quite as out to get everyone as it seems).

More ‘soft revolution’ than ‘soft apocalypse’, but has the same vibe. A time travel fix-it. Incomplete but worth it if this is a mood that appeals to you.

Scarred Ground by DictionaryWrites

“You see," Elias said softly, "people always have this idea that only living things can be scarred - and they're right, of course. But a building is a living thing, Martin. And the ground can be scarred, too." "I don't have any scars," Martin said. "Yes, you do," Elias said. "You just need the right light to see them.”

Falls somewhere between ‘Apocalypse’ and ‘Soft Apocalyse’ but I’m putting it here because I feel like it. Also technically a LonelyEyes fic. I found it hard to follow at first but it’s worth sticking with; things will eventually begin to make sense and come together.

LONELYEYES

for when you want to feel lonelyeyes

marrying anguish with one last wish by procrastinatingbookworm

In which Elias isn't Orpheus, and Peter isn't Eurydice, but Elias brings Peter home anyway.

Lives in my head rent free forever. My favourite lonelyeyes fic.

ouroboros by Wildehack

“You know,” Jonah says, a muscle in his calf quivering agreeably where it’s slung over Mordechai’s shoulder, “it’s really quite--fortunate--that I don’t care for you at all.”

Oh, this one hurts in the best possible way. The endless cycle of their relationship, the way it comes full-circle... yeah, good. Actually, no, this one might be my favourite. It’s a tie.

Breaking all the Rules by Thedupshadove

Elias proposes a somewhat...unusual wager.

Soft lonelyeyes? In my recs? It’s more likely than you think. Short, sweet, and... sweet.

Threefold by Sprinkledeath

Peter Lukas breaks three rules.

I’m just a slut for mythology allusions I guess.

Luck Be A Lady Tonight by prodigy

In 2014, Elias Bouchard takes a rare trip outside of his comfort zone. Peter Lukas wastes a bunch of money. You'd be surprised how many things can go wrong for two beings of cosmic power.

I love the sense of the history of them you get while reading this.

love is just a word (the idea seems absurd) by kaneklutz

"Something's wrong. It's stopped hurting" An avatar of the Lonely and an avatar of the Beholding walk into a bar relationship. It was bound to blow up in their faces.

Short, sweet, painful. Excellent exploration of their priorities.

Victor by penguistifical

elias tries something with his powers that he hasn't attempted before

The one where Elias tries to raise the dead. Not incredibly LonelyEyes centric but that’s still the pairing.

Simon Says by penguistifical

“Peter asked me to drop by and have a word with you, and, so, here I am.” Simon chuckles at Elias’s disbelieving stare. “Well, he asked in his own way. He’s not a complicated man, you know. He either comes from your arms looking like a stroked cat that’s been given a dish of cream or looking like he’s been in that toy boat of his out in an unexpected storm. He was far angrier than normal, so I daresay you weren’t cream today.”

I mean personally I’d just go ahead and rec all of penguistifical’s LonelyEyes fics but this is a standout for me.

AROMANTIC AND ASPEC MOODS

for when you want to feel Seen

The Aro Archives series by WhyNotFly

These are all just really really good. From Aro!Peter to two different aro-spec versions of the Scottish Safehouse to a long and beautiful aro hanahaki fic, this series is uniformly wonderful. The two Scottish Safehouse ones (Torn Edges and Murky Water) are my comfort fics.

and now all fear gives way by j_quadrifons

Before he can think it through, he murmurs, "Is that what it feels like? Being in love?" Martin's hand stills in his hair and Jon's stomach drops.

This one just. Wow yeah this is how it be. Another absolute comfort fic of mine.

Sweet As Roses by Prim_the_Amazing

Jon takes Martin by the shoulders, leans up on the tips of his toes, and kisses him.

I’m going to be honest—I didn’t know where to put this one. But it ended up here because the real standout of this fic for me is the portrayal of Sasha, and especially her portrayal as an aro character. So I’m putting it here. Mind the content warnings with this one!

HUMOUR

for when you want to feel delight

The Torment of Sebastian Skinner by Urbenmyth

After the Eye's victory, the statement givers are trapped in their horror stories, living them over and over again. Naturally, this works out better for some then for others.

Premise? Delightful. Execution? Fantastic. I read this one to cheer myself up when I’m sad.

Unlucky by VolxdoSioda

Jon’s dice betray him

Short, sweet DnD au, and the reason I cannot get DM!Elias out of my head now.

Voracious by beetl

A bird hits the window. Jon experiences The Flesh's thrall.

“Dead Dove: Do Not Eat” but make it literal.

The Stupid Endings by Urbenmyth

There are a lot of very deeply thought out and creative AUs on this site. These aren't among them. These ones are how the story could have ended, if Jonny Sims was a dumbass.

These are just uniformly hilarious, I cannot recommend them highly enough.

PODCAST CROSSOVERS

for when you want to make one of those “if I had a nickel for every time...” posts

The Sabbatical by morelikeassassin

Nicholas Waters is in need of an all-knowing eldritch entity beyond the confines of human imagining to help with his latest ritual. He'll have to settle for Jonathan Sims, who happens to have nothing better to do.

Crossover with Archive 81 (s3, specifically). Both fun and bittersweet.

The City And Its Sorrows by cuttooth

“What makes you think your friend is in Eskew?” David asks. He feels he can risk the scrutiny of the city that far. “I read that this is a place people end up when they get lost,” says the man. “This is a place people end up,” David agrees./The Archivist comes to Eskew.

Contemplative piece, and I love the way it presents David’s relationship with Eskew, the way he finds it horrible and hates it and yet belongs to it, is almost proud in the way he shows to to Jon. Great little vignette of two people oppressed by eldritch powers, intersecting.

Hiatus by bibliocratic

My name is Jonathan Sims, and I am in Eskew. (Jon gets lost in a Spiral city. It is not as easy as escaping.)

This one is far more focused on Jon than David, and is honestly more Eskew-weird than Spiral-weird. In the best way. Told in Eskew episode style, and is very good.

Sweet Music by Shella688

Eskew has a music to it, if you know how to listen. The percussion beat of thousands of footsteps, the melody in the squealing of the trains overhead. Today, the music of Eskew comes in the form of nine musicians, playing outside my office. My name is David Ward, and I am in Eskew.

Not TMA, but since a lot of Mechs fans go here—this one’s a Mechs/Eskew crossover. Short and simple, mostly David Ward centric, just a little well-written one shot I had to mention because I enjoyed it but it doesn’t have much traffic. Nice portrayal of the Mechs from an outsider’s perspective, and how genuinely strange and frightening they’d come across (especially if you’re already being haunted by and eldritch city). If you like Eskew-style storytelling, check it out!

NOT TMA

...but good enough that I physically cannot make a recs list without including them. Here!

#tma #the magnus archives #fic recs #long post #i'm not kidding you guys it's long #so be warned before you click read more #pinned on my blog

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misskittysmagicportal · 4 years

Text

All You’ve Got Is Gold Part 1

FandomAU!: Billy Delaney/Cormac McNamara x Female OC

Warnings: Slight NSFW, mostly steamy fluff. Guys this ended up being long as fuck. And it’s really only chapter one. Or Part 1.

Jeanie leaned over the bar at Ewan's to pour herself another whiskey, ignoring the bartender as he chastised her. "C'mon lass, don't the wee ones file in to the grounds tomorrow?"

"Wee?" she gulped around her swallow. "Ewan, they're pubescent. You know me though, I like to have a bit of a glow every new semester. That way the parents think I'm truly invested in the well-being of the brats." Jean waved her glass around in the air. "Ok, not brats. Most of them are well-behaved and genuinely interested in learning. Not like the little bastards in America. I'd have 40 to a classroom back there. Saint Fergus barely has 40 students in the entire school."

Ewan took it as a sign and gave her a generous pour one more time, "Heard you cannae keep any professors for the pay. But your husband-"

"EX. As of last spring," Jean corrected.

"EX-husband found some new blood in a few of his University students."

"Aye," Jeanie imitated the Scottish brogue with perfection. "They're all in the corner over there with Dr Purves now."

She had half a decade to assimilate to the culture of the small, boring town just outside of Aberdeen where she followed Gordon and married him without any family or a job. He became head of the Physics and STEM department at the University of Aberdeen, working on projects and female students alike. Jeanie, having abandoned her Master's in Education, was really only qualified to student-teach at a local boarding school. Before long, lack of interest and the economy drove the numbers down to four or five dozen and a position of Headmistress open. At least it was a place to live and an existence that kept her mind off everything else.

"I would say don't look now, because here comes one of his students, but my darling who can keep their eyes off him." Ewan pointed behind his friend with damn near literal hearts in his eyes.

Jeanie glanced over her shoulder as a young man, early 20s? She couldn't tell. But he approached her at the bar. Her first glance became a double, and nearly a stare. Embarrassed, she whipped her head around quickly and blushed in Ewan's general direction. "Sweet Virgin Mary," she exhaled under her breath.

"I normally go by Delaney, but I suppose in certain company Mary will do," a soft Irish lilt.

Jean slow blinked as the bartender broke into a cheshire grin. She took a deep breath and turned towards the man now beside her and held out her hand. Blood pulsing in her ears because.. he was stunning. "Brave of a Celt to set foot in the land of Picts. Even braver for him to be in the presence of the biggest asshole in all of Scotland."

"Well from what I've heard she's more of an Ice Queen than an asshole," he squinted before smiling brightly. Green eyes sparkling in the low light of the bar. "Your.. partner put me up to it anyways. You know, say the bit about the ice. Sorry," he blushed but still held on to her hand firmly. "I've heard you're rather pleasant from the others. Just aloof as it were"

"EX!" Ewan and Jean exclaimed together, and the young man blinked responsively. "No sorries. Cold-hearted bitch is what some of the 6th years call me when I confiscate their illegals. Headmistress Jean Turner, but the two friends I have call me Jeanie. Drink?"

"Just one? I'll take 5. I have to catch up with the others." He hooked a thumb at the group of obnoxious men groping the female students who hung off of them as if they were celebrities. Taking what he was offered, chugging it quickly and shuddering. "Billy. Delaney it is. Well occasionally."

Jeanie and Ewan watched as he basically pounded every shot placed in front of them. Squinting off and on, as if he was trying to adjust to the ambiance. "Is it hot? It's hot in here. God I hate people. Those people. I will never fit in with the misogynists and knobs who prefer rugby and football to actually learning about the world." He pulled at the collar of his sweater before taking it off and draping it over Jeanie's chair. He wore a striped tee shirt underneath "Sorry. Sorry. I've got my nose in tech and books and maths algorithms most days. I forget how to socialize, so I really just want to blend in with the norms."

"You.. are.. fit." Ewan sputtered.

Billy snapped back to attention, his mind having drifted off to the same group Jeanie's eyes kept staring at. "What?"

"He's saying you are fucking fit, mate" Jeanie gaped.

"My body? I'm not really certain about that. I'm rather spindly wouldn't you say?” he shrugged while his cheeks flushed profusely. "My arms? Is it my arms? I swim. Clears my head from all the clutter." He was rambling now.

Jeanie and Ewan started laughing. "Relax! we're taking the piss, love. Your every move is being scrutinized. Now why abouts did Dr Purves send you over here? Surely he has fucking with me on his mind. Not unusual, humiliation has always been the name of the game."

Billy made a gesture that resembled adjusting non-existent glasses. He immediately dropped his hand and pulled a tenner out of his pocket. "To melt the ice, Gordon said. He gave me ten quid to hit on you."

"One of his students. What a lovely parting gift. I guess you're worth the loss of the house and the car," Jeanie stood back slightly to properly size him up.

Billy bit the entirety of his bottom lip, furrowing his brows, "I reckon you're worth more than a tenner to sleep with."

Jeanie blinked a few times, head tilted to the side to make sure she heard correctly. "SEX?!" she laughed, unable to help herself. "I don't exactly know what all of this," she waved her hand down his body, "would be doing even in the vicinity of sleeping with this," pointing to her own.

Confusion came over his face, "Am I supposed to be.. Is there something wrong with you that I don't notice? I, I can be kind of oblivious to loads. I think, really, Gordon goaded me into coming over here for my benefit as much as his amusement. I don't have too much experience, but you seem quite lovely you know. Your hair is," brows furrowed again but in thought, "Nicely red in this lighting. Reminds me of my friend from Ireland. Hannah."

Jeanie pinched the bridge of her nose as Ewan audibly guffawed from beside her. "Saints preserve us," the Scotsman said between gasps for air. "Donnae if you are taking the piss now, bloke, or are you really this bad at pulling birds."

Billy grimaced, the entirety of his face beet red. "Honestly, I never make it this far. I guess they usually pull me and I let them?" He started to fan his face, "seriously,,how fucking hot do you keep this pub?" His forehead bent forward to rest on the metal and wood counter of the bar.

Ewan covered his mouth and ruffled the curly head in front of him. "What a wee babby, Dr Purves sent into the lion's den. You just drank half a bottle of my best whiskey and mortified yourself in front of my favorite woman in this whole country. Maybe you ought to drink some water and have a sit for a few. We'll give you something to take to the bell-end in the back."

Jeanie and Ewan's eyes met, and she bit back a smile before leaning over to wrap an arm around her husband's latest protege. "Oh Ewan, I don't think it should be only a story. Why not give the evil genius a bit of a show. Right now he can see Mr Delaney is headed towards a spectacular crash. Im embarrassed. Mr Delaney's embarrassed. You're without very expensive whiskey. Gordon will never let anyone live this down for the semester."

She put her mouth near Billy's ear, "Ten quid is worth SOMETHING. Don't you think? Just look at me." He obliged quicker than she expected. Emerald eyes gazed upwards at her while the heart banged wildly in her chest. "What comes next?"

"I reckon I ought to put my arm on your waist. Right?" his voice now low in her ear and a hand slipped around her hips to draw her as close as possible.

No further guidance was needed as the liquid courage kicked in. Billy stood up and took Jeanie's face in his large hands before he drew her into a rather passionate kiss. Hers instinctively buried in his hair, their tongues dancing as the thought he hustled her entered the back of her mind. How was it that just a few minutes ago he looked ready to vomit at the thought of trying to come on to anyone, not just her. Now he was kissing her like they were Hugh Grant and Julia Roberts. Jeanie’s back slightly arched as Billy dominated her personal space with his height, a hand dangerously on the curve of her backside.

Ewan held his own face, eyebrows lost in his bangs as he watched the two of them go at it for well, he lost time. Glancing up he noticed just about everyone else in the pub was watching too. Gordon positively green with envy and turning purple with anger. Ewan saw him lean to a colleague and mouth, "That wasn't the fucking deal."

"Job done you two," he cleared his throat and practically shouted to break them up.

Jeanie's mouth was cold as it kissed the air. Billy had stumbled backwards a bit, mouth turned down ever slightly in a whoops motion. He walked, swayed really and floated by every single patron, including the group of men he came in with earlier. Fingers pulled at his bottom lip before he passed a devilish grin over his shoulder in Gordon's direction.

Jeanie and Ewan gobsmacked, but pleasantly amused, looked at one another. Mischief in their eyes as Jeanie noticed Billy's sweater draped over the bar. "Mr Balderston, I think I have a grad student to visit this week. It seems Mr Delaney might need his sweater because the Scottish nights get awfully cold."

Orientation came and went, and the students seemed to settle in quicker than normal. Quite possibly because this was the lowest attendance in the school’s 150 year history. They had been in danger of shut down, but Jeanie was informed that first Monday by the Board of Directors that an anonymous group of donors had decided, against their wishes, to purchase the school. Even if no students came back the following school year, or they were down to only 15 or 10 or 5, Saint Fergus would remain open for unknown reasons.

To say she was relieved was an understatement for Jeanie. Much needed repairs were being made, and someone had come to put together a state of the art security system. Which really confused the faculty and dwindling staff. Who would steal anything from this junk heap? Even their books were falling apart. Except they weren’t.

By the end of the first week, the girls in their dormitories and in the hallways were abuzz with brand new Literature and Maths books. They were suddenly interested in Oscar Wilde and Pythagoras. Jeanie watched as three 4th years sat in the windowsill and audibly cracked open their copies of “The Happy Prince,” stars in their eyes.

“Have you ever seen anyone as good looking as Dr McNamara? Honestly, I don’t know how I’ll pay attention to anything else but that voice,” she held her book against her chest.

“Oh c’mon Siobhan. It’s all about the eyes. I don’t think I’ve seen anything like them. Proper green. If he sticks around, I’ll tell Daddy to talk to all of his barrister friends. Get them to enroll their kids here next year.”

The third girl was clearly in a daydream out the window, “All I heard today was blah blah blah ‘important in oratory history of Ireland’ blah blah. Lemme tell you, he can give me an oral exam any day.”

Jeanie cleared her throat and the students jumped nearly a mile high. “It would do you girls a kindness not to sexually harass our newest teacher at Saint Fergus.” The smallest hint of a smile on her lips. “Honestly, how is it that I'm headmistress here and have no bloody clue who this mysterious Dr McNamara is?”

“Well rumor has it, Miss, that he bought the school. Dr Purves hired him for a project at the uni, and he asked to be right in the thick of the school.” Siobhan shrugged.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh he’s installing the security system and having a new science laboratory built,” the daydreaming girl chimed in.

“I thought it was a grad student that was teaching here this semester? Have any of you heard the name Billy Delaney? I’ve been looking for him the last week or so, but I can't find him in Aberdeen housing. I’d like to return his sweater.” Jeanie’s face flushed pink, and the girls all cast a knowing grin in her direction.

“Has Miss got a crush herself?” Siobhan teased. “There’s no student teachers this year, but did you say Billy Delaney?”

“Yes. Does that name sound familiar to you too?”

The girls stood and handed Jeanie paperback books one by one. A stack of them, young adult novels that had grown incredibly popular the last few years. A stone wall with a glowing green and gold light graced the cover. “A Green Pool of Light: Emerald City to Oz Book 1” blazed across the top in that standard stereotyped font that represented all things Irish. The daydreaming girl, Aila Jeanie would come to find out, opened her copy and ran a finger down the page. “Yeah, he’s like a gender bent Hermione in these books.”

Jeanie frowned and flipped through the pages. The girls all started to laugh, not mean-hearted but in the way kids do at adults when they become lost in the world of anyone under 20. “That’s Dr McNamara, Miss Turner, and he’s living in the Boys Dorms.”

Jeanie blinked a few times, too many times in disbelief. The girls dissolved into hysterics and headed off to their next set of classes. Things maybe just got a bit easier but harder at the same time.

--------------------------------------

Jeanie stared incredulously at herself in the mirror. When exactly was the last time she showed up to any man’s room wearing only a coat and her underwear? Or well, a sweater in this case. She waited until the school was dark and quiet, she couldn’t risk one of the students seeing her dressed this way. On her way to do a dance of seduction. No, that’s humiliating. This was all humiliating.

What in the hell am I even doing? She thought. But it was too late, her legs carried her into the halls and across the floors and up into the West Wing where the boys slept. Tip-toeing quick and stealthy to the only source of light on this side of the school.

Jeanie took a deep breath and knocked on the open door. His back was to her, sitting with one foot up on the chair, a knee drawn up to his chest in the most awkward of positions. His dark head was bent over an abundance of little digital boxes spread across a desk that he tinkered with under a magnifying glass. Several computers and laptops spread around the room running codes attached to various projects simultaneously. Lost in his work, he ignored her.

Sighing heavily, Jeanie knocked louder this time. She raised one hand up the door frame, leaning in the most tempting pose she could muster at 11pm on a Thursday. His head popped up, and he only glanced over his shoulder in her direction before going back to his work.

“Well took ye long enough to find me, Miss Turner. Wanna see what I’ve put together for the school?” he queried without paying any attention to her attire.

Jeanie felt the bile rise in her throat. How in the hell was she ever going to feel better about herself when this man wouldn’t even acknowledge her? Was it too late to just slip back down in the shadows and melt away like she never existed? Still she took a breath and made her way to the desk and stopped directly behind him. She bent forward over his shoulder, her hair brushed against his face and neck. There was a nearly inaudible hitch in his breathing as she picked up one of the boxes. Did she make him nervous? Good, she thought and chewed her lip to prevent a smirk sneaking through.

“Well Mr Delaney. Or is it McNamara?” She studied the box carefully and poked at it with her nail.

“Doctor” he interjected huskily. He was nervous. “I’ve got a PhD,” he corrected.

“Are you even old enough for a doctorate?!” she retorted.

“I’m 24, thank you very much. I suppose that’s quite young to have several PhDs, but I don’t really keep track. If it makes you feel better, I'm also a chef. Cooking is just science after all,” he said almost dismissively. “Oh, That is L.I.S.A. you’re holding. Large-scale Interface Security Application.”

Jeanie snorted; she couldn't help it. “Do you mean an alarm system?”

“No it’s a specified security application that only I know how to program and,” he caught himself. “Yes. It’s an alarm system.” He rolled his eyes and gently took the machine back from her and placed it amongst the others.

“If you're working with Gordon on some kind of secret project, why are you teaching Literature?” Jeanie launched into everything without really meaning to. “You know Dr Delaney or whoever the hell you are, several of the girls brought to my attention that there’s a character in those young adult novels written by Hannah O'Flaherty. “A Pool of Green Light?” They are quite popular with our 1st-4th years. You're Billy Delaney aren't you? That’s why you gave that name in the pub the other night instead of your real name. That being Cormac McNamara, am I correct?” She placed her hands on hips hidden in the mass of wool and cable knit.

"Delaney is part of my last name. Hyphenated.” once again correcting the headmistress.

"Don't see much of that in men"

"Well it and my brain are about all my parents left me,” he moved to face his chair towards Jeanie and abandon his project.

"Well I bet they're proud of you, Cormac. Or Billy. Whatever.” she waved her hand dismissively. “You lot discovered.. what's it called?"

"Dimensional Dark Matter Transport with the possibility of Inter and Temporal"

"I mean, Portals. Or to put it in tv nerd terms: Beam me up Scotty"

"Precisely!” Cormac exclaimed and stood up excitedly. “And your ex-boyfriend-"

"Husband"

“Yes, husband. Well couldn't have been good at it if he's your ex.” He bit a finger absently, staring off towards the ceiling. Then snapped back to attention quickly, “Well he wants to find a way to make it.. Portable. Not just in plotted locations around the globe. And my business partners, em Hannah and Brett if you will, would like it privatized. Dr Purves, he wants the highest bidder."

"Military?” Jeanie blanched at the thought. Then her voice drifted off, “So the books ARE real.. You three are real. Hannah hid the stories in plain sight for the entire world to discover" And for the first time, she noticed a framed photo on the vast desk. A trio of happy young people: red-headed girl, pretty with large blue eyes. A floppy haired, tan surfer type. And a tall, lanky boy with oval glasses and severely parted hair starting to curl. Jeanie took the frame and traced her fingertip along the glass. “Sarah, Zack and Billy. This is like finding out Harry, Ron and Hermione are living, breathing people. And here you are, in my school.”

"I could show you if you want but.. Miss Turner, why are you only in a sweater?" Cormac stepped back and lifted his glasses and put them back down. He took them off hurriedly as if he was embarrassed to be wearing them. Turning once more to face her "Is.. Is that MY sweater? You're only in. Jeanie, Where are your pants?"

"Well I planned on seducing you Mr.."

"Doctor" -

Jeanie sighed as if she had been defeated, "DOCTOR Delaney-McNamara"

"Well Ive mucked that up I suppose,” a deep crimson set across his ears.

" I mean you can have your sweater back,” Jeanie arched an eyebrow seductively. Pulling the sweater over her head to reveal only a pair of her nicest black panties and bra underneath. Nothing else.

"Thank you it's quite my favorite-" Cormac’s eyes widened when he noticed the headmistress in front of him wearing nothing but lingerie. He squinted briefly while scratching his head. “Oh.. Jeanie. That’s..” his voice drifted off lost in shock.

Ignoring the embarrassment growing in her chest, Jeanie crossed her arms over her chest. “Why in the hell did you take your glasses off?”

“Oh, em.. Hannah always tells me I’m far more attractive without them.” he shrugged.

“Just like how Clark Kent is only slightly, by a molecule,” Jeanie pinched her fingers together, “less sexy than Superman with his glasses"

"But his glasses are fake,” Cormac ignored the obvious joke. “Right now I can just see shapes. Lovely, curved shapes! but only shapes." waving a hand in her general direction again.

Jeanie sat down on his bed without the sweater, to protect her now she just decided to go with her original plan. She crossed her long legs and leaned back with one hand back on the mattress. "Ok give us a look with the glasses on, Delaney.. Mcnamara?" This was frustrating.

"No, I reckon I'll have the kids call me Cormac" his hands on thin hips as he glanced upwards in thought

"Yes, erase that line of authority between yourself and 11-15 year olds. Don't underestimate them, Billy. Or Cormac. Or whatever. You are probably the smartest professor Saint Fergus has ever had, but you’re handsome. My girls will eat you alive"

"I wouldn't go that far!" he was exasperated for some reason.

"You have five PhDs and can’t even legally rent a car in America yet," Jeanie pointed out.

Cormac waved her off dismissively. “No! Not the smart or genius part. That is true,” he agreed without pretension. “It’s the handsome part,” he rolled his eyes in frustration.

“Look McNamara, I can’t tell if you’re being humble or an asshole. Your constant squinting and inflamed cheeks are ruining my perception.”

"Inflamed.." he touched his face "It's rather distracting. You in your. I may realize now that's your intent. I'm not really NEW to this, uh women coming on to me. It's just not always quite so forward?"

"Had I known you were a doctor of Quantum Mechanics, my approach would be a little less intense. 10 quid or not, you were the one kissing me last night." Jeanie got up off the bed "Ill go, but can I take your sweater with me? The students don't need to see this"

"Oh, em do ya have to? You're already here, and I'm sure quite lovely to look at."

"Cormac put your glasses on"

"Really?" he was adorably confused "I would have to take them off if we-"

"Have sex?"

"I didn't mean to imply- I've never really-" he nervously put his glasses back on. Then started fiddling with his hands and chewing on one.

"No fucking way!” Jeanie sat up quickly “But you're-"

"Oh please don't say hot."

"Well-travelled?"

"I am not completely virginal, I'll have ye know! I've done tings. SEXY tings. I've put my mouth and fingers in places on a woman. I'm just picky about where I’d put my penis."

Jeanie’s amused now, she can’t help it. An eyebrow raised and a laugh ready to escape because he's pacing around and gesticulating wildly now. "Are.. are you getting more Irish?"

"MAYBE I AM!" he shouted louder than he meant to, then unexpectedly pulled his shirt over his head.

Jeanie laughed at the absurdity now. "Cormac. Or Billy, whatever you are more comfortable with." She kneeled on the bed coming to the edge of it. "We don't have to do this. I'm not asking you to justify your virginity; that your business. It’s a patriarchal construct anyways to make us feel like we have to engage in sexual activity. Then when we do, we’re trash. It’s a no-win situation for anyone. I LIKE you. We have all school year to get to know one another better."

“I think Dr Delaney-McNamara, but Cormac works just fine for you” his tone all at once softer and deeper.

There was a weird electricity in the air, which very well could have been the obscene amount of tech equipment in the small dorm room. It could have also been that the atmosphere switched so fast from mortification to that moment your body knows something is going to happen. Jeanie’s head began to swim when she realized the young man in front of her was unbuttoning his jeans to step out of them.

“Bloody hell...” was all she could utter before he wrapped her up in his arms.

Jeanie’s hand on Cormac’s hip and the other tangled in his hair as they found themselves in another kiss. Mouths dancing together. She sat back and pulled him down so that he was laying completely on top of her now. His skin was hot almost like a sunburn. Somewhere, in the back of her mind, Jeanie thought maybe a literal electricity had settled in him from using the portals so often all these years. Their tongues pushed back and forth, she realized his body began to feel similar to one of those static glass balls. The kind you press your hand against and every single hair on your body raises? It was strange and exhilarating and comical all at once.

The thought was fleeting though because Cormac’s lips made its way down Jeanie’s neck. The breath caught in her throat as he bit softly before trailing to her chest. His large hand gripped the flesh of her hip, snaking it around to grab at her backside before settling it between her thighs. The other struggled to unhook her bra while in their current position, his annoyance eliciting a giggle.

Managing to roll them so that she was on top now, Jeanie deftly reached behind herself to finish the job. Her breasts free, Cormac took one in his mouth. His tongue was warm against her skin as he began to suck and lick at a nipple and the flesh around it. Alternating between each hungrily, hand still lost in between her thighs. A finger began to trace the fabric of her panties.

Audible gasp now, as Jeanie fumbled to reciprocate any way she could. Kissing his forehead? or rocking her hips against his hand, she began to float outside of her body. What was she doing? Trying to feel wanted after all of this time? Maybe give the other adults something to gossip about over the weekend. Attractive new professor, the benefactor of Saint Fergus, fucking the boss his first week in. Jeanie was his boss, but also his subordinate? Because Cormac, with Brett and Hannah, owned her livelihood now.

“What a fine mess we’re in, Delaney,” she managed amongst the new spate of kisses.

Ignoring Jeanie’s frank statement, Cormac took to nibbling her throat again. Exchanging now for harder bites, just enough to let her know he had the upper hand. Fingers deftly pumping rhythmically with the pulsating of her body. He found that part of her with ease. The button Gordon never could without neon arrows.

“I walked through an alien portal at sixteen and made one of the greatest scientific discoveries none of us can talk about,” That Irish lilt heavy in her ear. “A fine mess has been the last decade of my life, Ms. Turner.”

There was almost a reckless abandon as Jeanie unexpectedly came. She cried out; it echoed off the dorm walls briefly before Cormac clamped a hand over her mouth. Their eyes both wide before they lost themselves in a fit of giggles.

Lying beside each other now on the bed, Jeanie felt self-conscious while Cormac absently twirled a finger in her mass of red hair. She felt his green eyes staring as she traced the infinity symbol with the tip of a nail on his chest. Their breathing patterns quickly marched in time together.

“Not sure why I have a gut feeling your timidity was a fucking game,” Jeanie spoke without a hint of anger. More like curiosity.

“Only just a little. I am far more capable of handling people in small doses. There's a certain anxiety hanging around the average university student. I finished undergrad in a year and graduate school in another. Never really fit in with most people my age. I thrived in a boarding college like this one. Never more than 15 children a class. Miss Murphy let me do as I please because I kept mostly to myself, even when she and the others were strangely codependent on my brain.”

Cormac’s eyes still trained on Jeanie while he spoke. “I didn't mind. I DON'T mind. My tinkering and projects work bloody fantastic now!” he exclaimed with pride. Those long fingers combed through Jeanie's hair. His gaze became nostalgic, “I transferred my AI tech into the lab at Aberdeen. There's my personal version. She's asleep right now,” he chuckled, gesturing towards the wall of monitors.

Jeanie grimaced, “She?!”

“Oh yes! SILVIA! I suppose she'll become LISA’s big sister.”

“You invented a primitive android.” her response was incredulous.

“No no. SILVIA was a lie detector I installed artificial intelligence in to play ch-..” Cormac caught himself. For the hundredth time that evening, “I suppose. Yes,” he tapped a finger against the soft dimple in his cheek.

“You suppose!” Jeanie reeled with laughter once more.

Cormac’s face flushed pink, “You know what I did to you was just basic anatomy that’s easily taught by reading a damn book. I reckon you'd be interested in what else reading has taught me about a woman's body.”

And so it began.

#robert sheehan #billy delaney #me and mrs jones #fluff #steamy?#cormac mcnamara #robert sheehan character fic

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its-ribs · 4 years

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Perseus: Patron of Demigods

Summary

AU where Percy accepts Zeus’ offer to become a god, and this will explore how he uses that power.

Chapter 1

“Percy Jackson, you will have one gift from the gods."

Percy hesitated. "Any gift?"

Zeus nodded grimly. "I know what you will ask. The greatest gift of all. Yes, if you want it, it shall be yours. The gods have not bestowed this gift on a mortal hero in many centuries, but, Perseus Jackson—if you wish it—you shall be made a god. Immortal. Undying. You shall serve as your father's lieutenant for all time."

“I accept on one condition,” Percy says, a sly smile spreading across his face.

The following evening, the campers at Camp Half Blood are just settling down for dinner in the dining pavilion. Exhausted and somber, they celebrate the end of a war they never should have had to fight, but they mourn the loss of their friends and their siblings. They’ve barely sat down when there is a flash of brilliant blue light, and all look to the head table. Complete silence falls as everyone, expecting their cranky director to have appeared, is in complete awe when they see a different, familiar face.

“I am Perseus. God of Sea Storms, loyalty and Oaths. I am Patron to all demigods, protector of your rights, and your brand new camp director.”

Awestruck, the survivors of the Second Titan War rise to their feet, and applause echoes throughout Long Island Sound.

Percy got to work on his plans immediately. Being the patron to demigods, he institutes new rules among the olympians regarding their rights. All children must be guided to camp and claimed by the time they reach the age of 13. All campers will have their parents honoured, and efforts will be started immediately to build new cabins for all gods, so they receive the honour and worship they deserve. No child will be left to sleep in the Hermes cabin indefinitely because their parent hasn’t claimed them, or because there’s nowhere else. All will be honoured, all will be accepted and he will make sure that everybody, whether child of a god, no matter how minor or major, will always have a place to call home on half blood hill.

It didn’t take long for the amount of cabins to double, and the Hermes cabin to half in capacity. Children were finally discovering their parentage, and before they knew it there were cabins for Hypno, Hekate, Nemesis, Asclepios, Iris, Eros and countless more. One night around the camp fire, a young boy named James, barely 9 years old, was claimed with a glowing club and a lion’s pelt above his head, and was honoured as the first recorded child of Hercules.

While the efforts were being made around camp, Percy couldn’t help but feel that he was finally making the difference he always wanted to make. His first goal, though, was to a cabin he hadn’t told anyone about. Using his godly powers, a beautiful, black basalt cabin rose from the ground, directly behind cabins 1 and 3. It was adorned with flaming braziers on either side of the door, pomegranate vines on the front wall, and cast a huge shadow behind it, allowing ample space to Shadow Travel. Percy built The Hades cabin out of the way because he knew that’s the way Hades preferred to be. He was once again recognised as an Olympian, thus Percy included his cabin amongst the original 12. Knowing Hades though, it seemed right for him to be behind his brothers, lurking in the shadows where he is truly the most dangerous.

When Nico returned to camp, he met with Percy to tell him his idea.

“We can build it next to the dining pavilion, it would look great and it would honour those that we lost in the war,” Nico told him. “Annabeth can design it, and we could make it always open for anyone who wants to mourn.” They set to work, and within two weeks, there stood a modern day acropolis. A marble column walled structure with a permanent burial pyre, and a hall that expands forever into the earth. In their new acropolis hung portraits, countless images of the heroes who fell in every battle over the years. There hung Charles Beckendorf, Michael Yew and countless others, where their siblings and friends could visit and mourn whenever they wished. In his spare time, Percy would visit the portraits of those he wished could see the change he’d made. He looked into the painted eyes of Ethan Nakamura, Silena Beauregard and of Luke Castellan, knowing that if this change had been made earlier, this entire war could have been prevented.

All was well at Camp Half Blood, when Percy saw a familiar, ginger haired friend running to the big house. Green smoke filled the air, which dispersed to show the girl with glowing green eyes.

The sun blazed more brightly. A man appeared above the porch, floating in the air—a blond dude in a white toga, with sunglasses and a cocky smile.

"Apollo," Percy said.

He winked at Percy but held up his finger to his lips.

"Rachel Elizabeth Dare," he said. "You have the gift of prophecy. But it is also a curse. Are you sure you want this?"

Rachel nodded. "It's my destiny."

"Do you accept the risks?"

"I do."

"Then proceed," spoke the god.

#this is my first fic ever #I posted it on ao3 ages ago #and I’m getting back into writing so here it is #please give me feedback #percy jackon and the olympians #heroes of olympus #percy jackson #nico diangelo #trials of apollo #apollo #camp half blood #au

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fairfieldthinkspace · 3 years

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What’s in a name? Celebrating Saint Robert Bellarmine, S.J.

Rev. Keith Maczkiewicz, S.J., ‘04 Director of Campus Ministry

The statue stands at the end of the drive to the stately building that bears his name, on the campus of which he is patron. Dressed in the cardinatial robes of his day, episcopal cross hung around his neck, left arm resting on a pile of books, his Italian name is etched into the bronze: Santo Roberto Bellarmino. In English: Saint Robert Bellarmine, of the Society of Jesus.

A gifted writer and professor of theology, Bellarmine was made a cardinal in life and declared a Doctor of the Church in death. A leading character of the Counter-Reformation period, he figured prominently in the reforms of the Council of Trent and the first trial of Galileo, where he defended Scripture, asking scientists to prove their theories on heliocentrism. Canonized in 1930, only a few years before Fairfield’s charter was approved by the State of Connecticut, the new institution was placed under his patronage and heavenly care: Fairfield University of Saint Robert Bellarmine.

Still, for such a prominent figure in the life of the Church and in the Fairfield story, it’s remarkable to me how many people pronounce his name incorrectly here on campus, saying bellarMINE, rather than BELLarminh. I hear the mispronunciation every day from both newly-arrived students and long-tenured staff, from locals and from transplants alike.

And perhaps we could change that.

Perhaps I take it more personally than most since I share that last signifier, of the Society of Jesus. As a Jesuit, my heritage in our storied religious order is very important to me, and the mispronunciation feels to me like a slight, although I know it is just a mispronunciation that has gained traction over time. But I am also an alumnus, Class of 2004, recently returned to North Benson Road as the new Director of Campus Ministry and University Chaplain, and so it feels doubly personal, like people cannot be bothered to care enough. As if Robert Bellarmine is the name of the person who checks your coat at a restaurant, whose name badge you saw perhaps only in passing, and have no intention of remembering.

But I would argue that getting the pronunciation back on track might be important. If we lose sight of where we have come from, aren’t we also likely to lose some of the richness of our tradition, and hence, find it more difficult to find out where to look for direction, when we want to know where God is leading us?

I think my exasperation is only compounded by the fact that I am living in a residence hall these days which is named after twentieth century Fairfield Dean Father Larry Langguth (LANGgeth) that campus constituents insist on calling langGOOTH or, even worse, the GOOTH. To anyone who will listen, I say there are Jesuits who regularly pass through our community who lived with this man! We actually know this guy! This man is responsible for much of the building that went on here on campus! Surely we know how to pronounce his name!

Alas, one name at a time is probably enough and it is good to start with whom it started. Today, as the Church celebrates his memorial, let us make the effort to remember that he was an actual person, with an actual name, and get it right. It’s BELLarminh, not bellarMINE.

So, in this small matter, we say: Saint Robert Bellarmine, pray for us.

Top photo:

Gian Lorenzo Bernini (Italian, 1598-1680)

Bust of Cardinal Roberto Bellarmino, 1621-24

Marble

Church of the Gesù, Rome

Photo Credit: Andrea Jemolo/Scala / Art Resource, NY

#Fairfield University #St. Robert Bellarmine #Society of Jesus #Santo Roberto Bellarmino #Rev. Keith Maczkiewicz S.J.

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princessanneftw · 4 years

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Inside Princess Anne's lifelong love affair with horses

As the Princess Royal approaches her 70th birthday, those who know her recount the most enduring relationship of her life

By Eleanore Kelly for the Telegraph

The Princess Royal has spent a lifetime with horses. Like her siblings, she started riding at the age of three. But what makes her remarkable is the success she achieved as a competitor. Aged 21 she was crowned European Eventing Champion at Burghley. She was riding Doublet, a horse bred by the Queen, for polo, and gifted to the Princess.

At the 1975 European Eventing Championships, she finished second on Goodwill, another horse owned by the Queen and her mount at the Montreal Olympics in 1976, where she became the first member of the British royal family to compete at an Olympic Games. She rode winners in horse racing too, notably in the Grand Military Steeplechase at Sandown over jumps, and the Diamond Stakes on the flat at Ascot. No wonder she won BBC’s Sports Personality of the Year award in 1971 - the first ever event rider to carry off the trophy.

There were always ponies around during her childhood. Both her parents rode regularly, as did her older brother, Prince Charles, who developed a keen interest in polo and was considered a gifted player.

In those days polo was a men-only game, so not something his sister would have pursued, but she was a member of the Pony Club where she would have tried most equestrian disciplines with other young enthusiasts. Perhaps the attraction to eventing was the camaraderie that is always synonymous with a risk sport; horses are no respecter of titles.

When she became more serious about eventing, her parents arranged for training with Alison Oliver, wife of international show jumper Alan Oliver, who was based near Windsor. She is widely credited for propelling the Princess on the road to international equestrian stardom.

Lucinda Green, one of Princess Anne’s eventing peers, describes her as the pin-up of their era. Lucinda was a fellow team member at the Montreal Olympics and remembers the Princess having a crashing fall halfway around the cross-country course and suffering concussion. She remounted and finished the course but to this day cannot remember the rest of the jumps.

“She was extremely brave and good enough to get on the British team on two very different horses. Goodwill, her horse in Montreal, was not easy. He was big and had no brakes - I definitely wouldn’t have ridden him,” says Green.

With animals so often comes heartbreak, which even Princesses cannot escape. Her partnership with Doublet, a diminutive chestnut with the heart of a lion, ended in tragedy. The pair were destined for the Munich Olympics when the horse who had defined her career shattered a hind leg in an accident at Windsor and had to be put down.

At a time where security at sports events was minimal, The Princess was hounded by the media. “I always admired the way she coped with the press. That added the most unbelievable pressure on top of trying to do her sporting best. Tough for her but she put our sport on the map and kept it in the spotlight,” observes Green.

In 1985, she was persuaded to ride in a charity horse race at Epsom (home of the Derby). By this stage she’d hung up her eventing boots and had two young children. Yet she was always game for the challenge, if it involved horses.

Horse racing requires a very different technique from eventing, so she approached trainer David Nicholson for help. Known as “The Duke” because of his imposing personality, he suggested she come to his Cotswold yard, little expecting she would turn up almost every day for several years to ride out.

His wife Dinah became familiar with the Princess, as she would join them in the kitchen for breakfast after exercising the horses. “She was so dedicated and determined, driving 40 minutes every morning and arriving at 7.15am on the dot, so she could tack up her horse before riding out on the gallops. Then she would have breakfast with us and sometimes there would be a jockey - Richard Dunwoody or Peter Scudamore. The conversation would mostly be about horses. After breakfast, she would set off for a busy day of royal duties.”

Even if she had a royal engagement in London that went on late into the night, she would still get up after a few hours sleep to drive to the yard in Stow-on-the Wold. Acquaintances say her security detail looked permanently exhausted from keeping up with her.

After the charity race, in which she finished a respectable fourth, she asked Nicholson if she could continue riding out at his yard. It seemed the attraction was as much about the camaraderie of yard life as it was the actual race riding. “She became very fond of the people in racing and was always very natural with the stable lads, who liked her.”

There was a horse she was very fond of too, called Cnoc Na Cuille. He was a big winner for her in her career as a jump jockey (including the Grand Military) but soon after finishing third at Warwick, he dropped dead, probably from a heart attack.

“The Princess was not one for showing emotion but she was clearly very upset about it,” says Dinah. Soon after this she gave up race riding, although she has bred a few race horses herself at her home, Gatcombe Park in Gloucestershire.

For 37 years, thanks to the Princess, Gatcombe has hosted eventing competitions, including the prestigious Festival of Eventing. The cross-country course is designed by her former husband Captain Mark Phillips, an Olympic medallist and four-time Badminton winner (once the golden boy of British eventing), and the Director is their son Peter Phillips.

Princess Anne’s daughter, Zara Tindall, a former European and World Champion event rider and silver medalist in the London 2012 Olympics, regularly competes there and the Princess hands out the prizes.

Tindall has even more eventing accolades than her mother and, like her, she was voted BBC Sports Personality of the Year (in 2006). Her mother has always been hugely supportive of her children’s interest in horses. Every Christmas, the Princess would drive the children’s ponies up to Balmoral* (think they mean Sandringham?) herself in a horsebox so they could all ride.

There is also a strong equine theme to the Princess Royal’s charity work. She’s President of World Horse Welfare and the Riding for the Disabled Association (RDA) as well as Patron of the Pony Club and the Injured Jockeys Fund (IJF). She was President of the International Federation of Equestrian Sports (FEI) from 1986 to 1994, a role she took over from her father, Prince Philip.

Roly Owers, CEO of World Horse Welfare, describes the Princess as having a deep love of horses, devoting a huge amount of time to all aspects of horse welfare. Former champion jockey John Francombe describes her as the best after-dinner speaker he has ever heard, with a great sense of humour, persuading well-oiled guests to open their wallets for charity and even persuading them to adopt horses themselves.

Rehoming unwanted horses is a large part of the World Horse Welfare’s work and the Princess is a rehomer herself. “On one of her visits to our rescue centres, she met a Welsh Cob called Annie and asked if she could have her. I believe she still rides her today.”

“She has always had a clear opinion but understands horses better than anyone,” says Owers. That once got her into trouble, at the 2013 World Horse Welfare conference when one of the topics was the European Horse Meat scandal. “She made a comment about the value of horses that was translated as ‘Princess Anne eats horse meat’ by certain journalists.”

What the Princess had actually said was: "Should we be considering a real market for horsemeat and would that reduce the number of welfare cases, if there was a real value in the horsemeat sector? I chuck that out for what it's worth because I think it needs a debate."

As Owers remembers, “it was unfortunately the first time we filmed the conference and broadcast it live, so you can imagine it created 48 hours of hysteria.” Though whether the Princess actually sits down to pony steak for Sunday lunch is not known.

Caroline Ward of the RDA remarks on her extraordinary empathy. “She understands the challenges our participants face and what they get out of the experience of riding horses. She will talk to them about their ponies and what it means to them to spend time with horses.

“These riders, many of whom find communication and mobility so difficult, will always open up to her. They are bound by this common interest and love of horses. She will also chat to the volunteers, to make them feel all the more special.”

Ward recalls the time Princess Anne helped a rider load her difficult horse into the horse box. “She came to our RDA National Championships at Hartpury College. She saw this struggle and despite not being dressed to get stuck in, she clearly couldn’t walk by without offering assistance. Well, this horse took one look at her and realised this was someone who meant business, and walked straight into the horsebox.”

Ex-jockey and racing journalist Brough Scott has known the Princess for many years through sport and her support of the IJF. “At charity events, rather than entertaining the fat cats, she is happiest talking to the ex-jockeys, many of whom are in a wheelchair. One really likes her for that, even though she is not trying to be liked.”

To be a successful rider, you have to build a relationship of trust and mutual understanding with your horse. That means controlling your fear and emotions. Eventing, a combination of the three disciplines of dressage, cross-country and show jumping, is perhaps the truest test of all-round horsemanship, demanding both accuracy and courage. It is only for the bravest of the brave, says Scott.

“Princess Anne wasn’t simply a Royal who rode, she was an athlete who achieved great things in her eventing career and rode courses that would have terrified most people. That must have given her self-confidence and fulfillment.”

In her public duties too, the Princess Royal has given her all, incidentally personifying the characteristics necessary for a fine horsewoman: discipline, dedication and courage. Are they a matter of her breeding and upbringing, or do we have her love of horses to thank for that?

#this is a lovely piece #i would love to see coverage of the races she rode in #especially when she won #and indeed her eventing career #i wish there was more available to watch #the way she wrote about losing doublet in rtml made me cry #princess anne #princess royal #horse whisperer #anne70 #british royal family #brf #newspapers

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miraclesnail · 4 years

Text

1000 Ways and I Can Name You One

A thousand ways to tell the Stoll brothers apart and I can name you one. Travis and Connor centric oneshots featuring characters from PJO/HOO.

Chapter 32: Michael - Food

Plus the whole 9.7k fic under the read more but with funky formatting

Michael — Food

Michael (14) — Travis (13) — Connor (13)

Early June 2007

Pre Sea of Monsters

[8:07 AM]

The whole drive to Camp, Lee has been saying the weirdest things.

‘This camp is special.’

‘This camp is for children of Greek gods and goddesses.’

‘This camp helps the said children harness the godly gifts inherited from said gods and goddesses.’

‘This camp is top secret and no matter what, you cannot tell your mother about Camp Half Blood. Not a word. Not a complaint. Not even a compliment. Michael? Are you listening? Ar—are you laughing?! Michael, I’m not joking around. This is not a joke.’

Did Michael take Lee seriously? Not at all. Not even to humor him. What does Lee take him for? An idiot? Like, he doesn’t really have many friends at school (none actually) but even he knows when someone is trying to pull a prank on him. Lee typically goes for jump scares, but it’s good to see him broaden his horizon and try new things.

Yeah.

Michael wholeheartedly believes Lee is 100% kidding around.

It’s kind of a shock when he walks through the camp and sees flowers being grown in someone’s palms, men with hooves and horns trotting around, a goddamn girl rising from the lake like some kind of b-grade horror movie but minus the sunken eyes and gray skin and tattered white dress.

It’s a big shock. Kinda earth-shattering actually. Very disorientating. It’s taking all his mental capability to process the fact that the Greek gods are real , that the Greek myths are real , that his atheist beliefs are all wrong and holy fuck?? God is real .

It’s probably why when that SOB Shermie or Sherlock or whatever his name is picked a fight, he welcomed the easy distraction and picked one right back.

In hindsight, he should have maybe exhibited more self-control.

“He shoved me.”

The utter stare of incredulity has Michael quickly rephrasing his initial statement, fiddling with a loose string on his t-shirt.

“He shoved me first. ”

“And so you decided to turn it into a slugfest?” Lee says, arms crossing as they stand on Cabin 11’s porch.

“To be fair, to be fair,” Michael says, scrambling for excuses as his eyes dart from cabin to cabin, “to be really fair, that Sherm-guy started it.”

Lee didn’t buy it, not that Michael expected him too.

“You promised me, Michael,” Lee says, disappointed, and Michael looks away with guilt.

He did promise Lee. Right before they left the apartment complex, Lee explicitly said, “Promise me, Michael, that you’ll be on your best behavior?” And he said he will.

“Mike, I don’t want any phone calls from the head honcho again, okay?” his mom said, exasperated. He said there wouldn’t be any.

“Mikey, please tell us all the fights you’ll get into!” his four little siblings — Leo, Raphie, Carly, and Sam — screamed together with cheeky, smug, knowing grins as he got into the car with Lee. He said ‘in your dreams.’

Not even one full hour and he failed two out of three. Possibly all three if Travis and Connor decide to hand his ass to the director.

“I’m really sorry, Lee,” Michael says, head lowering, “I promise for real this time. I won’t get into any more fights. I swear.”

Like clockwork, the frown and crossed arms drop for a bright smile and a hair ruffling, like he actually believed Michael can do it. Lee’s weird like that. He believes in people and their lies despite what their actions are saying, believes in him even with the 14 years of experience that Michael cannot follow through on that promise.

It’s that same idealistic, stupid belief that has Lee clinging to the hope his birth mom will one day want to actually be a mom.

Michael slinks back into the cabin as quietly as he can. Miranda catches his eye and waves him over, patting the empty spot next to her. Michael hesitates (still remembers the way she tosses a boy a whole head taller than her like nothing) but thought better of it.

The promise, he thinks. Remember your promise.

He sees Sherman sitting on Miranda’s other side. As he slides down to sit cross-legged, he’s mentally preparing himself for a jeer. But Sherman is just staring at Miranda, wide-eyed and star-struck and totally ignoring him which is perfectly fine with Michael.

Miranda angles her body towards him, a slight smile on her face as she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I just want to warn you that you’re in Connor’s bad book right now.”

“Should I be worried?” Michael says, glancing at the brothers talking on one of the upper bunk beds.

To which Miranda smiles sweetly. “You should keep your head down. I heard he gets a bit prank-crazy with people he doesn’t like.”

A sharp whistle brings his attention upfront.

“Okay, so hey, everybody! Exciting first day, I know. Welcome to Camp Half Blood,” one of the pair says with a big grin, standing on top of the upper bunk bed. The other sits at the edge, feet swinging over. “We’re already late for breakfast so I’ll make this super-duper quick. My name is Travis Stoll. I am one of your head counselors. This is Connor, my little brother.”

Connor waves, his smile matching Travis’s.

“I’m also your counselor. Any problems you guys have whether it be life problems, camp problems, prank problems, you can come to us. Lucky for you guys, you have two of us. Most cabins just have one,” Connor says.

“Where’s Luke?” someone in the back yells.

“Luke is gone now. If you see him, either in person or in a dream, tell us right away. Please come talk to me after this meeting if you want more details,” Connor answers, still cheerful but Michael kinda feels like his words are too curt. There’s definitely bad blood between this Luke person and them.

“Moving on,” Travis follows after, “the beds are all taken. Any more fighting over them will result in the instigator getting a timeout. For everybody else, sleeping bags are available and we will make room. Your stuff can be placed in the closet or tucked in your sleeping bag. I know this cabin’s patron is the god of thievery, but please show respect and decency towards your fellow cabinmates and don’t steal from each other. Steal from other cabins instead. Apollo’s kids are the easiest to steal from. So are Aphrodite’s if you want to practice before moving onto the big leagues. Athena’s and Hephaestus’s cabins are where the real challenge is.”

“What about the claiming rate? Someone said the gods would claim us more now,” a girl asks, standing from her sitting position with a bounce, hope in her eyes.

“Uh, um...” Travis falters, looking down at Connor for guidance. It’s hard to notice but Connor bites his cheeks and just barely shakes his head.

“Claiming, yeah. I’m not too sure about that. I’ll talk with Chi — Tantalus about that. Tantalus is the activity director now in case you all don’t know,” Travis answers.

There’s a chorus of groans.

Someone grumbles, “It’s been years.”

“What happened to Chiron?” another asks.

“Temporarily relieved of duty due to, uh, an investigation of his effectiveness on the job. Which, if you ask me, Chiron has been doing a fantastic job of and we should all write a very strongly worded letter to Zeus to get him back on his job.”

A boy in front of Michael shoots his hand up.

“I heard Luke went all ‘Anakin Skywalker’ on us and joined Kr—”

Connor blows an air horn and interrupts the boy before he could finish. Travis’s smile is strained as he says, “Okay, first rule on Camp Half Blood for the foreseeable future! No mentioning any of the bad guys by name. Names have power. Instead we will refer to him by initials. The evil titan guy will be called K.T. K for his first letter and T because he controls time.”

“Can we change it to K.K. Slider?” the same boy says.

Beside him, a girl socks the boy in the arm. “No! How dare you sully K.K.’s name like this?”

But Travis is already jumping down his bed, landing with grace. “K.K. Slider it is. That’s all for the morning announcements. Now everybody gets in a straight line. We’re going to the pavilion for breakfast and it is the best thing ever. You can literally get whatever you want. All you need is the power of imagination. Well, imagination and common sense. Don't imagine something you won’t eat. It’s not a contest to create the grossest food.”

Connor follows down after his brother with a grin and shrugs. “But if it was, I would win.”

Growing up, Michael is what everybody called a ‘problem child.’ Absolutely zero friends not helped by him picking and starting fights for the ‘smallest’ reasons. No remarkable talent except for his athleticism. Mediocre to poor grades due to inability to focus (and it doesn’t help that he’s dyslexic and that his teachers all hate him and that he has a homing device for all the school’s bullies).

The teachers blamed his mother for his attitude and academic abilities. But they don’t know shit. His mother helps him with his homework after coming back from work. His mother searches for ways to help him manage his ADHD and dyslexia. His mother is raising five kids all by herself with zero help from his deadbeat dad. Going to their extracurricular activities, funding their education, making time to have game and movie nights. His mother is literally Superman for finding time to do all that across five children. No. Make that six. Mom always attends Lee’s band performances and includes him with all their activities and outings and supports him the way Lee’s own mom should be doing.

Michael’s pretty sure his mom isn't the problem.

Besides his four younger siblings are literal angels. Clearly, the problem is him. Not his mother.

That’s why going into high school he had every intention of becoming a better son, a better brother, and a better student. Set a better reputation for his family, you know?

Unfortunately, this whole mess with him being half-god kinda put a pause on his plans.

And put every weird thing Lee ever did into perspective.

That one time Lee slapped his brand new Nokia cellphone out of his hands and ended his cell’s short life by stomping the hell out of it? Those dozens of times Lee lectured him about not using technology with his stupid excuse of ‘it rots your brain, Michael. Don’t touch it,’ despite Lee himself using a phone and a laptop on a daily basis?? Those hundreds of times Lee excused himself from dinner, movies, and the middle of game nights to ‘use the bathroom’ and coming back with a thin layer of gold dust??? Those weird dreams he gets of standing on top of a broken, tethering bridge and falling thousands of meters to his death in a ravine and Lee saying, ‘it’s just a dream. Don’t worry about it’ with a high-pitched, forced laugh that says he should be worrying????

Now he sees what it was all about. Obviously a metaphor for the earth-shattering revelation of his heritage.

He’s half- god . A demigod. Some part of him came from an immortal being.

It makes him see his dad in a whole new light.

Like, Michael always knows his dad is an asshole, leaving his mom and whatnot.

But now? Knowing his dad is a literal god in the Greek myths he read back in 6th grade? Those freaky assholes with their crazy sex adventures and ego-driven tantrums?

At least the fantasy asshole dad he had in mind didn’t commit mass genocide or is an egotistical, narcissistic jerk or had sex with their siblings, parents, animals, and who knows what else freaky shit the gods like to stick their dick in to.

And the most bizarre thing is that he’s expected to honor them by throwing the best parts of his meal into the fire.

Well, he’s not gonna.

“Throw your food into the fire, Mike,” one of his counselors says beside him as he tosses a bag of M&M into the flames.

“Why should I?”

“So the gods don’t get angry,” says the other counselor, throwing half of his strawberries — Michael stares at the plate. It’s just strawberries. Nothing else. That’s not healthy — into the fire before turning to help the others.

“They’re gonna threaten us if we don’t worship them? Sounds like a pretty unhealthy parent-child relationship,” Michael says.

The one that tossed the M&Ms shrugs. “Just toss something in. It can be anything. Even something you ha— don’t care about. That’s what I do. I don’t think Hermes minds.”

But what Michael hears is that this Hermes fella doesn’t give a shit.

A small boy with round glasses wedges in between them, frowning, and tosses in a sausage link. “Don’t listen to Connor. You’re never going to be claimed if you listen to him.”

Connor shrugs again. “Hermes hasn’t disowned me yet.”

“That’s because Hermes is busy with other things. The other gods don’t have a child plotting to usurp—” the kid starts to say but at Connor’s harsh nudging and loud cough and not so subtle nod towards the others in the pavilion and (kind of scary) glare, he shuts up. A second passes before the boy says to him, “Everybody likes to feel appreciated, Michael. Even gods. It’s good to remind them we’re here for them. Now more than ever.”

Michael frowns at the exchange. Child? Usurp? Usurp who? The gods? Yeah. Like that is even possible.

“What were you trying to say—”

“So I see you got over your embarrassing loss,” Connor interrupts with this infuriating smug grin. “Man, I would have hidden my face for like a year after the way I kicked your ass.”

And just like that, Michael forgets everything but that day back in March when he met the brothers. It’s an obvious bait and Michael just lunges for it like the dumb fish he is.

“No, I kicked your ass. Kicked it all the way down the stairs,” Michael huffs at Connor’s heel as they walk to the table. Connor slides into the first open spot he sees and Michael sits down across from him, elbow to elbow to his cabinmates. They need a bigger picnic table.

“Ass?” Besides Connor, Miranda’s head swivels to face them, her smile innocent but Michael knows better now. Behind that sweet smile is a demon. “Who kicked whose ass? ”

“We met Michael back in March when we hopped in Lee’s car and we’re not using that language, Mikey,” Travis says, sitting down beside Connor slurping a mouthful of cereal.

“So? Who won?” Miranda asks, leaning over to slide scrambled eggs onto Travis’s plate and picking off 75% of Travis’s many, many strawberries from his plate.

Travis stares at the egg with disdain. “Connor won, of course. And I don’t want that. Take it back.”

“Will said you need something more than just strawberries in the morning. Doctor’s orders. Disobey and you’ll feel his wrath,” Miranda says.

For half-a-second, Michael thinks Travis is going to fight but he turns back in his seat and just grabs his fork.

“There’s nothing wrong with just strawberries for breakfast,” Travis grumbles, stabbing his fork into the scrambled eggs. “Right? Nothing wrong with strawberries.”

“I think that depends on the quantity but don’t worry, Travis. I totally got you,” Connor says, pulling out a basket of strawberries and ducking from Miranda’s sudden lunge for it. With ease, Connor holds Miranda back while Travis indulges in his unhealthy obsession with a satisfied, blissed smile.

Michael thinks of the half Travis threw into the fire and before he knows it, he’s saying, “You really love strawberries, don’t you?”

Travis nods, mouth full. “Favorite food in the world.”

“Then you must like your—”

But Travis’s eyes shoot to a girl entering the pavilion, heading straight towards the table with the plant-speaking kid, and Michael knows his words are falling on deaf ears. Travis nudges Connor and whispers into his ear, a shit-eating grin sprouting on Connor’s face as he looks over his shoulder.

Miranda catches their grins and stands, yelling, “Katie, wait!”

But Katie sits down and Michael hears what is probably the world’s loudest, strongest whoopee cushion rip through the pavilion. Travis and Connor laugh as Katie stands back up, cushion in hand and face flushed tomato red.

“Welcome back, Miss Tattletale!” Travis yells.

“That was months ago, you pieces of — of — fertilizers! Give me a break!” Katie roars. The ground rumbles as a tree sprouts beside the table, hooking Travis and Connor up by the back of their shirts. They’re way too calm as they’re dangling several feet in the air. In unison, both brothers pull out squirt guns and aim them at Katie.

And it is definitely not water judging by the smell.

[9 AM, Sword Fighting]

Lee said he was a demigod. That monsters are real. And that they sometimes must fight off the monsters that come to eat them.

Michael never really thought about what it entailed. What they’re supposed to fight the monsters with.

Dimly, he’s aware of his counselors talking. Something about introduction to swordsmanship and the bare basics plus safety today, then tomorrow they will be training with Ares? Apollo? ‘Some god with the letter A’ cabin and learning a few techniques. He isn’t really paying attention to them as he stares at the blade in his hands.

It’s real. It’s a real, metal blade. And by the looks of it, everyone has one. Even the little 9-year-old. What the fuck? That’s how old the twins, Sam and Carly, are and holy shit. The thought of them with a real sword? The thought of them having to use it to battle some mythical monster? It's enough to make him vomit.

“Michael? Michael, hey.” Someone is snapping their fingers in front of his eyes and he knocks the hand away, glaring at … at … well, it’s either Travis or Connor, staring at him blankly, but he can’t tell who’s who yet. They should have worn nametags.

“What?”

“Have you ever used a sword before?”

Michael kinda felt it should have been obvious, but he shakes his head.

“Okay, well imagine you’re holding a kitchen knife and you’re cutting some veggies for a veggie soup but instead of a broccoli, it’s a monster and instead of small dainty cuts, you’re making big, wide, full power slashes. So nothing like what I told you to imagine. Forget I said that. You want to grip it like this with both hands—” Connor (or Travis?) demonstrates and Michael mimics the action, “—for the most control. You can try one-handed but the strikes tend to be flimsy at best unless you’re gifted like Clarisse or Percy. You want to kill the monsters as fast and in one go as you can while still being safe. Here’s—” he is walked over to a hand-made, hand-stuffed dummy with straws sticking out its seams. A happy face on a yellow sticky note stuck to where it’s head is. “—a practice dummy for you. Give it a few swings and get a feel for the weapon. I’ll be right back with more pointers after helping everyone. You good to be by yourself a bit?”

Then Travis (Connor?) is leaving after Michael hesitates to say ‘no, I’m not good’, taking off with a thumbs up and a crooked grin.

Michael almost called him back, but they’re a big cabin. Only a quarter of them have been gotten too, the other three-fourths goofing around while waiting their turn. Michael has never been to a summer camp before, nevermind one as strange as this, but he guesses they’re on a tight schedule.

So he looks down, readjusts his grip, and swings, missing spectacularly, losing his balance, and nearly taking his eye out.

[10:00 AM, Archery]

Michael didn’t need much help here.

The bow feels right in his hands. His body knows what to do, his arms pull back the bow like it has done this a million times and his first shot lands dead center in the bullseye.

The next five shots are the same.

“Woah,” his counselor mutters, face scrunched in thought before it lightens up, blue eyes shining with a gleam. “You’re a natural. Hey, you wanna be the archery tutor? I’ve never seen anyone aim so well and had such perfect form. Not even Annabeth.”

Michael lowers the bow and tries to figure out how he did what he just did despite never once using a bow before in his life.

[11:00 AM, Greek Mythology]

Michael knew Lee was a decent teacher, tutoring him in both English and Math, so it’s no surprise he’s decent at teaching Greek mythology too. All the campers are in the amphitheater with hand made wooden desks courtesy of the girl from breakfast. Lee is in the center with an overhead projector just having the time of his life explaining what each of the 12 Olympians plus Hades represents with a mind map.

He tries to pay attention. He really did. He gets through listening to Zeus, Poseidon, Hades, and part of Demeter’s history before his attention is pulled away by Travis and Connor. They’re far away from the group, beside the cabins, hunched over a … birdbath? It looks like they’re arguing to the birdbath, but Michael squints and with his perfect vision sees that there is a person. On the surface of the birdbath. A girl with blonde hair. There’s a girl in the water of the birdbath.

There’s a girl. In the water. Of a birdbath.

Maybe he shouldn’t be so surprised. Food pops into existence with a thought. A girl can grow fullass trees without blinking an eye. Miranda can toss a boy almost twice her weight over her shoulder.

So what if the camp has a Moaning Myrtle?

Before he knows it, Lee is done, Michael misses the other 8 Olympian’s tales, and everybody is packing up their notes to head back to their respective cabins.

They’re ending early to have enough time for a tour of the camp. Which is kind of telling where their priorities are when they hold training first over the tour.

It’s kind of even more telling what the camp’s view of safety is when there’s a climbing wall that spews lava and when asked about why there’s lava, Travis and Connor say cheerfully in unison, ‘it’s more exciting that way.’

“Hey, Travis,” a kid starts, tugging on one of the brother’s sleeves.

“I’m Connor, but yeah?” Connor corrects, turning to face the camper.

“Um, I heard from someone in the Ares Cabin that because of us, we’re in war with Kro—K.K. Is that true?”

Connor smiles and shakes his head. “No. We didn’t do anything.”

He didn’t refute the war part though.

And as if Connor hears his thoughts, he addresses the cabin, “You don’t have to fight if you don’t want to. But monsters are still a thing so you still have to go to the morning training. No way out of those. Sorry.”

[12:30, Lunch]

Michael is starting to think Travis is some kind of strawberry fanatic and that’s putting it lightly.

There’s another concerning amount of strawberries on his plate coupled with a grilled cheese sandwich and a salad, yes, but that’s way too many strawberries for one day.

“No such thing,” Travis says, scraping half of his ungodly amount into the fire.

“I think there is a limit though.” Connor shrugs, tossing a bag of M&M right after.

Michael follows them to the table, even more cramped now. Five new campers, unclaimed, arrived late because of road traffic. He tucks himself into the first opening he sees, shoulder to shoulder and elbow to elbow. Many inches too close in his opinion.

“Travis,” Michael starts, thinking back to breakfast, “You’re claimed, right? You know who your godly parent is?”

“Yup, Hermes. God of Pranksters,” Travis says, stabbing his fork into a lettuce and turning to wave it at Lee’s table which is much more roomier. Lee catches the action and nudges a boy beside him with an elbow, snickering. The boy turns and rolls his eyes at Travis.

“You like your dad, right?” Michael asks.

A quarter of the cabin immediately stops talking and not really subtly turns to them. He’s pretty sure he’s breaking some sort of taboo. Not that it bothers Michael all that much.

“Yeah, of course I do. He’s pretty cool,” Travis responds, rolling a cherry tomato around with a fork and not looking him in the eye.

“Why?” It feels like everyone in the cabin is staring at them now, but even then Michael can’t stop.

“‘Why?’” Travis repeats, twirling the fork. Michael can’t help but notice Connor gripping his fork tighter and he has a vivid image of the boy stabbing it into him. Connor seems like the type. “He’s my dad. I think I’m supposed to like him.”

“But he never talked with you though, right? He has never been there for you. How could you possibly like him?”

Travis shrugs. “He’s a god. He’s probably busy.”

Michael frowns. His mom is busy too. Granted, busy with normal things like a job but she still finds the time to tuck his siblings to bed. Still finds the time to cook breakfast and dinner for them. Still finds the time to make movie nights. Still tell them every day, without fail, that she loves them. Is still there for him and his siblings.

“So it doesn’t bother you? The way your relationship is with him right now?” Michael pushes.

Travis fidgets with his strawberries, muttering something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like French.

“What was—” Michael starts to say, but Connor glares, hard. Michael thinks he can see the promise of pain and suffering Connor will inflict upon him. Guess he’d just written his name in Connor’s bad book in Sharpie.

“Look, Michael, it’s the social norm around here to not talk about our godly parents. Especially in ways that demean them.”

Social norm? Like he cares about something as trivial as that.

“I just want—”

“Drop it, Michael. Travis’s relationship with our dad is none of your business,” Connor snaps.

Travis is quiet, a hand resting on a cheek as he stabs into a strawberry, red juices spattering over lettuce and grilled cheese.

“I want his approval. He’s my dad. What kid doesn’t want their parent’s approval?”

Lee pulls him aside as lunch wraps up, leading them a bit away from the others.

“Michael, can you chill with the public grilling for a bit?”

“I just don’t get the worship around here for them though,” he argues.

Lee falters, thinking about his words. “Michael, for some of us, our godly parent is the only one that cares.”

“Wait, are you saying your dad talks to you here?” Michael says. He doesn’t really know what the whole deal is going on with Lee and his mom, but he knows enough to know that Ms. Fletcher deserves the worst mom of the century award.

Lee frowns a bit and shakes his head. “We talked once when I was claimed but other than that, no. Not really. And none of my half-siblings said anything to me about him either. But he’s already doing so much more than the other gods.”

“Really? Like what?”

And Lee answers without hesitating, “He claims us as his.”

Michael recalls the talk before breakfast and the questions. About claiming. About waiting. About giving up. The bitterness in their voices. The longing. The yearning. And a sinking feeling grows in the pit of his stomach.

“How long did it take for you to be claimed?” he asks.

“I was claimed the second I stepped onto Camp. Apollo tends to be rather fast when it comes to claiming his children. The longest he ever went without claiming is one week. Demeter claims fast during the fall and winter months when Persephone is away. Hephaestus takes on average a month or so to claim.”

“And the slowest god at claiming?”

Lee’s eyes narrow in thought. “Let’s see… Ares, Athena, Aphrodite, and Hermes seem to be the slowest.”

“How slow?”

“Slow as in… months, years.”

“Why?”

Lee looks away in discomfort. “Who knows? We shouldn’t speculate though. That’s just asking for a curse.”

He catches up to his cabin gathering for the next event and when he asks around about the claiming rate, he gets a mixture of answers.

“Because we’re not their favorites,” Miranda says cheerfully, while arm-wrestling (and clearly winning) with a flushed Sherman.

“Because we have to prove ourselves first,” the kid with the glasses states, eyes fixed on his shoes.

“Because they forgot we existed,” others say.

“Because they want something from us.”

“Because they don’t want the responsibilities of a parent.”

“Because they don’t care.”

“Because they don’t think we’re worth it.”

“It’s because they suck ass,” one of the older campers says with dead serious eyes as Travis chokes on his strawberry, tossing the rest of the fruits into the fire, plate and all.

“Shh! Celise, you’re gonna get cursed! Everybody, no bad-mouthing the gods or you’ll be turned into a snail and as cute as snails are, I like you all as humans.”

The camper shrugs and whispers, it’s true .

Trust me, they whisper next as they’re pulled aside by Travis’s frantic tugging.

They don’t care.

All of this is truly making him appreciate the gods more.

Connor whistles for everybody’s attention, standing on top of a rock with a piece of paper.

“It’s free choice from now until 3:30. Each counselor is hosting a different event. Travis and I are doing canoeing. Silena will be hosting horseback — that needs to be changed to pegasi — riding. Malcolm, you will take over for Annabeth since she isn’t here yet for the intro to Origami. Katie will be watching over the wall climbing. Lee, intro to guitar and lyres. Beckendorf, intro to welding. Pollux will be taking over Clarisse’s place at the arena for additional sword and archery lessons. And Castor will be teaching DIY soda. Here’s a map for each of you where everything is. Any questions? Yes, you, in the back. Hao, right?”

Michael takes the map, finds Lee’s name, finds the corresponding location, and then crumples the flimsy paper in his hands.

But before he can walk away, Miranda is there in front of him and tugging him by the arm with a beaming smile.

“Follow me for a sec? I want to show you something. It will be quick, I promise.”

[1:30 PM, Free Choice]

“Everybody gets a celestial weapon,” Miranda explains as they walk to the armory, “It KOs the monster and turns them into gold dust if it nicks them in the flesh just enough.”

Gold dust… like the gold dust Lee comes back sometimes covered in?

She leads him to an unassuming building beside one of the cabins, opening the door and revealing shelves stocked full of weapons. Miranda strides to the back without a double-take. Like it’s normal for a summer camp with children to have a stockpile meant for war.

“Do you have a preference?”

“I… uh…”

“Want some help? Based on what I saw in training, I think you’re better suited with something long-range. You looked uncomfortable with a sword. Aha! What about this?“

Then Miranda pulls out a rifle from one of the boxes.

Michael stares at it for a full second, wondering if he’s imagining it, wondering if Miranda is kidding, wondering if this whole day is just one big funny dream. But, no, Miranda remains standing there with a big ol’ grin and rifle in hand and waiting for them to say something.

“No.”

“What? Why not?”

“First of all, it’s a gun. Second of all, I share a room with two of my siblings who get into my shit all the time. Third, my mom would literally kill me if she sees me holding a rifle. And fourth, it’s a fucking gun .”

”It’s okay. This is a magic rifle. If you engage the safety and remove the magazine clip, it turns into a telescope.” Miranda demonstrates it for him and would you look at that. It actually became a telescope. “See? No problem. Mom won’t find out and plus! It actually works as a telescope! You can go stargazing with this thing and also kick any monster-butt.”

“What happens if it goes off and a bullet hits someone?”

“That’s okay too. The bullets are made of celestial metal. It can’t harm mortals.”

“But it’s a gun. And I don’t have a license.”

Miranda shrugs. “You can’t kill a mortal though. I don’t think you need a license if you seriously can’t hurt anyone. But if you don’t want a gun, then we can get you a bow. Apollo’s cabin is full of them. Come on.”

And as Michael follows Miranda out, he mutters under his breath, “Why are you all like this?”

Miranda laughs, spinning around her heels to face him.

“And you’re like a completely normal kid. If you didn’t pass the barrier, I would have thought Lee brought someone fully human.”

[2:20 PM, Free Choice]

“What is that?”

Lee does only a cursory glance at where Michael is pointing before going back to tuning his guitar engraved with his name and last initial on the Big House’s porch. “It’s Thalia’s Pine. Someone poisoned it unfortunately. A couple years ago a girl sacrificed herself to save her friends. Her father turned her dying body into a magic tree that protects all of camp. We’re trying to fix it, but it’s kinda slow-going right now.”

“That’s cool. That’s cool, but I’m talking about that .”

And Lee really looks at where Michael is pointing at. A … well, he doesn’t want to say robotic because there’s no way a robot can move that fluidly, but fine. A metallic bull the size of an elephant is charging towards them, running full speed but going nowhere. It’s like an invisible wall is holding it back. Just a bit aways are five people in a line in full bronze armor and a variety of weapons with two more people running towards them. A girl with a gruff voice is ordering to get into position.

“Is this some sort of play?” Michael asks, waiting for Lee’s answers but when there’s none, he turns to face him. “Lee?”

Lee is pale. His guitar falls out of his hands as he stands.

Michael tenses, alarmed. “Lee?”

“Shit,” Lee curses for the first time ever. “Fuck.”

Now Michael is really worried. “What’s wrong? What’s going on?”

Lee whirs to face him and Michael doesn’t like the fear, the panic he sees in Lee’s usually calm eyes.

“Michael, Beckendorf is in the forge. Get him first. Tell him there is a Colchis Bull at Half Blood Hill. Then go get Travis and Connor next — Hey? Michael, are you there?”

A second bull crashes into the invisible wall and they break through. They’re breathing fire. People are being set on fire. People are having their armor melted off. People are being burned. People are being trampled on. People are—

“Michael!” Lee shakes him hard by the shoulder. “Don’t look at it. Just go run and get Beckendorf.”

Then he’s forcibly turned around and pushed away to the sound of terrified screams and dying cries.

[3:00 PM, Free Choice]

So that’s a monster.

And he’s expected to fight one of them?

The guy who took out the first bull —Percy he thinks is the name — Percy did it with a little help with a flame-resistant man and Percy is about the same age as him. And Clarisse took out the second bull all by herself. So it’s definitely possible. With training and maybe a bow instead of a sword, Michael can do it.

He can do it.

…

Just because it’s possible, doesn’t mean it’s right. Doesn‘t mean it’s normal and fuck.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

How can anyone not see how messed up this whole thing is? Monsters exist and they eat twerps like him? They’ll hunt him for as long as he lives? He’s always going to have to watch his back? He’s always going to have a weapon on him? This is what his day will be like every day? This is normal? This is what being a demigod means?

From the porch of the Big House, Michael watches Travis and Connor, amongst a few others with just as many beads on their necklaces, triaging the injured. Passing around nectar bottles and ambrosia brownies, helping them stand, checking their wounds all with an air of professionalism.

They were trained for this. They prepared for this.

Michael doesn’t like that little fact.

And speaking of little facts he doesn’t like, one just sits down next to him. When he’s not standing around like a dumbass, he goes to get more nectar bottles from the infirmary where a team of two people is running around tending to the patients. One is Lee. The other, and the clear leader, is the boy in blue scrubs and yellow flip flops. The kid barked orders left and right, telling people where to go, where to place the patients, how to treat the minor wounds until he can get there, basically keeping everything orderly and efficient, all with this air of confidence and calmness. It would have been very reassuring if the kid himself wasn’t this little, baby-faced 11-year-old.

And said 11-year-old is now sitting down beside him, downing a bottle of water then downing half a bottle of red Gatorade.

Michael is starting to see why Lee doesn’t want his mom to know where Camp Half Blood is. If she ever visited and saw how the camp is being run primarily by pre-teens and teens… well… she’ll probably lose it.

“Hey,” the kid says.

“Hey,” Michael replies, cautiously.

Then, silence.

The most awkward silence he has ever experienced as they just sit side by side.

The kid takes another sip from the Gatorade.

“You’re Michael, right? You’re Lee’s upstairs friend?”

Michael bristles at the words. “How did you—“

“When the cabins burned down, we stayed at Lee’s apartment for a couple days,” the kid explains, staring at Travis and Connor milling about the battlegrounds. He fidgets with a bandaid on the back of his hand. “This is going to sound really weird, but I thought I heard his voice and your last names match so it might not be my imagination. But do you have a younger brother named Raphael?”

“Yeah, I do. How do you know that?” Michael says, trying and failing to tone back the defensiveness in his voice. God please don’t let Raphie be a demigod like him.

The kid breaks into a big smile and it really makes him look like the child he is. “We used to be in a class together with Mrs. Rem. How is he by the way? Is he still watching Ninja Turtles? What did he think of the newest episode?”

Distantly, from a dinner chat a long time ago, Raphael mentioned a ‘Will’ who left class because of a stomach ache and was never seen again. He remembered Raphael being really worried. He remembered Raphael even saying that ‘Will doesn’t ever get sick’ and he remembered dismissively saying, “Don’t worry. The kid’s probably fine.”

There’s no way the kid next to him is that Will. It has to be a coincidence. It got to be. Forget how this kid knows Raphael is a fan of Ninja Turtles. It’s a popular show right now. Somewhere, in this 6.6 billion populated planet, there’s got to be a Will and a Raphael who both go to the same school with a 5th-grade teacher named Mrs. Rem and both watch Ninja Turtles and both love Raphael the sai-welding turtle.

“You went to Hodgkins Elementary School?”

“Yeah.”

There’s still a chance this is all a coincidence.

“Your favorite turtle is Raph?”

“Well, it’s Leo now but I used to like Raph.”

Still a coincidence.

“And your name’s Will?”

“It is.”

Just one big coincidence.

“And you left the classroom—” Michael wracks his brain — when, when did Raphael talked about the kid? — “Because of a stomach ache back in October?”

For a minute, Will is silent. A minute filled with nothing but the whistle of the wind and commanding yells of campers. Will chuckles, low, as the plastic bottle crinkles in his hands. But when Will speaks, his voice is carefully blank, devoid of emotion. “Not exactly, no. I saw something strange at school that nobody could see and I called my mom, er, my aunt. But she raised me so I considered her my mom. She said to get out, even if I have to lie. So I did. A stomach ache was the easiest to fake. She picked me up from school. I think she was going to take me to camp. But on the drive here… a cyclops showed up and totaled the car. We ran. She told me to go ahead and get help. And I did. Without looking back. I found Lee and he took care of the cyclops but mom… ”

The kid’s voice is still blank. Emotionless.

“She died because of me.”

A bitter smile.

“Because I was too weak. Because I was too scared.”

The bottle bursts in his hand, the red dripping off his hand and staining his scrubs.

“No one is ever going to die because of me. Not again. Not ever.”

The kid leaves, running back inside when someone screams bloody murder and another voice yells, “Solace!”

(“Will’s last name was on our vocab lists,” Raphael had said a long time ago. “Solace. It means comfort. That’s so cool. No way can I forget that.”)

Michael continues to sit there, watching the battlefield empty out one camper at a time until everyone injured has been attended to.

(“She died. Because of me. Weak. Scared.”)

Weak. He understands. Too scared. He understands that too. He experienced all that today with the bulls.

If it had been at home with his family, at school with his classmates, even at the park with random strangers, what would have happened? He would have fought, right? Adrenaline would have kicked in and he would do something. Or would he have frozen? Just like he did today? Just stood there, watching his family be stomped and kicked and lit on fire until someone kicked him into gear? (“Run, Michael. Don’t look back.”)

No.

No. Fuck no. Three months. He has three months of this summer camp / orphanage / ‘let’s-all-become-child-soldiers-together!’ hellhole. He has three months to kick this stupid deer in the headlights reaction.

(“She died because of me.”)

He’s not going to let anyone die.

[5:00 PM, Free Time]

He finds them in the cabin, one slumped on the bed with an arm over his eyes and the other sitting at the foot with a sketch of the cabin in one hand and a pencil in the other.

They’re talking about something secret because as soon as Michael slams the cabin door open, their conversation stops. He catches the last sentence though. Are the nightmares getting worse? And god, if these two are okay with everything that just happened today, just handled it all with a face that says this is nothing, then Michael doesn’t want to know what kind of nightmares are troubling them.

“What’s up?” Connor or Travis, the one on his back, asks, trying and failing to get upright. The arm moves and tired eyes peek at him from underneath.

“Is it Lee? Does he need us again?” the other asks, tossing the drawing under the bed.

“You said, whatever problems we have, we can come to you two,” Michael starts.

They nod together in sync.

“Then I want you guys to train me until I drop dead. Now until the end of summer.”

[6:00 PM, Dinner]

He barely has his food on the plate when a bright light shines over his head. Flashy. Illuminating. Almost eye-blinding. Michael looks up, squints, and sees the sun with 21 arrows surrounding it, representing the sun’s rays.

Distantly, he’s aware of a bored voice proclaiming him as a child of Apollo. But all he’s really focused on is his cabin’s, ex-cabin now he guesses, reactions. He can see all their faces down the line. Most are happy. They smile and cheer for him, patting on him on the back and congratulating him. But he can see it, beneath their grins, beneath the genuine elation, is frustration, jealousy, longing.

(“It's been years.”)

Travis, with his pile of strawberries, bumps him in the shoulder with his own. “Hey, congratulations. Apollo cabin is a lot roomier than ours so you get to actually sleep on a bed.”

Connor nods, tossing an M&M bag into the flames. “Too bad you’re gonna miss the experience of being crammed like sardines on the floor. It’s actually pretty cozy.”

Michael frowns as he conjures up a PB and J sandwich exactly how Mom would make it, cuts it into halves, and toss it in . “Are you guys still going—”

“We’ll still help you,” Travis interrupts, but his smile is impish, borderline devilish. “But—”

“It comes with a price now.” Connor follows with a just as sordid grin. “Two conditions. One, you have to help us with archery. We’re not bad but we’re not good either and could use a bit more work. Annabeth and I have this sparring contest every week to see who is more proficient in what weapon. She beats me every single time when it comes to archery, but that’s ending this year. And two, you have to be our inside man.”

“Inside man?” Michael asks, already kind of knowing what that means.

“Let us into your cabin. Help us set up pranks in your cabin. Tell us everything we want to know about your cabin. You know. That sort of thing,” Travis says flippantly.

And before Michael can reject, accept, do literally anything, Travis turns around and walks to the table with this unbearably cheerful hum. “Will is going to regret ever messing with my diet.”

Connor falls in step with a fond smile. “But seriously, Will has a point. You need to balance your meals a bit more.”

For such nice people , Michael thinks as he’s corralled towards the Apollo table by an ecstatic Lee , they can be such dicks.

[7:00 PM, Volleyball]

“Hey, Lee, when did the monsters start coming for me?” Michael asks as he twirls the volleyball in his hands once, twice and tosses it to Lee. In the background, Michael can hear the yells and cheers of the far more serious, far more competitive match going on. Apparently, there’s a tournament between the cabins and the winner gets bragging rights and no cabin inspection next month.

Lee isn’t participating. “Our cabin is always clean and orderly,” he had said with pride, though that didn’t stop his half-siblings ( my half-siblings) from making a team and participating.

“Eh? The monsters? Uh, l-last year,” Lee says, fumbling the ball just like he’s fumbling the lie.

So it’s been more than a year.

Michael bites his cheeks as he bends his knees and extends his arms to bounce the ball back.

“And you’ve been taking care of them all this time?”

“Well, not all of them,” Lee admits, catching the ball with both hands. “A lot of them went away on their own.”

Liar , sings his guts. He’s lying .

Because Lee is way too nice. Way too selfless. Way too noble to tell the truth that would most definitely hurt.

“Why? Why didn’t you take me to camp earlier? When the monster started coming? Why now?” he bites out, just barely holding back the snarl. You could have saved yourself years of pain, years of trouble.

“Because…” Lee looks over to the courts, to where Travis and Connor are arguing with Annabeth (the moaning myrtle girl, Michael realizes). Something about which team Percy should be on.

(“Your dad is the god of Athletes. Your cabin already have an advantage.”)

(“Okay, but consider this, only Travis and I are claimed. Everyone else on the team could be anyone’s child. And your team is completely made up of god-tier and gifted strategists.”)

(“Your #4 is literally speaking ten languages. He’s got to be a son of Hermes.”)

(“That is a stereotype. Abraham could just be remarkably smart.”)

Lee’s eyes go back to him. “Because I wanted you to have a normal life, to know that there’s more to life than just this. Besides, I’ve been watching you for years. You learn how to do something like it’s nothing after a few minutes. It’s kind of ridiculous and I am lowkey jealous. But if you feel like you’re not ready, I can always—”

“Shut up, idiot. You’re not dropping out of school for me,” Michael grumbles, Lee’s stupid chuckle not at all comforting.

“I heard you guys are in a war,” Michael says, “Are you fighting in it?”

Lee serves the ball over, high and easy to hit. “Yeah. It feels wrong not to.”

And Michael spikes it back as hard as he can. “But you’re going to college in a few months.”

Lee shrugs, easily leaning forward and kicking it back high into the air for another easy hit. “Julliard is close enough to camp.”

Michael catches it, tucking it under an arm. “That’s not what I meant. What’s the point of going to college if you might lose an arm or leg fighting in this stupid war? You should just focus on school.”

Lee laughs of all things. “That’s nothing. Will fixed worse.”

Michael bristles at Lee's casualness. “Well, if you’re gonna fight, then I am going too.”

Lee laughs again, tenser this time. “You think your mom is gonna let you?”

“She lets you!”

“Because she doesn’t know what I’m doing. And I’m not the one living with her. Besides, do you even know what we are fighting for?”

“Of course, I do! The enemy is K—” Crap. He never got the full name or title of the bad guy. And somehow he feels like saying Cabin 11’s made up name isn’t going to make Lee take him any more seriously. “I’ll learn more about it. Besides, you’re a great guy. I’m sure you’re fighting for the good guys.”

“Michael, your faith in me is nice but getting involved without knowing the full story is dumb. You’re not fighting.”

“Yes, I am.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I —”

Lee’s face hardened the way it does when he’s mad or worried or dead serious. Like that one time Leo microwaved a spoon. Like when Raphael tried to jump down a flight of stairs for a dare. Like when Carly and Sam ran onto the streets without looking. And crap. Michael is 14, practically an adult. He shouldn’t be cowing under Lee’s hard stare anymore. But he is and he’s (slightly, only just slightly) scared.

“No, you’re not,” Lee says, “Because I don’t want you to fight when you have so little experience. Because your mom will literally kill me if something, anything happens to you. Because something bad will happen to you if you do join this fight. So no. You’re not going to fight. You’re not going to participate. You’re only here to train and enjoy camp life.”

“Fine. Fine. I won’t,” Michael grumbles, ducking his head. “Sheesh, you make it sound like if I join, the camp is done for.”

The hard stare melts back into that familiar, soft, (almost) carefree aura with a shrug and small smile. “I just have a feeling. It’s good to trust your instincts.”

And my instincts are telling me right now that you need to quit. But Michael is pretty sure Lee won’t appreciate it and moves the conversation to the climbing wall and why it’s on fire.

[9:00 PM, Campfire Song]

“Mom,” Michael says, the phone pressed against his ears. He looks out the window, watching the vibrant flame of the bonfire climb high into the starry skies and the circles of cheerful campers surrounding it.

“Michael, I was wondering when you would call. How’s camp? Do you like it?”

“Camp is…Camp is great. Lots of activity. Really unique. I—” I like it dies on his tongue. He doesn’t like it. He might have if there was a bit less training. Luckily his mother didn’t catch that pause.

“That’s great! Made any new — Carly Yew, are those markers I see in your hands? You better not draw on the walls. Get some paper, baby, okay? Made any new friends?”

“A few.”

“You should invite them over! We can have a nice little movie night together.”

Michael frowns as he recalls someone, somewhere, saying not to gather in more than threes outside the barrier. It attracts the monsters apparently and Michael isn’t about to test that. “They can't. They’re busy. They’re like—um—they’re head counselors, you see, and have a lot of duties.” Like practically running the camp but he doesn’t think Mom would appreciate knowing that.

“Well, it’s nice to see you make friends even if they’re a bit older.”

Are Travis and Connor older than him? Possibly. They exude confidence that no normal teen has. Or maybe they have just been here for a long time. And that is all kinds of sad.

His mom asks him about his day, what he did, if he has something he really likes, and for the next hour, Michael goes into a heavily censored, G-rated, parent-safe tale of his first day at Camp Half Blood. It could have been worse. On his way to the Big House to use the phone, he overheard an older boy telling a couple newbies how a kid fought a Minotaur on his first day here and a girl having to sacrifice herself for her friends.

Wow, it would suck to be them.

[11:00 PM]

He meets dad in his dreams.

Michael doesn’t know why, but he thought Apollo to be a refined god. A serious god. A graceful god.

Instead he sees a teenager sporting pilot shades and leaning on a flaming red sports car in the dingy parking lot of Camp Half Blood with the early morning sun just breaking the horizon.

“Dad?” Michael says, (who else could it be?) but still not really sure. “Uh, Apollo?”

And the teen waves, flashing a smile that nearly blinds him. “Michael! It’s so good to finally meet you.”

Before Michael could react, the teen — Apollo — dad — pulls him into a crushing hug that knocks all the air out of his lungs.

Apollo is strangely… warm. But not overbearingly warm. Warm like first snuggling into bed under the covers. Plus he smells like laurel leaves, sweet and bright. And Michael has a vivid flashback of his mom — younger, much much younger — in the hospital bed smiling at a man in his mid-twenties with a bundle of sheets in his arm.

Michael blinks as Apollo pulls away, holding him at arm's length and looking him up and down with a musing stare.

“You resemble your mom more than me,” Apollo says with a nod, “Most of my children tend to take after my looks, but you’re different, Mike. I have to say, I like it! I can’t stay long. Godly matters I have to attend to, you know? Here, I got you a gift for making it so far in life. Tell Audrey I miss her and think sweetly about the time we spent together.”

Apollo is pressing a guitar into his hands with his name engraved in the body and stepping back to get into his car. It’s exactly the same as the guitar Lee has except for the engraving. So not unique by any means. But it is a gift. And mom would kill him for rejecting a gift. It’s rude she says, but Michael doesn’t care about Apollo enough yet to give a fuck. Besides if Lee’s experience is anything to go by, this is probably the last time he’ll ever talk to his dad. He needs to make this moment count for something.

“Wait.”

Apollo pauses just as the engine roars to life, purring sweetly and the window rolled down.

“I want to ask for something else.”

Apollo blinks and Michael can see the inkling of annoyance in the young face, but Apollo nods and says without a lick of irritation in his voice, “Sure, shoot.”

“I want you to spend more time with Lee.” Then Michael has a realization. “You know who Lee is, right? The oldest one in the cabin? About to go to Julliard? Want to become a teacher?”

Now Apollo is definitely irked, a telltale wrinkle in his brow. Michael can now add ‘gods’ to the list of people he can make pissed off. “Of course I know Lee, my little music enthusiast child. How could I not? But I’m a God, Michael. There’s only so much free time I have.”

“Then just a few minutes a week, or even a month. So he knows you care.”

Again a slight scowl, but it lingers for a few seconds more.

“I do care but okay. Okay, I will.” Apollo shifts the car into drive still a little annoyed. Michael thought that was it. Any minute now he’s going to wake up and start the day, but Apollo sighs, leans back in the leather seat, and hangs an elbow out the window. “Michael, you’re so much like your mother. Caring. Gutsy. Compassionate. It’s crazy how much you resemble her. You’re going to do great things. You’re—” The annoyance drops and for a brief second, Apollo looks grief-stricken. And once again, Michael dreams of falling, of a bridge, of a boat wafting through a chasm of fire. But Apollo smiles that blinding smile, fond, and shakes his head.

“Don’t worry so much about your family. They’re going to be fine. You’re going to be fine.”

Michael wakes up just as the car drives off, his gut itching.

Apollo is lying to you.

#fanfiction #ao3 #archive of our own #my writing #travis stoll #connor stoll #michael yew #lee fletcher #will solace #miranda gardiner #pjo #percy jackson

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pollylynn · 4 years

Photo

Title: Tally WC: 800

“I think we can both agree that this one goes in the Writer Solve Column,” he says with exaggerated smugness.

She doesn’t respond. She keeps her eyes on the sidewalk as they make their way to the subway. She, paradoxically, wants the anonymity of the crowd, it seems. Or maybe she feels as if she ought to face the people she sees herself as working for—the surly, seen-it-all New Yorkers who are probably clicking FOLLOW on the NetSlayer’s Snappamatic feed even now.

Maybe this head-down walk, this descent into the roaring close confines of the station is about facing the people she thinks she’s let down, even though Adam Lane will never see daylight again. She fell for the set up of Garrett. She let herself—the two of them—become a symbol of the department’s callousness, its ineptitude. That’s how she sees it. That’s what the subway might be about.

Whether it’s penance or peace enough to brood by she’s after, though, he’s having none of it. He’s already led her into infamy—immortalized with a tragically cheap cup of coffee in each of their hands, no less—and it’s his solemn duty to coax her out of her own head. So he pushes a little more swagger into his walk and has another go at baiting her.

“Silence.” He gives her a sidelong look that’s brazenly patronizing. “I suppose that counts as a graceful concession on your part. So, you’re welcome.”

“Welcome?” Her head swings toward him at last. She looks more preoccupied than annoyed, though—more sorrowful, and that’s no good, so he doubles down.

“For solving the case.” He brings a melodramatic palm to his chest. “For bringing my considerable literary gifts to bear—”

“Literary gifts?” There’s a sputter in there. There’s an incredulous laugh, and that’s a start. “Excuse me where were your literary gifts when I was breaking that creep?”

She makes an anguished gesture toward a flat screen tucked up in the corner of a deli. There’s a reporter looking urgent in front of a building that is wholly uninteresting save for the fact that it contains Adam Lane’s basement hovel. The scowling image of Lane himself occupies the upper left-hand corner of the screen, and he doesn’t want to know what the chyron says.

He wavers for a moment. She’s unhappy. She’s carrying the weight of the world like always, only more so as every window, every screen in every hand of every New Yorker who brushes by them plays her failure back at her. He wavers, but annoyed is better than unhappy. Pissed is better still, and he’s committed to the bit now.

“They were at the ready, of course.” He holds his hands up, thumbs touching, like a director framing a shot. “With my keenly honed senses, I stood at a distance, alert to the details that the killer—provoked most capably by you”—he bows as though he’s just bestowed upon her a great favor—“could not help but reveal.” He takes a dramatic pause. “Tiled walls and stale air—the critical narrative piece.”

“That Garrett recognized.” There’s some snap in her tone. Some hollowness, too. It’s the centerpiece of the strategy—the haunting, evocative detail. It’s risky, but he thinks it’s right.

“Yes, yes.” His fingers glance against hers, a hint of reassurance that he’s playing. He’s whistling in the graveyard and he’d like her to come along. “I’ll admit to an assist from the NYPD, active and retired. We’ll call it a half-tick in the Cop column. But it was I who realized the sinister poetry of Adam Lane bringing his sadistic story full circle. The dramatic rescue in an abandoned high school locker room? That is a full tick firmly in the Writer Solve Column.”

“You mean Ryan and Esposito’s dramatic rescue?” She squints as though she’s doing the math in her head. “Plus Garrett and me. I count four in the NYPD column—active and retired.”

“These are solve columns, Detective.” He makes a whisking motion with his fingers. “Everything afterward—your cuffs and your perp walks, all that busywork putting murders behind bars for the rest of their natural lives—that’s not even denouement. That runs over the credits.”

“Credits.” She shakes her head down at the sidewalk. She tips her chin up to the sky and draws in a breath. With concrete and glass, with steel and stone, with the sheltering cavern of a city street around them. She draws in a breath of late afternoon, autumn air and laughs. “I thought this was a Writer solve. There’s a filmmaker now, too?”

“What can I say?” He shrugs and pretends to consider it. He reaches out and hooks his pinky around hers. “Richard Castle: Metaphors and Media . . . Mixed.” A/N: Skirting the edge of an object here; this was going to be more introspective about interiors, but then it wanted to be dialogue heavy. Feh. Hmm.

images via homeofthenutty

#Castle #Caskett #Castle: Season 7 #Castle: Meme is Murder #Kate Beckett #Richard Castle #Kevin Ryan #Javier Esposito #Fic #Fanfic #Fanfiction #Fan Fic #Fan Fiction #Writing #Hmm

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ravenwritesstuff · 5 years

Text

Best Laid Plans (6/?)

Fandom: Frozen (modern AU, no magic) Pairings: Helsa, established Kristanna, Rapunzel/Eugene, lotsa frohana Rating: T for now, M later almost for sure A/N: Stop looking at me.

The multi-function table is loaded with pastries, fruit, and more bagels than Elsa remembers being in existence. Kristoff, Eugene, and Rapunzel all have their plates in front of them - Rapunzel's somehow the most full - and are conversing amicably with him.

The space is not large but it was designed to give an open, inviting feel. She had created it to make everyone feel welcome the second they entered the room and it seems her design has done just exactly that. She never once considered that could be a detriment until now.

“Elsa!” Rapunzel jumps up like she hadn't talked to her just moments before in the atrium. The rest of the eyes in the room track to her immediately. She does her best to ignore him.

“I don't recall having a meeting scheduled this morning.” She feels that she is dripping on the stone-tile floor. “You will have to excuse my tardiness.”

She doesn’t flinch meeting his gaze even as mascara stings her eyes. She bets it is running down her cheeks, too. To his credit he keeps his composure despite her rain-soaked appearance. Except not to his credit, because shouldn’t even be here. Of all the entitled bullshit she has ever encountered…

She crosses her arms and looks at her employees.

“Thank you all for entertaining our guest at the expense of your other tasks, but you may go now. I will take it from here.”

They get the point.

The trio are all gracious as they take their plates and leave (all of them grabbing a bit more from the generous spread before ducking out sheepishly). Elsa gives them her best facsimile of a smile as they exit. She shuts the door behind them with a definitive thud (though she knows that will do little to keep them from eavesdropping) before turning back to the root of this entire problem. The idea of her staff listening in makes her even more irritable. She hates being the center of attention.

Still, she turns and meets his gaze. “Mister Westergaard.”

He smiles. “Hans.”

He is seated on a cushioned bench that was custom built for the space. She half expects him to rest his elbows on the table and cradle his chin in his hands with his patronizing tone. She stiffens a bit, but tries not to acknowledge it.

She is a professional. She will at least see what he wants.

“I wasn’t expecting you.”

“You wouldn't let me take you to dinner so I brought you breakfast.”

She remembers their conversation after the dance, the granola bar she grabbed on the run, but also remembers her most ultimate truth and speaks the lie that must come from it: “I don't eat breakfast.”

“Everyone eats breakfast.”

“Well I don't.”

He scoffs, smile tugging at his wide mouth.

“Doesn't take bubble baths. Doesn’t dance. Doesn't date. Doesn't eat breakfast.” He rattles off the list and she feels her ears turning pink. Had he really listened that closely? “I know for a fact that at least twenty five percent of those statements is patently untrue. It makes me wonder about the other seventy-five percent." He dangles the bait but she doesn't take it. He shifts. "So if you don't do all of those things, what do you do?”

“I run this company.”

He nods his head slowly, keeping his clever eyes trained on hers. “And you are in charge of planning all of the events put together by this company?”

It is a leading question. She knows it. Doesn't want to feed into it, but is uncertain how exactly to skate around it.

“Anna and I are partners. Which of us take the lead on projects depends on what best fit our client's needs.”

He leans forward then, just enough that she can smell ulterior intent even as he assumes a professional posture.

“So your clients pick their point of contact. Interesting.”

She can feel him circling, and realization snaps his intent into place. She knows where this is leading, and a chill runs down her spine. If she had known he would be this persistent…

She presses forward, trying to correct her misstep.

“In part. The team at E & A Events all have a say as well. It is a team operation. We all have different, but equally important, roles.” She doesn’t like where this conversation is going, but she won’t surrender even as she drips on the floor. Even if she wants to shove him out the door and force him out of her mind and life.

“Equal but different roles, fascinating. I’d love to know more.”

She had practically gift wrapped that segue for him. Instead of getting him out the door she was helping him dig trenches. She could kick herself for it.

“The inner workings really aren’t that important or interesting to most.”

“Try me. Let's start with the big blonde guy. Christopher.”

“Kristoff,” she is just a little too quick, enjoying correcting him just a bit too much, and his eyebrow flicks in amusement. “Just Kristoff.”

“My sincerest apologies. Kristoff. What does he do?”

“He supervises and creates special builds for our events. Stages, tables, altars, set pieces… he also coordinates event set-up and tear down logistics and coordinates all parties involved in that.”

“Fascinating,” he says and she believes him. He seems to hang off of her every word and that makes her nervous. “What else? What about that Rapunzel girl?”

“IT, admin, and graphic design. She can build you an event website with sign up funnels all customized around a graphics suite she creates from your concepts as well as facilitate any paper needs you may have from invitations to menus.”

He hardly lets her breathe: “And Eugene?”

“Vendor liaison and customer service. He is excellent at negotiating with vendors to get you exactly what you want at a price that is fair for everyone as well as day-of coordinating.”

He had already gotten a front row seat of Eugene’s flair for customer service two days ago at Eric and Ariel’s wedding. She is certain he will pick up how far she is underselling each team member and the extent of what they do just because of that, but he doesn’t mention it. He keeps right on with his line of questioning.

“Anna?” He keeps it short, like not letting her pause for even a moment, like he is quizzing her.

Two can play that game. “As Creative Director she does whatever I don't do.”

He smiles then like he knows something she doesn't, “and you. What is it that you do?”

She has given these answers ten thousand times, has recited them all from rote already, knows exactly how to answer his questions but the words catch in her throat. She cannot help but feel she is walking into some sort of trap and she does not want to be caught. She cannot afford to, for either of their sakes.

She takes a breath. “I am Director of Operations and work closely with the designated point of contact to an event that is both seamless and completely authentic to the person or organization putting it on as well as manage several day-to-day operations.”

He leans back and rubs a hand across his chin. He smiles: “I like listening to you talk.”

Her brain scrambles. She does not understand what any of that has to do with anything. She stays professional.

“Thank you.”

“Tell me something else. Anything. Anything at all...”

The sensation of just being a specimen, like a bug under a microscope, makes her anxious. His eyes skate the length of her body and she is suddenly hyper aware of how her once shapeless dress now clings to each curve, how her eyes sting with the mascara leaking into them, how each inch of her body is still dripping on the floor. He seems to notice her discomfort with a sardonic glee, the fight she is waging to not tighten her arms over her chest and hide, to seem relaxed.

“I have told you all I can possibly think to tell you, Mister Westergaard. Why don’t you enlighten me about the specifics of what brought you here this morning?” She turns the table, done beating around the bush. She won’t be made to stand trial, barefoot, with clammy skin, in her own office. "Because if conversation is why you are here I can guarantee you there are much easier and better places you can find it."

His smile falls a bit, but he catches himself. That all too human crack bleeds through and she thinks she has hurt him. She steels her insides against remorse as his cool and controlled exterior snaps back in place.

His smile now wolfish.

“I am launching an initiative," he makes a broad sweeping gesture with his arms. "And I wasn't going to make too much of a fuss, but you all changed my mind.”

She expects him to continue but he doesn't. Instead he just watches her. She frowns.

"Mister Westergaard I don't know if I quite understand. We plan events - not initiatives. Perhaps you would be better served with a Public Relations firm or -"

"Those pieces are already in place." He smiles, just a bit crooked as if he has anticipated this rejection and has a counter prepared. “What I need is a party, and a good one, to draw the proper attention.”

She cannot help but wonder just what a man like this considered to be proper attention, but pushing against him isn’t getting her what she wants. So she leans in.

“Do you have a prospective date for this event?”

Normally these questions would be answered before she ever saw the client in person. Normally there would be boards and sketches and swatches of color and timelines and menus all laid out in coordinating binders for the initial presentation - drawn up from the initial phone consult. Her clients didn’t like wasting time. Neither does she, but here she is.

He tells her and it is all she can do not to choke on her own disbelief.

“That is only five weeks from now!”

“Thirty nine days to be exact.”

“Mister Westergaard - we have other clients, other events, that is hardly enough time to properly plan something of any size or scale.

“Please. It’s Hans,” he stands, smoothing the front of his tailored slacks as he goes and her mouth goes dry. "And you're starting to make me think you aren't interested in taking this on."

There is something a little too casual about how he stands, too relaxed, the drift of his eyes too lazy to be anything but sharply calculated. She can see it. She may not know him well, but she knows he isn’t one to leave something to chance. She didn’t bow to his charm so now he will prod her pride. It irks her to admit that it is working.

“It isn’t that at all.”

“Then what is it?”

She meets his gaze. The crisp lavender button down he wears brings out the green of his eyes and she knows if she was closer she would see the gold ring around his iris. Even with several feet between them she knows just how warm he would feel if she touched him, probably even warmer than she remembers with her rain chilled skin. She knows how he smells. The memory alone is enough to make her heart pound so hard that she is sure he can see her pulse in her throat.

He steps around the decadence-covered table and her calf cramps as she steels herself to not retreat.

“This is my job, Mister Westergaard.”

He comes closer, hands tucked into pockets. She stays, chin lifting.

“I’m aware.”

He stops a few feet in front of her, close enough now that all he would have to do is reach out and suddenly

Her words come out on a gust of breath. “I am not a challenge. This is not some sort of game.”

He cocks his head. “I’m not playing any game.”

She searches his face, warning bells screaming that there must be a lie, but all she finds is that blindingly sincere humanity that scrambles her thoughts.

“I have other events, other clients -”

“So is it a ‘no’”?

She swears he doesn’t move but he feels closer. The light in his eyes shifts and she cannot think. She cannot breathe.

She remembers what Anna said.

This is bigger than what she wants.

A client like Hans Westergaard could establish their company for life - and even if she has disconnected from the length of that concept she knows what it means for others. She knows the firm needs this as impossible and inconceivable as it seems.

“There will be some ground rules.” The fact she keeps the shake out of her voice is a moral victory.

His brow quirks. “You want to set rules for something that isn’t a game? Interesting.”

She feels his humor like a contagious warmth spreading through her chest and nearly chokes at the weight. This was not what she wanted, what she expected from today...

“Any relationship we have will be business only. I cannot take you on as a client if you do not agree to that.”

His wide mouth pulls to the side enough to be just shy of a smile: “Are you implying that I would engage your services for anything other than professional reasons?”

His words sends heat flooding up her neck despite her soggy state.

The same heat she sees in his cunning eyes, the same she knows she will feel if she touches him.

He is trying to fluster her and she knows it.

He is succeeding and he knows it.

She forces her calm: a skill she has mastered over the years.

"I am not implying anything. If we are to work together it is important we both handle ourselves in the appropriate manner."

“Of course. Absolutely.” He smiles, shifting his weight into a casual posture.

She knows she should ask about budget, about the theme, about the twenty five thousand things she clarifies with clients before even thinking about accepting them for their services - but she knows that this point none of that matters. At this point - all that matters is getting him out of her offices so she can think, work, breathe.

So she agrees, “absolutely.”

She takes the lead and extends a hand and he glances at it with a dark twinkle in his eye. He takes it is his and just as she expects his touch burns.

It is all she can do to not catch her breath as they shake on an agreement she can hardly understand.

She releases his hand as soon as she can, letting it sink back to her side as naturally as possible when all she wants is to yank it back and rub her palm on the cool damp fabric of her thigh.

But they need this.

This is something bigger than herself and her own comfort.

She has said ‘no’ to men before, has built those walls she has contrived to protect them from herself, but still those warning bells ring. Anna knows. She knows. This one is different.

But it is only thirty-nine days. What could happen?

The way he smiles at her across the space between them answers that question even if she chooses to ignore it.

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#best laid plans #helsa #kristanna #fanfiction #rapunzel #eugene #tangled #frozen #raven writes stuff

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