#also to be clear i hate him anyway. he's a piece of garbage and he should be deplatformed immediately

[anonymous-dentist]

"It's not that deep"

Yes, yes it is. It is that deep. Buying a Trump flag is that deep. I don't know if most of these Dream fans leftover in their echo chamber of a fanbase remember this, because they were probably kids, but the Trump presidency signaled the end of the world of minorities all across the United States. We're still feeling the repercussions of that today in 2022, almost two full years into Biden's administration. White supremacists are out in louder numbers than they have been in years. Antisemitism is on the rise. Abortion is being threatened in most U.S. states after the conservative-packed Supreme Court overturned Roe v Wade this summer, a court packed by Trump and including Christo-fascists, racists, misogynists, homo- and transphobes, and literal alleged rapists and actual cult members. Anti-queer legislation is being pushed in a significant number of U.S. states and in the federal government by members of the legislature who have been emboldened by having a president that agreed with them.

The 2020 presidential election was huge- some of the largest numbers in decades- because people wanted this man out of office. And he's running again in 2024 despite having been impeached twice (the most for any sitting president in the history of the United States) and despite being under investigation for a bajillion federal crimes, including a recent indictment brought against him in response to him instigating, encouraging, and assisting an attempted insurrection and violent takeover of the government in January of last year. (You people might remember it for Doomsday on the smp; many others remember it as one of the most terrifying moments in U.S. political history.) He's running despite the several charges of campaign fraud and election interference brought against him. The Republicans might not be done with him yet, which is a terrifying thought. Even if they are and they're going with DeSantis for 2024, Trump is still planning on running, and he's bankrupt right now. He's broke. His company is broke. He is broke. The only income he gets now are from MAGA supporters buying his merch. Those funny little NFTs from last week? Those support him.

Know what else directly supports Donald Trump and his campaign? Flags. Buying flags.

Does this mean that Dream and Sapnap are Trump supporters for buying a Trump flag as a gag gift for their British friend? No, absolutely not, but the joke of 'lol look at this stupid idiot flag we got you' doesn't land when, A, the person giving the gift is a former Trump supporter himself, and, B, the person that the flag was bought from is a literal white supremacist and fascist who is friends with white supremacists and fascists who all want queer people to die, they want women to be silent or to die, they want civil rights overturned, they want to turn this country back into a shell of itself in the name of white male Christian supremacy

Dream's audience is young and vulnerable. Many members are queer. Many are POC. Most are young. They might not remember how fucking terrifying 2016 through 2020 were. People woke up in tears the day after election day in 2016 for a reason. The polls were flooded in 2020 for a reason. These audience members might not remember that because they were so young, or they might not realize the gravity of the situation. What does it say to them when their hero pulls out a Trump flag and says it's a gift? It's something to laugh at, yeah, but is it really? It shows people that it's okay not to take Trump seriously, and he and his followers are still a threat to America today. It's dangerous not to take him and his followers seriously. And since the Democrats don't seem to have anybody they're pushing for for 2024, it's especially important for potential voters (because that's what these fans are, many will be old enough to vote by 2024) to start to research and understand the opposition.

Oh, and this also alienates members of Dream's audience that do remember the Trump administration. Reminder, thanks to Trump and his buddies, being queer is becoming illegal again. POC are constantly under attack because of the racist remarks encouraged by Trump during his administration. Treating Trump as a joke could, and probably has, alienated a portion of viewers. It shows them just how seriously Dream thinks these issues are. It's all worth it for a funny joke that won't appear for longer than a minute on a several hour long stream train, one viewed by tens of thousands of people live and hundreds of thousands more via vods and clips in the 12+ hours that have passed since.

You'd think that Dream would know better with a platform this size and with a fanbase as unique as what his used to be, but I guess not. Critical thinking is vital in this industry, whether you're a fan or a creator. Do I think he meant any harm in this? No, I think he's just a moron. A terrible man, yeah, but not for this. For this, he's just a fucking idiot, and he needs to get a PR guy, and he needs to fucking think before he does things for once in his life. Because it could've been funny to some people, including himself, but there is a responsibility to be, well, responsible with yourself and your audience when you're a content creator. It's very easy to send the wrong message out. There's a certain level of critical thinking that needs to be put into place, and that clearly is not a skill that Dream has.

[shootingmorningstar]

Anon, I am so sorry .ᐟ I accidentally posted your request wayyyyy too early and had to delete it .ᐟ That being said, thank you so much .ᐟ My favorite part of writing is getting to see it resonate with others, so comments like these really make my day. Anyways, let me just say that I love this rq. You're right, that's such a funny scenario.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀Alastor With a Vee!Reader .ᐟ

You hadn't expected to climb the ranks at Voxtek. Really, you hadn't. You started off as nothing more than one of the many assistants Vox seems to get off by yelling at. Just another spineless sinner that would probably end up selling their soul to one of the three overlords, more than likely your boss.

That is exactly how your friendship with Alastor started out, actually. It wasn't too often you got a day off -- there isn't exactly any form of worker protection in hell -- so you were delighted to be able to take a stroll through Pentagram City. Maybe you could buy a new dress, or even stop by Rosie's Emporium .ᐣ Any hopes you'd had of a nice peaceful day were dashed, however, by your boss' face lighting up your cellphone.

Ugh, he was calling you .ᐣ Really, on your one day off .ᐣ Nevermind, of course he was. It seems you signed away your right to any peace the moment you became an employee under the VoxTek name.

Answering it with a simple ❛ how can I help you, sir .ᐣ ❜ had resulted in a frustrated yell so loud it resembled the high pitched screech two electronic devices echoed when forced near each other. He wasted no time in telling you a report you hadn't even written was absolute garbage and that you needed to come in and fix it now.

Or, at least, that's what you assume he was going to say. He'd gotten no farther than ❛ in ❜ before a shadow crept up on your phone, promptly ending the call.

Confused, you spin around to see Alastor. The Radio Demon, one of the most powerful sinners to ever be sent to Hell . . . . had ended your phone call .ᐣ

Now you were even more confused. You knew both Alastor and Vox despised each other -- that much had been made clear a little bit after the second to last extermination with your bosses power play becoming a duet.. battle .ᐣ

That much was public information but why in Hell's name would he ever interfere with a phone call .ᐣ He hated modern technology. You're spared from your confusion, though, when a staticky voice crackles to life in front of you. ❛ Why on Earth would you ever allow him to speak to you in that manner, dear .ᐣ ❜

From that day forward you began to see Alastor more and more, each time with a new piece of advice he had to offer you on dealing with such a terrible boss. It was absolutely orchestrated on Alastor's part, but either you didn't realize or just couldn't bring yourself to care. What you absolutely realize, though is that Alastor's advice is working. Each little bit of information he gives you dives a little bit deeper on how to deal with Vox -- how to actually have a backbone against his outrageous demands.

Fearing one day that you might push back just a little too hard and be met with the lethal force of an angry Overlord, Alastor gives you a tiny, what appears to be hand carved wooden radio. Your fear is warranted and he knows it -- you wouldn't be the first VoxTek employee to end as nothing more than a written off casualty. The idea is simple ; speak the demon's name into his namesake if any of the Vee's put you in danger and he would come to your aid.

The little trinket acts as a security blanket. From that day forward you tell Vox what you think of his ideas and where exactly he can shove the piles of paperwork he didn't feel like doing and rather pushed to you.

And Vox is impressed. You can't speak to him the way you do without being Velvette or Valentino. He doesn't know whether you're spunky or foolish, but he decides he doesn't care which. He also decides you're wasted as a secretary. In no time you're rising the ranks, going from secretarial supervisor, managing the entire office, all the way to Vox's personal assistant, making yourself known as VoxTek's rising star.

As his assistant, you find yourself attending meetings with the other Vee's often -- and to your surprise, they like you. Especially Velvette. Enough to demand Vox to share.

That's how you became a member of one of the most feared groups in Hell, the newest Vee, their underdog assistant. You take on responsibilities from all three of them, keeping them running smoothly.

All the while you're finding time to go out with Alastor for tea and a stroll through Cannibal Town. He usually despises physical contact, so you can't seem to understand why he wrapped his arm around your waist as you walked .ᐣ

What you hadn't seen was the sinner with their phone out, camera pointed at you and ready to snap a shot of Hell's newest Vee hanging out with their sworn enemy. The picture explodes on social media before Vox can get it under control, and before he knows it it's being reposted to Sinstagram twice for every one he deletes. He's outraged, calling you and demanding an answer. Alastor has long thought of this, though -- so as the two of you planned, he pretends to walk away, leaving the view of the cameras Vox is undoubtedly watching you on before using his magic to cut them off.

It's then you explain that you'd befriended the Radio Demon 'for the Vee's' in hopes of 'gaining intel to sabotage him and his Hotel.' It's a lie, but it appeals to Vox's sense of hatred for Alastor enough to slip by undetected. The idea of finding out his enemies secrets thrills him, actually.

Continuing your friendship has never been easier. Occasionally, you'll ask Alastor an overly intrusive question, he'll reply with a falsehood and you both try not to snicker as you try to act like you're trying to go behind his back to report the answer to Vox.

To be honest . . . Velvette and Valentino don't really seem to care half as much about Alastor as Vox does. They're very interested in the power felling him would bring them and so your fake spy mission does please them, but seeing you beside him didn't really send them into a frenzy like it does Vox. Velvette makes a comment about you trying to get him to change -- ❛ seriously, I know the cunt's all about avoiding cameras, but has he got to avoid mirrors, too .ᐣ that cane went out of style before radio .ᐟ ❜ and that's the end of it.

Alastor had intended you to serve as a tool against the Vee's from the very start, but I think he genuinely does enjoy your company. Sure, most of his motivations are self driven and semi-sociopathic at times, but he isn't incapable of making genuine bonds. His friendship with Rosie seems to be strong, and he's at the least fond of Mimzy and Niffty.

It surprises him regardless. He doesn't even have to be sneaky about his true intentions to you -- you know what he wants and gladly comply all the while enjoying his company. I imagine he enjoys having someone to dish into all of the Vee's shortcomings with, too.

The way I personally interpret this dynamic is platonic, but if it were to step into romantic territory, Alastor would need to be the one to approach it. He has little to no romantic desires or attraction, so I think any sort of confession would be a major turn-off from him. He wouldn't react well to others feelings being pushed onto him. However, if he were to bring it up, you're plenty patient enough to wait while he figures things out. You dealt with Vox's verbal abuse for years, this is lightwork in comparison.

Platonic or romantic doesn't matter, what does is the excitement you get when Alastor picks you up from work at VoxTek HQ and the amusement you share when you hear the sound of a monitor shattering from Vox's office.

If you were ever to be found out and stripped of your title, you have an ally and friend in Alastor, and that's by far the most meaningful thing to come from your work.

Hi, hi .ᐟ Another post out. I've been thinking on this rq ever since I got it and I think this is a good way to both show how evil and manipulative Alastor can be while also having fun. Alastor is a character that is so hard, at least to me, to keep in character while doing x r.eaders. I hope this sits well with any Alastor stans reading this .ᐟ

As always, let me know what you think .ᐟ Hearing back from you guys keeps me writing. Enjoy ♡ .ᐟ

[mzannthropy]

and it becomes your most hated book of all time - Sam plays the main male character of the adaptation of this book (Me Before You)> lol

I even liked the film, the chemistry between him and Emilia is wonderful, but the film is kind of pointless. That ending, I can't even watch again. What makes it even worse is knowing that there is a second book in which he has a daughter, like??????? How does he have a daughter??? Does not make any sense. I thought he was going to give up because he was in love with a woman who loved him and believed they could be happy together. And they were happy together. What makes it worse for me is that in the film Untouchable, which is a true story, there is a similar story, about the person who helps him, and gives him meaning, in the end the character gets married and is happy. Will ends up being selfish in the end. I hate how he wants Clarke there, and the fact that she's gone. Fuck it, no really. The end is he gave her money, fuck. It wasn't about the money, and it shouldn't be. She has a shitty family and a shitty boyfriend, just like he had a shitty family and a shitty girlfriend. It's worth it for Sam and Emilia's performances.

I've never actually watched the film, only read the book. For completion's sake, I suppose I will have to tackle it one day, but every time I imagine having to watch it, a sense of dread creeps on me. It's the worst piece of fiction I have ever engaged with (I've read the first 50 Shades book and this is worse!) and I'm worried I will throw something at my screen and break my TV. I don't believe in the "chemistry" argument, it means nothing to me and Emilia Clarke... I'm trying very hard but her voice and laugh grate on me so much, plus I don't see her as that great an actress.

Anyway, so here we are, I finally get to talk about it (can you believe this @jesstasticvoyage). Here it is, the reason why I don't interact with any other Sam Claflin fans, apart from Jess who is able to handle me. (I get notes from the same users on my original Sam posts, and I see you; it's not you, it's me! You'll see why.) Fucking Me Before You.

If you go through my Sam posts, you will see that I never mention this film, not even when I talk about his book adaptations. The only time I did name it was when I listed the female directors he worked with, bc the film has a female director. When I became a fully fledged Sam fan in 2020, I saw how beloved the film was and how everyone cried over it (why?) and how I could not escape it every time I read any article or interview, and I understood that I will have to be on my own. I couldn't believe how amazing Sam's filmography was, and yet nobody talked about it, it was all Finnick (who is at least cool, despite all my issues with THG that I've just posted about)--and this garbage.

Let me just make something clear, I don't hate MBY bc of its ending. I actually like the ending. I like that he chose death over being with Louisa, bc it contradicts this supposed great love story the author is trying to sell. Also I absolutely loathe Louisa Clark. She is my most hated character of all time and the worst protagonist I've ever read the POV of. She is stupid, the stupidest cow in the whole fucking galaxy. She even fails at being a manic pixie dream girl. I hate her so, so much. Every time I have the misfortune of coming across that scene where she sits on his lap in the wheelchair and they are on the dancefloor and she is laughing, I want to hit her in the face so hard that she fall backwards, cracks her skull and dies. I hate her.

The book is also very poorly written. I see Colleen Hoover get so much hate these days, but idk, I think Jojo Moyes is way worse. Maybe she's not on that many people's radar, to which I say: good! She's also allegedly plagiarised another author. The only reason I don't want to invent a time machine to go back in time and prevent her birth is my fear of creating the timeline where Sam will not break his second ankle and becomes a footballer instead of an actor, so you see that wouldn't have been any good.

Now, I've read pieces from people who are more knowledgeable about this than me that MBY is ableist, and I could make big posts about how ableist it is, but I don't bc it would only come off as insincere. (I didn't realise it was in fact ableist until I read those pieces.) I'm all about authenticity, I don't do virtue signalling/performative wokery. You can say I hate it for the wrong reasons. I hate the book bc it's such a fucking cheap tearjerker that only got published bc the publishers knew it would make people cry. But also I hate the fact that it uses disability as a device to tell a cheap tearjerker, so maybe in a roundabout way it is ableism that I hate it for. (I will post something about the ableism though, just for info.)

The protagonist is an idiot with no skills, woefully unqualified for the job she is hired for (she fails at every other previous job she tries!). All the characters are terribly shallow and one-dimensional. Will's mother is a bitch bc... reasons? Bc the author wants her to be? Overdone tropes of an inattentive bf and a bitch of an ex-gf. You see I don't think Alicia was shitty, it's that Louisa presents her that way and she is not a reliable narrator. Ofc she describes her as a bitch. Alicia explained to Louisa that she tried with Will after his accident, but he pushed her away (even though Alicia doesn't owe Louisa any explanation, and a cow like Louisa has no right to judge her, or anyone else for that matter).

From Tv Tropes MBY YMMV page:

Unintentionally Sympathetic: Will's ex and his friend. We're clearly supposed to hate them for hooking up, but it's not like she ditched him the minute he got hurt. She points out that he relentlessly pushed her away and rebuffed all her efforts to be there for him. Her moving on was inevitable and you can't really fault them for eventually turning to each other—obviously, their efforts to comfort each other turned into something more—she outright says that they've been friends for ages and that he was a great support to her after the accident.

Jojo is presenting MBY as this big love story. Except it isn't. Louisa has a Florence Nightingale complex, and Will. Doesn't love Louisa. "You're the only thing that makes me get up in the morning." Sure, that's why he kills himself. For which I don't blame him, if the other option is being with Louisa. But that means it's not love!

But you're right that it's pointless, bc it achieves nothing. If he decided to live and then died of natural causes, then yeah, that would have been a different matter, that would have meant that the protagonist succeeded at something.

Screenshot of a funny one-star review on Goodreads:

I do wonder if Jojo has a handfeeding fetish. I shudder when I think about watching Sam being hand-fed by Emilia Clarke. I really don't think I can take on this film.

Louisa inheriting money from Will, idk, I have no opinion of it and Louisa is not even the type of a woman that knows how to enjoy money. What's she gonna do with it, buy a million pairs of stripey tights?

As for the sequel, it looks like it's a trilogy and Will's kid is I think one of those most boring tropes where a guy didn't know he had a child for years bc the mother didn't tell him. Jojo once again showing her lack or ideas. Gilmore Girls did it, Peaky Blinders did it and worst of all, even fucking Star Trek Picard did it, and those are just shows that I've watched lately!

I have heard of the Untouchable film (I found it when I was looking up Omar Sy bc I liked him in Lupin). I planned to watch it but then forgot. I really need to check it out, it looks good.

This got long... thanks for reading.

[jinkieswouldyoulookatthis]

Rolling - Chapter Two

Just a hunt fic with lots of weirdly close brother moments.

Words: 3788

Relationship:  Just the brothers being weirdly close, no wincest, no smut, but this definitely qualifies as weirdcest.

Warnings: Angst.

Read it on AO3 here

Read from the beginning here

“Beginner’s luck.” Dean said, trying not to grumble but hearing it in his own voice anyway.

They’d climbed into the Impala just before dawn, the trees silhouetted against the brightening sky , Dean up front, Sam in the back, their usual places, and passed out. When the sun finally rose up high enough to shine over the tops of the trees, and right through the windows of the car, the air, still crisp and crystal clear, offered no filtering or muting of its brilliance. Dean figured they’d gotten about three and a half hours of sleep, at most, which wasn’t nearly enough but was likely to be all he got until nightfall. There was a potential case in Chicago, which was a solid ten hour drive away.

As soon as he started moving around, Dean knew it was going to be a bad day, but when Sam said that he felt fine, and actually looked like he meant it, it just turned Dean’s mood from bad to worse. He knew that some people felt fine after the first time they took ecstasy, but he had never been that lucky. Coming down off the stuff made him sullen, irritable, and kicked his natural depressive tendencies into high gear. Sam seemed to sense it and was quiet and quick to get ready to go. He was waiting in the passenger seat when Dean came back from taking a piss against a tree.

Before they got on the highway, Sam pointed to a greasy looking truckstop diner, “Food?”

“I’m not hungry.” 

Sam didn’t say anything, just nodded.

“Do you want to stop?” It came out harsh and kind of accusatory.

“Not really.” Sam said.

“Then why did you mention it?” But it wasn’t really a question and Sam was smart enough to not rise to the bait. Dean couldn’t decide if that made things better or worse. 

Just before noon, Dean had to pull over. The car needed gas and they both had to pee. Sam went inside to return the restroom key to the clerk, and came back with a couple of plastic wrapped sandwiches. He didn’t say anything, just handed a sandwich to Dean and proceeded to unwrap his. He ate it in what seemed like four bites.

“Why don’t you let me drive for a while?”

He almost said no, but his stomach lurched with the first bite and he decided that eating and maybe taking a quick nap might do him some good.

“Fine.” and he traded places with his brother.

Out on the road again, Dean forced himself to eat but without the distraction of driving, his mind wouldn’t shut up. Sam didn’t know, because Dean hadn’t said anything at all about it, but when the shadow person had squeezed his heart, it had also squeezed a lot of thoughts and fears to the surface. Even through the serotonin bliss of the ecstasy, it had managed to drag some of the nastier spiders up from the depths of Dean’s mind. Sam resented him for dragging him back into all this crap, and only tolerated him because he didn’t have anyone else. Not that Dean would have let him go be with someone else, not his pathetic, clingy self. Although Sam was going to leave again, it was only a matter of time. The next chance that came along, the next excuse, and Dean would be left alone with nothing but the raw hollow ache inside him that nothing seemed to fill when he was out there on his own, just another piece of garbage drifting through the world.

His head slowly slid against the window as he fell asleep, but to him it felt like he just sank beneath the surface of a pool of negativity and self hate. The dream seemed to start immediately.

“I can’t stay here, Dean. I’m leaving.” and Sam, looking sad and lost, slung his backpack over one shoulder and walked out the door. Dean was right behind him, but Sam was nowhere to be seen. 

“Dean!” Sam screamed from somewhere far off.

Dean ran through an empty parking lot, down an alley, he was running along a deserted road in the middle of nowhere, through a forest and his side was cramping up, and his breath was coming in painful gasps. 

“Dean!” and Sam’s voice, full of pain and fear, came from somewhere just out of sight.

Dean turned around and there was his brother, laying crumpled in the corner of a dirty warehouse, a werewolf looming over him. Dean didn’t hesitate, he put himself between Sam and the monster just as it brought its claws down. The real memory of claws tearing his flesh flickered through, and then he was the one on the floor, bleeding out, and it was Sam standing above him.

“Why did you do that? I can take care of myself, Dean.” and Sam slung his backpack over his shoulder and walked out the door, more irritated this time than sad.

Dean ran out right after him and onto a college campus with students walking everywhere. Sam was way ahead of him. Dean couldn’t catch up, there were too many people in the way.

“Dean!” Sam screamed. But everyone looked like Sam from the back, same jacket, same backpack, and he couldn’t tell which direction the shout had come from.

“Dea…!!” Sam came flying out from behind a corner and slammed into a wall, a demon slowly advancing on him. Dean had Ruby’s knife in his hand and he charged at the black-eyed son of a bitch. But it easily caught him by his throat and squeezed. Dean’s windpipe collapsed and his neck snapped. The demon dropped him like a ragdoll and Dean fell at Sam’s feet.

“I need to go, Dean. You have to let me go.” Sam said before he turned and walked off.

Dean fell into darkness and landed in a graveyard. Sam was wearing a red suit, his eyes black as coal. As Dean approached, Sam started to swell, to stretch. His face distended, features bulging as he laughed, until his skin split open and a gigantic, red, horned Devil ripped out of him like he was a tear-away suit. 

“NOOOOO!!!” Dean screamed and fell to his knees.

“Stop holding me back, Dean, I’m not a kid anymore. I can take care of myself.” Sam said defiantly as he stepped out from behind the Devil. “You need to let me go, this isn’t healthy. I’m not going to follow you around like a lovesick puppy anymore. I don’t need you.”

Dean couldn’t stop the tears from rolling down his cheeks, even though he wanted to shout, to be angry, to stop him, but his heart was ripping apart. Why couldn’t he stop him? He couldn’t stop him from leaving or from getting hurt, no matter what he did.

Sam leaned down into Dean’s face, his eyes glowing with some malevolent inner fire. “I don’t need you and I don’t want you, you’re angry and you’re corrupt and pathetic. Just a sick, sad, perverted, worthless nobody. I hate y…” 

A shining blade cut through Sam’s neck, severing his head cleanly from his body.

“Dean.” Sam’s head mouthed his name.

His vision was blurring and his throat ached from holding in the scream that was trying to claw its way out of him. If he let it out, if he started screaming, he didn’t think he’d ever be able to stop.

“Dean, wake up!” Something grabbed him by the shoulder and started to shake him. His eyes snapped open and he gasped, feeling his heart pounding inside his chest.

Sam’s hand was on his shoulder, the grip a little hard, and he looked worried.

Dean breathed in sharply through his nose and then out through his mouth. His hand came up and rubbed his face. His cheeks were wet.

“Hey, are you okay? You were having a nightmare.”

“Yeah. Shit.” Dean tried to get his heart to calm the fuck down. He looked around and had to squint, the sun was shining brightly at a low enough angle the roof didn’t block it. 

“Where are we?”

“I70, coming up on Triadelphia.”

“We’re halfway there?” Dean looked around again, trying to shake off the nightmare. They were pulled over to the side of a highway.

“It’s been about three hours since we switched. You just started shouting and thrashing around in your sleep.”

Dean wiped his face on his sleeve and sank back against the seat, breathing out heavily.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Okay,” Sam put the car in drive and checked his mirrors, “there’s an exit coming up with a few motels. We’re going to get a room for the night and get something real to eat. The thing in Chicago will still be there tomorrow. ” He started going and pulled back onto the road in a gap in traffic.

Dean was still trying to shake off the lingering strands of the nightmare so Sam got no argument as he took Exit 11 - 41 Dallas Pike and pulled into the Econo Lodge parking lot. 

After they’d gotten settled and had taken showers, changed the clothes they’d been wearing for the last 36 hours, they found a local restaurant by a nearby truck stop called, eloquently enough, Ruttenbucks. 

“Evening, fellas. I’m Chrissie. What can I get for ya?” The waitress asked. She looked to be in her thirties, with medium brown hair pulled into a high ponytail and a black tee shirt with the restaurant logo in orange over her heart. A gold wedding band with a modest diamond ring graced her left hand.

“I’ll have the Smokey Mountain Burger, medium, with fries instead of chips and a beer, whatever’s on tap. Thanks.” Dean said with a smile, the idea of a big old bacon cheeseburger making his stomach growl.

She nodded and looked at Sam.

“Uh, the pulled chicken salad with Balsamic vinaigrette.” His jaw clenched for just a second, like he could sense Dean’s eyes rolling, which they were. “And I’ll have a beer too.”

“Sure thing.”

“Thank you.” Sam said with a polite smile as she started to walk away.

“Oh, hey, Chrissie?” 

She turned back towards Dean.

“Can we also get an order of the grilled pierogies with onions?” He said with a hopeful smile.

“Of course!” She said and smiled back at him before heading to the bar to put in their order. Sam saw Dean’s eyes focus on her ass before turning back to him. 

Dean never failed to be Dean, he thought

Unlike the club from the night before, Sam and Dean blended in a little too well here. Everything was wood paneling and mounted deer heads and antlers. The other customers were mostly burly, redneck-types in trucker caps, camo, plaid and well-worn denim. The place had a real salt-of-the-earth vibe.

When the food came, Dean ate with gusto, his appetite obviously bouncing back and it set Sam’s mind at ease a bit, even if watching his brother eat was somewhat embarrassing. Dean had grease smeared around his mouth, his lips glistening with it, and egg yolk was dripping from the corner of his mouth. Then there was the pornographic moaning, “Mmmmm! Oh god! Mmm.”

“Dude.” Sam said.

“What?” Dean asked around a mouthful of burger. “It’s good.” 

Sam gave a little shake of his head, his brow furrowing. “Use your napkin?”

“Alright Felix, don’t get your panties in a twist.” Dean finished the burger in a couple more bites, his cheeks stuffed like a squirrel, picked up his napkin and daintily patted the corners of his mouth in mock propriety as he chewed.

Sam laughed. “That is not going to cut it, Dean.”

“Yeah, well, you’re just jealous because you only had a salad. Here,” he stabbed a pierogi with his fork and held it out towards Sam, “try one of these. Come on. Try it.”

Sam wrinkled up his nose. “No, I’m good. Thanks.”

“Your loss.” Dean said as he shoved the entire thing into his mouth, butter dripping down his chin.

It was Sam’s turn to roll his eyes.

***

Back in the motel room, after Dean had washed the remains of dinner off his face, he’d stretched out in bed and flipped through the meager selection of channels before finally settling on some HGTV show about flipping houses.

“Really?” Sam had asked.

“Shut up.”

But it seemed to do the trick because Sam heard soft snores coming from the other bed a few minutes later. He grabbed the remote from the bedside table and turned the tv off before rolling over and drifting off to sleep himself.

“Sam.”

It was said so quietly that it took Sam a minute to realize that it hadn’t been part of his dream. He lifted his head from the pillow and looked around the room. Dean was laying on his back, eyes scrunched closed, breathing fast and shallow.

“No.” Dean mumbled quietly, talking in his sleep.

Sam pushed up on his elbows and looked at the clock. They’d only been asleep for maybe half an hour.

“No, don't,” a little louder. Then, “Sam, no!”

“Hey, Dean.” Sam said.

“Don’t,” Dean said, and the raw fear that one word carried made Sam get up and reach out to touch Dean’s arm.

“Dean. Wake up.”

“Don’t go, Sam!” His head tossed back and forth. “Get away from him! SAM!”

Gripping his brother’s upper arm, Sam shook him. “Dean! Wake up!”

Tears were streaming out of Dean’s eyes. “No, Sammy, don’t leave.”

“Dean! I’m not leaving. I’m right here. It’s just a nightmare. Wake up.” Sam’s other hand gave a few gentle slaps to Dean’s cheek, “Come on, wake up, Dean. I’m not going anywhere.”

Dean’s eyes snapped open, “Sam?”

“Yeah, I’m right here. It’s okay, Dean. It was just a nightmare.”

Dean’s eyes blinked rapidly a few times as he looked around before settling on Sam. Sam was completely unprepared for the sudden, fierce hug that Dean pulled him into, and he almost fell on top of him on the bed.

“Whoa! It’s okay, Dean. It’s okay.” He repeated as he awkwardly hugged back. “It was just a dream.”

After a minute, Dean let go. “Shit. I’m sorry.”

Sam sat down on the side of his bed as Dean got up and swung his legs over the edge of his own, putting his feet on the floor. Dean wiped at his face.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Sam said gently, trying to walk that fine line between being caring but not too caring. He knew from long experience that moments like this were delicate for Dean. Sometimes he would open up and let his problems and fears and worries spill out between them. But if Sam pushed at all his brother would clam up tight, and whatever was bothering him would just keep festering until it leaked out again and again.

Dean looked at him and Sam could see the wheels grinding in his head. Dean looked away, looked around, looked down at his own hands. Sam just waited.

“It’s stupid.” 

“Not if it’s bothering you this much.”

“It’s,” he shook his head and closed his eyes to say the rest, “it’s just old fears, I guess. Got all stirred up when that thing…” he opened his eyes, still looking down though and rubbed his chest, right over his heart. He didn’t say anything else and the silence stretched out between them.

“I’m not going to leave.” Sam finally said quietly.

Dean looked up at him and the doubt that was there for just a second, just a heartbeat, cut right through Sam. But then Dean gave a small smile (that didn’t really reach his eyes, Sam noted), nodded and stood up. Sam watched him walk to the bathroom and close the door without saying anything else. 

Sam blinked his eyes, willing them to stay dry, and he swallowed down his own insecurities as they started to well up. He deserved that doubt, he knew. He had left Dean, more than once. Every chance he’d gotten, in fact, he’d cut and run. At the time, he had been blissfully unaware of anything but his own need to try whatever he could to find a normal life. But knowing now what that had done to Dean would eat away at him if he let it. Instead he took a long breath, in and out, and reaffirmed to himself that he would do whatever he had to, for as long as he had to (for the rest of his life) to make it up to Dean.

Although it took Sam a long time to unwind, once Dean was settled watching a movie on Sam’s laptop, he finally managed to get a few hours of sleep, drifting into fitful sleep sometime well after midnight. When he woke up, Dean was still awake, sitting at the little table by the window  still looking at the laptop but with earbuds in so he wouldn’t disturb Sam. A steaming cup of coffee in his hand.

They didn’t talk about the nightmares. Sam got up, they both got ready to go, loading their stuff into the car, and headed for Chicago. Dean insisted on driving. He didn’t sing along with the radio, he didn’t tap out the rhythm on the steering wheel, he didn’t talk at all except when he had to, all the way to the city. The time for dealing with whatever this was would come eventually so Sam just let the silence roll on and did his best to ignore the growing dark circles under his brother’s eyes and the dimples that only appeared when he was annoyed.

The deaths in Chicago turned out to be exactly what they figured, vampires. A nest of them had set up shop and were culling victims and recruiting new members to their fang club at a bar called The Empty Bottle. They had obviously been trying to be careful, to keep a low profile, they just didn’t keep it low enough. It took about 24 hours of investigating for Sam to make the connection with the bar, and then just an hour or so in the place to spot a vamp and follow it back to the nest.

“Looks like there might be about a dozen of them. That’s not a walk in the park.” Sam said.

Just then a group of nine vampires left the nest, split into ones and twos, and wandered out, probably to hunt.

“Odds just got a lot better. I say we hit the nest now, wait around, and pick off the rest as they come back. We should have it cleared by morning.” Dean got out of the car , a cloud of trillium, saffron and skunk cabbage smoke pouring out of the car, and opened the trunk. Sam joined him, strapping a machete to his belt and loading a dart gun with dead man’s blood syringes.

They had the element of surprise, thanks in large part to the obnoxiously loud music that was banging out from the stereo and were able to take out the vampires that had stayed in the loft quickly, all at once.

“Did they really stay behind just to fuck?” Dean wondered out loud.

Sam shrugged, wiping blood from the blade of his machete onto a couch cushion next to the tangle of beheaded, naked bodies. “The others will smell the blood when they return. But the music should mask our heartbeats.”

“Great. So now we wait.” And they took up positions near the door, where they wouldn’t be seen right away and they waited in silence.

***

“That was the dumbest bunch of vamps I’ve ever seen. I don’t know how they made it this long.” Dean said as he walked into their hotel room just after dawn.

“I think they were all recently turned.”

“Which means there may be an older one around here somewhere. We should get ourselves a few states away before nightfall.”

They packed up their stuff and were headed south by 8am.

They made it to Noel, Missouri just north of the Arkansas state line by sunset and checked into a room at Arthur Murray’s Motel. Dean had made a joke about Sam taking dance lessons while they were there that Sam didn’t laugh at. The room had a rustic, mountain lodge motif and two queen-sized beds, brown leather overstuffed chairs, and all the other usual stuff, mini fridge, microwave, tiny coffee maker, dresser with a tv on it, etc..

Even though it had been a couple of days since he’d slept, and he’d only gotten a few hours of sleep before that, Dean still made a quick run out to a liquor store, loaded up on beer and a bottle of whiskey before settling in for the night. It took a six pack and about a 1/4th of the bottle of whiskey before he finally passed out just after midnight. But just minutes after his breathing had shallowed out with sleep, Sam heard a quiet, mumbled, “no.” Dean’s brow scrunched up and his head slowly shook back and forth.

Without thinking about anything other than the fact that they both needed to get some real sleep, Sam reached over and covered one of his brother’s hands with his own, applying gentle pressure. “I’m right here, Dean. I’m not leaving.”

Still sound asleep, Dean clutched at Sam’s hand with both of his.

“I’m not leaving, Dean. I’m staying right here. Get some rest. I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

***

Dean opened his eyes slowly, blinking to clear his vision and freeing his hand so he could rub the sleep out of them. He wondered what time it was, felt like he’d been asleep for a week and he raised his head up to look around. Sam was sprawled out next to him, still sound asleep, but on Dean’s bed instead of his own. He realized that he’d had to let go of Sam’s hand when he’d moved it, that he’d been clutching onto him in his sleep.

“What the hell?” he said quietly, a barely audible grumble. He turned and looked at the clock. It was almost 11am. He didn’t remember falling asleep, he’d drunk himself into unconsciousness, hoping to escape the stupid nightmares this time. He thought back and even as his dreams were turning to vapor and wisping away he recalled one moment. Instead of running away again, Sam had come back and held onto him. 

“I’ll be right here when you wake you.”

“Screw getting up,” he thought, closed his eyes again and drifted, half dozing, until Sam finally woke up.

Next Chapter --->

[idonttalktopeasants]

My English homework

I wrote this for an English assignment but now I don’t know what to do with it so I’m putting it here

Warning:a lot of fat jokes

Word count:1,530

Betsy butterface was a 10-year-old girl with brown hair and a boyfriend, Tobey McGuire, a loser with glasses and a bow tie. They were average kids in an average school full of average losers, in an average town called (I’ll pick a name later)

Today was a weird day Betsy went to school and did all her classes as normal, nothing could possibly go wrong, or so they thought.

Betsy was supposed to meet Tobey to get the new trendy balenciaga ice cream, it cost 5000 dollars each but because they weren’t American they could afford it.

They were walking while eating the ice cream and as expected it tasted like total garbage, but clout ain’t free even if it meant ingesting a few pieces of lead. Both of them had to take breaks on the walk because they needed to throw up so badly in nearby trash cans

Betsy felt sick after managing to eat the ice cream, before she could be stopped she fell in a lake, but unlike any other lake it started glowing, then it stopped, Betsy quickly got out and went back home.

The next day Betsy woke up to her trendy skincare broken and messy. She was so lucky that she woke up early or the toxic fumes would have hurt her, the cleanup took half an hour but that wasn’t a problem. She got dressed and went to school

Betsy got a note in her locker saying:

Meet me beehynd the skool

Secret guy

Betsy didn’t know who it was from but she went anyway. Turns out it was a bully, chad, he was a 14-year-old guy who got held back. Chad saw betsy and she ran away, Chad chased Betsy into a dark alley and cornered her, he was about to beat her up but suddenly got propelled into a wall. How could this have happened? There was nobody there?

Chad’s face started bruising as well, it looked like he was getting beaten up by a boxing champion but no one was there.betsy held her arm in anticipation but Chad then stopped moving. Betsy got worried and left, she bumped into a lady and was going to apologize but she saw the lady frozen in place also. The pumpkin spice latte she had dropped was frozen in the air.

Looking around Betsy saw that everything was frozen in place and when she looked at her arm she saw it was glowing, the same glow from the lake. Betsy held her arm tightly again and this time everything went back to normal.

This was amazing, for some strange reason that lake gave Betsy awesome powers. Apparently she could unconsciously beat people up and stop time. The first thing she did was go to Tobey McGuire’s house. When she arrived Tobey obviously didn't believe her, Betsy didn’t know what to do but she held her arm again, and then everything froze again this time Tobey didn’t freeze along with everything else. Tobey dropped his nerdy Pokémon cards and they froze in the air

‘What the hell is this!?!?’ Said Tobey, Betsy said nothing, Tobey saw Betsy’s arm glowing ‘holy crap your arm! It’s glowing, this has to be because of the lake’ said Tobey ‘I don’t care, this is awesome!’ Said Betsy ‘if I could beat up Chad with this imagine what else I could do’ Tobey

Got worried and said ‘Betsy I think we should be responsible with this, as they say-‘ Betsy cut him off ‘ Shut the hell up Tobey Nobody cares’ betsy left

The next day was horrible for everyone of Betsy’s classmates, Betsy planned to enlist revenge on all who have shown her nothing but scorn and bitter hate. She cheated off of people during a pop quiz and wrote notes insulting people in their desk, nobody could blame her because she was in another classroom, she found a girl sitting at her seat, it was HER SEAT, the NERVE was unbelievable, Betsy didn’t know this girl but it was clear she was evil so she held her arm again and carried the girl to another chair, when the girl was unfrozen she was confused.

At the end of the school day Tobey texted Betsy on her IPHONE 14 and said ‘ you need to come to the lake I have something to show you *emoji*’. In 10 minutes Betsy arrived ‘what’s going on?’ She said, Tobey replied with ‘ look what I found’ he took a bottle with a piece of paper inside and opened it:

When a person falls into this lake, preferably a minor who recently ingested a balenciaga product, they will receive the abilities that they need to defeat Gorlock the destroyer.

Who’s gorlock the destroyer? And why is he so important that they needed to make a magic pond to be able to defeat him? Betsy and Tobey decided that they should to Google it, and that’s what they did. They were both sitting in a park bench near the lake, Turns out it was an old folk tale that they told in the 1800s based off a real man. It took all of 5 minutes to find a copy:

‘There was once a man by the name of Ali in a town called (I’ll think of a name later). A man experiencing the failings of obesity at the young age of 23, his only sanctuary was the sweet shop across the street because no female could ever love a man like him, wider than the burj Kalifha itself. Ali died of heart failure at the age of 23 from 1801-1824. He needed to be buried under a field because a regular cemetery was too small for him. Many years later women who had rejected Ali were found dead, and people have reported seeing a gigantic monster that looked like Ali destroying every gym In (I’ll think of a name later). Ali has later been given the name gorlock the destroyer.’

And suddenly the ground underneath the lake crumbled and something really big emerged, it was like Godzilla but fatter. It could only be one thing. Gorlock the destroyer.

Betsy and tobey watched the whole thing in horror as gorlock went and tried to steal things like women and the McDonald’s, luckily he could only succeed in one of those things. The failure made him upset and he destroyed the gyms. This was too much, Betsy ran away to a wrecked up gym and hid behind the flipped-over gym equipment.

A few minutes went by but Betsy couldn’t leave the spot and risk getting killed. A bright light appeared and a ghost of an old-timey man showed up, he was bald.Betsy yelled ‘WHO ARE YOU’ immediately the ghost responded ‘ I am drew grate, a pioneer of my time, I created the lake’ Betsy was surprised ‘why are you here?’ She asked ‘I was mistaken, the person that fell in the lake was supposed to be a boy, I forgot to include that in the prophecy’ said drew grate ‘ I came to take the power back and Give it the the boy who was with you’ Betsy was upset ‘NO,you already gave it to me’ she yelled ‘how dare you, you haven’t done anything’ said drew grate ‘ how do you know that, I haven’t even had it for a day’ betsy said ‘If I defeat gorlock will you let me keep it?’ Drew was shocked but he spent a few seconds thinking and said ‘okay’. He then disappeared.

Betsy had to think what could she do? Gorlock came to the gym Betsy was in and destroyed all the equipment, Betsy had to dodge the undeserved attacks to the equipment she was hiding behind. That’s it! The equipment! Maybe Betsy could use that to get rid of gorlock. Right now she had to find Tobey. So she left and found him, next to a big pile of concrete. Gorlock attacked Tobey’s house and Tobey got hit in the head.

Betsy told Tobey about her plan and he agreed, after he felt better Betsy held her arm and everything froze. Her and Tobey spent a lot of time making a trail using exercise equipment that lead her away from (I’ll think of a name later). When Betsy held her arm again gorlock saw the trail immediately and started to follow the trail and destroy each piece of equipment on the way

Gorlock fell in the ocean and started moving like she was getting beaten up by a pro boxer. Just like Chad. Betsy then realized the reason why it happened, Betsy hated Chad and she was so angry at him that she unconsciously did that. Betsy hated gorlock for destroying Tobey’s house. gorlock stopped moving and started disintegrating. The townspeople came back out and started the cleanup process,Betsy went back home after that. There was no doubt now that she proved drew grate wrong.

When it was time to go to school again the rumors about what happened were crazy, one kid said that it was Godzilla’s older brother but nonetheless Betsy felt really cool and this time she needed no trendy stuff to prove it.

[phykios]

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

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

1)

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

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

Percy might hate college.

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

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

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

“How bad is it?”

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

“Ouch.”

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

Her mouth twists in sympathy. “Sucks.”

“Yep.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Sounds good.”

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

Percy slams the computer shut. 

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah,” Percy chuckles, uneasy.

Several seconds pass. 

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

Spoiler alert: it doesn’t get much better.

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

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

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

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

“Uh… sure. I’d love to.” 

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

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

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

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

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

Percy nods. Amphibious? “Uh-huh.”

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

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

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

“Where were they sailing through?” Percy asks. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He coughs, shrugging his shoulders. “Sorry.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t forget--”

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

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

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

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

“I think you should consider majoring in history.”

Percy’s head snaps up. “History?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why not?”

“Because… it's too easy?” 

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

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

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

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

By morning, he has a response. 

Sounds good! Looking forward to it.

***

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

“Hey mom.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you.”

“An A!”

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

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

“Thanks, mom.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why can’t he stop smiling? “Thanks.”

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

“It does.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Thanks mom. Love you.”

“Love you, too.” 

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

Maybe college won’t be so bad after all. 

2)

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Deal.”

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

He sighs. “You guys are idiots.”

“Frank!”

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

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

It’s… not what he expected.

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

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

And, well. Percy can handle the sea.

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

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

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

Thirty minutes later, he is well and truly wasted.

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

She snorts, grinning at him. “Thanks.”

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

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

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

“You did.”

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

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

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

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

“Gross.”

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

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

“Greek Fire bombs. Five.”

“You’re a psychopath.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” he hisses, glaring.

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

“The what?”

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

“That doesn’t help.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

Some mistakes may have been made.

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

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

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

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

Nico gaped, staring. "What."

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

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

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

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

"It was your idea!"

"I don't have good ideas."

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

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

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

“Seriously?”

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

Freak. Percy would die for the kid.

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

“You’re so weird.”

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

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

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

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

“Shh!” Nico hisses. 

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

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

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

That mouth opens, soundlessly, jaw working on nothing.

“Speak.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nico’s eyes widen. 

Percy stares. “What.”

“I didn’t stop the ritual.”

His stomach goes cold.

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

Percy can’t speak, mouth dry.

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

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

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

3)

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

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

“Annabeth.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That was the best compliment he had gotten.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He nods. “Very interesting.” 

Percy stares. Can this guy say anything else? 

“This is very well done, young man.”

Oh. “Thank you,” he says. 

“Who are you working with?” 

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

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

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

“I’m sorry?”

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

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

“Who was that?” Annabeth asks. 

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

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

Five hundred?! “Fuck me.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His mouth goes dry. “Um…” 

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

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

Annabeth, behind him, coughs. 

“S-sure. No problem.” 

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

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

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

Percy relaxes. He’s got this.

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

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

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

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

And they certainly seem impressed with his talk so far. 

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

Well, most of them, anyway.

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

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

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

“And how big were these models?” 

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

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

Percy freezes. “Uh.”

Oh, shit.

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

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

In the corner of his eye, Annabeth facepalms.

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

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

Annabeth adds a second hand to her facepalm.

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

“At my… summer camp…” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A little.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Surprising, but definitely not unwelcome.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

4) 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Percy straightens his back. Peace?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

“The ones in the British Museum.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She smiles, waving her little fists.

Gods he loves this little monster.

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

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

The baby says nothing.

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

Junie blinks at him.

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

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

Percy sighs. Dammit.

Time for a new project, he guesses.

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He might be in over his head a little.

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

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

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

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

“Thanks,” he mumbles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He stops. 

He squints at one of his doodles. 

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

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

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

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

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

No response. 

Percy approaches the table. 

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

Percy picks up the book, squinting. 

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

He looks at his napkin drawing. Blurry and smudged.

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

Blurry and smudged.

Percy stares. 

It… can’t be that simple, can it?

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

And he closes his computer.

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

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

“Daw-fins, daddy,” she says, smiling.

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

***

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

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

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

“Update in the Parthenon marbles thing.”

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

He shows her his phone.

Her eyes go wide as saucers. “Damn.”

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

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

He starts. “What did you say?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Annabeth takes her without a second glance. 

Then she does take a second glance.

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

Annabeth gapes. 

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

Annabeth just stares. Junie babbles.

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

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

5)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Percy nearly drops the bottle. “No shit?”

“Big dude, long mustache, writes poetry?”

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

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

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

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

“No, why do you ask?”

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

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

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

“Can do.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Peas,” Junie says. 

“Oh, you want peas instead?”

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

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

“Chip off the old block,” Annabeth says.

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

“I’m doing my best here, okay?”

***

Hardrada is… not what he expected.

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

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

“And what about Lover?”

“What about Lover?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He gets no response.

Percy looks up, confused. “Annabeth?”

“In the bathroom,” he hears, faintly. 

“Everything okay?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That gets his attention.

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

“Is that…?”

“Yep.”

“Oh.”

Her smile falls. “Are you mad?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Jackson,” she corrects.

“Huh?”

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

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

“Then let’s make it happen.”

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

+1

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

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

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

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

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

“Psst.” 

Jamie looks up. 

There’s a four year old staring at her. 

“Hi,” Jamie says. 

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

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

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

“Bello,” says Junie.

Jamie blinks. “Sorry?”

“Legistne carmen longum de bello Troiano.” 

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

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

Junie beams at her.

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

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

Jamie points to the one after that.

“Rex qui pontem fecit erat Ancus Martius.”

“Awesome.” 

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

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

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

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

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

She really should have just stuck with German instead. 

[xneens]

thank u, next (ft. loki)

Warnings: angst, swearing, jealousy, mentions of sex

Word count: 4.5k

Summary: A new team member in the group shakes things up for the super soldier.

Or: In which Steve casts you aside for a Carter only to regret his decision when he sees you with the God of Mischief.

"Yeet."

Swiveling your chair, you saw the empty pint of ice cream hit garbage can, bouncing off the rim and dropping on the floor with a light thump. You looked at Tony, shaking your head. "You've been hanging out with Peter too much."

"Why, thank you." Tony replied, smirking at you. "So, tell me, you sexy vixen, how do you feel with Thor bringing Loki? You were quiet during the whole argument that almost ended with Barton ripping out his eye."

You shrugged, the heels Tony had bought earlier drawing your attention to your feet. "I'm fine. I don't really care, I mean, I wasn't with you guys when New York happened so I don't really think I get to have an opinion about whether the mind-controlled God of Lies gets a spot in the team."

"You realize your on the team, right? I'm pretty sure your opinion matters especially with the mass murderer joining." Tony replied, accidentally hitting himself with the candy cane in his hands. "I really thought you were going to side with Cap on this one. You always do."

It wasn't a secret that Steve Rogers wasn't completely on board with the plan. That was pushing it; in other words: Steve Rogers despised the plan. If he could kill it, he would've. When Thor had proposed the plan to bring Loki on the team (a punishment from Odin himself)—trying to convince everyone he was "good" now—less than a handful had let him continue speaking. The rest wanted to riot. You had just sat there, a smirk on your face as you watched the six of them fight with each other while Fury shook his head, looking like a disappointed father.

When everyone had came to an agreement on Loki's trial period, there had been pages of rules on what he was restricted on doing including magic and stabbing. Of course, it was very specific so even the God of Mischief couldn't find a loophole. Maybe he could if he tried, which he probably will.

Clicking your tongue, you shrugged, ignoring the little pang in your chest. "Not on this. I'm smart enough to see that there's more reward than risk to have Loki on the team. For example: he's not bad to look at."

Tony choked on his candy cane, coughing up a large piece. With wide eyes, he studied you in silence, trying to figure out if you had been joking. "Are you serious? We should bring you to Helen so you can get your head checked. There's a chance you might have a concussion from the last mission."

"You have eyes, you can see how regal he is despite not genuinely being born royal. And those cheekbones..." you trailed off, biting your lip at Loki's handsome features. Tony raised an eyebrow, slowly shaking his head. "Not that his perfect bone structure justifies all the people he's killed. I'm just very observant being an avenger and all."

"Uh-huh, yeah, yeah, yeah, sure." Tony mumbled, leaning back on his chair, his eyes narrowing after your confession. "Ms. Natalia Romanoff didn't get the chance to tell me what happened between you and old Capsicle."

Rolling your eyes, you spun around in your chair, facing away from the nosy billionaire. "There's not that much to tell. We talked, we liked each other, then the sun came up and reality set in as the form of Sharon Carter. It didn't take long for him to ditch me to go for Peggy's niece. Anyways, been there, done that. People change."

"You're not the same girl I met." Tony stated. "On that note, Rogers' old brain is still defrosting and he's getting older so I don't think he knows how stupid he is...yet."

"And I'm not going to wait for him to find out." you muttered, a loud sound coming from the big yard. Looking through the garage window, you saw the blinding light before two figures in different colored capes appeared, the blinding light ruining the fresh-cut grass. Beaming at Tony, you got up. "Want to plan a party with me?"

"You say that like I'd have the ability to say no. Tonight?" Tony replied, grinning at thought of loud electronic dance music and booze.

Getting up, the stilettos clicked on the floor, your perfect pedicure peeking through the hole. Smiling, you walked towards the door. "Well, we are in the presence of two Gods. I think it's only fair we celebrate like it."

"I'm putting Party in the USA on the track-list!"

Rushing to the lawn where the rest of the team gathered, your mood was lightened by the sight of the golden haired retriever in disguised as a jacked God. Ignoring the others, you threw yourself at Thor, the God of Thunder catching you, arms tightening around your body. You let out a breathless laugh, momentarily forgetting your idiotic plan to avoid Steve. "Thor!"

Thor guffawed, lifting you off the ground, shouting your name in glee before letting you breathe again. "My favorite avenger! Miss me?"

"Duh." you responded, glancing at Loki, who had magically changed into an all-black suit, his shoulder length raven-colored hair slicked back. His eyes narrowed slightly at the team who had defeated him. He looked even better in person. "So, that's Loki."

Natasha spoke up before either Asgardian could. She stepped closer, observing him with you. "Not sure. He isn't as smug as before—"

"And he's missing those horrendous reindeer horns he was wearing." Clint chimed in, crossing his arms. His hate for Loki—which had increased when he found out the man who once controlled him was coming to the team—was almost as deep as Steve's. "He looks like a witch in that black suit."

Thor snickered, releasing Loki from the handcuffs that held him. "As you all know, my adopted brother's punishment from Father is to help Earth's Mightiest Heroes. Loki understands all the rules, and he will so follow them accordingly. Isn't that right, brother?"

Loki rolled his eyes, sighing before reluctantly nodding. "Yes, I will."

"Let me make this clear, Loki." Steve stepped up, Sharon right behind him, face composed. You had to fight the urge to roll your eyes at the couple. "If you break one rule, no matter how small, you will be sent back to Asgard and face Odin's alternate punishment. Just so you're clear, we won't hesitate to send you back."

The God of Mischief smirked, feeling smug knowing he could push the super soldier's buttons. "Of course, Captain. I wouldn't dream of breaking the rules enforced."

Everyone could sense the sarcasm and mockery in his voice, all of them tensing. Thor sighed, clapping his brother on the back, the force making Loki take a steps forward. "Come on, brother. I'll show you your quarters before you get punched by Lady Natasha."

Without waiting for Loki to answer, Thor practically pulled Loki's arm off, pulling him towards the building, crossing the ruined lawn that Tony would bitch about later. Everyone followed them, staying a few feet back, wary of the new team member. You noticed Steve stealing glances at you, quickly moving away from Sharon's side and made his way to you.

Without being too obvious, you squeezed your way between Bruce and Natasha, snaking your arms between there's, hoping it would give Steve the impression not to talk to you. Ever. Natasha threw you a sympathetic smile, squeezing your wrist while Bruce raised an eyebrow, clearly confused.

Thor continued talking about the new compound, leading his brother to the entrance while pointing out installments that would've seemed impressive to a simple "midgardian."

He might've unconsciously murdered people but he kinda thicc.

At that exact moment, Loki turned around, his piercing blue eyes meeting yours. His smirk grew, glancing between you and Steve before turning back. It had been so quick that you weren't sure it even happened. The group scattered as soon as they stepped a foot inside; Bruce heading to the lab, Steve following him while Sharon split and headed up to Medbay, Natasha hitting the gym with Clint, leaving you alone with Thor and Loki.

Unfortunately, Thor's room had been across yours, the empty room next to yours becoming Loki's so both a spy and a god could keep an eye on the trickster. Both Tony and Steve had fought on that, Steve concerned about your safety while Tony argued back, telling him you could keep yourself safe. If not, Thor was there. That had angered you; Steve didn't think you were capable of fighting off Loki if it came to it, and that made you roll your eyes at him, exiting the room.

"...and this will be your quarters. Decorate it any way you want, just no magic." Thor continued, reaching the area of your rooms. It was a big arc, the area looking like a semi-circle with three doors spaced evenly out. "My chambers is across Lady Y/N's, so we won't have any problems. She's a smart one, brother. Anything else to add, Sunshine?"

You ignored the nickname, eyes narrowing at the black-suited man. "There's a party tonight 'celebrating' the addition to the team. It starts at 8 so don't be late or else Tony will have your head. Also, if you wake me up before seven in the morning, watch your back 'cause I hold grudges."

Giving Thor a smile, you head to your room, closing the door with a sigh. On the other side, you heard Loki chuckle once. "I like her."

"She's serious. She almost ripped my heart out the one time I accidentally woke her from her slumber." Thor added, the clap on his brother's back loud. "Get ready for the party, Loki."

Loki had been forced in his room by his brother, the door closing after him. He listened carefully, hearing you plop on your bed. He bit back a smirk, a plan unfolding in his brain. With a swift gesture of a finger, the room had been decorated, the hideous white theme changing into an exact copy of Loki's bedroom in Asgard.

The day went by fast as you wasted it away planning the party with Tony, who had, in no way, helped. You had ran off to your room once the people Tony had hired came, setting up everything in the main room. As you walked to the three-bedroom wing, you saw Steve rocking back and forth in front of your door, his hands in his pocket while Thor gushed about his flying hammer.

Relief washed over his face as soon as he spotted you, and you almost turned around, wishing you had gone to Natasha's room to get ready.

Steve called out your name, abruptly ending his conversation with Thor. As you walked closer, you could see the concern etched on his face. "Hey, are you okay?"

Thor watched your reaction, your face fighting the urge to make a face at America's sweetheart. Maneuvering your body, you slid between the two men to get to your room. "I'm fun-fucking-tastic. Thor, remind Loki about the party. I didn't spend the whole day with Tony for Loki to miss his own party."

"I'll be there, darling." Loki chimed in, his head poking out of his bedroom. Everyone turned to look at him, seeing the not-so-subtle wink he gave you.

Ignoring Steve's clenched fists, you moved past them, entering your room. Before closing the door, you said, "Tony requests the presence of all three of you, by the way. There's no way you're getting out of this. See you at 8!"

With a sighed of relief, you closed the door in Steve's face, the loud slam cutting off whatever he was about to interject. He could talk to Sharon about whatever shit he was dealing with, the girl he chose. You were no longer someone he could vent to after the shit he pulled, leading you on before leaving for Sharon Carter. It was then that you came to the decision to not love so easily.

Getting ready for the party took longer than you thought it would, the hot shower burning your skin to the point your skin started to redden. Your mind wandered to Loki, curios about the wink. Maybe it was his way of messing with people, a loophole that had not been included in the agreement. Realizing how inappropriate it was to think about the God while showering, you quickly turned the water off and stepped out.

Knowing Natasha, she's be disappointed if you didn't dress up like your inner slut, the one that got fucked up in Tokyo, and the petty hoe who would do everything to make Steve Rogers regret his decision. Well, you weren't going to let your sestra down.

The sultry, tight red dress was almost too short to be considered decent. With it's low cropped top, your tits we're begging for attention, the bra non-existent. Your new motto: protect the city, free the titties. The matching red stilettos would've been a pain if you hadn't started wearing them so early in your life. You let your hair down, running hand through it before slapping some natural makeup on your face, trying not to look desperate for attention.

It was around 8:15 when you finally finished, already exhausted by the amount of work you had to put on for others, but mostly for yourself. Either Tony or Natasha would come barreling through your door if you were going to be any later. Rushing, you took a quick look in the mirror before opening your door, nearly bumping into the God of Mischief.

He was dressed in a black buttoned-downed dress shirt with matching dress pants. Like before, his hair was slicked back, the shoulder length, raven hair looking silky and sexy. You both eye each other, eyes appreciating the sight in front of them. It wasn't until you finally met his eyes that he cleared his throat, a smug smile covering half his face.

"Would you mind accompanying me to the party, Lady Y/N? My brother is an idiot and cannot give a proper tour with his minuscule organ that he calls a brain. As of that, I do not know where this celebration is held." Loki explained, holding out his arm, waiting for you to take it. He raised an eyebrow while you hesitated. "If not, I could just follow you and everyone would assume I'm planning to have your head."

"Jesus Christ, you and Thor are so fucking dramatic." you grumbled, taking Loki's arm, your arm snaking around his. "Must run in the family, huh?"

"I'm adopted."

"I don't care."

Loki darkly chuckled, feeling your warm body against his, letting himself grow closer, enough that he could feel more of you but not enough that you would've noticed. "I sincerely hope you don't take this the wrong way, but you look rather ravishing, darling."

"Have you ever thought of cutting your hair?" you replied, loving the way Loki's smug expression wavered—probably expecting a compliment—before composing himself. "You'd look less like Johnny Depp from Pirates of the Caribbean."

"I don't understand." Loki said, leading you towards the elevator. For someone who claimed they didn't know where they were headed, he had the sense of knowing where everything was.

You waved the pop culture reference away, pushing the elevator button. "You wouldn't. Is Thor already at the party?"

"I'm quite positive."

The rest of the walk to the main room was quiet, neither of you making small talk as you led him. More like, he led you. You were suspicious he had stayed back and faked not knowing the compound in order to mess with you. But you waved that thought away, focus on getting distracting yourself from Steve.

You could hear the party before seeing it, the big room had been half full, not too much, not too little, yet you had been surprised considering how extra Tony could be. Letting go of Loki's arm, you walked to the bar where Natasha was sipping a glass of whiskey, ignoring the rest of the party. She pulled out a bottle of gin as you arrived, raising an eyebrow at your accompanied date.

"Before you say anything, he didn't know where the party was so he asked me to guide him. Nicely if I might add." you said, pushing back the bottle, settling on a bottle of water instead.

Natasha smirked, watching Loki interact with his brother, a frown deepening on his face. "He knows where everything is, Thor gave him the whole tour while you were with Tony. Can't believe you took the bait."

"Ugh." you grumbled, wishing you could forget about tomorrow and drown your problems in alcohol but the last hangover nearly killed you.

"Stevie doesn't look to happy with you showing up with Loki." Natasha noticed, the smirk widening as she watched Steve's glare grew more lethal as Loki's grin got bigger. "This is so much better than America's Next Top Models fails. Do you wanna bet that one of them will punch the other before the party is over?"

"Daddy, chill." you mimicked, turning to see how enraged old Capsicle is. But with the blonde besides him, looking up him in both wonder and worry, he had no right to be angry at Loki for attending a party that had been thrown for him, despite the many people he murdered—while being controlled. "He can't seriously still be sour about Loki joining."

The redhead giggled, a little drunk from the amount of alcohol she already consumed. "I don't think that's what he's so broody about, not anymore at least. He was smiling until he saw you on Loki's arm."

"Ain't my fault he chose Peggy's niece over me, meaning he doesn't get to be jealous whether Loki is my date or a walker for these killer stilettos." you muttered, secretly loving and hating the jealousy that oozed out of Steve Rogers. Even his blonde date had noticed. "Look at these heels, aren't they gorgeous?"

"Almost as gorgeous as you." Natasha replied, winking just before she drowned the rest of her drink. She winced a little at the taste.

"How many of those have you had?" you wondered, eyeing the spy. After the worst hangover of both your lives, Natasha had made you swear to never let her get that drunk again. Although with the rate she was going, you feared you had been too late.

She shrugged, taking your bottle of water. "Four. Oh, look, here comes Steve."

Before you could ditch, Steve leaned against the counter, his blue buttoned down shirt matching his blue eyes. Natasha not-so-subtly walked to the other side of the bar, motioning for Bruce to keep her company, although knowing her, she'd listen to every word.

"Rogers," you greeted coldly, looking everywhere but him. He tensed at your cold greeting, the frown looking permanently pressed on his face. "Enjoying the party?"

"Yeah."

Lie.

"Good."

You sat there for a good two minutes before he cleared his throat, shifting his weight nervously from one foot onto the other. Steve coughed in his fist. "So...living near Loki isn't too much trouble, is it? He causing any trouble, yet?"

"Sweet as an angel." you replied sarcastically, wishing you were anywhere but here. Loki caught your eye, raising a hand to wave and the group that had been brave enough to be near him, gasped in shock, the noises audible across the room. Their reactions made you chuckle.

Steve cleared his throat, this time louder. "Would you like to dance?"

"Ask your girlfriend." you fired back, satisfied by the hurt on his face. After the stunt he pulled, leading you on only to stomp of your heart, you wanted to be selfish and make him suffer just a little bit. Thankful, Loki came to your rescue.

Ignoring Steve, he held out his arm once again, a smile playing on his lips as he took in the tense situation between you and Steve. But before he could utter a single word, Sharon decided it was the perfect time to come looking for Steve. She assessed the situation, awkwardly noting Loki's presence.

"Er, hello." Sharon said, standing in false bravery. She wouldn't admit it, but she was afraid of the God of Mischief.

Loki gave her a curt nod and held out a hand to you instead, easily fitting yours in his. He murmured your name, softly kissing your knuckles. "Would you like to dance? This is the first song that came on that has not made me want to tear my ears off."

"Why, yes, I would." you agreed with a grin, moving your body close to Loki as you reached the unofficial dance floor, everyone's eyes on the both of you, with shock and slight fear. You would've cackled at their reactions—and it looked like Loki wanted to, too—if you hadn't been raised with manners. "Thank you."

Loki raised an eyebrow, surprised by the words. "For what, if I may ask?"

"Saving me back there. I don't need that kind of drama in my life. Not anymore." you explained, drinking in the warmth of his arm wrapping around your waist as you both slowly swayed to the slow song.

The raven-haired God smiled—not the smug smirk he wore, but a genuine one that Thor hadn't seen his brother wear for a few years now. "My pleasure. A lady like you deserves someone who'll give her his undivided attention. Any suitor would be lucky to have a tenth of your attention."

A coping mechanism: you rolled your eyes but you couldn't help the small smile that forced itself on you lips. You bit it back, hoping no one had noticed.

Loki had. And he meant every word he said.

By the end of the night, you found yourself naked, against the wall and legs wrapped around Loki's waist. Lips crashed against one another, soft kisses trailing down necks, leaving little love marks that would surely be dark. But at the moment, you didn't care. Not when Loki whispered sweet nothings in your ear as he took you from behind, above, underneath, and even on the side. You had both been teasing each other at the party and now you had given in, no matter the consequences.

—

Annoyed Steve had missed the date he had asked you on, you walked up to his room, heels clicking. You had waited for him for over two hours, texted him and getting no replies, leaving the restaurant with the humiliation of being stood up.

But as you neared his door, you heard crying. But it wasn't Steve. Peeking inside, you saw Sharon. Pretty, talented Sharon. Her eyes were red, tears steaming down her cheeks while Steve hugged her shoulders, resting his chin on her head as he comforted her. Jealousy and hurt knocked the breath out of you.

You waited.

And waited.

And it happened. Leaning in slowly, he kissed her. Softly, like he had kissed you. And she kissed him back, finding comfort in the kiss.

Heart breaking in two, you left, leaving the door open. The couple broke their kiss long enough to see you walk away through the slit of the door. Steve hung just head, feeling terrible. But Sharon had helped him as he had. This time, they hadn't stopped at kissing, forgetting the girl who had her heart broken by the man who claimed he would never hurt her.

Steve knew it was over between you two, but he could focus his attention on caring as much as he wanted to when Sharon kept kissing him. He did try to apologize only to learn you had went to visit Thor in Asgard, leaving him to feel sorry for himself and his decisions. Yet, he still found temporary comfort in Sharon's arms.

—

You woke to the warmth of Loki's arms around you. Opening your eyes, you found yourself tangled limbs with the God of Lies, your hair a mess, a hand over his chest and a leg over his waist. Your cheek rested on the crook of his neck, fitting perfectly as if he was made for you.

"Good morning." Loki whispered, stroking your hair with one hand, the other softly massaging your thigh. "Sleep well?"

Nuzzling into his neck, you snorted at the irony. "Don't know, considering we didn't do much sleeping."

Loki chuckled, pressing a soft kiss on your head. "Touché. It would only be fair of me to apologize for the love marks I left on your soft skin last night. Forgive me but I could not help myself."

Gasping, you jumped up, looking at the vanity mirror across your bed to find your collarbone, neck, and the top of your breast covered in Loki's hickeys. He looked rather proud of himself than sorry. "Loki!"

"Please note my apologies are genuine when they are directed towards you. Although, I have to admit, I'm quite proud of myself. It's my best art." Loki announced, bringing himself up on his elbows, eyes ravaging your naked flesh, littered with his marks.

Noticing the difference between your bodies, you quickly turned around to see the reflections had been right; Loki's body remained unmarked. "I swear to god I left hickeys and bite marks all over you last night."

"You tried but got rather mad when my skin healed itself." Loki explained, pulling you back in his warm arms. The soft gesture surprised you, the whole situation coming into light. You had slept with Thor's murderous brother. Loki read your thoughts. "Don't be like that, love. What what I can remember, you enjoyed yourself last night quite immensely. If it will make you feel better, I can show all the love bites you made the night before."

Thankful you hadn't drank anything last night, you had been so happy to not wake up with a hangover and Loki. Turning to face him, you raise an eyebrow. "What?"

With a smirk, his chest gleamed green for a second before it uncovered layers and layers of hickeys, and reddening bite marks. It was identical to yours. You gasped in shocked while Loki stared at you in amusement, his arms tightening. "You did a little bit of damage. I'm proud."

"Holy shit—" you were cut off by Thor and Steve bursting into your room, the sudden motion making you cover up your naked chest with a shriek. The two men's jaws dropped as they took in the scene, Loki's bare chest covered with the evidence from last night, his arms wrapped around you while you stared at them with wide eyes. "Knock, goddamnit!"

Both of them stood in silence, their brains not processing what was in front of them. Steve's eyes had mirrored yours from when you caught him kissing Sharon, eyes watering, you could see his heart breaking just by making eye contact. But at that moment, you couldn't find yourself to care, not with Loki's arms around you.

"What—" Thor began.

Loki smirked, kissing your bare shoulder. "Hello, brother."

next >

[jadehorror]

spoilers for me yelling about people who dont understand what happened in endwalker

SO MANY PEOPLE ARE LIKE VENAT COMMITTED GENOCIDE! SHELL NEVER BE IN THE RIGHT HOW DARE SHE!

AS IF VENAT DIDNT HAVE TO BEAR THE RESPONSIBILITY OF HER CHOICE FOR THOUSANDS OF YEARS!

ALSO GENOCIDE? THE ANCIENTS LITERALLY KILLED HALF THE POPULATION FOR ZODIARK. THEN ANOTHER HALF. AND THEN WERE PREPARING TO SACRIFICE THE *NEW* SOULS TO HIM TOO!! THATS A LOT CLOSER TO GENOCIDE THAT SPLITTING UP WHAT REMAINED INTO 14 PIECES!!

~WELL THEY WERE PLANNING TO BRING THE PEOPLE BACK~ YEAH? FUCKING HOW? KILLING MORE THINGS??? 

AND NO MATTER HER CHOICE SHE CHOSE THE OPTION SHE KNEW WOULD HELP PREVENT THE FINAL DAYS FOR NOT ONLY AS LONG AS SHE COULD, BUT GAVE EVERYONE IN THE FUTURE THE CHANCE TO ACTUALLY FIGHT AND WIN BY DILUTING THEIR AETHER

and blah blah “the wol was complicit in the final days!! we caused the sundering!!” we didnt do SHIT. that bird still ran, still fell into despair, still wanted to kill everyone. hermes listening to her report wouldnt have stopped that!

my favorite take though was one i saw on tumblr where it was like “i dont play ff14 but i think the ancients see modern people as dogs, and thats why its upsetting “ and i- maybe you should PLAY THE GAME BEFORE HAVING OPINIONS LMAO??

the whole point of these stories is that we ARE complex, in depth people with hopes and dreams. Emet judged us unworthy because we were in a test that was rigged from the start, even if we didnt change into a lightwarden we STILL werent his friend, we werent azem. we would have NEVER been equal to the ancients in his eyes because he was so attached to his past. 

His test was something he both set up out of a blind hope to resurrect his past, but something that would never happen because as much as he WANTS us to be like them, we arent. Those people are dead. Hes been trying for a thousand, thousand lifetimes to reverse it. Hes slightly insane

Also implying current races are like dogs when emet married and had kids like- okay call him a dog fucker. play the fucking game bro.

Also people bitching that the philosophy was “pushed on them” and “wrong” (lol how is a philosophy incorrect??)

The idea of a perfect world becoming ultimately boring and meaningless is... not only common, but explored in other mediums- a popular example is The Good Place!! If a flower never withers, you will become numb to its beauty. If your nose never clogs, you wont appreciate the times its clear and easy to breath.

anyways i hate everyone no one is able to think not only critically but rationally. I might not be the smartest trash bag in this garbage dump but jesus CHRIST some people are idiots

[fantasy2739]

Prompt jamie and Ted father/son bonding please. 🥺🥺 Whether playing video games, watching a movie idk just wholesome lol

Ted Jamie father son??? Sign me up!!

Also I am currently emotionally wrecked after 2x08 so if anyone needs me I will be crying over hug and phone call (iykyk)

Anyway, enjoy!!

Jamie isn’t entirely sure what he’s doing at Ted’s. Only that he’s there. He feels like he missed a trick somewhere. Maybe he was lured here. Like by one of them mermaids. Wait no, sirens. Yeah like a siren call. Point is, he’s here. In Ted’s flat. On the fucking couch. Ted’s pottering around the kitchen.

“Tea?” He calls.

“Nah, that’s an old person drink.” Jamie says. “It’s gross.” He refrains from cracking a comment about how much Roy drinks it. Fucking senior citizen.

“Finally, someone who understands.” Ted says. “Garbage water. Coffee?”

“Yeah.” Jamie agrees and a steaming mug is placed in front of him. Ted sinks into the chair next to him with his own mug. He’s smiling at Jamie, like he’s waiting for him to start talking. Jamie thinks he’d rather not. Because he’s got no clue what to say.

“Now I know you didn’t come all this way to enjoy my coffee.” Ted says when it’s clear Jamie isn’t going to say anything. Jamie shrugs. “Wanna talk about it?”

“Not really.” Jamie admits.

“Should you talk about it?” Ted asks, which is oddly comforting. Jamie shakes his head in the negative.

“Can we just talk, do something else?” He asks, his voice coming out slightly cracked. Something in Ted’s face softens.

“Sure thing mr bling.” He says. He pulls a face. “Oh I do not like that. Hmmm. Thing. Thing. Sing? No that makes no sense. Ooh king, huh. Sugar king, little king?” Jamie snorts at that. Ted grins like it was his intention all along. Probably was the sly asshole. “Now let’s see, something to do, something to do. Hmmm ooo I have some board games. Y’all got Ludo over here?”

“With like the dice and meeple and shit?” Jamie asks. He realises that it might be a little vague given how many games include dice and shit. Ted’s understood though, and scarpered off to unearth the board. He places the board on his coffee table.

“Alright now we both know the rules?” He asks, all polite. Jamie just nods. “Good, but I should warn you I am a champ at this game. And I won’t go easy on you.” Jamie gives him a look that says ‘try it’ and it’s on.

Jamie’s always kind of sucked at board games. He never really played them, far too invested in sports, tv, dating. His mum had played a few with him, usually mercilessly wrecking him and telling him he was a sweetheart for letting an old gal like her win. It’s not that he doesn’t get the rules or anything, it’s just not something he’s invested a lot of time in. Or thought really. So sitting cross legged on Ted’s floor, eagerly leaning over the game of Jenga that Ted brought out, is a new kind of feeling. It’s a happy one. Ted had, as expected, beaten him at Ludo. He’d been super encouraging the whole time though.

“Uh I believe you touched that one.” Jamie points out, watching Ted like a hawk. “House rules.” Ted scrunches his nose but agrees and begins the task of trying to work out his best to pull the piece out. Ted closes one eye and manages, by some kind of miracle, to get the single piece neatly out of the Jenga tower.

“The laws of physics salute me.” Ted says with a grin. Jamie almost wants to grump but watching the tower drop neatly down was kind of fucking impressive. Jamie plays it safe. Taking a piece from a row that still has three.

“Go on then, dazzle us.” Jamie teases. Ted pulls of another insane move, leaving Jamie to feel the pressure. Unfortunately, he picks the wrong piece and the whole thing tumbles.

“Fuck!” Jamie yelps, more in surprise at the pieces flying everywhere than annoyance. Ted laughs a little.

“Alright, loser takes some punishment.” Ted says, still chortling. Jamie freezes slightly, because this was just meant to be fun. Fuck he hadn’t actually been bothered by losing. Fuck. “You ticklish Jamie?” Jamie stares at Ted like he just asked him streak around Richmond or something.

“What?” He asks.

“Ticklish.” Ted repeats. Jamie flushes slightly because he is. He’s just never really admitted to it because it’s embarrassing. Who the fuck wants to be ticklish? Ted raises his hands and waggles his fingers expectantly. Jamie’s off like a shot. They’re sprinting around Ted’s appartement, with Jamie at one point diving over the bed to escape. They’ve definitely pissed off Ted’s upstairs neighbour, Mrs Ship or whatever. They’re back in the living room and Jamie is leaning against the couch, moving side to side to avoid Ted like he’s got a fucking chainsaw.

“Can’t I just, do like a shot of cinnamon or something?” Jamie asks. Ted drops his hands, waggling fucks, and stares.

“No that’s disgusting. It’ll dry your mouth out faster than the Nevada desert.” He says.

“I could shot tea.” Jamie offers, raising one eyebrow and pointing at Ted. Ted thinks about it.

“Garbage water it is.” He agrees and Jamie sags in relief. He doesn’t hate tea and the cup Ted makes him is more sugar than tea.

“You trying to ruin my sexy body?” Jamie asks as he takes a sip.

“I figured it would taste better with more sugar.” Ted says. “Don’t all y’all kids like sugar.” Jamie shrugs like he doesn’t mind either way. Ted shrugs too, ambling off to tidy up the mess they made. Jamie sits back on the floor, sipping at his tea and grimacing. How the fuck Roy drinks this shit, he doesn’t know. Just as he sets the mug down a blanket appears at him. He flinches slightly but picks it up.

“What’s this for?” Jamie asks, like Ted’s handed him a fucking book again or some shit.

“It gets cold round this time.” Ted says simply. “C’mon now budge up, I’m thinking it’s time for a movie.” Jamie does as he’s told because when in Reno right? Ted’s moving back and forth between the kitchen and suddenly there’s popcorn, hula hoops and crisps. Ted grabs another blanket (fuck there’s a lot of blankets floating about) and settles down next to Jamie. Jamie tugs the blanket (Richmond fucking blue of course) and wraps it round himself. Ted’s talking and moving his hands, discussing the pros and cons of the movies on Netflix. Jamie settling his back against the couch and listens half heartedly. The control lands in his lap and he sort of stares at it. Ted’s smiling at him. Jamie has no clue what to watch.

So he sticks on fucking Toy Story.

At some point, he dozes. Maybe because he’s tired, or because he’s seen Toy Story a thousand times, or because he just feels like he can. He ends up smushed against Ted, eyes heavy, before his body just caves and he’s out. It’s warm and cosy, and there’s an arm reaching round him to cuddle. He’s almost missed cuddling. And most of the men he grew up around weren’t exactly… well they weren’t the cuddling type. Ted clearly is because he’s tugged Jamie close, soothingly rubbing his arm up and down.

He wakes up the next morning on the couch, wondering when the fuck that happened. He’s a light sleeper usually. He doesn’t have time to ponder it as Ted pops into view.

“Morning Jamie, cereal?” He asks, like this is the most normal thing in the world. Like players regularly crash on his couch.

As Jamie stretches and drags himself out of the makeshift bed he realises.

It feels right to him.

[snarkwrites]

ssw | embry call ; let me take care of you.

NOTES:

As I said yesterday... I’m going to break down the list of prompts I originally intended to use for just one one-shot into a few different ones for this because I just felt like the first one flowed so well using only the one... This is the second part to the one shot I posted yesterday. And there will be at least a few more parts after this. I can’t say when they’ll be coming, but I can say they will be coming eventually.

Again, same as yesterday.. I am not a medical professional. Nor have I ever had amnesia of any kind. I’m trying my best with this, so apologies if it doesn’t seem realistic or whatever...If it matters/bothers anyone, that is.

Question though.. Would anyone be interested in at least one part of this being written in his point of view? Because I feel like it’d be interesting to write that way... It’d be third person..

PROMPTS:

Taken from [ here ] or [ here ]. The prompt used for inspiration here was obviously, Let me take care of you.

FANDOM / CHARACTER:

Twilight / Embry Call x Imprint!OFC, Merisa.

OTHER WORKS EMBRY & MERISA ARE FOUND IN:

[ he looks down. she looks up. ] 

WARNINGS:

amnesia tw, vague injuries mentioned tw, just gonna say her current soon to be ex boyfriend is an actual piece of garbage so.. yeah.. Sexual tension. Beyond all these, there’s not really anything else I can think of.

TAGGING:

@kyleoreillysknee​  is the only one currently on my Twilight taglist. If you see this and you’d like to be tagged also, add yourself to the doc below or lmk. It’ll make me super happy.

OTHER STUFF:

[ faq | request rules | sfw masterlist | tag list doc ]

The phone rang, shattering the silence and my train of thought. Okay, so it wasn’t a train of thought because I was more or less staring out the window of my grandmother’s living room and watching Embry Call work on my grandmother’s old car out in the driveway, but.. The phone was a distraction I didn’t want.

I grumbled when it didn’t go quiet. And after a few more seconds I’d had all I could take of the high pitched sound in all it’s annoying glory. I sprang up from the couch gingerly, grabbing up the remote to pause the true crime documentary I’d been engrossed in about Richard Ramirez and I hobbled into the kitchen, wincing every step of the way.

A scowl filled my face and I tensed up just as soon as I picked up and I heard Greg on the other end of the line. Upon hearing his voice, all sorts of unpleasant memories came rushing back. It was too much. 

“Merisa?”

“What, Greg?” I snapped. Impatient. Peering out my grandma’s living room window. Biting my bottom lip as I watched Embry tug the stained tank top he was wearing up over his head and wipe at sweat on his forehead with it before tossing it on the concrete slab next to his open toolbox.

“I asked you a question.” Greg cleared his throat expectantly.

Is it bad that I was so caught up in watching Embry do mechanic things outside that I didn’t even attempt to make an effort to listen to a damn word Greg said? Because this is exactly what happened.

“I wasn’t listening.”

Greg gave an annoyed huff at my honest answer and I rolled my eyes. Grumbling. The crackle of static over the phone line breaking through for a second or two. Whether I asked for him to repeat himself or not didn’t matter at all because Greg went on and asked his question again anyway.

“I said don’t you think you should be planning to return to Seattle soon? You were only supposed to be gone for a few days. It’s been nearly four weeks.” Greg stated. Pausing for a minute to grumble to himself about how this was typical of me, telling him one thing and then doing something entirely different.

And I snapped.

“Does the fact that I nearly died three and a half weeks ago just not mean anything to you at all or..?” I snarled, going quiet for a second or two. Determined to stay calm. But exploding felt so damn satisfying. It was hard to resist. I got the feeling that I spent 90 percent of my time around Greg biting my tongue and that had me wondering why. What did this guy have that kept me with him? The more I wondered about it, the harder it was to come up with any real sort of answer.

“Sorry. I should know better than to ask questions I already know the answer to.” I apologized. In my own petty way, of course.

Greg took my apology as sincerity and he sighed. Disappointed, obviously because I wasn’t there to tend to his every stupid whim. “I’m sorry too, it’s just.. I told you we had plans. You know how important this weekend is to me and the fact that you’re not even trying to come back… I’m just disappointed, sweetheart. That’s all.”

,, well excuse the fuck out of me for grieving. excuse me for loving my mother enough to want to go to her funeral. Excuse me for nearly dying and needing to heal and getting in the way of your precious plans,asshole.” I wanted to say it so badly that I had to bite the insides of my cheeks and ball my hands into fists just to keep it in. I sighed. “Instead of making this harder than it has to be, you could actually be a caring boyfriend and come to make sure I’m okay… I mean.. I am dealing with memory loss and injuries...”

Surprise, surprise. He suddenly had a thousand excuses as to why he couldn’t -and wouldn’t, just do that. And my stomach churned. Did he even give a shit? Why was I still wasting my time? Why had I even bothered answering the phone in the first place this time?

I made up my mind right then. As soon as I got off the phone with him, I was going to block him on all socials. I was going to block his number on my cell phone. And if I saw his name on my grandmother’s caller ID when the phone rang, I was just going to walk out of the room.

“I’ve gotta go.” I muttered. Before Greg could say anything else,  I hung up the phone angrily. Slamming it down on it’s cradle.

From the doorway, Embry cleared his throat and stepped into the living room. “Trouble in paradise?”

“If that’s what paradise is I’d hate to imagine hell.” I flopped back on the couch dramatically. Wincing when yes, it still hurts to move certain ways. Or too much at once. 

Embry sat down in my grandmother’s recliner. Staring intently at the television which was paused on the clubhouse scene from Dirty Dancing.

I grabbed my cell phone from the end table and did exactly what I made up my mind to do. Blocking Greg on every single one of my socials. And out of pettiness, I changed my relationship status on Instagram to single.

He’d never even bothered to change his, if memory serves. Why had I changed mine?

There was still so much I had left to fill in as far as my memory gaps, but it was coming back in leaps and bounds. Something told me that the last thing I needed to have done was return to Seattle. Otherwise, I might not have ever remembered or  even realized to begin with, what kind of man I was involved with because I’m pretty sure that Greg wouldn’t have started to really show his true self.

He’d done a pretty fair job of hiding just how controlling and easily irritated by the slightest inconvenience he really was so far, I mean, I hadn’t dropped his ass.

I smirked in satisfaction as I put down my phone. 

I happened to glance over at Embry to find him staring at me. Like he wanted to say something or he was lost in thought. Before I could help myself, I was staring right back. Getting pulled into the depths of his eyes. Eventually dropping my gaze down. Lingering on his mouth when he licked his lips.

I couldn’t stop staring. This was starting to become habit whenever he was around. Especially if he wasn’t paying attention so I knew I could stare to my hearts content and get away with it.

I stood and cleared my throat. “I’m gonna go get myself some lemonade. Do you want anything?” I asked as I walked over to the doorway leading into the kitchen.

“If there are any more bottled waters?” Embry asked hopefully. I smiled and gave him a thumbs up. And as soon as I was in the kitchen, I leaned against the fridge. Fanning myself with one of my grandmother’s magazines that happened to be sitting on the counter.

After I managed to pull myself together just a little bit, I grabbed a bottled water for Embry and I poured myself a glass of lemonade. And when I turned to walk back into the living room, I found myself body to body with Embry as he stepped into the doorway between the two rooms.

My thighs clenched just a little at the way it felt to be pressed against him. Hard muscles against my own softness. For a second, when I opened my mouth to tell him I’d gotten his water like he asked for, the words hung in my throat.

Finally, I managed to get it out. “Your water, sir.” I held out the water bottle to him and after holding it against the back of his neck for a few seconds, he uncapped it, practically swallowing down half the bottle in one gulp.

Eyes locked on me the entire time. I know this because I’ll be damned if I could stop staring at him either. I tried. And failed.

He cleared his throat.

“Oh, right.. You probably wanted to wash your hands…” I stepped out of the doorway, pouting to myself a little because the second physical contact was broken, I missed the feel of his body against mine.

He walked over to the sink. Turning it on. Washing his hands. And I happened to notice he had a few busted knuckles.

“You need those sanitized. C’mere.” I nodded to the stool on the other side of the counter. Embry shrugged. Muttered that it wasn’t a big deal.

“It’s called infection setting in. And it can happen.” I insisted, nodding to the stool again. When he shook his head and took another sip of water and calmly insisted that he was fine, I shook my head and hobbled over. Grabbing hold of the hand that wasn’t injured. Leading him to the stool. “Sit.”

“Okay, alright. You know, you’re a lot bossier than I remember.” Embry muttered, gazing down at me. Even sitting down he was still taller. Bigger.

I stuck out my tongue at him. “If it keeps you from getting a nasty infection in your hand, I’ll take it.” I muttered. My gaze settling on him. Instantly getting sucked right back into those deep brown eyes and lost.

After a second or two of both of us staring at each other yet again, I cleared my throat. “I should go find the first aid kit.”

“It’s under the sink.” Embry answered quietly. I bit my lip. Nodding as I muttered mostly to myself, “Under the sink.” and turned away to get it.

“You don’t have to do this. I’m telling you, it’s fine. I deal with this all the time. Kind of happens when you work at a garage, Merisa…” Embry trailed off as I glanced back at him and stated in a firmer tone, “Let me take care of you, okay?”

I grabbed the bottle of peroxide and a rag. Sitting on the stool adjacent to his. Grabbing hold of his hand and placing it in my lap.

“You have tiny hands.” Embry muttered, almost sounding dazed. I glanced up at him through a curtain of hair as it fell right into my face because I bent my head just a little to see his hand better. I swallowed hard. Trying not to think of how good it felt to have his hand in mine. Or on my body.

When I exhaled, it was shaky.

That had me raising a brow.

If this man had one tenth of a clue just what he stirred up in me, I swear to God…

He jumped as the peroxide made contact with the open wounds, bubbling and fizzing as it cleaned the wounds out. 

A memory came back to me… I was younger. Probably around five. My grandmother sat on the stool Embry currently sat on and I sat on the stool I was currently sitting on. My leg was in her lap and she was dabbing some red liquid on it that burned like the fire of ten thousand hells. I was crying and trying to jerk my leg away, but my grandma just held onto it. And when she finished, she leaned in… Blowing gently on my injured knee. 

As the bubbling started to slow down, I raised Embry’s hand, leaning down. Blowing on the knuckles a little. Glancing up at him and teasing playfully, “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“I’ve felt worse.” he finally mumbled after we’d been locked in a quiet staredown for what felt like minutes instead of seconds. 

It sank in that I was still holding onto his hand. And he wasn’t making an effort to pull his hand away, either.

My grandmother cleared her throat from the doorway and smirked at the two of us playfully as she came in, sitting groceries on the counter. “Am I interrupting something, Merisa?”

“No, not at all.” I answered. Smiling. Letting go of Embry’s hand as my cheeks burned. I felt like a teenager just walked in on by her parents.

Embry slid off the stool and brushed his hands over his jeans. “I need to get back to it.” he muttered. Hurrying out of the house. As soon as the screen door banged shut behind him, I let out a ragged breath. Fanning myself with the magazine again.

Trying to ignore the look I was getting from my grandmother.

When she couldn’t resist any longer, she spoke up. “He’s single.. If you’re wondering.”

“Grandma!” I laughed out, shaking my head. My gaze lingering on the window. Fixed on him.

My grandmother spoke up again. “It’s been so nice having you here, Mermaid… It’ll be a shame to see you go.”

Before I really stopped to think about it, I replied “ Honestly? I’m tempted to stay.”

My grandmother pulled me into a tight hug. Smiling at me as the hug broke. “I won’t stop you. The decision is yours.”

I nodded. Waiting until she was in the other room with one of her soap operas going full blast before I wandered back over to the window that faced where Embry currently was outside. Staring out at him with my fingertips pressed against the glass.

I thought he’d caught me one time because he stopped what he was doing beneath the hood of the car to glance around the yard. I moved away from the window quickly, shaking my head and laughing at myself about it.

I’ll repeat. If Embry Call had one tenth of a clue the effect he had on me...

[ohgodmyeyes]

Freezing

Anakin gets hit by a train, and dies in the arms of a stranger. 

You are the stranger.

Modern AU. 2.7k words. Bad writing.

TW: Suicide

...

"You're awfully handsome— did you know I've never met such a handsome guy before in my whole life?"

"You're just saying that."

You laughed, despite the fact that the tears you happened to be shedding were threatening to freeze to your face. "No— no, Anakin, I'm not just saying that."

It was dark and it was snowy, and you were all by yourselves at a sparse, semi-rural railway crossing. You were looking down on him right now, holding his head in your lap; his face was dimly illuminated by a few old, halogen street lights. There hadn't been time for you to get to learn very much about him, but it would have been clear from even the most cursory glance in his direction that Anakin was a lovely man... and so that was what you focused on. Even though his face had now been rendered as stark-white as the snow surrounding you, and even though his eyes were presently brimming with fear, you could hardly have used any word to describe him that was not synonymous with 'beautiful'. That shouldn't have made this any more sad or wasteful than it already was, but it did. Somehow, it did.

"Why are you doing this, anyway?" he asked, having begun to sound a bit weak.

"It's nothing," you lied. "You seem like the kind of person who would do this for someone else, so I think I should do it for you." The snow you'd thought was so pretty only a few minutes ago was landing on him; you moved to brush some of it off of his shoulder. The gesture was both gentle and useless.

He chuckled at that, as best as he could chuckle. "I seem like that kind of person to you?"

With an emphatic nod, you answered him, "You do— you really do."

He did. You'd been standing near the tracks appreciating the snowfall when you first saw him; the railway signs had just started to blink, and you could hear the sound of the train engine's horn blaring as it approached. You thought someone had left garbage on the tracks; a big bag of it. As you had admonished the offending litter-bug in your head, though, you noticed the end of the dark bundle start to move; that was also when you realized that it seemed to have both a head of hair and a face, too.

By the time you'd recognized Anakin for what he was— a person laying across the tracks— the train had been nearly upon him. You dashed toward him anyway; grabbed his jacket in an effort to try and pull him away, but you couldn't. You wouldn't realize until later that he had most likely been gripping the rails with his fingers, actively preventing you from rescuing him. He didn't say anything while you tugged on his coat; as the train whooshed by your face, you recoiled. As soon as it had passed, though, you leapt back to his aid in spite of the fact that you knew it was much too late.

The train, for its part, didn't stop— it just carried on into the night. There were so many little bushes and piles of dead wood alongside the tracks; maybe the engineer hadn't realized what had happened. Maybe he, like you, had thought the man in his path was just a pile of trash.

You tried as hard as you could not to look, but of course you couldn't help yourself: Everything below the middle of his chest had been decimated as the wheels of the engine had passed over him. It had been going so fast that it seemed to have torn him right in half. His legs were hardly even recognizable as legs anymore (save for the boots on his feet), and his midsection had been all but ripped apart. There was blood on the snow and blood on the rails; blood everywhere, really, although to look at his face you might have thought he was going to live. His eyes, after all, were open... and again, they were wide with fear.

"Why?" was the very first thing you had asked, somehow summoning the strength to lift (albeit with shaking hands) his head onto your lap. You were sitting on your knees in the snow; your own legs were cold, but you didn't care. You should have been panicking: Screaming, shouting, running for help. You weren't, though, maybe because you understood that there was nothing to be accomplished by doing so. Maybe you were just in shock.

It was by then that you realized you could smell the blood— rich, coppery, pungent. You didn't want to smell it, but you did anyway; kept your eyes fixed on his face so you wouldn't have to see it as well.

"I was too scared to put my head on the rail," he said, not really answering your question. "I still thought I'd be dead by now, though. How bad is it; can you see?"

"It's... well, it's pretty bad," you told him, without having to look again. "I just don't understand why—"

"My wife died," he said. He clearly understood what it was you wanted to know. You had no idea how he was still talking; still conscious. You were afraid to peer back down the length of his body, because you'd already glimpsed more than enough.

"Your wife?"

"I always used to tell her I couldn't live without her."

"You weren't joking, were you?"

"I don't tell jokes. Not lately, anyway."

You didn't doubt that was true. You might have asked what happened to his wife; how she died, or maybe what she'd been like. You didn't need to look to know you didn't have time for that, though, so you just asked for his name. You wanted to know his name.

"It's Anakin," he said. "My name is Anakin."

"That's a nice name. It suits you." You paused, and reached into the pocket of your coat to look for your phone, only to find that there was nothing there. You must have left it at work; you'd been coming home from work when this had all started. It didn't matter, though; a phone wouldn't have helped. Anakin was going to die no matter what you did. Maybe that was why you weren't running away, although by then you'd started to cry. You couldn't help but cry.

"A name's a name," he told you. If he could have shrugged, you thought he might have. "My mom must have thought it suited me, too."

"Well," you said, "I think she was right."

You had told him next that 'Anakin' was a handsome name, and that he was handsome too. After that was when he had said to you that he thought you were 'just saying that', and asked you why you were sitting with him. Again, your answer hadn't been a lie; he did seem like a kind person... so why the hell would he have done this? Losing his wife didn't strike you as being a good enough excuse to erase himself from existence... but then, you didn't know him. Surely, though, there had been more to his life than only her. Didn't he have anybody else?

"Why is this taking so long?" he asked, his face finally having begun to betray the seriousness of his injury. You glanced down even though you didn't want to; the blood was freezing into the snow, and the shredded remnants of his lower half had ceased giving off much steam.

"Probably because it's so cold outside," you said. The cold slowed everything down, from cars to rot to human bodies.

"I always hated the cold," he told you with a smile. How was he laughing and smiling right now, anyway? You didn't understand it. Maybe he was delirious from the blood he'd lost, or maybe he was just happy he was about to die. There was no way to tell. He still looked scared, though; if he had any trepidation, it was his eyes that betrayed it: Even if he wasn't frightened, they certainly were.

"You must not be from around here," you said, trying as best you could to smile back at him. It was cold, sometimes, for half of the entire year where you lived— cold, and dark too. Months of winter meant that most people who were born here grew accustomed to the climate when they were very young.

"No," he confirmed. "I'm— shit!"

His exclamation made you jump, although you tried not to jostle him too much. "What?" you asked. "What's wrong?" How stupid a question was that?

"I-I... I don't know. I thought it would hurt, but it doesn't hurt. It's just cold. Are you cold?"

"Freezing," you said, glancing one more time down the length of his body in spite of yourself. The blood closest to you was so dark that it was almost black, in sharp contrast to the bright red spray marring the snow all around. You thought you could see bits and pieces of a few of his internal organs scattered about the wood between the rails, but you didn't really know much about what people looked like from the inside, so you couldn't be sure. You took a deep breath then, trying to steady yourself.

"I'm g-glad I'm n-not the only o-one," he stammered.

"You're definitely not the only one, Anakin. I'm cold, too. We're both cold." The type of cold you were experiencing and the type of cold he was experiencing were two very different kinds of cold, of course, but you didn't want him to feel alone. Not at a time like this.

"I th-think... I-I mean, I think I'm a-almost..."

You nodded, and touched the side of his face; stroked it gently with your thumb. "You are," you said. "I think it's almost over."

"Th-that's a-all I w-wanted. I... I wanted this to be—" He interrupted himself then with a halting, ragged-sounding groan. You waited a moment for him to resume speaking, but he didn't. His mouth opened and closed uselessly as he looked up at you; when it was agape, you were sure you could see blood bubbling up from the back of his throat.

"Shh— don't talk anymore, Anakin, it's alright. It's alright." It wasn't alright, but what else were you supposed to say?

He nodded for you, and breathed as deeply as he could. His breathing sounded terrible.

"Can I tell you something?" you asked, because you thought it might help if you kept talking. If you were dying in someone's arms, surely you would have wanted them to talk to you. You didn't wait for him to nod again or otherwise respond before going on, "I'm glad I met you tonight. I'm glad I saw you. I was telling the truth when I said you seemed like a nice person."

There was blood trickling out the side of his mouth now despite gravity, and his eyes were starting to close. You'd only just noticed that they were blue— very blue. You guessed his wife must have liked them, because you certainly did. His bloodied lips seemed to want to turn up into a smile, but they couldn't, not anymore. You kept on talking to him, because he couldn't talk back.

"I don't have a lot of friends," you said. "I've always been that way, ever since I was a little kid. My parents called me a loner, and I guess they were kind of right. You know what, though? I think I could be friends with you." Even though you knew he couldn't respond, you asked him, "Would you mind if I called you my friend, Anakin?"

You didn't know why you did it, but you leaned down to kiss his forehead next. You hoped it didn't bother him. Again, if you'd been in his position, you might have liked for someone to lean down and kiss your head.

Maybe he did like it; maybe he didn't— you'd never know, because by the time you raised your head to look at him again, it was very clear to you that he was dead.

Cold, white, silent, and dead.

You should have leapt to your feet at that point; jumped up for the purpose of running to the nearest home (the homes were spread-out here; it would take several minutes no matter how quickly or in which direction you moved), but you didn't. Not right away.

For whatever reason, you just couldn't bring yourself to place his head back down in the snow.

"I'm sorry, Anakin," you said, as a violent wave of guilt crashed into you at a speed comparable to that of the train he'd just used to end his pain. You couldn't discern why you were apologizing to him; maybe you were sorry for forgetting your phone, or for arriving at the crossing too late, or for not being strong enough to drag him out of danger. Maybe you were apologizing for whatever he'd been through that made him think suicide was a reasonable response to losing someone he loved.

You wished, then, that he'd had time to tell you a bit more about himself before succumbing to his injuries.

You still didn't want to get up, because you still didn't want to lay him down in the snow. You'd held pets as they'd died before; every single one you'd ever had, you'd wrapped up in something like a blanket or a sweater before burying it or leaving it with the vet. Anakin, you knew without having to know him, had been much more of a presence during his time on Earth than anybody's dead hamster or fish or black-and-white spotted rat— how were you to be expected to leave him like this? Alone, in the cold?

Thinking swiftly (if haphazardly), you very carefully took your hands off of his face, and went on to remove your coat. You'd be running at full-speed soon; after that, presumably, you'd be riding in either an ambulance or a police car to show somebody who could help just what had happened.

It was difficult not to look at the middle of the tracks, and it was difficult not to move him too much, but you managed to slide your bundled-up jacket beneath his head in place of your knees anyhow. Reluctantly, you rose to your feet after that; hardly even noticed how cold and stiff your legs had grown while you'd been sharing Anakin's final moments. You'd notice tomorrow; tomorrow they'd hurt, but you wouldn't care about that. Anakin, after all, didn't have the privilege of looking forward to 'tomorrow' at all. You supposed that to do what he'd done, though, his 'tomorrows' must have seemed more like looming spectres, as opposed to opportunities.

Involuntarily (and inadvisably, too), you stole one more look at his body before you turned to run. Icy, black blood coated both the tracks and the wood between them; slivers of bone and cartilage as white as the skin on his face glimmered in the light cast by the street lamps. His legs had been broken along with the rest of him, and you hoped fervently that he hadn't felt them splinter apart.

The last thing you looked at before dashing off in search of a house was his face, which contrasted so sharply with the rest of his wounded body that you could almost imagine he was still alive— that, if you hurried, you might be able to get back with a team of paramedics in time to save him; take him to the hospital, where he might be patched up.

His life would never be the same, but it would be okay, because you'd already agreed to be his friend.

You let your imagination run as wildly as your legs in that precise direction, as you left him in the snow to go and get help.

I'm glad you found me in time, you imagined him saying over coffee, as he sat in a wheelchair or something like one at the café near your house.

I'm glad I did, too— I couldn't have asked for a better friend, Anakin, you pictured yourself saying back to him, as you smiled into those pretty blue eyes of his and opened up a box of your favourite kind of doughnuts.

You'd never actually know whether or not the ones with the white icing and multicoloured sprinkles were his favourites, too.

[rkived]

drabble #5: the highlight of the day for pediatricsurgeon!jungkook is when generalsurgeon!reader stops by his office with his daily iced americano. except today, someone else has delivered it for him.

or, in which you should be a little more careful to who you tell jungkook’s coffee preferences. (hospitalplaylist!au)

↩ previous | 📍drabbles masterlist

Jungkook likes iced americano. 

He’s not really an avid coffee drinker. Definitely not one of those ‘don’t talk to me until I’ve had my coffee’ sort of people, but he does like to drink an iced americano once a day. 

Not because he needs it to survive, but because it’s become part of his daily routine ever since he started working at the hospital. 

A routine you had started for him and that still to this day you continued to feed. 

He can’t complain. 

One of his highlights of the day is when you pop by into his office, whether it be announced or out of the blue, with an iced americano for him. 

He doesn’t even have to ask for one, you just always bring it to him. 

And on the days you can’t bring him his coffee, he just doesn’t drink it. As if there’s no purpose to go down to the hospital’s coffee shop and buy one for himself, because where’s the fun in that if it doesn’t come from you?

But today, surprisingly enough, Jungkook is drinking an iced americano that was not given by you. 

Instead, first year intern Lee Heeyoung was the provider this time. 

And it’s not unusual for interns and residents to give out small gifts to their superiors. Actually, when Jungkook used to be the favorite doctor around, it wasn’t a surprise when someone would shyly knock on his office door and bring a pastry or a drink from the coffee shop, a token of admiration and sometimes as a way to ask a small favor from the pediatrician.

Thing is, no one had ever brought him an iced americano before. 

Maybe because the pediatrician doesn’t seem like the type to drink one or because he always had his in the privacy of his office away from curious eyes, usually the only witnesses around for that were you and Taehyung.

First year intern Heeyoung had come into his office, a shy look on her face and Jungkook had to practically beg her to come in and his eyes widened slightly at the iced americano she was holding on her trembling hand, which Jungkook figured out was due to the coldness of the drink. 

She apologized for interrupting his free time and he assured her it was alright, then she took a deep breath and said:

‘‘Dr. Jeon, I don’t want to cross boundaries but I was wondering if, maybe, you could give me the opportunity to go into the O.R next time you have an operation. I know that interns usually don’t get to go in, but I just wanted to see if you would allow me to─’’

Then, Jungkook interrupted her.

‘‘Of course you can, Heeyoung.’’ 

And after she thanked him a dozen times with the biggest smile, she placed the cup of iced americano over his desk as she explained it was a way of thanking him, whether or not he complied to her request. 

She left shortly after, apologizing for the interruption once again and leaving before Jungkook could tell her there was no problem. 

The pediatrician stared at the drink in his desk and wondered what a coincidence it was that this is the one she decided to give him. 

He shrugged his shoulders and sipped the coffee anyway. 

Jungkook’s just about done with the drink when his office’s door opens suddenly, almost making him choke with the liquid in his throat. 

This is how he can tell the difference between an intern or resident with his friends. 

‘‘Oh! Kook, I’m so sorr─’’ 

Your apology at the notice of your coughing friend with an almost done iced americano on his hand makes you stop abruptly. 

Why is he holding an iced americano when you are holding his on your hand? 

Jungkook quickly recovers from his coughing fit and pouts at you ‘‘I’m going to have to start asking you guys to knock before coming in.’’ 

You completely ignore his comment and focus on the cup in his hand. The coffee cup holder you’re carrying feels heavy and…awkward. 

‘‘I didn’t know you went down for coffee,’’ you say with the softest voice possible, concealing whatever confusion you felt ‘‘you could’ve told me.’’

Your coffee cup felt lonely. Usually, you only bought Jungkook’s, but today you decided that you’d make him some company, buying yourself an iced americano as well. 

You didn’t even like the drink, but since Jungkook enjoys it you’d make a small sacrifice. 

Now you have two iced americanos and they don’t look appealing enough to force yourself to drink them. 

‘‘Oh, I didn’t buy this,’’ he clarifies and you look back at him with a raised eyebrow ‘‘one of the interns gave it to me. Lee Heeyoung, you’ve seen her?’’.

There’s a glint of annoyance in your eyes, but you quickly turn to look somewhere else before Jungkook can notice. 

Oh, you’ve seen Lee Heeyoung. 

More importantly, you saw Lee Heeyoung earlier that day when she casually asked you during the waiting line at the hospital’s cafeteria what was your favorite drink to order at the coffee shop.

‘‘Well, I usually go for a latte.’’ you answer with a small smile, it was hard to decide what your favorite drink was, but lattes were your go-to most of the time. 

‘‘Oh, I like that too!’’ she commented and you nodded, turning back around figuring the conversation was over. ‘‘And doctor, do you know what Dr. Jeon’s favorite drink is?’’ she shyly asked, making you turn around again. 

You gave her a quizzical look, but her face displayed nothing but innocence. 

‘‘He likes iced americano.’’ you answered and she nodded as if she had correctly grasped the information you had given her. 

‘‘Thank you, Dr. I won’t bother you any further.’’ she smiled.

You know you shouldn’t feel bothered by this because it’s not strange to receive stuff like that from interns and residents alike. You had gotten plenty of drinks and pastries given to you by the younger interns before.

But it just doesn’t sit right with you that your best friend had practically finished the drink you, and no else but you, have always brought him. 

‘‘Y/N?’’ he calls you over, noticing how you hadn’t answered his question about whether or not you knew Heeyoung. He notices the two drinks sitting on the table ‘‘I can still drink one of those─’’

‘‘No.’’ 

Jungkook is taken aback by your stern tone, he usually only hears it when he’s being scolded by something he did. But Jungkook’s sure he hasn’t done anything wrong. 

Right?

You instantly notice how angry that simple answer came out and you clear your throat ‘‘I mean─no. I bought this for, uhm,’’ you quickly try to think of any of your friends ‘‘Taehyung! Yeah, Taehyung.’’

You’re trying to convince yourself here because the neurosurgeon hates iced americano. He’s more of a cappuccino guy. Also, you’ve never bought Taehyung a drink before. 

‘‘Taehyung?’’ Jungkook asks, surprise hinting in his tone because he can’t believe that. ‘‘Taehyung is scheduled for surgery all night,’’ Jungkook informs you ‘‘and he doesn’t like iced americano, he always makes fun of me for drinking it.’’ 

Oh, right. 

You fake a cough ‘‘Really?’’

Jungkook nods and his gaze is entirely focused on you, waiting to see if you show any signs of this being a total prank. You’re never this oblivious. 

‘‘I didn’t know.’’ you fake chuckle and Jungkook’s head tilts.

If Jungkook knows you as well as he usually tells his other friends he does, he’d realize you’re lying and your facade is slowly fading away. And you’re hoping he does call you out because you’re definitely not bringing it up first. 

But instead, he shrugs his shoulders and decides that he won’t prod any further. 

“Did I tell you that Jin came by a few hours ago?” 

Jungkook changed the topic, retelling how your plastic surgeon friend had come down from his office for what felt like forever. And it was big news, considering Jin rarely leaves his office to exchange pleasantries, but you’re too focused on that damn cup now placed in his desk.

Mocking you with its emptiness, reminding you that Jungkook had drinked it without any second thought.

“He kept shifting in his seat, it was so funny,” Jungkook laughs “I told him not all of us had the privilege of having a leather couch imported from—”

The pediatrician is interrupted by you suddenly grabbing the plastic cup and throwing it in the garbage bin beside his desk. He’s rendered speechless by your action as you heaved with anger. 

“I was gonna throw that out later.” Jungkook mutters as you dust your hands in your lab coat. 

“Your welcome.” you mumble

A silence follows after and it’s not like the ones you usually both have. It’s not comfortable or peaceful, but filled with tension instead. 

“Is everything okay?” he asks carefully, not wanting to push any buttons since it seems you’re a moment away from yelling in frustration.

You don’t do that, however, you do look at him like you’re about to give him a piece of your mind and poor Jungkook is not ready for that at all. 

But you sigh. You close your eyes momentarily as you breathe in again. 

“Nothing.” you answer back with a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes “Everything’s peachy.” 

Please call me out, please call me out on my bullshit.

“Alright, Y/N.” he sighs, hand scratching the side of his head “But can I—”

He’s not allowed to finish his request because you dump the two drinks you had bought inside his garbage bin without any further announcement. 

Jungkook is left with his mouth hanging open as he looks at the wasted coffee probably making a mess inside the bin. 

“I gotta go, I’m needed in the E.R.”

You’re not. Your phone didn’t ring with the usual tone you have set it up as whenever you have emergency calls. 

Jungkook is about to tell you that, but the shock of the drinks dies down by the time the door closes and he’s realized you’ve left.

— 

“Ah, fuck, not you again.” 

Taehyung has just finished his six hour surgery. Fresh off of telling the patient’s family members that everything had gone according to plan, but that the patient was to be kept in the I.C.U for further checkups. 

His neck hurts and he’s wishing he could have Yoonah come over to give him a massage. Instead, he’s greeted by the sight of his youngest friend waiting for him at his desk’s chair.

“Why haven’t you gone home? It’s late.” Taehyung asks him, laying down on his couch as he closes his eyes.

Due to his patient being in the intensive care unit, he chooses not to go home and stay in case anything happens. He knows this because of prior experience.

“I want to ask you something.” Jungkook quietly asks, ignoring his friend’s question.  

Taehyung hums “If this is about that boneless wings or regular wings discourse then I don’t wanna hear it.” his friend warns him.

If this wasn’t a serious matter Jungkook would have argued that regular wings are better than boneless ones, unlike what Yoongi had said on the groupchat last night. But he has more important topics to ask about right now.

“No, it’s not that,” he clarifies “I just—I want to know, since you’re the only one who’s dating in the group…” 

“Yeah?” Taehyung encourages him to continue.

“How—uhm, how do you tell when Yoonah’s jealous?”

Jungkook’s question is not one Taehyung had expected, it makes him abruptly switch from laying down to a sitting position. This is actually serious for once.

“Jealous, how? Like, when she’s jealous of other girls?” Taehyung asks, just to make sure this is what his younger friend is referring to. 

Jungkook nods with a stoic expression.

“Well, Yoonah is slightly different in the way she approaches jealousy. Like, with the other girls I dated they would never tell me they were jealous.” Taehyung begins to explain “But Yoonah, on the other hand, she’s up-front about it and like, aggressively so.” 

“Could you explain?” Jungkook shyly asks and Taehyung nods.

“Let’s say that Yoonah sees me talking to—I don’t know, a nurse? I might be having a normal conversation regarding a patient or something, but Yoonah sees it as if I’m telling the girl that I want to move in with her, have five kids and live on a farm.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” Taehyung chuckles “and she tells me straight away that she doesn’t like the girl, that she doesn’t trust them and that I shouldn’t be talking to her.” Jungkook’s eyes widen slightly “I don’t know, she says she has a sixth sense or something.”

“But she tells you she’s jealous?” 

“Oh, hell no,” Taehyung replies “Yoonah would rather eat glass shards than ever admitting she’s jealous.” 

That must hurt.

“But I just know, y’know?” 

Jungkook looks at him like he’s lost and Taehyung sighs. Sometimes the youngest could be a little too slow for his liking.

“It’s clear when a girl is jealous, dude. Whether they try to make it obvious or not. They get defensive, evade your questions, get a little more irritable.” 

Jungkook gasps slightly and Taehyung cocks an eyebrow at him, wondering what is the matter. But the pediatrician is not telling him anything, especially knowing Taehyung’s a fifth placer who isn’t worthy of knowing information as important as this.

Plus he’s tired of hearing the neurosurgeon bother him with the fact that after all those hypotheticals that Jungkook was sure were never going to happen, they ended up becoming a reality. 

A reality that Jungkook had to put up with because his older friend could not shut up about it.

“I gotta go, thanks.” The youngest quickly excuses himself from Taehyung’s office, leaving the neurosurgeon with a puzzled expression and a few unanswered questions.

There’s a slight bounce to Jungkook’s step as he walks through the hospital’s hallways. 

He’s trying hard not to break into a grin, but he can’t help the slight smirk that appears on his face because now he knows.

a/n: let’s play a fun lil game in where u take a shot every time i mentioned iced americano n yes u should take another one now !! lol i don’t rlly have much to say besides jk n reader r both idiots but we’re making some progress :P hope u enjoyed <3

[utterlyinevitable]

Ode and Ethan are so cute together, my heart could burst 💓

More questions coming your way

Who says I love you first? How long into the relationship? How does it happen?

How far into the relationship do they move in together?

How do they celebrate Ethans 40th?

Whats the most special gift they have given each other?

What do they love most about each other? Do they have any pet peeves?

Do they always work together? Does Ode surpass Ethan in the medical world?

Did E make up with Louise in this universe? Of so what does she think of Ode?

♥️

> ask me anything <

Yay! Okay here we go!!!!!

So my initial reaction is... neither of them actually ever says it. They feel it and they’re secure enough to just know. They have this little head jerk and eyebrow raise that basically is their way of saying “i love you” which they do all the time. Just a silent recognition without giving too much away to those around them. But eventually like 10ish months into it it’s said out loud as an off shoot. Wasn’t meant to come out but it did ever so naturally. 

How it comes out? ...................... this literally took me three days to figure out:

Ode says it first. On a phone call. She didn’t mean to say it, it just slipped out with her goodbye of “alright. love you. bye”. She didn’t even realize she said it until hours later when she was replaying the conversation, mentally checking off that she has all the things they agreed upon before she heads home.

After residency Ode and all her friends go separate ways so she needs to move into a smaller apartment. Ethan extended an offer to stay with him for a while until she finds a place (with the subtext of forever), even saying she could have the second bedroom since it’s been practically hers anyway. But Ode diplomatically declined; they’ve only been together for five months and she’s still so fearful that they’re going to fuck this up somehow. They’ve only just started having sex. So she gets herself her first solo place with one bedroom in the same neighborhood near the hospital. 

They move in together when her 16 month lease is up. By then there wasn’t a doubt in her mind anymore. She loved her little third floor walk up and the independence that came with it, but nothing could beat the views at Ethan’s place, and it’s always felt a little bit like home.

So Ethan’s 40th happens before they get together. And true to form he doesn’t want to do a damn thing. But “40 is practically mid life crisis territory and he’s due for a breakdown” (as Jackie put it). So Ode, Sienna and Kyra work together to plan the most elaborate single person party. Because Ethan is such a devout patron of the arts, BOH (after much southern belle pitching from o and k) agree to perform an abridged version of Ethan’s favorite opera at their small rehearsal theatre. Sienna makes a majority of the dinner, all Ethan’s proclaimed favorites for meal, cocktail and dessert. Ode is on getting him to actually turn up. He knows she’s planning something and wants no part of it but goes along because this is “payback for my birthday”. He’s absolutely confused as to why they’re driving out of Boston.

In the atrium is set up as a cocktail hour with a handful of Ethan’s close friends and his dad - the people who want to celebrate him. 40 minutes later the people clear out and it’s just Ode and Ethan (siennas waiting on standby to drive ode home) making their way into the performance area where there’s dinner and dessert under a klosh at a single solitary table. Ethan’s speechless As ode explains the scene they’ve walked into. He sits, she pours him a drink, says happy birthday as the music of the show starts to play and goes to leave.

“You’re not staying?”

“You said you wanted to be alone.”

“Alone and at home. Not alone watching ten people perform.”

She shoots him a look and Ethan stands to look for a second chair.

“Siennas waiting to drive me home.”

“Tell her to join. It’s the least I can do since she made much too much food for one human.”

The three of them have a lovely evening. And if Ethan wasn’t fully cognizant of the fact he loves her, he sure as hell is now. Who else would do this? For him???

The most special gift Ode’s gotten from Ethan is the keyboard. Figuring out her feelings and falling for Ethan was a great inspiration to get her to start writing again. Much to some of her roommates dissatisfaction when the girl forgot to plug headphones in at stupid o’clock.

His most prized gift actually wasn’t something she’s gotten him - over the years she’s given him make shift things, ties and cufflinks, books but nothing as special as what her dad gave him when they visited him for the first time as a couple. It was a small photo album of ode from her teen years and through college. He didn’t even recognize her in a few - sitting on a table in ripped skinny jeans with wild hair and a guitar on her lap. She’s looking at the camera out of the corner of her eyes - singing something with mouth wide open and corners turned in a smile. There’s a spark in her eyes he recognizes but the one he knows it miles duller. He likes this side of her. Wonders what happened. And wants to make her feel like that happy go lucky girl every day for the rest of forever.

Ethan loves her compassion and level-headedness when it matters, and ofc that she has so many skills and talents he keeps uncovering. Wants to spend the rest of his life finding out about. He also really loves the creases at the corner of her eyes. She won’t agree they’re crows feet - she’s much too young for that atm. But he loves them because they make her eyes all the more expressive.

Ode loves his intelligence but also his gentleness. Once you get past that coarse, jaded Ramsey front he’s such a soft bean. She likes how they can talk for hours or just sit in companionable silence. There’s no expectations that need to be fulfilled with him outside of work and it’s the healthiest relationship she’s been in.

They both hate how stubborn the other can be. He hates how she leaves teabags all over the kitchen when the garbage is right there. She hates how anal he is about cleanliness and clutter. But how he can’t seem to get all his socks in the hamper - there’s always some hiding around back.

No, they don’t always work together. Ode is on the DT for another year before getting a research opportunity to write about the most interesting cases they’ve come across, alongside Ethan. He declined the title credit, but helped with the research. She dedicated her first book to him.

The more recognition she started to get in the medical world press, the more people uncovered her musical past. It was a bit jarring to have to talk about that small part of her life when she gave a keynote on new technologies in diagnostics medicine for the digital age. So much so that she got a call from her publishing house and SESAC. Basically to push her to do a one-off gig and see if she’s interested in remastering and a couple synch and derivative deals. Her first response was ‘i’m really busy and it’s been over a decade’. But after aimlessly wandering around their apartment and eventually sitting down to play, fighting a war within her, Ethan pushes her to do it. 

She certainly surpasses Ethan in the medical world, but not for the reasons he’s known for. She ends up marrying her love of music with medicine and becomes a viral sensation. A new-age doctor for the on-demand generations. 

No, I don’t think he does make up with Louise. not really. Ethan’s cordial but doesn’t want anything else to do with her. He doesn’t became a brat when Alan brings her up, though. He respects his dad enough - with the help of Ode - to pretend to be a three-piece family. Ode actually told Ethan that it probably isn’t a good idea that he brings her to rehab - she suggested scheduling a therapy session at the rehab to try and work things through when everyone’s minds have had time to settle. Ethan told her he’d rather rip the band-aid off so they drive her together.

Louise is skeptical - she doesn’t like the idea of someone influencing her son. Yeah, the girl is pretty but who tf is she? Alan says Ethan’s been single and no chance of dating as he’s much too restless for that. Months after being released from rehab and sticking around the Providence-area, Louise tries to get back in contact. She has a job and she’s been clean ever sense. She and Alan talk every now and then but no chance of repairing the family. Louise is there for lunch when Ode and E drive up for the weekend. It’s a whole rush of emotions for E again, and Ode is oddly hopeful, wanting to make the best of the situation. Louise sees the way the ramsey men look at her and she has no choice but to get on board.

as always, thank you for these. I love them and you so so much ♥️

[veryvincible]

Hoi! Do you think Ty was always jealous of Tony? Like do you their friendship was genuine in the beginning.. I know they were always in competition but is it the fact that Tony was always winning or other reasons that made ty develop his maniac side?

I have multiple answers for this, only one of them is following what canon gives us to a T, and the canon answer is the one I dislike and tend to throw out the most.

So, keep in mind that this will be laden with personal reinterpretations of canon and kind of.. I don’t know, supplementary opinions(?) that don’t necessarily contradict canon, but are viewing canon events and canon dialogue as things other than what they were intended to be in the story.

Here’s the canon answer: Yes. Ty was always jealous of Tony, and their friendship was never genuine-- he was a long-con Indries type who happened to start forming plans to ruin Tony’s life forever while they were both, uh... children, and once he reached the Age Where He Thought Murder Would Be Cool, he killed his parents to take their money and fucked off to Europe (after gaining Tony’s pity for the whole “parent death” thing, which he framed as Not Murder, as people tend to do after they murder people) to make a fortune and get richer than Tony.

This is all we really get in terms of flashbacks, but you can see how Tony interpreted their friendship pre-Ty villain reveal, where they seem to be having... a normal range of emotions? I mean, Ty doesn’t look very happy about being Slightly Less Fast than Tony, but he’s content to hang out, so. You know.

Anyway, all of the Vol. 3 stuff happens, and we get a lot of information revealed that turns out to be untrue, in sort of this order, if I’m remembering correctly:

Tony thinks Ty’s setting him up, Ty’s like, “No, I would never do that, I love you!”, Donahue’s like, “For sure, he would do that, and also he’s trying to kill me, and I think this is also the bit of dialogue where I say that his parents killed himself, so the reason he’s after you (Tony) is because your father made his father less successful which led to their deaths,” and Tony’s like, “Oh, shit!” and Tony goes to confront Ty, and Ty’s like, “That’s actually incorrect! I killed them for money! And I will kill you, also, for money!”

And Ty doesn’t succeed in killing Tony in the first Dreamvision battle, so he preps for another Dreamvision battle, wherein he regroups and goes, “Actually, you know what? I’m going to fuck up, like, the entire world, and it would be cool if you could rule by my side and we could be besties.”

And Tony’s like, “No, what the fuck?”

And Ty’s like, “Damn!” and they try to kill each other again, except Tony realizes this time that everything’s gone wrong for Ty and (I believe) Ty’s spent, like, every last cent he owns on his world-conquering technology. So Tony points out that Ty’s trying to get Tony to kill him, and... I don’t remember what Ty says, but it’s probably nothing, or “shut up,” or something to that affect. And they continue to fight, and Tony wins, because of course he does.

And then we get a lot of Ty going, “Nooo, don’t leave me, you’re too sexy,” and then Tony leaves Ty.

So, it’s my understanding that the Actual True Series Of Events canon wants you to believe is: Ty was jealous from the start and pretended to be Tony’s friend for... like, a while (Tony has a lot of educational history-- no lines are clean here). Ty only got more jealous as time went on, and at some point figured that drastic measures were acceptable for... some reason. Maybe he was just That Kind Of Guy. Ty killed his parents for money, left to get rich, came back to... kill Tony now, for some reason, and then the the final fight stuff went down and Ty was abandoned in Dreamvision.

I don’t necessarily know that Tony was winning their competitions all the time. We only really get one instance of a clear “win” on Tony’s part, unless you consider that Ty wanted to be prom king, which is... fair. Regardless, Ty’s clearly not okay with “ties” in competitions, so. You know.

That’s them.

And that’s fine.

Cutting here for length, and also because this is where it gets opinion heavy and I think leaving the separation might be good here:

Like, I don’t hate it as a story, and given how inconsequential a character Ty really is-- especially for a “childhood friend” character-- I don’t really mind that all he is is... evil? Even if we go by the drawing of them as kids alone, they’re still... pre-college age teenagers at least, and probably younger, since both of them are clearly advanced students. So, given that he’s a pre-pre-college aged teenager, and he started on this plot of jealousy that lasted... I don’t know, roughly a decade, or over a decade, or something? Canon Ty Stone is nothing but bad, and all his redeemable qualities only really exist in the minds of other people.

It’s not the worst, but it’s also not the best utilization of the facts and the inconsistencies they presented, in my opinion. Which isn’t to say my interpretation is the best, but I personally prefer it to canon, because... I tailored it to my interests specifically, so. Take what you will from that.

So, here’s my less-canon/non-canon answer:

I don’t think the canonical “inconsistencies” in the story are necessarily a bad thing. I think the fact that the story wavers actually creates... kind of a better story. There are a lot of informants Tony crosses paths with, some of whom are kind of garbage people, and Ty himself flip-flops between, “Tony, we’re besties, stick with me” and “Actually, I’m literally going to murder the shit out of you.”

And I think considering the implications of those details just makes things, uh. Cooler? More realistic? More relatable? I don’t know.

Anyway.

I think both of the things you asked are true: I think Ty was always jealous of Tony, and I think their friendship was, at one point, genuine.

In order to make everything tie together neatly, we have to assume that Ty’s undergone some kind of mental stress or feeling of insecurity that’s made him incapable of letting anyone be better than him, which is... not difficult, because we see this often in kids both traumatized and not-technically-traumatized, and it really boils down to their sense of self. If a kid’s not being praised enough, if their natural talents are neglected, if their passions are put down, if they think their parents like other kids better... you know. They don’t like it, and for good reason.

The good thing about this little theory is that it’s plausible for any child, as this is one of the most common mistakes that parents make. There’s a lot of insecurity in younger people in general, and you could feasibly get a similar story of relentless jealousy from a good number of... random middle/high school friend groups.

The better thing about this little theory is that it doesn’t actually have to be that common, because we already have one canon event that’s been determined to leave some children with a sense of isolation, abandonment, and insecurity; Ty was sent to boarding school.

So, there’s Ty, abandoned by his parents (whether they were well-intentioned in this or not-- I tend to assume it’s the latter for the sake of my own writing and what I find narratively satisfying, but you could also realistically assume they weren’t awful and still end up with a similar outcome), and lonely in boarding school.

Now, of course, children have their innate personalities and will tend to respond to the same thing in different ways. So, we can say that Tony, a sensitive kid, only grew more vulnerable (if distant) in boarding school. And we can say that Ty, someone whose initial personality traits we don’t actually know, might have gone... the opposite way, deciding instead to build some walls and find some semblance of control to cope.

And those kinds of kids sometimes attract each other, because they happen to be morphed into not-so-healthy puzzle pieces that click neatly together, neither of them having to adjust the coping mechanisms they’ve adopted in order to form a friendship.

Essentially, I think boarding school and neglect could have affected them both, fucked them both up, and warped them into perfect fits (in an awful way) for each other. They didn’t have to be healthy to be together; in fact, any semblance of healthiness probably would have been stamped down. We’re not actually shown that Ty was anything but pleasant over the long span of their friendship, and I think canon wants us to believe that he, as a child, was... already acting? In order to tear Tony apart? But I don’t love that, again because it’s not narratively satisfying to me.

I think Ty was probably already volatile as a kid, and he only grew more volatile as an adult. I think he got worse at regulating his emotions and his jealousy and better at lying about it. I think Tony’s parents died, Tony inherited his company, and Ty needed the same jump forward in order to match his status. I think Ty really, genuinely couldn’t decide whether he wanted Tony submissive by his side or dead, and I don’t think Ty ever really made a decision there.

In my opinion, the entirety of Ty and Tony is most interesting when you consider it a story of two emotionally damaged children going in opposite directions psychologically, Tony ultimately taking steps to better himself and be kind to others despite his insecurity and Ty always feeling threatened by it. “I’m never going to be enough” is a motivator for Tony, something to be challenged, and it’s something that infuriates Ty-- there’s this understanding throughout the entirety of the arcs that Ty wants nothing but praise and control and, well, Tony himself. He wants to be the hero, he wants to be looked up to, he wants to be empathized with, and... he’s never gotten it. Sure, it may have started off as something akin to parental neglect, but it ended with Ty being enough of a callous, walled-off dick that no one really wanted to make the effort to save him-- not even Tony, who was so pushed away by the sudden reveal of Ty’s violent lashing out that the only thing he could offer in the end was the basic courtesy he offers to almost every other unfortunate human being he crosses paths with, which was... uh, not killing him.

And it remains to be seen (I guess not, given that they’re never going to bring Real Ty back or explain what happened there) whether or not that was better for anyone.

Again, this is the Opinion part of the post, so here is my Opinion. I think Ty did care for Tony in a purer way at some point. I think there’s an age where tragedy is allowed to be tragedy, and certain degrees of awful behavior can be chalked up to environment and circumstances. I don’t think Ty was always destined to be irredeemable like canon suggests. I think he is-- at least, I think a total redemption or anything that would imply he’s Never Going To Act Awful Again would be... a bit unrealistic now that we’ve seen how far he’s gone-- but at the same time, just from the assumptions I’ve made personally about what must have led to that point, I think there was an age where Ty could have been helped and he wasn’t. Ironically, I think Tony and Ty finding each other made things worse for both of them in the long run, not just because of everything Ty was, but also because of everything Tony was and Ty’s inability to match that.

And that’s just my two cents. I don’t necessarily mind evil-for-no-reason Ty in the same way I don’t mind evil-for-no-reason Howard and evil-for-no-reason Anyone Else; these stories can be fun to read, and it’s not like no one on the face of the earth has ever been evil for no reason. It certainly can be realistic, it just... doesn’t read that way to me immediately, and it doesn’t tend to be as emotional an experience for me. It’s more, “Holy shit!” and less, “I’m probably going to cry myself to sleep tonight!” And both of those feelings when reading comics are totally fine, but the latter is what tends to appeal to me the most.

So, this is what I prefer. And that’s really all it is-- a preference. But I do like to think Ty legitimately cared for Tony at one point (similar to how Whitney cares for Tony, or how the sentient armor cared for Tony), and maybe just... wasn’t really consistent enough as a person to recognize that, often throwing it away for the sake of proving himself superior to Tony, right to the very end. He wanted to have his Tony and kill him too, and he couldn’t.

Anyway.

There you are. I wasn’t sure whether or not you were asking specifically about canon events or my interpretation specifically, so I gave you both. 

If you want more of my personal interpretation, I have a whole bunch of headcanons in this ask that go further into my specific warping of Ty canon that I tend to use in my own writing. There might be some repetitiveness. 

If you want more strict canon answers, feel free to ask any more questions at any time! I live in this specific piece of Vol. 3 and am always excited to come out and talk about Ty Stone, even when canon gets perplexing to me.

[gemma-lemma]

Cloudy Days - JJ Maybank x Male OC

PROLOGUE

Parker Cloud had always been a good runner. Fast, with great stamina, and he'd always loved it. He had also been very good at parcours since the very moment he decided to pick it up in seventh grade. That was due to his best friend, Billy, who had seen videos on the internet and become obsessed with it. Within the first three months of picking it up, Billy had twisted both of his ankles consecutively, and Parker had broken a rib due to an unfortunate fall. But even though it had hurt like a bitch, it hadn't mattered, because he was doing it with Billy, who in turn had been the happiest boy alive. And seeing Billy happy had always been a priority to Parker. Because even though he understood only now, when it was already too late, Billy had not only been his friend. His feelings for the curly boy had always been slightly more than just friendship.

"One day, Park, we will be so good, that we can go to the Parcours-Olympics!" He had cheered,

getting a giggle for an answer. His golden eyes had lighted up, and he had thrown his fist up in the air as a challenge.

"Parcours-Olympics? Is that even a thing?" Parker had laughed, sipping on his cherry fruit pack.

"Of course it is! And if it isn't yet, then we will just invent it once we're grown-ups!"

Upon seeing the light in his eyes, Parker hadn't been able to bring it over himself to ask the question that had shot through his mind aloud. Were they really ever going to be so lucky to grow up? Because in all honesty, they already had known how the rest of their lives probably was going to look like. Following their parents into a gang, selling drugs and beating up the assholes who didn't pay, probably dying before reaching the sweet age of thirty because of some senseless gang war or a junkie gone rogue. He just couldn't bring it over himself to turn off that light in his best friend Billy's eyes.

That same friend Billy who was now bleeding out behind a dumpster in a dark alley of the slums of Jacksonville, North Carolina. And Parker could not even be there for him, telling him to hold on just a little while longer, or call an ambulance for that matter, because he was too busy running away from the guys who had shot him. Damn, he could barely even see his hand amidst the dark of the night, how was he supposed to find a way out of this fucked up situation? Parker wanted to scream his guts out.

It turned out, that after years of working for the Blood Hounds, a gang that was known for drug trafficking and violence, it still only took a single tiny mistake to cross another gang so far that they were willing to shoot them on the spot. The Aquila, Eagle. Parker would've laughed if he'd had the breath. This was all Damon's fault, that disgusting bastard. He must've known. He couldn't have not known!

Running through alley after alley, not knowing where to go or if they were still behind him, he pushed the picture of Billy's dilated eyes out of his head. He could not think now of the way the blood had soaked his white t-shirt, or the way his breathing had become more and more laboured, right before he sank to his knees. He could not think of the way he had begged him to run, before he landed in the ditch.

Upon meeting a dead-end, Parker came to a slithering halt. Fuck, and what now?, he thought to himself, looking around frantically and trying to suck as much air into his lungs as possible.

Just as he realised his one-way ticket out, he heard voices behind him and knew he had to hurry. With sloppy movements he jumped onto the dumpster and hauled himself up onto the brick wall. Though sore, his muscles knew the movement perfectly, and did not betray him. He was half-up the rain gutter, when the first shot rang and he flinched.

His hand almost slipped, but he could catch himself in the last second. Frantically, he glanced down towards the ground, where three men were stood, two of them pointing their guns at him, panting. If he fell, he would break his neck. If they hit their target, he wouldn't have to worry about his neck anymore.

"Come on, little hound. Come down and we promise we're not gonna hurt ya!" One of them called, wickedness in his raspy voice, and Parker wasn't sure whether he wanted to cry out loud or bark a laugh. If he came down, if he actually made it back to the ground alive, they would not only kill him, but also torture him for wasting their time and calories.

"Uh, sorry, Compadre, but I think I'll pass! Thanks for the offer, though!" He called down, dodging a shot, but not quite. It tore open the skin of his arm, and he let out a pained scream. If he didn't get out of there asap, they would shoot him down like a porcelain dove. And he certainly had never liked hunting.

So he decided to climb higher, hoping that the dark would affect their accuracy as much as it did him in not seeing the dead end. Three shots rang, each of them missing him, until he finally reached the roof. Once he was over the edge, he glanced down one last time and saluted mockingly.

"Hasta la Vista, babies." He called before running off towards the next roof.

That should keep them off for a while, he thought to himself and allowed himself to feel a little victorious. But what now? He would never make it back in time to save Billy, considering he was still breathing, and they probably already knew who he was, so no matter what he did, they would come for him. He couldn't ask Damon, the leader of the Blood Hounds, for help either, knowing that he would probably kick him out upon hearing what had happened to wash himself clean of any guilt.

Parker barked out a dry laugh. That man really was a rat with no honour. He hadn't even told them that the party they had announced to sell drugs at had already been claimed by the Aquila. Had they just known, Billy would still be alive, and Parker wouldn't be on the run, bleeding, scared. He wasn't even surprised by it. What had he expected from Damon, anyways? It still hurt, though.

So, what now? Now, he had to run until he reached a place where they wouldn't come looking for him. But where would that be?

As he reached the edge of the roof he was currently running across, he jumped down and right into a dumpster, wondering whether he should even dare to go home and get some things. He had a stash of money hidden in his mattress, after all.

Breathing heavily, he hauled himself out of the garbage and landed on the cold, hard concrete with a loud thump. Everything hurt, but he couldn't listen to his body now, when he actually had a genuine chance for to escape.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" He murmured, trying to think clearly as he sneaked out of the alley and onto the dimly lit street. Right across from him was a 24hour supermarket that looked worse than a garbage dump, especially with the palm stickers on the windows. Someone had sprayed the coconuts into dicks with graffiti.

Upon studying the way the light inside flickered, a picture of surfboards and a beach crossed his mind, and a certain brother of his mum smiled at him through his memory, who certainly would not refuse him refuge.

That was what he was going to do, he decided. He was going to visit his uncle. Now that he had a destination, he just had to get the fuck out of here as fast as possible. Where even was he? He walked down the street a little further until he could read a dirty street sign and realized that he was only a few streets from home. Jackpot!

The run he broke into was the fastest he had ever run, and when he finally jumped up the stairs to his apartment, he was so out of breath that he couldn't even say hello to his father who lay on the couch, half empty beer bottle in his hand and feet propped up on the table. The TV threw little light on his dirty tank top, and when Parker barged into the tiny living room, he threw him an irritated look for interrupting his show. But Parker had no time for that. He made a beeline to his room, where he grabbed his school backpack and turned it upside down, emptying it on the floor.

"Boy, what has gotten into you? Why are you back so early?" Vincent Cloud asked, standing in the doorframe to his son's room. His son, who now frantically tore random pieces of clothing out of his closet and desperately tried to suck in enough oxygen to answer.

"Are you bleeding?!" He realised.

"We were set up. Or maybe not - I don't know." Parker gasped, throwing the covers off his bed and tearing the mattress open with a knife he fished out of his nightstand drawer. "The party we wanted to sell the drugs at, the Aquila had already claimed it. We didn't know." Parkers voice began to shake just the slightest as he grabbed a wad of cash and began to count it. He lost count several times, starting over and over while standing up and turning his body towards his father.

"Parker, where is Billy?" The older man asked, worry underlining his voice. Parker looked up at him with glittering eyes, barely shaking his head.

"Billy's dead, and they're coming for me next. They made it clear. I have to- have to get- get out of he- out of he-here." He gasped, starting to hyperventilate as the adrenaline left his veins. Was the room turning? No, the walls were coming closer!

Stepping over torn up schoolbooks and crumpled laundry, his father crossed the tight room and grabbed him roughly by the shoulders, forcing him to look him in the face.

"Parker, breathe!" He instructed, and the seventeen-year-old followed the order best as he could.

"Do you know a place to hide?" Vincent asked sternly, hating the life he had dragged his son into. He often told himself that it had been the only choice he had had but could never quite live with that answer. When he had been younger, dreaming of being a father one day, he would never have wanted for his kid to live a life like that. He never would have wanted this for Parker and had been trying to get out of the gang for some time now to help his son secure a better future. It wasn't that easy though, he had come to realise, as the only way Damon allowed the members of his gang to leave was in a coffin.

"Yes, it's-" Parker began to explain, but he interrupted him quickly.

"Don't tell me. Just make sure you're safe. Send me an email or something once you are, and then build yourself a life. Get the hell away from your past, you hear me?" He said with emphasis, and Parker was close to tears. He nodded and counted his money again, ignoring the fact that he had miscounted probably at least twice. Then he split it in half and held one half out to his father.

"I don't know how much we owe. I don't know if they're gonna come for it. Take this in case they want it back or something. I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Build yourself a future, son, and now go."

"I love you, dad." He said his goodbye, and his father nodded knowingly.

"I know. I love you, too."

Thanking his father one last time, Parker grabbed his backpack and left the apartment he had grown up in. The rest of his way to the harbour was barely more than a blur, he wasn't even sure how he landed on the ferry in the first place. He just knew when he was sat in some dark corner, that nothing would ever be the same again.

Only when he was hiding there in the protecting darkness of the night, he allowed himself to truly burst into tears, grieving the loss of his best friend, his father, and everything he had known. Hopefully, the future would be kinder.

[padawanlost]

does vader come back to kill watto? i hate entering discourse about it because i see people say “well he wasn’t that bad” or “he didn’t treat shmi and anakin that bad” and honestly? why are they making excuses for slavery?

Tbh, I doubt I’ll ever understand what drives someone to justify slavery. I really don’t get it. but, after realizing the only case of slavery no one tries to justify as a ‘necessary evil’ is Obi-wan’s, I have my theories.

Anyway, Anakin never returns for Watto in anger. Watto, to my great saddens, gets to live a long life. In fact, that piece of garbage manages to outlive both Shmi and Anakin.

"Anakin's mother?" Luke said. "Was her name Shmi?" Ody shook his head. "I can't recall. Like I said a lot of years have passed. But if you want to find out more, you should go to Watto's and " Ody clapped his hand against his forehead. "Sorry, I keep forgetting. It's not Watto's anymore. It's Wald's." "Wald's?" "Yeah, Watto retired. Now it's Wald's Parts. But that's why you should go there. Wald knew Anakin. Let me give you directions” [Ryder Windham. The Life of Luke Skywalker ]

I think people also minimizes the trauma of Anakin and Shmi’s enslavement because neither character thinks to much of it. They have become so used to mistreatment that Watto’s brand of cruelty feels like a respite. 

Leia sat slumped in the seat beside Han, faintly aware of her tender shoulder and feeling distinctly inadequate in the presence of her grandmother’s memory. Watto had been Shmi’s master—and her son’s—for years, and still she had somehow found it inside herself to forgive him. Leia had been Jabba’s slave for one night, and she had strangled him with the chain that bound her. Of course, there was a world of difference between Watto and Jabba. [Troy Denning. Tatooine Ghost]

Besides, what choice did they have in the matter? He raced because he was good at it, Watto knew he was good at it, and whatever Watto wanted of him he would do. That was the price you paid when you were a slave, and Anakin Skywalker had been a slave all his life. [Terry Brooks. The Phantom Menace]

To Leia, a princess of Alderaan, the thought of being a Hutt’s slave was unacceptable. To Anakin, who grew up as a Hutt’s slave, Watto felt like an improvement.  What Leia considered an unspeakable crime, Anakin considered mundane. I think people forget that. People forget the horror of it. So let’s remind them:

When Count Dooku flies at him, blade flashing, Watto’s fist cracks out from Anakin’s childhood to knock the Sith Lord tumbling back. [Matthew Stover. Revenge of the Sith]

Physical pain he could have handled even without his Jedi mental skills; he’d always been tough. At four years old he’d been able to take the worst beating Watto would deliver without so much as making a sound. [Matthew Stover. Revenge of the Sith]

Yeah, a four years old so used to being beaten he no longer cries is totally fine.

Both mother and son were grateful to Watto for keeping them together, and after sharing a dingy, fetid room with six other slaves at Gardulla’s estate, they were astonished to learn they would have an entire hovel to themselves at Slave Quarters Row, along the outskirts of Mos Espa. Watto believed they should feel grateful, and made it clear that if they didn’t do as he said, he’d fill the hovel to capacity with additional slaves. [Ryder Windham. Star Wars®: The Rise and Fall of Darth Vader]

Which single mom doesn’t want to live in precarious conditions. Again, totally normal.

Operating a Podracer required incredibly fast reflexes, the competition was fierce, and Anakin — as far as anyone knew — was the only human ever to fly one and live. Despite this accomplishment, Anakin knew he’d have to do better to please Watto. [Ryder Windham. The Rise and Fall of Darth Vader]

When he’d belonged body and soul first to venal, rapacious Gardulla the Hutt.… and after her Watto, who hadn’t been cruel, exactly, but was greedy and careless and willing to see him die racing a Pod. [Karen Miller. Star Wars: Clone Wars Gambit: Stealth]

Nothing wrong with forcing a kid to risk his life for profit, am I right?

“For a moment, I suspected you’d run away from Watto.” transmitter detonate?” “Pleasure?” Watto said, his trunklike nose turning slightly upward as if recoiling from Anakin’s words. “You think I like cleaning up exploded slaves? Bweh heh heh!” When he was done laughing, he gestured with a three-fingered hand to some more scrap-filled containers that had just been delivered, and said, “Now get back to work! I want this scrap sorted by noon!” [Ryder Windham. The Rise and Fall of Darth Vader]

Freedom and fun? Who needs it when you can be threatened with explosives and forced to work under TWO suns?

“Anakin, how are you feeling? Truthfully?” If he said hungry, Obi-Wan would throw something at him. But he was. He was ravenous. And he hated, hated, feeling hungry. The sensation too. It’s unfortunate but it can’t be helped. We’ll manage.” [Karen Miller. Clone Wars Gambit: Stealth]

Starvation. That’s healthy.

“Rassa dwee cuppa, peedunkel!” Watto screamed, starting in again on Anakin in a fresh burst of Huttese. The pudgy body lurched forward a few centimeters with each epithet, causing Anakin to step back in spite of his resolve. Watto’s bony arms and legs gestured with the movements of his head and body, giving him a comical appearance. He was angry, but Anakin had seen him angry before and knew what to expect. He did not cringe or bow his head in submission; he stood his ground and took his scolding unflinchingly. He was a slave and Watto was his master. Scoldings were part of life. [Terry Brooks. The Phantom Menace]

Verbal assault is always fun. 

Watto was immediately defensive. “He’s my boy, my property, and he’ll do what I want him to do!” [Terry Brooks. The Phantom Menace]

Oh, to be considered property. What a fun concept!

Not only Anakin and Shmi were slaves, without any rights or freedom, they were forced into hard work, starved, threatened, abused and humiliated. 

But, please, tell me again how not rescuing kids under the same or worse circumstances is the right call.