#grecian computer

[got-eggs]

wow this redesigning of one of my old character is going well!

(it looks like an off-brand sonic oc 💀[lmao])

[georgeclarkewifey]

Inconvenience | g.clarke

Chapter 4: Tough Day

Summary: The boys try and help Noa with a new project

Word Count: 1.2k+

Warnings: swearing, George being a dick (again)

Roughly a week or so had passed since Noa moved into her new apartment, and her hopes that George would warm up to her hadn’t been achieved yet.

Even though she spent most evenings with the boys, he would still only talk to her if the others were there, and whenever he could he avoided her at all costs.

It was beginning to bother Noa. She couldn’t understand why he was acting this way towards her, and after thorough discussions with his other roommates, they confirmed that she hadn’t done or said anything to cause this behaviour.

Luckily, Arthur Hill and her got on like a house on fire, and being one of the better housemates at DIY, he aided in building most of her new furniture whenever he wasn’t recording a video or working on his new song.

“So when’s it coming out? I feel as if I can only listen to the same sound bite before I go crazy.” Noa said, glancing up from her laptop to look at Arthur, who was sitting on her kitchen counter.

“Should be done in a couple of weeks, just trying to iron out the wrinkles and sort the bridge out.” He replied, taking a long swig of tea out of the mug that she had leant him. “What are you working on? I feel as I can hear your brain whirring.”

Noa grumbled and massaged her temples. It was moments like these that she wished she had an influencer job, with complete creative freedom and a flexible schedule, instead of her gruelling 9-6. “Trying to find as many different types of ancient column design as possible. Well, not too ancient because the clients want their building to look modern enough.”

Arthur gave her a sympathetic look. “You really are bottom of the food chain in your firm aren’t you?”

“Yep. That’s what you get when you’re the new kid, all the tasks that no one else wants.”

“But at least you’re not having to make coffee and do paperwork right?” He asked hopefully.

Noa raised her eyebrows at him. “Why do you think I’m having to do this at home, and not in the office.”

“Ah.”

“Ah indeed.” She muttered, scrolling through another page of Grecian inspired pillars. “Honestly, sometimes rich people have too much money to spend. I mean, who needs a foyer with the three types of alternating pillars, that match the fountains? Do you know how expensive that is Arthur?”

He winced. “I’m guessing a lot.”

“Correct.”

“Noa!” Chris yelled, swinging the door open. “You, me, George and the two Arthurs and the club. Yes?”

“Chris, it’s a Thursday night.”

“Exactly! Thursday night, do you have anything better to do?”

Noa blinked at him. “Be up in the morning with ample amount of sleep ready for work?”

“God I forget you have a boring actual job.”

“Someone has to remind you guys there’s an actual world out there.” She muttered, typing quickly on her computer, eyes widening as her stomach let out a low growl.

Chris and Arthur slowly turned their heads to look at her. “Okay, new plan. Order takeout and watch a movie?”

“I could be up for that.” She said quietly, absentmindedly chewing on the end of her pen, before going to jot down some notes. “Just need to finish working.”

Chris’ eyebrows raised. “And when will that be?”

“Before the end of time.” Noa said. “Or at least I hope so. I’ve gotta figure out the best combination of these pillars and then I’ll be done.”

“And how many combinations are there?”

“Well there’s eight main types, but then there’s different patterns within those. I might have actually lost count.”

Chris moved so that he could peer over Noa’s shoulder, and winced at the number of tabs open she had on her computer, as well as the scribbles that adorned her notebook.

“Gonna be honest. I’ve got no clue at what looks good. But I believe in you Noa, if anyone could figure it out it’s you.” He said reassuringly, patting her head. “Right, Hill let’s order food, at this point in time Noa will probably eat whatever we put in front of her, so what are we feeling up for?”

arthurhill

liked by arthurtv, maxbalegde and 28,039 others

arthurhill everyone drop your favourite pillars and columns to help with Noa’s latest design

Comments open

fan1 everyone knows the correct answer is doric

⮑ fan2 booo temple of winds supremacy

maxbalegde scared and confused at this comment section

⮑ noamurphy they’re all just architecture nerds like me

arthurtv correct answer is ionic

⮑ noamurphy no it isn’t I promise

⮑ arthurtv one day you’ll see

⮑ noamurphy sure. also we’re getting take out if you wanna join

⮑ arthurtv I am running to the elevator

fan3 noa in the ikea vlog is everything 😫🤌🤌🤌

⮑ fan4 she is a divine queen

⮑ fan3 her and George in the bed 🤌🤌

⮑ fan4 nooo that was the most forced and uncomfortable thing I couldn’t with it-

gkbarry_ we stan a hardworking queen

⮑ noamurphy love you boo

⮑ gkbarry_ okay now girlie take a break

“Okay Noa, maybe take Grace’s advice and stop? Surely it would be better to rest up and then be able to finish it when you’re not exhausted?” Chris asked gently, reaching to slide the laptop away from her grip.

Noa glared at him and swatted his hands away. “No Christopher. No.”

Chris gave her a stern look, only looking away when the door slammed open again, revealing Arthur Television in his pyjama trousers and hoodie. “Food, when?”

“The one with the law degree decides to speak like a caveman.” Chris muttered, shaking his head, as a much calmer George walked through the door.

Walking into her apartment, George was hit with the realisation that he’d never been in Noa’s apartment before - she’d always been at theirs, or if Chris and Arthur where heading down he’d give the excuse that he was busy planning videos.

He was pleasantly surprised. Well, he didn’t exactly know what to expect, but it definitely wasn’t a light and airy apartment. Maybe he thought there would be neon lights everywhere, like the ones that adorned Chris’ room or stacks of books like Arthur.

The living room was cosy, and he recognised the two sofas that they had picked out in Ikea, as well as a plush rug, with a coffee table that matched the dining table and chairs. A couple of pictures adorned the walls, a simple beach watercolour as well as some cinematic shots of her playing football with Arthur and Chris.

His brow furrowed. Neither of them mentioned that she played, and since she’d arrived they had filmed a football video for Chris’ channel, but she didn’t take part. Surely if Noa was good enough to warrant her to have photos of her playing, then surely Chris would want that talent in his videos?

George cast his eyes to Noa, who was hunched over her laptop, still trying to finish the designs. Arthur TV sat next to her, and the pair were discussing which column designs worked the best together.

“Maybe that person was onto something bringing temple of winds into the conversation…what if you put them with some Doric pillars, then…” Arthur trailed off, stumped.

“You see? Finding two designs that go together is easy, but a third? A fucking third?” Noa sighed, resting her head on the keyboard.

“How rich are the clients, ie, what’s the budget?”

“Yeah, are they Ronaldo rich, or so rich that you’ve probably never heard of them?” Arthur Hill asked.

“The second one.” She muttered. “Which is why it has to be perfect, because they are paying us a lot.”

Noa sighed and pulled up the designs of the fountains that had been chosen. She studied them meticulously, trying to find a hint that could help her. Even though it was strenuous work, this was one of the reasons that loved designing buildings, once you found all the right pieces, it perfectly fell into place like a puzzle. It was incredibly satisfying, and seeing the final projects always made her heart swell with pride.

But this was really trying her patience. Why couldn’t she figure it out? It didn’t also help that she had a live audience watching her stress over it. “Do you know when the food’s getting here?”

“Should be about five minutes.”

“Thank god.”

“Oh never mind, the guys here.” Chris said, slipping his shoes on, that had been previously abandoned by the door. “Arthur can you help carry it?”

“Sure.” Both of them replied, following Chris out of the door, leaving George alone with Noa.

She was silently cursing the three that had just left, physically wishing all the curses and ailments upon them for leaving her with George. Who, was silently leaning against her kitchen counter.

George didn’t know what to do. Ever since the trip to Ikea he hadn’t been close to Noa again, not that he wanted to, but he wasn’t sure if he should mention it. Why should he? If she hadn’t mentioned it then surely she was fine, right?

Not that he even wanted to talk to her.

George couldn’t fully see into Noa’s room, most is it being blocked by the angle at which he was looking in, and from what he could tell, it was just like the rest of the apartment, except with more decorations. He wasn’t sure why, but he was curious about what was inside, how Noa had organised her bookcase, what perfumes she used, how she kept her jewellery, the way her plans laid out on her sketching desk.

And he didn’t know why.

As far as he was concerned he actively disliked Noa, and so he couldn’t fathom why a part of him was so interested in her, why he wanted to know the little details of her life.

Noa closed her eyes. She was genuinely considering giving up, but she knew she couldn’t. This had to be finished that evening so that it could be sent to her supervisor ready for the next morning. Pushing her chair back, she stood up and paced into her bedroom, unknown to her that George’s eyes followed her every step, hoping that one of her books would provide her with some inspiration.

But it wasn’t any of her architecture books that caught her eye. It was the battered copy of the third Percy Jackson book - it was her favourite of the series, and would read it religiously as a child. Partially, as a child it was her dream to become a Hunter of Artemis, and so she could read the book over and over again without tiring of it.

Somehow, this was the prompt she needed to let the puzzle pieces fall into place. “OH MY GOD!” She exclaimed, sprinting out of her room and skidding on the wooden floor to the table. Noa grinned whilst nearly destroying her keyboard at how quickly she was typing.

“FOOOOD!” Chris called, carrying the plastic bags and setting them down in front of Noa.

“Dude give me two minutes I’ve figured it out.”

“Really?” Arthur TV asked excitedly, pulling the chair next to her out, so he could see what she was working on. “Caryatids? Noa that’s genius! They match the f-“

“Fountains yeah, because they’ve got marble women carved into them, and so they’d match perfectly.”

“Have we ever said you’re a genius?” Chris asked, smiling proudly at her.

“Only when I do genius shit.”

[ckret2]

Question for the Canon-Compliant Theory Generator! If I drew a picture of Bill in a scene such that the eye can't see the rest of the picture directly (ex. convex surface), a) do you think he could see it anyway? b) do you think he could experience what's happening in the scene, Ode to a Grecian Urn style? Like, if I posed him on a throne being worshiped, would he just like it aesthetically, or would it be role-play for him?

I feel like he'd only be able to interact with the image around him if the image itself is enchanted or supernatural or something.

Like, if you made an image of Bill in Minecraft, he'd only be able to see out of the computer when the pixels that make up his image are displayed on screen, and he wouldn't be able to see or interact with the Minecraft world, because Minecraft isn't magical, it's just a normal real video game.

On the other hand, if you modded Fight Fighters to add a little Bill Cipher into the game background, THAT would be able to interact with the Fight Fighters world and talk to the characters and stuff, because Fight Fighters is cursed as hell, you can summon the characters and shit.

So, YOU, anon—because you're a human in the real world who can't make magic living images—if you put him on a throne it would just be a cool picture that he can see through. But within the Gravity Falls universe it's conceivable someone could stick him in a magic picture of a throne and he could enjoy the experience of sitting on the throne.

[ussgallifrey]

(She Moves With) Shameless Wonder | 27

✦ Summary: Your badge clearly said SHIELD consultant, so you weren’t entirely sure where Fury was getting this whole make you an Avenger idea from. But you had a feeling it might have something to do with the recent discovery of an artifact at the bottom of the Arctic Sea.

✦ Pairing: Steve Rogers x Female Reader

✦ Warnings: Canon divergence, dialogue taken directly from Avengers: Age of Ultron, the Eternals being really bad at lying, dealing with their trauma and grief like ADULTS, excessive drinking, insane levels of foreshadowing, language, modern-day Ancient Grecian festivals, Wanda's canonical love of sitcoms.

✦ Word Count: 17.6k

✦ Playlist: Here

✦ Cinematic Soundtrack: Here

✦ Author's Note: Oh. My. God. I can't believe we're here at the final chapter of the Age of Ultron arc, the very biggest chapter of the entire story. This was so much fun to write. There's going to be some translations, and a follow-up Author's Note at the end of the chapter to keep this part spoiler-free. Enjoy!

[Master List]

The echoing screams are what pull you away from the low-lit comfort of your bedroom. As the highest shriek trembles down into shuddering sobs in the gentle stillness of night. 

Putting your book to the side, you push away from the bed. Almost the second you open your door, the one across the hall from you is creaking open as well. With his ruffled bedhead and a muffled yawn, Steve gives you a familiar nod as you wordlessly move down the stairs to your unofficially assigned duties.

Pietro’s light is already on, his door ajar. While you continue down to the main level, Steve glides his way across the hall to the second door on the right.

Flicking the switch on the wall, the kitchen’s overhead light temporarily blinds your senses.

“Hey,” you give a worn sigh as you make your way over to the stove. “We talked about this. I know you have good intentions here, but - ”

“It is a calming method, is it not?” Vision questions in a slightly stilted tone as he holds the tea kettle above a red-hot burner.

Maybe those shrieking cries hadn’t just been from the traumatized girl upstairs, but from a whistling pot as well.

“Yeah, but it’s only effective if the water isn’t fully evaporated out. Sort of ruins the tea mix.”

“Ah,” he sighs, setting the kettle down on the adjoining burner. “This is still… confusing.”

With a shrug, you gently push him to the side as you move to fill the kettle back up at the sink, “Hey, you’re leagues ahead of most one-month-olds, give yourself some credit.”

He tilts his head, “I am not a human infant, the correlation does not compute.”

Pushing your hair over your shoulder as you return to the stove, you smile up at the man, “It was a joke, Vision. Or at least, an attempt at one. I’m too tired for this, honestly.”

“I was under the impression that deities did not require sleep.”

Placing the kettle down with a little more force than necessary, you fix the creation with a look.

It had been an odd month and a half for all of you.

Your time in Sokovia was still a close memory, as was apparent in the near-nightly nightmares of the youngest twin. Sometimes, when you close your eyes, you find yourself transported back to the battle. You could still hear the terrified screams, smell the decay around you, and worse yet feel the unmovable hand at your throat.

The team had stayed long after the battle to assist in the clean-up process. Which, in all actuality, just meant giving the bodies a dignified place to rest until a temporary morgue could be set up in a structurally stable location.

You all had worked well into the night before Steve began to wane. Gritted teeth and brushes of I’m fine went on for far too long before the multiple broken ribs, punctured spleen, and several large gashes finally took their toll on him. Natasha, Clint, and Sam hadn’t been much better off either.

But even after they were forcibly removed to seek medical treatment, you and Thor remained. To walk amongst the human race was an honor. You weren’t going to leave the scene of battle when such carnage was left behind. 

It wasn’t until morning, when a slow and steady sunrise peaked over the mountains, that you were finally finished in your duties; aided by a handful of SHIELD agents and local residents who had returned in the early morning hours to see what was left of their city.

There wasn’t much of Old Town that remained standing. And, by last estimates, some 17,000 people had been infected and killed by Ultron’s nano-virus. Another 3,000 were killed during the battle, followed by thousands of injured and seriously critical patients in neighboring hospitals.

You didn’t even like thinking of the week’s total now; between Sokovia, New York, Johannesburg, and London. Not to mention Seoul, where Ultron had attacked Cho’s lab while you all had been distracted by other threats.

“Have I said something to upset you?”

The kettle is whistling.

Blinking, you pull the pot off the heat and fill the awaiting mug.

“No, not at all. Just… lost in thought,” you say with a distant voice as you add the herbal mix.

Vision gives you a hesitant nod.

After letting the tea steep for a moment, you give the man a gentle wave before you head up the stairs. He knew better than to follow after you now.

This had been another adjustment for you, in the aftermath of the battle.

As the Tower had been destroyed, the team split off in search of temporary living situations. Tony went to Malibu, Sam back to his place in D.C., and Clint had an apartment in the city somewhere that he and Natasha were crashing out at. Thor had been offered lodging with Tony, at Pepper’s insistence.

Which of course left one particular supersoldier.

 Steve had been living at the tower for well over a year now; never bothering to get a place for himself in Brooklyn, or anywhere else in the city for that matter. It hadn’t even been a question to offer him a room at your house in Vermont after he was cleared from the hospital.

This only left the true question that was the twins and, well, Vision (as Thor soon named him).

They were technically minors and Vision was technically a weapon, but also a sentient being. The legality of it quickly became complicated by international law and Sokovian law and U.S. immigration and temporary refugee laws. You left all that up to Tony to deal with. He had an army of lawyers in hand for things of this nature, thankfully.

You didn’t want to just leave them there to deal with this newfound freedom on their own. You all knew HYDRA would be on the lookout for them, and if that wasn’t bad enough, you personally knew that SHIELD would be looking to take them in if at all possible as well.

And while it had been different for the others, who were all adults who could reasonably consent to things that Nick would offer, you were all too aware of the fragile state the twins were in. It was one thing to willingly join up with SHIELD, it was another to be convinced to join under possibly false pretenses.

You liked Nick, you trusted him to have your six, but there were certain things you would rather keep clear of his grasp.

If the tower had still been intact, perhaps you would have all gone to live there in a strange form of cohabitation. But, instead, you found yourself housing two mutants, a sentient computer, and a supersoldier. There were stranger things out there, you were sure of it.

Pushing the door to Wanda’s room open a little further, you offer the teen a gentle smile.

You had told Tony that you were used to dealing with teenage twins. Thankfully, he didn’t pester you with questions about that and had merely made temporary guardianship signed over to you.

Pietro is sitting next to her on the bed while Steve remains near the foot of the mattress.

Passing the tea along, you rest your weight against the dresser. Sometimes, she would be able to go back to sleep after a few minutes or an hour of talking. But, it looks like tonight is going to be another one of those situations.

After several minutes of the siblings speaking in hushed Sokovian to one another, the girl gathers the black comforter up and around her like a cloak and makes her way down the stairs with her brother at her side.

Steve gives a tired sigh, rubbing his jaw as he moves to stand beside you after flicking off her bedside light.

From here, you can hear the gentle click and hum of the box T.V. humming to life downstairs. You had offered up your vast collection of movies and shows to her on one of those first restless nights. She had an affinity for sitcoms and romantic comedies, oddly enough.

Offering the blonde a slow smile, you ask, “What was it tonight?”

He folds his arms over his chest, rocking back on his heels as he pointedly doesn’t look at you.

“Her, back in the cell… with the Hulk,” comes the terse breath a moment later.

You can’t help but grimace.

During the clean-up efforts, right after the battle, Bruce had transformed back to himself. And while the Hulk might not have noticed or even cared that Wanda was there, Bruce - the man - had very differing opinions on her presence there.

Holding a good amount of anger over her meddling in Johannesburg, he had almost fully transformed back into his green opposite when you and Thor had both tackled him - dragging him far, far away from the terrified girl. You understood, of course. She had gotten into his mind, had twisted it in such a way that he couldn’t regain control over his other self. 

To see her standing there beside all of you was like being sent back to Johannesburg all over again. And to know the damage it has caused to both the city, the people, and Bruce’s own psyche.

While she was apologetic for her actions, you all knew that she was only a child, following the orders of another abusive force in her life. Bruce logically knew that as well, but he couldn’t help that momentary burst of rage that crippled him like venom.

In that sense, you were grateful that the tower was no more. You weren’t sure how they would be able to exist under one roof.

Not that Bruce stuck around long enough after you landed to find out.

Steve reaches out, taking hold of your forearm with his warm hand.

“It’s going to get better.”

With a shrug, you reply, “It’s okay if it doesn’t too. Not everything can be fixed with hope and well-wishing.”

His eye color seems dim in this light, not the usual electric blue you associate with the afternoon sky. Everything about Steve seemed rather dimmed this past month and a half, though. Perhaps, even you were dimmed, a palette of dreary colors that didn’t quite resemble your past self.

It had been a hard victory; one that was soured by so much death and destruction that you weren’t even sure if you could call the battle a victory. It was just finished. That’s all. The finish to a terrible threat.

He gives you a crooked smile, “Still, nothing wrong with hoping for better days.”

“Yeah,” you nod, holding back a yawn of your own.

With Wanda’s regular nightmares shaking the whole house and her screams echoing across the foundations, it was hard for even you to feel energized. Even with your pendant having a permanent position around your neck.

“You going back to bed?” he asks, gently nodding at your second yawn.

“Honestly? I don’t think I could sleep even if I wanted to.”

With a warm chuckle, Steve shakes his head, “Yeah. Me too.”

Together, you make your way downstairs to the living area. The lights are blessedly low, while the program on the TV is a little hard to look at. Pietro is curled up next to his sister, already snoring at the end of the couch. Wanda gives you a thankful nod as she continues to sip from her tea, pulling the comforter closer around her shoulders.

You and Steve find a spot on the loveseat opposite the couch, just under the window. Vision is hovering in the corner of the room, glancing through a book, though his eyes keep looking up at the TV whenever the laugh track plays.

He had been an entirely different addition to your household. Tony had offered to keep him down in Malibu until there was an adjustment period, but Pepper had been more hesitant. It was only after he picked up Thor’s hammer in the rubble of the market square that anyone on the team even felt comfortable having him around. There was so much of Ultron that could have been left in there.

But Tony had sacrificed JARVIS to the net, wiping every last trace of the rogue bot out. He would chase him to the deepest corners of the web to ensure it. That included Vision’s programming.

And, well, since you had a brief moment of clarity on the rooftop together, you volunteered to house him as well.

Steve’s arm wraps around the back of the sofa, his fingers brushing up against your left shoulder as you lean into him. He didn’t really care for these shows, but he didn’t like staying upstairs while the rest of you convened down here either.

“Oh, look. When it started, I was just trying to be nice to her because she was my brother’s girlfriend. And then, oh, one thing led to another and before I knew it we were… shopping.”

“Oh! Oh my god.”

“Honey, wait, we only did it once! It didn’t mean anything to me.”

“Yeah, right. Sure.”

“Really, Rachel, I was thinking of you the whole time!”

Wanda snorts as Monica chases Rachel across their apartment. Steve lulls his head downward, glancing at you with his soft sleep-deprived eyes. You smile back at him, moving in closer to his side, resting your head upon his shoulder as you tuck in for the rest of the night.

The team had been actively avoiding the public eye in the aftermath of Ultron. It was for the best - that’s what Tony’s PR team told you anyway. That’s another reason your house had been the perfect location to place the twins and Vision. It wasn’t public knowledge, the location of your home, and it was a good distance away from any major city. Unlike Tony down in Malibu, who frequently had paps outside of his mansion - waiting for a picture.

That’s why they decide to keep Steve’s birthday a smaller affair - aside from Steve’s own insistence on not making a big deal out of it. Somewhere upstate where they’re less likely to be recognized; questioned, ridiculed.

Well, the plan was to celebrate the supersoldier’s birthday on his actual birthday, but in the realm of superheroes, plans have a way of falling by the wayside. The team is sent to Atlanta to deal with a threat - you stay behind, for obvious reasons.

You’re in the middle of preparing a lunch for the teens, the next day, when you get a text from Tony.

Change of plans. Meet us in Albany round 7 for Capsicle’s shindig? x.

It would give you time to come up with arrangements for the three others in your house. No one felt particularly comfortable with leaving them to their own devices just yet. Not with HYDRA still being an active threat in the world. 

And, since they were in the public image now, more than just the likes of an old military organization might want to get their hands on two enhanced kids. And a sentient being like Vision.

You make a call to an old friend and manage to arrive at the restaurant just an hour after the team does.

They’re all in an array of outfits - since they only had what was available in their go-bags to change into. Natasha has on a black cocktail dress, while Tony’s in a faded Metallica shirt and jeans. Thor has not changed from his armor, though his cape is absent. Clint has a baggy purple hoodie and grey sweatpants on. Only Steve and Sam look to be wearing their typical style of clothing, in all honesty.

“Hey, there she is!” Barton calls out, making everyone turn their head to see you.

“Who’s watching the Wonder Twins?” Tony questions, peering down from behind his sunglasses. Seriously, only that man would wear sunglasses indoors. 

You smile at the belated birthday boy as you take a seat opposite him at the table. Squished between Clint and the resident billionaire, you answer lightly, “A friend.”

“Ooh, like a godly friend, or - ”

“Tony,” Steve sighs with a gentle shake of his head. “Just for one night.”

Stark gives an exaggerated groan, “Oh, for our resident centenarian…”

“He’s only ninety-seven,” Natasha reminds him behind the rim of her drink.

“Thirty, actually. Thank you,” Steve clarifies with another unruly sigh.

Your eyes meet his from across the white-clothed table, a smirk toying at your lips. Leave it to Tony to find the fanciest steak restaurant around.

“What, are we not counting your years in the ice anymore? Cause if that’s the case, man. You really gotta up the game on modern speaking and tech,” Clint rolls his eyes as he lazily folds his napkin into a swan beside you.

“I believe the Captain looks quite healthy for his advanced age,” Thor goads from the end of the table. “A healthy ninety, for sure.”

Steve just buries his head in his hands, a smile tugging at his lips, “This is why I never go to team dinners.”

Your laugh makes him look up. The glimmer of life in his eyes makes your heart swell.

It would take time for all of you to recover from Ultron’s terror, but you would get there… in time.

“So,” Tony sighs, leaning back in his chair, his hand upon his stomach. “I have a schedule out for everyone’s birthdays. Where do I put you two?”

You had just finished a very expensive meal of prime-cut steak selections, fresh-catch baked fish, too many countless appetizers and sides to count, and a very decadent birthday cake with glowing sparklers - because ninety-seven candles on top of a cake are apparently considered a fire risk.

Glancing down the table at your fellow God, you just laugh, throwing your balled-up white napkin at Tony.

“We do not abide by such… mortal things.”

“Well, you gotta have a birthdate, right?” Sam speaks up, one arm on the table as his other hand points between the two of you. “Didn’t just pop into existence one day and forget about it, you know?”

“Well…” you lull your head to the side.

“I knew it!” Clint cheers, “Fucking, what did I say? From the head of Zeus comes the goddess ATHENA.”

Pushing at his shoulder, Barton goes cackling to the side, unable to help himself after a drink too many.

“While I appreciate the sentiment, I’m afraid it’s just not a done thing for us,” you apologize. “If you want, however. Pick a random Thursday, and call it Thor’s Day.”

“You’re kidding me.”

Thor chuckles, “No, it is quite literally my day amongst the practitioners of Norse beliefs in this realm.”

“And you,” Tony contemplates, words playing on his tongue. “Athena… Thena… Thur - no, Tue… no. Okay, help a guy out here.”

You laugh, catching sight of the content looking supersoldier from across the table. His eyes follow the conversation between you and the billionaire, a soft and equally amused smile on his face.

“Nothing like that for me, sorry, Tony. You’re just going to have to survive without throwing me a party.”

“Like hell, I will!” he sounds almost aghast, clutching a hand to his chest. “If you don’t give me one, I’m gonna go for April 1st or something, you know.”

Casually leaning back in your chair, you place your used utensils upon your empty plate. That cake had been delicious.

“Personally, I wouldn’t recommend it. Dionysus gets quite annoyed when people try to take his celebrations away from him.” 

When you catch Steve’s curious look, you return his gaze to explain, “April 1st is the beginning of the Great Dionysia, a celebration created back in the 6th century, BC. He would take it as a great offense that anyone would be trying to celebrate me on that day.”

“Hang on!” Clint remarks, tapping at the table. “Athens. They literally named the place after you. There’s gotta be some kind of thing for you. A party, or a day, a week-long festival, right? I’m right, aren't I?”

“Fellas,” Natasha groans, lifting her glass toward you. “Leave the girl alone. Bad enough we have to suffer through Steve’s dronefest of a party. No offense.”

Steve holds up his hands, “None taken. Wasn’t my idea.”

“I’m sorry,” Tony chimes in. “Was there a thank you, Tony, in there that I didn’t catch? Perhaps a thank you for wining and dining us all on this beautiful evening, Tony?”

There’s a collective groan of Thank you Tony and Many thanks Stark, which seem to satisfy the man’s need for recognition for the night.

When you’re outside, long after the waitstaff usually closed up - but Tony had a very generous tip for the restaurant, so they didn’t mind as much - Clint, Natasha, and Sam say their goodbyes. Wishing Steve a good, belated, birthday before they head out.

Tony lingers around as Thor and Steve converse.

“No word yet on our Strucker double. Just some local guy who went missing about three months before everything went down. And as for the other thing - look. I’m doing my best, but the records from back then are shoddy at best…”

You just nod in return. It had been one of the few requests you had made to the billionaire after taking the teens in. It wasn’t necessarily pressing, but after so many years spent in HYDRA’s captivity, you knew there was a chance that information might help them.

“How are they though?” he asks, voice lowered, sunglasses hooked onto his shirt.

“Good as can be, considering,” you answer honestly. “Wanda has nightmares, Pietro does too, sometimes. But they seem to be adjusting well enough. No… accidental outbursts of, you know, magic. And Vision is… well… he’s Vision.”

At that, Tony lets out a bark of laughter.

“Hey, thanks again for that. Taking one for the team just... yeah. You know? But, good news, groundbreaking on the new location is in a week, so we might be looking at early September, mid-October for move-in?”

You blink, “That fast?”

He fixes you with a look.

“Sweetheart, with the right amount of money, you can afford the best contractors out there. I’m not pinching a dime on these plans.”

Stark had been planning the new Avengers location pretty much since the ride home from Sokovia. The blueprints were good to go by the end of the week. And that was between multiple press conferences, a hospital trip, several angry phone calls from Pepper, and trying to safely and legally get two child refugees into the country.

“Sounds like a plan,” you say lightly.

“Well,” he claps his hands, smiling brightly - drunkenly - as he snags his sunglasses to put back on his face. “Come on, Point Break. Let's leave Mr. and Mrs. Rogers to get back home.”

“Tony - ”

You roll your eyes, “Just because we live together, Tony - ”

“Yeah, but you two? So adorable. Like a little nuclear family. Mom, Dad, the two kids, and your cybernetic… pet. You know what - ”

“Okay,” Thor chuckles as Steve drags a hand down his face, a flush of red doting his cheeks. “I think even you’ve had too much to drink, Stark.”

After the God of Thunder manages to corral Tony into the back of his waiting car, Steve saunters over to you - one hand in his pocket and the other tossing his keys up and down.

“Where have I seen this before?” you laugh.

Steve grins, “Come on, let a guy offer you a ride.”

“Well,” you drawl as you both walk over toward his bike. “It is your birthday, after all, so I guess…”

It’s a two-hour ride back to Vermont.

Your hands remain around Steve’s waist as you travel across the lonely freeways and backcountry roads. The warmth of his leather jacket and the rich smell of his cologne keep you company for the ride. You have his shield on your back while his small go-bag is stored under the seat.

At this time of night, you can make out the distant constellations up above. You point them out as you drive, shouting their names for Steve to hear. At one point, he reaches a hand down to squeeze your right hand that’s held tight across his middle.

As he pulls onto the vacant road that leads up to the house, the engine puttering softly, he tilts his head back to say:

“You know, I don’t even think I asked who’s watching Wanda and Pietro?”

You chuckle, leaning your forehead against his upper back, “Just an old friend. He was free tonight, no big plans.”

There’s a nearly audible arch of his brow, “Old friend?”

You nod, letting him feel the gentle up and down of your head against his shoulder.

“From college,” you add.

You know he wants to ask more of you, but he waits until you’re back at the house. A handful of lights are on when you pull up - through the illusion. Downstairs is aglow in yellow tones, while a single bedroom on the second floor has a flashing melody of colorful lights. Wanda was definitely a fan of the mood lights Tony had purchased for her.

Steve parks the motorcycle near the porch. Holding out a hand to help you off the bike, you eagerly stretch your arms.

“Two hours on that might be too much,” you chuckle.

The supersoldier shakes his head, “It was like… an hour-forty, at most.”

“Oh, so you were speeding.”

Cracking a smile in your direction, Steve pulls the keys from the ignition and pockets them in his jacket. Handing over his shield, the supersoldier takes it in his right hand. Wrapping his left arm around your shoulders, the two of you walk up the creaking steps of the porch.

The house, in all honesty, is usually pretty quiet. Even with two teenagers living there. But Wanda and Pietro definitely weren’t your average teens. So, you didn’t question the silence that sometimes overtook your home. After nearly a decade of existing within HYDRA’s grasp, you knew their willingness and ability to make much noise was still limited.

However, you’re slightly surprised to hear a rapturous conversation taking place the minute you enter the central hallway.

Steve’s eyes are immediately locked on the kitchen. A certain change to his posture as he stands straight, shoulders back, chin up, gaze piercing.

Pushing a gentle defusing hand to his chest, you kick off your shoes and move through the archway to your right.

“Is that right?” Vision asks with a sense of excitement in his tone.

“No, it’s quite a fascinating topic if you have the time for it. You know, not many people know this, but - aye! There she is!”

Your smile blossoms into a bright grin as you cross the kitchen to greet the other man.

“Hello, Vision,” you pat the creation’s shoulder politely before you move to hug your friend, “Hi! Thank you again. How was it?”

Releasing you, his hand drifts to rest on your left shoulder.

“Good, really good. Well… quiet, actually. But they’re not too bad. Good kids at heart.”

“Yeah, they are,” Steve stands in the doorway, his arms crossed as he stares at your companion.

“Ah, Captain Rogers,” he says, letting go of you in favor of going over to shake Steve’s hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Steve glances at you for just a beat before he returns the handshake.

“Huh, good things I hope. Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Uhm,” you cough, moving to stand beside the two men, “This is… Isaac, friend from college.”

“Isaac?” Ikaris mouths at you.

“Yeah, you mentioned that already,” Steve stares down at you.

Ikaris forces a smile, “Yeah we studied at… college, together.”

You actually want to hit him. Sersi was so much better at this than him. God, it was awful. But at least Steve has a hint of a smile on his face. 

Leaning against the doorway, the supersoldier comments, “Didn’t notice a car in the drive.”

The Eternal looks to you, then, oddly enough, at Vision, before he answers, “Taxi.”

“Right,” Steve nods, biting his tongue. “Well, thank you anyway. It’s… sort of a sensitive situation here, you know.”

“Of course,” Ikaris nods in earnest. “Happy to help, obviously. And,” he looks down at you. “If you ever need anything, just… give me a call, yeah?”

“Will do,” you smile before pushing up on your toes to wrap him into a hug. “And thank you again. Hopefully, I’ll see you soon.”

He hums in return before he bids you all a goodnight.

You count his steps down the porch and into the yard before - yup.

Steve turns to look at you, “Power of flight?”

Offering him a sheepish smile, you shrug, “Amongst… other things?”

“God, sweetheart,” he chuckles, shaking his head. “I think I’ve got the full picture of you and then you just go and surprise me again.”

You push at his shoulder, eyes locked on his as a smile teases at your lips, “You think you know a girl…”

“I'm sorry,” Vision interrupts, as he looks back at the two of you from his seated position. “Were we not supposed to acknowledge his enhanced state?”

Steve looks down at you, and you up at him before you both start laughing.

Even from out here on the porch steps, you can still smell the lingering scent of onion in the air. Latkes had become a bit of a staple meal around the house as of late. The twins only had vague memories of their life prior to HYDRA and that organization wasn’t exactly well-known for their catering options.

Wanda had newfound aversions to deal with, but Pietro was less particular in his meals. As long as it was filling, he would typically eat it. But the young witch had many opinions about the food you served, and how it was prepared. And you weren’t exactly known for your cooking skills, nor was Steve for that matter.

Potato pancakes were easy enough to make, and opening a can of vegetables or applesauce for a side seemed to do the trick.

It’s just the four of you again. Steve had been called away for a recon mission alongside Clint and Natasha two days ago. Even in a house full of people, his absence was felt by all.

Tony had honestly been right when he said that you had basically created a strange little nuclear family in your home.

“Hey,” you smile gently as you take a seat near Pietro on the steps. From here, you can watch the lightning bugs dancing in the tall grass.

The stars are just beginning to peak out from the violet sky as Wanda walks through the swaying flower fields with Pallas on her shoulder.

Your smile wanes as you catch him wiping a quick fist across his running nose, eyes trimmed with red rings.

The urge to ask are you okay is overwhelming, but you know better by now. It had taken some work with Steve to get him to refrain from asking that question too often as well. Ever since Pietro’s fist had gone through the wall beside the staircase.

His desperate no, I am not fucking fine still echoed in your mind.

He’s pointedly avoiding your gaze, just a step down from you, as he rests his arms on his knees, his head is balanced on the crook of his right elbow as he gazes out at the blinking bugs.

His voice cracks as he asks with a sniff, “When will the Captain return?”

Glancing down at Pietro, you turn your eyes to the evening landscape. The wind is warm on this late-July night. It sweeps across the fields and forest canopy, a loving caress against your bare arms and legs.

“I’m not sure.”

Wanda giggles as Pallas takes flight, swooping around her alongside the lightning bugs. She claps her hands together once, holding them to her lips as she watches the owl soar.

“You know,” you begin, leaning toward the boy. “Sometimes, you two remind me of my siblings. A twin pair actually.”

He hums in return, eyes still cast upon the land.

“Wanda reminds me of my sister. Keeping to herself, finding companionship in, well, everything but people,” you smirk as Pallas returns to her, landing upon her right shoulder before he toes his way over to her left.

“And you… an Apollo in the making. Bright, charming, quick-witted. He would have liked you.”

Pietro’s head lifts, a curious arch to his brow.

“I miss them,” you relent. “Almost twenty years since I saw either of them, but the ache doesn’t disappear.”

He nods, lightly jostling his leg up and down.

“I…” he clears his throat, drums his fingers upon his knee, “I don’t remember much before… you know. But sometimes I get these… glimpses of them. Our rodičia. I don’t think she remembers as much. Just that night when the apartment was blown up and that missile was just sitting there - for two days, two nights. But I…” 

Pietro smiles. “I remember my mama’s hair; long, curling brown, blowing in the wind. White sheets hanging on a laundry line, shadows, a laugh. It all seems so far away at times.”

“You were young when you were taken.”

“Seven,” he nods. “We had been on the streets for two years when we were picked up. I can’t even remember my otec now. They… wiped it all away with their words, their machines, bastardi!”

You let the silence between you simmer for a moment, letting him ease his woes in the safety of your presence.

“I can’t even remember my own mother,” you admit in a broken whisper.

Pietro turns his head to look up at you.

“I thought people like you just… burst into existence.”

You give a hollow chuckle, “Not quite. She… she sacrificed herself to save me when I was very young.”

He blinks, lowering his gaze, “And… your father?”

Wrapping your hands into an enclosed fist, you let out a long breath.

“That’s… that’s another story entirely, Pietro. Me and the All-Father have a… complicated history in regards to certain things. At some moments, we were as close as can be and others… after Art and ‘Pollo left… well, don’t let me bore you with a Greek tragedy.”

His brow lifts, “Was that a joke?”

You shake your head, offering him a smile in return, “A hint of a pun, yes.”

He hums in return, leaning against the steps - his weight causing the old wood to creak - as he tilts his head back and closes his eyes. The warm evening wind rustles his stark white hair.

Steve returns on the 12th, several days past when he wants to be home. Things had gotten so tied up between the original mission and the HYDRA agent who ended up being an opening into an even bigger operation near the Mexican border.

He had heard mentions of Rumlow’s name on the wires and it felt like he had been running for nearly a week, chasing after another ghost.

The new compound along the Hudson was coming along. Tony was pleased to announce, when they landed the jet late last night, that the main housing unit for the team was completed - they were just waiting on the interior designer to drive up on Friday to finalize that last part of the process.

In the meantime, Tony had a folding camping table and deck chairs set up in the room he deemed their ‘war station… or whatever.’ So, Steve, Nat, and Clint spent three hours going through every last excruciating detail, followed up by marking known locations for both bases of operations and HYDRA agents for SHIELD to deal with.

By the time the sun was clipping the horizon, the supersoldier was in desperate need of a shower and a change of clothes. Luckily, the showers were set up and Tony had stocked the bathroom with exactly three towels. But that was more than Steve had been hoping for anyway, so he spent a long time soaking his aching muscles under the welcomed heat of the shower’s spray.

As he’s about to exit, he spots the billionaire with his feet kicked up on the folding table, a hand held to his forehead.

Tony peeks between his spread fingers as Steve draws near.

“The convenience of modern-day technology,” he sighs as a call comes through on his cell phone. He almost immediately swipes it over to the reject call button.

Steve lifts his brow in question.

“Well, ever since our little fuck up, I’ve had no less than seventeen daily calls between myself and Secretary Thaddeus Ross. If it’s not about dragging me in for a meeting or threatening to lock our asses up, he’s asking about Bruce’s location. Which, yeah, the man can go fuck himself in that sense.”

Resting his hands on his hips, the supersoldier shakes his head.

Things hadn’t eased up after Sokovia. He was starting to wonder if they ever would.

“But, that’s for me to deal with,” Tony shoves his feet onto the ground and stands with a groan before stretching his arms. “While you run and save the day, I’ll make sure the fridge stays stocked and your uniform doesn’t burst into flames or whatever it is I do exactly.”

“Thank you, Tony,” Steve looks down at the man with a genuine smile.

“Yeah, well,” he gabs, smacking the blonde on the arm as he passes him. “Say hi to the Missus for me, won’t you? And the kids. Those two adorable, rambunctious little tikes.”

Steve sighs, glancing up at the other man, “You’re never going to lay off that, are you?”

“Not until you plan on doing something about it. I’m all for the long game, but the betting pool is getting high, Rogers and Pep’s not gonna let me throw much more into that pot.”

Tony watches him as he goes through the doors to the recently paved driveway and parking lot. His bike remains under a protected shelter, clear of the elements with some fancy Stark Inudstries-branded cover over the motorcycle itself.

Throwing his go-bag under the seat and his shield over his shoulder, Steve mounts the seat and turns the ignition. The bike purrs under his hands.

The billionaire offers him a two-fingered salute as he pulls out onto the main road.

He just knew that he wanted to get home, back to you, in Vermont.

It still felt strange, to call that place home. Steve hadn’t had a proper place to call home since he was a kid in the 40s. He had a house in the Lower East Side, before the Battle of New York. And an apartment in D.C. during his time at SHIELD. But neither of those places felt like home.

They were adorned with his things; trinkets and items, that could remind him of a time and place far away from the 21st century. He had pictures of his friends, the Commandos. But even then, it was not a home.

But this, this strange cohabitation with the twins and Vision, and most importantly you? This is where Steve could truly say he felt at peace. It had been awkward at first, figuring out schedules and dealing with personal preferences, and hell, just being around two teenagers who were fresh out of HYDRA’s grasp.

And it wasn’t that his room on the third floor felt particularly like something he would style - though he had been able to switch out the lilac bedding and frills for things that were more his taste - the house just felt more homey than anything he had lived in after being recovered from the ice.

That was, in all honesty, probably due to you.

God, he was an idiot. Stark was right, he should be telling you or trying to tell you what he feels in his heart. But now it’s more of a challenge to get you alone as Wanda is usually glued to his side and Pietro to yours and it seems like there’s always a chance of Vision just floating through the walls to see what he’s up to.

But regardless of where he’s at in regards to admitting his deeply-held feelings, he’s anxious to get back to the house. To the place he’s easily calling home now, to anyone who asks.

And sure, Nat’s smirking when he says it and shooting glances at Barton, but he doesn’t care. This feels right. Deep in his bones, he knows it’s right.

And… maybe it's because he can forget about the world around him for a little while. Hidden off the grid, in an unmarked location. He can tune out the neverending news reports that call the Avengers the enemy, that demand retribution for their actions or inactions. 

The endless journalistic segments that detail over each member of the team and their past failings. Histories that had once been buried under government security software. They call into question their integrity, their ability to handle situations, to aid in peace-keeping.

When he’s at the house, he can just push that all away.

He can just… sit on the porch, close his eyes, and breathe.

Steve’s not exactly expecting a welcome party when he pulls up the drive, two hours later. So, it’s a bit surprising when Wanda is running up to him.

Her hair’s tied back in a large puffy bun and she’s got a black sheer duster on that billows up behind her as she rushes down the stairs. And Steve’s got a quick remark on the tip of his tongue as he kills the engine on the bike, but there’s a look in her eyes that makes him pull it back.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

“I don’t - they, they just came. And they took her and - ” her voice quivers as she points helplessly at the neighboring line of trees, just beyond the pasture. “And you said to stay at the house if any- if anyone came and I - ”

“Whoa,” he eases, standing up from the bike, his hands coming down upon her forearms in a gentle hold. “Who took her?”

“I don’t, I don’t know! We were in the kitchen and we were talking about Strucker and there was a knock and I didn’t even think! She just, gah, bodaj ho!”

Steve’s eyes are immediately intense, scoping the lay of the land, looking for a sign of struggle.

And then, from the forest, he hears the distant cry of:

“No! I swear to - STOP IT, right now!”

He’s not even thinking as he takes off running. 

Your voice is clear as day even from such a great distance. Wanda is just behind him, several yards back. But from the porch, he can hear the confused voice of Pietro calling out to them both. And then the boy is right beside him -

“What? What is it?” he asks, keeping pace a little too easily with Steve.

But then you’re yelling again and the boy is gone in an instant and the supersoldier knows that he shouldn’t have let him go. Sure, you faced Ultron a few months back, but he was still a kid. And he was Steve’s responsibility.

“I swear to the All-Father if you even think for a second that I’m going to - ”

Steve’s pace slows as he enters a clearing. You glance up from the center of a group of women - one of them has a linen measuring tape held to your waist. The cross look upon your face immediately melts when you see him.

“Uh… hi,” you force a tight smile. “Uhm, Steve. You really shouldn’t - ”

But he’s already in front of you, keeping a wary eye on the women around you, “Are you okay? Wanda said - ”

“About that, I’m sorry. Uh… this is awkward.”

Turning to face the others, you ask, “Do you mind? You kind of dragged me off before I could really explain.”

A woman with rich brown skin shrugs. Her dark curls are haloed by a crown of pink and purple hyacinths.

“Just be back by dusk. You know how Di gets.”

And it’s really only now, as the two of you briefly converse, that Steve takes a second to look around at his surroundings.

The forest clearing has been swept clear of leaves and debris. Women are hanging lanterns from nearly every branch around this massive open space. And… yes, that tree is physically moving away from the center of the clearing.

Vision’s nearby, conversing with a man who has… goat legs. Apparently, the sentient being had been with you the entire time. Pietro’s standing off to the side, chatting with a blonde girl in a flowing white tunic when Wanda comes over the crest. Her eyes are just as wide as she takes in the scene.

“She’s fine,” Steve clarifies as she draws near.

“What is… this?”

The supersoldier shakes his head, “I honestly have no idea.”

There’s a canopy being set up by a handful of women now, with wooden tables placed underneath it. Almost immediately, items start appearing upon them; apples, breads and other baked goods, olives. So many olives.

Pallas lands on his shoulder just a second later, obviously sensing his confusion and slight distress from afar. He shoves his beak into Steve’s hair and the supersoldier’s quick to place a hand upon the owl’s head.

“Yeah, I hear you, buddy,” he breathes out.

When you finally break free, you saunter over to him with such a sense of awkward tension that Steve almost doesn’t recognize you beneath it.

“So…”

He blinks, looking out at the women before his gaze drops back to your face.

“What is happening right now?”

“Do you remember, last month, at your birthday dinner?”

He nods.

“When I told Tony that they don’t really… do that for me and Thor. And I said that I don’t have any real celebration associated with me?”

Steve nods again. Pallas pecks at the shell of his ear.

“Okay, well… that might have been a bit of a lie. This is… well, it’s uhm. It’s the last day of the Panathenaia. And my very unofficial birthday.”

He’s gawking, he knows he is, but he can’t seem to close his mouth.

“You’re shitting me.”

“I know,” you scrub a hand down your face. “It’s just… I’m not a fan of the pomp and circumstance anymore.”

“You…” he stumbles over his words as he helplessly blinks down at you, a new revelation bursting like a firework in his mind. “Are you telling me you actually have a birthday and that you’ve been keeping it a secret?”

“Well,” you shrug, crossing your arms as you both watch another three oak trees uproot themselves and begin walking further into the forest. 

“Not so much a lie as it was an omission of truth, right? I mean, last year? I was in France when it came around, no one to tell, no one to celebrate it with. The year before that? I was on Olympus. And before that, I was on Axariun III with my father. And well, before that we didn’t even know each other yet. So, all in all… not really me lying.”

“It feels like lying,” he clips, but a smile is playing at the corner of his lips.

“Fair enough,” you sigh.

Steve drums his fingers along the seam of his jeans as he turns, slowly, to take in all the preparations - if that was even the right word.

“So… the Panathea - ”

“Panathenaia,” you correct gently.

“That. What exactly does it entail?”

You grit your teeth, rubbing at your arms for a moment as you look over at the ever-growing table of food that seemed to be materializing out of nowhere.

“Uhm, drinking, dancing, general merry-making. The occasional athletic competition. They throw me in a peplos and offerings are made in my honor, and someone inevitably starts an orgy before the night’s over.”

Steve’s head whips around to look at you, but you’re not even phased by the words that have just left your mouth.

Right, he tries to remind himself. Greek mythology was literally your personal history.

“And this is the… set-up for it?”

“Yeah. Usually, I’m back home when the day comes around, but… well, extenuating circumstances this year kind of kept me Earth-bound.”

“Right,” he nods. “Yeah, that… that makes sense.”

You’re staring at him with slightly concerned eyes, so Steve forces a smile while his mind is honestly still reeling from the new bombshell.

“Want me to introduce you to everyone?”

Noticing the twins off to the side, now conversing with a handful of women - one of them is placing a white floral wreath on Wanda’s head, Steve merely nods.

“Lead the way,”  he holds out his hand in earnest. Pallas ruffles his feathers.

First, you introduce him to the Dryads. A group of women with varying shades of rust-colored hair and bark-like skin, who saunter out of the oak trees.

“They were just moving them to clear the area,” you explain.

Steve just responds with a polite nod, because yes, of course, that was completely normal and didn't phase him one bit. He had witnessed aliens from space. Wood nymphs shouldn’t be all that surprising to him.

This is followed by the Anthousai, a group of flower nymphs who are shorter than even Wanda, all of which are decorated with intricate crowns of blooms and blossoms. 

The woman you had been speaking to earlier is Euphrosyne. She offers the owl on Steve’s shoulder a polite pat on the head.

“My half-sister. Goddess of joy, mirth, and merriment.”

Followed by a doe-eyed red-head who is named Pannychis who you explain is the Goddess of all-night festivity. And Thalia, who is also your half-sister, and the one in charge of the festive celebration and the provision of a luxurious banquet.

“Uhm, this is my nephew, Comus.”

A young teen with strawberry-blonde curls blinks up at him from behind the edge of a golden cup.

“Son of Dionysus, quite infamous for his revelries, festivities, and general merry-making. Which, weren’t you supposed to be helping Euphrosyne plan?”

“Don’t tell her where I am,” The boy smirks before he dips away, grabbing another goblet from a table as he goes.

“And there’s still a few around here who are too busy to introduce just yet. But… yeah, that’s the beginning of this madness, really,” you pause, looking around with your hands upon your hips. And then you turn to look back at him, “I’m honestly so sorry to be dragging you into this. If you want to just hang back at the house tonight and try to ignore the noise, I completely understand.”

Steve leans against one of the posts keeping the canopy aloft. Pallas gnaws at his hair.

“Are you kidding me? Like I’m going to miss out on this?”

Your brows lift in surprise, “Seriously?”

“Yeah, of course. You’re one of the most important people in my life, Athena. If you want me here, I’m going to be here.”

“Ooh, taking one for the team, I see. Well, even if I can’t have everyone else here tonight, at least I’ll have one Avenger on my side.”

He laughs, “I mean, it’s not every day you get to experience an otherworldly festival steeped in antiquity.”

You stare at him for a long silent moment before you shove at his left arm. Steve lets you move him, a laugh startling out from his chest.

“Hey, you’re making me sound old!”

“Aren’t you a little, considering?” he gestures at the flowing tunics of your companions and relatives.

“Yeah, but… you don’t have to say it like that.”

Steve wraps his free arm around your shoulders, gently jostling you.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Are you a little sensitive about the age thing? Cause, take it from someone who frequently gets the grandpa jokes. I just want you to know, that I’m never dropping this.”

“Come on, Rogers! It’s funny when we say it.”

He snorts, “No trouble dealing it out my way, but not as fun when it’s returned, is that it?”

“Well,” you pull away from his grasp, wrapping your hands around your arms as you turn away, an indignant clip to your voice. “You know what they say about ladies and their ages.”

Steve laughs, trailing after you before he can wrap his arms around your torso. A furious blush graces his face as you lean back into him, your head against his sternum.

“Don’t be like that. It’ll be fun, I promise,” he speaks into your hair.

Your right hand comes up and pats at his arm that’s resting across your chest.

“You say that now. Wait till you see the dress they put me in.”

A twitch of arousal sparks through his body and he quickly releases you from his hold, but he plays it off with a laugh.

“Honestly, I can’t wait.”

You smack his chest with your hand, “You’re the worst, Rogers. Please remember that. The worst.”

As you walk away to go and converse with your relatives, Steve shyly scratches the back of his head. 

He makes the unfortunate mistake of glancing over at the twins, who are both looking back at him with nearly identical smirks on their faces. Fantastic, as if he needed two teenagers on his case now as well.

Turning in the opposite direction, he makes it up the hill - back toward the house - when he extends his arm out for Pallas to move down on.

The tawny brown owl blinks up at Steve with his dark eyes and a curious tilt of his head.

“Hey, pal. If I gave you a message, do you think you could deliver it to a few friends for me?”

He squawks in return, almost as if sensing what the supersoldier has planned.

The fading orange hues of sunset are just barely visible through the gaps in the forest’s lush canopy. Steve smiles at your loyal companion as he swoops across the established party area before landing in a tree along the outskirts of the circle. Keeping watch like always.

People in flowing robes and tunics move through the space with such ease that Steve feels even more like an outlier than usual. The twins, and even Vision, are in attendance - at your insistence. Wanda’s hair is loose, adorned by that white floral wreath still. Her eyes are alight as she watches the strangers with unbridled excitement.

Even Pietro has a leaf-woven crown on as he tries to chat up another girl with long dark hair and amethyst eyes.

“Guys, this is my sister, Hebe,” you interrupt with a tight smile as you loop your arm through the girl’s - effectively pulling her away from the boy. “Hedylogos was looking for you.”

The girl’s cheeks blush into a full blossom of red as she quickly darts off toward the other end of the party.

You look down at Pietro before slapping his shoulder with a light hand, “Seriously? If I’m told you’re hitting on another one of my relatives, I swear I’m going to throw those shoes you like out.”

He balks, “You wouldn’t.”

Steve smirks, lowering his stance to speak to the teen, “I wouldn’t risk it, personally.”

Wanda snorts, looping her arm through her brother’s, “Come. I see food and drink.”

“Guys, don’t take anything in a gold goblet!” Steve calls out.

“Especially if a man in purple robes hands it to you!” You add with a laugh.

With a sigh, you turn back to look at the supersoldier. Steve’s already looking down at you with warmth in his gaze. It’s like witnessing a different side to you, free from the heaviness of battle. Right now, you were removed from the usual expectations put upon you and it was beautiful to see. How you moved between the party-goers, an easy smile on your face, and a laugh on your lips.

“This is nice,” he comments, looking around at the simple gathering.

You blink.

“You know it hasn’t actually started yet, right?”

And then you’re sipping red wine from a goblet encrusted with jewels and you’ve got a playful look on your face and Steve, for as out of place as he feels, just wants to kiss you right here and now.

He shoves his hands into his jean pockets instead.

“Is that right?”

“Come on!” you exclaim, “We’re Olympians, this is barely a family gathering. Wait till the man of the hour appears.”

Shaking his head with mirth, he asks, “I thought you were the one being celebrated here?”

“Oh, I am,” you reassure as you take another drink. “But, well, you’ve met my brother but you haven’t really seen him yet. You’ll… you’ll understand what I mean.”

Accepting that as answer enough, Steve gives a nod and takes a sip of his own wine as more and more people begin to appear in the clearing.

It would surprise him if SHIELD or some other government agency wasn’t picking up on all of the energy signatures materializing in this forest in the middle of Vermont. Slowly but surely, the dance floor and surrounding tables and benches are filled up by more and more patrons.

You introduce him to a four-armed woman with a golden crown. Her dark hair is adorned with a large white lotus blossom. She smiles sweetly at him as she converses with you in another language entirely. Steve watches the two of you as her companion, a swan, pokes around at his shoes.

When she leaves, you turn back to him with an apologetic smile.

“I’m sorry, I keep abandoning you to go talk to everyone.”

Steve’s brow scrunches in confusion, “It’s your party, you shouldn’t expect to have me glued to your side the entire night. Go, I can hang out with the kids and Vision. I’m sure you haven’t seen some of your friends in a while.”

“No,” you sigh, encircling his wrist with your palm. “Having you beside me is the only thing keeping me from running off right now.”

Looking down at you with an aching expression, Steve slowly slips his hand free from your grasp, only to lock your fingers together.

“Okay,” he says.

Your worried brow softens, a smile teasing at your lips once again.

“I do miss them. I haven’t seen Sarasvati in ages, but… I prefer small gatherings over, well, this.”

He squeezes your hand, “I understand, trust me.”

As a sense of true peace settles around the two of you, you’re swiftly interrupted by the sound of hand drums beating out a melody.

“Ladies! Gentlemen! And gentle beings alike!”

Steve cranes his neck, and you stand upon your toes, as a shrill voice calls out from the center of the party.

“That’s Eupheme,” you whisper.

“I have the sole honor of presenting the Lord of Celebration himself. The Granter of Blessings, the Kind-Hearted Savior, the God of Wine, our dearest Dionysus!”

Several people cheer, others clap, and some even whoop in delight as a processional band from atop the ledge of the forest floor begins to play.

“Τοῦ Διὸς ὁ παῖς ὁ Βάκχος, ὁ λυσίφρων - ”

As the large swaying line of white-robbed people begins making their way down to the party, you lean up - clutching his shoulder - as you begin translating:

“The son of Zeus, Bacchus,” you whisper-sing into his ear. “The liberator of mind, the Lyaeos, the Lyaeos, the Lyaeos.”

“ὅταν εἰς φρένας τὰς ἐμάς εἰσέλθηι - ”

Steve can feel the warmth of your breath against the shell of his ear and the length of his neck. He grips your waist in his right hand as you continue translating.

“When he enters in our mind. By making it drunk, making it drunk, making it drunk - ”

“διδάσκει με, διδάσκει με, διδάσκει με χορεύειν.”

“He teaches me, he teaches me, he teaches me to dance.”

The processional breaks through the space, a line of people and goats and musicians. Aloft a gold and purple cushion, held by four young men, sits your brother. A laurel wreath around his head as he raises his goblet at the many faces he spots in the crowd. He cheers your name as he passes, but you’re still there glued to Steve’s side. The melodic sound of your words against his ear is a heated delight.

“ἔχω δέ τι καὶ τερπνόν o, ὁ τᾶς μέθας ἐραστάς, ὁ τᾶς μέθας ἐραστάς,”

“And I the lover of drunkeness have, desire for satisfaction, desire for satisfaction.”

His fingers dig into the jut of your waist, pulling you impossibly tighter as everyone around you throws flower petals at the God of Wine.

“With beats and songs makes me happily as does Aphrodite, Aphrodite, Aphrodite. He teaches me, he teaches me, he teaches me to dance. He teaches me, he teaches me, he teaches me to dance. Again I want to dance, to dance - Oh!”

You’re pulled from his grasp by two women adored in ivy crowns. Giving a sheepish smile in his direction, Steve watches as you’re tugged into the center of the celebration.

As his heart eases back to a normal beat and the furious heat in his cheeks begins to lessen, the drummers begin beating upon their handheld instruments.

“My most beautiful friends!” Your brother cheers, his sloshing goblet held high above his head. “Tonight, on this blessed last night of Hekatombaiōn, I wish you all to welcome my lovely sister: the Champion of Olympus, the Beloved, the Wise, the Traveler Amongst Mortals, the Goddess Athena!”

Several loud whistles ring out across the forest as Steve joins in with the clapping. You’re shoved into your brother’s side, an unabashed smile on your face as you push back your hair.

“As the unofficial party master - ”

“Unofficial, seriously?” you ask with a laugh.

“I hereby declare that this Greater Panathenaia begins!”

As the crowd cheers in delight, the musicians belting out a jaunty tune, Steve watches as you shove at your brother’s arm before wrapping him up into a quick hug.

“You’re the worst, you know that right?” he can hear you ask.

The man shrugs, completely unbothered, “You’ll thank me later.”

“Wow.”

Steve turns his head, a smile immediately gracing his face as he spots Tony amongst the robe-clad patrons.

“I’m not gonna lie, I feel a little overdressed.”

He claps his hand in the supersoldier’s for a quick shake as the rest of the team slowly appears from behind him.

“Oh,” a sultry voice comes from beside Tony, a soft hand caressing his face. 

Steve’s brows rise.

“We can fix that,” the woman grins, a hand pulling at the billionaire’s arm as she begins to drag him away from Steve.

Tony chokes, “I mean, when I said that, actually, what I meant was - ”

Steve laughs, a deep belly rumble, as Stark helplessly looks back at him before he truly disappears somewhere into the roving group of partiers.

“We’re never letting him live this down,” Nat smirks, arms crossed as she watches the procession swoop you up into a dance number - you stuck in the middle as they circle around you. “Or Seven, for that matter.”

“Thanks for coming,” he says, his eyes never really traveling farther than you.

“Shame she tried to keep us out of the loop with it. Families though, they can be rough from what I’ve heard.”

He shrugs, taking a sip from his goblet. 

“Her’s don’t seem all that bad.”

Nat’s emerald eyes meet his in the lantern light and flickering flames, “You still haven’t met the old man yet, have you Rogers?”

With a twisted grin that seems to say it all, she takes Clint’s hand - he’s wide-eyed and his mouth is fully agape - and blends into the crowd.

Steve lets that thought simmer for just a moment in his head before he gulps down the rest of his wine and successfully pushes it to the back of his mind. Weaving through the other patrons, he spots the twins at a table under the canopy - talking to a group of Olympians who look around their age. But with godlike immortality, they could well be a thousand or so years older than Wanda and Pietro.

He smiles as the girl catches his eye, offering her a nod of reassurance before he moves on past the overflowing tables of what he now understands to be offerings.

You had explained it all rather quickly that afternoon to him. But he takes his time looking down at the array of items. Lots of olives still. But now he also spots wooden owl statues, pomegranates, oranges, feathers, small embroideries, and drawings. Hell, some of them looked like fan art the team regularly received, but with your image upon the crayon-dusted lines.

He accidentally bumps into the arm of a boy as a group of women crowds into the tent. Steve goes to apologize, but when the kid looks up at him, he feels rooted to the spot when he notices the rather large unfurled white wings on the youth’s back.

“Sorry, a bit of bad luck there, right? You must be one of those mortals my aunt’s always going on about. I’m Anteros. And you are… oh, wow. I see. Bit of a heart-on-the-sleeve type, yeah?”

As Steve goes to back away from the boy, the kid merely shakes out his bouncing dark curls and laughs. 

“You’re not used to that are you? Don’t worry,” he smiles as he nabs an apple from your offering table, taking a loud bite out of the fruit; juice dribbling down his chin. “She’ll get there eventually. I might not be part of the Fates, but I can see some things in that regard. Mmm,” he chuckles, chewing the white chunks with a slightly opened mouth. 

“Better stay away from my friend Pothos, or he’ll read you right down to the bone with all that energy going on in there.”

“Right,” is all Steve can say because he honestly has no idea what exactly has just happened, only that he feels very raw and vulnerable being next to this kid whose eyes are far too old for his youthful face and body.

As he exits the tent, he runs right into you. Oh, thank god.

“Hey,” you beam up at him with dazzling dark eyes. “Did I just see Hedona fitting Tony for a chiton? Also, when did they get here? How did they know?”

“Might have had help from Pallas…”

“Steve,” you beam.

But there must be a look on his face because your features fall.

“You okay?”

“Wha - yeah, yeah. I’m fine. Sorry, there’s just a lot of relatives around and I feel a little… weird about meeting literal mythological legends. I think I just met your nephew possibly?”

You make a humming noise in your throat as you look over his shoulder, “Oh, Cronus. The Erotes. No wonder you look frazzled, Rogers. My deepest apologies. Stay away from the young boys with hearts in their eyes, okay? Menaces, all of them.”

And then you’re tugging on his arm, forcing Steve’s head closer to your lips.

“Come on, I’m trying to avoid the Charites for as long as possible.”

Words come to his lips like why and what, but they’re droned out by the raucous sound of music and inebriated party-goers.

Steve lets you lead him by the hand through the madness and joy. Swerving through dance circles and casual drinking groups, offering a word of thanks for attending the celebration and a surprising introduction on his behalf.

“Seshat! Thoth, so glad you could make it.”

You’ve just run into a woman with heavy kohl-lined eyes and a yellow animal print tunic. But beside her stands a man with a bird-like head and a long blue cowl. He’s only wearing a low-hanging robe around his waist. He tilts his head in a very bird-ish fashion as he looks down at the two of you.

“It’s been so long, my friend!” the woman beams, grasping your free hand in hers.

You hadn’t let go of Steve’s right hand yet. He’s trying his best not to feel smug about it.

He’s been introduced to the large and incredibly interesting friend group you had long been keeping to yourself. The supersoldier meets a man with a lion head, an Aztec or possibly Mayan deity (Steve couldn’t actually hear his name over the sound of the musicians striking up another song). As well as so many Olympians, he’s fully lost track.

But above all of the noise and splendor, he hears Clint start roaring with laughter. Trailing his eyes across the crowd, he immediately spots the source of his amusement. Tapping you on the shoulder, he stands back and watches.

You turn, the question of what is on your lips, but you immediately hold a hand to your mouth to keep from outright bursting into laughter.

“Okay, little more breezy than what I was expecting,” Tony admits as he draws closer to them.

“Wow, it’s… quite a look,” Steve attempts to restrain his own laughter.

Stark does a little spin, showcasing the simple red tunic with a single gold clasp at his left shoulder. The arc reactor glows a faint blue light from the center of the cloth, making him look both ancient and alien all at once. The hem of the garment is far above his knees, with the threat of showcasing more than Steve would ever wish to see just a sudden gust of wind away.

A camera clicks, followed by a flash, as Nat tucks away her phone.

“Very dashing. Watch out for breezes.”

“Eegh,” Tony groans, holding his hands to the hem of the fabric.

Steve’s so distracted by the strange display in front of him, that he’s failed to notice the woman you’re now talking with.

“I didn’t realize mortal men could be so dashing.”

“Surely you remember the likes of Perseus or Achilles.”

“Mhmm, but there’s something just... intriguing about these new ones. They don’t need you or the All-Father to be powerful, they just are on their own.”

His ears are burning as he tries not to interrupt your conversation, but then he feels your fingers slipping around his wrist, squeezing lightly against his pulse point.

“Sorry, I don’t think I had the chance to introduce you. Philophrosyne, this is my dearest friend, Steve Rogers.”

“Oh, pleasure’s all mine,” she smiles brightly. “But, I’m afraid I’m here for more nefarious means, apologies, sir.”

And then she’s got a hand on your forearm and she’s calling out, “SHE’S OVER HERE!”

Shooting Steve a helpless look, you whisper, “Save me,” before you’re dragged away by a group of smiling women.

He hears mention of a dress and Steve just chuckles, watching you go.

“You look divine, my lady,” one of the young girls says as she looks up at you with sheer delight.

“Thank you,” you respond with genuine gratitude.

While you had made a rather large fuss about the party and the dress and, well, everything to do with the celebrations, you did sort of enjoy it. Long ago, the Athenians had worshipped you in grand week-long festivals. It had been a point of pride and amusement for you as your temple was filled with offerings in your name.

Now, several millennia later, you found yourself, at times, nostalgic for those days. The concept of birthdays had never been a tradition amongst your people. But, as the decades drew on, some small mortal festivities became familiar on Olympus.

“It’s a very fine dress, indeed. I can see the love and hours spent upon it,” you remark with a wink.

Gazing before the standing mirror in your room, back at the house, you admire the sky blue peplos. The sleeves and waist are embellished with golden floral trim, with hints of purple thread that seem to shimmer against the soft blue linen. The sleeves are clasped by two golden pins, each of which is decorated with an owl’s head.

The loose fabric sways as you walk back across the pastures with your personal procession of weavers. Only, when you catch the strange silhouette against the moonlight, do you beg your companions for a moment of solitude.

Finding yourself following in the familiar footsteps left from a few months prior, you move to join Thor against the tall grass of the overlook.

“Ah, my Lady Athena,” he greets, beaming down at you. “‘Tis a fine garment.”

“Thank you. I had hoped to see you at the festivities this night, my friend.”

He chuckles. The loose strands of his hair flutter in the evening breeze, a warm stretch of summer night blanketing the sky with splatters of glistening stars.

“I can not intrude on such an event.”

Biting at your lip for just a moment, you nod, “Well, I suppose that would be true if you were not on the arm of the one being honored.”

His dark eyes gaze down at your offered arm for just a beat before his bellowing laugh echoes across the countryside.

When the two of you, and your procession, appear at the top of the hill leading down to the forest clearing, the musicians break off as your sister, of all people, takes the floor.

“My most gentle patrons, I wish for you all to now gaze your eyes upon the Daughter of Zeus, the Goddess… Athena.”

Giving a small giggle of anticipation, your hand grips Thor’s arm as you descend.

“My friends, family, and drunken guests!” you call out, receiving a chorus of laughter. “Tonight, I wish you all to welcome my honored guest with open arms as you would me. The Protector of the Nine Realms, the Wielder of Mjolnir, the Champion of Midgard, the God of Thunder, the Son of Odin, Thor.”

A few people clap, but you’re quick to add on:

“And if you refuse his presence, I’m going to have Dionysus throw out the good wine.”

“DON’T YOU DARE!” Comes the immediate and indignant shout of terror from your brother.

Soon, the partiers begin to laugh and cheer as the musicians pick back up with another song.

Thor leans down, kissing your cheek.

“Thank you for allowing me to grace your… humble celebration. Wait - ” His voice clips as he looks out over the crowd. “Is that… is that Bragi? I can’t be here but he damn well can?”

You give the God of Thunder a shrug, “To be fair, you have tried to kill or badly maim most people here, Odinson. You can’t expect them to not hold a grudge.”

“But… but…” he mutters, eyes shifting between you and his fellow Asgardian.

“And Bragi gets on well with a few of us, he’s always around for poetry readings and the every-other-decade book club meeting.”

His features pale, “You’re kidding me.”

“Wish I was,” you grin in return, lightly smacking his cheek with your hand. “Have fun. Don’t bed too many of my relatives. If they don’t try to slap you first, now that I think of it.”

You watch as he heads over to the bar filled with many of your brother’s finest spirits. With a smile on your face that seems incapable of fading, you make your way through the crowd in search of your other friends.

To your surprise, you find Steve locked into a conversation with both Sersi and Sprite - who remains in her natural form.

“ - yeah, no. We’ve known each other for… a while. Uhm, college roommates actually, in London.”

“Wow, really?” Steve asks, with a voice that clearly says that he’s not buying it, but his smile doesn’t really give him away and Sersi seems oblivious to his suspicion.

But as he goes to take a sip from his goblet, his eyes catch sight of you. And you can’t help it as you wrap your hands over your bare arms as you make your way over, feeling sheepish and strange in the garments of your kind.

“Whoa,” he says as he sets his goblet down. “You look… wow.”

“Hopefully that was a good wow?” you try to joke.

Sprite snorts, face in her goblet, “Obviously.”

“Hey! See you’ve met my friend from college and her… niece?”

Sersi nods quickly in return. Steve just turns his head, hiding his blossoming smile from her.

“Anyway!” she turns back, grabbing hold of your hands. “As is tradition, I have a gift for you!”

“Come on,” you begin to lament. “How many times do I need to say this: Sersi, my love, you do not need to get me anything. Your friendship is more than enough.”

“Just take the frog!” Sprite groans.

You flash the redhead a smile as Sersi shyly hands over a beautiful pale jade frog.

“Wow…” you murmur, cradling the fragile object in your hands. “This must be…”

“From the gift shop, yes,” the Eternal smiles tightly.

So it was very very old then.

The handicraft is exquisite, the jade is smooth and polished. Maybe… third century, around the Eastern Han dynasty, if you had to hazard an immediate guess?

“I don’t know what to say,” you admit, looking up at one of your oldest friends.

“Well,” she shrugs, chuckling. “Just say thanks. I managed to convince Kingo not to send a golden statute your way this year.”

“He almost went for an ice sculpture instead,” the redhead hums, eyes trained on one of the Erotes chatting nearby. Oh, not Himeros. Honestly, Sprite - have some decency.

“I’m sorry,” Tony butts in. “Are we referring to the Kingo? As in, the action movie superstar of the Indian subcontinent?”

You shrug, looking over at the billionaire, “What can I say? He was a friend from college.”

Tony balks for all of ten seconds before he snaps his mouth closed, “Well, since we’re doing gift-giving, which by the way, your royal highness - ” he steps closer to you, looking completely un-intimidating in his high-hem chiton.

“ - do you know how difficult it is to buy someone the perfect gift when they fail to mention that it’s their birthday and you have twenty minutes to be in the air?”

“Sorry?” you reply with a sheepish tone.

He clicks his tongue, “Yeah, well, your perfect gift is back at the house. Try to hold your thanks and just promise to show up for team training every now and then,”

Dipping away, toward the overflowing bar, you all watch him go. 

Sprite smirks, “I like him.”

“Don’t,” Sersi warns with little to no playfulness as she steers the younger-looking of the two of them away.

“No, yeah, I’m with Stark on this,” Clint perks up from his lounging position on one of the benches. Natasha sits beside him with his feet on her lap. “Are we just supposed to ignore your celebrity friend list or what?”

“I know one celebrity, okay?”

“And this? The plethora of pantheons? I’m pretty sure I saw Nike around here because I recognized her from her statue. That’s how insane this is. Speaking of, where’s the old man? Mr. Thunderbolt himself?”

You scoff, leaning back into Steve for invisible support.

“Clint, I’m from Olympus, this is basically a reunion. One in which, the All-Father will not be attending. Not as long as we’re on Earth.”

He lets out a low whistle as Natasha shoves his feet to the ground.

“Ignore him,” she says with a flicker of humor in her dark eyes. “And hey, happy birthday - ” you’re suddenly wrapped into a rare Widow hug, one that you accept all too eagerly as you wrap your arms around her shoulders. “How old are you, by the way?”

“Nooo, I’m not falling down that rabbit hole. Rogers already wants to start up Grandma Athena jokes. I’m good.”

The supersoldier chuckles, you can feel the heat of his breath on your shoulder.

“I’m just saying, they’re more fun to direct at someone else for a change.”

Natasha has a curious gaze in her eyes as she glances around at the other patrons, “I’m going to find out tonight no matter what. Might be easier to just tell me yourself.”

“Oh, but where’s the fun in that?” you tease, turning away to grab Steve by the hand as you disappear into the dance circle in the center of the party.

You don’t intend to stay there, in the middle of the dancers, but you’re almost landlocked by them. Unable to break free from their midst. Offering Steve a shrug and a laugh that can’t even be fully heard above the music, you begin to sway along with the others.

He remains still for just a moment, then a moment more, before he leans down to whisper-shout into your ear.

“You want to dance?”

With a nod, you lean up to reply, “I mean, it’s a party after all. Might as well.”

“I’m not really a dancer,” he laments with a flush of pink on his cheeks and the tips of his ears.

You reach up, grabbing hold of the back of his neck to bring him down to your level. Fixing his eyes with a look, you say, “Neither am I.”

His laugh reaches your ears just as the musicians begin to play another number. A loud melody followed by several dancers clapping to the beat. Grabbing hold of both of your hands, Steve spins you around in a dizzying circle before you’re drawn back to him.

With an infectious smile upon your face, you let him lead you in a small space left only to the two of you as the rest of the dancers move and spin around you both.

One of his hands drops down to your waist, while the other dangles over your opposite shoulder as you move in closer - drawn into each other’s orbit like the Earth and the ever-present Moon. Resting a hand on his left shoulder, your fingers tickle the small hairs at the back of his neck as your other hand moves to his waist.

You sway to the beat of the music and ringing laughter and overall drunkenness as the world simmers down to just the two of you, dancing together, moving as one.

Steve looks nearly predatory with his gaze fixed upon your face, his blue eyes a distant memory as the darkness of his pupils takes hold. In his irises, you can see the dancing flames of the lantern lights and the reflection of your own face. Feeling too close, too hot, too much, you pull back.

Tugging on his left hand, you move yourself into a spin - one that Steve finishes with a laugh as you dip away from him before being drawn back in. He seems to take the hint as he leaves your right hands joined together, with his left situated loosely on your hip.

The hand drums batter away as a chorus melody begins. The pace is fast as feet go flying on the ground, hands clapping together in the air.

“Can’t dance, honestly,” Steve snarks as he spins you around once again.

You love the feeling of the sudden rush of summer breeze as it makes the bottom of your dress billow up. Sweat is dripping down your neck from the closeness of the crowd.

With a smile in return, you remark, “Says the man keeping to the beat.”

He shrugs, dipping you nearly backward before dragging you back up to his side, “I mean, I was no dance hall expert.”

“I don’t believe that,” you laugh, as you twist around him, returning on his right side.

“It’s true,” he says with a softened tone. “I would have had to get a girl to dance with me.”

“Oh, Steve,” you pucker, allowing him to pull you in closer than before, your bodies almost touching - the heat between you is electric. “Well, you have one now and she thinks you’re doing a great job.”

“Is that right?” he grins, his hand moving from your hip to your lower back as you’re drawn in flush against him.

Resting a hand on his shoulder, you nod.

“Class act, really.”

You can feel the light graze of his lips on the top of your head, then another press near your temple, and then one to your forehead.

Maybe that Olympian wine was finally affecting him after all.

When you pull back, his face is flushed and his gaze is unbelievably intense. But it’s the sight over his shoulder that has you frozen.

“Oh my god,” you groan, using the human terminology for the first time.

“What?” he questions, still oblivious.

Pushing on his right shoulder, you have him turning just enough to see -

“Oh, wow.”

“You didn’t tell me Sam was here,” you complain.

“He wandered off before I got the chance to,” he chuckles.

“Good thing her husband isn’t here, or we’d be scraping up bits of him for the next month.”

Steve shudders at the imagery.

It wasn’t every day Aphrodite went searching for other companions. Considering she still held a flame for Ares and was married to Hephaestus. But this? This had to be crossing some lines even for a drunken festival.

The man has a hand in her hair - blonde, you note - and their lips haven’t fully disconnected since you first spotted them. She’s got a hand on his chest, as she leans further and further into him.

“Well,” you proclaim. “I’ve officially lost any appetite I might have had. No offense to Sam, of course.”

“I don’t know,” Steve shakes his head. “I think it’s mostly him.”

With a sudden burst of giggles, you grab hold of Steve’s right wrist and proceed to tug him away from the dance circle - far away from the line of sight of an Avenger trying to get it on with your sister.

Pulling your hair back and over your shoulder, you shake your head once again. 

“At my party, of all places. Honestly.”

Steve wanders alongside you, careful of the forest floor as you dip away from the main festivities.

“Give a man enough wine…” 

Looking over your shoulder at him, you remark, “Seems like you might have had a bit yourself, Rogers.”

With a shrug, his eyes flash up to meet your gaze.

“I had two glasses, that’s hardly anything.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” you tease. “Dionysus’ spirits are said to be even stronger than Asgardian liquor. I’d be careful if I was you.”

Resting against the cool bark of a tree, you blow upward at the loose strands of your hair that are sticking to your warm forehead. The early August heat was doing nothing for your sweaty skin and rapidly beating heart.

You’re halfway up the hill and you’re able to look upon the entire party from here. With Sam and your sister out of sight, you manage to spot Tony sitting on top of the bar - loudly proclaiming some outrageous story to a group of Olympians. Natasha, one of the few redheads in the crowd, is spotted a moment later, weaving her way through your relatives with disturbing ease. Clint, is in the middle of the dance floor, jumping up and down to the song.

Pietro has cornered another one of the Muses. He’s leaning against the post of the canopy, speaking into her hair. Wanda is surrounded by some of the Anthousai who all seem to be crafting new floral wreaths together. Thor is actively armwrestling Agon and you knew that was likely to go on all night. The god of competition would not be easily swayed by a possible defeat.

Steve is a few feet away from you, a little lower on the hill, as he too watches on. The paper in your pocket tempts your hands once again. 

You had been toying with it back at the tower before Sokovia. Hell, you had been contemplating it since 2014, when SHIELD was falling and you were technically considered dead for almost 48 hours.

A hand taps at your left shoulder and you completely startle.

“Cronus! You ass! You can’t do that!” you shriek as you slap Hermes' shoulder repeatedly.

Steve looks on edge while your brother merely tilts his head back and laughs.

To be fair, the last time the supersoldier had been in the same room with your brother, he hadn’t been an entirely charming force to be held.

“Oh, come on. Too easy,” he beams.

“Those damn sandals,” you grumble - staring down at the winged footwear that allowed him such stealth-like advantages.

“You love them,” he retorts, flashing his ankle as he tilts them for you to see. “I see you’re having fun.” Hermes lifts his gaze, nodding, “Captain Rogers.”

Steve offers a nod in return, his hands situated on his belt.

“I trust that my gift was helpful,” he gestures at the chain of your pendant.

Pulling the locket free from the peplos, you admire the silver jewelry, “I thought it was a gift from the Fates.”

“Deliverer of gifts then. Speaking of - ”

You watch with widened eyes as a golden halo of light appears from the heavens - three packages floating down into his waiting hands.

“Father sends his well wishes, of course.”

Taking the first box from him - a tiny thing, about the size of the palm of your hand - you lift the cover off.

“Oh my gosh,” you murmur as you stare down at the dazzling blue gems.

Hermes snorts, “I’m sure you know the meaning.”

With a nod, you carefully pull the first earring free.

A teardrop lapis lazuli with a golden clutch.

Looking back at him, you remark, “They’re stunning.”

He says nothing as he hands over the second package done up in purple wrapping.

From within, you retrieve an intricately beaded diadem. The peacock colors are entwined with gold latticework. It’s so delicate in your hand, that you barely even want to pull it free. But then you’re looking down at your companion, calling out a simple:

“Steve?”

The supersoldier, with a wary eye, takes a step up, then another. He’s standing directly in front of you as you offer him up the tiara. With a gentle look upon his face, he carefully lifts the diadem, rotating it around, before situating it carefully on the crown of your head.

With a whistle, he steps back.

“Hera always goes overboard with this one,” Hermes comments in Steve’s direction. “Athena’s about the only one she can stand.”

“Not true,” you murmur.

He blinks, “Seriously? We want to walk down that path?”

With a slow shake of your head - no reason to ruin a perfectly nice night - your brother’s smile slips free as he hands over the last package.

It’s a scroll, wrapped in on itself with a simple white ribbon.

“Careful now,” he comments. “That’s an antique.”

With a cautious eye trained upon your brother, you begin to unfurl the paper. The first glance at the contents has you rolling it back up as you snap, “Did you steal this?”

Holding up defensive hands, he grins, “I might be the God of Thieves, dear sister, but this came from a friend of ours. A certain… woman who puts even my speed to shame.”

You gape.

“She didn’t.”

He beams, “I think we both know she did.”

Turning it slightly for Steve to look at, you unfurl the map once again, “This is the Ebstorf Map.”

The paper extends out, further and further to the point that both men have to hold onto a portion of the map.

“It was created in the mid-13th century by a group of nuns living in modern-day Germany. This was said to have been destroyed in 1943, during the bombing of Hanover. This shouldn’t... oh, that clever woman.”

If anyone in your known circle could have gotten this to safety and kept it perfectly preserved, it would have been Makkari.

Steve’s eyes rove across the intricate work, an artist’s soul soaking up a historical artifact. One that probably shouldn’t be held by physical hands, now that you think of it. Carefully folding it back up and rolling it together, you push it over into Steve’s capable hands as you latch yourself around your brother.

“Thank you! And tell her thank you as well. Cronus, I should get her something in return. Wait a minute.”

You vanish from the forest before either man can utter a single word, appearing deep within the basement of the house. Well, it was listed as a basement, it was more like a museum storage facility, in all honesty.

Makkari might have her own collection on the Domo, but yours was equally impressive. Both between your home in Vermont and your temple back on Olympus. It only takes you a moment to find what you’re looking for - the perfect thing for her never-ending collection - before you reappear.

The two men look up, apparently caught in the middle of a conversation. Steve coughs, taking a step away, as you glance over at him. With a shake of your head, you speak to your brother.

“This isn’t much, but my gratitude can not be understated. Her gift was incredible.”

Hermes eyes you as you attempt to hand over the tablet.

“You’re kidding me.”

“Come on,” you groan. “You know it’ll be safe in her hands.”

With a half-hearted sigh, he takes the emerald tablet from your hands. Oh, she would be wild about it, you just knew it.

“I’ll see that it gets to her with signs of thanks.”

“I appreciate it,” you smile.

Steve helps you get everything back to the house. After rounding up the twins and Vision, the two of you escort your household members back inside. The teens, obviously, were all too willing to stay up late into the morning hours, but you cut them off around 2 AM. And you insisted that he return as well.

Considering the fact that he had just returned from a mission and hadn’t received any proper sleep in nearly 72 hours, he didn’t press too hard about staying back with you to enjoy the festivities.

“Trust me, they’ll only be getting drunker and louder as the night wears on. I can only tolerate so much.”

After Wanda and Pietro head up for the night and Vision disappears to the library down the hall where he had been spending most of his time these past two months, you collapse into a kitchen chair.

Steve lowers himself into the adjoining seat, looking out at the spread of gifts from your closest friends and relatives.

As you pull the diadem from your head, you rub at your tired face - your cheeks puffing up in a slightly adorable fashion.

Laid before him sits a pink bottle with a sea shell emblem, a golden hilt, and a silver dagger. In a very ornate clay vase sits a combination of flowers. You had told him their names, but he can’t recall them now. One has white petals and a yellow center and the others are simple six-petaled white flowers.

From an opened bag on the table, you reach in and begin peeling a mandarin orange for yourself. The sweet citrus scent wafts around him in the hot kitchen - the summer breeze from the open window does nothing to cool the room.

Steve gazes down at the two additional pieces of jewelry you were now adorned with. A golden snake-shaped ring on your left index finger and a dark green jade bracelet on your right wrist.

What’s completely confusing him, however, is the glass in the middle of the table.

Clearing his throat, he finally asks, “What’s with the water?”

You arch a brow as you take another bite of your orange, a dribble of juice sits at the corner of your lips. Your eyes travel to the glass before you swallow your bite.

“My uncle, I’m guessing.”

He nods, but you don’t seem interested in elaborating.

“Is it… special?”

“Steve,” you blink. “It’s water.”

And then you dip your pinky into the glass before bringing the soaked digit up to your lips to suck.

“I’m sorry, salt water.”

“Just… salt water?”

With a snort, you drop the peel on the table and lean back in your seat, arms crossed.

“You’re still not versed on my mythos, after all this time?”

He shrugs, mirroring your position.

“I’d rather hear it from you, honestly. No book can tell me your truth.”

A look settles over your face, one that he thinks is reading as pleased, but he’s a little out of sorts since the third goblet of wine.

“Let’s just say,” you ease. “We don’t get on very well. He was likely required to get me something, but he chose to do so in his own way.”

With a shake of your head, you stand up and pour the glass into the sink.

You stare out the window, at the glowing lights dancing in the center of the forest. Even from a distance, you can both likely make out the continued party down the hill.

After a moment, Steve says, “It’s more than what I got you.”

You turn, fixing him with a gentle look, “Your friendship will be the only thing I ever ask from you. Always, Rogers. No… piece of jewelry or $400 jacket - ” you point at the unwrapped box on the counter; Tony’s gift, “ - will ever be required of you. Just… you. You are enough for me.”

He can’t help it. Standing up and pushing away from the chair, Steve circles your left wrist with his hand as he pulls you in - slowly, gently - to a hug. He can feel the contend sigh you let out against his sternum as you bury your face into his chest. His arms circle your back, fingers tangling into the ends of your hair.

You both stand like that for minutes - though it could be hours with how truly at peace he feels - when, at last, you pull back. There’s a sheepish expression greeting him as you run your palms down the length of your sky-blue dress.

“Bucking tradition, I actually have something for you.”

He groans, closing his eyes, “Now I’m seriously feeling guilty over not giving you a present.”

“Come on,” you beg. “Open.”

When he blinks his eyes back open, he glances down at your extended palms. There in the center of the cupped pair, sits a scrap of paper.

Curiosity getting the better of him, he picks it up and examines the faded brown parchment. Turning it over with his fingers, Steve nearly stumbles.

Because he knows this paper.

He can barely hear your words above the thundering of his beating heart.

“I know, just, okay. So, this has been on my mind for a while now. Basically, this is going to be your link to me now. Whether I’m… across the ocean, or in another dimensional plane. Ever since Russia and honestly, now that we’re going on separate missions with the team, I just… basically - ”

Your fingers smooth over the parchment, landing on the owl constellation marked with ink.

“Long ago, there was a constellation in Pallas’ image. My constellation really. If there ever comes a time when you need me and can not reach me the normal way, I want you to push down on this, like - ” your fingers press into what would be the stomach of the bird, “ - and you’ll get Pallas, who will get me.”

As if on command, the owl swoops up to the window sill, pecking at the glass before you move to let him in. He lands on Steve’s shoulder, gnawing at his hair.

But the supersoldier can’t move, can’t even speak as he stares down at that imagery.

“Hey, I know it’s kind of - ”

He just shakes his head.

“I know this. I’ve seen it before… in my compass.”

You tilt your head, a curious pinch to your brows, “What are you talking about?”

Letting out a breath as he lowers his hands, the paper clenched with his right fist, he explains, “That day that we thought Loki might have been… with the scepter? After New York?”

You nod, after a beat, in understanding.

“You’re saying… you saw this, in the compass? The compass that wasn’t yours.”

“Yeah,” he breathes out, feeling the weight of something he can’t even process expel from his chest. “I don’t know how. I just… I remember this being in there.”

Your hands encircle his forearms as you stare up at him.

“There are some things in this universe, that even I can’t explain. Maybe… one day it will make sense. But, I think I’d like to believe that you should hold onto this for maybe more reasons than I originally intended.”

Steve gives a sharp nod, a weird catch in his throat as he says, “Yeah.”

“You’re not going to be far, are you?”

Turning back around, a box in your hands, you shake your head. Pietro looks back at you from the open doorway to his room.

“No, I promised you both that we’d be close by while you get adjusted. I’m two down on the right, and Steve’s one past that. You guys are going to be just fine. Hell, even Vision has a place set up at the end of the hall.”

It had been a strange two weeks, moving everything over to the newly minted Compound.

The twins had their own fears over the move. Pietro had come to enjoy the space at the house in Vermont, the freedom he felt he had with just four other occupants. Now, this place felt a little more… official, and scientific. Tony had a whole section set up for research and development outside of his own personal labs. There were people coming and going nearly all day and night.

Though the private apartments were away from those areas, just looking out the windows would allow you see to the endless flow of people.

Luckily, you managed to lock down a separate corridor near the back of the building, on a lower floor too.

Wanda didn’t like windows. Well, she liked having some windows. But floor-to-ceiling ones made her anxious, and jumpy. She didn’t feel fully protected with them. Tony was all too understanding at your request.

That’s how you found yourselves occupying a hall mostly to yourselves.

Clint and Natasha were in the west wing of the building. Thor and Bruce had designated rooms on the north side of the apartments - though neither room was currently occupied.

Dropping the box off at Wanda’s room, you wipe your hands clean.

You knew it was going to take time for them both to feel comfortable and to adjust to their new living arrangements. But they seemed to understand that this was going to be the safest place for them to be for now.

Even though Tony never went into detail, you understood that the situation outside of the Compound was still… tense, to put it lightly.

Steve glances back at you. He’s on a ladder, helping Wanda arrange her mood lights above her bed.

Sometimes, you wonder exactly where you had been heading all those years ago. The anti-team mindset and your avoidance of people in general. Yet, here you are.

Leaning against the open doorframe, you watch as the pair interact together in hushed tones and soft laughs.

No, you could have never imagined this life for yourself. Not only were you going to have a room here, but you made up your mind that you would in fact be living here, on a semi-permanent basis. No more running back to Olympus at every chance.

You were part of a team now. These were your people, your friends, your pseudo-family.

At the vibration in your pocket, you pull your phone free.

Scoffing at the message - grannie, seriously - you call out, “Hey! Tony says he’s got a free hour if you two wanna head down to do a consult on those uniforms he mentioned.”

Wanda whips around, a look of equal trepidation and excitement mixing together on her face.

“Really?”

“Yeah, I recommend going. Otherwise, he might try and put some armor in there in red and gold tones.”

She makes a face, causing you to chuckle as she waves goodbye to Steve. Running off in search of her brother.

“Kids these days,” you comment for the supersoldier to hear as they both zip past you a moment later. “They grow up so fast.”

He just laughs in return as he folds up the ladder and places it along the wall. She still wanted some kind of canopy hung up above her bed, so you imagined he might have his hands full later.

“So, how are we looking?” he asks as you both head down the hallway toward the main living space.

“Well, it’s not the ‘27 Yankees, but I think we have some hitters.”

Steve snorts as you push through the next set of doors, side by side, striding together through the halls.

“They’re good. We’ll make them into a team.”

You share a smirk with the supersoldier as you make it to the newly finished gym, pausing at the doors as you say, “Let’s beat them into shape.”

With two of your biggest allies out of the picture - hopefully, temporarily - you were faced with the joint decision to mold the newest members into a proper fighting force. Ultron may have had doubts about your ability to come together and work as one, the media might still be feeding those very same doubts to the public, but you were dedicated to proving them all wrong.

Steve enters the gym with an assured look gracing his face. With a nod, the two of you get to work.

Previous Chapter || Next Chapter

Author's Note: Oh my god, not Stethena pseudo-adopting the twins, am I right?

Anyway, here's some importantish notes from this particular chapter that might be of interest to a few people.

Translations: - rodičia: parents - otec: father - bastardi: bastards - bodaj ho: damn it

Clothing: - Chiton (image) - Peplos (image)

Gifts: - Lapis Lazuli earrings from Zeus - A peacock beaded diadem from Hera - A map from Hermes - Perfume from Aphrodite - A dagger and golden hilt from Hephaestus - A clay vase from Hestia - Narcissus flowers from Persephone - Asphodel flowers from Hades - Mandarin oranges from Demeter - A gold snake ring from Asclepius - A jade bracelet from Dionysus - A glass of salt water from Poseidon

The Guest List:

Fauns: half-human, half-goat creatures

Euphrosyne: goddess of good cheer, joy, mirth, and merriment

Dryades: tree and forest nymphs

Anthousai: flower nymphs

Pannychis: goddess of all-night festivity

Thalia: goddess of festive celebrations and luxurious banquets

Comus: god of revelry, merrymaking, and festivity; Athena’s nephew through Dionysus

Hebe: cupbearer of the Olympians; Athena’s half-sister through Zeus and Hera

Hedylogos: one of the Erotes, god of sweet talk and flattery

Sarasvati: Hindu goddess of art, knowledge, music, speech, and learning

Eupheme: goddess of words of good omen, acclamation, praise, applause, and shouts of triumph

Dionysus

Hedone: goddess of pleasure, enjoyment, and delight

Anteros: one of the Erotes, god of requited love; Athena’s nephew through Aphrodite and Ares

Pothos: one of the Erotes, god of sexual longing, yearning, and desire

Seshat: Egyptian goddess of wisdom, knowledge, inventory of writing, consort of Thoth

Thoth: Egyptian god of wisdom, knowledge, writing, magic, science, art

Apedemak: African lion-headed god of war

Mixcoatl: Aztec god of battle, hunting, civilization, and stars

Philophrosyne: goddess of friendliness, kindness, and welcome

Aphrodite

Bragi: Norse god of poetry

Sersi

Sprite

Himeros: one of the Erotes, god of sexual desire

Agon: god of contest

Hermes

Other guests in attendance:

Adephagia: goddess of satiety and gluttony

Agele: goddess of radiant good health

Aglaea: one of the Charites, goddess of beauty, adornment, splendor, and joy

Aike: goddess of prowess and courage

Ame-no-Uzume: Japanese goddess of dawn, meditation, and the arts

Angelia: goddess of messages, tidings, and proclamations

Antheia: one of the Charites, goddess of flowers and wreaths 

Apollonis: a muse; Athena’s niece through Apollo

Arete: goddess of virtue, excellence, goodness, and valor

Aristaeus: god of bee-keeping, cheese-making, and olive-growing; Athena’s nephew through Apollo

Bait Pandi: Filipino (Bagobo) goddess of weaving

Borysthenis: a muse; Athena’s niece through Apollo

Caerus: god of opportunity

Calliope: muse of epic poetry

Cathubodua: Celtic goddess of war and battle

Cephisso: a muse; Athena’s niece through Apollo

Clio: muse of history

Dikaiosyne: goddess of justice and righteousness; Athena’s half-sister through Zeus

Eirene: goddess of peace; half-sister through Zeus

Ekecheiria: goddess of truce, armistice, and cessation of hostilities

Eleos: goddess of mercy, pity, and compassion

Eleutheria: goddess of liberty

Elpis: goddess of hope and expectation

Eros: one of the Erotes, god of love and sex; Athena’s nephew through Aphrodite and Ares

Erato: muse of lyric poetry

Eucleia: goddess of good repute and glory

Eupraxia: goddess of well-being

Euterpe: muse of musical poetry

Gamayun: Slavic goddess of knowledge and wisdom

Gelos: god of laughter

Harmonia: goddess of harmony and concord; Athena’s niece through Ares and Aphrodite

Heimarmene: goddess of shared fate/destiny

Helios: god of the Sun and guardian of oaths

Hermaphroditus: one of the Erotes, god of unions, androgyny, marriage, and sex; Athena’s nephew through Hermes and Aphrodite

Himeros: one of the Erotes, god of sexual desire

Horme: goddess of impulse or effort, eagerness, starting an action

Iris: goddess of the rainbow and divine messenger

Nike: goddess of victory

Pasithea: one of the Charites, goddess of rest and relaxation

Philotes: goddess of friendship, affection, and sex

Polyhymnia: muse of sacred poetry

Polymatheia: muse of knowledge

Tekhne: goddess of art, craft, and technical skill

Terpsichore: muse of dance and choral poetry

Theros: youth god of summer

Okay, so while I have had so much fun writing the last few chapters in this arc and connecting lots of moments together into this big finale, I'm gonna need a bit of time before I move on to tackle the Civil War arc. I need to perfect the plot just so and make sure I have all of my loose ends wrapped up before we delve into that realm just yet.

So thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for those of you who have kept up with the story and have been reblogging and commenting on it. It's honestly keeping my passion for this story going. So, thank you again, and hopefully I'll see you soon with the next installment :)

[ladespeinada]

Some thoughts on season three of The Bear, hastily written after finishing it:

Sydney Adamu. My love, my life, my heart, my soul. Her frustration just grew and grew and grew throughout the season, and underpinned with that score, made me increasingly anxious until it finally culminated in that intense panic attack she had outside of her apartment (at which point, it felt cathartic.) She’s so clearly mirroring Carmy and his relationship with his old boss, down to panicking in the same spot. I want better for her, in multiple ways, up to and including healthcare benefits.

Which leads me to: why the fuck was Nat working so close to her due date, and why did no one push back against her going to pick up boxes of napkins when she’s literally about to burst. I know it meant that we got Ice Chips out of it, and an episode focused on Nat and Donna, but it didn’t make sense to me.

“I left you alone.” “So, don’t let it happen again.” “It’s never gonna happen again.” That blue-eyed, curly-haired, Grecian-faced man lied in Sydney’s face, thinking that being physically present in the same space and working in proximity means the same thing as not leaving her alone. Sydney was more alone in this season than she was in the season two when Carmy fucked off and hung out with Claire and talked about emergency room horror stories.

The presence of the Faks was overwhelming this season, which ended up feeling like purely ornamental proof that The Bear is indeed a comedy because look at these bumbling fools! They’re funny! They’re little jesters! Any and every self-serious restaurant after a Michelin Star will surely have Two Little Guys at the helm, no matter if they have no serious training or serving skills!! It’s not as if said self-serious restaurants aren’t regularly draining money on overhead costs, of which labour is surely a part of! (Why did the Computer only suggest Marcus get cut from The Bear, and not the fucking Faks? Are they not getting paid? What the hell is the deal there? These are not serious people.)

“If you fuck with Marcus, I will murder you.” IKTR!!!!!!

Why did the screen time for all of the characters of colour get minimised, especially in comparison to last season. Why did neither Angel or Manny have any major lines that weren’t just curse words, or scenes where they were interacting with others beyond washing dishes. Why did I see the Faks more than I saw Sydney. I wanted to see more of Gary’s somm classes. I wanted to see more Ebra. I wanted to see more of Marcus’ desserts. I also wanted to see Marcus more actively hanging out with Luca. I wanted more scenes with Tina and Marcus cooking together, riffing off of each other and their experiences!

Finally, some interiority for my sweetiepie Tina Marrera! That said, we mostly got a look at her past, and a limited look at her present (my girl is experiencing some massive imposter syndrome, but we don’t get to dig into it much. Nor do we get many Tina x Ebra moments which is an affront to me personally because their relationship is my favourite). I read this Slate review of season three by Jack Hamilton after I finished watching season three, and while I don’t agree with everything, I found this articulation especially in line with my thinking re: Tina and her episode: “The incessant use of flashbacks feels like a crutch to avoid characters or the show itself actually moving forward, in any direction. Dribbling out details of a character’s past like breadcrumbs is a hackish and tiresome device: Filling in backstory shouldn’t be confused with character development.”

That said!!! The scenes with Michael, especially in Tina’s episode, are incredible. Just a few minutes and you can see the shine of Michael’s charisma, the underbelly of his pain, you miss him and want him back, you see why everyone loved him so deeply. He was so magnetic in this episode, and so terrifying in Forks, and the decline in between those episodes must’ve been so painful to watch. 

This might sound silly to say because it was still very much everywhere, especially in the beginning of EP2, but Chicago felt like it was missing. Or rather, the anxieties of Chicago were missing. In seasons one and two, there’s the looming threat of Chicago gentrification (in one, The Beef is hurt by it; in two, The Bear is a part of it), plus there’s the aftereffects of COVID on Chicago’s restaurant scene. In season three, we got shots of Chicago, yes, and a lot of like, Wilco or whatever, but it didn’t feel grounded in the city the way it had in previous seasons. Not quite sure how to articulate this thought, but there you go.

The “haunting” the Faks go on and on (and on and on) about is so hamfisted, and felt so out of place for a show whose writing is usually quite taut, especially in its comedic moments. It’s just bashing you over the head with the idea that omg, it’s not just the dead that can haunt the living, the living can as well! What an idea!

I really wish Claire’s character was better written, but once again, her characterisation fell flat because she’s presented in mostly flashbacks, and through Carmy’s perspective at that, and that man apparently has difficulties understanding that she’s meant to be a person and not just a concept.

The moment in the final episode, where Syd and Carm are eating with other chefs at Ever, and one of them says “the greatest mistake is working for a bad boss, such that, what it unlocks in you is the culture that you choose to create”....hilariously unsubtle but fantastic nonetheless, because it’s followed by Carm confronting his nightmare boss (David Fields! I def did think he was a hallucination Carm was experiencing at Ever's funeral), and because it’s absolutely clear that Carm is also a fucking bad boss, and Sydney should absolutely not sign those papers. (I don’t think she should go with Adam and his new restaurant either, because the vibes are off there, too.) 

Along those lines: that moment where Carmy says, I think about you too much, and Fields responds with, I don’t think about you was fantastic, but also felt unearned.

Olivia Coleman’s Chef Terry saying, Service, bitches! was tremendous. 

Reiterating that I wanted to see more of Luca and Marcus together. I love them, your honour.

Selfishly, I indulged and binged this season because I was hoping it would unlock inspiration for me to keep writing my Tina fic and just fic in general but I don't think it did that, unfortch.

(Last thing: yet another season with Taylor Swift but no Fall Out Boy. We continue to suffer.)

[weaselle]

omg. can hear my 75 year old parents talking through the wall

my mother from her computer "what is a PAN sexual?"

my father "What? i don't know, i think it's an expansion on the bi-sexual thing"

"oh, they'll have sex with everyone? okay"

"i guess. maybe they only have sex with goat-legged grecian gods. is it important?"

"i just want to know what it is when somebody says it"

[wulfgaang]

sucker.

pairing: lee know x gn!reader

warnings: suggestive, minho's a menace, that's one lucky lollypop, unedited

description: you knew your boyfriend got jealous at the drop of a dime. but never did you imagine lee know would be jealous of a candy on a stick.

words: 0.9k

a/n: ayyyy, my first skz fic and of course it's gonna be 'i know you know we know lee know' babyyyy~ been liking the idea of little shorties lately, especially when venturing into a new territory! hope you like this one, stay! please expect more in the future xx M.

---

Saccharine sweet touched your taste buds and your lips tingled under the sour cherry effects. A sweet treat while Lee Know finished tightening up the last bits of his choreo was the only thing keeping you occupied. His strong legs hitched across the wooden floor with his eyes gazed... focused... on ensuring that his form was correct right down to the fingertip.

Your beautiful Minho. Always the perfectionist. Every movement, every action, was always done with intention. There was never any motion wasted.

"Almost done, honey?" The question was innocent enough. You had no need to move from the leather couch tucked in the corner of the dance studio. You were perfectly content curled under the perpetually present knit blanket, sucking on your lollypop and watching your boyfriend. It was just that the sun had set and your stomach was grumbling something fierce: a little lolly like this wasn't enough to stave your hunger.

"Almost, yeah. I just want to go through one more pass if that's ok." Minho was glistening under the hot lights of the studio, his sweatshirt forgotten and crumpled beside you long ago. His grey sweatpants were starting to stick to his hips as he flipped the hem of his damp, white shirt for some air flow. Peaks of smooth skin flashed passed your vision.

Your head was clouded with thoughts of your sticky lips leaving pink stains along the tops of his toned, salty hips. You nodded your head once. "Only if we can get takeout after."

He smiled in thanks and jogged back over to the computer to restart his track. There was a little bounce in his step as he clicked away at the keyboard. "Your wish is my command, love."

Each pass of the tart candy watered your tongue seek further nourishment. You rolled the glass surface behind your teeth and held the stick in your mouth while Minho ran through his routine yet again.

His forearms were stretched and veined at each beat like some marbled Grecian god. His thick thighs were pulling against the confines of his sweats, nearly bursting at the seam with each squat and grind he did. You could see a rogue bead of sweat on his brow trickle down the side of his cheek. Oh, what you would give to lick it off.

Bet it would taste real nice with cherry...

He caught sight of your ogling this time, smirked, and continued on his way. A burning shot through your cheeks, being caught admiring him like some pervert voyeur hellbent on eating him alive. Minho was yours and you were his. There was no confusion in that regard. But the idea of your lover peaking through you, watching him... watching you...

When the cat is away, the mice will play, as they like to say.

You pulled the candy from your mouth to open your lips wide in the practice mirror. Even from across the room, your tongue was on full display while you rolled the sucker across the tops of your taste buds. Your fingers twirled the stick enough to leave your lips coated with its sticky essence until the slick muscle curled back around the candy to suck it back into the crevice of your mouth. You felt yourself smile in Minho's direction, your feet rubbing against each other in glee.

Minho's eyes flashed back over to you for a split second during your little show, his eyes nearly rolling to the back of his head.

A minor misstep, a heavy groan. More eye rolling. Minho threw his hands on his waist and scuffed his foot on the floor. "Damn it, y/n."

He turned to face you, lips pursed. Your eyes widened. Caught, red lipped and red handed. The lolly froze in your mouth, yours eyes stuck staring to his. Your fingers were curled into the blanket and you didn't dare to move a muscle. Your hammering heart was the only thing that dared to make any sound.

Minho's movements were predatorial as he stalked over to the couch. The music played deftly in the background, nearly muted by the ringing of your blood in your ears. He dropped to his knees in front of you, his large hands over your covered knees. "Baby," he started, barely above a whisper. "Why do you have to make things so hard for me?"

Minho the perfectionist, who didn't like to be disturbed while he was working. Minho the dance captain, who wasn't afraid of scolding others when it needed to be done. Minho your lover, who knew when punishments were needed and rewards should be taken away. All different parts of the same whole: all equally frightening in some way or another.

His hands snaked dangerously up the top of the blanket, rubbing back and forth on your legs. You notice his eyes, dark and deep, blown out on the outlines of your stained lips. "You just have to tease me every which way, now don't you, huh? Are you that in need of attention?"

Quietly, he plucked the sucker hanging from your lips, a small pop left behind, and put it in his own mouth. He smiled with his teeth, holding the stick like you were before. He took a long drag of the candy before releasing it from his lips, the squelch of his mouth sending the heat from your cheeks to your stomach. "So needy that you have to turn to a damn candy instead of using your words, huh? All you have to do is ask. Anytime. Anywhere."

Your mouth was suddenly dried as he shoved the candy back past your lips. Immediately, your tongue wrapped around the globe of sweetness, tasting the candy, tasting him, while his lips grazed along the side of your ear. The heat from his skin radiated against your own and you swore he'd could hear your heart thrumming like a hummingbird in your chest.

"Tease me again, though, and this lollypop will be the only thing you get to suck on tonight. Got it? Watch yourself."

[samsexualdeancurious]

Sunflowers (NSFW)

Pairing: Sam x Jess

Words: 3,118

Summary: It's their first Valentine's Day together and Jess has a gift for Sam that's really a gift for both of them.

Warnings: FTM!Sam, strap-ons, vaginal sex, some gender/body stuff. I'm not transmasc myself but I am genderqueer and I drew on some of my own gender stuff for this.

Betaed by @samsbighonkintiddies

---

Valentine’s Day. Sam’s never put much thought into it, not since he was little and the only kid without a cool homemade “mailbox” for the class party or candy to go with his dollar store cards. To be honest, Valentine’s has joined a long list of holidays he decided long ago that he didn’t care about. Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, Valentine’s… all the major ones, really, and a few of the smaller ones. Hard to celebrate Mother’s Day without a mom, after all.

This year is different, though, because Sam has a girlfriend. A gorgeous, sweet, perfect girlfriend who deserves all the good things in life and more. He wants to make his first Valentine’s Day with Jess special and amazing for her. Problem is, he has no clue where to start.

“Flowers,” Brady says without hesitation when Sam comes to him for advice. “Jess loves flowers.”

Sam is aware of that. Sunflowers are her favorite. He’s kissed the tattoo on her wrist enough times to remember. Of course she’s getting sunflowers.

“I dunno, man. Dinner? A big teddy bear? Girls love that shit.”

They do, Sam knows, and Jess has plenty of plush animals of her own but he doesn’t have the money for a giant teddy bear. Not if he wants to do flowers. Dinner, though, isn’t a bad idea. She cooks for him all the time. Sam’s not much of a cook himself - the many variations of boxed mac & cheese he and Dean have invented over the years don’t count - but he’s pretty sure he could follow a simple recipe. Maybe he could get the ingredients and they could cook together.

He looks up some recipes on a library computer and prints out one for pasta in vodka sauce. He’s got most of the ingredients in his kitchen, thanks to a shopping list Jess made for him the first time she tried to cook dinner at his shitty little apartment, and the rest he should be able to find at Walmart with no problem.

He still gets chocolate to go with the flowers, since he knows how much Jess adores chocolate. When he arrives at her apartment with flowers, chocolate, and ingredients in hand, though, he finds his heart is racing the way it did the first time John took him on a hunt. Jess is significantly less terrifying than a ghost but at the same time, this is the scariest thing he’s ever done.

Her little shriek of joy when she lays eyes on the flowers, though, soothes most of his anxiety.

“Sam, they’re beautiful,” she coos, sweeping the flowers into her arms and ushering him inside. The bouquet isn’t much, just a handful of sunflowers and some filler Sam couldn’t name if he tried, but her joy tells him the thought is just as important. “You remembered.”

How could he forget? Sam smiles and takes her in. She’s always beautiful but tonight she’s positively glowing, her blonde curls tumbling over her shoulders. She’s wearing pale blue, one of Sam’s favorite colors on her. The knee-length dress is a simple Grecian style with a high waist and a low v collar dipping down between her breasts, drawing his gaze down along with it. She leads him into the kitchen in search of a vase and he sets the bags on the counter to free up his hands to find the scissors to cut the stems for her.

Jess eyes the bags, peeking into the closest one. “What’s all this?”

His anxiety spikes again and he feels his cheeks warm as he looks down at the scissors in his hands. “I, um. I want to cook for you. Or with you. Whichever you prefer.”

She gapes at him for a moment, clearly not having expected this at all, and then lights up. “Oh, my god. You’re such a darling. That sounds wonderful.”

She kisses him then, holding the flowers out to one side so they won’t be crushed between their bodies, and Sam relaxes into the softness of her mouth. Kissing Jess has fast become one of his favorite activities.

--

Cooking with Jess is going to join kissing on the list of favorite activities, Sam decides later as he watches her expertly chop a few more cloves of garlic than the recipe actually calls for. She’d insisted on helping, probably to make sure he doesn’t burn the apartment down but he doesn’t mind. He has no idea how to chop garlic. He has no idea how to chop anything, actually, and she doesn’t really trust him with a knife in the kitchen, since he almost chopped his finger off early on in their relationship. He really can’t blame her for that.

Handling a knife in a fight and handling a knife in a kitchen? Two very different things.

“That’s a lot,” he observes as she scrapes the garlic, pulverized to an almost paste, off the cutting board and into a bowl.

“First lesson of cooking,” she says. “Measure garlic with your heart.”

She flips her curls out of her face with a toss of her head and flashes him a heart-stopping grin, and he wonders for the hundredth time since they met how he got so lucky.

The meal comes together quickly, once everything has been prepped. Jess calls it “mise en place” or “everything in its place.” From there it’s a simple matter of adding everything to the pot at the right time and in the right order. Jess lets Sam handle most of this part and his confidence grows with each careful step he follows, his beautiful girlfriend cheering him on with the recipe in hand. When finally he dishes the final product into two bowls, she rewards him with a kiss.

“Perfect,” she praises after her first bite. Her foot is hooked around his ankle under the tiny dining table.

Sam hesitantly takes his own first bite and is pleasantly surprised. The sauce is rich and creamy, with a sharp bite from the vodka that perfectly balances the sweet acidity of the tomatoes.

“Holy shit,” he says around his mouthful. Jess nods enthusiastically in agreement and Sam can’t help a grin.

“This is going to be a regular on the rotation,” she decides and Sam can’t argue with that.

After dinner, they wash the dishes together and the normality of it makes Sam’s heart soar. He loves doing even the most mundane of everyday tasks with her and the more he thinks about that, the more and more sure he is that she’s the one.

“All right,” Jess says once the last dish is put away. She plants her hands on her hips. “It’s time for your gift.”

“Jess, you didn’t have to-” he starts out of instinct but stops when she shakes her head.

“It’s kind of a gift for me, too.” She takes both his hands in hers and lifts her chin to kiss him lightly. “C’mon. To the bedroom.”

Sam’s heart races at the possibilities that come to mind with those three words. He eagerly follows Jess into her little bedroom and lets her sit him on the edge of the bed. She rummages in her closet and emerges with a red bag, white tissue paper blossoming out of the top. It’s the most nicely wrapped gift he’s ever received and he takes it with hesitant hands as she settles on the bed next to him. She looks nervous, tucking her bare feet up to sit cross-legged on the comforter.

“Go on,” she encourages and Sam pulls the paper from the bag.

He’s unsure what he’s looking at when he first pulls out the box. In his defense, he’s never seen one of these things in a box before.

“Holy shit,” he says when he realizes what it is. He immediately starts tearing into the box, sliding the plastic tray out and sending half the gift tumbling into his lap. He recognizes the harness. Jess has one exactly like it in her collection and it was Sam’s favorite of the ones he tried on early in their relationship. “Jess.”

The dildo seems huge in his hand, though he knows it’s probably about the same size as most of her average-sized toys. It’s definitely the most normal-looking one he’s seen, though, and that excites him as he realizes what this gift means.

“Jess,” he repeats. “Is this… for me?”

She nods, bouncing a little in her seat. “Yeah, I - you said you’ve always wanted one and I know you like that harness. I thought you’d probably prefer something that looks like a real dick. Is that…?” she’s suddenly hesitant, doubt creeping into her expression and Sam needs to kiss her.

He does just that, the strap-on and dildo tumbling off his lap onto the bed as he surges toward her. She gasps and then giggles, looping her arms around his shoulders.

“Gonna let me fuck you?” Sam asks, still stunned by this opportunity.

Jess hums in agreement, kissing him again, and then pulls away to pick up the toy. “Put that on, baby. I’ll go wash this.”

Sam’s body is singing with arousal, his boxers damp with it already when he shoves them down his thighs. He tosses his clothes in the hamper and thinks for a moment about how their clothes are muddled together like they share a space already. He thinks about a future where everything is mingled all the time and warmth blossoms in his chest at the possibilities his future holds now.

The current possibility, though, is really a certainty.

It takes Sam a minute to get the straps sorted out but he’s yet to tighten them around his thighs and ass when Jess returns with the clean toy in hand. She pauses in the doorway and his skin flushes with warmth under her hungry gaze.

“Fucking gorgeous,” she proclaims.

Sam’s blush deepens. He’s always felt so self-conscious about his body but Jess is so eager, so encouraging, and it’s been a surprisingly big boost to his confidence. Getting top surgery helped, even though it took almost a lifetime of saving every penny and some help from Jess to do so. His body feels more the way it should.

Jess waves the dildo at him. “Want a hand?”

Sam has no fucking clue how to put a dildo into a harness, so he nods. He’s not expected Jess to settle on her knees before him. His breath catches at the sight. She gazes up at him through her lashes as expert fingers slide the toy through the o-ring, making sure the snaps stay secure, and then she’s tugging the straps tight to hold it in place.

“How does that feel?” she asks, hands settling on his thighs just below the straps.

Sam shifts his hips, feeling the weight of the dildo, and adjusts the straps to get them into a better spot. “Good.” Really good. Looking down at his body to see a hard cock jutting out from his hips and his gorgeous girlfriend on her knees with her pink tongue darting out to wet her lips? Better than good. “Fuck, Jess.”

She grins and then she’s leaning forward to take the head of the cock - his cock - into her mouth.

Obviously, Sam can’t feel anything in the toy itself but the base is shaped to rub against his clit with every motion. Even without that stimulation, his body is thrumming with pleasure at the sight alone and he can’t stop a groan. Jess preens and takes the cock deeper. His hand instinctively finds her hair, cradling the back of her head, and her eyelashes flutter closed. That’s the encouragement he needs to take a little more control and guide her in the bobbing of her head. Jess has never been big on blowjobs, he knows - she’s a pussy girl all the way - but she’s moaning openly, and Sam’s leaking slick all over his inner thighs at the sound.

He needs to move this along.

“Jess,” he manages. “Jess, I need -”

She gets the message, pulling off with a gasp. “Yeah? How do you want me, big guy?”

Sam’s brain shuts down for a second at that. “... huh?”

Jess laughs and takes his hand to pull herself to her feet. “Missionary it is. This time.”

This time.

She leads him to the bed, stopping at the foot of it to pull Sam in for a kiss. Something about it resets Sam’s brain and he knows what to do from here. His arms sweep up over Jess’s shoulders, around the curve of her back to where the zipper of her dress waits. It goes down easily and then the dress is slipping from her shoulders, revealing first the perfect mounds of her breasts and then her lacy white underwear.

She’s the most beautiful woman Sam has ever laid eyes on and he wants - needs - to worship her.

Wordlessly, Sam lays Jess down in the center of the bed. It feels so right, taking charge like this and being the one to blanket his partner’s body with his own. The toy - his cock - bumps against her pelvis and she spreads her legs in response. Sam takes her in for a moment. Blonde curls haloing her head, sun-kissed skin from lying topless on her little balcony, long legs falling open around him to reveal the darkening patch in the pure white of her panties.

Sam ducks down to press a kiss above the waistband, smirking at her little gasp. He hooks his fingers under the elastic and slides them all the way off, over her pretty bare feet because of course every inch of Jess is pretty. They join his clothes in the hamper and then he’s returning to his spot between her thighs.

She opens with the slightest touch, allowing him to hook his arms under her legs and yanks her down onto his face. He doesn’t hold back and neither does she, openly whimpering and moaning as he works her over. She’s honey-sweet and musky and so soft under his tongue. The little strip of dark blonde hair she keeps carefully trimmed points right to her clit and Sam has always been good at reading maps.

Jess falls apart under his mouth and hands, shouting her pleasure to the ceiling, and he knows the neighbors can hear her but neither of them cares. The idea of a gag briefly crosses his mind, though, and he tucks it away for later. Maybe for his birthday. He makes her cum twice before she shoves his head away with shaking hands. He looks up to find her watching him over the heaving of her breasts, struggling to catch her breath.

“Fuck me,” she gasps at last.

Sam is more than happy to obey. He slides up her body to capture her mouth with his, giving her the taste of her pussy on his tongue. She sighs and hooks her legs around him, pressing his hips forward so his cock slides against the slick mess of her core.

“Fuck me,” she repeats and Sam isn’t going to make her ask again.

He sits up and she whines at the loss of contact but he has to see. He needs to watch his own hand curl around his cock, the way it slip-slides so easily through her dripping folds. Her pussy is flushed with arousal and parts easily for him when he presses inside. Sinks home, balls deep in one smooth motion of his hips.

“Sam,” she sighs. “Yes.”

And so he fucks her. He’s never done this before and it takes him a moment to find the right motion of his hips, the angle that makes her cling tighter to him. When he does, he focuses on repeating that pattern. He needs practice but something about it feels right, like he was made to be on this side of the equation as he curls over Jess and digs his teeth into the curve of her right breast. She cries out and one hand flies to his hair, keeping him in place as he sucks a bruise just north of her nipple.

They’re doing this again. In every position, every room. He needs to spread her out on the couch, bend her over the dining table, see her ride him on the kitchen floor. Maybe even out on the balcony for the neighbors to see if they’re home. He thinks of Jess draped over the railing, curls bouncing as he fucks her from behind, and his clit throbs where the toy presses against him.

“Jess,” he manages. “Jess, I -”

“Do it,” she says. “Do it, Sammy, wanna see -”

Sam groans and keeps fucking her, arms curled around her shoulders and elbows braced against the mattress to keep her from sliding up into the headboard. He presses his face into the curve of her neck and breathes in the scent of her. Sweet and floral, orange blossom and bergamot, made brighter where it’s mixing with the salty tang of her sweat, and that’s when it hits.

“Fuck.”

Sam’s breath leaves his lungs in a shout and then he’s lost, grinding in deep to get as much stimulation as possible while his orgasm washes over him. Jess’s heels dig into his ass, holding his hips to hers. Her hands are in his hair and her mouth at his temple when Sam finally relaxes.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, and she giggles.

“That was hot.”

Sam lifts his head to meet her gaze and grins. “Yeah?”

She kisses him and Sam grinds his hips where he’s buried to the hilt in her body. “Yeah,” she says against his mouth. “Yeah, that - keep doing that.”

Sam is more than happy to oblige, repeating the motion until Jess trembles in his arms, fingernails leaving marks in his shoulders like her grip on him is the only thing holding her together, and wails. Sam’s body flushes with heat and he could definitely cum again just like this, with her on his cock, but he knows she can’t handle another one. She’s down for the count, at least for a few minutes, and so he eases out of her.

“Oh, my god,” Jess says as her limbs fall limp on the bed. “Oh, my god, Sam.”

He laughs and lets his weight fall to the side instead of on top of her. He kisses her cheek. “Good?”

“Gimme a few and then I want to ride you.”

Very good, then. He nuzzles against her cheek and her hand comes up to cup his jaw. Tilting his head, he presses a kiss to the sunflower on the inside of her wrist.

���I’m all yours,” he says and he means it, one-hundred percent.

---

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—

Team Forever: @mrswhozeewhatsis @manawhaat @books-and-icecream @laughing-at-the-darkness @tumbler-tidbits @emoryhemsworth @imsuperawkward

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

Stress Relief Part Six

Previous Part | Masterlist |  Next Part

Pairing: Marcus Pike x Reader

Rating: Explicit - 18+ Only. Chapters will have explicit content further down the line.

Notes: The first few chapters aren’t explicit, so I’ll add the necessary labels when they’re needed.

Warnings: Me pretending to know anything about art crime, art forgery, or the FBI, or Ptolemaic art. Don’t get me wrong, I did some research but uhhh. Ya know.

Summary: Marcus started inviting you out for lunch, or dinner, or making sure he got an extra breakfast burrito for you the day after you pulled an all-nighter. He urged you away from your desk if you were at it too long—even just for a stroll around the office, to rest your eyes from the screen for a little while. He was actually…Kinda sweet. 

He watched you while you were in the office.

Over the next few days, you came to realize that Pike watched you a lot. You weren’t sure if he was keeping an eye out, making sure that you were staying on the straight-and-narrow after your little talk, or if there was something else. More than once, you met his eyes. More than once, he gave you a smile. That always threw you off a little bit. Maybe it was meant to. But you’d seen Pike play at pleasantries before, and this didn’t seem to be the same. These smiles were gentle, and quick—in a blink, he was turning back to his computer and focusing up again. It made you feel a little wary, like he knew something you didn’t.  

-- 

He still messed with you sometimes—mosied right over and asked how you got from A to B with a lead or a contact, just to watch you spell it out. You thought he might be doing it so make sure you’re dotting every i and crossing every t. Most of the tracks that you took seemed straightforward to you, at least. 

He started inviting you out for lunch, or dinner, or making sure he got an extra breakfast burrito for you the day after you pulled an all-nighter. He urged you away from your desk if you were at it too long—even just for a stroll around the office, to rest your eyes from the screen for a little while. He was actually…Kinda sweet. 

-- 

“You got a minute?” 

A couple of weeks ago, that answer would’ve garnered the sharp remark that’s currently sitting on your lips, but you pushed it away in favor of a nod and a, 

“Yeah. What’s up?” 

It proved to be the right play. For the first time in your acquaintance, Pike looked harassed. He held a file out, and you took it with some hesitance before flipping it open. Your brow furrowed at the sight of a polaroid—a somewhat over-exposed, hazy picture of a grecian bronze mirror. You flipped it over, checking for a date, time, owner, but there was nothing. You turned to the rapsheet next, eyes sweeping over a mugshot. There was something there, something vaguely familiar, but you pushed that away in favor of eyeing a report for the mirror. You flipped to a rap sheet next.

“Interstate transportation of stolen property, theft from an interstate shipment, theft of a major artwork…” You trailed off as your eye flicker to the name, your heart dropping into your stomach. “...How current is this?” 

“I re-confirmed everything an hour ago.” 

“This…” You shook your head, mind racing. “This can’t be right. Interpol said he was dead.” 

“Interpol made a mistake ID’ing the body.” 

You hissed in an annoyed breath as you leaned back in your seat, dropping the open file on your desk. Étienne Moquin’s cool eyes stared up at you from that mugshot, a knowing smirk curling his thin lips. You rested your hand over your mouth, as if you needed to keep in your indignant anger. 

“He was spotted?” You asked (louder than usual; you were loathe to move your hands and knew it would muffle your voice). 

“Heard on a wire tap.” 

You frowned, gaze flickering to Pike.

“We haven’t set any wire taps.” 

“No, it was in relation to a different case of theft. A grecian vase, and this,” He turned the file back to the polaroid, tapping the mirror. “They were on their way from a private collation in Hamburg to an exhibition to the Courtauld Institute.” 

“When?” 

“Two months ago.” 

“And when was he heard on the tap?” 

“Yesterday.” 

“Fuck.” The curse slipped past your lips before you could stop it, as you sprang up out of your chair. You whirled away from the desk, drawing in a deep, frustrated breath before pushing it back out through puffed cheeks. You could feel your irritation welling up and twining with heated anger. 

“They’re sure it was—” 

“Yes,” Marcus cut over your desperate question. Your hands curled into fists, biting little half-moons into your palms. 

“I need to hear it.” You couldn’t look at Marcus as you insisted. 

“Already queued up.” 

You wanted to hate him for anticipating you, but you were too busy snatching up the file and your notebook. 

--  

If you’d had an ounce less composure, you would’ve pitched your headphones into the floor and screamed the curse that was gathering steam in your throat. Instead, you let your eyes fall shut and hone in on the man’s voice. It was no wonder you hadn’t recognized his mugshot right away. He was a decade older, at least ten pounds heavier. The man that had disappeared after committing murder had been rail-thin, practically gaunt. The man in the current mugshot had pouched cheeks, a heavy brow, thick facial hair. 

“...Is it him?” 

Maybe it was kindness, or some sort of misplaced mercy that made Pike ask. He didn’t need to—they already had a positive ID, they didn’t need yours. But you gave a small nod, lowered the headphones to the desk in front of you, and let out a soft, defeated croak: 

“Yeah.” 

--  

It was the first evening in a month that you left the office before eleven. You crept out around six, and headed straight for a bar nearby. You’d been working ineffectively all day. Every few moments, you’d find that your thoughts had drifted, your mind filled with the sound of that man’s voice—thicker in tone, lower and rasping across your ears in the worst of ways.

Doyle’s Pub was fairly quiet that Tuesday evening. There were so few people that you didn’t feel bad taking up a booth. You didn’t have the strength to sit up at the bar, to hunch over your food and drinks and ignore the conversations chattering around you. You slouched back against the vinyl, staring blandly at the menu, not really taking in a thing. 

“...Mind if I join you?” 

You glanced up, doing a double-take at the sight of Marcus. Oh—man. Would he take it personally if you said no? You weren’t sure you could make nice, and you and Pike had come such a long way since the beginning of the case. You hesitated before you drew in a deep breath, forcing yourself to nod, and to raise your hand and gesture to the seat across from you. 

“Surprised to see you here,” You offered, pushing yourself to sit up a bit more, trying o pull yourself out of your mental funk.

“Could say the same of you. You seemed a little…Distracted today.” 

You let your gaze drift back down to the menu, your hands wringing under the table. 

“Guess I was.” 

The two of you went quiet as the waiter came over. You ordered yourself a drink before pushing the menu over to Marcus. 

“We’ll need a couple more minutes on food,” You added, giving the waiter a small smile and a mutter of thanks as he told you to take your time. You turned to look at Marcus, taking him in. He looked far more composed than you felt. You let your gaze linger on him—on his open, relaxed face, and the way his warm, dark eyes swept over the menu. You let your gaze drop to the table when you felt him looking up toward you again.

“So did you follow me or did you just happen to be passing by?” You asked. 

“Honestly?” 

“Mhm.” 

“I asked Ramirez where you go when you’ve had a bad day.” 

It was a good tactic. You’d worked a few cases with Ramirez; she’d seen you in some bad places. 

“Efficient,” You nodded. The two of you went quiet again as the waiter returned with your drinks. You gave your food orders before you leaned back against the booth. You were almost certain that whatever came next isn’t going to be enjoyable. 

“...We don’t need to talk about it now,” Was Pike’s opener, and you only just managed not to wince, “But I want you to tell me about Moquin.” 

“Are we both going to pretend that you haven't read the file?” 

“Files give the plain facts. I want to hear it from you.” 

“You really think you need it?” You reached out, setting your hand on your drink.

“...Honestly? I wouldn’t have, but the look on your face when you heard his voice was—” Reason enough for him to kick you off of the case? “A little concerning.” 

“Because you don’t think I can handle it.” 

There was a pause before you heard the seat squeak as Marcus leaned forward. 

“Because I know that you have a stake in this, an ax to grind.” You could see his arms folded on the table, feel him leaning in a touch. “I’ve seen the focus you put into this case before Étienne came into focus. I need to know what I’m getting into with you.” 

You were quiet for a moment as you ran your finger along the side of the glass. Then you drew in a deep breath, steadying yourself. 

“Étienne was on Europol’s radar way before he was on ours. It crossed over into Interpol when he started trafficking antiquities into the States.” You knew that Pike knew this all already, but you needed to lay it out for the both of you. You’d come to understand that Pike took your reasoning once you showed that you could clearly connect all of the dots. 

“It was small stuff at first—coins, terra cotta cups, linen fragments. He’d ship them in these massive crates with other things that he had claimed. He was either paying off the customs agents, or things just got missed—we’ve never been able to pin down which one. Once he got that under the radar, he worked his way up. Started shipping in paintings, statues, using them to hide drugs, guns…And those things were so much more highly noticed that the artwork, the antiquities, the focus fell to the wayside. 

“His name came to the fore with the Gardner robbing—what with the way certain things were picked off. The Napoleonic eagle finial in particular really raised the hackles of the agents brought in. And his methodology…When he pulls a job, it is exacting, it’s precise. Like he goes in with a shopping list.” 

“Which was similar to the way the Gardner was picked through,” Marcus acknowledges. 

“Exactly,” You nod. You raise your hand to the back of your neck, swiping your fingers against your nape. “By the time the case landed on my desk, it had gone cold. I was a rookie; the agent I was paired with threw me some busy work to keep me out of his hair.” 

“Alex Wilson, right? He’s retired now?” 

“That’s right,” You nod. “I think he just gave me one of the oldest, coldest cases. Maybe he wanted to show me that it happens sometimes—that you lose a trail and it never comes back up. Maybe he wanted me to chase my tail for a while, until he actually needed my help on whatever he was doing. EIther way, I put my head down, got to work. I managed to pull some loose threads, tie them into a fuckin’ bow that linked with a few more recent—at the time—property seizures. It fit with an evolution of Moquin’s style. He’d gone quiet, switched up his shipping methods. The man bringing them in was a member of Le Gens. The works seized were forged, not genuine—two Berninis and a Rembrandt.” 

“You pushed the case in a new direction.” 

You shrugged, nodding a little. 

“I identified his new MO. I got a new partner, I started working the case, I found a witness…” You went quiet, your stomach churning with upset and discomfort at the memory. “And I lost the witness during transport.” 

“You didn’t lose her,” Marcus corrected softly. “What they did is not your fault.” 

You shook your head, eyes set on your untouched drink as you bit down on the inside of your cheek. 

“She didn’t want to testify. I pushed,” Your argued. “It’s on me.” 

Marcus didn’t argue on that point. Maybe he wasn’t sure what to say; maybe he knew he couldn’t talk you out of the hole you’d put yourself in. You shook your head a little bit, drawing in a deep breath and sliding down in the booth. 

“Anyway,” You sighed, “We went after Moquin, and the others at the top, but word came down from Interpol that he was dead, and Denise took over, so. I was told to put it down, move on to things that were more active.” You pushed a heavy sigh through your nose and leaned back in your seat, taking up your drink and drawing in a gulp. You cleared your throat as you swallow, setting the glass back down and scrubbing your hands over your watering eyes. Marcus didn’t push into your silence; you’re certain he’s still processing this yourself. You forced yourself to calm down a bit before you met his eyes. 

“You taking me off the case?” You asked. Marcus’ eyes held steady on yours. 

“I’ll be honest, I’m a little hesitant to keep you on,” He admitted. “Sometimes the cases that hit closer to home can be the hardest to investigate.” 

“I’m handling it so far.” 

“Handling it?” Pike’s brows rose in mocking disbelief. “You fired on a vehicle when I told everyone to fall back—” 

“I told you, I didn’t hear you—” 

“Alright,” He actually laughed, shaking his head before waving it off, looking around the bar. You heard him sigh, and saw his jaw work minutely. 

“You taking me off?” You asked again. 

“I haven’t decided. As it stands, you’re on.” 

“...Alright.” 

The two of you went quiet for a while, each marinating in your own thoughts and discomfort. 

--  

Neither of you did much more arguing that night. Marcus backed off of discussing Moquin. He filled the air around you with easy conversation—with movies, and music, and news that had nothing to do with the case. You took the bait as it was meant. You allowed yourself some time to not think about the Relief, the Moquins, or Étienne’s reappearance. You let yourself sink into the warmth and calm of Pike’s voice, to smile at his jokes, and to mean those smiles. The most arguing you did was when the bill came—and when he insisted that he drive you home. 

You thanked him nonetheless as you climbed out of his car. He leaned across the seat as you stood, holding the door. 

“Try to get some sleep?” He implored. You smiled again—another real smile—and nodded. 

“I’ll try.” 

“No case notes until tomorrow morning.” 

“Someone’s feeling very high and mighty this evening.” 

“Well, I am your boss.” He said so teasingly, a sweet smile curling his lips. You chuckled softly, taking a step back. 

“Goodnight, Marcus.” 

“Goodnight.”

Tag list: @missredherring​ ; @fantasticcopeaglepasta​ ;  @paintballkid711​ ; @massivecolorspygiant​ ; @blueeyesatnight​; @recklessworry​ ; @amneris21​ ; @ew-erin​ ; @youngkenobilove​ ; @carbonated-beverage​​​​ ; @lorecraft​ ; @moonlightburned​ ; @milf-trinity​ ; @nolanell​ ; @millllenniawrites​ ; @dihra-vesa​​ ; @videogamesandpoorlifechoices​​ ; @missswriter​ ; @thembosapphicclown​ ; @brandyllyn​ ; @wildmoonflower​ ; @buckybarneshairpullingkink​ ; @mad-girl-without-a-box​ ; @winchestershiresauce ; @writefightandflightclub​ ; @elen-aranel​

[xasha777]

In a distant future where the Earth has merged with realms beyond our comprehension, the Temple of Apollo at Delphi stood as a beacon of ancient wisdom amidst a technologically advanced society. Aria, with her fiery orange hair and ethereal blue skin, was the Oracle of Delphi, a role that had evolved significantly over the millennia. She was engineered to bridge the ancient powers of prophecy with the digital streams of the future.

The temple itself, once made of stone and oracle bones, had transformed. It was now a floating edifice of light and nanostructures, orbiting the Earth in a synchronous pattern aligned with the stars. Aria lived there, communing with cosmic forces and the AI that powered the temple’s vast knowledge repositories.

One evening, as the stars blinked into existence, Aria felt an unusual disturbance in the ether. The temple’s AI systems whirred and projected holographic data streams into the air around her, showing signs of a looming galactic anomaly that could disrupt the very fabric of time and space.

Compelled by her duty as the Oracle, Aria initiated a sacred ritual, not performed since the ancient days when the temple stood firmly on Grecian soil. She adorned herself with the Photon Necklace, an artifact embedded with a quantum crystal, charged with the protective energies of Apollo himself.

As the celestial alignment peaked, Aria channeled her prophetic abilities through the temple’s core, a quantum computer that could calculate temporal probabilities. The core glowed with a pulsating light, harmonizing with the rhythm of the universe.

Just then, an ethereal portal opened within the temple, revealing a pathway to a parallel universe where time flowed in reverse. This anomaly, if left unchecked, threatened to unravel the past and future into chaos. Aria, guided by the whispers of Apollo, stepped into the portal, her figure glowing with an intense blue light.

Inside the portal, Aria confronted a mirror image of herself, but with eyes that burned like the red suns of a forgotten galaxy. This doppelgänger was the embodiment of the anomaly, a being of anti-time seeking to escape its confinement.

With her profound connection to the Temple of Apollo and the advanced technologies at her disposal, Aria engaged in a battle of wits and wills. She used her prophetic insights to anticipate her adversary’s moves, countering them with precise bursts of quantum energy, channeling the harmony of the cosmos.

The confrontation reached its climax as Aria and her counterpart circled in a dance of light and shadows under the watchful eyes of the cosmic deities. With a final surge of power, Aria realigned the temporal flow, sealing the portal and restoring balance to the universe.

As the anomaly closed, Aria found herself back in the Temple of Apollo, now calm and silent. The stars above continued their age-old journey across the sky, seemingly oblivious to the events that had transpired.

Aria’s role as the Oracle had once again evolved. She was not just a seer of destinies but a guardian of time itself, holding the line between chaos and order in a universe far more complex and interconnected than the ancients ever imagined. Her connection to the digital and divine had saved the cosmos, reaffirming the enduring power of the Temple of Apollo in a new era of existence.

[puzzlenation]

PuzzleNation Product Review: Sword in Stone, Cathedral Door, and Grecian Computer

In today's blog post, we test our mettle against a trio of mechanical brain teasers from the folks at Project Genius in today's product review!

Puzzles come in many forms, all shapes and sizes, but there’s probably no puzzle genre that offers more variety and range in difficulty than mechanical brain teasers.

The physical element adds so much to the solving experience that cannot be replicated in other puzzle styles. Whether you’re assembling pieces into a given shape, manipulating two pieces to separate them (or put them together), or…

[chaoticallymindful]

12:52 - public history class moodboard

[shepherds-of-haven]

Lena super important question!! Who can and who can’t solve a Rubik’s cube? Can you?

Ooh, great question, anon!

Blade: I bet if he gave himself a long enough period of totally focused concentration, he could do it (it might take him an hour or more the first time to figure it out, though), but it's unlikely he would be interested enough to invest that time, so chances are it's not getting solved if you give it to him, unless you make it a challenge that insults his pride!

Trouble: he could probably solve it faster than Blade, but not insanely fast! His mind is really good at puzzle-solving and mechanical stuff and making things fit in a tactile or kinetic way!

Tallys: she could do it, but only in a stealthy way, like everyone else is arguing about it and she comes along and carries it off to some quiet corner and works it out herself: she wouldn't be able to do it if she were being timed or if people were watching her! It'd probably take her anywhere from 40 minutes to a few hours, depending on how badly she wants to get it done!

Shery: she could do it, probably around the same amount of Blade or a little quicker, but not as fast as Trouble (let's say Trouble takes 20 minutes to figure it out blind the first time he ever sees one, and Blade takes somewhere around an hour--Shery probably takes like 35 minutes)! She's also good with figuring things like that out, and she'd be very proud of herself for beating some of the other Shepherds!

Riel: he's one of those annoying people who can do it in under 3 minutes 😒 even quicker if he practices, though I don't think he'd be able to do it blindfolded or anything like that!

Red: ironically, he overthinks it, so while he can solve a Rubik's cube, it takes him WAY longer and causes a lot more frustration than a lot of the others lol

Halek: he can, but only if he's working on it on-and-off over the course of a couple days, slowly figuring it out one step at a time before stepping away to take a break, having an 'aha' moment randomly in the middle of doing something else, and going back and doing the next step before repeating the process all over again!

Briony: sadly, no lol

Ayla: no lol

Lavinet: no lmao

The three of them just give up and are like "these are dumb!! 😤" and storm off to go have drinks somewhere and console/convince/enable each other into thinking they're the three smartest people in the compound GRLGJRG

I think I've successfully solved a Rubik's cube like twice in my life, but I was really young and probably had someone helping me 😂 Fun random fact: when I was in middle school, I did a summer program at Stanford and my RA was the then-world-record-holder for solving the Rubik's cube, I think both normally and blindfolded, so he was always practicing it and teaching us kids the ropes in his downtime. You think I would have absorbed some of that expertise, but I absolutely didn't 😃

So sadly, I'm going to have to say no, I don't think I could solve a Rubik's cube if you were to hand me one today, and I always get very aggravated by puzzles of that nature--my SO received a Grecian computer as a stocking stuffer this past Christmas and it filled me with untold rage 😒 I do love and excel at escape room-type puzzles, though!

[eagerforhoney]

Fluffmas Day 7 - with Kylo Ren

Don't hate me for being 12 hours late to post this.

Day Seven: First Snow

Modern!Kylo Ren x Reader

WC: 1,460

CW: swearing, long-distance relationship (brief)

Twelve Days of Fluffmas Masterlist

You had grown up in Southern California, born in the same town you had spent your whole life up until graduation. Once you graduated high school you moved to Greece to complete your degree there, wanting to immerse yourself in your studies of ancient literature and history. That’s how you met your boyfriend, Kylo. Being the head of a very successful business that was known globally he had come to your university to speak to one of the business programs. You had bumped into him when he was helplessly looking for the correct building. You had felt a spark then, and it only continued to ignite when you ran into him yet again when you went out with friends that night for dinner and drinks. That was four years ago now, and you had recently graduated. Kylo had come back to the European country often to visit you. You hated having such a long-distance relationship, but he made it bearable with how often he was able to visit and the near month-long visits those were. He had taken you back to New York with him during a couple of your summer breaks, however you both preferred traveling around to other countries surrounding Greece a lot more. Kylo had spent much of your senior year in the Grecian town you studied in. He had told you it made his work less infuriating when he knew you’d be waiting for him at the end of the day in the apartment he was renting. You had essentially lived together that whole last year of your undergrad in that apartment, and as your graduation approached you could tell Kylo was getting more and more tense.

One night after he took you to a nice dinner, he stared you down with an intense gaze. “What are you going to do after graduation?” he asked you sternly. You chuckled at him and his severity. He was always serious, but it seemed unnecessary to you considering the topic. “Baby, we’ve talked about this so many times. You helped me with my job applications! You know I have a job lined up at NYU and I’m waiting to hear back on those apartments you refused to help me find,” you jokingly jabbed at him. When you had first asked about what neighborhoods would be good to live in, he just gave you an annoyed look and looked back down at his own computer, furiously typing away. After having stared hard at you, he completely shifted his position so he was sitting right in front of you, his large knees brushed your own. He grabbed both of your hands and squeezed them tight. “Well, what if... What if you uh,” he started, needing to take a deep breath to continue. “What if you moved in with me? My house is big enough for us both to have our own space but I, I just have really loved living with you this past year and I want it to continue -- permanently”. Your smile grew more and more wide as he spoke, your giddiness had you dancing a little in your seat. Once he finished he looked at you expectantly, and you removed your hands from his to wrap around his neck and brought him in closer to embrace him tightly. “Of course, Kylo! My sweet man, I only ever want to start and end each day with you”. You saw him visibly relax, his hands snaking around your body to hold you closer before he pressed soft kisses to your lips.

You had been living with Kylo in his brownstone since you graduated in the summer, and it was now December. Your loving boyfriend only poked a little fun at you when you cursed at how cold it was getting, before taking you out and getting you a warm coat. He wanted to get you other winter gear, but you admitted to him you preferred to wear his hats and scarves, and he always kept your hands warm by wrapping them in his own inside his own coat pockets. You felt truly settled and were enjoying your life in New York, despite it being colder than anything you were used to.

You were woken up by what you thought was someone shining a light in your face. You could tell it was still very early which made you a bit more irked because it was the weekend and you and Kylo were both planning on sleeping in and having a lazy Saturday. When you finally opened your eyes and rubbed the sleep from them you discovered it was not a bright light waking you up, but a sheet of white taking up the entirety of your window. As you gently got up from bed so as not to wake Kylo, you walked to the window as what was happening set in. It was snowing, and it was snowing hard. You guessed there was at least three inches that had accumulated on your balcony with no sign of it letting up any time soon. You started squealing with excitement before you turned and ran to the bed Kylo still soundly slept in. Your eagerness clouded your regard for his desire to sleep in, crawling over him so that you were straddling his waist while you shook him awake. “Kylo, Baby! It’s snowing!! Isn’t this amazing? It’s so white and beautiful, and I could even see individual snowflakes! Come on, you have to come look! Get up!” you quickly spat out.

The response you got was a big groan accompanied by two large, strong hands gripping the thighs that were caging him in your hold. Finally, he spoke, sleep thick in his deep gravelly voice: “My sweet, sexy, love of my life. What the fuck are you doing waking me up at the crack of fucking dawn on a Saturday over snow? Come back to bed”. You matched his annoyed groan and laid your hands flat on either of his pecs before hovering your face over his. “I’ve never seen snow in real life before, you big grump. I want to experience it with you, so please wake up so you can show me the best way to kick your tight little ass in a snowball fight,” you said with a smile before kissing him all over his face. You were soon met with a playful growl before he lifted you up out of bed with him, carrying you both to the master bathroom to get ready for your first snow day.

The first stop of the day was Kylo taking you to get proper snow boots. The Prada quilted snow boots kept your feet warm and dry, so you were able to continue walking around the city to finish getting fully prepared for your first NYC winter. Kylo then took you to get waterproof gloves and snow pants, along with a cheap sled. Once you were fully decked out in winter gear you were on your way to Central Park’s Pilgrim Hill. Kylo smiled at you and told you how you looked more excited than most of the young children running around, but you could have cared less. You made Kylo sled down the hill over and over, his size pulling you down the hill that much faster. He indulged in a snowball fight with you which you thought was a fair fight, considering your boyfriend totally cheated with stolen kisses, lots of giggles, and him coming up behind you and lifting you so you couldn’t pelt him with snowballs. You hadn’t seen Kylo smile this much in a long time, and you were grateful your lack of experience with snow could bring him that level of happiness.

You became more aware of how tired you were the closer you got back home. Kylo basically had to carry you up the stairs to your front door and did end up carrying you up the stairs to your bedroom once you were inside, your arms and legs wrapped around him. He started filling up the large bathtub with hot water and lavender smelling bubble bath before turning to you and peeling off your wet layers. Once he helped you into the bath he stripped and joined you, pulling you back against his chest and holding you close. “Did you have a good day, my little snow queen? Are you satisfied with your first snow?” Kylo’s gentle voice resonated through your whole body, helping in your relaxation along with his rubbing of your sore muscles. “Mmmhmm” you mumbled. “I had so much fun, Baby. Thank you so much for giving me the best day. I love snow and I love you”. He softly laughed at your sleepy words, keeping the warm water covering your body as you drifted off in his hold.

@mariesackler @strangunddurm @feed-the-rats @clydesfavoritegirl @clydes-hole @clydesducktape @jynzandtonic @hedgy-hog @flipswaywardwife @tall-semi-dashing @desiraypark @mina-logan @sacklerscumrag @leatherboundbirate @millenialcatlady @daydreamsofren @butyoudidthis4what @hopeamarsu

[ill-skillsgard]

Portraits of Henry Deaver

I wrote this short spooky story for @grandpa-sweaters 666 follower celebration! I usually try to write at least one spooky story around Halloween, and what better occasion than for a friend's writing challenge? If you don't already follow her, you probably should 'cause she's great! Title: Portraits of Henry Deaver Warning: Mentions of death, suicide, mentions of mental health issues, blood and horror imagery. Summary: Henry Deaver leaves his hometown to teach at Wolfeside Academy, a private school where his late father taught for decades and gained the love and respect of his peers. However, his welcome is ill-received by a woman who claims Henry is not the man he says he is, but the Devil incarnate. Note: This is just under 6.5K words and contains zero smut, so anyone who only has interest in reading that can probably skip over this. However, I'd love it if you gave it a shot any way because reading is fun and I worked on this for a while.

"...I know what demons smell like, and you reek of evil."

The academy was much smaller than I remembered. I was twelve the last I'd visited Wolfeside on a trip to see my father, who had been a teacher at the school for forty years. He taught English at Wolfeside Academy from the moment he graduated college until the day before his death. In the eyes of a young boy, the building seemed like a castle on a hill, bordered by Sycamore trees and memorial benches. I'd half expected a moat to surround the building when I first glimpsed the structure from the singular winding road. There was no moat, no armoured guards or anything resembling my medieval daydreams, but there was still an ancient prowess in its bones that fascinated a younger me.

Now, the academy resembled a nineteenth-century courthouse to me, enrobed in the mists carrying in from the northern shore. The pillars and arcing windows were no cover-up for the modern add-ons at the back of the school to accommodate a growing student body. It was a grand structure with nods to Grecian architecture but pocked and dull from years standing in the rain.

A stout woman with a mound of slate grey hair twisted at the base of her neck met me at the front entrance where the cobbled paths convened at an arrowhead. She had kind eyes and a comforting smile that widened when I approached.

"Hello. You must be Mrs. Kyne," I said, shaking her puffy hand.

"Yes, and you must be Henry Deaver the second. It's a pleasure to finally meet you again. Your father had only the nicest things to say about you."

"Ah, ol' Deaver saw the good in horseflies."

"The last time we met, you must have been less than half the size. I see height runs in the family," said Mrs. Kyne.

"Let's get it out of the way. No, the weather isn't nice up here. It's rather damp and grey."

"You'll get used to it, I promise," She said. "The dreary days only make you appreciate the sunshine that much more. Shall we go on inside? It is calling for rain."

The cold seeped in through my wool jacket. As I followed Mrs. Kyne up the stairs and through the double doors, I thought I'd better buy a thicker coat if the early Autumn cold was already this crisp.

We sat down in Mrs. Kyne's windowed office and discussed the formalities of my new position as teacher of communications. Wolfeside had recently gutted its basement level and hauled out rusted woodshop equipment to make way for a new wing. I supposed folks no longer wanted their children working with table saws and hammers. I had the luxury of setting up camp in a state-of-the-art computer lab complete with shiny new Macs and a circus of photography equipment. I was to teach graphic design and a supplementary photography course for the students who fancied themselves as modern-day shutterbugs.

Mrs. Kyne poured two cups of tea and served mine on a saucer. When she took her seat behind the desk, she affixed me with another motherly smile.

"We're thrilled to have you here, Henry. I think you'll fit in just fine. Your father was always a student favourite. He was much more than an English teacher to us. I thought him better suited for the theatre, but he insisted his love lay only in literature." The wistfulness behind Mrs. Kyne's words alluded to something other than appreciation. Her mouth retracted behind her teeth, and her eyes wandered far like a girl enraptured in a fantasy of her White Knight.

"He was always a ham. We couldn't bring that guy anywhere without him befriending the entire place or annoying the hell out of them."

She produced a laugh so blunt it startled me. "Yes, that sounds like our Henry."

To the left of Mrs. Kyne's office was another room where a man and a woman sat before each other at his desk. The man pinched the bridge of his nose while the woman, perhaps in her sixties, waved her arms and chopped at the air dramatically. I made brief eye contact with the woman through the wire mesh glass and quickly turned away. Her voice rose then, and the man behind his desk asked her to calm down—a textbook mistake when dealing with angry women.

"Oh, dear. This can't be good," said Mrs. Kyne.

"What's going on over there, if you don't mind me asking?"

"It's Miss Fletcher, our art teacher. She's been up in arms since we put in the communications lab. Says her applications for a budget increase are being purposefully ignored."

"Uh oh. Am I treading on some bad territory?"

Mrs. Kyne shook her head and clicked her tongue. "This is nothing new. Matilda has great disdain for anything she feels encroaches on her curriculum—which, according to her, is nearly everything from the drama room to the sports fields. Her father was the great Richmond Fletcher, a very famous painter. Are you familiar with his work?"

"Richie Fletcher? Of course. That's really his daughter?"

"I'm afraid her mind is taking the same downward spiral her father's took all those years ago. You know these artist types. Nothing pleases them. Nothing but making pictures that have no worth until their creators are long gone. We love our Miss Fletcher, but she can be a firecracker."

"I'll make it a point to stay out of her way," I said.

"Oh, she's harmless. Loud as a cicada, but harmless. Anyway, you must be tired from your trip. Your suite is in the Jane Pickering building. That's where the boarding staff live. It's close to the old theatre and dining hall, which most of us find quite convenient. The theatre was decommissioned years ago, but can't be touched due to its historical roots. However, that doesn't stop students from poking around and getting into mischief."

"Ah, gotta love the mischievous ones."

"If Pickering isn't to your liking, you can always rent an apartment in Wolfeside. Most faculty members choose to stay on campus, as the drive is rather troublesome in the winter months."

"Anything is better than my shoebox back in Maine. I'm sure I'll stay on the grounds."

"That's wonderful, Mr. Deaver. Welcome aboard," Mrs. Kyne said, leaning over and smothering the desk with her bosom. She shook my hand again and called for the man in the neighbouring office to show me to the Jane Pickering building. His name was Fred Sanders, and he was the assistant director at Wolfeside Academy. He came in looking flustered from his encounter with Miss Fletcher but grateful to be rid of the woman.

The next day, Fred showed me around Wolfeside, starting on the main floor science hall, then circling around to the language study classes, history room and math hall. On the top floor, shelved into neat square rooms, were the social sciences and humanities classrooms, and then the room where my father made his living teaching English and classic literature. The space was occupied by a hoard of students and their teacher, so I had no time to wander the perimeter like my father had. But I smelled the leaves of old books, that distinct mixture of yellowed paper and cracked leather, crusty spinal glue and coffee. It reminded me of his office where he'd sit every morning and work on his manuscript before he left to teach fulltime.

"We shouldn't interrupt any lessons, but if you want to see your dad's old classroom, Mrs. Dorfman has a free period after lunch. I'm sure she'll let you have a look around," said Fred.

"I'll get around to it. Thanks, Fred."

"You don't really look like him. The height, I can see, but your faces are totally different. Granted, I met Henry when he was much older than you."

"No, you're right. I look more like my mother. Thank God."

Fred laughed and clapped my back. "Never had the pleasure of meeting Mrs. Deaver."

"She passed away when I was young, and he never got involved with anyone else. Shortly after, he came here, where he stayed until the end."

"A rather gloomy story, junior," said Fred.

"That's just the way it is."

"Suppose you're right. How about we show you the dungeon now?"

"Ah, where all the bad kids go, I assume?"

My joke amused Fred, and he explained the dungeon was what the faculty and students called the basement level. The art department was downstairs, as well as my lab. We agreed to stop by the art room before Fred took me to my new classroom, and as we went, I held my breath.

The kids were at work blending out geometric shapes made in charcoal. Only a handful noticed us come into the room. Miss Fletcher had her back turned to the door, and I put on my most friendly smile, hoping it might charm away her distaste for the new communications lab responsible for the cut in her budget. She turned when Fred cleared his throat, and when she swung around, knit cardigan fluttering, her eyes fixed on me, then rolled to the back of her skull. Miss Fletcher's knees turned to rubber, and her body slumped to the tile floor. A flourish of gasps deafened me to the ensuing chaos. Fred darted around the desks and was at her side before half the students realized their teacher had gone down.

"Somebody call an ambulance," said Fred, shifting Miss Fletcher's head into his lap.

As Miss Fletcher was wheeled from the school entryway on a stretcher, the students stood with Mrs. Kyne and Fred Sanders. Clusters of crying students bundled together while some muttered theories. When the ambulance sped away, Mrs. Kyne dismissed the children to their dormitory for the remainder of the day. By evening, the entire school had heard of Miss Fletcher's fainting. Whispers echoed from floor to floor, and soon it was all the students talked about. And in the center of it all, I stood as the subject of their exaggerated speculation.

~*~

I had a good nose for the troublemakers; the kids who never pressed their uniforms, wore facial jewelry, and had the ghosts of hidden cigarettes wafting off their jackets. They were easy to spot and even easier to win over. I wasn't in the business of disciplining other people's children, but knowing which ones had mean streaks intrigued me. My first two were a pair of girls named Megan and Rachelle, who came into my class linked at the arm, skirts too high up their legs, and a red-eyed haze over their made-up faces. They sat together, whispering back and forth for the entirety of my introduction. A few other kids spaced out or doodled on their notebooks, and such disregard I didn't mind. I had done the same at their age.

Megan and Rachelle's only interest was talking about me behind cupped hands. Each time I glanced at the pair, their overlined eyes jumped away. Perhaps they didn't expect the new teacher to address them on the first day, for when I approached, they straightened in their seats and stared blankly at their computer screens, mouths clamped shut.

"You two are awfully chatty. Planning out your welcome for me?"

"No, Mr. Deaver."

"Please, I'd like you to share with me what's so funny about my face that you have to giggle about it?"

Megan, the braver of the two, straightened up and looked me dead on. "It's not that. We just heard about how you made Miss Fletcher faint yesterday."

"We'll chalk it up to a coincidence. Now, Megan, I'd like for you to switch seats with Adam. I get the feeling you and Rachelle will be counterproductive to each other's learning in this course. No more talking while I have the floor for the first thirty minutes of the class, please and thank you. I'll say it once. That goes for the rest of you," I said, taking a stand at the head of the computer tables. "I'm sure Miss Fletcher wouldn't appreciate the gossip. Out of respect for her, let's agree to drop the subject."

On my way to my desk, a girl with dyed black hair and a lip ring too big for her mouth raised her hand. I went to her corner, excited to answer my first question of the course.

"Mr. Deaver, I'm not sure if I should be saying this, but... If you want to know why Miss Fletcher fainted, you should talk to a girl named Justine in her class."

The utterance of the name threw the class into quietude like she had named the dead girl from Wolfeside's most prevalent ghost stories.

"Why do you say that, Tamara?"

She shifted her eyes away, clicked her mouse to bring her screen out of slumber. "You might want to see some of her artwork, is all. It'll explain a lot. Unlike the stupid rumours everyone keeps spreading."

"Alright, Tamara. That's quite enough of that."

She shrugged her shoulders and went to work. The rest of them followed suit, and the remainder of the period was more muted than I expected for my first class at Wolfeside.

~*~

Miss Fletcher's condition was reported to me over the following days, and none of the updates relieved me of any guilt. She had moved to the psychiatric ward, and a substitute teacher carried on her lessons until she was deemed fit for work. What started as an unfortunate episode now stretched beyond imagination, and the whispers only culminated like black clouds, following me from room to room, from the main building to the faculty apartment and dining hall, casting a shadow anywhere I went.

I thought about what Tamara said about Justine and gathered as much information about the student as I could before meeting her. Mrs. Kyne claimed she was a unique child, next in line to be featured in the same galleries as Miss Fletcher's late father. Justine did not attend many other classes. Her purpose at the school was to grow into her natural talents and become a stalwart example of what a student could become if they attended the private school (if their parents could afford such a prestigious avenue of education.) She was afforded certain privileges for which other students didn't come close to qualifying, and those were exemptions from required courses and a studio she shared with Miss Fletcher, attached to the art room by a set of rickety Japanese sliding doors.

I visited the studio with the permission of the substitute teacher, who was deeply over her head from work left by Miss Fletcher. The studio was half supply room, half gallery, where portraits of distorted faces hung on every square inch of wall. The subjects wore sombre expressions, their noses and cheekbones swirled together in muted green, taupe, and violet hues. Others were medleys of sickly features blended together like a kaleidoscope of faces eating faces and shitting out eyes, broken noses, blood and chipped teeth. Some paintings looked like buckets overflowing with grey matter, rotten veins and arteries leaking piss into landfills and lakes of gas. I recognized Miss Fletcher in one of the portraits, but her bones were hideously overgrown and out of place. Each one was signed with a letter J in the corner. Justine lived up to the knack Mrs. Kyne claimed she had.

I meandered through the studio, observing oil paintings of psychedelic trips, fractal faces that blossomed all over the canvas like geometric moss. Then, I stopped at a relatively tame portrait, but one that left my stomach feeling more sour and empty than ever. The likeness was me, or who I assumed to be me. She had my eyes right, my pointed nose in proportion to my mouth. I looked farther, and the subsequent framed work was yet another iteration of my face. This one was stoic, pale and unsettling. The eyes were haunted with a frigidity I hoped was inaccurate. Did I really look like that? Did I come off as some crooked mannequin with washed-out skin and an expression like a Halloween mask? I liked to think I carried myself with a little more pleasantry than that, but apparently, Justine didn't think so.

If those portraits had been the only two, I might have accepted her renditions as those of an artist with a distinct style, destined for greater feats than credits from Wolfeside Academy. However, they were not the only paintings. I counted seven more, each more macabre than the last. When I turned the corner, I saw the girl responsible for the creations in mid-brushstroke, her hair tied in a loose ponytail draping between bony shoulder blades. She was working on a portrait of a woman I didn't recognize.

"Excuse me, Justine?"

"Hello," Justine said without breaking her concentration.

"My name is Mr. Deaver. I hope I'm not interrupting your work."

"You are, but it's alright. I'm due for a break." Justine dropped her paintbrush in a glass of murky water. She turned, and her smock was smeared with the nightmare shades she used to create her pieces. Her wan face remained unchanged in my presence.

"I had a look at your pieces. Quite remarkable stuff, Justine. You should be proud."

"I know. I heard you walking around."

Her terse address bordered on amusing and characteristic of an eccentric painter. I thumbed behind me and chuckled.

"Where'd you find the time to paint all those portraits of me?"

Justine folded her hands in front of her, tilted her head off-center. "They aren't you, Mr. Deaver."

"Are you sure? The resemblance is uncanny."

"No, sir. This is the first time we've met," said Justine.

"Which is why I found them rather exceptional."

Justine went back to her paintbrush, slapped the bristles onto a square of stained cloth and dipped it into a blob of forest green meant for the cardigan her subject wore. She dabbed shadows into the creases of the material and hummed a music box tune.

"Are you sure those aren't portraits of me? I promise I won't think it's strange. I've been told I have a rather interesting face."

"No, Mr. Deaver. I see that man at night, and I think he might be the Devil."

My chest pulled like violin strings coiled too tightly, ready to snap from the first graze of a bow. Justine continued her work, pretending like I wasn't standing nearby grasping for a reason. I stepped away, went back to the paintings and noted the black dates etched in each bottom right corner underneath the letter J. They predated my arrival by weeks, months, and some of them were from the previous year. Miss Fletcher's shock must have come from her protege's premonitory series and the unexpected arrival of the subject. The spectre from the misery-laden canvases had shown up at her classroom door, grinning just like that.

I didn't tell Mrs. Kyne about what I found in the art studio, and I didn't sleep that night or more than a few hours the next. Instead, I planned my visit to the hospital to see Miss Fletcher and search for answers nobody else could give.

~*~

The drive into town was longer than I remembered. Raindrops beat down on the windshield faster than the wiper blades could swing. My breath turned to fog, and I longed for a cigarette. It had been three years since I quit, but my cravings had a reliable cycle, exacerbated by my nerves and the inexplicable occurrences at Wolfeside Academy. I considered buying a pack before entering the hospital and decided that would only worsen my guilt.

The hospital was a maze of lettered wings. I nearly gave up my search for the psychiatric ward before I turned the corner and found a reception desk. I asked for Matilda Fletcher and explained I was a colleague from Wolfeside, and the nurse showed me in after receiving a visitor's badge. Left to wait in a square of uncomfortable chairs, I tried not to lose my nerve.

I had to know about Justine's paintings, even if it meant upsetting Matilda even more.

A nurse brought her out, and when she spotted me, her eyes turned up, and she froze.

"Hey, Matilda. It's okay. I just came for a short visit."

"I don't want to see you. I've seen all I need to see."

The nurse, unamused and accustomed to such behaviour, left Matilda in my company. I turned up my palms and approached her like a stray dog, careful not to make sudden moves.

"Please, I just have some questions. I'm so sorry about coming into your class the other day unannounced. You must think me terribly rude."

"I don't think of you at all. I've banished those thoughts from my mind."

"Please, can you help me understand what I've done? I just want to make things right."

Matilda curled into her oversized hospital gown. At that moment, she resembled the woman in Justine's painting, bones protruding and eyes sunken and dark. "Your coming is an omen of the worst sort. I've seen your face, and if I were a stronger woman, I'd tear you apart where you stand."

The nurse who had shown me in heard Matilda's ravings and cocked an ear in our direction.

"Matilda, please. I don't know what you're talking about. I'm Henry Deaver's son. You worked together for years."

"No, I know what demons smell like, and you reek of evil."

The nurse cut between us. "Alright, Matilda. No more visitors for today."

"Matilda, where did the paintings come from? How did Justine make them?"

"You leave my little girl alone. She's a good girl. Stay away from her!"

"Mr. Deaver, I think it's time for you to go," said the nurse.

"Keep your hands off of her. Please, God, in heaven, save my beautiful Justine from the dark messengers the Devil has sent into your world. Do not let this predator take her young soul. In the Lord's name, I beg of you!"

Matilda brought more attention from the orderlies, and I rushed away before anyone accused me of mischief.

The encounter left me drained, and I sat in my car until I talked myself out of the idea that I had done something wrong. Matilda Fletcher was unwell, and perhaps the mystery of Justine's haunting portraits would never come to light. I didn't want to think about the pictures. I drove home without the radio on and listened to the rhythm of the rain beating the roof of my Volvo, eyes on the black clouds crowning Wolfeside Academy in the distance.

~*~

The days following my visit with Matilda Fletcher grew darker, colder, and uglier. My students were restless from the commotion my arrival had seemingly kickstarted, and wrangling them for longer than ten minutes was impossible. They only wanted to talk about Miss Fletcher and the Wolfeside curse.

This was not how I pictured the start of my career, and I soon felt the effects of the dreary island weather turning my optimism to slush. Maybe I had made a mistake trying to follow my father's path, and this was the repercussion of my lack of creativity. But it still didn't explain Justine's portraits or why Miss Fletcher claimed I was the Antichrist. With my spirit stamped out, I could only do my best to blend in and deafen myself to the whisperings and speculation, hoping it would fade over time.

I went to class exhausted from a restless night. It had rained into the day, and the basement level of the school echoed like a damp cave. My students went to their tables and waited while I drained my coffee and gathered my notes. When I stood from my chair, Fred Sanders appeared in the doorway, a grave look on his face.

"Mr. Deaver, can I have a word?"

"Uh, sure. No problem."

"Mr. Varrati will keep an eye on the class."

Fred had the civility to ask the police to meet me in the office instead of allowing them to tail him through the halls. The last thing I needed was for the kids to see me with cops, and Fred understood that. He was a good man in that sense. It didn't make our meeting any less confounding, but I appreciated the discretion.

Mrs. Kyne sat behind her desk, eyes bloodshot and nose dripping into a handkerchief. Two police officers stood by her.

The female officer nodded at me. "Hello, Mr. Deaver. I'm officer Hall, and this is my partner, Wilkes."

"Hello. How can I help you today?"

"Well, there's no easy way to put this, Mr. Deaver, but there's been a rather unfortunate accident at Wolfeside General. One of your colleagues, Matilda Fletcher, was found dead this morning in her room and it looks to be a suicide."

The strings in my chest coiled once again. My skin went cold, and then so hot I began to sweat. I was the picture of guilt with my forehead glistening and my hands shaking.

"Matilda? She wasn't necessarily a friend of mine, more an acquaintance, but it's no less a tragedy. I can't believe that."

Mrs. Kyne sobbed, and Fred went to her side. The officers turned their backs on her entirely, sanctioning me in the other half of the office.

"Mrs. Kyne said she'd suffered a fainting episode recently, and it's created quite the stir," said Hall. "We don't like to chase rumours, but it was mentioned she fainted when you visited her classroom last week?"

I looked to Fred for backup, but he was too busy consoling Mrs. Kyne. "As I'm sure Mr. Sanders has already mentioned, yes. That's true. We went to her class, and that seemed to have startled her."

"Any idea why she reacted that way? You had never met before, correct?"

"No, never. It was our first encounter, and Fred was showing me around. We went in, she saw us, turned paperwhite and fainted."

"Can you tell us about your visit to Wolfeside General Hospital? The records show you signed in as a visitor."

"Yes, of course. I felt awful about the incident and wanted to apologize. It's not every day somebody faints upon seeing you for the first time. I didn't mean to frighten her."

"So, did you reconcile?"

"Not exactly," I said. "She didn't want me there. I tried to make peace, but... Well, she seemed unwell."

"In what way, Mr. Deaver?"

"She was talking about demons or the Devil or something. I didn't quite know how to respond. I was there maybe a total of five minutes. I swear, I didn't say anything to provoke her or have anything to do with her suicide."

Officer Hall looked up from her notepad, grimacing. "We understand this isn't easy to take, but can you recall anything you said that may have driven her to draw your portrait on the wall in her room?"

"Are you serious? I have no idea."

"No secret relationship?"

"I already told you, we'd never met, and I have people back home who can corroborate. Before I got here, I lived twelve hours up North. The last time I was in Wolfeside, I was a little kid."

"We're only trying to figure out what happened. The suicide wasn't the prettiest. But they never are, are they? But this one... Well, you must have left a strong impression, Mr. Deaver. The picture on the wall was highly detailed, and the note found mentions your name quite a few times."

Another twist of the tuning pegs, and I swore my heart was going to pop.

"This is absolutely backwards. The woman was ill. She thought I was the Devil. I swerve to avoid hitting squirrels on the road, ma'am. I am not a bad person."

"Nobody is saying you are, Henry."

"What did she say about me in the note?"

Officer Hall tucked her pen and pad away and glanced at her partner, who had been quiet up until then.

"It said she couldn't live in a world where the Devil roamed free. That Henry Deaver would only cause more pain and suffering."

"Have you spoken to her protege yet? Justine will tell you that the man she's talking about isn't me. It just so happens we have an eerie resemblance. She paints those portraits, too, and I saw them. Some are from last Winter. There's no way that little girl knew who I was then, and she couldn't have painted my face from memory so quickly. This is all just a coincidence, unfortunately for me."

"We're holding off on bringing Justine into this for now. From what Mrs. Kyne says, they were like mother and daughter."

"It's probably for the best Justine isn't exposed to her any longer. That kid needs to go out in the sunshine, for God's sake. Not sit around in a dark room painting fucked up pictures of people."

"Not much sunshine to be had in Wolfeside," said Wilkes.

"I came here to teach not even two weeks ago, and it's been a non-stop nightmare. Have you looked into Matilda's family history? You can't tell me this wasn't in the cards. Her father was Richmond Fletcher, the guy who painted pictures of disembowelled bodies for a living."

"The circumstances are bizarre, yes, but nobody is pointing fingers at you, Henry."

"There's nothing else I can say. Matilda obviously didn't like me because my lab put a stopper on her budget. Maybe she found out who I was once word got out of my coming to teach. She knew my father. I'd be easy to trace."

"I thought you said you had no prior connection?"

"Well, if you can say a distant association is a connection. My father taught here for years. There isn't a single person on staff who didn't know my dad."

The two officers exchanged thoughts with a glance, and Hall sighed.

"We'll take some statements from the folks on staff the day you visited Wolfeside general. I know you're not crazy about us talking to Justine, Mrs. Kyne, but we may have to sit down with her as well."

"And what about me?" I asked. "Am I supposed to just go about my day like normal?"

"If you can manage to, yes. We apologize for taking you away from your lesson, Mr. Deaver. Please take my card and contact me if you think of any other important details regarding your two interactions with Miss Fletcher."

I took the card, tucked it into my back pocket without reading it, and then turned to my colleagues.

"I think I'll need to sit today out. Tell Mr. Varrati I'm sorry for keeping him, but I need to process all of this."

Mrs. Kyne agreed, and I went to the Jane Pickering building to throw myself onto my bed, where I cried until I fell asleep.

Nightfall brought on another spell of rain. The surrounding fields released vapour into the chilly air, and the grounds were blanketed in a low-clinging fog by midnight. I woke up shivering, dry-eyed and stumbled to the window I'd left open to shut out the frosty air. Below, I saw a figure standing near the shrubs, looking up at me.

The person was tall—too tall to be a student. I didn't recognize them from their silhouette, and as my eyes adjusted to the dark, his face came partially into focus long enough for me to see he was pale. Whoever it was looked back at me as though I wasn't there. Like I was as transparent as the glass before me. I opened the window, and the man shifted away.

"Who's out there?" I shouted into the night.

I jammed my shoes on and raced outside with my jacket flapping behind me like a cape. The man was already halfway to the old theatre building by the time I hit the wet grass and bolted, my suede shoes soaking in the dew and skating over the overgrowth. A tower of faded grey flannel floated through the mist, and no matter how fast I ran, it was always a stone's throw from me. The shape approached the abandoned theatre, turned the corner and there I knew I had him. There was no entrance on that side of the building, yet when I skidded around the same corner, he was gone. The forest edge was too far for him to have taken cover, and this side of the theatre building too long to clear in five seconds. He had vanished into the mist like a wisp of smoke, and I thought maybe he was all around me, mocking me as I searched for a way inside the theatre.

The door had been boarded shut long ago, and the nails had lost their integrity to rust. The planks were brittle, and I broke through them with a couple body checks. Inside, there was no light at all, only the scent of rotten wood and stagnant air. My wet shoes crunched the exoskeletons of long-dead insects, and above, the unrest of small rodents who had claimed the theatre as their breeding ground knocked plaster loose. I soon felt carpet beneath my heels.

I flicked the wheel of a lighter I always kept in my jacket in case the day came when I ended my nicotine celibacy. The carpet was standard crimson, like most theatres. The playbill cases still displayed posters from the last production to have known the stage: The Phantom Of The Opera. How fitting, I thought as I padded through the doors into the auditorium, thumb burning from the proximity to the meagre flame. I let go of the trigger, and darkness swept in all around.

"Whoever's in here, you better come out. I'm not playing around. You're supposed to be in bed." My voice echoed off the high ceilings. The floors sloped downward towards the stage, and I flicked my lighter once more to illuminate my path. Yellowed cigarette butts littered the ground, evidence of students who had broken in to smoke, drink and fuck, no doubt.

"Listen, kid, I'm tired. If you come out, I won't give you any crap. My word. I just want to go back to sleep, but I can't with you running around outside. We both know you're not supposed to be in here, so give it up."

I took four steps up to the stage and looked over the rows. Then, a whisper grazed the back of my neck. "Turn off the light."

I dropped my lighter and kicked it across the stage as I whirled around and saw nothing.

"Who's that?"

"Don't hurt me, please."

"I'm not going to hurt you. Don't be dramatic, now. Come on out, and I'll take you back to the dormitory."

"I can't go in there."

The voice did not belong to a teenager. Not even one who'd hit puberty early on and developed an unsettling deepness. Whoever spoke had a torture victim's shredded rasp. I wasn't threatened by the voice, strangely enough. They sounded too pained to lash out.

"Who am I speaking to?"

"I don't know."

I chuckled at the absurdity and propped my hands on my hips. "Don't be cheeky. Tell me your name."

"I don't have a name."

"Everyone has a name," I said.

The wind outside stirred, shuddering over and under the loose shingles. I waited for the sigh to pass and addressed the voice again. "Who am I speaking to?"

"Henry Deaver."

"No, I'm Henry Deaver. You are?"

"H-Henry. I think."

The wind shaking the roof and the squelching in my sodden shoes slashed any merciful understanding I had left. I wanted to go back to bed, and even more so, wished I had never pursued this prankster, never thought of teaching at Wolfeside, never left my hometown. And if I'd had an ounce of originality, I wouldn't have catalyzed the terrible streak of luck that led me to the portraits. I struck out at the dark, wheeled around, then remembered my discarded lighter. I scrabbled for it on the stage but only found crooked nails and brittle leaves.

"Okay, I've lost my patience. You better come out now before there's real trouble to answer to. This is private property."

"I'll come out if you promise not to scream."

"Whatever. I promise. Just get out of here so I can go back to sleep."

Flint ground against metal, and I turned toward the resulting flame. My stomach inverted. I had never seen eyes embroiled in suffering the way his two mismatched eyes had until I realized that I had, in fact, witnessed those eyes before, painted in dismal shades of blue, grey, and sage. My hunched twin let the flame extinguish, and bright dots danced in my vision.

"Who the fuck are you?"

"I already told you."

"You're the one who's been tormenting that little girl."

"No...Not tormenting. Never that far."

"This must be what happens when you don't sleep for days." I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping it would all go away if I grounded myself in reality, found a real memory and held onto it until the person disappeared. A hand gripped my wrist, and I lurched backward, my heel falling through a rotted board. I fell on my ass and scrambled back. His mouldy scent followed me, sour like laundry left to congeal in muddy water.

"Stay away from me."

He did not obey. And why should he? I had no command behind my voice. He stepped closer, squatted, knees cracking like branches in a fire. Cold, waxy hands touched my face, gripped my chin and enclosed my jaw. I could not see, but I knew his face was close to mine. I got a taste of his rancid breath. And then, stiff lips sucked the air from my lungs, and my muscles deflated, leaving me palsied on the floor and unable to speak.

"I've been waiting for you for so long, Henry. I'm glad we finally found each other."

The desert in my throat produced nothing but dry coughs. What the fuck have you done to me? I tried screaming, but couldn't produce a sound.

"Now you can take my place, and I can go into the light again. But don't worry, I'll come back for you, brother. I'll take good care of you."

The figure's spine straightened, my own face peering down at me sympathetically. He dropped onto the floor from the stage and made his way between the rows of seats. He turned around once more and flicked the lighter close to his smiling face.

"Welcome home, Henry."

[yourpersonalwordstylist]

How Dreaming Can Make You a Better Writer

Writers are dreamers.

I’m a writer, and I dream all the time.

Sometimes I dream in full colour and surround sound.

Other times I am stuck in the frustratingly vague and imprecise experience of a dream with no plot.

But I dream.

And I’m convinced that dreaming is important to becoming a better writer.

It was while dreaming that I became an author.

It was while dreaming that I started to write books and stories.

I know that I’m not alone, either. I’ve asked a lot of writers about their dreams, and the overwhelming majority tell me that they dream about their writing.

Let’s look at the dreams of a few famous writers.

F. Scott Fitzgerald dreamed that he was back at Princeton, the setting for this famous novel, and that he was being expelled. “This is an important dream for me because it starts the book,” he said. He wrote the story that inspired The Great Gatsby in 5 days.

Lewis Carroll dreamt the story of Alice in Wonderland, and he didn’t even need to take drugs to have the dream! “I was sitting writing at my table,” he said, “when the children … sent in a wonderful big sponge [soaked in] lavender water.” The smell of the sponge caused the dream, during which he thought up the story.

When she was younger, J.K. Rowling dreamed that she was Harry Potter and that she was being sorted into Gryffindor. “I never had that dream about being sorted into other houses,” she said. “I never had a dream that Harry became an accountant.”

Stephen King dreamed that his father was dead and buried. Two years later in real life, his father was dead and buried.

The famous poet John Keats once dreamed about a Grecian urn, an object that he later used for one of his most famous poems.

Are you a writer?

I’m not talking about what you write; I’m talking about how you write.

You see, writers need to dream before they can write, in fact dreaming and writing are very similar activities – and the better you dream, the better you can write. At least that is what I believe.

I’ll explain what I mean…

Writers Must Dream

I have been thinking about dreaming for a long time as I believe dreaming is something that writers and artists do a lot of - in fact, many artists say that their art is a product of their dreams.

The best dreamers are the best writers. Why? Because the best writers have the best imaginations. And the imagination is one of the most powerful tools a writer can have.

The unconscious mind is important for writers and artists.

The unconscious mind is creative; it's where the vital, creative right brain work is done.

It is where the art happens. It's where you need to be.

You might want to imagine that your mind is like a computer, it can do a lot of things at once: tasks are stored in “memory”, in folders, in folders inside folders...

The unconscious mind seems to be able to access all those parts of the mind easily.

The conscious mind, however, seems to be more limited.

The conscious mind can sort of “locate” things in the mind, but it can’t easily make sense of it, or do anything with it.

The unconscious mind can do this much more easily, and quickly.

Dreaming is so important for me as a writer.

This is why I have volumes of dream journals, filled with my dreams from the past 26 years.

This is why I must dream.