#sake fifth Avenue

[octuscle]

Removalist

Why couldn't his friends just hire a moving company. Why did he have to constantly haul boxes for other people. He himself had never asked for help, and for God's sake, he wouldn't. If he needed a handyman or something, Dad's credit card would take care of it. But he already had so few friends in college. And if he didn't help with his fellow student's move, he'd have an even harder time. But he didn't feel like ruining his clothes. So he asked his parents' gardener if he could borrow some of his work clothes.

He looked a little silly standing in front of the mirror in the wife beater with work pants and work boots in his dressing room. Manuel had even lent him a cap. Sure, Manuel fit these clothes, but Manuel also easily put on 30 kilograms more of muscle. At least the clothes were freshly washed.

He got into his Mercedes and drove down his parents' driveway. While he waited for the gate to open, he checked his picture in the rearview mirror. Actually, he didn't look bad at all. The wife beater showed off his muscles quite well. It even looked like he had biceps.

After a few minutes, his phone rang. They wondered if he was on his way yet. "Sure thing, bro," he replied. If he could maybe stop by the hardware store, they needed a few more things. "On ma way!"

He had been sent the shopping list via WhatsApp. He packed everything into his shopping cart. Did he actually have work gloves with him. To be on the safe side, he bought a few more. At the checkout line, the customer in front of him turned around and very clearly wrinkled her nose. My God, he hadn't showered this morning. And the undershirt wasn't fresh either. But this was the hardware store, not Saks Fifth Avenue.

He tossed the purchase into the trunk of his Mustang. His toolbox was still in there. He probably wouldn't have needed most of the stuff. Damn, there had to be cigarettes somewhere in the passenger footwell. He rummaged between Mc Donalds bags and beer cans. There was the pack of filterless Marlboros. Almost empty. But one was enough for the moment. A quick glance in the rearview mirror. He was a beast of a man. His fiery red full beard reached almost to his powerful pecs. And he loved the way his mullet fell on his broad shoulders.

He knew college kids. Most of the time, they didn't have anything prepared when you moved. At least the essentials were often missing. So he stopped briefly at the supermarket and picked up two cases of beer. And a pack of smokes. He loaded the beer onto the back of his Dodge Ram with the ladders and tools. And lit a new cigarette. As he tickled the fur on his chest, he sang along loudly to the country song playing on the radio. He loved to make a few extra bucks on the weekends with the rich college kids. He was a gardener at heart. But seeing the effete youngsters trying to operate a drill press was just priceless!

#wife beater #redneck tf #muscle tf #reality change #hairy pits #male tf

[beecastle]

Whumptober day 6: Ransom Video

Pairing: Marcus Pike x GN!Reader

Word count: 500

Rating: M

Warnings: torture, captivity, gun, wounds, blood

MASTERLIST / WHUMPTOBER MASTERLIST

.

“I told you I don’t know where it is,” Marcus replies for what feels like the thousandth time and just like every other time, he gets a fist to the stomach, making him double over in pain, the only thing keeping him on the chair are his bound hands on the back of it. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to change your answer, Agent Pike?” One of his captors asks as they bring a gun out and point it at him. 

“I don’t know,” he grumbles. The gun is an empty threat, they wouldn’t shoot an FBI agent over the location of a painting. 

“Okay then.” But when they cock the gun, he worries a little. Before he can say anything, they fire at his leg, ripping a scream from Marcus’s throat. “Still don’t know?”

Marcus shakes his head as tears fill his eyes and he tries to get his breath and the pain under control. “Well then perhaps your partner will prove to be more useful.” They unlock Marcus’ phone, him having given them the password somewhere between the fifth and sixth hour of torture. They put the phone in front of him, a picture of him and you, his partner, who also happens to be the love of his life showing on the screen. 

“Leave them out of this,” Marcus says hurriedly. “They don’t know anything either.” 

“All they have to do is give us the painting and then you can go home with them.”

/

The red flashing on the top left corner of the camera indicates that the recording has started. Marcus tries his best to put on a brave facade for your sake, attempting to mask all the pain and fear going through him. He wants nothing but to have you in his arms and bury his head in the crook of your neck and live there forever.

“Hey, I’m okay,” he tries to reassure you as a trail of blood drips from his forehead and onto the floor, with his hands bound he’s unable to wipe it off. “The people that are holding me captive have some requirements in order to let me go. They’ll release me in exchange for the Picasso painting we confiscated last week.” He squints as his captors show him a piece of paper with something written on it from behind the camera. “They want you to be at the park on Western Avenue tomorrow night with the painting.”

One of the captors, his face covered by a ski mask, moves next to Marcus and grabs him by the hair bringing his head backward so suddenly a small yelp escapes his throat. “If you aren’t there or if you get someone else involved, the next time you see your lover will be at his funeral.”

The recording stops and the man lets Marcus' head go, patting his cheek a couple of times. “You better hope your partner shows up tomorrow.”

#marcus pike #marcus pike x reader #the mentalist #whumptober 2022 #ransom video #bee castle writing #trying to catch up with whumptober

[avastrasposts]

The British Connection - ch 3

Cross posting this properly on Tumblr for the first time so it's been scheduled out throughout the day:

The plot follows MI6 agent Eve Edwards as she's assigned to help Billy Butcher and The Boys take down a new type of supe killing politicians on both sides of the pond. Not much fluff in this, plenty of canon typical violence, smut and extreme amounts of Britishness

Read on Ao3

After meeting with Mallory and Edwards, Butcher makes his way to the Flatiron Building on 175 Fifth Avenue and double parks his beat up car outside the entrance, drawing dirty looks from a woman pushing a pram with a wailing baby. He ignores her and crosses the pavement, pulling open the heavy door. Making his way up to the office he meets Hughie on his way out. 

“Hughie, ‘ang on a minute, I’ve got news to share with the whole team, come back up”.

Hughie attempts a protest, something about meeting Annie, but Butcher throws him a look and Hughie reluctantly follows him back upstairs. 

Butcher bangs open the door to the office, making the glass pane rattle and MM wince. 

“Butcher, for fucks sake, it’s a listed building, some respect please!”

Butcher ignores him and barks an order, “Everyone gather round, we’ve got a visitor on the way and I need to brief ya”. 

Frenchie and Kimiko get up from the sofa where they’d been watching something on the laptop and join MM and Hughie in front of Butcher at the large table in the middle of the room.

“I’ve just ‘ad a meeting with Mallory, she’s got a special assignment for us.” he begins. “The MI6 ‘ave sent an operative stateside to aid in catching a supe. Apparently we’re trading information with them in exchange for a hand in catching this fucker.”

“MI6?” Hughie asks incredulously , “like James Bond MI6? The British Secret Service?” 

“Military Intelligence Service, Section 6” Frenchie fills in, his eyes widening. “These are serious guys, Monsieur Charcuterie.”

“I ‘aven’t exactly seen her file, but yes, if she’s as a senior as I think she is, she’s certainly a serious force.” 

“She’s a woman!?” Frenchie asks, “Mon dieu, I’ve always wanted to meet a female James Bond!” His wide grin is full of excitement at the thought of it. 

Butcher growls and leans forward, puts his hands on the table, 

“Listen, I need you all to be on your toes. I know she’s British and all but this is not an ally. We don’t know ‘er ‘idden motives and we don’t know what kind of information MI6 is willing to give us. Keep the chit chat to a minimum and your desks clean of any clandestine documents.”

“Butcher”, MM crosses his arms over his chest and leans back on a filing cabinet, “when you said ‘aid’, do you mean as in joining us in the field?”. 

“Ye, she’s here on active duty, Mallory made it clear that she’s part of the team while we work on this.” 

Butcher looked around at the rest of them. “I’m not crazy about the idea of her teaming up with us, she’s an unknown factor and we don’t know how she reacts under pressure. They don’t exactly have many supes over in ol’ Blighty.”

Frenchie leans in over the table, excitement in his eye, “Can we get her file you think? I wonder what 00 number she is? I wonder ‘ow many confirmed kills she ‘as? Oh, MI6 has a licence to kill outside of…uhh..Royaume-Uni, how you say?”

“United Kingdom” Butcher interrupts, “and you’ll keep your mouth shut about MI6 Frenchie.” He straightens up from the table and glances around the office. “Clean this mess up, we’re about to be inspected by Her Majesty the Queen’s Secret Intelligence Service, let’s not give her any more information than strictly necessary” he barks. 

… 

Butcher is making a final round around the office in the Flatiron building, checking that anything sensitive is stowed out of sight, when there’s a knock at the door. The rest of the team immediately looks over at the door and seem to straighten their backs, only Kimiko remains slouched on the sofa with her laptop. 

Butcher is closest to the door so he opens it to Edwards standing outside. She’s changed her clothes, he notices, and it’s changed her look. The woman in front of him now looks more like someone he’d eye more than twice in a bar, not like an MI6 operative. He catches himself wondering how old she is, the suit from this morning made her look in her 40’s, now she looks like she turned 30 yesterday. 

He blinks a couple of times to regain his composure and she smiles at him, fine lines at the corners of her eyes showing briefly. 

“Hello Butcher” she says and puts out her hand. This time he takes it without thinking and shakes it, her hand is warm and he can feel something, a scar perhaps, across her palm. He catches himself, “Welcome to HQ” he waves with a mock grin and steps aside to let her in, letting go of her hand.

Eve smiles as she walks into the office, taking in the other occupants standing around the large table. Butcher’s reaction to her altered appearance had been almost missable but she’d noticed the pause in his response time as he caught sight of her outside the door. Maybe Mallory was right, it would be easier to do this if she could appeal to Butcher’s more base urges. 

Butcher walks in behind her and points to the different members of the team. 

“Hugh Campbell, our resident connection at the FBSA. Marvin T. Milk, usually known around ‘ere as MM. Frenchie, our resident, well…French guy. And Kimiko. Don’t piss ‘er off”.” The last he says to Eve as she shakes Kimiko’s hand. Kimiko smiles sweetly and rolls her eyes at Butcher’s retreating back. 

Butcher walks over to the large table in the middle of the office and turns to lean on it, arms crossed over his chest. 

“So, Ms Edwards, please let us know what it is we can ‘elp you with”. 

#billy butcher #billy butcher x ofc #the boys #the boys fanfic

[bitegore]

lemme see for that made-up title ask game: what about "know that I would gladly be the Icarus to your certainty?" and yes, I'm a Hozier fan based on that one title alone ;))

i am not a hozier fan and i would not have put it together if you didn't say so jfggf

10,000 word in-character religious essay from the point of view of a devout but ethically conflicted believer set in a very complicated sort-of-adjacent-to-IDW-2005 setting where the central thesis of the essay is not 'religious functionism is bad' (boring, played-out) but (and this would require a lot of careful worldbuilding without preloading it to make it readable and make sense) "we have forgotten the fifth face of primus in solus and i fear we have lost the plot," basically asking the Prime to re-examine the religious texts and history they have rather than expanding outward across the cosmos for imperialistic purposes because cybertron's warlike face is that of the cast-out Megatronus and this abandons the primes we're supposed to Keep

with a side of robot-arian-heresy where Primus and the Primes are conflated into one person with many bodies, and Megatronus represents a post-Prime who is no longer part of Primus and has abandoned divinity for the sake of murder, providing an avenue for Primes to be disavowed as no longer divine if they get too power-hungry

something something theology

#red replies #your-exalted-grace #fic title ask game #i might need to write this one #save tag #so i can find it later

[crimsoncircle2]

CC ENDGAME STATEMENT

Hello, operatives:

As the fifth chapter of Crimson Circle comes to a close, we have an important update regarding the state of the game. At this time, the moderator team is choosing not to continue through endgame, and we will be concluding the roleplay on December 22nd.

We know this may come as a shock to some, but we wanted to be honest and underline that we’ve been dealing with a great deal of ingame issues throughout the course of the group. If you’ve ever taken notice of this and felt dissatisfied with your experience, we recognize this and apologize. We hope that everyone understands that this was not due to lack of effort — we in the mod team have been pushing past our limits dealing with a variety of issues with the group behind the scenes, but we can only push ourselves so far from the specific position we occupy. Please know that this decision was not made lightly, and we felt that ending here was the best and healthiest option for all of us.

For full transparency, the main reason for not moving forward with endgame is simply that we do not have enough power role material to present. There’s been a lack of development on the power role plot until now, and we’ve come to a point where it isn’t feasible to contrive something that would serve as a satisfactory ending to the game. We’ve been working with our power roles, Leviathan (Nightshade) and Ouroboros (Libra), to come up with an alternative solution — but ultimately, we couldn’t justify putting our players through a last-minute rewrite just to drag ourselves over the finish line. 

In addition, we’ve been struggling to keep up engagement with the MKG itself, due to a waning interest in very central mechanics (such as case investigations, map investigations, motives, and puzzles). Most importantly — while we're thankful to those who came forward, and feel honored to be part of your characters’ arcs — we had difficulty getting case volunteers in nearly every chapter, and murder cases are the essential building blocks of a mutual killing game. It’s been a challenge for us to understand what direction we should move the plot in when we’ve received minimal input on all of the core mechanics that drive it. 

Compounding all of the above, we’ve also been running the game as a two-person team after losing a moderator. This has been an immense workload to juggle between our other obligations and unforeseen offline circumstances, and our engagement has not always been taken seriously in return. This group has been a huge commitment for us in every way — and given the issues named above, we’re currently at the point where we cannot mentally or physically justify the input.

In light of all this, we want to stress once again that we believe this is the most responsible answer to this situation that we can provide. We’ve seen roleplays that might have ended on better terms had they been curbed at an earlier point, and we don’t believe it would be fair to anyone to force an ending we didn’t believe in for the sake of completion. While a number of alternative avenues were explored before we arrived at this conclusion, we strongly felt that none of them would have treated this group’s time and energy with the respect that it is our role to provide. As such, the two of us are confident in this decision to be honest with you and ourselves, and we hope to model a professional and clean break together with you all.

We understand there may be loose plot threads in your own individual character arcs, so we will remain open for threads until December 22nd at 17:00 EST. After this point, you are encouraged to reach out to your fellow players and close anything out that you need to in your DMs.

Thank you for all your time, interest, and participation up until now.

—The mod team, Dem and Ritz

#announcement

[thedaveandkimmershow]

Dang...

So July.

A definite crescendo of a month. Especially for one that starts off with explosions.

One month after moving back to the house after four years living on the Hill, it turns out the correct answer was...

Moving back to the house.

What can I say?

The reasons that made the choice such a difficult one not even two months ago... weren't so tough to navigate after all. Especially the commute side of the equation. It actually does work better than we would've guessed. Plus... the house is super chill, very quiet. Which makes sense since I-5 doesn't run right in front of it. Plus, though the remodeling of the house wasn't actually intended for us, it sure makes the house more optimized for what we do and want.

So yeah. A great call.

July fifth was our dating anniversary, the date of our establishing being July 5, 1990. Kind of a while ago. We lazed the morning. Went to see Indiana Jones & the Dial of Destiny at the Crest Theater, hit the Ballard GoodWill for some random browsing, derailed a trip to Trader Joe's by going to PCC across the street instead for orange creamsicles we subsequently enjoyed on the roof. Had a picnic on the shores of Smith Cove in front of Expedia. Did a walkabout of the Seattle Center for old time's sake. Finished off at Tapster on South Lake Union all—

On a sunny summer's day.

It was a fantastic dating anniversary.

Moving through the month, the next big event was this year's 48 Hour Film Project competition with the Combat Wombats, the production team that was kind enough to invite me to be a Wombat a coupla years ago for their short film, "Cleaners". This year's effort, "PTAgent" was, yes, hard work and a delight for all of us. It also feels like we're getting better at this having begun the journey at a high level to begin with.

By the way, the 48 Hour weekend was also proof of something Kimmer created: my edit suite. This was basically the shakedown cruise for using the room as intended, including the space for clients.

Initially I was thinking the overstuffed couch should be replaced with something a more sleek. That is... until Saturday night and Sunday during the day when the weary director and producer of "PTAgent" put its overstuffed comfort to good use.

The end of the 48 Hour extravaganza always features a dinner out with Kimmer. It's a tradition we didn't know was gonna be a tradition... but a tradition we started with my first 48 Hour Film Project editing "Cleaners", an experience that kept me up that particular Saturday night until 5AM Sunday morning and then up again by 9... four hours later. I think I finished with the edit around 4 that afternoon? At which point Kimmer offers dinner at Maggie Bluffs, our first such celebratory dinner with this year's, our fourth, at Las Brisas in Edmonds. ☺️☺️☺️

The reward for our 48 Hour experience, of course, was the opportunity to watch our work on the big screen at the Uptown Cinema in lower Queen Ann where, once upon a time as a youngster, I watched Young Sherlock Holmes.

Moving on, the second half of the month was definitely the most incredibly packed half. 

So the 48 Hour Film Project competition began the evening of Friday, July 14 ending on the evening of July 16. Four days later, Thursday the 20th, Kimmer 'n I drive up to the neighborhood behind the Grand Avenue Park Bridge, park our car, and walk down to the Everett Marina where Linzy's performing with the band The Little Lies.

Two days after that, Saturday, middle of the day, we join the band again at their Bite of Seattle performance that's taking place on one of the busiest weekends in Seattle history including but not limited to a Mariners game, the Capitol Hill Block Party, various cruise ship departures, and a Taylor Swift at Lumen Field mega concert. All of which conspired to bring everyone into the heart of Seattle.

Every place in the city was packed, is all I'm saying.

Same deal the next day, Sunday the 23rd, when we return to the Bite to see another band of which Linzy's a member: Midnight High (more on that band in a moment).

The Midnight High performance was around 1 in the afternoon after which we went back to the house as Linzy went on to that evening's Taylor Swift concert which, according to everyone, was a VERY big deal. Certainly for Linzy who basically grew up as a musician with Taylor's career. 🤩🤩🤩

Now, while all these shows were happening, as the world premiere of the film I cut approached, Kimmer was also up to her eyeballs... having officially applied to a doctorate program at her alma mater. And, by the time the screening happened, she was officially accepted.

HUZZAH!!!!!! 😁😁😁

And the doctorate program?

Doctor of Science in Integrative Health from the American College of Healthcare Sciences.

So there it is.

We all three were having a very busy week.

A coupla evenings later, Tuesday the 25th, I'm prefunctioning at the home of the Combat Wombats' director as most of the team gathers for pizza oven cooked pizza and drinks and talking shop and talking life… before heading to the Uptown Cinema for the world premiere of "PTAgent" on the big screen. By the time I get home, it's already a half hour into Sunday the 26th, the morning on which we're leaving for southern California to visit family and check in on Kimmer's aunt. At this point, we've gotta be out the door in six hours but manage to eat one of those hours watching an episode of Madame Secretary, a series that's turned out to be a big deal for us this summer after we blitzed through the eight episode season one of The Diplomat four times in a row.

Yeah. We desperately needed another show to watch.

So credits roll on Madam Secretary and now it's a little after 130AM. The way things work out, we'll be up three and a half hours later at 5AM, ready and on the road to the airport by 640AM, in the air by 8, and so on.

Which pretty much explains how tired we were the rest of the day.

Our California family's family, though, which means they give us a huuuuge shot of energy for four solid days of taking our home life on the road, an essential part of which is about seeing Kimmer's aunt who lives in a memory care community.

By the time we're home again, we're into the first minutes of Sunday the 30th, a day that we figured will be a normal-ish, chores-ish day that suddenly turns into the world premiere of Linzy's music on the radio.

One of the bands in which she performs harmonies and keys, you see, is called Midnight High, their latest gig being that one at the Bite of Seattle. And Sunday evening, our day back from California, they're on the Locals Only show on KNDD-FM 107.7 The End. They're promoting their new album, "Swimming Lessons", showcasing a few songs from that album and sharing some of their favorite music including "I Don't Wanna Know" from Linzy's debut Dream Patrol project EP titled "Made For TV".

Dang.

That made for a very "That Thing You Do" moment for us at home and for Linzy over at her place.

And yup.

After a crazy busy July, that's seven months down.

Five to go.

🤔🤔🤔

#dating anniversary #family #friends #fun #love #busy #home life #road life #moving #48 hour film project #combat wombats #music at the marina everett #bite of seattle #the little lies #midnight high #PTAgent #uptown cinema #southern california #orange county #105 degrees #memory care community #achs #doctorate #american college of healthcare sciences #integrative medicine #KNDD-FM #locals only #107.7 the end #taylor swift #lumen field

[tamilynncarlson]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Oleg Cassini Black Tie Vintage Gold Black Beaded Silk Blouse XL.

[johnny-sells]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Christopher Radko Christmas Tree Cookie Jar Stoneware 2011 Saks Fifth Ave.

[annekeam]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: ST JOHN 💙🖤 Shell.

[weinsteinpollock0]

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[freshthoughts2020]

4.15.21

SHOP: gettothecorner.com

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[timottea]

hi! I hope you’re doing well <3 can I request a timothee imagine where he’s been feeling anxious and very cuddly because of it. It could be like him having this nightmare at monday and waking up weeping which makes him feeling very bad all week. One of the things of protective y/n would be him laying on her chest and listening to her heartbeat to stay calm. Mostly tim being very sensitive and going to y/n for comfort ;( remember just if you're up to it, thank u so much 💓💘💗

hiiii!! thank you for requesting, i hope this is okay 💗

cw: anxiety mentions, panic attack

“hey, uh,” timothée clears his throat, “sorry for calling, i just…”

you shift under the bed covers, phone pressed to your ear, squinting in the darkness as you wait for him to continue. he doesn’t.

“timmy? are you okay?” you speak softly, eyes falling on his space in your bed and frowning at its emptiness.

“uh, i don’t know?”

you hear him sniffle and scramble upright in bed, a sudden weight heavy and sickening in the pit of your stomach.

“baby, you don’t sound okay,” you hold a pillow to your chest, trying not to spiral too much for both of your sakes. it’s 3am, you remind yourself, the hour where your brain goes crazy; the hour where his brain goes crazy. “where are you?”

down the line, it’s a cacophony of rushing traffic, beeping cars and new york sirens.

“uh, walking, i thought it might help,” timothée replies, voice tearful. your heart cracks, splintering all over the bed.

“what — walking where?” you ask, adrenaline pulsing through your veins.

“not sure,” he sounds frazzled, his voice straining.

“why the walking?”

“nightmare,” his voice breaks on the second syllable and that’s when you launch yourself from the bed, stuffing your feet into the nearest pair of shoes.

“where are you?” you repeat.

hearing the rustle of his phone as he adjusts it, you picture him looking around to orient himself. he knows new york like the back of his hand, your city boy, and it doesn’t usually take him this long to give you an answer.

“timothée?” you prompt.

“shit, sorry, i… i, uh…” he sounds distracted, distrait, unbelievably anxious. he clears his throat, but no directions follow.

“okay, you need to tell me what you see,” you say through your own tight throat, ignoring the ice coursing through your body. throwing your coat over your pajamas, you hurry out the door.

over the phone all you can hear is the late night stragglers and the pounding of bass as he walks past club after club.

“timmy, tell me what you see,” you repeat and hear him inhale sharply.

“i, uh, i just passed that bodega on fifth,” he chokes, every word sounding excruciating. “and that crossroad you always almost die on—”

“i’m on my way, just stay there,” you interrupt, immediately knowing his location. after all, he was on his way to your apartment.

“pleasedon’thangup,” it rushes out of him, the panic in his voice making your heart twist painfully in your chest.

“i’m not. i’m not, baby,” you promise quickly, “i’m right here, okay? i’m not going anywhere.”

avenue after avenue, you turn onto fifth and there he is. shoulders hunched, head down, but even under a hood, you could spot that mop of curls a mile away.

“timmy?” you call his name and watch him brace himself for a fan, plastering on a smile that makes your heart ache. even at the height of panic, he’s still on, always on, always ready to give something of himself.

the minute his eyes recognise yours down the street the façade crumples.

“i’m sorry,” he cries the second your arms wrap around his shoulders, pulling him into a hug.

“don’t be.”

silent tears dampen the collar of your coat as you walk with him back to your place, the tremor of his hand in yours making you hold it a little tighter.

“is there anything i can do?” you whisper later on, lying beside him on the couch after his panic has spiked and fell. his fingers fiddle with the hem of your coat; he never gave you the chance to take it off, immediately cuddling into you.

“just be here,” timothée says hoarsely, so quietly you almost miss it.

the weight of you over his aching chest feels nice, soothing, a solid reminder to calm the fuck down. to get some perspective. it was only a nightmare, a nightmare showcasing all his biggest fears: loneliness, losing you, a life without you.

“okay,” you whisper gently, “okay.”

agitated, his heart doesn’t slow.

“you won’t leave?” timothée croaks, voice so small.

you furrow your brows. a myriad of emotions play out across his face, all usurped by anxiety, anxiety, anxiety.

“baby, i won’t leave. i’m just being here. not going anywhere,” you tap a beat on his thigh to bring him back into his body, back to you.

“just be here,” he whispers again, clinging to you a little tighter.

you rest a hand in his curls, waiting until his eyes meet yours before you begin to speak.

you fill the silence, chasing away that horrible voice in his head, banishing his nightmares of a life without you with the sweetest promises he’s ever heard: you will always just be here.

#timothee chalamet #timothée chalamet #timothee chalamet angst #timothee chalamet x you #timothee chalamet fic #timothee chalamet imagine #timothee chalamet x reader #timothee chalamet blurb #timothee chalamet fanfic #timothee imagine #timothee blurb #timothee x y/n #timothee x you #timothee x reader #ohmysw33

[thesoundofanicefall]

ONS Ichinose Guren World Resurrection at 19 Volume 2 Chapter 1 Part 1

The masterpost is here

P.S. : This post is a gift to all those fans who can't buy the novels originally for whatever reasons. But if you can buy the novels please don't forget to try to support the author by buying the novels!!

-Shame on you, Guren, you naughty boy. Getting aroused at a time like this.

Title:

"Father"

A voice spoke inside Guren's head.

It was a pretty voice, a girl's voice.

It was Mahiru's voice.

She had used the word "aroused."

Aroused.

But was he really feeling aroused?

He couldn't tell. With the situation he was in, and the world lying in pieces around him, could he really be feeling aroused?

Guren was running. Racing down the stairs, flight after flight, round and round.

Eighth floor, seventh floor, sixth floor.

"Aroused...? Aroused..."

Sixth floor, fifth floor, fourth floor.

Aroused. What did that even mean? If he had been getting turned on because there was a naked woman standing there in front of him, then sure, that would make sense. Why wouldn't he be aroused at a time like that?

But that was not the situation he was in right now. He was just running down the stairs, floor after floor.

Running, because a vampire had appeared.

They were in the Meguro ward of Tokyo, near Gakugei University station, along Komazawa Avenue.

An emergency power station was located beneath one of the buildings in the area. At the moment, his friends were working to restart the generators and restore power to the city

If they could bring the station back online, it would make a world of difference in the lives of the remaining humans population.

But they weren't the first to try. Several squads had already been dispatched, and non had returned. Their fates remaineded unknown.

They had most likely been wiped out by vampires.

The vampire Guren had spotted from his vantage point on one of the upper floors of the building seemed to be sauntering toward the power station, taking his time.

In other words, Guren was about to face off with a vampire.

But vampires were strong.

Extremely strong. Much too powerful for humans to mess with.

"..."

Guren laid his hand lightly on the sword at his waist. It was a katana, imbued with demonic power.

Or did it now contain the life force of Mahiru Hiragi?

Either way, the weapon fed on desire. It provided great power, in exchange for the user's humanity.

Vampire or demon.

Which was stronger?

Both were creatures of darkness, but the truth was that vampires were still far more powerful than demons.

And yet Guren was about to fight a vampire.

He might die.

In fact, it was more than likely that he would.

The vampires' power was overwhelming.

So then, why would he be feeling...

"...aroused?" Guren muttered.

Mahiru responded again, inside Guren's head.

- They say existential drives increase when a person is about to die.

"So I'm about to die?"

-Not if I can help it.

"So I'm just afraid?"

-There won't even be a fight. Because you're going to speak to this vampire, for Shinya's sake. To save him, and all your friends.

"Who is this vampire?"

- How would I know? I've never seen him before

"You want me to have a discussion with a vampire you've never even laid eyes on before?"

- Maybe he' the vampire you need to speak to, or maybe he's just a conduit to someone else. Don't ask me. In fact, he may just happen to be passing by at the wrong time. In which case walrzing up and trying to talk to him would be a terrible idea.

While Mahiru was delivering this coy speech, Guren ar rived at the ground floor.

The vampire awaited him just outside.

Vampires had razor-sharp senses. Guren had tried to mad his presence as he ran, but the vampire was probably alreade aware of him.

And on top of everything else, judging from the vampire's clothing he wasn't just any bloodsucker: he was a member of the nobility. The power of noble vampires dwarfed even that of ordinary vampires.

Guren breathed in slowly.

Then out again, exhaling fully.

He tensed every muscle in his body.

The enemy was strong.

The situation was against Guren.

A single moment's distraction could spell his death. And if Guren died, Shinya and the others would die too.

Guren had already resurrected them once, wrested them from the grasp of death. But unless Guren did something about ir, they would only have ten more years to live.

Which meant that dying right now was not an option. He couldn't afford any mistakes.

"Mahiru," Guren muttered again.

-Yes?

"I don't understand the situation. You sure I should ap- proach that vampire?"

-More or less.

"That isn't good enough. Shinya's on the top floor-"

-And ready to shoot. I know.

"What happens if we kill the vampire?"

-I dunno.

"If Shinya sees me talking with him-"

-Itd be no problem. In and of itself, anyway. But I doubt a vampire will understand your delicate human reservations about Shinya finding out he was resurrected. Of course, if you don't mind Shinya being wiped out of existence...

"I mind."

- Then you'd better take care of it

"..."

Guren frowned. Sure, that all sounded well and good, but it was because he hadn't been able to "take care of it" that the world had ended in the first place.

Shinya and the others had died.

And all Guren had been able to do was cry. He had been powerless to stop it.

It seemed like Guren was never powerful enough.

Never skilled enough.

But nevertheless...

In, and out-Guren took another deep breath, steeling his resolve.

"Okay. I'll take care of it."

-Attaboy.

Guren leapt forward, hurtling through the building's front door and clean over the sidewalk.

Landing in the middle of the road, he spotted the vampire. Its back was turned, and it didn't seem to have noticed him. Ot perhaps Guren was such a trivial creature that the vampire saw no point in turning around.

Guren shot a momentary glance upward.

Shinya was probably couched in one of the top floor windows at this very moment, his rifle trained on the vampire.

Before he had left Shinya's side, they had agreed that Guses would pin the vampire down while Shinya took the kill shot.

Guren placed a hand on the sword he wore at his waist.

-There it is again, you're so turned on.

But Guren was pretty sure he didn't feel turned on at all.

- Thenmaybe it's just intense bloodlust.

Now that Guren was feeling.

Kill the vampire.

Kill it.

Kill it now.

If he even could, that is.

This vampire was definitely a noble. Guren could tell from his uniform.

He must have noticed Guren by now, but still he didn't turn around.

From a vampire's perspective, a trifling human was no more remarkable than an ant one might step on without even noticing.

Guren slowly drew his sword. "Mahiru," he said. "It's time."

- Do it.

"....!"

Without a word, Guren exploded into the air, closing the distance between himself and the vampire in an instant.

In a split second Guren's blade travelled its course, ready to cleave the vampire's head clean from its shoulders.

However...

"Hm?" the vampire responded languidly, looking back at Guren with no apparent sense of urgency.

Guren had swung his sword as fast as he possibly could, but the vampire was in no rush as he turned to face him, drawing his own sword with an easy grace.

And it was still more than enough time for him to block Guren's blow.

CLANNNNNG!

The harsh screech of metal on metal filled the air.

And Guren finally caught a glimpse of the other's face as their blades crossed.

The vampire had beautiful wavy brown hair, red baster cheeks and red lips, which parted to say: "Hello, human."

The voice was redolent with self-confidence, and a wave of eyes, ala- fear swept through Guren.

This vampire was strong-very strong, probably even by the standards of the vampire nobility.

BLAM BLAM BLAM-three gunshots suddenly rang out. Shinya had fired Byakkomaru.

The vampire's eyes, however, remained fixed on Guren. "Did you think I didn't know he was there? How adorable," he said, reaching toward Guren with his free hand.

"Hrk!"

Guren tried to leap back, but was unable to escape the vampire grabbed him by the collar, then hoisted him bodily into the air.

"Ahh!" Even as the shout escaped Guren's lips, he could see the white tiger bullets Shinya had fired from Byakkomaru racting towards him.

"Guren?!" he heard Shinya scream.

"Just kidding," the vampire smirked, sounding slightly amused in spite of his apathetic demeanor.

He took one small step to the side, carrying Guren with him. The white tigers streaked through the space left in their wake and bored into the ground.

The vampire was barely trying.

He could have killed them a thousand times over by no Guren's cursed gear should be stronger, now that it con. tained Mahiru. How was it possible that the noble vampire still held such an advantage?

"No, no, you're very strong," the vampire said, almost as if he could read the despair in Guren's thoughts. "I'd hardly believe you were a human being."

"..."

"Only I'm quite high ranking, even for a noble. Not to mention the fact that my body has been altered."

"Who are you...?"

"I'm a vampire, clearly. A progenitor of the fifth rank."

"..."

Guren had heard that the vampire nobility was divided into ranks.

Supposedly, there were twenty ranks in total, and a vampire's strength increased exponentially the higher it rose.

The fifth rank was very high indeed. Higher even than Ferid Bathory, against whom Guren had been completely helpless.

In other words, if this was an enemy they had to defeat, then the situation was hopeless.

"Shinya! Stay back!" Guren shouted. "He's a fifth-rank pro- genitor!"

Hopefully Shinya would listen.

The vampire gazed languidly at Guren, still holding him by the collar. He looked to be about twenty-three or twenty-four, but likely he had been alive for hundreds-maybe even thou- sands-of years.

Guren could glean nothing from the vampire's eyes. Was he planning to kill Guren? Was he even thinking any- thing at all?

"So who the hell are you?" asked Guren.

"Are you asking my name, Guren Ichinose?"

The vampire already knew Guren's name.

That meant he was the person Mahiru had said Guren needed to speak to.

Which also meant that the things Mahiru was saying to Guren inside his own head weren't just illusions or hallucinations.

That Mahiru herself was not just a hallucination created by Guren's demon.

She lived on inside Guren with a will of her own, and she was still pulling the strings.

Unless...

...Kureto was right, and Guren was actually the one who had gone on a rampage, and killed Shinya, Norito, Mito, Shigure and Sayuri. He might have been hallucinating this entire time, and created an illusion of Mahiru living inside him as his demon to avoid facing the truth.

Mahiru spoke, interrupting his thoughts.

-Does it matter which is true? Either way, it doesn't change what you have to do.

Don't read my thoughts.

-I wasn't. You were thinking so loudly I could hear every word.

Then from now on I'll close off my mind to you.

-Close it all you want, but that won't change your hopes ana dreams. To buy more time for Shinya and the others. To bring me back to life. To bring everyone in the world back to life. In otber words, what you really want...

Enough, shut up.

-.... is to be freed from your guilt. That's your one true wish. Your purpose in life. Your desire. The object of your...arousal. Come, lets speak with the vampire. What do you think hell say?

Guren looked at the vampire. "What's your name?"

"Cæk Sanorium."

"I've never met you before. Or even heard of you. What do you want with me?"

"It seems my master has taken a shine to you."

"Your master. And who is that?"

"Rígr Stafford."

Guren furrowed his brow. He had never heard of any Rigr Stafford. Who the hell was-

"I believe you know him as Saito," Sanorium continued.

Now there was a name Guren knew. The man in the suit. The second-rank progenitor who had assisted Mahiru. The man who had led her into becoming a vampire. Guren grabbed Sanorium by the shoulder. "You're after Mahiru, aren't you?"

"Who's Mahiru?"

"Don't play dumb with me."

"Im not, I assure you. I understand very little of ter's plans. Nothing he does makes much sense to me."

"If you don't understand, then what're you here for?"

Suddenly-

"Guren!"

It was Shinya's voice.

He had come down from his perch and was racing toward them. Guren glanced in his direction. Shinya had his rifle over and ready.

This was bad.

Sanorium could kill Shinya easily if he wanted to.

And Guren doubted the vampire's orders included keeping Shinya alive.

He had probably been told to contact Guren, and nothing more.

In which case...

"Shinya, it's too late for me. Get back to the power station and...."

Suddenly a strange whirring hum filled the entire surrounding area.

The traffic lights all began blinking.

A thudding, thrumming noise reverberated from the building around them, like some great beast coming to life.

"That's strange," remarked Sanorium.

But Guren knew what had happened. Norito and the others had successfully brought the power station back online, and the electric grid was up and running once more.

Which meant that Norito and the others would be coming to rejoin them.

Putting them on a collision course with this monster.

As soon as Shinya realized the power was back on, he froze.

Then he retreated a step, vanishing back inside the building

Shinya had pulled back immediately. He knew he couldn't save Guren on his own. But once the others arrived, they would probably attack enmasse.

Guren had to wrap up his conversation with Sanorium before that happened. "There isn't much time. If you have thing to say to me, say it quick."

"Me? What would I possibly have to say to you?"

"Then, why are you here?"

"I honestly don't know. I'm just supposed to give you a good toss, so that your friends don't think you've betrayed them. Oh, and don't worry. I was ordered not to kill them. Though I might drink a little of their blood."

Sanorium was still holding Guren by the collar and, evidently finished speaking, he swung his arm in a rough arc, hurling Guren away with all his considerable might.

Guren careened through the air at breakneck speed, but even as he rocketed away, he caught sight of his five friends assembling to face Sanorium.

Shinya, Norito, Mito, Shigure, Sayuri.

Even the five of them together were no match for their op- ponent. At best, the vampire would merely toy with them. The disparity in strength was just too great.

Shinya was turned toward him, and Guren saw a look of relief cross his face when he realized that his friend was still alive and had been removed from the battlefield.

Guren felt a sudden impact against his back as he collided with the wall of a building and broke his spine. His internal organs turned to jelly.

He went clean through the wall and landed on the ground inside the building.

"Ngh... Urk..."

The damage he had suffered was devastating.

The demon's curse kicked in quickly and his injuries began to heal, but it would take some time before he could move again. With his back broken, he couldn't even stand up.

A voice came from somewhere above his head.

"Well, looks like the world ended after all."

Guren recognized the voice.

It belonged to Saito.

To Rigr Stafford. Progenitor of the second rank.

But Guren couldn't move his body. He couldn't move his neck, couldn't turn to look in Saito's directi...

Just then, the bones in his spine finished knitting themselves back together, the nerves reconnected, and he was able to lift his head again. He managed to sit up.

"Ngh..." Guren groaned, dragging himself into a seated position.

Sure enough, standing before him was a pale, dark-haired man wearing an expertly tailored suit.

His eyes, however, were black---he lacked the characteristic red eyes of other vampires.

"What's the point in wearing contacts now?" asked Guren, staring into those black eyes.

"It makes me seem more human."

"But you're not human."

"Nor am I vampire, though, not anymore."

"Then what the hell are you?"

"That's an interesting question. Do any of us really know what we are? Do you?"

Guren thought for a moment. "I'm human."

"Well, that much is true. You're clearly not a dog or a cat, anyway."

"...."

"But vampires were human once as well, you know. Just as Mahiru Hiragi was."

"You turned her into a vampire."

"But she isn't a vampire anymore, either."

Guren gripped the handle of his sword. Mahiru had devoured a demon and now resided inside him. He had no idea what she was at this point.

Or even whether she was alive or dead.

"What did you do to Mahiru?" Guren demanded.

"Exactly what she wanted."

"She swallowed a demon and went inside me."

"Yes, I know."

He knew?

Then, he must know what had happened to her.

Guren stood and levelled his sword--the sword containing Mahiru--at Saito's throat.

Saito looked down, casting his black eyes along the length of the blade. "Hmm."

"What the hell did you do to her?"

"I told you, I did exactly what she wanted."

"And what was that?"

"For you to survive."

"She... What...?"

"She wanted to become your strength, to support you from within."

"And you helped her do that?"

"Well, I wouldn't want to take all the credit. Certainly I helped with some of it, but who's to say?" Saito replied, slowly pushing Guren's blade out of the way with one hand before continuing. "Tell me something, Guren. What do you think of the world?"

Guren wasn't sure he understood the question.

Was Saito asking Guren's opinion of the world, now that it had been destroyed? Or was he asking what Guren thought of the world in general, a place where one had to go on living even though nothing ever went the way it was supposed to?

Saito went on, "Who do you suppose built this world? Who made it the way it is?"

Apparently he had meant the latter.

Read Next part>>

#owari no seraph #seraph of the end #guren ichinose #ichinose guren #ichinose guren world resurrection at 19 #resurrection at 19 #world resurrection at 19 #wrat19 #hiiragi mahiru #mahiru hiiragi #hiiragi shinya #shinya hiiragi #saito #rigr stafford #hiragi mahiru #mahiru hiragi #hiragi shinya #shinya hiragi

[helenofsimblr]

Kyleigh went on the defensive.

Kyleigh: You don’t get to tell me how to raise MY daughter.

Guy: Alright then, fine, I won’t tell you how to raise her. Instead, lets do a quick fact check shall we? First, she snuck off without you knowing. Second, there’s a killer out there. Third, she was smoking behind your back at a bar! Fourth, she attacked two men and probably caused them permanent damage. Fifth, she doesn’t have a clue why she did it. Have I reviewed enough facts Kyleigh, or shall I go further than the past 20 minutes?

Kyleigh: I don’t appreciate the tone of your voice Guy.

Guy: No? What are you going to do to me Kyleigh, snap my arm? Break my leg, just like Elita did earlier?

Kyleigh: Don’t be ridiculous.

Guy: This is anything but ridiculous! The godsdamned cops will be called over this. There were witnesses! I warned you that keeping these secrets would backfire on us, and look what happened!

***

Kyleigh’s body language changed suddenly, the threat of the cops and the authorities terrorised her. The thought of Elita getting into trouble…

Kyleigh: You’re right, I should have told her… I just… thought I had more time.

Guy: Yeah I gather. I’ll go to the base, see what I can do about the CCTV footage, do a bit of hacking. But Kyleigh, it might be a good idea if you and her left here and went somewhere else. This place is just getting more and more compromised for her safety. Anywhere you can go, do you have any contacts or people who owes you favours or anything?

Kyleigh: I dunno, I’ll think of something. I haven’t got a lot of money… I’ll try a few avenues, see what I can turn up.

Guy: Do it fast. For both your sakes, and godsdamnit, tell her the truth. Straighten it out. She has to start learning.

***

Kyleigh: You’re a lot like your father you know. Especially when you start taking charge.

Guy: Well unlike my father, I’m off to hack some computers. See ya later Kyleigh. Good luck.

Narrator: My brother left. Confident he had spurred my mom to action. He was right. You know, I wish I could blame my mom for what I did. But I can’t. I got to take some of the heat myself because I knew it was wrong but I rolled with it anyway. Like when you’re in bed with the wrong person and you know it's wrong but you've started so you just go with it even though your rational brain is telling you to stop… you just can’t! I'm glad he stopped me, our time together was running out, I am glad I savoured all these moments even the moments he kicked my ass.

#ts4 #ts4 story #sims 4 #sims 4 story #The Tomorrow Men #KSU #Guy #Kyleigh #tw swearing #tw bad language

[therealvinelle]

A note for Nebuchadnezzar’s Dream

Do I feel awful doing this, yes.

Am I still doing it, god yes.

This post contains a series of photos relevant to the upcoming chapter of Nebuchadnezzar’s Dream. I was going to link them in the author’s note, but as these links are all to online stores they’ll be taken down sooner or later. Better to post in image form on tumblr.

Without further ado, click the readmore if you want fashion eyesores.

So, I think I spoil nothing when I say that Jane and Alec are going to have to pass as Cullens in the next chapter. Carlisle, too, is desperately trying to dress like it’s a normal day for normal people who aren’t about to collectively fake their own deaths.

Naturally I asked myself exactly what these poor people are going to wear. One thing led to another, I consulted the fandom ghost, and we put our heads together. Three rules, and three rules only: one, it has to be pale. If it’s beige it’s probably too dark. Two, it has to be high end, but the high end for high end’s sake kind of high end (Jane was almost put in designer fake riding clothes because of this). Three, it has to be Alice.

Apart from that, no rules, no mercy, no God.

In the end we had something words can’t even describe.

Literally.

I can’t describe this with words in the fic. I’ll try, but the only way to properly convey the full awful of what Alec, Jane, and Carlisle have to wear in the upcoming chapter is to show you guys photos.

(Also, yes, I know that for Jane and Alec I used no children’s collections, but the children’s fashion lines I found just weren’t Alice enough. This jacket, for instance (not putting photo, but it’s a vintage rose pink, white collar quilted barbour jacket for girls) would make Jane set herself on fire but it doesn’t have that quintessentially Cullen something.)

Alec

Jacket: Dior raincoat, beige color.

Picture 12-year-old Alec in this, in public, and tell me he doesn’t wish those humans in 800 AD finished the job.

Sweater: V-necked Ralph Lauren polo sweater, cream color.

I’m sure the poor boy is using his gift on himself to numb the sartorial agony of wearing this.

Trousers: Prada technical wide-leg pants.

Nevermind faking his death, this kid wants to die for real so long as he’s sporting these.

Shoes: Salvatore Ferragamo desert boot, suede walnut.

As of these shoes, Alec’s sporting the brightest pop of color in the crew. Good on you, Alec, except not good on you because you’re wearing these shoes.

Jane

Jacket: Barbour Elizabeth quilted jacket, cream color.

Sweater: Tommy Hillfiger ivory turtleneck.

This is starting to feel like child abuse. Tucked into the skirt, of course.

Skirt: Saks Fifth Avenue Donna Karan skirt with a belt.

Of course it’s a khaki skirt. Sorry, Jane.

Shoes: Tory charm two-tone loafers.

I was gonna go for tory burch, but these bad boys felt like they were created solely to hurt fictional child vampires.

Accessories:

1: Chanel headband.

Look at those sly C’s forming a pattern, just in case you were worried people wouldn’t realize your child’s headband was in fact stupidly expensive designer. Can be yours for the small price of $600!

2: Louis Vuitton hobo dauphine.

We were done, but I thought I could hurt her just a bit more. Landed on this.

Carlisle

Coat: Hugo Boss beige trench coat with belt.

Chosen in part because the model’s face is how I too would feel wearing that.

Sweater: Oversized Tommy Hillfiger ivory turtleneck.

In a desperate attempt to look Related™ to Jane, he wears a matching sweater to hers. Also, sorry I couldn’t find a better link. But hey, model’s got that pretending he’s not dead inside look on his face like the camera team taking this photo, the designers who created the sweater, the agent who got him this gig, he’s never forgiving any of them.

Trousers: White Tom Ford brushed straight-leg trousers.

One of my kidneys shrivelled up and died when the ghost sent me this. Hoping I never see anybody wear it in life because that could very well spell my end.

Shoes: Bruno Culcinelli chelsea boots, suede sand.

Good news is this is the last one, bad news is your eyes are seeing this.

Funny how none of these people are real, yet I feel like I owe them all an apology.

If you can think of something even more awful I want to hear it. Drop it in the notes, and if your suggestion makes me want to kill someone then in the chapter it goes.

As for when the next chapter comes out, since I just dropped a massive teaser I’ll try to have it out as soon as possible. Within a week or so, but let’s shoot for the end of the weekend.

#long post #my fic #twilight fic #nebuchadnezzar's dream #tw bad fashion #found a lot of clothes for edward when i was searching #in particular one set of prada pants that... yeah alice would buy that for him #they were slightly transparent while trying to be sporty #just- god. so cullen

[phykios]

the marble king, part 12 [end] [read on ao3] [rated M for adult situations]

Constantinople, 1453

Even here beneath the waves, down in the darkness of the crushing ocean, all she could smell was smoke. War drums still thundered in her ears. On her lips, she tasted blood and salt--though whether it was the seawater or her tears, she could not say. 

But it was not enough that she had failed to defend the city of Constantinople. It was not enough that she had lost her unit to a man, or had abandoned her post, or had allowed the Ottomans through the Kerkoporta on her watch.

Any one of these things would have branded her a failure--but that the wretched, insufferable, intolerable son of Poseidon had borne witness to it all only turned the knife even deeper, salting the wound and taking pleasure in her misfortune.

To be reduced to a weeping woman like this, taking refuge in his embrace, it was disgraceful. It was nearly as painful as the loss of the city. 

The city… gods above, the city.

The heart of the known world. The defense of Europe. The last gasp of the Roman empire. 

Gone.

And all that was left of it was him.

And so she clung even tighter. 

It felt vaguely sacrilegious to be here, holding his hand, beneath the shadow of the temple erected to his father’s defeat. Her siblings would shun her. Her mother would disown her. The earth should have split open and swallowed her whole for such blasphemy.

And yet, it felt so right.

They had traveled so many miles together, weathered so many storms and stood against so many monsters. He had followed the Hunters of Artemis all the way to Mauretania, chasing a hazy vision of Annabeth struggling beneath Atlas’ burden. He had returned from certain death, thrown himself before her when she was in danger, had refused the gods’ offer of immortality. Then, even after she had spat in his face, expelling him from her sight, when the world crumbled around them and he could have so easily turned and ran, straight into the arms of the sea, his protection and the source of his power--he had sought her out. 

“If you agree, Annabeth,” he said, strikingly earnest in the way that only he could be, “let us, here and now, tie off these threads of our history, as one would to a tapestry. Let us end this rivalry of ours.” 

Percy had always risked life and limb for her safety. And, she thought, her old shoulder wound itching, she had done the same. They were a team, a partnership. In the absence of their brothers in arms, of their divine parents, of all trappings of the world they once knew, they should stay together. His logic was sound.

“A plan worthy of Athena,” she said. “I agree to your terms.”

That her mother did not immediately emerge from the temple, in all her heavenly glory, to smite her for such an insult was even more proof that her spirit no longer dwelt in this place. Lady Athena had never attempted to hide her distaste for her uncle’s son.

“To think,” he wondered, softly, hazily, “that such a legendary rivalry could have been resolved so easily.”

“It is strange,” she admitted, looking out on the diminished city, the light streaking across wooden roofs and weathered stone, “that along with my mother and our ancestral home, I have lost this as well.” 

As long as she had known him, Percy had been a remarkably consistent presence in his life--in some ways, even more solid than the other foundational truths of her life. Her mother would not always be pleased, her friends may not always return from war, but Percy would always be there to irritate, antagonize, and infuriate her to previously unreached heights. To let that go as well, to be so unmoored… it was frightening. 

“Well,” said Percy, squeezing her hand, a silly little smile crossing his lips, "my first act, in the shedding of our rivalry, is to pledge myself to our future empress, Ana Zabeta Palaiologina." 

Palaiologina. The word cut through her in a way she could not quite understand. 

Maidens the world over dreamed of marrying into a family with such prestige, spent every waking moment scheming how best to attach themselves to royalty. Annabeth herself had done the very same thing, not days previously. To ingratiate herself to Thomas and Demetrios would be child’s play for someone with her abilities. 

And yet… she did not want Percy to call her Palaiologina. 

He raised her hand to his lips, and kissed the skin there, gracious, deferential. Or mocking, if the glint in his eye was any indication.

Phykios, she grumbled to herself.

Pulling her hand back, she wiped it on her dress, hoping to rid her fingers of the hot, tingly sensation which had taken hold.

 ***

 The words echoed in her head, long after they had been spoken aloud, clanging like the bells which sat atop the churches on every corner, inescapable. 

Percy had long since gone to sleep, safe in the strength of their companionship. How easily had he divulged his secrets to her! Were their rivalry still intact, she would now have the precise knowledge she required to ruin him entirely. Alas that the same knowledge which would have brought her victory years ago now brought her to ruin and despair.

No mortal woman.

Again, for what must have been the fifth time since he had fallen asleep, she examined every corner of their conversation, turning each word over for double, triple, twisted meanings, meanings which he may not have even been clever enough to imply. That he had rejected Rachael’s advances, even though she had been a fine marriage prospect, that she had never seen him in the company of another woman, that he had admitted to relations with a man so easily, that he had never pursued her, despite years of questing and friendship and several less-than-obvious hints--it all pointed to one logical, if devastating, conclusion.

Yet there was another side to such a terrible coin. She should not have spent so many years agonizing over her words and actions which had turned his heart from her, for she had never had his heart in the first place, had never had a chance to it. No woman had. Annabeth need not have gone to such lengths, seducing Katya when she had expressed an interest in Percy’s hand, monopolizing his attention, flaunting her femininity before his eyes, for he never would have noticed her at all. 

While Annabeth was beside herself, worrying herself sick over his health and safety, Percy had been languishing in the arms of another man--of a man of the Legion.

She felt so cold, despite the fire, despite her cloak, despite the heat of the summer night which lay upon her, heavy and still. 

None of it had mattered, she was coming to realize. Not the time he had refused immortality, nor the time he had returned from the island of Ogygia, nor the time he had crossed the known world to rescue her from Lukas and the titans. A maiden’s fanciful romance, she had enjoyed imagining that at least some of it may have been for her sake. 

The stars blurred before her eyes, her breath hitching.

No. She would not let herself fall to pieces, in her silent, lonesome revelation. There was no sense in weeping over spilled oil; to mourn for a future which had never been possible was a waste of time and energy.

And yet. Gods above, and yet.

She had so successfully repressed the stunning depths of her feelings for him for years, her stubborn, willful pride refusing to let go of a silly grudge and a terrible misunderstanding. How fitting, then, that it should resurface as soon as she discovered such an avenue had never been available to her.

Sniffing heartily, she scrubbed at her eyes, wiping the tears which had gathered in them.

Do not weep, she told herself. There were more wars to fight, more battles to be won, and matters of the heart did not take precedence, no matter how much they hurt. 

 ***

Her siblings, as children, always teased her for her fixation on her hair. Blonde was not an unusual color at the agoge, but children of the war goddess were not supposed to be so concerned with such things as physical appearance. That was strictly the purview of the sons and daughters of Aphrodite; Athena’s children were supposed to focus their wits on things far more deserving of their attention than beauty. Beauty was fleeting, ephemeral, intangible--beauty did not win battles. Athena and Aphrodite were always at odds, in this way.

Yet when Annabeth, a child of fourteen years old, one day very shyly sidled up to Silena, having swallowed her pride to ask the older girl for assistance, Silena agreed immediately, without ever having to hear any arguments. “You have always had such lovely hair,” she had cooed, sitting beneath the shadow of one of the olive trees, her hands deftly twisting her thick, curly, unruly hair into sleek, orderly locks. “Many a sibling of mine has lamented that you have been given so many gifts, your tresses not the least among them.”

Annabeth had smiled, pleased. The older she became, the more comments appraising her apparent beauty she received, and she was not always so pleased to receive them, though coming from Silena’s mouth, they seemed much more sincere. “You speak truly?”

“Of course! And it is not only my siblings who say so.” Then, Silena had leaned over, slipping Annabeth a sly wink. “I have heard tell that a certain son of Poseidon has expressed quite a particular admiration for it as well.”

Indignant, she had squawked, lightly smacking her friend, while Silena tittered, very prettily. “Cease with such falsehood! I know you do nothing but jest!”

“It is no falsehood, korie,” she had said, pulling on a curly forelock. “Carlo has told me how he often speaks of you in such flattering tones. One would think he had decided to court you already!” And then she had laughed again, gaily, delighted--but never mocking.

Flushing, Annabeth’s heart had begun to pound as she considered the potential truth of such a statement, that Percy had spoken of her that way. Recently, she had developed a rather peculiar set of reactions to Percy’s presence: flushed cheeks, pounding heart, an absence of all her faculties so that she, at times, became nearly as foolish as he.

She did not like those feelings. Not at all. 

“Can you teach me,” she had said instead, unwilling to dwell on such strange emotion, for such things were so obviously beneath her, “how you wove your hair so skillfully the other day?”

“Of course,” Silena had said, a knowing glint in her eyes. “In fact, I will teach you one better. My siblings say that this particular braid is supposed to resemble the tail of a mermaid.”

Annabeth had practiced the skill for years, long before and long after the moment she had divined what those feelings of hers had truly meant. The mermaid’s tail, however, had not caught its mark--nor had any of the other simple or complex plaits she had mastered and perfected. By the time she was old enough to begin covering her hair, as older girls were meant to do, it seemed that there was nothing she could do with her hair to entice a particular man’s gaze, nor with any other part of her.

Of course, now she understood why.

How cruel were the Fates, that they had finally given her what she had so fervently desired, Percy’s hands in her hair, at such a terrible, unromantic time! 

Still, he treated her with all delicacy and respect as he quite crudely hacked away at her gathered hair, sawing off all traces of her femininity. Annabeth was not endowed with so much in her hips nor her breasts; her hair was certainly the most obviously feminine part about her, thus with its removal, she would be better able to pass for a man, and be better kept safe from marauding bandits with evil, grasping hands. 

It was sound logic, yes. But it was not her only goal. 

She closed her eyes, measuring her breathing so as to keep the rapid war-drum of her heart from alerting the other party. All she could smell was the comforting salt scent which seemed to engulf her, like the warm embrace of the sea on a sunny day.

With a tug, then, it was done. “There,” said her companion. “It is finished.”

How odd, she thought, to feel air on her neck, so cold and exposed. “Well?” she asked, turning round before she let fear get the better of her. “Am I sufficiently boyish?”

He looked on her so oddly, his face a strange concoction of overlapping emotions, coalescing into a furrowing of his handsome brow, a pursing of his lips which still sent her into madness if she should consider them for too long. Please, she nearly prayed, as though she could change his mind from the force of her want alone. Am I as beautiful as all the boys in Rome? Am I someone you could love?

It seemed he had learned quite a bit of tact in their years apart, for he relieved her of her little fantasy ever so gently. “I am not certain,” he said, careful, deliberate, “you could pass as a man--though, perhaps you could be seen as a particularly delicate one.”

Her foolish wish shattered, as glass hurled against a wall.

Well. What was done was done. With a snap and an appeal to his gentlemanly nature, she sent him away so that she could pilfer a dead man’s clothes--and mourn her childish dreams--in peace. 

 ***

 Something in the air, the cold snap of it, the feeling as though one were breathing in pure ice, little shards of glass tickling the lungs and stomach--she had not realized just how much she had missed it. Of course the summer nights of the south were pleasant and fair, but there was something so sublime in the frigidity, the freezing, the ice in her fingers and the heat in her cheeks.

And, truth be told, something to say of her traveling companion as well.

Percy had been… nothing short of a miracle. Ripped far from his home, from everything he had ever known, and from his great Roman love (she thought to herself, with an internal scowl), he had been, the whole time, staunch, stalwart, solid. A better companion she could not have asked for, nor a better friend.

She told him as such, and distantly enjoyed the way his face flushed, ever so lightly. Tanned a deep, dark brown by the sun and by his natural coloring, it was sometimes difficult to tell what he was thinking, but she knew him well enough now. Had known him well enough for years. 

He was very, very close now. For warmth, they had begun drifting closer together, their bodies’ natural attempts to stave off the bitter, northern cold. 

She saw his eyes flick down to her lips.

No, she told herself firmly, no. He did not want for her advances. She had done everything she could to demonstrate her interest, short of simply throwing herself at him, and he had never risen for a single one. Annabeth and Percy were simply not meant to be, and no amount of forced companionship could change that.

For a brief, agonizing heartbeat, she thought she saw him twitch closer. 

Then, from the corner of her eyes--light. “Percy, look!” she gasped.

Ásbrú, the rainbow bridge, pierced through the night sky as a blade through water, a burning ribbon of color, near as bright as the moon itself, even more beautiful than in her wildest imaginations. Though she knew well its existence, the bridge had never presented itself to her, not as the mountain of Olympus had. To see it now, it felt like stepping through a silk curtain, passing some invisible line. It felt like a rush of bloodlust, a guttural roar, like a warm fire and the hot curl of mead in her stomach.

“I can’t believe it,” she murmured.

It felt like coming home. 

 ***

 How little her father had changed. 

Politics was certainly not his area of interest, but he threw himself into his work as passionately as he had with the histories of Anglia and Gallia. His collections of papers, books, and pamphlets of various sizes and subjects were dizzyingly well-researched, a kind of organized chaos which resonated within her, every piece of information in its precise place, even if the place was incomprehensible to others. However, she could sense how little he cared for it.

“My dear,” he said, exhaustion in the slump of his shoulders, “I am afraid there is not much else that I can do. Mary tells me the Totts are growing more and more insistent--and they are merely the kindest about it. Word of both your reappearance and your inheritance has spread far faster than either of us had suspected it would, and we are expected to reply to a demand.”

Annabeth had returned to Svealand, it seemed, in the middle of quite the precarious situation. In the years since she had escaped her monastic doom, there had been no less than three separate kings who had ruled over the joining of northern lands: one deposed, one dead, and one perilously close to danger. Now the union had split apart, and had been at war with itself, with no signs of stopping. 

Like many, many noble girls, Annabeth was being paraded around for marriage. At first, when she learned her mad uncle Randulf had left her some properties and the like, she had been oddly touched. She had never known the man personally, nor his children, who had died by some supernatural force whilst she had been roaming the European countryside, but she supposed it had been a final act of some charity, some avuncular affection for his brother’s daughter--yet, after she had learned what the inheritance had brought with it, she wished her uncle had given it to Magnus instead. Or at the very least, kept it to himself. 

At least her father was equally upset at this turn of events, if not more so. 

“Understand me well, Anja,” he said, his voice thick with fear and worry, “were it up to me, I would never allow it. If I had known you would have been subjected to the predatory whims of the blue-blooded fools in Uppsala, I would have never prayed for your return. I did not get you back just to lose you to--”

“I understand, papa,” she interrupted, gently. It would do neither of them to lose their heads at this time. “Of course I understand.”

“The rebellion is growing, and it is powerful. I do not think it will be very long until Karl Bonde is overthrown, but I worry this land cannot undergo any further crises. To see you enmeshed in such bloody business is one of my deepest, darkest fears, and yet…” He then put his head in his hands, the picture of defeat. “I see no way out of this.”

For her part, Annabeth could think of a few ways, each more distasteful than the last, full of lies and conceit. If she knew she would be forced to be married after all, she would have done more to convince Percy to take her to the Morea.

Then, a thought occurred to her. An idea. A magnificent, inspired plan. A dirty, sordid trick.

“What if…” she said slowly, considering. The next few words out of her mouth could determine a whole host of things, be they pleasant or or unpleasant. She had to speak carefully. “What if I were already married?”

He raised his head, peering at her curiously. “Are you--?”

“No, no,” she assured him. “Certainly not.” Not for a lack of trying, anyway.

Still, he looked thoughtful. “That is a clever idea,” he mused, rubbing his chin, “though I suppose they would then question why we did not think to mention it sooner.”

No doubt her stepmother had paraded about her unmarried status to all who would hear her. “We could say I was married in the eastern church. Perhaps that could explain the irregularity.”

“Perhaps.” Her father sounded doubtful. “I fear, however, that without a union in this church, it would not be recognized as legitimate.”

Seated in her chair, her foot tapped against the floor, quite unbecoming of a lady. Her fingers twitched in her lap, blood pulsing. “Then I suppose my ersatz husband and I must be married again.”

He nodded. “I see… yes, I see. And have you someone in mind for the role?”

It came tumbling out of her mouth so quickly, she ought to have been embarrassed. “Percy.”

“Your friend from the agoge?” 

Upon her return, she had relayed a number of stories to her family of her adventures--and of course, nearly all of them included Percy. They had all been privy to tales of his nobility, honor, and gentlemanly nature; surely there would be no reason for her father to refuse the idea. 

She swallowed, a knot of terror in her stomach.

“Percy,” he said again, “yes, I do believe this could work.”

At his assent, Annabeth nearly collapsed. 

“Another brilliant idea, my dear,” said her father, fondness suffusing every word, “though I cannot say I am surprised. Even as a child, your mother’s influence shone through quite clearly.”

Were she of a crueler, colder nature, Annabeth could have walked away right there and then, freedom solidly within her grasp, in a form most pleasing to her. Percy’s hand in marriage--the dream of many a girl in the agoge. She could leave it at that, and be done with the whole affair.

But. But. 

“I will speak to him on the morrow, then,” he said, gathering up his files. “Is there anything else you would like to discuss?”

“Just--” she blurted, heat rushing to her face. “Only--promise me, papa, that we will not move forward without his consent to the match. I do not… I would never wish to force his hand in this manner.”

She may have had him in her grasp, but she loved him too much to keep him there. 

But, she vowed, as long as Percy was beside her, she would never be able to marry another man, not a lord nor a king nor an emperor--for what were any of these compared to her prince of the sea?

 ***

 She silenced the little voice of doubt in her mind, cast aside all thoughts of fear or nerves. 

Percy had agreed to marry her, and, all told, it had taken very little convincing, as she had suspected--his nobility was well-documented and unflagging. He would never have left her to such a horrid fate if he thought he could do something to save her.

It did not make her feel better.

But, in the end, they were married in the local church, in a simple, unfussy ceremony. Annabeth wore blue for the occasion, a garment of her own creation, and a garland of flowers, as was custom. Percy, of course, was unfairly handsome as always, his eyes lighting up when he first saw her, and when he kissed her, as the ceremony required, she allowed herself to pretend for one beautiful, beautiful moment, that he had kissed her of his own volition. 

She was smiling as she pulled away, carried off by the fantasy, even as she could tell he worked very hard to keep his composure. It would not do to show open disgust at his own wedding, she surmised.

They were forced to kiss once more by her dastardly cousins, Magnus cheering and jeering and egging them on until they participated in the little wedding game devised by Alejandro. Her cousin was far more empathetic than many people realized, and though she had never spoken of it to him, she was almost certain Magnus knew the truth of her feelings, and had decided to play a cruel trick on her. If only it did not make her heart tremble so!

Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending upon the perspective, she could not dwell on it for very long. The marriage bed awaited them. 

Her family accompanied them there, to see her off on this final portion of the path to womanhood. Magnus and Alejandro were still quite inebriated, but her father was sober as could be, embracing his daughter warmly. “Tell me, Anja,” he whispered to her, in their language. “Do you love him?”

Athena would only have chosen the cleverest of men with whom to create a child. Of course he had uncovered the truth of it.

She nodded into his chest, and he held her even tighter. “I am glad,” he said. “I am so glad.”

Then releasing her, he nodded to her husband--her husband--and he left them alone with the marriage bed.

The two of them had shared a bed several times during their journey. It should not have affected her so--but there was a slight, yet significant, distinction between a bed shared by two friends, and one shared by a husband and wife. A distinction she could no longer ignore. A distinction which Percy, too, seemed well aware of. 

A distinction which, unfortunately, changed the nature of their relationship. 

The trinity men believed a marriage was not valid until intercourse had occurred--the rule held even more strongly for those of the nobility. Percy and Annabeth shared no such inane assumptions, of course, but they were beholden to a different set of rules, now. To please the land-grabbing nobles of Svealand, they would have to consummate the marriage.

Annabeth wished she could say she explained the matter plainly and calmly, and that Percy had accepted her logic without much fuss, and they had gone to bed in order to fulfill the silly contract set out for them.

In reality, that was not how it had gone.

She had fallen to pieces, dissolving into tears, so intense he had had to hold her, and she could not even enjoy the feeling of his arms around her, so ashamed was she by her display of emotions. Haltingly, punctuated by sobs and hiccups, she explained her case, and all but begged him to make love to her.

And he did. Because he was a noble man.

And it was just as wonderful as she had always imagined it.

He finished inside of her, glorious and copious, and she could have died in that moment, so full of him, she might never be empty again.

But the truth swiftly fell upon her like a sword: she had coerced, tricked, and beguiled a good man into her bed, a man who did not, and would never, love her. She felt cold all over, from the pit of her stomach to the tips of her toes, still wrapped around him. 

It was done. They were married. And Annabeth had never felt worse. 

Not even sleep could soothe her, for that night, she had a most frightening dream. 

In her dream, she stands upon a stone hill, overlooking a little town. From the rocks beneath her burbles forth a spring, salty and strong, and beside, an olive tree, of thick trunk and golden branches. Before her, there is a king, his body compounded of a man and a serpent, and there is a god, he who is the wave and the storm and the thunder of hoofbeats, and she, too, is a god, she who is the owl and the spear and the shield who strikes terror in the hearts of men, and the king delivers judgement onto them. He says then to the wave and the storm, “The people have spoken, and their choice is clear. This land shall be ceded to the goddess.”

“Bah!” scoffs the god, the rumble of the earth in his breath. “You would insult me so, who cares for your sailors and delivers them home unharmed?”

“Cecrops has spoken, uncle,” she says, in a voice not her own, silver and gold and unyielding. “The Oracle has given the people of this city the power to choose their patron, and chosen they have. You, who lay claim to the bounty of waves and the power of the sea, will you not allow me this little hill? Will you not respect their judgement, and go in peace?”

But the god frowns, his thick brows drawing together above the typhoon in his eyes, and he brandishes his weapon, the three-pronged trident which had split the very earth itself. “I shall go,” he says, as the crash of water on the shore, “I shall leave you the city--but be warned, glaukopis, and be wary, king, for you and your people have made a powerful enemy on this day.” 

“No, uncle,” she says, commanding and columnar, the sound and the fury and the cry of triumph, bolstered by the land which now belongs to her, and the people who are already worshipping in her name, an ever present thrum in the core of her being. “It is you who has made a powerful enemy.”

He glowers, the black, heavy clouds of the horizon, and he strikes the stone with his weapon, and from that spring which had been his gift, now becomes his curse, a mighty wave pouring forth from the earth itself, powerful and unyielding as the hundred foot waves and the stampede of horses, rising up as the sea itself, flooding the plain and the people and the king and the goddess, burying it all beneath the sand and the water, but still the stone hill remains, and still the olive tree stands upon it, its branches stretching towards the sky, defiant, willful. It stands, proud, rooted, planted, immovable, immutable. 

Permanent.

 ***

 Annabeth had dreamed of married life with Percy for far, far longer than she was willing to admit. In her dreams, she had imagined it to be endless fun, endless bickering, and endless bliss.

It was none of those things. 

He did not love her, nor any woman. He’d married her to secure her hand away from squabbling lords and wicked step mothers, and possibly for the financial security of her land--she did not blame him for it, of course. Such a large favor demanded an equal reward, and if any man deserved to rest on his laurels it was Percy. She was happy to take care of him, but as the days dragged on, she wondered if that was what was happening at all.

Marriage seemed to have drained all the light out of Percy. He floated around the manor, gray and listless, speaking rarely, and then mostly to Alejandra. They shared a bed, closer than ever before, and yet, she was not sure she’d ever felt so distant. He looked at her, yet she was not certain he saw anything at all. 

She tried to entice him to enjoy the finer things, offering to hunt with him as Alejandro had, suggesting that they go for a trip around the lake, even attempting to arrange for them to visit his new holding, so he might see where they were to make their estate. Each advance was summarily turned down. He resisted meals together, and ate very little. He retired to bed early, and stayed in after she’d gotten up. 

Once, desperate and sad, she even asked him to join her to view the beauty of the midnight sky. It was an indulgent thing, but she thought only the night sky could compare with him in beauty, and she wished to see it all up close. 

He declined. 

He did not even seem to notice when she found herself ill several mornings in a row. He slept for much of the time these days, but it still hurt--once upon a time, he had been so quick to observe her. 

Her maidservant tutted as she instructed a chamber girl to take the chamber pot into which Annabeth had vomited away. She was a middle aged woman who had served Annabeth’s aunt, and was rather eager to have another woman in the family, because Alejandra did not like having a personal servant to help with dressing for reasons Annabeth understood, but that was not well known beyond the family. After the pot had been emptied and the dirtied linen had been delivered to the laundry, she had helped Annabeth into her gown.

Annabeth had not engaged any servants in Constantinople, obviously, nor at the agoge, and could lace her stays perfectly well, yet there was something delightful about having assistance. The gowns here were heavier, after all, the fabric much thicker and the detailing far finer. Not having to do it all herself was a relief, as was someone to clean the room and cook the food. 

“Will you and the master be moving to your estate before or after your babe is born, ma’am?” asked the maidservant.

Stunned, all she could say, was a single, inelegant, “What?”

“I know you were inquiring with the steward about going and surveying them, and the houses,” said the older woman. “But no one was sure what you’d found.”

Slowly, like the pieces of a good strategy, the woman’s meaning began to make itself clear: Percy, her master, and the estate her dowry, now transferred to her husband, where they would have to move sooner or later. “We have not yet gone,” Annabeth said. Percy had not wanted to. “We have not yet gone,” Annabeth repeated, because she could not quite understand the last part of the maid’s question. 

“Then, if Lord Magnus and Doña Alejandra will have it, best stay here until the baby is born. You and your husband can have some time then to engage the household. My brother in law would be a good candidate for steward, ma’am. He’s learned in his letters, can write anything the master might need, even in Latin.”

“Percy can write Latin,” Annabeth said distractedly. 

“Oh, of course, ma’am. I should expect nothing less of a prince.”

Annabeth could not even begin to parse that statement. Percy was, technically, a prince, but that status was kept even from the small group of people who still kept the heathen gods in her cousin's house, and this woman was not one of those. But--“What baby?” she asked, instead of interrogating the woman what she knew of Percy. 

Her servant blinked, and paused in her lacing, just above Annabeth’s stomach. She gave a kind of condescending smile which would have normally rubbed Annabeth all the wrong way, but she was too struck with terror by the implication. “Well,” she said, speaking as though Annabeth were a little girl, “you can never quite tell before the quickening, of course. However, it has been seven weeks since your monthly, and five since your wedding. Now you have fallen ill in the morning,” She had a twinkle in her eye. “I won’t be getting anyone in trouble, but there has been lots of talk, given how taken you and your prince are with each other, for how long it would be before you’d be with child. Such a joyous occasion is to be celebrated, even if perhaps it wouldn’t do to go around announcing it just yet. For safety's sake."

Her blood rushing, the ocean in her ears, with almost trembling hands, Annabeth touched at her belly. Nothing felt different beneath the layers of fabric.

It had not occurred to her it could even be a possibility. Percy had only laid with her once, on their wedding night, and only at her insistence. Now that the idea had entered her head, it began to grow, taking shape in her mind and her heart. Just like Percy’s seed in her womb. 

Percy’s child. She could give Percy a child. 

That happy thought carried her for several more weeks, as she monitored the signs and tried to find the perfect time to speak with him, to get him to visit their land, so she might show him his fortune and share the news that she would give him an heir for it as well. 

Men wanted sons, she knew. Perhaps, perhaps with luck Annabeth could still win him, could give him money and a son, and earn a little of his affection in return. 

As the days turned longer, still his mood did not improve, until one day after the morning meal, she prodded him to eat more, so she could then take him out to see all that was his. 

He told her instead that he wished to leave. Leave Svealand, his newly acquired land, and leave her, too. 

Struck with panic and despair, still she would not resort to cheap ploys. She fell back to the tricks that always worked with Percy: a little bullying, a lot of logic, and a refusal to let him go without her. 

By the end of the week, then, the plan was set. Once again, she would set out for lands unknown, leaving her father and her family behind, with no assurance she would ever see them again. This time, however, she was able to give her a proper farewell--and to tell him her suspicions. 

He embraced her, his joy overtaking his sorrow, and she embraced him in turn. 

To leave once before nearly rent her in two. Leaving him now was sorrowful, yes, but startlingly simple. The road would be long, and hard, and dangerous, but she was going to have Percy’s child. She was going to find her mother.

Let all manner of horrors just try and stop her. 

 ***

 She was beginning to understand why her mother had sworn to remain a chaste goddess.

Pregnancy was a truly nightmarish invention. Between the nausea, the soreness, the constant need to relieve herself, the inability to use the full spectrum of her wits in the manner to which she had been accustomed, she was well and truly suffering--to say nothing of the incessant, unending, all consuming lust which would strike her at the most inopportune times. The wind could merely change direction, and she would suddenly be aflame with carnal desire, aching for the touch of her husband in her most private, feminine parts, unable to think for the haze of want and need.

It was maddening. Utterly, utterly maddening.

Then, her hand would come to rest on her stomach, and it all would fade away at the mere thought of the child inside of her. Percy’s child. Their child.

Their son, she prayed.

And oh, how she prayed for a son, a little boy with wild black hair and eyes the color of the sea in the sunlight, who drooled in his sleep and loved his mother above all other women!

Concern gripped her, then, cold fingers around her heart. 

What did Annabeth know of being a mother?

She had only met her true mother a handful of times, and had barely ever received an ounce of affection from her. Her father’s wife had been the sworn enemy of her childhood, the two of them always at odds, until it had reached its boiling point, and Annabeth had taken her chances with the wild. The most she knew of motherhood had been what little she had been able to glean from Percy’s mother, Sarah, who had been more than happy to share the secrets of her trade--yet she could have spent a lifetime under Sarah’s tutelage, and still she feared it would not be enough. 

Annabeth was not a kind, nurturing person by nature. Hard rather than soft, sharp rather than gentle, none who had ever known her would have ever imagined her to be a mother. In truth, as a young girl, Annabeth had not even imagined it for herself. A warrior woman, a daughter of Athena: she had been so sure that she had been destined for greater things than marriage and children.

How foolish she had been.

Wives and mothers won wars in ways that Athena herself could not even conceive of. When she considered motherhood now, she thought of Mary, her father’s wife, moving money and bodies on a chessboard of titanic proportions. She thought of Sarah, who had labored every day beneath the notice of the men around her to provide and care for her son, to teach him what he would need to know to defeat the titan lord. 

Now she better understood why Hera, queen of the heavens, had also been the patroness of mothers.

Annabeth would do everything in her power, she swore, to shore up influence around their little family, to ensure that they were safe and secure and comfortable in all ways, both seen and unforeseen. And, well, if Percy would not accept her affection, as was his right, then at the very least, she would be able to give it to their son. 

 ***

 He was perfect. By all the gods above, he was absolutely perfect. 

Her son. Their son. Little Alexandros. 

She had so wanted to name him ‘Perseus,’ not after the slayer of the gorgon, but instead the hero of Olympus. No matter her personal feelings, for all that he had done, Percy deserved to be immortalized with the best of the heroes, for he was the best of the heroes--no, the better of all of them--and he deserved to have his name and his legacy passed on.

But, alas, it was not meant to be. Percy, gentle as could be, rejected the name for their son, and so they had settled on Alexandros.

He had been right, to her great surprise. Alexandros, the name, was perfect.

“The ship’s crew are in a tizzy,” was Nico’s greeting the day after her son’s birth, and nearly three years since they had last seen him.

Glibly, she said, “I had not meant to give birth aboard.” 

“That is not the issue,” he said, his eyes locked on Percy. “They have noticed we are, apparently, traveling at a much faster pace than we should be.” 

“Do they not wish to reach Venice in a timely manner?” Percy asked, before busying himself with her shawl, though she had assured him she was warm enough. 

Nico’s eyes had not left him, piercing. “They are wondering if it is an ill omen.” 

“They should be happy that the new mother and her child will be in safety soon,” was her husband’s only response.

“Yes,” Nico nodded, “about that…” He trailed off, eyes boring into her now, brimming with so many questions. 

“You promised you would not pester them so soon,” Will scolded, though he had a smile in his voice. 

“Well you cannot expect me not to wonder at such extraordinary circumstances.”

Annabeth did not remember Nico and Will being particularly friendly during their days at camp; in fact, she distinctly recalled Nico running away from any sort of friendship at the first chance he could. He had been a surly, combative young man, with his stony glare and frightening aura. That he had attracted a friend as sunny and cheerful as Will was nothing short of a minor miracle, and that they tolerated each other enough for light teasing was quite the achievement.

In her memory, Niccolo di Angelo was still a skinny little thing, carrying an ancient, profane sword too big for his body, following Percy about like a lost puppy. She would confess to not knowing much about the young man, but she was certain she would have remembered if he had been a noble--yet somehow, the revelation that he was a count had completely blindsided her, with a fortune fit for the son of the god of wealth. 

“Well, what of your story?” she asked, adjusting her position to better support her sleeping child. “We have not seen you for nearly three years.”

He raised a brow, familiar disdain on his face. “I reside in the city.”

Oh. Well, then. Annabeth had sort of been under the impression that he lived in the Underworld, with his father. “Truly?”

“My mother was a countess,” he said, “many years ago, and, with some light forgeries, I was able to access her estate, as her sole living descendent.”

Many, many years ago, on their very first quest, Percy and Annabeth had sought to take refuge in a large tavern, only to discover it to be the den of the Lotus-Eaters, whose power stole time away from one’s perception, seducing them with food and wine and cards and dice to trap them there completely. Though they had not realized it at the time, Nico and his sister had been trapped in the same establishment, stashed there by an Underworldian associate some seventy or so years prior. How strange it must have been for him, to emerge into a world he could no longer recognize, and all his family long since perished.

But Nico would not be moved. “Our tale is long and tedious by comparison, but yours--now that has piqued my interest. I understand you and your husband were still in the city on the eve of its fall?”

“We fled as the walls were overrun,” she said. “We had thought to make straight for the agoge, but when we arrived, it had vanished, as if it had never been there at all.”

He frowned. “Yes, it had gone by the time we had arrived as well. Afterwards, then, Will and I traveled to Aachen, to speak to the Legion. I would have thought you would have gone as well.” He turned his eyes to Percy. “Iason sends his greetings, by the way.”

Clenching her teeth, she busied herself with something on Alexandro’s blanket, so she would not open her mouth and say something particularly foolish.

“We traveled to Thera, and to Athens, first, to try and contact our divine parents” said Percy. Annabeth did not think she could detect any changes in his voice, any hints of longing or the like, but she heard nothing--though that, in itself, did not necessarily indicate much. “Once we were unable to reach them, we decided to travel to Annabeth’s homeland in the North, to return her to her father.”

“A successful journey, I take it?” 

Lightly, Will swatted him. 

“After our marriage, then,” Percy went on, “we thought it best to return to the South.”

“And Venice?” he asked. “Have you any family here?”

Percy cast her a sideways glance, one she could not quite parse. “We… wondered if, perhaps, the gods had landed here,” he admitted, in a low voice, “after they fled the city of Constantine.”

“We have not seen hide nor hair of them,” said Will. “Nico has not even been able to contact his father."

Percy’s eyes widened. “Lord Hades has gone, too?”

“It seems so,” Nico said, looking pensive. “The ancient doorways have moved as well: the River Styx, the Door of Orpheus, and others.”

“The only clue we have is a message imparted to us in dreams from our parents,” said Percy, “the city of old soldiers.”

Will straightened in his seat. “I, too, have had such a dream.”

“As well, there also was a vision from my mother. In this city, she said there is a church, green and white with a red dome. Have you ever heard of such a place?”

Nico hummed, thoughtful. “Possibly. I was delivered a different clue, it seems: Zagreus and Thanatos, blood and death, appeared to me in a dream, and bade me to seek the birthplace of fire itself.”

As one, they frowned, turning over their words as though they had been handed one of Rachael’s prophecies. As one, they all came up empty. “Well,” said Will, after some time, “I do not believe we shall divine an answer today. There is another riddle I have in mind, one quite simpler: Percy, Annabeth, have you a place to stay in the city?”

With little persuasion, Nico had been insistent that they stay with him for the time being, in his large palazzo. When Annabeth was feeling better, he swore, Nico would show them all his available properties--for, of course, he had several--and that they would discuss rent at that time. Quickly and expediently on their arrival, he arranged for his staff to move their things, and granted them use of his beautifully appointed rooms, a separate one for each of them, down the hall from each other. In an uncharacteristic stroke of compassion, she thought, he had even located a wet nurse for Alexandros. Though Annabeth was loath to part with him during the day, she found it to be a godsent at night, even after only a week, allowing her the sleep she so desperately needed.

Percy proclaimed the procurement right and good, but it took her several days to realize he wanted to relieve her of her son. “Let Nico handle it,” he said, fussing over her, “you should rest.”

Days turned to months, and he let Nico handle a great many things. He spent hours holed up in Nico’s study, discussing matters of economics, travel, and management, as the Conte di Angelo poured his resources into a new business venture--a shipping company, financed by Nico and overseen by Percy.

The months stretched on into a year, and predictably, Percy had already seen great growth and investment from some other bankers and merchants in the city, what with his ability to not only turn the seas in his favor and outrun any marauding raiders, but also to simply discern the best days to sail, to predict weather patterns and wave directions. 

She always knew he’d be superbly successful at this line of work--even without his father’s blessings.

Annabeth, meanwhile, had not been sitting idly by. Once again, with Nico’s assistance, she had entered the expatriate community of Constantinople, rubbing elbows with certain persons who would not have even deigned to look her way, had they known her before, in the fallen city itself. Now that she was moneyed and married to a very important shipping contractor, a whole world of politics had opened itself to her strategic ways, though she largely tried to avoid the thorniest problems. Even now, there were whispers of what to do with the poor princess Zoe, how they might set her up in marriage with a Roman prince or Northern lord, and grow their strength and finances until they had mustered enough of a force to retake the city of Constantine.

Even with all her newfound money and influence, unfortunately the men of the community did not often take her thoughts into consideration--unsurprisingly. 

Besides, she was a mother now. She had a child, and a new sympathy for Zoe’s plight. Were it her decision, she would recommend that they leave the young lady alone. 

Annabeth could not say that she liked her new friends. They were pleasant enough people, and provided ample stimulating conversation, but many had never known the feel of a weapon in their hands or had tasted their own blood, never mind that they were all, of course, Christian. Oh, there were a few children of the gods here and there, one or two legacies of the Legion, but they were few and far between.

Percy was not always working, but he was not one to be confined to the home. He adored the city, and the city adored him right back, filling him with a kind of life and energy she had not seen since those few, halcyon months after the second Titanomachy. He was thriving in Venice, not just financially, but emotionally--and physically. Somehow, in the year since they had arrived, he had grown even more handsome, merry and always flushed with laughter after he returned from Nico’s residence. 

A part of it pained her to see him thrive among the Latins where he had only shriveled up in her own homeland. He had not looked poorly in Svealand, of course--Percy could not ever look poorly--but there he had been so sour and withdrawn and cold, and here he very nearly burst with life. After weighing the differences between there and here, she could only conclude that the greatest changes in his life had been the lack of snow, and the presence of a companion he liked better.

Not her, of course.

When she was feeling less charitable, it seemed to her as though her husband spent every waking moment with the count. They were an odd trio, Percy, Nico, and his doctor friend Will. At the beginning, she had thought Percy was exercising some latent protective tendencies over the count. She knew he still harbored no small amount of guilt over the death of his sister, many years past; the man of noble character that he was, of course he would want to see that Nico was well taken care of. It was one of the things she loved most about him.

Then they became business partners, a sound financial move. Then they began to spend the bulk of their time together. Then, during the Carnival season, Annabeth had heard them stumbling into her house together, no doubt having just come from the raucous festivities which had captured the whole city, tittering like a couple of young girls. 

Things began to piece themselves together after that.

“The next time we travel to Aachen, you and Percy should accompany us,” Will said, extending an invitation for which she had a distinct feeling only came from him, at supper one night, while Percy and Nico were out overseeing some new contract or other. “I know Iason and Franko always ask after Percy; I suspect they would be very pleased to meet you.”

Franko, perhaps, she thought to herself, but certainly not Iason. Annabeth very much doubted he would be pleased to make his acquaintance with the woman who had stolen his great love from him, trapping him with a phony marriage and an unplanned child. 

The children of the elder gods had a kind of undeniable sway; Annabeth had felt it for herself. How darkly amusing, she thought, that not even Percy was immune to its influence, having attached himself not only to the son of Jupiter, but the son of Hades as well.

“I should be very pleased to meet them as well,” she replied, sipping on a cup of tea. 

She would not, but she had no real recourse to refuse. 

Annabeth had made her deal with the devil, and now she reaped the rewards: her son’s love, her friends’ affections, her social standing, and her husband’s indifference. If she had to meet another of her romantic rivals, she would do so with all the grace and poise her station required of her.

Even if she would rather die.

 ***

 Venice, 1455

The distance from Conte di Angelo’s residence was a little farther than she would have liked. Most days, she would have taken a gondola all the way from the palazzo to their little house, but today, she needed time to think. What better way to do so, she supposed, than by strolling through the Piasa San Marco. 

Annabeth adored the square: the red stone with its straight, white lines, the beautiful arches on the surrounding buildings, and of course, the church which dominated the eastern end. Mammoth and blocky it was, yet it reminded her so strongly of the old St. Sophia, from the golden walls which shone in the morning sun to the grand domes which rose above it. The domes still had their weight borne by expertly decorated pendentives, each surface layered with gold and portraits in the style of Eastern Romans, hideous, of course, yet comforting in its familiarity. Whenever she walked around inside the building, pretending as though she were observing the rites of the Christians and ignoring the scandalous gazes of older women as she went about with her hair only lightly covered, a complex crown of braids piled upon her head, she felt as though she were inside of a great, golden jewelry box, fit for an empress. It was not, she thought, the church of Sarah’s dream, but it was beautiful nonetheless.

She did not enter the church today, but stayed outside of it, settling herself in one of the arches of the surrounding buildings, observing the strange procession of Christian men as they passed, their steps and their songs hypnotic, in their own way. Annabeth was no expert in the rituals of the trinity, but even to her untrained eyes and ears, the differences between such displays of piety on the part of the fathers, and the rituals and regimens of the eastern patriarchs were stark, almost exaggerated. 

Some days, she missed Constantinople and the agoge so much it ached. The good St. Mark, despite its Latin trappings, helped her to feel a little less lonely. 

And her son, of course.

Even thinking of her son, she could not help but smile. Little Alexandros. Already he took so much after his father, his same dark hair and green eyes and large nose. He would grow up to be very, very handsome, she could already tell. To her great delight, he was just as attached to her as she was to him, eschewing the nursemaids and nannies for Annabeth instead. He was her great comfort while Percy was out conducting business on the water, the little piece of him that he had left with her.

Annabeth loved her son, more than nearly anything else in the world. All of her immediate peers, however, they had large, sprawling, enormous families. Annabeth, with her single child, simply could not compete, and she so hated to lose. Was she merely lonely? Jealous, of the family ideal? Perhaps. 

But even besides… she still loved Percy. Even though he had barely so much as looked on her ever since they arrived. He was a decent husband and a magnificent father, and she wanted to give him more. She wanted more for herself. 

And selfishly, she wanted him to touch her once again. She could no longer satisfy herself, not when the sense memory of his fingers inside of her still haunted her dreams.

So, she had gone to the count in order to petition him for the use of her husband.

Nico had only stared at her, flabbergasted.

“...Come again?” he had asked.

In her finest dress to prop up her ego, she had once again repeated her request. “I know you and my husband are involved,” she had said, her head raised high, “but one child is not enough for a family of our class. He will need an heir, of course, as well as daughters for dowries and sons to carry on the business. I can provide those for him.”

Yes, Annabeth could--and not Nico. This was the keystone of her strategic brilliance, a body which could bear children. 

Still, he had stared at her, more confused than ever. “I… Signora, I do not understand.”

What was so confusing? “Your excellency,” she had said, ready to try again, “I have come to you today to--”

“No, no, I understand that,” he had said. “You have made your request quite clear. My confusion is thus: why do you feel the need to petition me for children, when you could very easily ask your husband?”

“Because…” Was he being deliberately foolish in order to mock her? “Well--because, you two are…”

He had raised an eyebrow. “We are what?”

Gods above, was he going to force her to say it?

“I think, perhaps, you may have misunderstood the nature of our relationship, Anna Elisabetta,” he had said, dryly. 

“With respect, sir,” she had replied, “do not mistake me for one of the trinity zealots of this city. I know what heroes do when they keep company with each other.” 

He had frowned, befuddled. “You… are you implying that your husband and I--”

“I, too, have kept company with women,” she had said, quickly, suddenly worried he would take her words as an insult, “and I would never seek to cast judgement.”

Then, he had done something she never expected.

He had laughed.

“I beg your pardon?”

He only laughed harder. 

So uncivilized, she had thought, her irritation growing by the second.

“I can certainly say,” he finally said, when he regained his wits, though stray chuckles still escaped every now and then, “that this was not what I was expecting.”

It had been odd to see him laugh. Odd, but not unpleasant. Truly, he had a lovely laugh, the dourness falling from his countenance. It was not difficult to see why Percy might be so taken with him. 

“Oh, Annabeth,” said the count, “I do not know what mist has deceived you, for it can only be through magical means that you do not recognize just how deeply Percy loves you.”

He had sent her away shortly thereafter, to seek out her husband, and ponder on his words, which was how she found herself at the church of St. Mark, lingering as the day stretched on into evening. 

Did… did Percy love her?

She thought he had, once. In their youth she had sought his affections and thought she had been making progress. She had spent several long months waiting for him to ask for her hand. 

She had destroyed all hope of them, then, and then he had found the legion, and the beauty of men… or so she thought.

Had he not gone around the world with her? Had he not agreed to marry her, to stay with her and build a family with her? Had they not shared intimate moment after intimate moment, exchanging secret words and heated touches?

But he had also avoided her as best he could, eschewing her companionship for that of his friends. He had only lain with her once, at her insistence. He had had to be convinced into the truth of his marriage, that they were a union, and not two people unhappily bound together. And those same, maddening words, the ones which had haunted her for months, ever since they had made camp in the ruins of Olbia, they rang so clearly in her ears: no mortal woman. The implication there was clear. Whatever interest he may have had, he had not acted on it.

However… 

Perhaps she had been… mistaken. 

A different sort of fear took over her then. Had she been mistaken? Had she missed such an obvious clue, and thus doomed herself to a life without love, all because of a silly misunderstanding?

She could not think on it for too long, lest she become consumed by the hurricane of her own fears and misgivings. 

Rather than take the river road, she chose to walk the rest of the way to their apartments in the eastern end of the city, the neighborhood they called Castello, hoping beyond hope that her heart would have calmed itself by the time she made it back. 

It hadn’t.

Entering her home, she was first greeted, as always, by Freya the cat, who had, in the intervening years, grown even softer and furrier than she had been as a kitten, the tiny little puffball. Trotting up to Annabeth, her tail held high, she gave her mistress a perfunctory sniff, and a sweet little bump of her head, before darting off to commit untold amounts of feline mischief, as was her wont. Following her inside, then, her heart already softened, the next thing she saw was him.

Percy must have taken off work early; she had assumed he would still be at the port for another few hours at least. He had Alexandros with him, as well. They made such a wonderful picture together, father and son. When she next had a stretch of uninterrupted time, she would go about having this moment captured in perpetuity in a tapestry, a moment trapped in time and memory, just to make her smile. He had not yet noticed her, so taken with their son was he. 

Then she saw what he was doing. 

“There you are,” he said, popping another olive into Alexandros’ mouth. “Yes, they are your favorite, are they not?” 

In response, Alexandros gurgled, happily. He had spoken a few words already--”mamma” and the like--but he did not need words to express his joy at being given his favorite food.

“Indeed?” he asked, as though he were truly carrying on a conversation with his son. “Another?” He held out another olive to him, but Alexandros would not accept it, clumsily smacking his hand away. “Oh no? You are finished, then?” 

He shook his head, indicating Percy with his thick, chubby hand.

“What,” Percy gasped in delight, “you wish me to eat with you? Yes?” he asked, bringing the olive to his mouth in order to test his hypothesis.

Alexandros giggled, clapping.

“Oh, very well,” said Percy, his bright, beautiful smile like the glint of the sun off the water. “Since you insist, and since I love you very very much, I shall share this with you. Not a word of this to your grandfather, however--understand?”

Then he popped it into his mouth, and swallowed. Alexandros giggled again, smacking his hands together. 

“And here I thought,” Annabeth said, unable to keep her silence any longer, “you hated the fruit.”

To his credit, he did not jump at her presence. His smile did not fall either. “I think our son is more important than my father’s disdain for olives, no? Say ‘hello’ to mamma!” he bade his son, hoisting him up on one hip. 

Alexandros reached for her, his sea green eyes wide and wanting, and she took him into her arms, kissing his forehead. “Hello to you, too, angele mou,” she said, falling in love all over again. “I apologize for being gone so long.”

“It was no trouble,” said her husband. “We were able to keep ourselves entertained well enough.”

She recognized the look on his face well enough. It was the one he wore whenever he was overcome with love for Alexandros, a silly little grin crossing his face, his eyes soft and shining, his whole being exuding warmth and comfort. 

But he was not looking at their son. He was looking at her. 

She swallowed. 

Many months ago, she had asked Percy how he knew that his mother had reached safety, and he had responded thusly: that it was a matter of faith. 

Pressing another kiss to Alexandros, enjoying the way his face scrunched up at the odd feeling of her lips, she passed him off to the nanny who had been observing the scene from a respectable distance, whispering, though he could not understand at so young an age, that she would be with him shortly. 

Then she turned back to Percy. Still did he look on her with that same expression, softness and affection, care and comfort, home and serenity. 

A matter of faith. 

Stepping up to him, she slid her arms about his neck, and pressed her mouth to his.

He responded in kind. 

His hands immediately went to her hair, tangling his fingers in the free-flowing strands. He tugged on them, just a touch, but enough that as her mouth opened in a gasp, he was able to slide his tongue inside, and there she tasted all of him, felt the firmness of his body as he pressed up against her. 

Yes, she thought, her senses full of the sea. Yes.

Pulling back, he chased her lips with his, whining a little as she did not let him continue, and oh, how she wished to continue, but words had to be exchanged first. She could not be wrong again. She refused it.

“I love you, Percy,” she murmured, gazing deep into the waters of the ocean. “I love you, most ardently.” 

Those eyes crinkled in the corners, joy crossing his face in thick lines, like the faces of the saints on the walls of St. Mark. “I love you, Anja,” he whispered back, bringing her hands to his mouth, kissing the knuckles. “I have always loved you.”

Then, without further ado, he kissed her again, and she melted into the warm embrace of the waves.

 ***

 The first thing she felt in the morning was soreness. 

She felt it everywhere, but she felt it most keenly in her stomach, pulsing out from the core of her into every muscle and sinew and bone.

No, not her stomach--lower.

She flushed.

Ah. 

With a groan, she rolled over, only to be met with the smiling face of her husband. “Oh,” she mumbled, still half asleep. “Good morning.”

“Good morning, Annabeth,” he said. “How was your rest?”

Deep and fulfilling, for she had been pushed to the very brink of exhaustion by their activities the previous night, a fact which he most certainly already knew. “Well enough,” she replied, with an air of disaffection, and he chuckled. She could feel it against her chest, realizing, belatedly, that he wore no night shirt, cuddled so close together they were. “And yourself?”

“Wonderful,” he said, and he kissed her cheek. “Marvelous.” He kissed her nose. “Absolutely divine.” He kissed her mouth, running one hand gently over the bare skin of her side, and she shivered.

“Mmph, Percy--” The force of his kisses stoked the fire within her, and as much as she desired to give into it, she felt that there were a few things which required a brief discussion. “A moment, please.”

At her request, he pulled back, though he kept a hand loosely curled at the juncture of her shoulder. His fingers brushed against her, as though he could not stop himself from touching her the way he wished to, the way she wished him to. “Yes?”

“We…” By the gods, she could not focus when he looked on her like that, dark and arresting and wanting. “I--”

But she could not help herself, breaking down into giggles and laughter. Percy joined her, until the two of them were as children again, laughing at nothing and everything. 

“Oh, perdono, perdono,” she said, breathless with humor. “There were things I wished to say, I swear.”

“There will be time later for discussion,” he replied, a familiar heat overtaking his gaze. “Now there are different sounds I would have you make.”

Rolling her on top of him, he kissed her once again, his mouth hot and insistent against hers, crushing her to his chest, the currents of his hands running through her hair and buffeting her body. With great, great regret, she lifted herself up, pulling herself away from him, even as he rose up after her, eyes gleaming with such affection that she could not even fathom, as boundless as the sea that was his lifeblood and his birthright--she drowned in him, and she would be more than happy to die with him once again. 

“Percy, wait,” she said, firmly. She could not let this go on a moment further without saying her piece.

Obedient, attentive, loyal to a fault, he sat up with her on his lap, his fingers curled about her hips, tapping lightly, waiting for her. She touched him in kind, her hands about his shoulders, rocking back and forth on his lap as she tried to settle her nerves. 

“I…” She swallowed, raising her eyes heavenward. Old shame caused her cheeks to heat, mistakes long since made rising from the fog of the past, like mountains. “There is… something I must say to you. Please, allow me to say it in totality, and without interruption.”

Frowning slightly, nevertheless, he nodded.

To ground herself, she squeezed his shoulders, focusing on the swell of his bare chest as it rose and fell with each breath, indisputable, irrefutable proof of his life, of his life with her. “What I said to you,” she began, haltingly, “all those years ago--please, you must know I never truly wished you dead.”

“Annabeth--”

She squeezed again, more firmly. “I beg you, allow me my space to speak.”

Mouth twisting, he acquiesced. 

“When you disappeared,” she said, casting her mind back to that horrible, terrible time, “I--I thought I had left you to your death. You, the person whom I loved most in the world, I thought I had left you to tender mercies of some monster, and that in my moment of weakness, I had abandoned all that I had been taught by Chiron, Thalia, you, to never leave a friend in peril. For over a year, I lived in my shame and my weakness, and when you did return, miracle of miracles, know that I was happy. I was so happy to know you were safe.” She could not count the hours she had lost to tears and sleeplessness and self-hatred. The year had passed as though in a terrible dream, in bursts of meaningless activity which she could not recall and had only served to render her even more miserable. To see him home once more had felt like the passing of a sea storm, or the healing of a wound, but then--”But when I saw the mark of the Legion upon you, I--I was so angry with myself, to think that I had spent all those months worrying myself sick for nothing, when you were as hale and healthy as one of our kind can reasonably consider to be… but that feeling, in itself, was childish and immature. I should never have thought those things, or treated you thus, yet I let my baser instincts take over until I pushed you away in the most vile manner, and for that, know that I am deeply, deeply sorry. I do not beg your forgiveness, nor do I deserve your love.” Then, taking his hands in hers, she kissed the knuckles there, as he had done to hers many times before, and closed her eyes against his face. 

It was not graceful, but it was the truth. She had never been so skilled with words, but she could not let another moment pass her by without her great confession.

Percy was, by nature, not a vengeful person. In that way, his mother’s influence far outweighed his father’s, so she was not surprised when he pulled her forward, and kissed her forehead. Opening her eyes, she saw Percy looking up at her, his beautiful gaze shining like the glass of Murano. “Of course you are forgiven,” he whispered. “Of course you are loved.”

“You forgive too easily, kærasti.”

“I most certainly do not,” he said. “But we were young and misguided in many things, and we deserve a little grace between us.” He kissed one cheek and then the other. 

“I do not want there to be anything between us,” Annabeth said. “no ambiguity or animosity. You must understand how much I adore you and always, have.” 

“I love you.” Even at such simple words, she felt her face grow hot, felt her mouth curl up in a smile. “I have loved you for so long, certainly since before we arrived at your father’s house, but, truly, for much, much longer than that--ever since I was a child.”

“You have?” she whispered, afraid to even voice the question, lest the fantastical words be ripped from her.

“Do you remember,” he said, twirling a stray curl about his finger, “the night of the Solstice festival upon Olympus? When we danced in the hall of the gods?”

Of course she did. She had been taller than him then, bless him, but they had danced together well into the small hours of the morning, to a song both sorrowful yet bursting with hope.

“That was the moment I realized that I loved you, and I have never, never stopped--not even during my time with the Legion.” His countenance changed, then, frowning lightly. “My only regret is that I did not tell you before I went with them. I should have said something on our way to Aachen, but, you must understand, I had nothing: no money, no employment, no--”

She placed her finger on his lips, silencing the stream of dour truths. “I know,” she said. “Of course I understand.”

“Never did I think that I could have this,” he said, around her finger, kissing the tip of it. “The gods saw fit to bless me with your hand and your child, and I would have been happy with no further.”

“But now you have me, too,” she responded--perhaps a little cheeky.

Percy liked a little cheek, she knew.

He grinned. “Oh yes,” he said, sweeping her close once more. “Now I have you, too.”

And if it were up to him, she knew, he would have her, again and again and again, a series of events to which she was not unopposed. Yet, he had given her so much, his life and his love and his loyalty, and so he deserved something in return. Something she had never done for anything else. Something she never imagined she would do at all. 

His arms crossed the bare skin of her back, one high, one dangerously low. It was almost difficult to move, to shimmy herself out of his embrace and down, and not only because Percy was stronger than she. He must have made a valiant effort to control himself during their little heart-to-heart, for she could feel the hard press of his cock up against her, no doubt having been awakened by such a warm, friendly presence, rocking back and forth upon it. As he had done the previous night to her, so she did to him this morning, kissing her way down the planes of his chest, his stomach, his hips--a body worthy of Phidias, of the greatest marble-men and bronze-workers of the ages. 

“Where are you going?” he pleaded, petulant. “I have not had my fill of kisses.”

“Worry not--you shall have all the kisses you desire, and more.” Truly, he must have been a man of particular restraint and discipline, to have gone all those years without kissing her, so demandingly, so full of passion. To think that such a romantic had been lurking beneath the surface of the sulky, downtrodden boy who had stumbled into their camp! Certainly, she had never imagined that they two would be in this position, until one day, when she could no longer imagine being in this position with anyone else.

Both in the literal sense and the metaphorical.

Lukas’ betrayal and Percy’s disappearance had made things… somewhat difficult for Annabeth, in the realm of romance, and without Silena, her closest confidant, to help her make sense of her feelings, she was left to the whims of her own imaginations. Though she never acted on any of them, her imagination had provided her with many, many scenarios to dwell upon, most, if not all of them, featuring the man before her--and being pregnant had only made them even more intense. To have known his attentions so intimately, to bear the proof of it so obviously, made her dreams even more vivid and agonizing than usual, particularly since he was so physically close, yet so maddeningly far away. 

She had not had a chance to perform this on her wedding night, too burdened with hesitation and dread. Now that she had him as he had her, she would not hesitate. 

A student of art and architecture, Annabeth was no stranger to male anatomy--beyond the simple study of marble and body, she had grown up with a number of young men and women in very tight corners, which did not allow for much privacy. She was even no longer unfamiliar with Percy’s anatomy, having studied it quite extensively the previous night. 

Upon seeing it again, she could not help but flush, biting her lip. 

Percy was a proper man, with a proper man’s cock--small and perfectly sized, unlike the large, boorish, sex-crazed animals in the poems and drinking songs. He wielded it as skillfully as he wielded his sword, bringing her to greater and greater heights with each thrust. 

She should thank it for giving her a son, no?

Annabeth then wetted her lips, and kissed the very tip of him. Percy nearly jumped out of his skin, his knees knocking into her shoulders. “Anja!” he gasped, “what--”

But she would not let him answer, taking the whole of him in her mouth. 

For some time, she had him prisoner there, hypothesizing and experimenting and committing to memory everything he enjoyed, which twist of the tongue or pull of the lips brought the most broken, wrecked sounds from his mouth. At his sides, his hands flexed and unflexed, hypnotic like the tides, grasping at nothing but air. “Anja, Anja, Anja,” he babbled, breathless and writhing, and Annabeth found she was quite enjoying this. The taste was not so pleasant, but the sight of his head tilted back, his chin pointed to the sky, the strain in his muscles as he struggled not to thrust in her mouth so that she would not be so rudely interrupted, the control and the power--she liked that very, very much.

It was not long before he was pawing, clumsily at her head. “Anja,” he groaned, “I cannot--I cannot--”

Even this, too, was becoming more and more familiar, the state of him as he neared that point. She must have miscalculated, however, for it was not a moment later that she was forced to pull her head away, her mouth suddenly very ill-tasting.

Unable to grasp any sort of control, he spent himself in her hand right there and then, so forceful it even landed on her face, and in her hair. 

“Cazzo, cazzo, merda, Anja,” he sighed, twitching and moaning as he fell once more to earth. “Oh, Anja.” His chest heaved as he gasped for his breath, his limbs boneless and lax. On his face was a smile, sleepy and silly, his eyes closed. 

She gave him one more lasting caress, and he shuddered, whimpering.

Climbing back up the expanse of his body, she returned much the way she came, kissing each exposed inch, from stomach to chest to shoulders to neck, then meeting him once more at his lips. He groaned, his face twisting quite adorably at the taste of himself in her mouth. “If I must taste it, love,” she said with a smile, “then you must too.”

His eyes popped open, then. “No,” he said, “no, no, you mustn’t do anything which you do not like.” With some effort, he craned his neck to see her, his hands coming up to cup at her face. “Neither something to me, nor with me, nor for me. I will only see you brought perfect pleasure in our bed.” 

“You misunderstand me,” she said, raising a brow. “I did not dislike it. I did not dislike it quite a bit.”

A moment, then he blushed, divining her true meaning, and flopping his head back down. “I see.”

She tittered, feeling once more a girl of sixteen years old, in love with a boy and with the funny feeling in her stomach whenever he smiled at her. 

“As well, I felt as though I had a debt to pay for all the pleasures you performed upon me last night. I must say,” she said, nestling into the space of his shoulder, drawing her finger up the planes of his chest, “that was very well done for one who has never known a woman.”

He frowned, though she more felt it than saw it. “How do you mean?”

“What you said to me, all those years ago--that you had lain with ‘no mortal woman.’” It had been a phrase which had haunted her waking dreams, ringing in her ears like the bells of the churches on every street corner, frightening her into withholding the truth of her heart for far too long. 

An odd smile crossed his face, then, something far more smug and self-confident than she had ever seen him before. Percy lightly stroking the skin of her neck, she shivered, pressing into him. “No mortal woman, yes.”

The implication of emphasis was clear. 

She leaned up on an elbow, incredulous. “An… immortal one?”

Strange little smile, he nodded. 

Her heart thudded in his chest. An immortal woman. The pool of potential partners had just expanded considerably. “Well,” she said, perhaps a little shakily. “Look at you.”

Look at me, she wished to say. Look at me, so plain and mortal. Look at me, who spurned and rejected you, whose beauty shall fade in time, who will one day leave you, through no will of my own.

Curiosity overcame the greater part of her fear. “With whom?”

But Percy, sensing her turmoil, raised himself up on his elbow to look her in the eyes. “One day,” he said, soft and low, “I shall tell you the truth of it. I shall divulge every moment of that time, and how each one paled in comparison to the long, cold, lonely nights beside the Danapris. For now, however,” he reached out to tuck a stray curl behind the swell of her ear. “Now, let us have peace. There will be time later for talk--a whole life’s worth of it, and one I look forward to sharing with you.”

“A whole life’s worth,” she agreed, settling down beside him. Instantly, he turned his body towards her, his arm coming up once more to pull her close. “I cannot think of anything better.”

“Nothing?” he teased.

“Well,” she said, stretching her neck up towards his face, matching smiles adorning their faces, “not quite nothing.”

In truth, there was nothing more she required of him than this, his body beside hers, their fingers intertwined, and their hearts finally, finally, finally together.

But she would never say no to another kiss.

It took them the better part of the morning, but they did eventually find the strength to pull themselves out of each other’s arms in order to get dressed and rejoin the household. The feel of Percy pulling the laces of her stays made her wonder if perhaps her maidservant would find herself relieved of that duty. When he was done, he pushed her hair aside and kissed her neck, the feeling of his chapped lips against her skin inspiring yet another surge of heat inside of her which nearly forced her to rip her clothing right back off, but the dual promises of food and her son kept her from pulling him back to her bed.

The bed they would now share, she was sure. 

She found one of her veils, a white one detailed in blue that she had hoped her husband would like, and began wrapping it around her head. “Must you torture me so, my love,” he said, face set in an adorable pout.

“How do you mean?”

“Why do you insist on covering even more of yourself?” As he spoke, he reached under it before she pinned it in place, and pulled several of her curls out of it. 

She giggled at his expression, strikingly reminiscent of the one which Alexandros wore when he did not wish to eat his sprouts. “You wish everyone to see me?” 

“Well, perhaps not all of you,” Percy admitted, his hand curling around her waist. “Some parts of you are mine alone.” He brushed his hand over the space where her feminine center lay, and even through her gown, it was nearly too much. “Yet, if it meant I never had to have it shielded from my view, I would not mind everyone seeing your hair.”

Pausing, she considered his eager, wide-eyed look. It was a little scandalous, but… there was not much work to be done outside of the household today. What was the harm? 

She stripped her veil away running a hand through her hair. Unexpectedly, it caught on something hard and crusty resting in her curls. Frowning, she pulled on her hair, confused--then when she realized what it was, she felt her entire face heat.

“If you insist on spending your seed in my hair, love,” she said, dryly, “then I will not be able to walk around with it uncovered.”

He flushed, too, dark and red, turning and retrieving one of her combs from her table. “Allow me then to rectify my mistake.” 

“Oh, no, no.” She waved him off. “As your punishment, I am going to keep it this way. But, as I am a respectable, married woman, and respectable married women tend hot to keep their husbands seed in their hair, it will be covered, for now, to teach you a lesson regarding aim and husbandly manners.”

Thoroughly chastised, yet still smiling, he set down the comb. “Might I… plait it, before you cover it, then?” 

Once he promised he would not attempt to remove his dried seed, she acquiesced.

It was not her boldest fantasy about the man sitting beside her, but she had long dreamed of the feeling of his hands through her hair. The only time she had experienced the feeling before had been the day he had cut all of it off. It had been quite the experience, certainly, and convenient in many many ways, but given his affection now, she vastly preferred this. 

He made quick work, weaving her hair into a rope, not as delicate or intricate as she might have done, but still, the fact that it was Percy doing the weaving, Percy tracing his fingers about the shape of the curls, Percy performing the act, made all the difference.

When he had finished, he tied it off with a leather strap, kissing at her hairline. “Please,” he murmured, “do not ever think that you are not the picture of wifely virtue in my eyes.”

A flattery, for Annabeth could not quite imagine what about her was the picture of wifely virtue--she had just insisted on wearing her husband's seed, for gods’ sake. She was neither deferential nor demure. She had broken his heart, and forced his hand, ripping him away from his life to deliver her halfway across the world, and then once more. Certainly he loved her. She knew that now, and could see it through their long years together. But to see her that way, when she felt so much like she failed as a wife, and could only now make it up to him with the full force of her devotion, was almost more than she could take. 

“When I have the best husband in the world,” she said, “to be a good wife is no great difficulty.” 

He paused and took her hand in his once again, kissing at her knuckles and then the palm, along a very old, once very deep scar. Then, her hand still in his, he led them out of the bedroom, and into their house. 

In some corner of her mind, she had expected just a little bit more of a reaction from the other members of the house. She thought the servants would have given them a suspicious look or two, or, at the very least, for Alexandros’ nurse to raise an eyebrow, yet neither strange word was spoken, nor odd look thrown their way as they walked their apartments, or sat down for their luncheon. In that state of utter normalcy, then, when they were done, they went to visit Alexandros.

Usually, Percy and Annabeth had often spent much of their time with their son alone, without their partner, as Percy was often at sea, and on his return, Annabeth rather felt she needed to leave them be, so that they could bond without any external influence on her part. Today, Alexandros sat between them, trading smiles with his father. They looked so alike, it warmed her heart. 

It always had, from his first moments, and even before, as she had been eager for her son to look like his papa, yet for the past year, there had been something of a painful edge to it, to the heavy knowledge that, while she had the love of her son, she did not have that of his father. It had been sweet and pure and perfect, yet bitter and cold as well. Now, however, as a family, real and whole and complete, she could not help but be overwhelmed with them both, with how much she loved them, and with the knowledge that they loved her in return. 

After an hour or so, in which Percy entertained her son with his menagerie of little animal toys, Alexandros turned to her, wide-eyed and innocent. “Mamma,” he said, grasping at her breast. “Mamma.”

“Are you hungry, my darling?” she asked, picking him up and taking him onto her lap, as she had dismissed his nurse when they’d come into the nursery. Now that he was on solid foods, he required less nursing on the whole, but his nursemaid also knew that Annabeth vastly preferred to do the deed herself, in something of a break with convention. She had not done so in the presence of Percy since Alexandros had been the smallest of newborns, on that ship, in the tightest, most unavoidable of quarters, and when they had reached Venice, and Nico had set them up at his house while they waited to find their own, Percy had left her alone to it. No longer bashful, she undid her lacings, and pulled down her chemise, and with very little effort, began to feed her son. 

Percy swept several of the toys aside, and came and sat with her on the little bench she held him on. 

“I am so happy,” he said, in a quiet voice, “that you have such a wonderful mamma, Alexandros. You deserve only the best--and you have received it.” 

She looked at him, and there were tears forming in his eyes. One like a crystal rolled down his cheek, and he made no move to hide it, or pretend it was not there. Percy was not usually one to weep--that was more her own purview, to her great chagrin--but she was pleased to see how he presented no shame at the thought of revealing his emotions. Good, bad, towering, subtle, a crashing wave or a gentle tide, after years of being deprived of his feelings through her own foolish actions, at last, she had them once again. 

“I love you,” she said again, unthinkingly, though she must have repeated the sentiment a thousand times before in the last few hours. She had wasted many a year by denying them both the truth, and so, she vowed, she would never withhold it again.

He smiled, face wet like the morning mist off the shore, moving closer, shoulder to shoulder, hand in hand, kiss to her brow. “And I, you.”

The day proceeded as naturally as possible from there, though they did not return Alexandros to the care of his nanny until the hour had grown quite late. Watching Percy hold him, as their little boy drifted to sleep in his arms, she was loath to part with such a wonderful picture. 

They laid him in his bed together, then, as soon as they had closed the door behind them, Percy picked her up, clear off the ground. She shrieked as she suddenly found herself in his clutches, though she knew it to be the safest of all possible places. “What are you doing?” she gasped, breathless with laughter.

“Holding what I cherish as close as I can,” he said, a touch dramatic, and swept her off to her bedroom. 

“You lovesick fool!” she cried, giggling as he practically bounded through the halls.

The moment the door had closed behind him, he dropped her on their bed, nearly ripping her veil right off of her head. 

“Please, take care--I happen to quite like the stitching on that one,” but he stopped her chiding in its tracks as he wound his fingers through her hair, dislodging handfuls of it from its braid, and pulling her mouth to his. 

“You have punished me long enough, I think,” he smirked, “and now I shall have my revenge.” 

His revenge was the sweetest kind. 

With a gentle hand, much lighter than she had expected, he unwound her hair, and, picking up her comb from where he had set it down earlier, went about brushing it out, the slow, sweet process of removing his leavings from their earlier intimacies. 

She winced as he pulled on a particularly knotty section. Of the many pains and indignities she’d suffered, her hair being tugged by her husband was not terribly high on any sort of list, though she was a bit theatrical about it. 

“A thousand pardons, my love,” Percy said. 

Oh, Annabeth could hear him say it a hundred times, and she did not think she would ever tire of those words. She had no wish to abandon their old, childish names for each other, but adorations such as these filled her with a lightness she had never known. 

“I shall need a thousand more” she said, “as you should not have spread your seed so liberally. Going forward, we shall have to clean it more quickly.” 

“I will endeavor not to pain you so,” he replied as he moved all her hair aside, planting a hot string of kisses along her neck that caused her to question the sincerity of such statements. Then, taking up a jug, he poured a bit more water on the hardened curls, reapplying the comb. 

“See that you do,” she said, “and that, in the future, you shall place your seed where it belongs.” 

“And where, pray tell, would that be?” 

He leaned in again to suck at the junction of her neck and shoulder and she moaned at the feeling, bringing her own hand to her center, rubbing lightly, before it grew to be too much, and she pulled away from him turning around to face him properly. 

Lifting her skirts to sit astride his lap, she said, “It belongs inside of me.” 

Wrapping one hand around the curve of his shoulder, she snaked the other between them, down to his breeches. And squeezed. 

“Yes.” he breathed, hot and heavy. 

“Oh, yes,” she agreed, short and clipped, trying to force her own breathless desire down for just a moment longer, “for if you do not spill inside of me, how am I to give you more sons?”

She leaned in to kiss him again, but he pulled back. 

Not far, not out of her arms, but away. All lust faded from her, replaced with concern. 

“You do not have to give me a single thing,” he said earnestly, raising a hand, and tracing her cheek with a sword-callused finger. 

“What?”

Sincerely, far more sincerely than his earlier promise of decorum, he brushed a stray curl from her face. “You have given me more than any man deserves--yourself, and our son. Please, please, my love, my dearest dearest Ana Zabeta, do not ever think I would ask any more of you.” 

His words took a moment to sink in, but when they did, they strung with the bitter bite of a poison dagger. “You… do not want any other children, then?” she asked, attempting to keep her voice level, her face calm, her pulse slow. 

“Do not think me to be so greedy,” he said. “My love, do not think I would put you through such pain and fear again. I have our son, and I have you. My only desire is for your health and happiness.” 

“But…” She knew not what to say, how to argue against this. If he truly wanted no more children, if Alexandros was to be their only one-- 

He went on, beseeching. “Yet do not despair, for I can love and pleasure you in a hundred ways which shall carry no risk. I can give you everything you desire, and you shall never want for my affection and my care.” 

“But I do desire more children.” It sounded petulant to her own ears, but, there was no other way to express the force of her wants. “Alexandros is perfect, his father is perfect--how can I not wish for more? Faced with such perfection, how can I not dream of growing our family, our home, our love?” 

He looked at her, his handsome features marred by hesitation and fear. “I… could not bear to lose you, Anja,” he said, softly, achingly gentle. “I only just got you. I almost lost you so many times before, either to monsters or to years of silly arguments and pointless squabbling. I almost lost you to pregnancy last time.” His voice shook as he spoke. “I, too, would love more children, but not if it carries any risk to you. You are too precious to me,” he breathed, tracing his fingers over her skin, so careful. So wonderful. “I could not bear it if anything happened to you.” 

She leaned over, kissing his cheek, small, quiet tears at the corner of her vision. His pains were so clearly evident, for her and caused by her, all at once. “It will not be so dangerous as you imagine,” she said, hoping to put him at some kind of ease. “By some great fortune, Will is here. Not only is he the greatest healer in the world, he has magic: ambrosia and nectar and all sorts of potions and pastes.”

But she could not dismiss his concerns entirely. Bringing Alexandros into this world had been a frightening experience, her fear and terror lingering even for months afterwards, slow to fade.

“I will freely admit it is not without any risk,” she said, after a moment, “but we have taken so many risks together, for us and for others. We have faced only the greatest of dangers, dangers that our mortal peers could never even dream of in their darkest, most terrible thoughts. Let us face this smaller danger together, with all the comfort of our house, and all the safety of the good doctor. And,” she grasped the hand that still rested on her face, and pulled it away, bringing it to rest on her belly, “think of the reward.” 

He swallowed, casting his gaze downward. “It would be great,” he murmured, reverent, speaking before an altar.

“The greatest,” she promised. “I can give you more sons, each one greater than the last.” 

“And daughters?”

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I--” He flushed. “Well--if I am permitted, then, to indulge in greed…” He pulled his hand off her belly, taking hers and bringing it to his lips, kissing it, just as he had over two years ago in Athens, when they had sworn an end to their hostilities, speaking faster, and with greater intent. “Whenever I thought of a family for us, I always dreamt of a daughter, of your daughter, a little girl with all of her mother’s spirit, intelligence, and cunning, her strength of heart and her wickedness with a dagger.” 

“I see.” It had not even occurred to her. A daughter, yes, in passing, those things happened, but that Percy might wish it so strongly… “Yes,” she nodded. “We can work towards that, as well.” 

He slid a hand around her back, bringing her even closer, her chest flush against his clavicle, desire and worship in equal measure in the heat of his eyes. “Then let me give you as many sons and daughters as you wish, my love,” he whispered, a rumble in his chest she could better feel, rather than hear. “Let me see as many legacies of Athena as I can provide take Venice by storm.” 

And with that, he pulled her down onto the bed with him. 

 ***

 “I hate the lost years,” he whispered into her skin, “but the truth of the matter is that I could not have made you a good husband when we were young.”

“Of course you would have,” she said, breathless, her mind mostly on his hands as they combed up her flanks. His skill with his tongue, his hands, his cock, it all had to be innate.

Still stroking her tender, he said, apologetic. “I had no means to support a wife. I still have no means to support a wife. It is only due to a sheer stroke of luck that you possess enough means for the both of us.”

“I have looked at the accounts,” she pointed out. “In just two voyages you have earned back nearly all of our investment. Within a year, you and Nico will be clear and settled. You support your wife and your child quite well.” 

She’d almost said ‘children,’ but she did not wish to curry his excitement just yet. The midwife had not been so sure, and given Annabeth a whole host of other potential maladies.

Will had said it was not any of those things, but told her to feel for the quickening, and then they might all know for sure.

"You support us,” Percy said, “I merely work to make sure your money goes far. I do not mind,” he sat up, assuring, “It is not a question of some manly pride on my part. I am so very happy that you and Alexandros are so well cared for, and that you care for me, as well. That it must all fall to you, however, and that without our journey to Svealand, I would not be able to see you taken care of as you deserve, is what irks me so.”

“But I am,” she said, “I am well taken care of by you.”

His smile was too small and sad for such a happy conversation. “I love you with more passion than I believe some know to be possible,” he said, simply, “and I hope I take care of you in many ways. I pray that I am a worthy steward of your money, and that I represent you well when I use it on both of our behalf. Yet I must never forget it was you who brought such an asset into our marriage. We would have had nothing after the war with the titans, and I would have hated that.”

"I would have had you,” she told him, equally as simply. 

What a sweet thought! How they might have grown together in that time! How many children mind they have, now, if they had not gotten in their own way!  

“I would have worked my hardest to be worthy of you,” he said, all the earnestness of youth clear on his face, “but I fear you would have only ended up with the least eligible man in all of Constantinople.”

She laughed at his little jest.

He did not laugh with her.

Her laughter trailed off at his confused look.

By the gods, he was serious. 

“Need I remind you,” she said, “that you were the most eligible man in all of the agoge.”

“I was no such thing,” he said. “When my lack of any kind of material advantages showed, all women but you were rightfully scared away.”

Annabeth stared at him. This man. Her husband, father of her son, love of her life. A great hero, a brilliant strategist, the person she’d want with her in battle over all else.

And, she sometimes remembered, the occasional fool.

“Do you know how much effort I spent, Percy, seducing women away from you?”

He blinked. “What?”

“Oh yes.” And what a time that had been. “Most of the girls of our little village had their own money, you know. Katya had some truly wonderful land, I was told, and Tora’s father was simply dripping in silks and spices.”

“You… seduced them?”

“I did indeed,” Annabeth said, easy and straightforward. “I distracted them, made them think that a man would not be worth their troubles compared to the passion I could provide.”

It had not, precisely, been much of a chore. They had been beautiful women, all, vivacious and full of life. Clarice and Silena had been her own choices, of course, sweet childhood romances while she’d mulled over her feelings for Percy, but the women whom she’d engaged so they might direct their attentions away from the man she loved had proven to be sweetly entertaining nonetheless.

“You romanced Katya and Tora to get them away from me?” His eyes were wide, the blush in his cheeks winding its way down his chest, roses in bloom.

“Not just them,” she said. “Between our journey through the labyrinth and the great war, I must have bedded… oh, half the children of Aphrodite--save Silena, of course, who was too enraptured by Carlo by then. And then a few others.” It was truly a wonder she had not garnered something of a terrible reputation. Truly, the children of the gods were an enlightened few, unburdened by arbitrary rules. “You were quite the catch.”

He blinked again, his gaze very far off. “You must have been… very distracting.” 

His voice hitched, and she realized he might have been picturing it.

“Oh yes,” she nodded. “I was quite the distraction.” Leaning in close, she trailed a line of kisses from his jaw up to his ear. She liked the rough stubble against her lips, a feeling she’d only ever known from Percy. She’d long loved women, their smooth skin and sweet faces and musical voices, as friends and partners both, but she loved Percy, too. “Would you like to hear about it, my love? Would you like the stories of the women I seduced, so I could have you all to myself?” she whispered into his ear.

He whined, marvelously, his breath shuddering in his chest.

She would not give him all the stories today, as she had many to share. Before he went back out to sea, however, she would give him a few.

 ***

 “Do not think,” Annabeth said, attempting crossness even as she lounged on their bed, “that I shall allow you to continue to put off your voyage this way.”

“Think you so little of me?” She could sense him attempting crossness as well, though he was far less accomplished at it than she was. “Which one of us can control the waves, again?”

“And which one of us has put off the extraordinarily lucrative Genoese shipment for the last two months?” she countered.

Percy shrugged one shoulder, jostling the bowl of olives awkwardly held in the crook of his arm, though he had remained in that position for at least an hour, now. “Giovanni does not require my assistance to move a few silks and spices ‘round the country. L’Imperatrice is in good hands, I promise you,” he said, plucking a fruit from the bowl and feeding it to her.

L’Imperatrice--the Empress. That he had named his flagship after the little canoe which had carried them together through to the ends of the earth, which had taken her name from Percy’s private little fantasy, it sent her heart on a strange little dance.

Annabeth should have been cross with him, truly. In all considerations of the situation, to defer and delegate such an important shipment to his mortal second-in-command who did not possess even a tenth of Percy’s skill with the waves in order to spend time with his pregnant wife, rubbing her feet and hand-feeding her olives, was a poor business decision. She should have been cross, yet, doted upon and loved and with a belly full of his children, she simply could not bring herself to feel anything less than perfect bliss, neither anger, nor irritation, nor even a passing annoyance. 

Yes, children. Will, the poor man whom they kept poaching away from the Conte di Angelo,  suspected it to be two. Her treasures were many, and multiplying. 

She moved her body, just a little, repositioning herself on the soft bed. Though her pregnancy had been rather a dull affair, all things considered, as compared to the previous one, some things, unfortunately, had remained constant.

“Still,” she said, as she refused to give up quite so easily, “please do promise me that you shall go down to the docks to at least speak with the man before he departs.”

“I suppose I could,” he tilted his head, considering.

She narrowed her eyes. Having seen and catalogued all possible configurations of his handsome face by now, there was virtually no possible way to construe this one as sincere.

“Or,” he said, a lascivious grin crossing his face, his free slowly, agonizingly slowly, tracing random patterns on her shift and her skin, sauntering ever so vaguely downwards. “Or, I could spend the afternoon doing something infinitely more… appetizing, shall we say, than speaking to Giovanni.”

Percy, the absolute rapscallion, even had the audacity to lick his lips.

Damn him. Her sense memory was far too strong to resist.

It was only a matter of time before she gave in. She knew it, he knew it--to argue otherwise would only be prolonging the inevitable, driving their lusts higher and higher with impatience and anticipation.

So, then, she decided to prolong it a little.

She hummed, tapping her chin with a finger. “Allow me to think on it for a moment or two.”

“Of course, my love,” he murmured, his voice already deep and warm, the quality it only took on during activities such as these. His fingers had transported themselves from her collarbone and clavicle to the skin of her shin, dancing and tapping at the edge of her shift, occasionally crossing underneath the hem. “You shall have all the time you require.”

Tap, tap, tap, a maddening little dance he played on the bumps and ridges of her knee, so distracting she could not even focus on pretending to be uninterested, her hips moving of their own accord, ever so slightly.

As it happened, she did not require nearly as much time to decide as she had thought she would.

And she did not even mind terribly when the bowl of olives, overturned and spilled in haste, ended up on the floor.

 ***

 For weeks, Annabeth had been dreading the birth. Twice the children, twice the trouble, she had thought, and given just how dangerous the last one had been, she had been wracked with nerves for days. Not even Percy’s presence, warm and soothing and solid, could chase away her fears.

Though, at the very least, there was no danger of Percy accidentally raising another typhoon.

“Much simpler than last time, no?” Will had commented in Greek, attending to Annabeth while he had his assistant wrap the babies. “I was, at the very least, expecting some sort of earthquake to send the city plunging into the lagoon.”

Percy chuckled at the good-natured jest, far past the point of chagrin. “To have you here the whole time has put me much at ease, Dottore,” he said. “If you are certain there is nothing more I can do for you as repayment--”

But he waved Percy off, wiping down an instrument. “Think nothing of it. I am always glad to assist old friends.”

“Scusatemi, signora,” said his assistant, timidly, holding the newest members of their family in her arms. She had been somewhat scandalized when Percy had not made himself scarce during the birthing process, as was customary for menfolk, and though she had not been outwardly cold to him, or anything less than professional, Annabeth could sense she was still in something of a state of shock. “I tuoi infanti--un bambinetto e una bambinetta.” 

Having already assisted Annabeth into a sitting position, Percy relieved her of one child, passing it to his wife, then took for himself the other. She had received the bambinetto, the little boy, curly wisps of blond hair nearly invisible against his skin. Just as Alexandros had been, he was beautiful, tiny and wrinkled, yet sublime in his smallness, in the little hands which curled into fists, in the slow, sleepy blink of his gray eyes as he first ever beheld the light, beheld his mother’s face. 

Loving Percy had been an unexpected surprise, something for which she had neither predicted nor planned. Loving Alexandros had been something of a foregone conclusion, a soothing balm to her then-broken heart, and she had feared she would not have enough room in her soul for her son, so taken was she with his father, unwilling to exchange one for the other. Loving this little boy, however, and his sister, would be the simplest thing in the world. 

She turned to her husband, pleased to see the look of awe and delight on his face. “Well, kærasti? How fares you now, now that I have given you a daughter?”

So enraptured, it was as if he had not heard her.

The door opened then, with a creak, a small, dark-haired shape toddling his way in, past the reaching hand of his caretaker. “Mamma!” he cried. “Mamma!”

“Accidenti,” muttered the Conte di Angelo, standing in the doorway. “A thousand apologies, Annabeth, but your little… child… could not be contained.”

She laughed. “Worry not--I have heard more than a few similar such sentiments from his nanny.”

Clumsily, lacking all grace, Alexandros clambered up onto the bed, making to crawl towards his mother, until he was stopped by the nigh impassable barrier of Percy’s outstretched leg. “Careful, careful,” Percy said, sweetly. “Your mamma is resting.”

All wide eyes and curiosity, he crept even closer, his mouth hanging open in a child’s confusion, as doctor, midwife, and count exited the room, in the periphery of her vision.

“Angele mou,” she murmured, “would you like to meet your brother?”

He did not respond, not so old yet that he possessed the gift of uninhibited communication, but he did peer, curiously, at the small thing in his mother’s arms. 

If she cast her mind back, Annabeth could not quite recall the first time she had ever met her brothers. Buried beneath the dirt and rubble of time and more pressing matters, she tried to remember if she had been excited to become an older sibling, to have some sort of sororal responsibility for her father’s new wife. Her situation had been quite different, of course; she had been old enough to comprehend what was taking place, and too clever by far for her to not feel some resentment, and in a fit of terror and rage, had taken flight into the unknown. 

Alexandros, perhaps, did not yet understand the matter, could not quite understand that these two little things were now his family, that his mama’s love and his papa’s attention would no longer be solely focused upon him. 

“This is your brother, Lukas,” she told him, the name she and Percy had agreed upon, a bygone memory of a friend and brother who had taken care of them both, and risen above all his failures in the end. “Can you say hello?”

“Loo-kas,” he said, reaching out a pudgy hand.

“Very good!” She was charmed far too easily by her children, but she simply could not help herself--it was far too sweet an image. “And that,” she said, indicating her husband beside her, “is your sister.”

If Percy could even conceive of a world outside of his daughter, now, he showed no indication of it, barely even moving when Alexandros made his way over to him, grasping onto his shoulder for balance. 

Hushed, she asked him, “Percy? Have you chosen a name for her?”

They had spent weeks agonizing over names for their newborns. Names had power, they knew intimately, and had to be chosen with great care. When it was determined she would be having twins, they had each agreed to choose one child’s name, to be shared with their partner, or kept a surprise. Percy knew the names for which she had a distinct distaste, and so she was not concerned he would choose something she truly hated, but she was quite curious. 

His gaze, green and glassy, was fixed on his daughter, a single tear falling down his cheek, his throat working as he summoned the will to speak. “Anja,” he murmured.

“Yes, my love?”

He turned to her then, his mouth trembling, the sunrise of his joy breaking on his face, warm and brilliant. “Her name is Anja.”

If her heart were any more full, it would burst right out of her chest.

“Then, if you are able to part with her, I believe Anja,” her voice hitched as she spoke the name aloud, the name of the little girl with blonde hair and gray eyes and all of her father’s love, “is in need of a little food.”

Percy nodded, bringing his little Anja to his lips, and laying a soft kiss on her blonde head.

Carefully, then, he passed her to Annabeth, making sure she was well situated in her mother’s arms, then he brushed a hand over Lukas’s head, as softly and tenderly as he could. This man could fight and kill, lead armies and win wars. His blood was that of the earth-shaker, the vengeful, the violent, who cursed and doomed any who would harm his children. Yet here he was, the absolute gentlest of fathers.

Little Alexandros, sweet thing, was drooping, sleepiness over taking his frame. Plucking him up, Percy transferred him to his other arm, so that he could be even closer to her, tucking Alexandros beneath one arm, and Annabeth beneath the other, his fingers playing with the ends of a curl or two. 

The lord of the sea could never be so soft, cradling Sarah and a baby Percy, nor the lady of war so affectionate, cuddling with Fredrik while they looked on their little Anja. All children of the gods emulated their parents, in ways both great and small, proliferated year after year, generation after generation, all their mistakes reborn alongside the heroes and the monsters and the stories. Yet, sometimes, they could break free of it. A daughter of Athena and a son of Poseidon could learn to trust each other, to love each other, to end the mighty rivalry of the heavens--and thus, in this way, they were already better than their parents, like the words of the old poet. 

Yes, she thought, as Anja and Lukas took their food, as Alexandros fell asleep in the crook of his father’s arm, as Percy stroked her hair, the thump of his heartbeat beneath her shoulder, beautifully, breathlessly mortal. Yes, they were better, by far.

#this is a very very long one #the marble king #darkmagk #perseannabeth #pataytayo #my fic #pjo #percabeth #IT'S DONE WTF #ao3 chapter will be posted tomorrow but i am posting it tonight bc it is DONE #🎺🎺🎺🎺🎺 WOOO WTF