#uhhhh who else likes this fic lmk if you want to be tagged

[threadsun]

Anonymous Asks: "Could you maybe if I asked really nicely have pictures or descriptions of your ocs appearances cause I’m having trouble imagining them while reading your fics about them also if it’s not too much trouble could you also just write any nasty little sex head cannons for them. If not completely fine! Stay safe ❤️"

Oooh so all but two of the ocs I've written about have lil pics in my oc intro tag, Moon has drawn Zander a couple times (one with their oc/Z's spouse, Nik :3), and Lucky... uhhhh the best way I can describe him looking is kinda like Vinnie Jones 😂 I never know what to focus on in descriptions of how people look and little doodles and picrews can't fully do them justice, so if you have specific questions lmk :3

As for nasty lil sex headcanons >:3 gonna give you something for all of them so it'll be long and under the cut~

Zander

He's a complete switch verse, and very service oriented. All he wants is to make you happy. He'll forget completely about his own pleasure and is more than happy not to cum, as long as you're enjoying yourself. He's a god at oral, and has a major oral fixation. He'll suck on anything you give him and he'll take any excuse to get between your thighs. Generally he's amazing in bed because he's had So Much Practice catering to every kind of tastes.

Lee

He hasn't had much experience, but he's definitely eager. He's been 19 for a very long time and usually doesn't even have time to eat let alone do anything else. Which means he's very pent up when he eventually is in a position to have sex with someone. He can be a needy sub or a desperate dom, and either way he'll be a little bit feral about it because he hasn't cum in centuries. He's also interested in trying everything at least once!

Mavet

Mav desperately needs to turn their brain off, so when it comes to sex they just don't want to have to think too hard. This leads him to be a bit of a primal dom and a mindless sub. Anything that lets them stop thinking and get lost in the pleasure of being with their partner. He also loves to worship and praise his partner. Their main goal is to make sure you feel adored and special, because to Mav you are! He's definitely a softer dom.

Glitch

Rough tongue, barbed cock, and pointy fangs and claws. He's a catboy through and through! Not that he likes it, but it's just a fact. They're a rough, mean dom most of the time, especially because their desire tends to manifest as frustration and annoyance. If you can get them to sub for you, they're vocal and very pathetic. It takes a while to get him to let his guard down, but if you succeed (or piss them off enough) then the sex will be amazing.

Charles

I hope you like the most repressed lil freak in the world! Desire makes him feel almost as guilty as his hunger for blood. This means that when he finally snaps and gives into his desires, it's intense. As a dom, it's a lot of roughness and "punishing" you for making him snap like this. As a sub, it's lots of crying and apologising and guilt. You do have to deal with all the weird emotional repression and whatnot before and afterwards though. Good luck!

Lin

Dissection and sex are two sides of the same coin for him, and one frequently leads to another. While he can be a very cute, pathetic sub, he's a downright clinical dom. You're a specimen to him, something to be poked and prodded, to study your reactions and inspect you. His actual understanding of the language used around sex and whatnot are minimal, but he'll gladly indulge his and your fantasies whenever you want~

Etienne

Another one who gives amazing head! His injury leaves him with limited use of his legs and on his bad days he tends to experience erectly dysfunction. But there are so many more ways he knows to have fun with a partner (or multiple) that it doesn't make a difference to how good he is. He's up for anything if you can convince him it'll be fun! And honestly, there's nothing you can ask of him or do to him that'll surprise him, he's done just about everything.

Lucky

Lucky isn't as interested in sex as most of my guys. He's mostly interested in watching other people go at it, sometimes helping out if he's asked. But he's fond of groping and playing with people. Holding you in his lap and essentially using you as a stim toy. He'll absentmindedly use his hands on you, kiss you, grind against you. And if you catch him in the right mood or give him a good reason to fuck you, he's strong and rough.

Yofiel

The most notable thing about her (other than the way she'll make you feel like you've seen every face of god when y'all fuck) is that she looks beautiful at every moment. Seriously, they don't have a single bad angle, no matter how sweaty and messy and raw everything gets, they always look perfect. Not to mention every single touch from him reminds you that you're getting intimate with an angel, not just a mere human.

Yana

She's ace, and an exclusively dom sadist. Also she's stone. Don't you dare fucking touch her, just cry and let her beat you half to death. She's more into nonsexual kink, but if you really make it worth her while, she might consider touching you sexually. Specifically if she can use it to cause you more pain and/or discomfort. But really, that's all you're gonna get from her. And don't expect much in the way of aftercare either, she's straight up just an asshole.

Azza

Along with Etienne, he's your guy for intox stuff. You've gotta be okay with fucking outside though! Sure, he'll fuck in your house if he has to, but he definitely would rather find somewhere nice in nature. Predictably, he can get pretty animalistic. Primal stuff comes naturally to him. He's another switch verse, like almost all of my lil guys, and he's more than happy to take whatever role you want him to. He's all about the pleasure for both of you.

Aisling

Sex is one of the many things she finds fascinating about humans. It's so... weird and sticky and... honestly, she doesn't really understand it. But they're so down to try it! You've just gotta keep things novel and interesting for him or she'll get bored. But hey, that does mean he's up for anything! As long as it's new or fun or she can inspect you like a bug during it, she's happy. Though, admittedly, they have a fondness for hair pulling and biting.

Gin

Her favourite place to fuck is underwater, unsurprisingly. The fact that you can't breathe is a bonus! She's very fond of breathplay and fearplay~ She also has very sharp teeth and is a biter, and the taste of blood makes her a little feral. Generally, she's a good one to go to if you're into pain and fear and being toyed with like someone playing with their food. Don't be mistaken, though, there's no lack of passion from her. She's very vocal about being into you.

Missy

Physical touch isn't exactly... a thing she can do easily. If y'all can find a way around that, then things get easier! But if not... well, there's plenty of ways for you two to enjoy each other without touching. Mutual masturbation is one of their favourites. Or one of you ordering the other around, making each other do various sexy things for the other to watch. If you have a glove kink or any other sort of clothing kink, though, she's thrilled to oblige!

#sunshine #zander #leslie #mav #glitch (mouse) #charles #master lin #etienne #lucky #yofi #yana #azza #aisling #ginny greenteeth #misery (missy) #18+ only

[phykios]

honesty and promise me, part 12 [co-written with @darkmagyk] [read on ao3]

Annabeth turns to the left. She turns to the right. She sucks in her gut, raising her arms above her head, stretching her fingers to the ceiling, before letting them drop back to her sides. 

Then she sighs. Even in perfect posture, the bump is still visible. 

She knows, of course, what pregnancy does to people. But knowing in theory and experiencing it for yourself is… something else entirely. Annabeth can go through a checklist of pregnancy symptoms--frequent urination, nausea, mood swings, weird cravings--in an hour and not bat an eye, but this is different, somehow. This is visual.

Scrubbing her hands over her face, she sighs again. And now she’s standing in front of a mirror examining her naked body like a poorly written female protagonist. She makes a face at herself, lips pursed, mashing her boobs together for no other reason than to look ridiculous. 

The mere fact that she can do that means they are getting bigger. 

Well that’s something at least. 

Then, of course, she sees the problem. “Oh, what?” she says, out loud. “Come on.”

Her growing stomach is starting to warp the tattoo on her stomach. 

She had gotten it at twenty-five, an ionic capital, a tribute to days gone past, resting parallel with the top of her thigh. It was wide, wider than she had envisioned it, but with thin, delicate, dotted shading, half cast in shadow from an implied sun. Annabeth remembers the artist laboring over it for hours, tongue poking out from between her black lips, bent over her skin while Annabeth stared at her half-shave and tried desperately to think about how much she wanted it instead of her old life back. 

And now it’s ruined. Her baby bump, ever so slightly, has begun to pull at the lines, those perfect, straight lines of the ancient masters. She turns to the side, stepping up to the mirror for a closer look. If this is any indication, it will only get more distorted the bigger she gets. And who knows if it will bounce back afterwards. 

“Fuck me,” she moans. Which of her other tattoos is this thing going to ruin, too? The wrapping olive branch around her right thigh? The quiet, scribbled “be brave now” under her ribcage? The butterflies around her belly button? 

Okay, in fairness, she actually doesn’t care about the butterflies. They were an impersonal tattoo picked out from an art book by Thalia on a semi-drunken dare, but at least Annabeth had gotten her back, with a goofy looking palm tree that had to be splashed on her side, fronds extending around to the front and back. Honestly, Thalia had been so nonplussed about the whole thing, Annabeth had kind of been thinking of one for herself. Not a palm tree, maybe, but something tall and stately, that would cover up a lot of the shitty little one off tattoos that littered her skin.

Someone, Thalia maybe, should have warned her that tattoos were an addiction all on their own. Annabeth doesn’t regret them, of course, but it is… a lot. They’re not nice and orderly, like they might be if she had planned them out as a part of a bigger design. 

The big ones, she can trace in chronological order, a timeline of her fall from grace written out across her body: first the owl, then the ionic order, the viking sword on her left leg, the Greek red-figure pottery on her right shoulder (which still isn’t complete, fuck, but the fill-in hurts so bad and she hasn’t had time to get that fixed), and lastly the olive branch. Those are the big ones; the little ones, filling the gaps, they might as well have appeared by magic for all she can remember getting them.

Not like Percy’s--Percy’s have meaning. Purpose. A star on his hip for his baby sister, and a bluebird on his ribs for his first major role. Annabeth’s are all over the place. 

There are a lot of words scattered across her skin, and a lot of dumb, meaningless phrases that surely had meant something to her at the time. She spots a “focus” on her wrist and a “breathe” on her knee; trite phrases like “bee yourself” with a cartoon honeybee on her upper right side; flowers connecting the disparate parts like a constellation, some real, some stylized. Her collarbone boasts a song lyric in scratchy handwriting, “wisdom’s daughter walks alone,” from some band from way back when. On her back, she knows there is a brick wall on her shoulder, “Brick By Boring Brick” written underneath in cursive, some kind of fancy compass rose, and… 

Jesus. She doesn’t even remember. When did she even get that star? Why? It’s not like she got them all when she was less than sober, she just… always went in for a new tattoo whenever she felt bad about herself. She’d bring a doodle of something on a bit of scrap paper and lose herself in the hum of the machine and the black ink on her pale skin until she was one step further from her mother’s idealized, impossible daughter. 

Apparently, based on her body, she’d felt bad about herself a lot over the last few years. 

Maybe she should get them removed? 

She frowns. That would be a lot of money. And who knows how badly it might fuck up an already fucked up post-pregnancy body. 

Besides, she does like them. She liked them then and she likes them now. 

But maybe she had gone a bit too far with them. 

What else is new? 

She sighs again. As much as she would love to stay at home and spend all day contemplating her shitty life choices, she now pays someone to do that for her, and if she lingers any longer staring at her ugly, distorted naked body, she’s going to be late for therapy. 

Throwing on a pair of leggings and a sweater dress with deodorant stains on the side, she trundles out into the chilly, late November afternoon, dreading every step and every bump of the subway along the way, until she reaches her therapist’s midtown office.

Dr. Vesta is a petite, almost mousey woman, but she radiates warmth and comfort like no one else Annabeth has ever met before. Or possibly that’s just the heater. It’s definitely the vibe of the room, with its low, cozy ceilings, plush and pleasant mustard yellow pillows, and the costume jewelry-studded tissue box on the table in front of her. It kind of reminds Annabeth of the drawing room of the grandmother she’d never had but always wanted; a place inviting, kitsch and charming and gently eccentric, a home to someone who no longer quite cared about keeping up appearances. 

She stands up when Annabeth enters, always greeting her with a gentle smile. “Welcome back,” she says, getting the door for her.

Annabeth grimaces. Even though she’s still pretty early on and not showing so obviously, she feels like people can just smell it on her, and assume that she needs their help. Well, of course Dr. Vesta knows--that was the whole reason she had agreed to start seeing her in the first place, despite her very busy schedule--but it’s weird when random strangers on the subway will offer her their seats, or when a barista throws in a free cookie along with her tea (God, she misses coffee so much, she misses coffee like an amputated limb). She’s used to intimidation, with her heavy boots and multiple facial piercings and spitting attitude. This newly discovered pity from strangers is… a lot to get used to.

Dr. Vesta doesn’t pity her, though. Or, if she does, she hides it really well. 

“Honestly, I wasn’t sure if I would be coming back,” she admits, settling onto the comfy couch, but Dr. Vesta just shrugs, smiling to herself as she sits back down onto her chair, drawing her red shawl around herself. 

“I had a feeling I would be seeing you again.”

She’s seen the good doctor twice now. Their first session had been surprisingly low-key; Dr. Vesta had said very little, allowing Annabeth to spin her yarn uninhibited, unjudged, and it had been actually kind of nice. It had been freeing to talk to someone completely outside of and objective to the whole situation.

The second session, though. Hoo boy. 

Annabeth has always known, under the surface, that she is a little messed up. She had hidden it really really well, from her parents and her teachers and her friends, until one day she just couldn’t take it any longer and set about burning every single one of her bridges, tripping headfirst into Thalia’s bar and her world. What she hadn’t realized, unfortunately, was that years of tattoos and piercings and shitty bands did not count for actual therapy. Dr. Vesta had taken one look at her with those kind, kind eyes, opened her mouth to ask her about her day, and Annabeth had fucking shattered. She had spent a solid forty five minutes just straight up sobbing, going through two whole boxes of tissues, and getting snot all over her sweater sleeves. 

After a display like that, Annabeth had seriously considered dropping off the face of the earth again. But the stakes are so much higher now. This is, officially, beyond just herself. And she’s not going to run from her past any more, for her sake, if not for her child’s.

“Tell me something good that happened this week, Annabeth.”

She proactively picks out a tissue, running the thin material through her fingers. Having something to play with makes it easier for her to speak more honestly, and she knows she’s going to cry anyway, so it just saves time. “I did a load of laundry that I’d been putting off for a while.”

It’s so pathetic, celebrating such a small, menial task, but Dr. Vesta beams. “That’s wonderful!”

“Luke came by with some groceries, too. Not just ramen, but like, actual microwaveable meals, with vegetables and everything.”

“He sounds like a wonderful friend.”

“He is,” Annabeth says softly, tearing the tissue. “He can be kind of a douche sometimes, but he’s like the older brother I never had.”

Dr. Vesta tilts her head, her gentle gaze still boring into her nonetheless. “How did you two meet?”

Smiling despite herself, she calls up the memory of a sunny day in Cambridge in late September. “At school. I went to some interdepartmental mixer for the undergrads looking to continue at one of the Harvard grad schools. I was looking at Art and Design, and he was a current MBA, and we just sort of hit it off.” She winces, wondering if she should leave the next part out. “Honestly, I only approached him because I thought… Well, I thought he might be someone my mom would approve of. The fact that he was so much older than me never even crossed my mind.”

“Did you ever pursue a relationship with him?” Dr. Vesta asks, perfectly non-judgemental.

She shakes her head. “I know we both thought about it plenty, but no. And I’m glad we never did.”

“Why do you think he would be someone your mother would approve of?”

“Well,” she says, “we’d be the ultimate power couple, right? Business and architecture, both Harvard grads… I thought my mom would be all over that.”

Dr. Vesta is quiet for a moment, collecting her thoughts, before she asks, “Did you often do things because you thought it might please your mother?”

Annabeth scoffs. “Only for my entire life. Sometimes I feel like there’s nothing in my life that’s mine, you know? Like everything I am is just a reflection of my parents. There wasn’t a damn thing in my life that wasn’t specifically chosen by my mother in service to her grand plan: oboe, Model U.N., field hockey, every single thing I did, I did because I thought it was what she wanted me to do.” 

“And were they?”

She almost doesn’t understand the question. “What?”

“Were these things what she wanted you to do?”

Already, she can feel the telltale sting of tears, threatening to fall. “Honestly? I have no idea. She would never say it outright, she would only ever be, like, ‘Admissions officers love to see this thing,’ or ‘I hear that that thing leads to better opportunities down the road.’”

“What do you mean?” Dr. Vesta asks, kindly.

It’s depressing enough that she has a whole damn rolodex of stories to choose from. Some are more painful than others, so she goes with a wound which has already healed. “So, in my freshman year of high school, I joined the Chess Club. Kind of nerdy, I know, but I loved chess, and I was really, really good at it. I loved the strategy. I loved making plans for every possible outcome--no matter what the other person did, I always knew the right thing to do. I couldn’t possibly fail. By the end of the year, I was elected Vice-President. I was going to completely revolutionize the Chess Club, and put our school’s team back on the competitive circuit.” She sighs. “And then I had lunch with my mom, and she told me that more Harvard students had listed Model U.N. as an extracurricular. She never even congratulated me for all the hard work I’d done in the Chess Club--hell, she never even acknowledged that I was in it. But I still quit Chess Club later that day.” Shaking her head, she rubs at her nose with the tissue. “God, I fucking hated Model U.N. But I stuck with it for three years. I never even talked to my Chess Club friends ever again.”

“It sounds like your mother had a profound impact on you, even though you rarely saw her.”

She snorts. “I idolized my mother. I wanted to be her so badly. I thought if I just followed her plan, then everything in my life would fall into place.”

“And what was her plan?”

She is glad she has the issue at the ready. “Take over the world, probably.”

“Forgive me for asking, but how did you know she had a plan for you?” Dr. Vesta asks.

Annabeth wipes her eyes. “She only mentioned it every time she saw me.”

“Was Harvard her plan? Majoring in architecture?”

That gives her pause. “Harvard, yes. Architecture…”

Was architecture in her mother’s plan for her? Part of Annabeth wants to say yes. Surely something as high profile as architecture could only have been the brainchild of one Athena Pallas. And yet, Annabeth has distinct memories of building with legos as a child, before she had even met her mother for the first time. She remembers school trips to Washington D.C., remembers walking around the National Mall, staring up at the columns of the Lincoln Memorial (thirty six, fluted Doric, distorted ever so slightly to accommodate for human perception in true neoclassical style) and deciding to commit the name Henry Bacon to memory. Henry Bacon was gone, but he had still managed to touch the lives of millions upon millions of people, had managed to change her own life forever, had managed to leave his mark on the world--a kind of immortality. A kind of permanence. 

She had wanted that. She had wanted that more than anything in the world. Certainly more than her mother’s approval, even if the two dovetailed occasionally.

“No,” she says, without tears. “No, Architecture wasn’t her idea. It was mine.”

“It is yours,” Dr. Vesta gently corrects. “It still is, no?”

There’s a community garden on the Lower East Side, one of dozens scattered all over Manhattan. It doesn’t bear her name, but it’s hers all the same. She drew it, calculated the dimensions of each plot, chose the exact types of rocks to line the pathways. She even threw in a central birdbath feature--a squat Doric column, fluted. The people who take care of the garden are dedicated as hell, too; it has basil and mint and lavender, tomatoes and cucumbers and peppers, cornflowers and irises and daisies, a soft oasis in an urban jungle. A slash of green across the black and grey landscape. Life, where there was once only death. A kind of immortality.

And it’s Annabeth’s. 

“Yeah,” she says. “It’s mine.”

Dr. Vesta smiles at her, and something in her heart unwinds. She can’t help it--she cries.

But it doesn’t feel pathetic. She doesn’t feel weak. She feels free, like someone has just lifted the sky from her back.

It’s a solid ten minutes before she can stop sobbing. Dr. Vesta doesn’t look like she’s moved an inch, regarding Annabeth so painfully kindly. “Would you like to take a break?” she asks. “You probably need some water.”

“Can I go to the bathroom?” Of course right now would be when the baby decides to do thirty-six fouettes on her bladder. If this kid doesn’t inherit their father’s talent, Annabeth will eat her hat.

“Of course,” says Dr. Vesta. “You remember where it is? Third door on the right.”

It’s a single bathroom, for which Annabeth is supremely grateful. Waterproof mascara her ass--her face is streaked with makeup, tear tracks cutting clean lines through the grime of her face. Most of her forty-eight dollar foundation had transferred to Dr. Vesta’s tissue collection, which now lay useless at the bottom of her office trash can, and she scrubs the rest off as best she can with soap and paper towels. Face barer and rubbed slightly red, the bags under her puffy eyes are even more prominent. God, she looks so tired.

Then she spots her terrible, terrible hair, and she giggles, the laugh bubbling up out of her. Stuck up in all directions, flying every which way, she looks for all the world like her father after a twelve-hour research day. He would come stumbling out of his office looking exactly like this, rambling excitedly about aerodynamics and metal production lines, wild-eyed and crazy-haired. He’d grab some of the cold dinner her step-mother had left out for her then retreat back to his hermit hole, but not before giving Annabeth a pat on the hair or a kiss to her forehead. Even as she missed her father, she had always admired his work ethic, on some level. 

Oh, God. Her father.

She glances down to her gently protruding stomach. She’ll have to switch from form-fitting sweater dresses to maternity pants and empire waists, soon. This baby is coming, whether she likes it or not, and she needs to be ready. She needs a job--something with architecture, because this baby deserves a happy mom, a mom who can inspire passion the way Percy does with her. The way her father did with her, once upon a time. 

And while Annabeth would never subject this child to meeting their grandmother, maybe… maybe they deserved to meet their grandfather. Maybe her dad would like to meet his grandchild. 

Hell, if dropping off the grid for two years didn’t stop her dad from trying to reach out, nothing will. Not even an unplanned pregnancy. And she could really use his help.

When Annabeth comes back, Dr. Vesta is scribbling on a yellow notepad. “I want to tell my dad,” she blurts. “About the baby. And I’ll need his help to find a job again. But mostly I want him to know about the baby.”

“That sounds lovely,” she says, agreeing. “I’m glad you feel like you can trust your father with this.”

Annabeth nods. “I can.”

“What’s your plan?”

Frederick Chase loves books and planes and historical reenactments. He’s a brilliant academic, of course, but deep down inside, he’s as excitable as a little kid. And no little kid can resist Christmas in New York City. “I’m going to invite him here for Christmas. The whole family. We’ll do the whole touristy thing--Wollman Rink, the Train Show at the Botanical Gardens, the Nutcracker, everything. He’ll love that.”

“The Nutcracker?” She asks, frowning. “Are you planning on telling him who the father is?”

That… hadn’t even crossed her mind, if she’s being honest. “Maybe not,” she admits. “But… I should tell Percy, too, shouldn’t I?”

Dr. Vesta shrugs, carefully neutral. “Whatever you are most comfortable with, of course.”

“What do you think I should do?”

She appraises Annabeth, considering. Dr. Vesta always speaks so precisely, every word deliberately chosen. “I don’t want to push you one way or another,” she starts. “This is your choice, and your choice alone. But, if you would allow me, perhaps we could work through your options together?”

“Okay. Um, could I have a pen and paper?” She always works better when she has something to draw on.

Dr. Vesta rips out a page of her notebook, sliding it across the table to Annabeth, then reaches back and grabs one of her cheap, ballpoint pens out of the mug on her side table. “Remember, of these choices, there is no correct one. By that token, there is no incorrect choice, either. Whatever you choose, whether or not you decide to reconnect with Percy, that will be the right choice, so long as you commit to it. There are no wrong answers here, Annabeth.”

She turns the paper longways, dividing it in half with a thick stroke of the pen. At the top of the page, she writes the question that will determine the rest of her life: “Should I tell him?” In stark ink like this, it loses some of the existential fear.

“Reasons to tell him,” she says, her hand moving with almost a mind of its own. “It’s his child, and he would want to know. Children function better with both parents in their lives. He’d be a great dad.” I love him goes unsaid and unwritten.

“And reasons not to?”

“A baby could completely derail his career,” she writes. “He’s a brand new soloist, he doesn’t have time to be a father. I don’t even know if he wants to be a father.” Swiping at her eyes, she continues. “He doesn’t have money for child support. I don’t owe him anything. I can support this child without him.” And so on. After a few minutes, she’s filled the page on both sides, the “No” column decidedly more full than the “Yes.” It looks odd, lopsided and weighted in the wrong direction, like an unbalanced building or a half-hearted arabesque.

The pen hovers over the page, suspended in time. She feels, bizarrely, like she’s taking an exam, her hand cramping with the phantom ache of writing in those little blue booklets, scrambling to fill up the pages with nonsense before time runs out. 

Then she decides that it doesn’t matter what Dr. Vesta says. There is only one right answer here, and she knows it. 

She sets the pen down, picks up the page, and rips it in half. “I’m going to tell him.” 

“Alright,” says Dr. Vesta, smiling. “Let’s devise a strategy.”

***

Annabeth breathes in deep. Eyes closed, she focuses on the feel of the knitted throw over her lap, the cinnamon smell of her mug of tea, the quiet roar of the dishwasher in the background. Or, at least she tries to. 

Her phone lays on her coffee table, screen black. Mocking her. 

It’s been just over two months since she last spoke to her father. That’s not unusual in and of itself; they’ve gone almost entire years without speaking before, and despite the years separating them from their less-than-ideal childhood relationship, she and Mary still aren’t really on good terms either. Running away to New York certainly didn’t help things. Her dad might have been fooled by Annabeth’s exciting new East Coast job, but she’s pretty sure Mary privately thought that Annabeth was giving them up, throwing them away in exchange for the cold, exacting aloofness of Athena Pallas. 

And really, was she wrong? 

So her dad not calling her might not mean anything. Maybe he’s just in the middle of another article. Or maybe he took her Halloween voicemail to heart, and has decided to give her up, too.

She really wishes Percy were here. Then she could at least distract herself with his arms. Or Thalia, who’d ply her with enough whisky until the words were flushed out of her throat. Hell, she’d even take Piper right now, with her firm, gentle judgement. 

But that’s part of the problem. She can’t hide behind anyone anymore. Not for this. 

Annabeth swallows, and picks up her phone. She might have deleted his contact info, but those ten numbers have been indelibly seared into her memory. 

It starts ringing. She sets it on speakerphone, putting it down gently on her coffee table like it might bite her. 

On the fourth ring, he picks up. “Hello?” says the voice, softly, like the receiver is far away from the mouth. “Yes, hello?” again, but louder this time. 

Moment of truth. “Hey, dad. It’s me.”

“Oh!” he says. “Annabeth! It’s good to hear from you. How are you doing? How’s New York?” 

He… doesn’t sound any different. Just his normal tone of polite surprise. “I’ve… been good. New York is fine. Um, did you get my voicemail?”

“Voicemail?” He sounds confused. “No, I don’t think so… when would this have been?”

She drums her thumbs against her stomach, leg bouncing. “Around Halloween?” Not that she wants to remind him. 

He hums, his telltale sign that he’s really thinking about something. “Halloween? Hmm… no, I don’t believe I ever got that one. I’ve been getting so many spam calls, you see,” he says, not elaborating further.

So… he never got her voicemail. He never heard what she had to say.

She suppresses a sob. 

“Annabeth?” her dad asks. “Are you alright, dear?” 

“Fine,” she says, swallowing. “Just a cough. Um, I wanted to ask you something, if you had a minute?”

“Of course,” he says. In the background, she can hear the rustle of papers, the thumping of books, the cranky startup of an ancient Windows machine. “I always have time for you. I just have a few papers to look at tonight, then I need to review a chapter for Dr. Frey, and where did I put that--” There is the clacking of a keyboard, slow and methodical. She can picture him pecking at the keys with two fingers, brow furrowed as he enters in his computer password. “Ah, yes, there we are.” A pause. “I’m so sorry, dear, what were you saying?”

She closes her eyes, thumbnails digging into the pads of her fingers. “Would you… I mean, are you--are you doing anything the week of the 16th?”

“Of November?”

“December.”

“December? I don’t believe so, no…” She pictures him frowning, looking up to the ceiling like he hung his calendar there. “I have to grade exams at some point, but I believe that’s it. You know Dr. Chafe has postponed our tenure meeting again? I’m not sure there’ll be enough time for us to meet before the New Year.”

Who? “Well, I was just wondering if… if you might be interested in, um, coming out. To New York.”

A pause. “To New York?”

“To see me.”

Another pause. She holds her breath. 

“I… I would love to, dear. I’d be delighted.”

Release. “That’s--that’s great, dad.”

She hears some more paper shuffling. “Yes, the weekend of the 16th would actually be perfect for me. Friday, Saturday, Sunday?”

“Yeah, that works for me, too.” Not like she’s doing anything else. 

“It would just be me, I’m afraid,” he says. “It looks like Mary is taking the boys to their lacrosse retreat starting that Sunday.”

“That’s fine,” she says, maybe a little too quickly. “It’s--I’m okay with it just being the two of us. I wouldn’t want to get in the way of lacrosse, anyway.” Fear, suddenly, grips her heart, ice cold. “But, if--if you wanted to go with them, of course, I totally understand--”

“Oh, I’d much rather go and see you,” he says, without much fanfare. “I don’t think they need me to tag along and help unpack, do you?”

Well, she wouldn’t really know. But that doesn’t really bother her right now. “I don’t know--how heavy is their stuff?”

He laughs. “Not so heavy that Mary can’t handle it.” There’s another silent pause. “You know, dear, I… I’m very pleased you reached out to me. I meant to give you a call for your birthday, but then I was asked to assist with a paper, and next thing I knew, it was November.”

“I know, dad.” That’s pretty par for the course for Frederick Chase. “It’s okay.”

“I’ll go ahead and book my flight for that Friday, then, yes?”

“Sounds great. I’ll meet you there and we can get some dinner.”

“Yes, yes, very good.” She can already hear his focus drifting away, some new shiny bauble or enticing rabbit hole attracting his attention. “I’ll let you know when my travel is all finalized.”

“Sure thing.”

“It was so lovely to hear from you, dear. Have a good night.” And he hangs up. 

Exhaling, Annabeth flops down on her couch, her hands automatically coming to rest on her stomach. 

She realizes, with a start, that she is smiling.

#darkmagyk #perseannabeth #frenchswissborder #timelesslords #ballet au #SURPRISE!!!! #uhhhh who else likes this fic lmk if you want to be tagged #my fic #percabeth #percabeth fic #percabeth au #pjo fic #pjo au #the rivalry ends here