oh dear god paul your voice


HELLO MY LOVELY READERS! And that one patient anon! I can’t believe it took me weeks to finish this fic, but I still hope you enjoy it! :-D This is seriously a very underrated relationship, and I’m happy to have had the opportunity to throw my stick into the fire. :-D Thank you for waiting!

Paul Blofis, with his salt and pepper hair, his easy smile and nicely pressed collared shirts, was a terrible househusband. Or at least that was what Sally often said. With his inability to cook, clean, repair and do all those parental things, he most definitely agreed. 

On the weekdays, Paul’s teaching job was usually normal enough for him to get home at exactly 6 o’clock sharp. If everything was going well with her publisher, Sally would also be home by that time, and the smell of nice homely dinners would get Paul’s stomach grumbling and happy. Unfortunately for him, this particular day wasn’t going to fit in with the rest.

As soon as Paul hung his coat soundlessly at the door, it was not Sally’s cooking that greeted him by the hallway, but rather a harsh but soft moan. His heart thumped in his chest. Could that be a robber? No, it couldn’t be. All the windows in the apartment were shut tighter than the safe in the upstairs bedroom, and the lock of the front door didn’t seem tampered with. Blinking as his eyebrows soared to his receding hairline and his pulse gnawed at his hyper-tension prone veins, he swiftly turned around as another moan made him jump. He needed to be quiet. If this was some dangerous criminal… surprise was his only weapon. At least, that’s what he always heard on those night time survival shows on Discovery Channel. 

He grabbed the house keys and stuck one of the jagged edges out of his fist (like how all those self-defense lessons had taught him) and made sure his feet were planted firmly on the ground. Paul tried to survey the area but came up with little blobs of black. His eyes were already terrible even with glasses, but in the dim darkness, they were impossible! Instead, he opted to flick the light switch open at lightning speed. Once the living room was illuminated–

Percy?” He choked, dropping his bags in horror. Not even the audible crack of his laptop brought him out of the panicked frenzy he was slowly falling into. “PERCY?“ 

“Hey Paul,” Percy said nonchalantly.  To Paul’s horror, it was a horrible mash of words because HIS SIDE WAS BLEEDING AND THERE WAS BLOOD EVERYWHERE AND THE COUCH IS STAINED AND IS MY STEP SON DYING? Paul liked to believe that he thought that instead of shouting it out loud.   

“Oh dear, oh dear,” he mumbled. What was he supposed to do? Being a teacher, he was well trained in first-aid, but he wasn’t sure if his experience covered gaping wounds and monster venom. His eyes glanced over Percy’s supine form on the sofa before he felt his throat close up. “Oh dear, ohdearohdear.“ 

“Paul?” Percy called out, wincing as he tried to reach out to his panicked stepfather. “Paul? Earth to Paul?“ 

“Oh dear—What do I do?” Immediately, Paul  ran to the kitchen to grab an armful of paper towels to mop up Percy’s blood— “Oh dear, this is blood. Oh dear. This is bad. Do I call your mother? Should I do that? Will Sally think this is my fault? How about 911? Aren’t you supposed to be in college? DO I TAKE YOU TO THE HOSPITAL? WHERE IS ANNABETH?

On his hands and knees, Paul’s attention was focused on trying to keep his step son from dying and trying to wipe up the brown stains from the rug.


Paul, still in his terrible haze, remembered something about stopping the bleeding with a tourniquet. With this knowledge, he undid his belt and began to wag it around Percy’s body, which was draped over the couch. With his lunch coming up and his palms sweating, he realised that in order to tie a tourniquet, he would have to haul Percy up and remove his shirt to catch a glimpse of the wound. He didn’t think he was ready for that.


“Oh dear, oh dear,” he repeated again. His voice was becoming an octave higher after each dear, and it would’ve been hilarious if “PERCY WHAT DO I DO? Do I remove your shirt? Do I cut something? OH DEAR I’VE FORGOTTEN HOW TO STITCH– 


Paul grabbed his phone and began dialing 911 but dropped it when he saw bloody fingerprints grace the screen. 




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I want you to know something. God is not a derelict father. If you can play around in sin, if you can love the world and love the things of the world, if you can always be involved in the world and doing things of the world, if your heroes are worldly people, if you want to look like them and act like them, if you practice the same things they practice, oh my dear friend, listen to my voice. There’s a good chance you know not God, and you do not belong to him.
—  Paul Washer