#grace writes stuff

[t1oui]

awkward jason grace. jason grace who speaks more like a politician than a teenager. jason grace who secretly beats himself up long after he and piper break up not because he wants her back, but because he thinks he's supposed to want her back. jason grace who becomes best friends with nico di angelo. nico who isn't straight. nico whose internalized homophobia reminds jason of himself, even though he's straight.

jason grace who isn't straight. jason grace who might not even be cis, but who is too busy focusing on leo's curls and his smile and his stupid jokes to think too hard about that, at least not right now. jason grace who doesn't understand sex and who doesn't want to. jason grace who is the least cisallohet member of the seven, and who learns to love himself after spending years not knowing how.

[angelsdean]

There are some souls that are particularly bright and resilient. They can endure more, they regenerate faster. You take a chunk out of them, on the rack, and they hold strong. These souls are very attractive to powerful beings. Gods and wannabe deities and supervillains-in-training and weakened and wounded beings set their eyes on these souls and see a shining power source. They want to feast on all that soul-juice. If they manage to get close enough and ensnare one of these super-souls they'll just suck and suck, vampiric and voracious. It can be hard to counteract an attack like this, even for the most resilient ones. As soul-energy is depleted they grow weaker and weaker to wretch themselves away from the leech. However, outside intervention is often successful. If another energy source is injected into the soul at greater rates than depletion then it can effectively restore the lost energy and allow for the soul to escape the clutches of the attacking force. Now, there are a few ways this infusion can be performed. One method is to use angel grace. Angel grace is similar to soul energy. It vibrates on similar frequencies, it manifests as light, but also possesses a liquid quality at times. Soul and grace are quite compatible, however the issue that arises is that few angels would be willing to perform such a procedure on a human soul. If one were to find a willing angel with a close enough connection to a human, then options for grace infusion are as follow:

grace transmitted through healing (may not always work if the soul is heavily depleted)

oral ingestion of grace

reaching into the body and touching the soul, leaving behind traces of grace

engaging in sexual intercourse and transmitting grace via ejaculation (this method is generally not recommended as it may result in the creation of a nephil)

similar to method No. 4: pumping grace directly into the soul. This is the most effective method for restoring soul energy, and carries less risk of nephil conception.

Once grace has effectively been infused into the soul, the human should experience a restoration of energy and in most cases will be able to successfully fight off whatever has been feeding on it. However one must exercise caution when using angel grace on a human soul, as angel grace does not deplete and instead regenerates. Meaning any grace that enters the soul will remain there for life, unless it is later extracted. Side-effects of angel grace remaining within the human soul are unknown at this time as little study has been conducted on this topic.

[sodamnbored]

Did they ever actually specify who named Jason in any of the books? I can’t remember, but I thought it was just a sort of vague mention of why he was named Jason, as opposed to a concrete “Dad named you because / Mom named you because” kind of explanation?

So now I’m thinking, wouldn’t it be super cute and bolster the only ever implied sibling bonding if it was Thalia that had chosen his name?

Like, loads of older siblings get the opportunity to weigh in on picking baby names for younger siblings anyway. And if we can presume that Thalia had a similar situation to Annabeth in that her mortal parent was fully aware of their godly hookup and was very open about that with their kid and Beryl told Thalia lots of stories about the mythology, or like Piper she got interested in the stories and dug around on her own.

Then Thalia is like, what, seven or so years older than Jason? Totally old enough to have ideas and comprehend at least simple story ideas, but still young enough to work off the easy little kid logic to solve problems.

So she’d have been old enough to notice Beryl beginning to get anxious, beginning to get a little paranoid. She’d hear her mom talking about them being in danger, especially her baby brother to be, and all because Juno was mad at her brother before he’d even arrived.

And she could be reading stories and suddenly the answer presents itself and it’s so simple. And she asks to call the baby Jason because Juno liked and protected the original Jason from the Argonauts story. Therefore little kid logic demands that Juno likes Jason, so if they make her brother Jason, Juno won’t be mad at him anymore when he arrives and will like him too. Problem solved.

It would’ve been the very first time she ever protected her baby brother and she probably didn’t even know how much it had protected him from an angry god. And he hadn’t even been born yet.

[broareweabouttoviberightnow]

"Hey Johnny-"

"Not now, Pony." Johnny hesitates, the tray in his hands wobblin' crazily as he noses one skate off the curb, then the other. From the corner of his eye he can see Pony poutin' hard 'n he winces. "Sorry, Pone. Gimme a sec, number five has been waitin' on this meal for fifteen minutes 'cause the kitchen lost the ticket."

He scowls, shifts the tray over to his other hand, grabs his frustration with graspin' fingers 'n shoves it down 'n aside. It was fine. He's just tired.

"Oh, ook." Pony pulls his knees up to his chest 'n reorientes the book he's readin' on them. He's got whipped cream on his cheekbone from the shake Johnny snuck him 'n Johnny buries a laugh behind a cough.

"I'll be right back." He kicks off the curb, deftly maneuvers the pothole in the middle of the parkin' lot they refuse to fix. Someone shouts at him from a car 'n he fixes his mouth up into a practiced smile, gestures that he'll be there in a moment. Pulls up to the car parked in number five with learned ease.

"Hey folks! Sorry for the wait! I have-"

"Jesus, fuckin' took you long enough." Johnny grinds his teeth together, tosses his hair off his forehead. Just ignore it, just ignore it, just ignore it.

"So sorry! Kitchen had a bit of a mess back there-"

"Whatever. C'mon, hand it over." Johnny pictures, very clearly, throwin' the cherry cola all over the clearly reupholstered seatin' of the stupid tuff ass Mustang.

"Of course." He presses one skate into the other 'n bends down to hand the bag through the window. Someone behind him wolf whistles 'n he clenches his fists. It was fine. He was halfway finished this goddamn shift 'n then he could go lay face down on the Curtis' couch until Soda forced him up for dinner or Dallas cajoled him into a card game Johnny would inevitably pound him into the ground at. Just a little longer.

The guy doesn't tip, of course, but Johnny won't say anythin' as long as he can get the hell away from him. He rips out of the parkin' spot 'n Johnny smirks to himself when the car pitches as it hits the pothole.

Pony's perched up on top of the table still, the sun at his back makin' his hair look like a red gold halo. He's still got that smear of whipped cream on his face 'n Johnny laughs to himself.

Pony was still too young to get a job, really. Or at least that was what Darry thought. They had the argument about once a week. Pony insistin' he was mature enough 'n Darry laughin' in his face. He didn't mean to be mean but it always ended with Pony red-faced 'n madder than a wet hen. Johnny could see both sides. Darry wantin' Pony to focus on school 'cause he was smarter than all of them put together 'n Pony just wantin' somethin' that gave him a little extra cash on the side 'cause he felt bad askin' Darry or Soda.

Not that they ever fully explained that to each other.

Sometimes Johnny ached for Soda. Both his brothers were stubborn as the day was long.

A horn blasts 'n Johnny jumps, whips around. A new cars pulled into spot three 'n the driver waves a hand impatiently out the window.

Jesus, Johnny plasters on his smile, tries not to think about how bad his feet ache, presses the tray to his chest like armor, don't rush it, Pone. You ain't missin' anythin'.

"Hey folks! Thanks for comin' in! How are y'all today?" He shifts the tray to his side, flips open the chicken scratch notebook.

"Cherry shake, cheeseburger, 'n a fry." Yeah, I'm doin' just fine, too. Thanks for fuckin' askin'.

"Alrighty! Anythin' else?" The girl in the passenger seat leans forward, shoots Johnny a bright little smile.

"Just a chocolate shake!" Johnny scratches the order down, returns her grin with a genuine beam that shows his dimple.

"Sure, ma'am." She giggles 'n Johnny flips the ticket book closed, slides it into his pocket. "I'll have that right away."

He pushes off the curb, flick his eyes across the lot before he kicks into the street. A truck peels in, burnin' rubber 'n squealin' on the breaks suddenly. Johnny would recognize it anywhere. 'N it meant Soda was drivin'.

He sighs, runs a hand through his hair, allows himself a fond smile. God, you would think they were all unemployed the way they found odd times to loiter around the joint.

Johnny hops the curb deftly, skates himself to the window 'n drops the ticket onto the metal rack. One of the boys in the kitchen glares at him 'n Johnny shrugs a shoulder. Not his fault the place was jumpin'. He sets the tray down on the stack, twistin' when he hears Pony excitedly callin' out to Soda.

The truck swings into an open spot, crooked as a car can be, 'n Soda throws the door open, grinnin' wide. Dallas pulls himself halfway out of the passenger seat so he's sittin' in the window with his feet on the seat 'n gives Johnny a lazy two-finger salute.

Johnny darts a look around to make sure his manager is still, as usual, nowhere to be found, before he hoofs it over to Darry's beat-up old pickup.

"Johnny Cakes!" Soda greets him with his usual grin 'n Johnny rolls his eyes 'n glances over his shoulder, pushin' him back to the car.

"Soda get back in! You know the rules on stayin' in the vehicles!" He hisses 'n Soda pouts cartoonishly, high steppin' back to avoid Johnny's skates.

"Glory, Dally, you hear this? Johnny's runnin' this place like the military!" Soda snaps himself to attention 'n Johnny sticks one skate behind his leg 'n pushes him deftly back through the wide open door so he lands hard on his ass back in the driver's seat.

"Yeah, we'll see what you have to say when I show up at the DX 'n act a fool." Johnny rolls his eyes, blows a strand of hair off his forehead, 'n Soda grins a wide, toothy smile.

"Aw, c'mon Johnny. You'd never." Soda pouts again 'n Johnny slips his notebook out, mimes takin' an order so he doesn't catch any flack if anyone's watchin'.

"Yeah, he'd never." Pony shoves one hand into Soda's chest 'n clambers over him to the middle seat. "He's the only one of you with any manners." Dallas 'n Soda let out twin indignant noises 'n Dallas kicks him at the same time Soda shoves him, resulting in a tangled mass of squirmin' limbs.

"You're one to talk, ain'tcha Pone?" Pony scowls, rubs at the sore spot on his hip Dallas nailed.

"Well, y'all aren't makin' your case." A horn blares across the parkin' lot 'n Johnny groans. Dallas twists to glare at them, flippin' them off when they hit the horn again.

"Dallas quit it." Johnny hisses 'n Dallas furrows his brow, pushes white blonde hair from his eyes.

"What? They shouldn't be allowed to do that shit." The horn goes again 'n now Pony, Soda, 'n Dallas are all glowerin' out the window.

"The fuck's their problem, Johnny?" Pony makes a face 'n Soda lets out a knowin' sigh.

"Go get 'em, tiger." He reaches through the open door to squeeze Johnny on the shoulder 'n Johnny lets out a long breath. A familiar routine, big smile, avoid the pothole, be nice. Be kind. Take it. Take it. Take it.

"Hey, y'all! Everythin' ok?" The roof's thrown back on the hot little Stingray. A car full of Soc boys Johnny's seen a thousand times. He bites back on the irritation, knows what they're gonna say before anyone even opens their mouths.

"Jesus, we've been waitin' here all day. Lousy fuckin' service." Take it.

"Sorry, man. We're kinda busy at the moment. What can I get y'all?" The boy in the driver's seat rolls his eyes, leans to stare daggers at the menu. So much for bein' in a fat fuckin' hurry.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. We'll take-" Johnny zones out, takes the ramblin' order absently, feels his smile slip when he hears Soda whoopin' 'n hootin' somewhere behind him. God, he'd kill to walk right over there, peel those stupid goddamn skates off, chuck 'em through the drive-through window, 'n rip right outta here.

"Fuckin' hello?" The boy's sharp voice prods him back to the present 'n he blinks, shakes his head.

"Oh, so sorry. Will that be all?"

"Fuckin' idiots they have workin' here." Take it, take it, take it-

"I'll get that in for y'all." Kick off the curb, dodge the pothole, drop the ticket in the window, pick up spot three's food. He was so close. So goddamn close.

The man in the Mustang is still scowlin' darkly. The girl's still smilin' that bright little smile like Johnny never left. "Hey, folks! Cherry shake, cheeseburger, 'n a fry for you, sir." He passes the food through the window, his voice chipper 'n fake even to his own ears. "'N a chocolate shake for the lady." He leans down to pass it through 'n the girl reaches out eagerly a giggle on her lips. The man catches his arm 'n Johnny flinches, fights the urge to not drop it straight onto his lap.

"She don't need no shake. We didn't order that." Johnny wavers, glances over to the girl. Her eyes dart down, smile fallin' quickly away.

"Oh! I'm sorry." He twists his wrist, goes to offer it again. Dislike 'n disdain 'n a sudden roarin' anger thrummin' steadily under his pulse. "My bad, man. Well, take it anyway. It'll just get tossed if y'all won't take it." The man's not lettin' go of him, pushin' his arm back from the car.

"She don't want it." The girl sighs 'n folds her hands in her lap, won't meet Johnny's eye. Jesus Christ. That was it. Actually.

"You know what?" Johnny wrenches his arm from the man's grip, drops the tray to the ground 'n does somethin' he'd imagined a thousand times every goddamn day.

He smiles sweetly, pins one skate against the other, leans down, 'n prettily pours the whole fuckin' thing into the man's lap. "It's on the fuckin' house tonight."

'N then he's rippin' back across the parkin' lot, the sound of the tires peelin' 'n Dallas howlin' his approval 'n graspin' him with long fingers, yankin' him into the truck. He pitches face first over Dally's knee, giddy laughter peelin' out of his throat. He twists, rips both skates off in one smooth move 'n braces himself against the dashboard as Soda cracks up, slams on the gas.

"That way!" Johnny points to that stupid supped up lil' Stingray 'n Soda jerks the wheel, sendin' them all tumblin' into each other. His aim isn't exact but it doesn't matter one bit when Johnny leans back out the window, spinnin' the skates by the laces, 'n sends them careenin' through the windshield in one smooth throw.

Soda 'n Dallas throw their heads back hollerin' laughter stolen by the wind as it rips out the windows when Soda slams his foot down on the gas 'n floors it around the back corner of the parkin' lot. Pony sticks a foot up on the dash, scrambles for his seat belt, watches Johnny with wide eyes as he leans over Dallas 'n braces himself on the window sill.

His manager's appeared in the lot 'n Johnny grins, a real smile that hurts his face with the force of how much he means it for once. And he'll regret this later. He really will. 'N Darry just might kill him. Dead. But he doesn't think about any of that when he sticks his middle finger firmly out the passenger side 'n shouts, giddy,

"You can consider this my two weeks!" And Dallas 'n Pony have to grab his shirt to keep him from flyin' straight out but he just yowls 'n his chest aches with how hard he's tryin' to catch his breath but it doesn't matter one bit. 'Cause he's not takin' it anymore. He's done. "'N one more thing! You can kiss my ASS!"

[disaster-guys]

Assorted jercy head canons from yours truly

both have zero self worth, they reassure each other and built each other up over time

both have a hard time expressing emotions. especially: Percy worries over things he thinks will make him look stupid (or, more recent fear, scary), and Jason anything that would make him look weak

Percy has bad internalized homophobia, no matter how accepting his mom is, Gabe's insults left a mark on his brain, he just feels gross and wrong and doesn't know what to do (yes, it gets better, but it's rough)

feral motherfuckers, the both of them, they bite, they growl, there's so much here but there's already a post...

Percy thinks Jason’s glasses are very cute, he steals them sometimes and Jason thinks he’s fucking adorable, unfortunately, to see this, he has to get pretty close. like kissing distance close

Jason is 6’4. Percy is 6’3. There is fucking relentless short jokes.

Percy, despite being only ~10 months older, is also teased about being old. He tells Jason to respect his elders.

Jason has abandonment issues. And autism, among other things

These two are so fucking cuddly. Like, it took a while before they were both on the same page, but now they're both so constantly in each other's space. always touching, always just near each other

Jason is a nice guy, he grew up trying to be Approachable and Nice, he tends to give out compliments bc people seem to like that (see above: autism), so naturally he compliments Percy and Percy 404's. he does not what to do, no idea how to take compliments (from his mom is normal but anyone else? weird). Jason does it even more just to see him blush (guaranteed result)

Cuddle and listen to audiobooks/podcasts together

Whoever introduced them to audiobooks/podcasts either thinks it's adorable or regrets everything, maybe both

Jason lighting round: cannot cook, can draw, bites his nails, king of lil kisses, car trauma, loves to play with Percy's hair, is scared of thunderstorms, the really loud ones that shake everything, likes to wear beanies (good sensory on his short hair)

Percy lightning round: best cook, loves gardening, grows some of his own food/veggies/spices, has so many fun piercings (pls hc your own favorite ones for him, I can never pick), has a weird relationship with food post-tartarus, also really sensitive to light post-tartarus, has long hair, dissociation problems and rsd, steals Jason's clothes (they're grounding)

@queer-brainrot I did it!! Hope you like it <3

[bibuckaroo]

so i made the outline of my khunbam fanfic with female!khun au and i’m so excited!!! what i have for now:

• khun as a jahad princess because i always headcanoed that if he had been born female, khun would’ve been the obvious choice to become a princess, because his older sister relied on him and maria became a princess because of him. but if he had the chance, why would he help anybody else if he could become a princess? i mean he already has the beauty, the brains and the right family and now he has the gender!!

• bam as a slayer candidate who does know all his friends already and that is why he’s working for fug (i’m trying not to change his story so much, but obviously there will be major changes because he won’t have khun with him to certain moments all his life)

• i think it will have around 8 chapters, trust.

• it is inspired on taylor swift’s songs (of course it is, have you met me?) because i only had the idea of this au listening to but daddy i love him and it makes soooo much sense, also i created a playlist for it!!

• besides having enemies to allies to friends to lovers in it, it is also a you’ve got mail au and it will work out beautifully (in my head at least).

[eusuntgratie]

i hadn't written in a couple days and got stuck staring at everything i tried to work on so i dug up this old buddie wip and realized its actually pretty close to being done. the original idea would have been LONG i was gonna write this for a big bang but i still love the concept and can shorten it significantly and still have a good fic. so i guess i might get a buddie fic up somewhat soon? who knows.

in this scene, adrianna has convinced their parents to let her bring eddie to texas tech for a "business school open house" and then promptly takes him to a college party.

“I’m not gonna baby you, okay? Do what you want. I think you’re smart enough not to do anything too stupid. Come find me if you need me. Yeah?” “Yeah. I’m good.”  “Eddie?” “Yeah?” “They aren’t here, okay? They won’t find out. Just have fun.”

He’s not sure what she means, but he figures he can at least get drunk, let loose a little. So he takes it when she hands him a red solo cup of god knows what. Takes a sip and smiles at her, lets her kiss his cheek and then watches her disappear into the crowd. 

thank you for the tags @firstprincehornyramblings @rewritetheending @onthewaytosomewhere

no pressure tagging @lostcol @basil-bird @stratocumulusperlucidus @taste-thewaste

@onward--upward @jbarneswilson @sheepywritesfics

@catdadacd @insecuregodcomplex @faketrex @jocarthage @beautifulcheat

@cha-melodius @anincompletelist @thighzp + open tag for anyone who sees this!

[ty-bayonet-betteridge]

(transfem top x ambiguous gender pov bottom, woundfucking smut, do not read if you are underage. trigger list will be in the first reply.)

the girl you've been talking to online turns out to be local. not too surprising since your city is so major compared to some of the other ones left, but still good news. you had plans to meet up tonight at a bar near her place and are almost ready when she sends you this text:

sorry have 2 cancel bc work running late. i work from home tho so if u want 2 come over i can send the address

you agree and she gives you the address to her apartment. she says the door will be unlocked when you get there so let yourself in. you send her a thumbs up and head over. her apartment building is very poorly designed - the only door into her place is accessible from the third landing of a rusted fire escape. you let yourself in after verifying that you have the right unit number. immediately after opening the door you are struck by the scent of blood and sweat, as well as other smells you can't immediately put names to and the humming of what sounds like a loud fan. she calls out from another room. she says hey. she says shut the door. you do. she says sorry i cant greet you im in the living room and cant move. you say thats ok and head towards her voice. the scent gets worse as you head through the door into her living room.

on top of the dirtiest sofa you've ever seen lies a man you do not know. he appears to be asleep, though with the state he's in it's difficult to tell. he has no legs, and no bandages covering the bloody stumps where they once were. the legs that previously WERE attached are sitting on the ground in a heap, along with his similarly detached arms. his chest cavity is open, and his ribs are unfolded. various tubes lead out of the open cavity. some of them are made of plastic and lead to what appear to be bags of saline, blood, and a strange machine with vents along the top that whirs loudly, the source of the noise you heard before. others are made of flesh, their shape and size similar to how you imagine intestines look, and they connect to several of the man's organs, which are currently stowed on a three-tiered rolling metal cart.

on the middle shelf is a jar of neon blue liquid, inside of which his heart sits, still beating thanks to live electrical wires leading to what appears to be a gutted and repurposed chunky plastic kid's electric piano. his lungs hang off of a hook on the side, inflating and deflating in a shuddering motion that is not at all what you expected breathing to look like. the middle shelf also holds his kidneys, one of which has been disconnected and sits in a pool of blood on the bare shelf. the other is in a jar of what seems to be some sort of clear jelly. the bottom shelf holds a concerning pile of viscera, none of it connected to the man. you pick out his stomach and intestines easily enough, but the offwhite translucent fatty mass that clings to the intestines and the sad grey sac included in the mix are foreign to you. the top shelf holds several organs you don't recognize as well - a yellowish-gray waxy lump in a vaguely phallic shape and a small red orb , both of which are suspended in the same jar of pale yellowish fluid and appear to connect back to the same fleshy duct. they twitch occasionally, but are otherwise motionless. another top shelf organ you identify as the liver. it has no special setup, simply laying flat on the shelf, but is nonetheless connected in several places and seems to be functioning normally, especially as you can see some sort of dirty yellow-brown liquid dripping out of it through a plastic tube and into a large, clear bottle that you're pretty sure was a mayo bottle at some point in its past. finally, two large cooking pots are gently simmering over a large camping stove, connected to the rest of the mess of tubes, ducts, veins, and flesh. one of the pots has a lid on, leaving you unable to see what's inside of it. the other is about half-full of an off-white, slightly meaty substance.

in the center of the mess sits the girl you're here to see. you've exchanged both lewd and non-lewd images before, so you recognize her well enough, though you haven't seen her in these clothes before. if you can call them that. she's wearing simple black panties, a pair of light grey ankle-height socks, a deeply stained apron with a heart and a KISS THE COOK on it (though somebody has taken a maroon fabric marker, crossed out COOK, and written SURGEON below it), a pair of yellow rubber dishwashing gloves, and nothing else. her legs have a thin covering of hair, as if she shaved four or five days ago and it's starting to grow back but she hasn't had the energy to shave it again. her wavy blond hair is unkempt, and she makes no effort to tie it back. this is somewhat concerning, as she currently sits hunched over the dismembered man on the couch, her hands inside of his open body cavity. her hair hangs around her face, the ends of it matted and dirty with blood and other fluids.

the man you thought was either sleeping or dead opens his eyes and turns to look at you, silent, a look of blank curiosity on his face.

she stands and turns to you. she looks like she hasn't slept in five weeks. there are track marks on her left arm. she extends a blood-soaked glove for you to shake. you take it, dazed. she says hey, nice to finally meet you in person. im riley. doctor riley grace davis MDE. you say nice to meet you too. she says sorry that theres not space on the sofa here. when she draws her hand back to gesture you wipe the blood off on your pants as best you can. she says do you want to sit at the kitchen table or go straight to the bedroom? you say um. you say sorry if this is rude but who is that? she says one of my clients. you say clients? she says yeah. you both look at each other for a moment. you say uh, sorry, what is it you do exactly? she says did it never come up? you say no. she says oh. she says sorry im used to people having heard of me, guess i forgot to mention. you say its fine. she says im a plastic surgeon.

you glance at the man with his organs spread out across the cart. you say that looks like a little bit more than plastic surgery. she says im very talented. you say isn't plastic surgery minimally invasive? im very talented, she repeats. come on into the kitchen, she says, turning to lead the way. you say uh, is it okay to leave him like that? she says yeah. you say isnt he going to bleed out? she says trust me, i'm a doctor. as she heads through the door she reaches one gloved hand to tap a frame on the wall. a smudge of blood is left behind on the glass. you look at the frame.

The assembled medical staff, Thinker-class parahumans, and administrative staff of the Parahuman Response Team East-Northeast, in cooperation with the governance of New Brockton on Earth Gimel, confer on RILEY GRACE DAVIS-LAVERE the degree of MEDICAL DOCTORATE EQUIVALENCY for recognition of medical knowledge and talent conferred by a parahuman ability, evaluated and classified as Tinker 8, as well as for the demonstration of excellence in prior practice of medicine and the use of that parahuman ability to complete an assessment of medical knowledge and talent agreed upon by PRT staff.

you follow her into the kitchen. in the time it took you to read her doctorate, she has apparently doffed both the apron and the gloves, which now sit on a pile in the floor. she holds out a bottle to you as you join her at the table. it's a green glass bottle with no label. what is this, you ask. beer she says. she says i made it myself. you take a terrified sip. it tastes amazing.

you are acutely aware of the fact that she is now topless. my eyes are up here she says. you say sorry, but she's grinning lecherously. she says you like'em that much? you say honestly i was stuck on how different you look from your pictures. she says wow, rude. you say i didn't mean it like that. she says how did you mean it? you take a second to collect your thoughts. you say your boobs are at least 50% larger in person. she says puberty is a magical thing. you say puberty? she says yup. you say how old are you? she says don't you know how to talk to a lady? you say absolutely nothing about this visit has led me to believe you're a lady. she laughs. you have no idea how to label the sound of her laugh in your mind. it would almost be a cackle if it didn't degenerate into a giggle. she says you wanna know how old i am? you say yes. she says me too, kid. you say what year were you born? she says 1998. you say okay, so- she raises a finger to stop you from talking. she drains her beer, then slams it down and starts talking very fast.

born in 1998, triggered and stopped aging mentally in 2005, went on puberty blockers in 2010, started aging mentally again in 2011, went off puberty blockers in 2012, undid my puberty and went back ON puberty blockers in 2013, then all of my self-modifications were undone also in 2013, and i dont know what else in my body changed at the same time, went off puberty blockers again in 2014, or 1 GM if you use that calendar, i dont because thats stupid but just in case, aged fairly normally until 2023, then undid my puberty again because i was scared, aged normally until 2029, and from then on my Amy and i have theseus shipped me about twenty times over because staying the same is boring. so yeah. the paperwork says i'm 38, let's go with that.

you dont know how to respond to that. to any of that. she gets up and says sorry, ill be back in a second. she leaves the room. you take another sip of the beer. you don't like beer. how the fuck does this taste so good? you glance around the kitchen a bit, not getting up. it's clean in the sort of way that indicates it doesn't see much use. the only thing that has clearly been used frequently is the microwave, which you can tell from here has probably never been cleaned since she bought it. at least the lack of mess means there's probably no mouse, rat, or ant problem. in here, at least. you vaguely wonder if the bloody, dying man in the other room would attract vermin.

she returns, shrugging on a filthy grey hooded sweatshirt and carrying a small case. she says sorry, room gets cold as balls sometimes. dont usually notice it while im working. she grabs another beer out of the fridge, then sits down and pulls a rolled cigarette out of the case. she pulls an old zippo out of the sweatshirt's front pocket, lights it, and starts puffing. it doesn't smell like nicotine or marijuana. want one, she asks. you say what are they. she says salvia mostly. she says bit of kratom to mellow it, but mostly salvia. are those safe to use together you ask. especially while drinking. she pauses. she says fuck, iunno. id hardly notice at this point if i started to OD. pretty sure im good enough to fix it if i do. fix it you ask. she says yeah. how you ask. she says im a doctor. damn good one too, she says. you say arent you a plastic surgeon. she says im a lot of things.

she says sure you don't want it? you seem tense. you say uh, ive never really been high before, don't want to start with untested interactions, no offense. she says none taken. she says youre drinking, though, that counts. you say im drinking but ive never really been drunk. she says wanna fix that? you say im good. she says good. she says being drunk sucks. she says worst depressant there is, just use tranquilizers if you want to start acting like an idiot and forget it all the next day. you say i didn't know you were so into this, um, scene, i guess? she squints at you. she says are you a cop? you say no. she says cause you're being awkward and simultaneously pretending you know and don't know what you're talking about and that's what a cop does. you say i'm not a cop. she says none of this is illegal. she says all this shit falls under the realm of reasonable materials for her research. you say i SWEAR im not a cop. she says and jeff in the living room there signed the consent forms and waivers before i started doing that shit to him. you say if i were a cop i would be given better training on handling this situation than just repeatedly saying im not a cop.

she says if youre not a cop why are you so fucking tense? she says calm the fuck down. you say um. she says you were so casual over text, thought we had good chemistry. you say we did. she says so whats got you like this? is it cause ive got a client? you start to answer her but she keeps talking. she says sorry about that, really. she says it was supposed to be a simple body swap job, organs out, couple changes, organs in, but dude keeps asking for more and more weird shit until somehow the plan has changed to him floating inside of a translucent biological skin suspended in a mix of lympatic fluid and vitreous jelly. you say what?? she says and i got no problem with that, but it means im gonna need a fuckton more meat than i thought i did when i started, and its gotta match him or his antibodies are gonna fuck him UP, so now im working his stem cells and bone marrow overtime to cook me up all the shit i need, meanwhile hes on life support and all this equipment is so esoteric i gotta babysit it the whole time, so i can't get away like we planned. again sorry about that she says.

you say its fine, i just didnt know what your job was. you say caught me off guard coming in and seeing a guy opened up like that. for a second started wondering if i was next. you laugh awkwardly. she does not laugh. she smokes a little more without saying anything. the silence goes on an uncomfortably long time.

she says do you want to be?

you say what? she says dates get discounts on ops, especially if its something hot or something simple. im really fucking talented too she says. she says you saw the state jeffs in and hes still alive and well. so cmon, anything you want? you say um. she says cmon, dont get shy now, tell me! you weren't scared to talk about kinks online. you say well there is one thing, not a body mod exactly but something that wouldn't be possible to do under normal circumstances. she says out with it, grinning wolfishly. you say im, uh, kind of into woundfucking.

she takes another gulp of her beer. she says god, who the fuck isn't? she says i'll never understand why that isnt a more common thing. seeing somebody as so much of an object that youd put a new hole into them just for your own fun. or alternatively, loving someone so much that you need to feel what it's like inside every part of them, need to connect with their muscle and blood just as much as you do the rest of them. fuck, it's delicious, she says, her grin stretching unnaturally wide, like a Glasgow smile that opened to reveal more teeth and gums. you have never felt more afraid. you have never felt more turned on.

you top or bottom, she asks. bottom you answer. good, she says, cause i've been wondering what you would look like screaming this whole time. your eyes widen. she downs the rest of her beer and stands up, grabbing your arm and yanking you up as she does so. she says cmon. you follow her, if only because when she pulls at you you briefly feel she may have the strength to tear your arm from its socket.

you pass through the living room. she shouts out yo, jeff. the unseamed man opens his eyes and looks at you. you cant read his expression. she says im gonna be busy in the next room for a couple hours. if you start dying, she says, slam your head into this. she grabs what looks like a game show buzzer off of a bookshelf covered in junk and sets it on the couch next to his head. she says should be loud enough for me to hear from the bedroom and come get you stabilized. blink twice if you got that. he blinks twice. she says cool, later. she pulls you through another nearby door and slams it closed behind her.

her bedroom is a confusing mix of the junk and grime you saw in the other room with a shockingly pristine bed. her clothes are strewn about the floor and the walk-in closet, with no organizational system you can discern, not even between clean and dirty. in fact, you wouldn't have called any of these clothes clean. she opens the cabinet under the bedside table, pulls out a huge roll of plastic sheeting, and covers the bed. ah. that explains it.

is this a dexter reference, or... you say, trailing off. she laughs again. what the fuck is that laugh? she says my amy got frustrated having to clean the sheets literally all the time so now i just do this instead. you say er, whos amy. she looks at you like youve lost your mind, a hypothesis you cannot disprove as you think on the situation. my wife, she says. wife you ask? she says fuck, did i not mention this either? shit, fuck, goddamnit. she says ive been married for three years. you say uhhhhhhhh. she says oh dont worry she knows! shes cool the relationships open. uh, unless YOURE not comfortable with me being poly, i guess. fuck i couldve sworn i mentioned this, she says. its not a problem you say. she says you wanna keep going? you say yeah. she says good.

she heads into the walk-in closet, grabbing a three-tiered cart from under a shelf and starting to wheel it to the bed. allergies, she asks? oxybenzone, you say. she says well im not planning to inject any fucking sunscreen into you, so i dont think thats relevant. you say look i dont know how any of this works, better safe than sorry. she says dont worry, you're always safe with me. AND im going to make you sorry, she says. she giggles before she stomps on a toggle on the cart that locks the wheels. you get a look at this cart and see that it has a collection of medical and not-so-medical implements, with the middle shelf appearing to contain various bottles, jars, and tubs of what you hope are medicines while the top shelf holds needles, sutures, scalpels, saws, scissors, and almost any kind of tool you can think of that holds a blade, from bread knives to x-actos. the bottom shelf has a large circular saw and a rusted chainsaw.

traffic light system for safety checks, she asks? you say yeah. cool she says. she pushes you onto the bed, the plastic crinkling as your head hits the pillow and you fall on your back. she sits on top of you, straddling your lap, holding your hands over your head by the wrist with one hand. she's freakishly strong, far moreso than her spindly limbs should allow. she takes the cigarette out of her mouth. you swallow. your eyes flick to it. you say sorry, can you, um... she grabs your neck, interrupting your speech and yanking your head forward. she leans down, spits on your cheek, and shoves the lit end of the cigarette against the same spot. the saliva buffers it slightly, but the burning feeling is still intense, a pain that rides through several seconds as she presses the cigarette into flesh. you hear yourself whining at the pain.

she flicks the now-extinguished cigarette aside and kisses you. it tastes like blood and morning breath and ash. she picks up one of the scalpels. in stark contrast to the rest of her home, each and every one of the tools is in sparkling pristine condition. she toys with the scalpel as she looks you up and down. you have any experience with being cut into, she asks? you say huh?, taking some time to process. oh, you say. um not really you say. never done cutting during play before and my only surgeries have been dental when i was a lot younger. she says no problem. she says im only gonna dull your pain a little, but let me know if i need to adjust sensation up or down. you nod breathlessly. she angles the scalpel and cuts through the front of your shirt, a swift motion that leaves the tip of the blade an inch or two from your neck. you recoil on instinct and she giggles again, pulling the knife back and moving the fabric of your shirt aside. she takes one of the smaller jars from the cart and dips two fingers in it, the scalpel dancing in her fingers as she does so, like a bored baton twirler doing pen tricks. the paste is bright pink, and she rubs it into the flesh of your upper stomach. you feel your nerves start to tingle slightly as she finishes.

she fills a syringe with something pastel red. placing her hand against the numbed area of your stomach, she spread her fingers, guiding the needle between two of them to hold it steady. you watch the point of the needle break skin, feel it sinking through your flesh. she depresses the plunger slowly. you exhale as she removes the needle. gooood toy, she says softly. your breath hitches at the praise and she smirks. she presses the scalpel to your skin, but doesn't start to cut. color, she asks? you say green. she smiles. she says making the incision.

the feeling of blade breaking skin isn't the sort of jarring penetration you thought it would be. the transition between the scratching pain of the scalpel against your skin to the actual slicing sensation is gradual, and you're not certain you could have pinpointed the moment if you weren't watching. you find yourself gritting your teeth, your jaw clenching involuntarily as your body tries not to vocalize the pain. it isn't intense, but it's persistent and deliberate in a way that doesn't match what you think pain should feel like.

riley is more energetic than youve seen her this whole time. she starts to hum happily to herself, cutting through your skin and flesh. the incision is vertical, two inches long and ending about an inch and a half above your belly button. she retrieves a pair of those metal clamps surgeons use to hold the incision open during surgery. you don't know what those are called. maybe you should ask her. you think that would kill the mood. you'll ask her after. she inserts them into the incision, adjusting the tension so that they spread it open about an inch. she notices you looking. she says you don't need to watch if it makes you squeamish, pet. you swallow hard. you say i want to watch. she giggles.

you lose track of time, watching her work. she wields the tools with a grace, precision, and speed you didn't think was possible. the blood wells out as she does so, flecks of it flying when she moves too frenetically, adding to the stains on her hoodie. it covers the ends of her fingers, drops trailing down to paint their streaks further down her hands and arms, like candle wax melting. your blood. her hands. you feel slightly faint, and you don't know if it's from arousal or bloodloss. the pain is constant, but still sharp enough not to ache. you breath shallowly, occasionally whimpering or letting your breath hitch as the scalpel catches flesh. for the most part, neither of you speak, though from time to time she gives soft praise, her voice warm and comforting as she assures you of how sweet and well-behaved you're being.

she isn't just making a hole. you don't know exactly what she's doing, but it's not just cutting. the needle and thread flash in her hands from time to time, and you can feel the muscle and fat in your torso being stretched and pulled, split and joined in new ways. your angle of view prevents you from seeing the operating area, to your dismay, and at times you almost speak up and ask if you could reposition so you could watch better - but you know you can't. it's not your place to ask anything of her. she's the one in charge.

still, you wish you could see. she described herself as a plastic surgeon earlier, but her movements don't match that description. it is not the slow, precise, micro-motion of a surgeon; her body language is free and expressive, passionate in a way that reveals her true nature. she is an artist, her chosen medium skin and meat, the tools of her craft surgical by their raw nature but not in the way she wields them. the blood-covered flesh, the sinew and fat held beneath your skin and even the skin itself are only the raw material with which she crafts her magnum opus. a sculptor of a living body, like a leatherworker or carver of bone taken to the logical conclusion.

she pulls off her sweatshirt, a sheen of perspiration covering her skin. your eyes are glued to her bare form. she notices you staring and flashes a predatory grin. aw, someone likes watching, huh? she says. you nod dumbly, and she chuckles. stupid little pile of meat, she says, affection in her voice. you think you might be in love. you cannot tear your eyes from her, though she evidently does not mind the attention as she returns to her work.

your gaze is not lustful, though doubtlessly lust is the predominant feeling in you. your focus is drawn to her through fascination and adoration, not arousal. you study her curves, the hair of her stomach, the dullling red stretch marks that frame her chest and gut and streak across her thighs, because this is the body of the woman who is recreating you. is this not the same as knowing the form of the god who shaped you in his image?

no, it is something different from that. this is not the god who made adam in his image but the god who knew man would need a companion, and shaped one from a rib torn from the body of his creation. a divinity that does not create from whole cloth but rends meat and bone until its craft is complete. a godly vulture, a being that tears its hooks into the carcass of the universe and pulls free a dried, gristly tendon, granting importance to that which exists but lied bound beneath the surface of the skin, out of sight, out of mind, waiting to ooze its way free from this veil of vellum. the perfected form of imperfection. the blood is drying in her filthy, matted hair. she takes a pill bottle from the cart, pours out a handful, and swallows them without water before returning to the frenzied stitching of your adipose tissues.

what must be hours later, she sits up and wipes the sweat from her brow, smearing your blood across it at the same time. she wipes more of the blood onto her thighs, apparently to clean her hands, though they are still caked with grime and gore. think its done, she says. she says anesthetic should be wearing off too. she sets the scalpel down and leans over you. she's right; you feel the sensation returning to the area she's operated on in full force. she lays on her side next to you, head propped up on her hand, her other arm draped across your body, cheshire smile on her face. you feel her fingertips lazily trace the edges of the gash before she slides one in.

how do you describe the sensation? what does it really feel like for something to work its way between the folds of your muscle, for subcutaneous fat and flesh to be pressed aside, molded, to make way for the penetrating presence of another? the pain is omnipresent, but not overwhelming as you expected it would be. the flesh holds sensation deeper than you thought it would as well - several inches beneath your skin, you can feel her fingers hook inside of you. you can't tell how much of the pleasure is physical and how much is psychological, but it is there, and it is overwhelming. you tense in response to it, moaning, and the tension causes your muscles to clench, sliding against her fingers, bringing sensation to new parts of your abdomen. the feedback loop overwhelms you, and you feel a disappointed whine escape you as her finger leaves the hole.

she giggles. so needy, she says. she says guess i did make you pretty sensitive, huh? you whimper in response. she says don't worry, i won't leave you empty too long. she moves, sitting on your lap, pulling the panties off as she does so. her dick flops out over your stomach. it is roughly human in shape, and on the larger end of normal human size, but its appearance throws you for a loop. it is stitched together, frankensteinian in construction, without even a consistent skin color. she notices you looking. you like it she asks? she says sort of had to bodge it together pretty quick, don't put nearly as much effort into my own body as i do others. she says amy could do better. you are far too horny to consider the implications of any of that. you whine, straining upwards to press the wound towards the tip of her cock. she laughs. good toy, she says.

she sighs deeply as she forces herself inside of you. ffffffffffuck, that's good, she says. your core muscles shift around her, flexing to squeeze her cock as she sinks it in, hilting inside of the hole. you moan, your hands coming up reflexively to cover your face in some act of shame or modesty which is at this point thoroughly meaningless. she pulls back out slowly, her cock glistening with your blood, before slamming back into you, new parts of your abdomen being forced aside to accommodate her. you think she is pressing against organs now. you desperately want her deeper.

she pulls your hands away from your face with one hand, and with the other shoves the finger that she had previously used to explore the laceration into your mouth. you suckle at it thoughtlessly as she rolls her hips, the tip of her dick forcing itself into your abdominal cavity. the taste of blood and sweat and dirt linger on your tongue. she starts thrusting hard, the repeated slamming of her cockhead against the parts of you that were never meant to be touched the only thing you can think about. it hurts. oh god, it hurts, and it feels so much better than anything you've ever felt. damn that's a good hole, she says. you don't say anything. she takes the finger out of your mouth. color, she asks? it takes you a second to connect the thought. green, you say. she says thank god. can i come in you she asks. you nod stupidly, your mouth still open from her finger being pulled out. she giggles.

she grabs your chin, tilts your head up, and presses her lips against you. she tastes like morning breath and your blood. it's delicious. you wrap your arms around her as she forces herself in and out of the gaping, bleeding wound in your stomach. she's so close to you, her whole body pressed against you as that massive, unnatural cock digs into your blood and muscle and guts. she doesn't smell like she knows what a shower is. she is practically laying on top of you. you can't think. your wrap your legs around her too.

she groans in your ear as she slams herself balls deep into the gash again. your insides are flooded with her cum. your own orgasm forces your core muscles to clench, tightening and sliding around her length, unintentionally milking her cock into you. she pulls out, laying the dick slick with blood, sweat, and cum across your stomach, as she pants. she rolls off of you, laying in bed beside you. unthinking, you turn onto your side and press your body against her. she wraps her arms around you and kisses you again.

you hear the sound of thrashing from the other room, followed by a cartoon buzzer sound effect, and then what sounds like the seinfeld jingle starts to play. she jumps to her feet. god fucking damnit, jeff, she says. she says i'll be right back as she crosses the room at a run, slamming the door behind her. the wound in your stomach is still bleeding. you have no idea how to process anything that just happened.

[broken-egg-yolk-blog]

modern au where actually almost everything stays the same at the end of BoO except leo lives and they just all get to spend the rest of the summer having fun and being teenagers at camp.

[vivitalks]

directions to the truth

pairing: jason grace/nico di angelo rating: T total word count: 35.7k important tags: canon universe, POV alternating, fluff & angst & humor, hurt/comfort, grief/mourning, nightmares, sword fighting

Three times in three days. This guy is really sticking it to Nico’s trust issues. A small voice in the back of Nico’s head whispers, what does he want with you? People — especially people like Jason — don't just decide you're worth their time. He must want something. Everyone does. Except… The look on Jason’s face when Nico thought he was using him to get Leo back. The genuine distress. The fact that when Jason confronted Nico in Auster’s palace, when Nico pushed, Jason only pushed back, stern and unafraid. Telling him take a risk. No, not telling him; challenging him. • Immediately following the war, Jason and Nico keep choosing each other.

welcome to my post-BoO canonverse exploration of jasico at camp half-blood after the war. it was supposed to be short, and then predictably spiraled way out of control. there are eight chapters, linked below as i update them, which will happen most likely over the next few days. have fun :)

I. NICO // II. JASON // III. NICO // IV. JASON // V. NICO // VI. JASON // VII. NICO // VIII. JASON

[poppitron360]

Me when I see a hc I talked about referenced in one of my mutuals’ fics.

This is the best feeling in the world you guys I love it so much.

@lavenderfairiez

[keydekyie]

Well I feel sometimes like a little child lost in the woods in the fading light 🎵

[kazperthegh0st]

I finally got my hands on a laptop!!!

Do you know what this means?!?!

More fanfiction!!!

[sodamnbored]

Nico: Hey. Thank you.

Jason: For what?

Nico: For basically forcing me to be your friend.

Jason: You wanted to be friends with me too. You just didn’t know it.

[somewhereincairparavel]

My first ever PJO fanart ;) I haven't drawn in AGES and I'm no expert. But here's my sweet beautiful pookie Hazel. This has been sitting in my WIPS for like 5 months lmao I just never had the motivation to continue drawing. But I hope it turned out well, pls go easy on my shading 😔

Click and zoom on the image for better quality tho-

I made hazel's eyes glow upon seeing her jewels bc I thought it was a cute concept of her eyes lighting up along with the gems around her

[ottpopfic]

But the thing that gets him every time, the head trip of it all, is that Leo lets him. Whatever whacked off hair-brained way Jason wants him, Leo just holds on for the ride. It's intoxicating, to be allowed to move this man he's been obsessed with for almost his whole life and put his mouth on him any way he desires. To get him off in every way he can, until Leo is shaking and crying with it

He's obsessed, if Leo wasn't such a workaholic Jason wouldn't let him out of his bed now that he has him there.

And the fact that Leo will just wear his mark. The blooming bruises across his neck and chest peeking out of his tank top. Proof that Jason has been there, proof that they are both here and alive and together. Everyone teases and rags on them, but Leo never makes him stop

It also scratches this itch in the back of his brain, this jealous need to let everyone know Leo is his. The smartest most stunningly wonderful man in the world with be going to bed tonight with Jason fucking Grace, it just adds to the pure head trip of it all

And whats even better is when Leo decides Jason has been having too much fun and needs to be put in his place. Because the mess he gets to make of this man he finally gets to be with is only made because Leo lets him.

Leo has to know what he's doing at this point, he may hem and Haw about how he's only passing with speaking wolf but his actions say otherwise.

Like now, with Leo in nothing but his boxer briefs sitting on Jason's hips and pinning his head back by his hair. It forces Jason's face towards the headboard, the vulnerable line of his jugular exposed and open. Jason could probably get out of the pin, he's stronger and Leo is so tiny, but does he want to? Not with the way Leo is looking at him, half like he's a particularly tricky piece of wiring he's trying to solve half love-drunk awe. The hand not in Jason's hair is trailing over the soft weak parts of him. Fingertips tracing the line where his ribs meet middle, following his sternum up until his palm is over his Adams apple. Leo doesn't press or add weight, doesn't even squeeze, just lightly smooths the heel of his palm over. The vulnerability of it all has Jason whimpering and his fingers twitching on the near death grip he has on Leos calfs

Jason is near panting with it, shirtless and legs shaking as Leo idly explores him with his fingers. The line where the tendon in his neck meets collarbone, the indent made by his jaw bone under his chin, the rabiting pattern of his pulse point. Leo presses there, feeling the design of his lifeblood beneath his fingers

“You're like, really into this huh?” the other man asks, quietly and without judgment, almost in awe. Jason just lets out another pathetic whimper and tries to bare impossibly more of his throat

It didn't start as weird hindbrain kinky time, it really just started as cuddles and then Leo being a brat about finally getting a hickey on Jason for once. But once he was pinned by his hair Jason was gone for it, and because Leo is Leo and knows him at this nutso-ass level, clocked the shift immediately

Leo leans forward more, draping his torso across Jason's and his open middle. It puts the other man's face by Jason's neck, close enough to trade his fingertips for teeth against his pulse point. The sensation makes Jason's hips buck and a high-pitched whine escapes him

“Do you need to give me a color?” Leo tries, exchanging his teeth for his lips to press soft kisses up towards Jason’s ear. The color check-in is new but very welcome, a way to communicate through their shared wack-ass broken brain intimacy that yes I'm okay just going nonverbal, not dissociating or whatever. Like Jason is now, most likely nonverbal that is

“Hey,” Leo continues, adjusting himself so they can lock eyes “give me your color baby”

Jason first tries to get it out in the body language forward subvocal way you communicate in wolf, but that doesn't really work. For one there's not really a way to communicate colors, and it's also so loose and open to interpretation. Working to switch back to English takes a moment, but it grounds him all the same. When he gets out a shaky reply of “Green” Leo rewards him with a fresh smattering of kisses

“Do you want to be good right now?” Leo continues to check “or do you want me to take care of you?”

“I want-” Words are hard, words are always hard when its his wants and needs, but Leo always waits for him to find them “I want you to, put me where you want me”

“Where I want you?” there's a smile in Leo’s voice

“This is good” Jason tries to show impossibly more of his throat, trying to submit harder put himself more in Leos hands “when you make me-”

It's hard to verbalize. How do you express how this half-playful puppy pin half-total submission that's drowning in safety and trust makes his head spin? Makes him both totally relaxed but also vibrating on edge,