#tlos press

[lukesandromeda]

for them. l castellan.

pairing: luke castellan x daughter of athena!reader

summary: the scene in tlo where luke returns home.

a/n: i think a lot about being on the road with luke and i know it was probably the worse experience on the world sooooooo obviously i have to do something with these thoughts

probably part one of a series

there was a cut on your right shoulder, annabeth was complaining about how bad her feet hurt, and thalia wouldn’t stop sending tense glares to everyone.

“can you stop looking at me like that? i didn’t do anything.” luke growled. the four of you were walking down an alleyway a few miles into manhattan, tripping over your own sore feet. each of your weapons were still drawn, having just escaped the hellhound that’d chased you only two minutes ago.

“didn’t do anything my ass,” thalia barked. “you’re the one who insisted we fight the dog, and now my signed green day poster is chewed up in his stomach. thanks a lot, luke.”

“nobody cares about your stupid poster, thalia,” luke protested.

“obviously, i do!”

“why is that what you’re worried about? you’ve got a big gash in your leg and you’re fussing about a poster.”

annabeth looked between the two before moving closer to you, hiding her face in your arm.

“stop it, guys, shut up,” you hissed. “you’re scaring her.”

thalia went to speak, but luke kept his mouth shut after muttering a quick, sorry annabeth.

you let out a little sigh before looking at the watch on your arm. you cursed. “it’s getting late, guys.”

when neither thalia or luke answered as they kept walking, you cleared your throat and spoke again, “should we make camp?”

“we’re not stopping,” the boy said coldly, causing both thalia and you to quit walking. annabeth bumped into your arm when you stopped, and she craned her head up to look at luke.

“what?”

“i want to make it out of connecticut by the end of tomorrow,” luke said. “and it’ll only hold us back if we sleep an entire night.”

“i’m tired,” annabeth whined, gripping your shirt. you sighed before bending down to pick her up, carrying her in your right arm as you looked over at luke who stared at the little girl before she said, “i want to sleep.”

thalia hissed, and you looked over to see her falling to the ground as she desperately gripped her own leg. “shit.”

you looked at luke as both of you stopped walking. the two of you were the only people well and healthy enough at the moment to make the decision. he pursed his lips.

“where can we go?” you asked.

“i—i… we—shit. we can’t,” luke spluttered.

“where?”

he bit his lip. “we…shit.”

“speak, luke.”

he grunted. “we’re only a few miles from my house.”

“yes,” you said immediately. “we have to. we don’t have a choice.”

“but i really don’t—”

“luke, do it for them.”

he huffed, eyes avoiding your gaze as he looked at thalia, who was cursing as she wrapped the sleeve of her jacket around the wound on her thigh.

“please,” you begged, desperately tugging on the sleeve of his ragged shirt.

he let out a breath of air through his teeth before he moved out of your grip. “fine. come on.”

as the two of you started to walk again, annabeth still on your arm, thalia stood and limped after you.

the few minutes of walking was getting painful for you, and you walk became laggard as you followed the vigorous boy ahead of you. “slow down.”

he slowed at your request, muttering something under his breath.

“wait, wait, shit,” you chanted as your knees buckled. luke senses you were falling and he took annabeth from your arms as you caught yourself and moved to sit on the ground, clutching your stomach and breathing heavily.

“what? what is it?” luke asked, kneeling down. he placed a hand to your forehead after brushing the hair that was there out of the way.

“i can’t—i can’t breathe.” you panted, looking up at him only in a bit of a struggle.

he grunted before reaching behind him to grab his flash of water and pressing it to your lips. “drink.”

you sipped, choking on your spit as it mixed with the water and poured down your throat. it did help a little, you admitted to yourself as luke pulled away and brushed some hair out of your face. “you okay?”

“we need to find your house,” you whined.

“don’t worry, i know where to go,” he hummed, standing and holding out his hand.

you grabbed it, and thalia followed you, who followed luke with annabeth still in his arms. the walk was dreadful until eventually you approached a hill.

after a torturous hike up the steep ridge, you gasped in relief at the sight of a house.

“there,” luke whispered. his breath seemed to catch a bit as he froze at the sight of his house.

“it’s beautiful,” you gasped, but you shook your head and followed him when he started walking again. “thalia, you okay?”

“‘m fine.” she groaned, and you could hear her feet hitting the ground aggressively as she continued to limp.

the closer to the house you got, the more the anxiety creeped up on you. standing a few feet away from the house, you heard a loud voice saying, you shouldn’t have come back.

“uh, luke?” you said nervously. “what does that—”

“i don’t know, but we’re not turning back,” he said quickly. he walked over to the garage door and put a code into the box. it opened.

nervously, you followed him into the house. it was quiet, but the inside was beautiful, aside from the odd decorations. there were stuffed animals of monsters. medusa, the minotaur, hellhounds, the furies, even—

luke stopped, and your face smashed against his back. he put annabeth down, and you peered around him to see what he was looking at.

a woman, you guessed to be his mother, was sitting across from a man—he was wearing a navy blue tracksuit. there were shoes with wings on his feet, and he was holding a phone that had two snakes coming out of it.

“dad?” luke gasped, and the two people at the table jumped and froze.

“luke? luke!” luke’s mother—may—immediately began sobbing, running to her son. she wrapped her arms around him, trapping him in a hug. her lips kissed his forehead and all over his face aggressively, but he didn’t return any of the excitement.

he was staring ahead at hermes, horror in his eyes. “dad?” he repeated.

“where were you?” may sobbed, and luke moved her off of him.

“dad.”

hermes stood, rather reluctantly. “luke,” he swallowed.

“baby, it’s your father! aren’t you happy?” may asked, but luke began charging forward.

you ran after him, grabbing him before he could reach his father. his fists were clenched so hard that his knuckles were white. “stop. no.”

eventually, you convinced yourself that luke wouldn’t do anything violent, so you let go. he stood angrily, staring at his father with so much hate you almost shrank. hermes’ eyes went to you, and you swallowed, bowing to the god. “lord hermes.”

“y/n,” hermes acknowledged.

luke was biting his lip so hard that you expected blood to trickle down his chin. he growled, “why are you here?”

“why are you here?” hermes countered.

“i didn’t want to come back,” luke snarled. may had come over to the three of you, and she frowned at this. “i did it for my family.”

“for us?” hermes questioned.

“no,” luke scoffed. “for them.” he gestured to you, and then to thalia and annabeth.

“they’re your family?”

“yes,” luke promised.

hermes clicked his tongue. “right.”

“and they’re hurt.”

with a sigh, luke’s father nodded. “well, i am the god of travelers. and you four are very much of travelers. may, get something to take care of zeus’ daughter’s cut. not sure what’s wrong with the athenians, though.”

“they’re tired,” luke said. he was being passive aggressive, you noted, but you didn’t have the energy to scold him for it.

“come with me,” hermes said.

annabeth looked up at you with worry. you swallowed. “it’s okay, annabeth. he’s luke’s dad.”

she looked down, frowning, but nodded and squeezed your hand as you led her after hermes. he brought you to a room, just you, and left annabeth alone in a different one. “wait, lord hermes,” you cried. “annabeth. she can’t… you can’t leave her alone.”

hermes smiled. “just rest, okay? worry about your sister tomorrow.”

“what about luke?”

“what about luke?”

“i mean… i… please don’t… i— please go easy on him. we’ve had a really hard day.”

hermes nodded, a thin smile across his lips as he muttered, “okay,” and left the room.

minutes passed. you are in a master bedroom, a king size bed under you. it was the first time you’d laid against an actual bed in years. it felt so good, and you should’ve been able to fall asleep immediately, but hearing the faint sounds of an argument between luke and his father downstairs made you worry.

eventually, after about thirty minutes of laying, staring at the ceiling in worry, you heard the doorknob rattle. your eyes darted to the door, where luke was walking through.

“luke?” you asked, sitting up.

he shushed you, gesturing for you to move over. you did, and he crawled into the bed next to you. you shifted uncomfortably. “what happened?”

he shook his head, running his hands through his hair. “they… they won’t stop talking about my fate.”

“your fate?”

“i don’t know what it means. i… my dad… he doesn’t love me. he tells me does, but i’m not stupid.”

you looked away. you wanted to tell him you understood, but you knew you didn’t. you couldn’t relate; athena had always answered your prayers, visited you in dreams…

“how’s your mom?” you asked softly.

“she’s having one of her fits. that’s why my dad left. as long as she doesn’t come in here, we’ll be okay.”

you nodded. he sighed. “why aren’t you asleep?”

“i just… couldn’t sleep.”

he clicked his tongue. “i’m really sorry.”

“for what?”

“i never should have dragged you into this mess. you, thalia, and annabeth would be better without me. i just… i get so angry all the time. i don’t even know how to explain it.”

you wanted to comfort him, explain to him that you didn’t think he got angry, but you’d be kidding yourself. he had such excessive wrath that he almost scared you sometimes. you settled for, “it’s okay, luke.”

“it’s not.” you looked over at him. he was sitting upright, and he looked so angry. “i hate him. i hate her, and i hate this stupid fucking situations we’re in.”

“but it’s not your fault.”

“i didn’t say it was my fault!” he yelled, and you flinched. he rolled his eyes. “yeah, alright, it’s okay. you’re flinching because of me.”

“no, no. i’m just… on edge.”

“i saw the way you bowed to my father,” he spat the word out like it was poison. it rotted in his mouth as he continued, “like you were grateful for what he’d done. you think he’s a good person? is that it?”

“no. but he’s a god. why are you being like this?”

“being like what?”

he let out air through his nose, glaring at you. you shrunk under his gaze and whispered quickly, “never mind.”

luke huffed. he stood, throwing the covers off of him and storming to the door. “get rest. we’re leaving in the morning.

your head hit the pillow, your heart clenching in your chest as your water eyes stared up at the ceiling. you closed your eyes before you wept.

[inmoonsblood]

nepenthe: (n) "that which chases away sorrow".

pre tlt-tlo. luke castellan x child of a minor god!reader. 700 words, prologue.

synopsis: time keeps slipping away. luke slips along with it. you were never important enough to care, anyway.

warnings: godly parent of the reader isn't mentioned but is specified to be a minor god. mentions of luke and reader making out, reader is said to be the eldest out of their siblings, kind of toxic situationship between luke and reader. minor book spoilers? (I haven't watched the show yet)

note: i'm writing on tumblr after almost a year and a half, this isn't that gooduprwefjod. this is just a brief intro to the possibility of a bigger series under the same reader, kinda? if it does go ahead, it will be based on the books! idk how i feel about it so far, but I'm always open to listening to feedback!

At Camp Half Blood, there remain a few things you cannot learn, no matter the amount of harsh, gruesome training you’ve gone through. 

For those who look for it, every day is a new lesson. For example, capture the flag: every game tells you more about your opponents and allies when you know how to look for it. With every game you start to notice how the  Area kids undermine the minor gods in cabin eleven, almost forgetting their existence. You notice yourself clubbed with children of another minor god, despite sharing nothing with them, you notice the way Luke’s expression goes blank and tenses up when he notices that. 

So you ask him about it late at night, away from the campfire and chaos, bodies pressed together and hips pressed against each other. He replies by biting on your bottom lip, you retaliate by pulling his hair. The next thing you know, you’re pushed up against the wall and a little over half an hour later you walk into an empty cabin eleven with a purple bruise blossoming on your neck and lips swollen red.

A corner on the room’s floor is dedicated to your siblings and yourself. and you wonder how long Luke will keep it reserved for them—for you. You wonder, will the treatment end the moment this . . . affair between you two ends? How will you explain this to your siblings then? When you finally need to deal with the jealousy that comes with being somewhat special to a counsellor.

So you learn to adapt, to take advantage of those who undermine you, and to make allies with those who understand your strength. It’s not hard getting your siblings to listen to you, after all, you are the eldest with two quests weighing down on your conscious daily, but having that achievement means little to nothing when your godly parent isn’t an Olympian. 

You sit down in the corner of the room, knees tucked in your chest and you look around. You have three siblings on your godly side, a diary hidden under Luke’s (because no one would respect your privacy, yet they wouldn’t dare breathe in Luke’s way like that) pillow containing their names, mortal addresses, mortal family’s numbers and blood types noted down.  You wonder if Camp Half Blood would have a proper funeral if any of you—not just your siblings, any of the children of the minor gods—died. Would there be a grieving period? Would someone look for you? Would they even call the families you’ve left in the mortal world or would those who care wonder what happened to you all? 

No minor god is as important as Olympians and as much as no one says it, you can feel it—you all can feel it. 

A child of Nike can win better than a child of Ares, no one gives them the credit of winning, though, it’s always beginner's luck. Camp survives on the magic and mist of Hecate and yet no one, *not one person* appreciates any of her children. Iris is responsible for most, if not all, of the communication at camp and yet no one includes her children in any conversation. Tyche and Hebe’s children are almost as joyful as the Apollo and Aphrodite campers, yet no one smiles or dances with them. The goddess of luck’s children have none here. Nemesis cradles her children, promising justice and vengeance, and Hypnos lulls his kids to sleep, ensuring no nightmares whilst they sleep, unable to do anything to the bullying when they’re up. 

Your parent is amongst these minor gods, and whilst they do care slightly more than Olympians do for their kids, you cannot help but be angry. Anger that you know will be spent on the Hermes counsellor, pushing him till he pushes you back, till you’re both breathing heavily into each other’s mouths and till your nails scratch red lines down his back, after all, it’s what you two do to each other. 

No conversation, no understanding, no labels. You two are just two teenagers angry at the world for taking their parents away. Nothing else to each other, right?

[t6fs]

When you come to, you're being carried.

The Sixfinger’d Scrimshander wants to help nurse you back to health.

(Do you trust it? It might be trying to poison you!)

It's strange to hear the familiar way it pops the latch to your window from outside of it, but cool London gives way to the familiar smell of your home. You are placed, carefully, on the floor.

"Szopelosz k”ïkhat xïkh..."

There's something in its voice you haven't heard before. It hastily presses something to the worst of your wounds, trying to stop the bleeding.

"Tlo`tï`... tlo`tï` ma..."

Something cold on your cheek. Tears. Not your own. You can hear its heart beating.

"Come on... stay with me... I've got you..."

Do guardian angels cry?

As it lays you against the hard floor of your room, you become paler and paler. The wounds are something inflicted — that much is obvious. The cuts are angled strangely, in a manner that suggests they are not inflicted by the body’s owner. It seems a client had been a little too rough with the man.

Or was it a client at all?

God only knows what you had been doing in Wilmot’s End. Perhaps the gaze from the junior diplomat was not as lascivious as you expected — maybe that lasciviousness was hunger of a different nature. Hunger of a violent nature. The scent of frankincense fills the room — the window leads into a front room that seems to have been converted to an area of prayer. You are lying right next to the altar and think only to do one thing. With shaking, bloodied hands, you clasp them together. Teary, hazy eyes turn to the crucifix.

“Please, Saint Peter… please…”

You turn your eyes to it, coughing slightly. You seem not to realise, in this delirious state of panic, that death is always impermanent, and that Saint Peter has been put out of a job in the Neath for years.

"Shh... no. Look at me."

The Sixfinger’d Scrimshander has seen that you are suffering from Nightmares, and wishes to assist.

It turns your face to its own. Its eye is wide, expression somewhere in the realm of fury... but it's not for you.

No, no. Not for you.

"You're going to live. Look at me. You're going to be okay."

It brushes the bloody tears from your cheek with its thumb. Its voice is as gentle as falling ash.

"I need you to breathe. Focus. Focus on me. Don't look at your blood, don't look at your god. Don't take your eyes off me. Breathe, Edison."

Its voice breaks. Its eye is silver, like a tear-stained moon. Have you ever seen the moon, Edison?

"I've got you."

Moving your clasped hands, you are now clutching its own in a vice grip. You are shaking — more than when you were ill with mania. But you seem not to be as hurt as you are afraid. Looking at it with wide, almost mortified eyes, you let your head tip back against the floor, breathing heavily. In this angle, your eyelids fall nearly closed in the manner in which you are looking at it. The beginnings of sentences come out fragmented.

“I wasn’t… I— I didn’t… he just… stabbed so quickly…”

You choke a little, coughing through the agony again. Your hands grip it tighter.

“He was… trying to… I did not foresee… him having…”

You suck in a strained breath through your teeth.

“It hurts— it’s hurting me— I can’t— it’s hurting…”

Your glittering eyes meet the Scrimshander's again. Tears and sweat have drenched your face. You are baptised in your own agony.

“Please, let me pray… let me pray, Logan. I want… I want to go to Heaven. I want God— I want God to forgive me, please.”

Your eyes clamp shut, squeezing more tears out. If you can grip it any tighter, you do.

“I want to be good enough. I— I’m… trying to be… trying to be good enough… please… let me repent, please. I need… to be good enough.”

In delirium from the pain, you laugh, eyes rolling back to stare up at the altar.

“Who… am I kidding, Logan? Certain… certainly not you. I am… going to Hell. There is no… no place for me in… God’s kingdom.”

What you See:

Its hands move to cup your face, its expression one of grief and a fury you've never seen on the face of anything mortal. Its long, sharp teeth are bared and hungry as its mouth moves, words spilling past them rapidly. Its hands pull back, and it practically tears your bodice free, undoes your bloodsoaked shirt. Its hands find your wounds, and it presses its fingers into your flesh. For the first time, since it carried you home, its eye closes.

Beneath its eyepatch, something begins to give off incredible light.

The light spreads, first, to the whorling scars on the left side of its face, like threads of gold forming a lattice of filigree. The light spreads, illuminating its skull and teeth, and the lichtenberg figure that splits its form, crackling down both arms. Its bones begin to get brighter, and you see the spiral of its ribs through its shirt, the interlacing lattice of veins, the pulsing of its hearts in a harrowing canter. Its face is now so bright it is hard to keep your eyes on it. Its bones glow like a sun, trying to erupt from its skin.

Yours do, too.

When the glow recedes, it collapses beside you, rolling to one side, gasping. A trickle of black runa from its nose, and the space behind its ear where it breathes.

Your body is whole, wounds healed, as though they had never been.

What you Feel:

Warmth, cradling your face. Gentle fingers against your temple, pushing sweat-slick hair from your forehead. Cold tears, but only on your right cheek. The hands recede, and the world is suddenly cold, as your flayed body is bared. Those same gentle hands find your deepest wounds and the pain is sharp and sudden, it is difficult to even breathe.

It is nothing compared to what follows.

The hands on you begin to heat up, and every fibre of your being responds as though you have been electrified. The current of agony you felt before is a gentle embrace compared to this. If you are screaming, you cannot hear it. The fires of Hell would be a pleasant and comfortable warmth. The gilded rot pours through your synapses, the sodium channels of your nerves, and you feel your flesh reaching for itself. The pain of weeks of healing concentrated to this instant.

And then? The pain is gone.

Gone as if it had never been. You hardly even remember it. There are other pains, of course, but they feel almost trivial now.

You feel a hand in yours.

What you Hear:

There is a sob, and a growl.

"No, Edison. Look at me. Don't give up now, please. I can't lose anyone else. I never should have touched you, now you're going t—"

A hiss of frustration, strangled by tears.

"Edison, I will never stop you from praying. Pray all you want, but understand. Please understand. You are perfect. There is nothing you could do that would make you unworthy to exist. You are enough. You change this place with your words, your hands, your laugh. If there's no room for that in your God's kingdom, there's room for it in mine. I'm sorry."

There is a horrible sound like thunder, that shakes you to your bones. Sick cracking and a radio static whine. The Scrimshander gasps, like it's been struck, deep and hollow. There is something else, older than any god. The sound of something gentle, and loving.

An ending, but a peaceful one.

When your ears stop ringing, you focus on the sound of Lok'a`wï`, gasping beside you. How do you know the name of the Keeper of the Question? No time to think about that. It sniffs. Its voice is a threadbare whisper, hoarse and honest.

"I love you, Edison Hollingsworth. I just... wish you could love yourself."

The Sixfinger’d Scrimshander has admitted their admiration for you.

Are you willing to deepen your relationship?

Once it falls to its side, you all but shoot up, gasping for air and clutching at your chest. You tremble, still, though not out of agony. Your hand is desperately gripping onto Logan's in the manner that you might shatter the bones in it.

“A miracle?”

Your voice comes out in the softest whisper. Finding yourself able to stand, you pull yourself from the bloodied floor and stare at the altar in front of you, with something of a mortified expression. At a moment’s notice, you take a framed picture of the Lord, drop it onto the floor, and shatter the glass beneath your red-stained shoe. By the time you are finished with this episode of change, the altar is ruined.

“There is no God in Heaven.”

You announce your revelation to yourself, then drop to your knees, over it, watching its exhausted expression. Your hand comes to wipe the trickling black from under its nose, while another links with the hand that had held yours before.

“It is here on Earth with me.”

With haste, you lean down and press your lips to its own, and it is something more chaste and pure and holy than the million kisses you have forced yourself to bestow to others.

There is something real behind the way you kiss the Sixfinger'd Scrimshander.

You have taken the Sixfinger'd Scrimshander into your arms. You appreciate its admission of affection!

Seen with The Sixfinger'd Scrimshander (1)

(Long post, thanks for stickin around! Thank you @torturingpeople for being so fun to write with!!)

[iztopher]

@k3ysm4sh said:

i have never seen a single saw movie can you give me like top ten fun (i.e. batshit) facts

HERE WE GO, hopefully i have chosen well

10. so theres a post going around tumblr like "haha what if you and your partner met in a saw trap and you invited jigsaw to the wedding" and the thing is jigsaw's motivation is that he thinks people are wasting their lived and the best way to make them improve how they live is to force them to confront their mortality via torture. so he would Ecstatic and Honored if two people met in a saw trap and got married and invited him. he would invite them to work as his apprentices

9. speaking of, amanda young is, as of the first saw movie, (one of?) the only survivor(s) of jigsaw's traps, and she agrees with him and becomes his apprentice. but then she decides fuck it and makes traps that can't be survived, going against jigsaw's design ethos.

8. jigsaw is divorced. it has nothing to do with the saw traps (those happens after)

7. jigsaw gives his ex wife envelops to deliver to one of his apprentices & a trap of her own to carry out and she actually does it

6. in the first saw movie there's a flashback with one of the guys whose trapped having a fight with his wife that reads exactly like TLO te'ijalahad fanfiction i would have written in high school (How can you go through life pretending you're happy? / I am happy. / That is complete bullshit; I'd rather you break down and tell me you hated me. At least there would be some passion in it.)

5. the second saw movie has a very easy solution if everyone trapped just looked at each other's backs and cooperated. instead it devolves into murder

4. there's a guy who pretends to be a victim of jigsaw and writes a book about this. jigsaw responds by kidnapping him and actually putting him through torture

3. idk if this is that batshit it's just my favorite trap and i've been deliberately avoiding getting too detailed into those. so jigsaw is a terminally ill cancer patient & the fifth movie is about him putting the ceo of the insurance company who denied his claim for care through torture. one of the traps is the shotgun carousel, where 6 of his employees who help him process claims are strapped to a carousel w/ a shotgun that will go off at a consistent time. there are two buttons he can press in order to lift the shotgun up and save one of the people's lives, but the other four will die. this matches the fact that his company denies 2/3 of all insurance claims

2. there is a fanmade saw musical (i havent seen it so i cant speak to quality or trigger warnings)

1. the first saw movie takes place on september 11, 2001. it was released in 2004. i'm not sure why they did that.

[bassguitarinablackt-shirt]

dude if I was Nico right before the River Styx moment in TLO I'd thank Percy for choking me and pressing Riptide against my throat cuz holy shit that was hot my gods

GAYYYYYY

[justabooknerdposts]

hi !! would you be willing to post a one-shot with the underwater kiss that happened in the air bubble in tlo from percys pov? you're literally an amazing writer and i think you'd handle this pretty well

***So, I hadn’t checked my Tumblr messages in a long time (I think I may have forgotten it was a feature, oops!), but when I logged back in, one of those messages was a request for the famous underwater kiss from Percy’s POV.  When I actually sat down to write it, Annabeth started talking, too, so it’s from both of their POVs.  It���s a little sweet, and a little awkward.  Classic Percy lol Hope you enjoy!  Also, to the anonymous asker, sorry it took so long to respond!***

***

WHOOSH.

Normally, the cool lake water would have felt like a shock, but since the evening air was still thick with summer humidity, it just felt refreshing.  Plus, at the moment, Annabeth was too giddily happy to feel the cold.  Percy’s hand was still gripping hers, even as they sank into the lake.  She had to fight back a grin to keep from accidentally swallowing lake water.

Once they stopped sinking, she automatically kicked upward, but Percy tugged on her hand, pulling her back down.  When she looked at him through the murky green water, he gestured towards the bottom of the lake, about fifteen feet down.  She frowned, but he gestured again, his expression clearly saying, Trust me.  And she did.  So she nodded and let him pull her to the bottom of the lake, hoping he would remember that she couldn’t breathe underwater (as he’d reminded her before he’d disappeared into New York Harbor just a few days ago).

She shouldn’t have worried.  Once they were floating a few inches above the lakebed, Percy closed his eyes.  Bubbles rushed towards them, some remaining from their initial splash into the water, and formed a much larger bubble, enclosing them in a protected cocoon of oxygen.  Annabeth’s ears popped as the pressure equalized, and she took a deep breath. 

“Nice,” she said, looking around the bubble.  The memory of Siren Bay flashed through her mind.

Percy grinned.  He was still holding her hand.  He hadn’t willed himself dry, which she appreciated, since she obviously couldn’t.  Plus, he looked really cute with his dark hair plastered to his forehead, his green eyes reflecting the color of the lake around them.  “Well, you know, the whole son of Poseidon thing.  It had to be good for something.”

“I knew it would pay off eventually,” Annabeth said, finally allowing herself to smile.

“Oh yeah?” Percy returned the smile.

“Yeah.”  Annabeth moved a fraction closer to him.  Her lips were still tingling from their kiss in the dining pavilion.  She really wanted to kiss him again, but so far she’d been the one making all the moves.  This time, she wanted himto make the decision.

***

Standing only inches away from Annabeth in a not-super-roomy bubble under the lake was making it hard for Percy to think clearly.  Especially since she looked so good, even with her hair dripping wet.  Her damp orange t-shirt was clinging to her in ways Percy found really distracting.  His head was still buzzing from the kiss in the pavilion.  He definitely wanted to kiss her again, but he wasn’t exactly sure what to do.  Why did everything look so easy in movies?

He wondered for a moment, when Annabeth stepped towards him, if she would just solve the problem for him.  But when he met her eyes, he saw the message there—Your move, Seaweed Brain—as clearly as if she’d said it.  The first two times, she’d kissed him.  If this was what he wanted, he needed to step up.

So, taking a cue from slow dancing, Percy put one hand on her waist, the other on her neck, summoned his courage to pull her closer, and kissed her.

Her lips tasted like blue icing.  After a moment, Annabeth pressed closer, her arms sliding around him.  Percy fought down the urge to smile because he couldn’t keep kissing her if he was grinning like a maniac.  And he definitely didn’t want to stop kissing her yet.  Or ever.

And maybe they didn’t know exactly what they were doing, but that was okay.  They’d figure it out.  The prophecy was finished.  They had time now.

***

Annabeth eventually had to pull away to breathe.  Her heart was doing a happy gymnastics routine, though, while her brain was saying, Finally! 

“Wow,” Percy said, looking a little bit like he’d been knocked over the head by a giant’s club.

Still feeling giddy, Annabeth laughed.  When Percy grinned at her, she thought maybe, just maybe, this could be the start of something really good.

“Come on, Seaweed Brain,” she said, taking his hand and feeling another thrill when his fingers wrapped around hers.  “Our friends are probably waiting.”

Hand in hand, they swam for the surface.

***

***Thanks for reading!  If you want to read a story set immediately post-The Last Olympian, my story August 19th (on Ao3 and FanFiction.net) covers that and briefly touches on their possible conversation once they re-surface.

Now, quick announcement:  in honor of the Nico/Will book The Sun and the Star coming out May 2nd, the PJO TV show being in production, and, of course, the new Percy, Annabeth, and Grover book The Chalice of the Gods coming out Sept. 26th, I’m going to open up to requests.  I've never really done this before, but I think it could be fun.  As of right now, I will only be taking requests from now (January) until Dec. 31, 2023.  Just a couple of requirements for requests:

Canon-only requests (AU is not my strong suit).  College fic and future fic requests are also totally fine—these are fun

Canon-only pairings—for example, Percabeth, Solangelo, Jasper, Caleo, Frazel, etc.  However, if there are minor characters who aren’t specifically stated to be with someone, we can play with those

Missing moments are probably my favorite, or anything with character backstories that we don’t necessarily see in the text (either lead or minor characters)

All series—PJO, HOO, TOA—are fair game

Requests for crossovers with Kane Chronicles or Magnus Chase will be accepted—I like these series, too, lol and the canon crossovers have been fun

I will try my best with all requests, but reserve the right to adapt as needed to make a scene work

If you have questions, send me a message—I will try to respond in way less than a year this time 😉  And please, feel free to start submitting requests!! 😊

[sunaleisocial]

MIT tops among single-campus universities in US patents granted

New Post has been published on https://sunalei.org/news/mit-tops-among-single-campus-universities-in-us-patents-granted/

MIT tops among single-campus universities in US patents granted

In an era defined by unprecedented challenges and opportunities, MIT remains at the forefront of pioneering research and innovation.

The Institute’s relentless pursuit of knowledge has once again been recognized, with MIT securing 343 utility patents issued by the United States Patent and Trademark Office in 2023. This marks the 10th consecutive year that the National Academy of Inventors has both ranked worldwide colleges for number of U.S. patents issued and recognized MIT as the top single-campus university for patents granted. (The University of California system, which comprises 10 campuses and six academic health centers across the state, is No. 1 overall.)

Technology transfer is at the core of MIT’s mission to advance knowledge for the benefit of the world, and the Technology Licensing Office (TLO) plays a transformative role in bridging the gap between groundbreaking research and societal impact. Impact is recognized in many ways through startups, small- to medium-sized companies, and large corporations. The TLO’s efforts in patenting and licensing are vital for transforming academic discoveries into practical solutions that address societal needs, drive economic growth, and create new opportunities. 

Each year, the TLO receives over 600 invention disclosures, resulting in a high volume of issued patents. The TLO’s ongoing strategic licensing efforts bolster MIT’s endeavors across six clear impact areas: healthy living, sustainable futures, connected worlds, advanced materials, climate stabilization, and the exploration of uncharted frontiers. These areas, intentionally curated to reflect the interests and priorities of MIT’s faculty and research staff, drive meaningful change through translation and tech transfer. 

Lesley Millar-Nicholson, the executive director of the TLO, further underscores the importance of aligning efforts with President Sally Kornbluth’s vision for MIT. “Our collaborative efforts ensure that the innovations born here at MIT make a difference across the globe, addressing some of the most pressing challenges of our time,” Millar-Nicholson states. “This reflects a shared commitment to what Kornbluth described in her inaugural address about climate change, ‘… [this is] the kind of grand creative enterprise in which the energy you release together is greater than what you each put in. A nuclear fusion of problem-solving and possibility!’” 

Verdox and Cognito Therapeutics are two of the many startups that epitomize a grand creative enterprise. Verdox, a startup from the lab of T. Alan Hatton, the Ralph Landau Professor of Chemical Engineering Practice and director of the David H. Koch School of Chemical Engineering Practice, is on a mission to combat climate change by capturing carbon dioxide with unrivaled efficiency using electricity. Cognito, which sprang from the labs of Li-Huei Tsai, professor of neuroscience and director of the Picower Institute for Learning and Memory, and Edward Boyden, the Y. Eva Tan Professor in Neurotechnology and member of the McGovern Institute for Brain Research, pioneers treatments for neurodegenerative diseases, including dementias, offering Alzheimer’s patients a beacon of noninvasive hope with their neuro-stimulatory therapy. These enterprises, just two of many that have licensed and are developing MIT’s intellectual property, embody the spirit of MIT — they are not merely companies; they are catalysts for a more sustainable, healthier world. 

Technology Licensing Officer Nestor Franco highlights the daily journey of MIT’s research from concept to commercialization: “Our commitment to out-license these innovations not only amplify MIT’s contribution to global progress but also reinforces our dedication to societal betterment,” he says.  

As MIT continues to push the boundaries of what is possible, from deep space to quantum computing, the TLO remains a cornerstone of the Institute’s strategy for impact.  

To explore the cutting-edge technologies emerging from MIT, visit patents.mit.edu. Here, you can discover the innovations available for licensing that are set to shape the future. To delve deeper into the work and initiatives of the TLO, and to understand how MIT’s inventions are transformed into societal solutions, visit tlo.mit.edu.

[opedguy]

White House Excuses Biden’s Classified Docs

TLOS ANGELES (OnlineColumnist.com), Jan. 11, 2023.--Two sets of classified documents from former 80-year-old Vice President now Resident Joe Biden found in two separate locations of comes with many excuses from his Press Secretary Karine Jean-Pierre, the married spouse of former CNN reporter Suzanne Malveaux.  Jean-Pierre insisted that unlike 76-year-old former President Donald Trump, Biden did the right thing letting his attorneys notify the National Archives.  Jean-Pierre insists that Trump hid the documents after leaving office Jan. 20, 2021.  Biden left office Jan. 20, 2017, spending more time in unsecured locations than Trump.  Yet the Department of Justice [DOJ] under 70-year-old Atty. Gen. Merrick Garland ordered the FBI to raid Trump’s Mar-a-Lago estate to involuntarily remove classified documents. Garland appointed 57-year-old Special Counsel Jack Smith Nov. 18, 2022 to see if Trump broke the law.

No where on earth is the hypocrisy greater that in the U.S. press where going after Trump was a cottage industry, grabbing newspapers and the broadcast industry better circulation and Nielsen ratings.  Democrats and the press can get away with murder when it comes to Trump but give Biden a free pass on newly found classified documents but, more importantly, his year-long proxy war using Ukrainian troops against the Russian Federation.  Despite wrecking U.S.-Russia relations and pushing he world closer to WW III and nuclear war, the press says nothing about Biden’s reckless policies.  Whether the classified documents mean anything or not, there’s no difference than the files Trump’s moved inadvertently boxed and relocated from the White House to Mar-a-Lago.  When it came to Biden, he also had classified docs inadvertently removed from his Vice Presidential offices to other locations.

When it comes to Trump, Garland decided not to work with Trump’s attorneys but to stage a dramatic raid on his Mar-a-Lago residence.  No FBI raid is contemplated at Biden’s Wilmington, D.C. or Rehoboth Beach homes.  Where’s the social justice in the press persecuting Trump like a common criminal, contrasted with giving Biden a free pass?  Atty. Gen  Merrick Garland and Special Counsel Jack Smith have some soul searching as they try to build a criminal case against Trump for mishandling classified government documents. When you look at the charges brought against Trump by the Jan. 6 House Select Committee, Garland and Smith must scratch their heads over the vagueness of the charges about Trump’s alleged role in the Jan. 6 Capitol riots.  After one-year-and-a-half and numerous public hearings, they charge Trump with conspiracy to defraud the U.S. government.

No U.S. attorney, no prosecutor, local, state of federal could possibly run with the spurious charges against Trump for his alleged role in Jan. 6.  If you ask any to the Jan. 6 House Select Committee members, they’re all convinced Trump planned and orchestrated the Jan. 6 Capitol riots with his radical right wing friends and groups.  Committee members often referred to the Jan. 6 criminals as “Trump supporters.”  Lead Jan. 6 Committee prosecutor 60-year-old Rep. Jamie Raskin said recently that Trump led a “misanthropic life.”  For one of the leading real estate investors in Manhattan, where does Raskin have the temerity to call Trump a misanthrope?  When Garland and Smith review the unequalled partisanship and bias on the Jan. 6 committee, they’ll have no choice but to toss out all of the Committee’s charges.  Finding Biden’s classified docs doesn’t help the case against Trump.

When you look at the U.S. press writing countless stories about Trump’s ties with the Kremlin over the past six years, where are the retractions or apologies from what’s supposed to be the keeper of the Fist Amendment.  When does the First Amendment-defending free press get a right to write fake stories about Trump’s ties to Russia?  Democrats and the press had high hopes in 78-year-old former FBI Directory Robert Mueller to investigate Trump’s ties to the Kremlin.  After $40 million and 22-months, Mueller delivered his findings March 23, 2019, clearing Trump of all the fake stories and accusations from Democrats.  But even after Mueller closed the door on Trump’s ties to Moscow, that didn’t stop Democrats like 62-year-old former House Intelligence Committee Chairmman Adam Schiff (D-Calif.) from accusing Trump of clear ties with the Russian Federation.

Garland and Smith have a real problems charging Trump with mishandling classified documents when Biden’s done the exact same thing.  All you can say about Biden is that he’s oblivious to just about everything.  “As soon as his lawyers realized these documents were there, they did the right thing,” said Jean-Pierre.  “And they turned over the documents to the archivist,” Jean-Pierre said, knowing that Biden left office Jan. 20, 2017.  None of Biden’s attorneys turned over anything until now, showing the supreme hypocrisy of how Democrats and the press persecute anyone with they brand conservative.  Biden called Trump “totally irresponsible” after the Aug. 8, 2022 FBI raid on Mar-a-Lago.  No prosecutor at any level can charge Trump with mishandling classified docs without going after Biden.  “Because his lawyers, his team, did the right thing,” Jean-Pierre said about Biden.

About the Author

John M. Curtis writes politically neutral commentary analyzing spin in national and global news. He’s editor of OnlineColumnist.com and author of Dodging The Bullet and Operation Charisma. 

[chriscolfernews]

undefined

via Alla Plotkin’s Instagram Stories (February 27, 2019) 

[annabethy]

hey! i love your writing and got so excited when i saw you were taking prompts! can you do post tlo, pre hoo percabeth? bonus points if its percy comforting a touch starved annabeth. they just make me so soft <3

in which Percy and Annabeth are dating, and she doesn’t want to hold back,, percabeth,, did i do this right👀

Percy doesn’t think he’ll ever quite get used to calling Annabeth his girlfriend. Even after almost a month, he still gets excited whenever she slides her hand into his or presses a lingering kiss to his lips. His heart flutters with every glance she throws his way, and he thinks he loves her.

Girlfriend. It’s a welcome change.

He can’t seem to stop watching her all day. In the dining pavilion, he’s mesmerized by the way she looks, sitting at the Athena table. Her camp necklace rests perfectly against her throat, and he can see the coral pendant he’d given her that makes him feel a rush of warmth within him.

Percy desperately wishes they were anywhere but here — somewhere he can pull her in close and hold her just because he can. It’s not until much later that day that they get the chance to be alone. The sun has already gone down hours before, and the campers are all inside of their cabins. They’re not technically supposed to be out, but harpies have never particularly scared Annabeth, and Percy’s not about to complain about one of the only times he gets to see his girlfriend alone.

The door to his cabin opens silently, but he catches the movement anyways. When his girlfriend appears in front of the door, invisibility cap in hand, a smile morphs onto his face because somehow, she looks impossibly better with the moonlight shining in, lighting up the curves of her face, reflecting against her blonde curls.

“Hi,” Percy says gently when he doesn’t move any closer. He holds a hand out towards her, and she takes it this time, settling next to him on the bed. Her legs tuck underneath her as she faces him, and Percy moves a strand of hair in front of her face. “I missed you all day.”

“I’ve been with you all day,” she teases.

“You know what I mean,” he says, pulling her in for a kiss. It lingers for a few seconds, though it stays gentle and sweet. “We aren’t alone very often.”

“You know you can still kiss me, right? Even if we’re not alone?”

“Yeah, but…”

Annabeth raises an eyebrow playfully. “But…?”

“I get nervous,” he confides. There’s a hint of humor in his voice, but they both know there’s at least some truth to it. “I don’t want people thinking I kiss weird, or something.”

“Speaking as the person being kissed, I’d say you’re doing a great job.”

“You’re biased,” he chides. “You have to say that.”

“I’d tell you if you were a bad kisser,” she says, a wide smile. “I can’t be dating someone who thinks kissing is just mashing lips together.”

“Please never say that again.”

Annabeth giggles softly, and Percy feels a rush of warmth at the sound. He can tell she’s tired from the way she speaks slow and quiet, blinking her eyes languidly.

“You’re such a good kisser I wish you’d do it more often.”

Percy blinks at that. It’s an innocent statement, but something about the way she says it catches him off guard.

“What do you mean?”

Annabeth opens her mouth before shutting it just as quickly. “It’s nothing.”

“Tell me,” he pleads. Her entire demeanor shifts; he can sense the tension slowly rising in her shoulders, so he grabs her hand and pulls it into his lap. “Please?”

“It’s really not anything much,” she says again. “Today just kind of sucked. It was Silena’s birthday, and it’s like everyone forgot. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. And then the war… I miss her, and all I wanted to do all day was come hug you and cry, except I couldn’t because…”

He thinks he knows what she’s about to say.

“Anyways,” she says, “I just missed you all day too. And I want to be able to hug and kiss you in front of other people. I don’t want to have to wait until we’re alone.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not anything you did,” she tells him, squeezing his hand. “I could have kissed you first, but I didn’t. I’m just saying that I want to be able to kiss my boyfriend whenever I want to.”

Percy grins. “Yeah?”

“Especially on days like today when all I want to do is cry.” “I’ll be sure to kiss you all the time from now on,” he says. “Starting right now.”

“Now?”

“It’s only, like, eleven. That’s a perfectly ordinary time to make out with your girlfriend.”

“I suppose,” she says, humored. “Though I think we can save some for tomorrow as well.”

“No PDA?”

“That’s exactly my point. We aren’t displaying any public affection if we just made out here.”

“Oh, you nerd. Who gets into the semantics of PDA?”

“I do. We have to make sure we’re doing this right if we’re going to be that couple.” Annabeth still leans forwards for a short kiss despite her words.

“I like to think practice makes perfect.”

“Since when did you do perfect?”

“Ouch.”

Annabeth smiles widely but doesn’t respond. Instead, she shoves his shoulder hard so that he falls back onto the bed. She crawls over him before settling down right beside him, pressed tightly against his body.

Percy can’t say they’ve done much of this since they started dating either. It’s nice, though, being able to feel her safe against him after all that they’ve been through. He rubs up and down her back as she turns into him, pressing her face into his chest.

Annabeth’s body is warm against his. The moment is so intimate in the best way possible.

“I love you,” he whispers into her hair because it just feels right. He doesn’t need her to say it back now. It’s just how he feels, and he wants her to know that he is with her to the end.

He can feel the way she smiles into his skin. Her reciprocated I love you is so quiet he almost misses it, but he doesn’t.

They lay in silence for a while, Percy just holding her, and Percy almost thinks that she falls asleep when her breathing starts to settle. When she speaks, voice slow and drowsy, he smiles into the top of her head.

“Don’t you ever forget about me,” she says quietly. “It’ll kill me.”

Something about her voice pains him. He can tell there’s something else she wants to say – something else bothering her – but he can also tell that right now, she just needs someone to be with her, so that’s exactly what he does.

Annabeth isn’t something that can be forgotten, he thinks. She isn’t just a thought. She’s someone that makes him who he is. She is his tie to the mortal world. She’s in his heart, and nothing will ever change that.

Percy’s squeeze around her waist is a promise. “Never.”

[protytwo]

LoSH Appreciation Week Day 7 - Celebration

There are many ways to celebrate the Legion of Super-Heroes. LoSH Week is but one expression of fannish enthusiasm.

Back in 1971 things weren’t looking too good for the Legion feature. But a 13 year-old Legion fan from the Bronx named Mike Flynn wrote a letter to the editor of Superboy announcing the formation of a Legion fan club.

But what would the fan club do? Clubs in his school elected club officers, so the LFC did that too. Clubs also held fundraising candy drives. They didn’t wind up using that idea. But they did create a club newsletter called The Legion Outpost.

The newsletter soon became a full fledged Legion fanzine, and production and involvement in the fanzine became the main activity of the club. One of the missions of the fanzine was to celebrate the Legion, and advocate for the feature, which had been kicked out of Adventure Comics, had been on again off again as a backup in Action Comics, and at the time seemed to be a sporadic backup in Superboy.

By the time the eighth issue was published in 1974, the Legion was on solid footing and had taken over Superboy. There would be a couple more issues of TLO. The slightly delayed ninth issue, and the greatly delayed tenth and final issue.

Putting out a fanzine is a lot of work for the editors, and a lot of work for the contributors. Yes, it’s an amateur effort. But the writers and artists are doing their best to contribute solid work that seems worth the money, and the editor has to pull it all together, make sure it’s up to standards, etc.

The Legion fan club members and Legion Outpost contributors were looking for something a little more low-key. A way to hang out, celebrate the Legion in writing and art and conversation, but do so in a less high profile way.

In 1976 Legion fan Rich Morrissey started the amateur press association Interlac. It began with 15 members, and the first mailing of Interlac was 26 pages. The personal zines were more conversational in tone. Articles did appear, along with artwork, and fanfic. But the conversational back and forth was the lifeblood of the APA.

The APA soon swelled to fill all 50 membership slots, and mailings easily ran over 400 pages. In 2022 there are 33 members, and mailings are closer to 280 pages.

The Legion Fan Club no longer exists. The Legion Outpost ended with that tenth issue in 1981. But Interlac is still going strong, and we’ll be celebrating our 46th anniversary in June 2022.

[queenangst]

the in betweens 

an unfinished post-botl, pre-tlo fic about the in-between moments percy and annabeth have together.

i. 

“Percy!” 

He slowed at the sound of his name—at the way Annabeth said it. Heard her footsteps behind him in the grass, and he turned as she stopped in front of him. Her face was flushed. 

“Annabeth,” he said. “Um, it’s almost curfew.”

“I know.”

Percy stopped, then. I know. 

Annabeth bit her lip, scuffing one sneaker against the grass and looking away. One hand crept up to turn her dad’s college ring, over and over. He looked at her hands, small and not-delicate, and thought he knew what they would feel like because they would be the same as his. Callouses where the palm pressed to the leather-wrapped hilt of a blade; the rough pads of her fingertips. 

And then Percy thought, we’re alone. 

Every time he’d seen her it had been with other people: across the tables during lunch, passing by during training, sitting together at the campfire singing. And now they were alone. Behind them, the faint strands of music as the last remnants of the fire died. 

“Did...” He swallowed hard. “Did you want something?”

“Yeah,” she said, in a funny voice—breathy, higher, softer, hesitant. Something he wasn’t used to. “Percy, I just wanted…”

The night was warm, the air thick with the smell of grass and summer. She’d kissed him once, he suddenly remembered. He’d felt his own heart pounding, thrumming with the fear and the suddenness. A moment, fleeting. 

“Please don’t,” Percy said, in a smaller voice than he liked. He knew her. They were thinking of the same things, now. 

“A minute,” Annabeth said, her chin lifting, and there was a flash of that steel in her eyes before she was lifting her hand. 

Percy put his hand out, and they held their hands mid-air for a moment not touching, just close enough. Close enough to feel the distance between them, and then Annabeth took his hand and he took hers; and they stood there for a moment, their hands pressed together. 

“I just wanted,” Annabeth said, and her voice cracked during the word wanted like she was waiting for someone to tell her to fold her want back in on itself. 

He opened his mouth to say it back, but it got stuck in his throat. Annabeth watched him, eyes sad. 

“I know,” he said instead, shifting and folding his fingers between hers. Felt the tips of his fingers press against her knuckles, the ridges of them, mountains and valleys of a hand. Annabeth let go first. 

He didn’t think they’d talk about this, about them, to see the picture of them in broad daylight. Saying it would make it real. Making it real would hurt. Hurt, a lance through his back, pushing through his chest, screaming, better to want than to have. 

Percy wished he could kiss her. 

“Goodnight,” he told her, and lifted a hand, and it was not a goodbye. 

“Goodnight, Percy,” Annabeth said, and he watched her a second longer after she’d turned and began to walk away. Saw her lift an arm to pass over her eyes, and then Percy turned too before he could do anything besides walk away. 

ii. 

The next time they were doing cabin inspections. 

Annabeth leaned against the doorway watching Percy pick up a few stray pieces of clothing. She clicked her pen, a steady rhythm. 

“See,” he said, turning and spinning in a slow circle. “It’s all cle—”

“Percy!”

He hit the ground, landing hard on an elbow, and felt the pain ricochet up his arm. His vision cleared. Annabeth was standing over him, her hair falling forward.

Gods, he thought. 

“...okay?” she was saying. 

And then Percy blurted, “You’re beautiful.”

She took a step back, eyes wide. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, stumbling, “Annabeth, sorry I shouldn’t have said that, it’s just that you- it’s just you…”

[drewlover]

listen... the way callunavulgari characterizes clarisse and silena makes me want to go INSANE actually.. their whole dynamic full of skin pressed too tightly u can feel the other in ur bones and the biting kisses that leave lips red for weeks and bared smiles that hold a softness, the raging fire soothed to gentle crackling AND THE WAY IT’S SO CLOSE TO CANON-

clarisse is violent, but it is learned. it is the hard skin worn by actors daring to survive the harshness of critics and the booing of people. and silena understands that she does, because her love, her allure, her words they’re all learned to. they both don’t know how to make their parents proud, scrambling for purchase against the cliff they’re being dangled from, the pressure building on their shoulder with every addition to their cabin.

the way clarisse instantly softens around silena... the way she comforts silena in TLO with chocolate and stopping her yelling and fighting, rebelling against the very thing that she’s worked so hard to perfect, worked so hard to maintain, pulling back to her realest self, the one she abandoned long ago for responsibility.. Silena is her achilles heel, though it runs deeper than mortality, turning ichor and invicibility into fickle things- silena ties her to her honesty, ties her to the very essence of what she is u don’t understand silena is the ONLY ONE that’s not letting her lose sight of who she once was

“i apologise. to you. nobody else” THE WAY THIS IS SO CLEARLY SHOWN IN THIS ONE LINE???? clarisse knows that she’s let her armor slip the tiniest bit here and she doesn’t really care bc it’s silena who she slipped for it’s ok, it’s fine, but she just wants to let everybody know that that was for Silena and Silena Only. nobody else.

(if this isn’t devotion i don’t know what is.)

and i truly believe that silena could be the only one to bring clarisse to her knees. not even the gods could bend her- she outright refused to go to war simply because of something so petty, and she didn’t care about the consequences, didn’t care about the gods being damned. but the moment silena was even in the slightest hint of danger, the moment she wore Clarisse’s armour and (in doing so wore her [clarisse] strength, her love, her regret and harsh beauty [the one only silena ever saw]), clarisse ran into battle.

she saw silena’s eyes close as she died, last whispered words of meeting her lover once more and GOD i can’t even begin to imagine clarisse’s pain during this bc she’s RIGHT THERE and yet this-

and then clarisse goes and hisses “She was a hero, understand? A hero.” LITERALLY JUST FUCK ME UP WILL U

[bbyannabeth]

24 for percabeth, maybe before tlo pls?

send me prompts!

24. kisses for a cover not pre tlo, but... y'all ever seen captain american and the winter soldier?

"go, fucking go!" annabeth said frantically, breaking into a run. percy glanced behind them to see a mall security guard already following them. he took off, catching up with annabeth in a second.

"stop right there!" the guy shouted behind them. next to him, annabeth let out a laugh.

"were these cd's really worth it?" he asked, sparing a glance over at her. of course they get caught the one time he came with her to steal something.

"fuck yeah they were," she replied. "follow me. i have an idea."

"oh good. i love your ideas."

they turned the corner, running down a hallway with bathrooms at the end of it. "remember when we watched the winter soldier the other day?"

"uh, yeah?" percy replied.

annabeth turned another corner, bolting down a hall that exited into another part of the mall. instead of running anymore, she skidded to a stop and pulled percy close. she tugged his hood over his head and pressed herself between him and the wall. "public displays of affection make people very uncomfortable," she breathed.

percy caught onto her reference instantly, but it still didn't process what he was asking her to do. then they heard the clop of footsteps coming closer and his brain caught up. he leaned down, pressing his lips to hers. his hands came up to hold her cheeks, partially to cover her face a little more, and also because he'd always wanted to do this.

the heavy footsteps of the guard came and went, and he pulled back slowly. "good plan," he murmured. annabeth was still a little out of breath as she nodded.

"thanks," she whispered. "let's get out of here now."

[pftones3482]

Sometimes Stupid

Commission for @randomfandomfan from one of their many prompts they gave me. Took forever bc of work and life and also???? Now I have a cat??? So that's fun. But this was fun to write. Read it here on AO3

Set post TLO and pre HOO (and a little bit post HOO). Under a cut for length.

~~

Contrary to popular belief, Leo Valdez was not stupid.

He was an idiot, at times – for instance, maybe running away from his seventh (fifteenth? He’d really lost track at this point) foster home wasn’t the best decision he could have made, especially given that it was the middle of summer and oh, also, hurricane season. And okay, maybe he should’ve taken more with him than a single change of clothes, a box of Ritz crackers, a pocketknife, and a water bottle that had definitely seen better days, but he was in a rush, okay?

But he wasn’t stupid.

When he ran away from his foster homes, Leo tended to stay away from people where he could. And if he had to be around them, he cleaned up, smiled brightly, “Yes ma’am”ed and “Yes’sir”ed to an obnoxious point, and lied his pants off. People were less likely to call the police on a Hispanic kid if they thought he was just a darling little angel waiting for mom at the grocery store, and the last thing he needed was the cops in his business.

Not that it hadn’t happened, of course. He’d dealt with cops of all kinds – nice cops, bad cops, black cops, white cops (WAY too many of those, in his opinion), the occasional cop who would speak Spanish with him, cops who were just there to write a report and move on with their days – cops.

He tried to stay away from them.

Which meant sticking to beaches and forests, lakes and campgrounds, middle of nowhere places with no people for miles. Leo was good at disappearing. Hiding.

But there were always times when he needed an adult. When he needed to hitchhike, or when he needed food to the point of near passing out. Once for serious medical attention. There was a system to what adults you could trust.

Never cops. You could never trust the cops, no matter what naïve white parents thought. Leo had been in cuffs enough to know that was false.

You also couldn’t usually trust priests. They meant well, sure, but they always ended up calling the authorities in the end. That, or they tried to convert Leo to Catholicism, and while one of those encounters had ended with a swiped bottle of watered-down red wine and a night that made him vow to never drink again, he wasn’t trying to contact the church.

(THAT night, Leo would say he had been stupid. He could admit that)

Homeless people were usually okay. While a lot of them were very suspicious of everyone, almost every homeless person he’d ever met would point him in the direction of food, water, free showers, free clothes, or a library (his saving grace during the heat of the summer and the cold of the winter). The times when he came across gay homeless people were when he felt safest – they especially never pressed him about his background. Ironic, really, that he felt safer with strangers on the street than his foster homes.

Moms were sometimes okay. Especially if they were Hispanic, or black, or just anything but white. They, at least, wouldn’t call the cops on him. But they were also hit or miss – sometimes they helped in way of a meal, or a new bottle of water. One mom even took him to the store and got him new socks and underwear (he had cried that night). But other moms rushed him away from their precious babies. Some moms called him ungrateful for the “space he had.”

Dads were a never. Leo never went to men if he could help it, even if they had children with them. He didn’t trust them as far as he could throw them, and that wasn’t very far.

But it was hurricane season. And he was on the coast. And it was downpouring, and he was starving, and the only people he had seen for miles were a white couple, a man and a woman, standing on the porch of a somewhat rundown shack that Leo would’ve probably thought was abandoned if he hadn’t seen them there.

The man was tall, peppered hair that was shifting more to salt, with a rough beard and a pair of glasses perched on his nose. The woman at his side was short, probably Leo’s height, with dark curly hair and vibrantly blue eyes. It was streaked with gray, but she was, admittedly, a very pretty woman. Something about her smile put Leo at ease.

He clutched his backpack tighter in his fist and stumbled over the sand towards the shack, ankles rolling uncomfortably on the wet ground. He was sure he looked atrocious, sure that the moment they spotted him, they’d shriek and cuss him out and lock the door.

But then he coughed, hard, his shoulders shaking, and the woman whipped her head around. He watched her eyes widen, watched her tug at the man’s sleeve, and then she was bolting – barefoot, Leo noticed – down the steps and over to him.

He flinched when she wrapped an arm over his shoulders, jolting out of her grip more from habit than anything else. She froze, holding both hands up and relaxing her stance. “Hey, honey. It’s okay. It’s okay.”

Somewhere deep down, Leo’s brain was scoffing at the patronizing words. But on the surface, he focused on the words, and then sharpened his eyes onto the man as he approached, phone in hand. “I-I c-can’t-”

The woman looked back, down at the phone, and her shoulders stiffened. “Paul, put the phone away, please.”

Her voice held an intonation that Leo couldn’t decipher, but the man – Paul – instantly shut the phone off and pocketed it. The moment it was gone, Leo let his shoulders loosen, and he looked at the woman anxiously. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I-I just…”

“Hey.”

Her arm was more cautious this time, sliding around Leo’s shoulders with a pace that would let him move if he wanted. He didn’t, just let it happen, and then the woman was easing him over the sticky sand and up the steps of the shack, Paul close behind them. He stopped at the door, pushing back hard against the woman’s guiding grip. “I don’t want to ruin your house,” he managed.

The woman’s laugh was…well, to be perfectly honest, it made Leo feel warm. Like she could never hurt him.

Those are usually the most dangerous people, his mind tried to reason with him.

“Sweetheart, it’s just a rental cabin. Besides, I’ve had far worse than a little sand and water on my floors before.”

Before he could wonder at that sentence, she opened the door and nudged him inside. The second that Paul closed the door, the sound of the wind died down and the chill in the air evaporated. Leo realized he was shivering.

The woman’s hands were warm on his cheeks. “My name is Sally, hon. You are-?”

He usually gave a fake name, but – “Leo, ma’am.”

“Don’t you ma’am me,” she scoffed, her voice easy as she helped Leo to the couch. “I’m not that old, am I Paul?”

Paul put his hands up. “I abstain from answering.”

Sally scoffed and pressed a cool hand on Leo’s forehead. “Can I take your backpack, sweetheart?”

Something like panic flared in Leo’s chest, and Sally must have seen it, because she pulled her hand back and held it up. “I’m not moving it far, I just want Paul to dry everything out for you, okay?”

Fingers shaking, Leo shrugged off his bag – the one he’d been carrying for nearly three states – and passed it over to her. She took it like it was a priceless artifact, and handed it to Paul with more tenderness than Leo had ever seen given to an inanimate object. “I think my son might have left some clothes here while he was with us last week,” she said, voice soft. “He’s a little older than you, so some things might be big, but is it okay if we give you some of his clothes while we dry out yours?”

Leo swallowed around the lump in his throat. “Um. Yeah.”

She stood up and left with Paul, giving Leo a moment to be alone and take in the cabin around him.

It was old, but obviously well taken care of, with weathered planks of wood gracing the walls and the floor. He was in the living room, full of mismatched couches and chairs and a bookshelf stacked full of books and games. He didn’t see a TV in sight, but he wasn’t expecting to find one. He stood shakily, suddenly very aware of how wet he was getting the couch, and wrapped his arms around himself as he explored the rest of the main room.

The kitchen was small and cramped, but he could smell something full of tomatoes and spices in the oven that made his tastebuds water. He didn’t dare look for fear of getting caught, so he stepped away and into the tiny dining area. There was sand on the floor, spread thin and fine, and it was such a small thing, but it made Leo relax even more – Sally meant it when she said she didn’t care about him ruining her floors.

But she and Paul had been gone for a while, and Leo wasn’t stupid, okay? It didn’t matter how well intentioned someone was, they always thought they knew better, and if they were gone too long, it meant they were trying to decide for him. So he crept towards the hallway they’d vanished to, praying that he didn’t step on a squeaky board. Old homes always had them in the most inconvenient places.

“-not answering?” he picked up Paul’s voice saying.

“No,” Sally said, a sigh in her voice. “He did say he and Annabeth were on a date, but I didn’t expect them to be in Paris of all places. How did they even-?”

“Can you get ahold of Chiron?”

Not the police, then, Leo reasoned, unless they knew an officer by that name. He leaned a little closer.

“No – I try not to call the camp unless I need to. Phone lines and all that, you know?”

Paul huffed. “I know. And Rachel is at art camp, right?”

“Yup,” Sally said, and Leo heard a sound like a blowing raspberry. “He clearly isn’t aware of anything, Paul. He’s terrified.”

“Probably a runaway,” Paul hummed, and Leo flinched at the damning statement. “Met a couple kids like that teaching.”

He looked like a teacher. You couldn’t trust most teachers either, Leo had learned. They were just like priests. Tried their best, but they always inevitably called someone.

“What did you do? Who did you call?” Sally asked, and Leo stiffened. Here it comes, his brain taunted.

“No one,” Paul said.

Leo blinked, taking a slight step back. What?

“Kids don’t run away for no reason, Sal. Especially not kids like him. Perce taught me that. I mean, maybe in my early days of teaching, I might have called the authorities, but ever since this summer I…how could I risk that? Even before then, I mean…the stories I’ve heard from some of these kids I’ve talked to. We don’t know anything about him. If he ran away, all this way, in this weather? It was bad, love.”

Leo’s throat ached.

He’d never, the whole time he’d been in foster care, ever heard an adult admit that they were wrong to call the authorities on him. Never heard an adult take his perspective into account, especially without even knowing him. Never had an adult admit that his life could be anything other than ideal.

He took another step back and oh shit, there it was, the cursed piece of wood in every old house to ever exist. He cussed under his breath and ducked his head as Sally stepped into the hallway. He refused to look up at her. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “You were just gone for a while a-and I thought you might be calling someone.”

No verbal response. Instead, a soft bundle of fabric was pressed into Leo’s hands. He startled, gripping onto the clothing, and looked up at Sally and Paul with wide eyes. Paul shook his head. “We’re not calling anyone, son. Not if you don’t want us to. But we do ask that you get cleaned up, before you catch pneumonia.”

Sally tilted her head towards the door across the hall. “Let me know when you’re done, I’ll toss your clothes in the dryer. Paul was just finishing up dinner when you came along. Do you like lasagna?”

Leo’s mouth watered at the thought of eating any kind of food that wasn’t stale crackers and canned tuna. “Yes ma’am.”

“What’d I say about that ma’am nonsense?” Sally scolded.

Leo ducked his head, trying to press down the tears. “Yes, miss,” he chuckled.

Sally laughed as Paul headed for the kitchen. “It’s a start, love.”

~~

Sally’s son’s clothes were soft, well loved. They smelled like sea water and lavender detergent, and though the t-shirt was a gaudy orange with letters so faded that Leo couldn’t read them, he sank into the fabric with a sigh. Sally had also passed him a pair of sweatpants, and Leo hoped that her son wouldn’t be mad if he ever found out that some random foster kid had borrowed them.

If he was anything like Sally, though, Leo had the feeling he’d like him.

His hair was still wet, but this time from a shower, and Leo couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten to stand under an actual stream of hot water without people literally timing him to make sure he didn’t take too long. He stood in front of the mirror, sighing a little at how skinny he’d gotten. He’d always been small – being skinny only made him more of a punching bag for the bigger foster kids. His hair, untamed from weeks of running, hung in his eyes, and he wondered briefly if Sally might have a hair tie he could borrow.

He left the bathroom and crept into the dining room, where Sally was setting the table and Paul was pulling one of the most beautiful lasagnas he’d ever seen out of the oven.

“-texted me, said they’d be back tomorrow morning. He offered to come back sooner,” Sally was saying as Leo stood in the doorway, “but I know he and ‘beth haven’t really gotten to go on any non-monstrous dates recently.”

She blinked when she saw him standing there, and her smile softened into something warm and inviting. “Come on, hon. Paul was just getting dinner out.”

Maybe it was the malnourishment, or Paul’s cooking skills, or Leo’s exhaustion, or a combination of the three, but Leo had never tasted such good Italian food in his life. He downed one, two, three pieces and a full salad before he finally slowed down. To his relief, neither Paul nor Sally gave him any grief about how many pieces he took. Honestly, he thought he watched Paul actively make his slices bigger than theirs.

They’d clearly been talking about their son when he came in the room. This guy was in Paris, on a date with his girlfriend, and he was coming back tomorrow. Leo wondered just how rich this family was – the dad was a teacher, but Sally hadn’t said what she did, and Leo was a little afraid to ask.

When Paul brought out a pie for dessert, Leo almost cried. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had any dessert fancier than a stolen Ding Dong from a corner store. Paul definitely gave him a larger slice than them, and as he ate it, Sally poked at her own pie.

“Leo, we’re not going to pry,” she started, gentle. “Your story is yours, and I know how tricky it can be to share yourself and your past with new people.”

The sad smile Paul shot her didn’t go unnoticed by Leo, and he internally bristled at the thought that this wonderful mom in front of him could understand anything about how he felt, because that meant that she’d gone through shit she didn’t deserve. He said nothing, though, just nodded.

Sally eyed her pie thoughtfully, stabbing a blackberry that had escaped the crust. “But I feel like…well, I feel as though my son especially can relate to how you’re feeling, or at least some of it. If you’d be willing to wait for him to come home, maybe we can figure some things out together.”

Leo felt lost. He’d been lost a lot before, but this was the first time it was mental and not physical. “What?”

Sally looked up, seeming to realize that she’d baffled him. “I mean…”

She looked at Paul, and Leo looked between the two of them, tightening his grip on his fork. They were having a silent conversation. Leo hated when adults did that. “You mean you want to wait until I’m asleep so you can call the cops o-or foster services or-or just wait until your son gets back so he can tell me to get out.”

He shoved his chair back from the table, tears prickling at his eyes. Every time. Every time. He always got his hopes up, always thought he’d found the perfect people, people who got it, and every fucking time, he-

Hands settled on his shoulders, and he ripped away, scowling at Sally. Her eyes were sad, and Leo felt an unwelcome stab of guilt in his chest. “That is not what we were suggesting, ever, honey. I would never call foster services, first of all. They’re atrocious, especially for kids of color.”

Leo jolted back. He’d never had a white woman actively acknowledge his race so bluntly before – it was usually partnered with some demeaning comment about “his kind” of people. He eyed Sally warily.

She lowered her hands, keeping them on her hips where he could see them. “Second, I’d never call the police either. You’re not a problem, and my son has had enough unfortunate encounters with them for me to…distrust them severely, to say the least.”

Her son had-?

“I just…we know a place. Where you would genuinely be safe, hon. No foster homes, no cops, with people who get it.”

She was lying. She had to be lying, no matter what Leo’s heart said. But she wasn’t going to let this go, and he knew it. So he sighed, fidgeted with his fingers. He wished he had something to build. “Okay. I’ll wait for your son to get home.”

Sally relaxed, and Leo gave her a thin smile.

He helped her and Paul clean up the kitchen, put away the leftover lasagna. Sat with them and did a puzzle, played a game of Clue with them. Fixed their radio for them, much to their surprise, and then watched with a small smile on his face as Paul and Sally danced around the living room together. They tried to get him to join, but he’d never been much of a dancer, so he declined.

They bid him goodnight around 11, and he shut the door of their son’s room, let the hours tick on.

At three am, he got up, changed back into his own clothes, left the borrowed ones folded neatly on the foot of the bed. He took a flashlight from the bedside table and slid it into his backpack, stepped out of the bedroom and avoided the squeaky floorboard.

The tool kit from fixing the radio was still on the coffee table, and he picked it up with only the slightest feelings of guilt. Went through the cabinets and pulled out sleeves of crackers, a box of granola, eyed the leftover lasagna with a sad gaze. He found a roll of toilet paper under the sink, a bottle of hand sanitizer in a junk drawer.

He paused by the game of Clue, left out on the table from their match, and let his fingers trace over it sadly. His gut screamed at him to leave. His heart screamed at him to stay. He wasn’t stupid.

Leo had always trusted his gut.

He pocketed the candlestick piece and turned for the door, flinching the second his eyes landed on Sally.

Her hair was done up in a braid, her pajamas wrinkled, and the moon shining through the window reflected the sadness in her eyes. Leo opened his mouth, but couldn’t find it in him to speak – the lump was back.

She stepped forward and he shut his eyes, expecting a lecture. Instead, her hand cupped his cheek. Her other hand pressed into his, and he gasped as he felt the telltale touch of money in his fingers. He looked down at the wad of cash – he couldn’t see how much it was, but he knew that he didn’t deserve it. He looked up at her, panicking. “I can’t-”

“Stay, I know,” she whispered, and that wasn’t what he’d been planning to say, and he knew that she knew that. “I understand, Leo. I understand, sweetie.”

The sob slipped out before he could stop it, and Sally’s eyes softened. She bent at the hip, pressing a soft kiss to his curls. “When you end up meeting my son,” she murmured, “come visit, okay?”

Leo had no idea what that meant, but he nodded, if only to appease her. “I’m sorry,” he croaked.

She squeezed his shoulder. “Nothing to be sorry for, honey. Be safe.”

Sally watched him go, watched him shut the door behind him, and he looked down at the money in his hands with a choked feeling in his chest. It was more than he’d held in his entire life. He couldn’t take it, but he knew she’d be upset if he didn’t. And if there was one thing Leo refused to do, it was make Sally more upset than he already had.

So he pocketed it and, with an aching heart, stepped off the porch of the cabin. The storm from earlier had died down, and, fingers tight on his backpack straps, he started making his way up the beach.

~~

Percy was bouncing up and down at the entrance to Camp Half Blood, fingers curled around Annabeth’s hand. “Do I look okay?” he asked for probably the thousandth time that morning.

Piper rolled her eyes. “Percy, it’s your mom. She doesn’t care what you look like.”

Percy shot her a mock glare. “I haven’t seen her in over a year, McClean, sue me.”

“You look fine, Perce,” Annabeth laughed, kissing his cheek. “She’s gonna mostly care that you’re alive.”

“Okay but this tattoo-”

“Sorry, you vanished on me for over a year, crossed the globe, and you got a TATTOO?” came a very scolding, very obviously Mom Voice, and Leo snickered, turning to see who was about to absolutely whoop Percy’s ass.

And he stumbled on his own feet, lips parting as Sally (Sally Jackson, his unhelpful brain mocked) appeared at the top of the hill. Her hair was a little grayer than it had been when Leo met her, her hips a little wider, but her smile was the same, her laugh as Percy launched himself at her the same peal of delight Leo remembered on his toughest nights, and when she caught his eye over Percy’s shoulder, her smile only widened.

Okay, so sometimes Leo Valdez was kind of stupid.