#yay here's some Percabeth fic

[greenconverses]

hi! I found you on ao3 and absolutely adoreeee your work, and was wondering if you had a masterlist or something on here for any and all things percabeth you’ve written? x

You'd think I would've gotten around to the whole masterlist thing after a literal decade plus in this fandom, but no. I am deeply lazy person.

HOWEVER!

You can find most of what I've written on tumblr in my writing tag.

There's also the decaying carcasses of my LiveJournal and FFnet profiles to peruse.

Please be advised that I stopped posting to both those sites like 10 years ago, so most of the stories on there will reflect PJO fandom from that period of time (and earlier!) so there might be some fic conventions and ships that are a bit dated. Yay for back catalogues!

Enjoy!

[suchastart]

Congrats on the catalog! :D I'm happy for you! Perhaps a percabeth fluff fic, where Percy gets sick? We rarely get to see Annabeth properly care for her boyfriend when he really needs it.

“I think I’m dying,” Percy says, pulling his blankets up and over his head. His whole head feels stuffy, thick with heat and snot and pressure. The enclosed darkness of his sheets doesn’t help--breathing is already difficult, and now he’s suffocating even quicker just for the drama of it all and he hopes he meets his end soon, really, just drifts off in his bedroom at whatever o’clock in the cloudy, dim afternoon. It would be such a normal, unfitting end.

Annabeth pats his leg from where she sits at his side. “You’re not dying,” she says, not sympathetic at all.

“It’s all Estelle’s fault.” He sniffs, and wipes his nose on his pillow. “She’s a little vector for germs. We should’ve never sent her to preschool.”

“She has to grow up sometime. And I’m pretty sure you’re sick because you spent the past two days playing in this blizzard.”

“I’d prefer to blame this on my innocent baby sister, thank you.”

Annabeth’s weight moves from the bed, and leaves him briefly bereft. He can hear her moving around his bedroom--kicking his discarded jeans toward his hamper, tossing a clutter of used tissues into the trash, opening and closing his door. He dozes; dreams, maybe, of snowflakes on Annabeth’s eyelashes and his mother’s strands of silver hair, of Estelle’s puffy blue coat and mittens and her gap-toothed smile, of Grover, laughing loud and making snow-satyrs in the street.

The door creaks open. Percy blinks, and cool air rushes into his blankets, and Annabeth’s hand is on his forehead, his cheeks, his neck. Her fingers are soft and cool, and feel amazing when she brushes his greasy hair back. When he hums, pleased, she spends a few quiet minutes running her hand through his hair again, and again, and again.

He doesn’t think it’s possible to love her any more than he does right now, when he feels like death, when he feels like he might just melt straight through to Elysium under her touch.

“I don’t know,” she says eventually, pressing a lingering kiss to the space between his brows. “Maybe you are dying.”

He shrugs. “Lived a good life. Could’ve eaten more pizza, but everybody has last regrets.”

“Can’t do anything about pizza, but how do you feel about chicken noodle soup?”

His stomach rumbles. He feels nauseous, but also hungry, and also like he could spend a few hours sitting with his face in a toilet. A few hours or days or months ago, Estelle sat with him and got crackers all crunched up between his sheets. “Mama said crackers are good for you,” she’d said, pressing a saltine against his lips. He ate it because he loved her, because it was impossible to resist her big blue-brown eyes, had been ever since she was born and Sally had placed her into his arms. Every cracker she’d fed him felt doubly as sickening as the last, but--it was his sister. So he ate them.

“Ugh,” he says, and drags himself into something that might be an incline.

The things he does for the girls he loves.

Annabeth rolls her eyes, but she picks up a steaming bowl of what has to be his mother’s homemade soup. He’d know it if he could only smell it--but he has to go by what he can see, the fine chunks of carrots, the browned pieces of chicken, the thick, twisting noodles. It turns his stomach, a little, just looking at it, and he prays the feeling is a muted, scared hunger instead of impending toilet time.

“Open up,” Annabeth says after blowing on a spoonful and guiding it carefully towards his mouth.

He eats a few spoonfuls without really tasting anything, and soon enough she takes pity on him and places the bowl back on his desk, takes off her socks and her jeans and her cardigan, swings herself up and over his body. He makes a pitiful attempt to dissuade her. “You’ll catch my sick,” he mumbles as she pulls his blankets up and over herself, as she makes herself comfortable in his awful hot sheets, in his awful sweaty arms. Her skin feels blessedly cool against his--her bare feet and legs and hips, as she tugs him closer, as she presses herself against him.

“Annabeth,” he says.

She shrugs. She starts pushing her fingers through his hair again, and again, and again. “Worth it,” she says.

And he doesn’t think it’s possible to love her any more than he does now, when he feels like death, when she’s still here beside him, where she’s always been.

[suchastart]

Can you please please please continue with the roommates au?? And maybe with a kiss scene?? Your writing gives me life, thank you for it!!

percabeth roomates au

special thanks, as always, to @insidiousmisandry​, who is the best ♥

*

Grover is yelling to him about his swim cap–it’s crooked, or pulling off, or something? He’s standing at the far end of the pool and gesturing to his own head, terribly, in some mimicry of a hat, gesturing like he’s placing a serving bowl on top of his head instead of maybe just pointing to the problem–Grover has never been his first choice for charades, except for the times Percy needs to be a good best friend and does so out of solidarity–but Percy idles before the block, and is looking down the pool at Grover, anyway, and pawing at his own head, trying to understand, and that’s when he sees her.

Annabeth is sitting in the bleachers. She’s wearing an oversized NAU Swim Team t-shirt, cuffed at the sleeves, and her hair is up in a ponytail. A few teammates from the women’s team are sitting with her, and, inexplicably, Clarisse la Rue of the university’s wrestling team, sandwiched between her and Silena. Annabeth leans in to listen to something Clarisse says, and pulls away frowning while Clarisse throws her whole body backwards in laughter.

He knows that frown, even from here. The little line between her brows. The spark in her eyes. The premature wrinkle only at the one side of her mouth as her lips purse. He has lived with Annabeth for nearly two full semesters now, and he can feel her disapproval from so many yards away.

He can feel his nerves, too, shiver and alight and rocket through his body, from his chest to his fingertips, down his legs to his toes.

Annabeth is here.

And of course, that’s when the whistle blows, when his whole body comes alive. Annabeth is here, Annabeth is here, oh god, Annabeth is here. He seems to go through the same kind of problem all the time lately. Percy loses all care about what his swim cap is doing, and Grover throws his hands up, and Percy stumbles numbly onto the block, because how long has she been here, watching without him noticing? Did she see his clumsy dive into the pool a few heats ago? Did she see him barely scrape into a second place finish last heat?

Does she know that this is the last heat, and what it means?

Breathe, he reminds himself. Deep from his diaphragm. Down to his feet. Deep, deep, from the center of himself. Focus on the pool, and the water, and the lines. 

Percy tries to pretend that everything is fine–oh god, Annabeth is here–and takes his mark. He looks down at the blue, blue surface in front of him. He tries not to combust. This last heat, of course, is the one that matters most. This is his best stroke, and the tie breaker between New Athens and their rival school.

He breathes deep, and looks at the water, and closes his eyes.

The bell sounds.

Percy leaps.

He hits the water like he’s been born to it, rockets forward, stays under. He surfaces and sucks in a deep gulp of air, kicks his legs, reaches for large stretches of lane.

When he’s in the pool, he doesn’t think about the race–he likes the burn of his muscles and his lungs, and the way he cuts through the water, the way he curls forward, bends his body, kicks free of the wall. It’s him and his lane and his water. This is where he belongs. This is his, and he is swimming it, and he feels amazing.

He swims. He pulls himself through the water. He kicks off at the wall. He gulps down air, and feels himself drowning, and keeps going.

And when he finally slams against the touch pad, the crowd goes crazy.

Percy ducks under the water, just for a second, just for the silence. He comes back up to the sight of Grover next to the block, grinning, his arms out, and Percy reaches up for him.

“You did it, man!” Grover yells, squeezing his forearms.

“What?”

“You did it! The record!”

Percy looks around. Some of the swimmers are still finishing the heat. His teammates–men’s and women’s–are going bananas, jumping up and down, swinging stopwatches and t-shirts and hoodies, hugging one another. Will Solace points up to the scoreboard, shouting his face red, and Percy keeps hold of Grover as he looks up.

And that’s his time.

That’s his time?

“You did it,” Grover yells again, yanking at his arms. They manage a horribly awkward pull up and out of the pool, and by the time he gets to his feet, Annabeth is there, helping them both to their feet.

“Hi,” Percy says dumbly, amid the noise.

“Percy,” she says, clutching his bare waist, looking up at him with some kind of unreadable expression. He’s lived with her for almost two semesters now, and she’s never smiled at him quite like this–soft, and proud, and happy, and disbelieving.

She shakes her head, and reaches up for his face.

And then Clarisse is there, roaring.

“Fuckin’ broken record, man!” she crows, wrapping her arms around the both of them. She pulls them both in hard enough that they knock heads, and then she’s twisting them around and around again on the wet floor, and Percy’s still kind of dizzy from it all–the heat, and Annabeth, and his win. He’s not sure he has his breath back yet–

And then Clarisse is laughing again, and pushes them both into the pool.

The world dims.

Percy adjusts quick, reaches out for Annabeth, makes sure she’s okay. She’s blinking at him through the water, and laughs, her breath escaping her amid a burst of bubbles. Her hair curls around her, golden and dancing, and he can’t help it–she’s the most beautiful thing, and she’s here, and she’s smiling at him underwater like some kind of siren–

She lets him pull her forward. Her skin is soft as he slips his hand beneath her t-shirt, holds her close, his palms against her spine, and she takes the liberty, too, of freeing him from his goggles, his crooked swim cap, fisting her hand in his hair.

His pulse pounds loud in his ears. He holds his breath beneath the water, and looks up at her, and kisses her.

She smiles against his lips.

Percy’s not sure his heart has run so fast, or felt as full. She tastes like gum and chlorine, and he feels her tongue against his for a second, for two, until she’s squeezing his shoulders and pulling away. She heads for the surface, and Percy, feeling dumb and lovestruck and unusually out of breath, follows.

“Congratulations,” Annabeth says, when he reaches air. She shoves the hair from his forehead, cups his cheeks. He’s not sure he’s ever seen her grin so wide. “Wow.”

“You’re here,” he says.

She laughs. They’re both treading water, but she shifts closer, allows him to balance most of her weight. He’s swam a marathon today, and his body aches, but he feels ready to swim an ocean when she slips an arm around around his shoulder and kisses his forehead. “I’m so proud,” she says, and Percy holds her close, feeling happy enough to burst.

[suchastart]

insidiousmisandry replied to your post “hey what should I write about?”

u should combine the two and write sweater percy/punk annabeth

you right, you right

punk Annabeth and sweater Percy has a tag!!!

*

Annabeth breaks into Percy’s locker after second period and steals his backup sweater.

She’s got Dr. Vesta’s bio lab next, which is on the old hallway and is therefore always frigidly cold, no matter what season--the air conditioners are always broken, and the heaters eke out less and less warmth each year. She’s not even sure they work anymore. It’s only a few degrees from snowing outside, and she left her own coat in homeroom, clear across the school.

So she spares it little second thought. It’s easier to leverage Percy’s locker door open than trying to rush down the halls, risking detention for running and being tardy. She pulls the sweater from the hook--a neutral gray, worn at the elbows and cuffs, missing a few buttons--and pulls it on. It kind of matches her outfit, ripped jeans and boots and all. It smells like old wool.

She makes it to class before the bell. Dr. Vesta smiles at her, and someone at the back of the class whistles.

Annabeth flips a finger at Connor Stoll, who is grinning at her.

“Cold, Chase?” he asks.

“Screw you, Stoll.”

“Language,” Dr. Vesta warns. She waits until Annabeth sits down before pointing at the empty desk at the front row. Annabeth crosses her arms. The class is loud with students talking to one another and getting their books from their bags, pulling out their work, ignoring the staring contest between Annabeth and the teacher.

Dr. Vesta points again, and Annabeth gives in, relocates to the front row, where she’s obligated to pay attention and participate the whole period.

It’d be awful--it is pretty awful, being under Dr. Vesta’s watchful stare--but when the bell rings again, and she’s the first one out of the room, Percy’s there, waiting for her in the hallway, his hands in his pockets, leaning against the wall.

He’s smiling. And a little pink around the cheeks.

Annabeth groans.

[suchastart]

Don't know if you are accepting prompts, but here's on for a Percababy one, based on an image I saw on internet. Daisy can stop crying in her crib, so Percy just jumps into her crib with her and she snuggles on him.

I am absolutely always accepting prompts for percababy ♥ 

thank you for the prompt, my friend!!

*

The little video monitor on the nightstand blinks to life. It’s the light that wakes him, through the frizz of Annabeth’s hair as she sleeps beside him; he blinks, and levers up onto an elbow, and blinks again. On the screen, in her nursery, Daisy wriggles around in her crib, a tiny little tired thing, sleepy and sniffling. Blearily he watches her, holds his breath.

She starts to cry.

Annabeth is out cold, and Percy is out of bed. She’s already been up a few times that night, and by the gods, does Percy know she needs her rest. Sometimes, Sally’s told them, it’s okay to let babies cry it out, to soothe themselves, to fall back to sleep on their own, but he just--he can’t. It’s dark o’clock in the morning, and he can’t lie there and listen to his daughter cry. He knows all too well what it feels like to be alone in the dark, and now that Daisy is old enough to recognize his face, his voice--now that she knows who he is, knows that he’s her father, that she loves him and trusts him--

He takes a few steps down the hallway, through her open door, and past Mrs. O’Leary, who’s been keeping close vigil at her bedside.

“Hey, hey, sweet girl,” he says, reaching into the crib. Daisy wails. She’s got her little fists balled up, and her feet kick blindly through the air, and she’s warm and red-faced and angry, and a little part of Percy’s heart breaks a little, seeing her cry. He tries to rub her belly for a few minutes, and then sings her some terrible rendition of a song Sally used to hum him to sleep with.

When she doesn’t let up, Percy sighs.

They’re both exhausted, and the only thing left to do is heft himself up into the crib with her.

It’s a sturdy thing, carefully designed and built, and easily holds his weight--big enough to hold him, to allow him to situate himself around Daisy and pull her close.

She cries, and cries, and Percy brushes his fingers carefully through the gentle wisps of her hair, across her round cheeks, down and up the curve of her tiny nose. She smells like fresh laundry and milk and Annabeth and baby. He kisses the soft shell of her ear.

“Shh,” he says, easing her fist open, slipping his finger into her hand. She grips him tight, turns into his chest. She hiccups; her cries quiet. He melts, kind of a lot, and curls closer around her. “Shh. Nothing to be afraid of. I’m right here with you. I’m not going anywhere.”

And for a while, he lies awake with her, watches the rise and fall of her tiny little chest, the pout of her lips, the miracle of her life, warm underneath his hand. He lets his palm rest against the entirety of her stomach, and he rubs his thumb across her chin, and he smiles at her, when she looks up at him in the dim light. They sing each other the same lullaby, he thinks, as he hums, as she hums--it’s enough to know she’s there with him, to feel her close as he drifts back to sleep.

[suchastart]

percabeth, roommates au

It’s dark when Annabeth finally drags herself home from a late-night study session. There’s a light on in the kitchen, and she kicks her shoes off at the door, drops her bookbag, follows the sounds of soft music to the small table stuffed in the corner of the small galley. Percy’s head is pillowed on his arms, crossed over a thick textbook, and a calm instrumental playlist sings from his laptop.

He’s dead asleep. The hood of his sweatshirt is tucked warm around his neck. A dark curl of hair rests against his forehead. Something almost fond uncurls in Annabeth’s chest as she looks at him, and she steps closer, reaches out--and touches his hair, brushes it carefully from his face. It’s thick, coarse, and feels heavy and damp with chlorine.

Percy sleeps on, none the wiser, but Annabeth pulls back as if scalded.

She--

What?

She hurriedly--and quietly--grabs a water bottle from the fridge and escapes toward her bedroom. She’s tired, that’s all. She’s certainly not feeling anything close to affection toward her terrible, annoying, impertinent roommate. He’s loud, and leaves his shoes everywhere, and plays his stupid music at all hours of the night. He’s always wet, somehow--after a shower, or swim practice, or a jog, and he’s nearly always in some state of undress, and she has to stare at his stupid abs, or his legs, or his hair--and really, does he have to lounge so ridiculously on the couch? It’s a shared living space. They’re living here together.

He doesn’t have to be so…

Annabeth doesn’t know what to think. Awful, she wants to say. Annoying. Tempting. Beautiful.

She closes her door quietly behind her, and takes a healthy swig of water.

Stupid Percy.

[suchastart]

Your new roommates au is so so good! Do you think there's any chance of continuing? Love all your writing by the way :)

I can’t believe this thing that I wrote on the fly has over 500 notes right now??

I mean, I made a tag for it, so I guess it’s official. And something I gotta work on some more. Percy and Annabeth are ridiculous and I love them, so here’s that. I also love @insidiousmisandry​, who is the best.

And you. Thank you so much! :)

*

“Hey, have you seen my–?”

Percy stops, hands up, in the doorway of Annabeth’s dimly lit room, as if the motion might pull his words back into his mouth. She’s lying on her stomach on the floor, surrounded by notebooks and pens and flashcards, nearly face-down in her textbook. Her hair is pulled into a half-hearted braid, and her nose is pink, and there’s a scattering of used, balled-up tissues tossed toward the trashcan next to her desk.

She’s wearing the hoodie he’d been searching the apartment for–his hoodie, soft and blue, the one he’d gotten his freshman year and has worn to every swim practice since. She’s got the sleeves pulled up over her fists, one of them tucked close to her face, and she looks–

He filters through his adjectives for a moment, knowing that she’d hate the word cute, and especially vulnerable, and decides upon the most objective of the bunch, which is, easily, sick.

Carefully, he steps around her messily-ordered chaos of graph paper and kneels next to her, rests a hand on her back. He rubs his thumb over the line of her shoulder blade. “Annabeth? Hey, wake up. Annabeth.”

She frowns in her sleep. Blinks awake. Focuses, first, on the twist of the cloth between her fingers, and then the blur of words beneath her head, and then Percy, looming above her. She blinks again, and he thinks she almost smiles before her eyes start watering.

A smile–that, he’d almost be prepared for. She’s smiled at him before, maybe a handful of times, each one more meaningful and memorable than the last. A smile at a stupid joke he’d made, or something he’d done around the apartment, or leaving her a container of fudge his mother had mailed them. But crying? That first tear has something awful clenching in his heart, and he gives in to the urge to touch her, to cup the back of her head, to reach for her wrist.

“Hey,” he says. “You okay?”

Her face crumples. “I don’t feel good.”

“Okay,” he says, and helps her sit up. “Here, c’mon.”

She nestles herself immediately into his chest, and it takes him a long minute to actively kick-start his brain and force himself to rearrange her into a position that makes it possible to lift her. (Has she ever leaned into him like this? Has she ever touched him in a way that wasn’t a punch, or a kick, or one terribly executed noogie?) He hefts her up and over to her bed, kind of shuffles her between her sheets, gets her blankets situated. He tugs his hood up and over her head. She hums, pleased, and gropes blindly for his hand.

“One sec,” he tells her. He fishes in his pocket for his phone, and leans a little easier against her headboard once he has it in hand. Annabeth pulls herself up and makes herself comfortable, her head against his chest, her arm slung over his waist, and he supposes that’s that. Especially when he calls his team captain and tells him that he won’t be making it to practice tonight, so sorry, he’s come down with something, and yes, absolutely he’ll be back in the pool in a day or two to make up the laps he’s missed. Yep. Sure. Okay, goodnight.

And then he’s looking down at his roommate, who is sleeping soundly against his chest, her nose a little crusty, her face a little damp. He’s not sure she’ll remember this in the morning, but even so–he presses a kiss to her forehead and holds her a little closer, just for good measure.

[suchastart]

Percabeth: Fall break? Or Halloween?

pjo roommate au ♥

*

Halloween falls on a Tuesday this month. Annabeth’s plans include studying for this week’s quiz and preparing for her ARCH380 presentation. She has a mind-centering playlist singing quietly from her laptop and a pristine graph pad primed and ready for drafts and sketches and diagrams.

She expects to get a few knocks on her door, despite the fact that she hasn’t posted a pumpkin on her door–a cheery decal given to every resident in the apartment complex, which designates homes that are ready to receive trick-or-treaters. Annabeth’s a bit of a scrooge this year. She’s just so damned busy, and under so much pressure–every moment of her time needs to be devoted to this project. It’s nearly 35% of her grade. She’s nothing if not a physical embodiment of focus. She’s got her protein bars, and tea, and extra pencils. She’s optimally comfortable in sweatpants and her roommate’s hoodie.

An hour passes. Two. Three. A few people knock on the door and move on. Annabeth flips through her flashcards, and reorganizes her notes, and perfects her blueprints. Her playlist winds to a close and starts from the beginning again–beautiful, slow instrumentals, orchestral and humming. She pulls her pencil across paper, sees stretching structures, towering and technical and stunning. She runs down equations like clockwork; easy, like breathing.

Another knock on the door.

She ignores it, like the others, except this one does not cease; it knocks, and knocks, and knocks. And knocks. And knocks.

It does not stop, even when Annabeth glares at the door. Even when she holds her breath and counts to ten. Twenty. Thirty. Even when she stands, and stomps to the foyer, and unlocks the bolt and chain, and whips the door open.

She has to admit surprise. She does not expect to see her own roommate standing in the hallway, nor their best friend, waving sheepishly behind him. Percy is dressed like the Little Mermaid: long green fin, purple clam-shell bra, curly red wig. His candy bag is shaped like Flounder, and is filled with treats and cans of soda and random, loose pieces of popcorn. Next to him, Grover is decorated in browns and greens like a five foot twig.

“I am Groot,” Grover intones.

“Trick or treat,” Percy greets.

Annabeth sighs, and starts to close the door. “I don’t have time for this.”

But Percy sticks his fin in the door, and Grover shoves it open with his vine-wrapped crutch. They shove their way inside.

“It’s Halloween,” Percy says, easing her back, a gentle hand on her arm. He pushes until there’s enough space that Grover can step in and shut the door behind them. He pushes until there’s not enough space between them–she’s already wearing his hoodie, the one that smells entirely too much like him, but he’s–wearing a strapless bra disguised as clams, and his entire chest-ab-hip situation is on display, so that’s–she tries not to look, tries not to let herself get distracted, but–

“Annabeth?”

Heat rises to her face. She turns back to the study center she’s set up in the living room. Her laptop rests on the coffee table, and everything else is spread out from that epicenter–textbooks, and notebooks, and binders, flashcards, graph sheets, blueprints, spare pencils, erasers. She is about to resume her seat in the center when Percy grabs her elbow.

“Hey, come on. You’ve been studying all night. Come out with us.”

“Percy, I’m busy–”

“And you’re stupidly smart, and I know you know all this already,” he says, gesturing to the living room. He hasn’t let go of her arm. “Don’t you want to come con the neighbors out of free candy?”

“Free candy!” Grover crows. He leans forward and pushes Annabeth’s laptop closed with his crutch. Her music abruptly cuts off. “Let’s go, Annabeth. We’re breaking you out of here.”

Percy smiles. His eyes are unfairly pretty. “Yeah, let’s go, Annabeth.”

She sighs.

The silence of the apartment ticks by. Grover shifts on his feet, and Percy shakes her arm, and Annabeth quickly reorganizes her plans, sorts her next day by class and study blocks and computer lab hours. She’ll have to wake up by eight, no matter how horribly late her friends might keep her up–she’ll also have to reschedule her advisory hours, and see if she can maneuver her work study block to something more manageable. But–

Percy ushers her into her room, and together they manage to wrangle her into some sort of a costume. They fashion her white bedsheet into a Grecian peplos, and tie it off with a gold cord from her box of spare craft materials. She slips into a pair of gladiator sandals, and pulls her hair up into a messy updo, and swipes some shimmer on her face, and it’s enough to allow her to say she’s some kind of goddess. She’ll convince the neighbors, at least, but–

She turns, and spins in her sheet-dress, and laughs self-consciously. She looks up at Percy. “I guess this’ll have to do.”

“You, uh–yeah,” he says. He blushes down to his chest. He looks this side of starstruck. “You look good. You look fine. Let’s go?”

Annabeth smiles. She tries not to feel flattered; she feels his eyes on her as she leaves the room, and can’t help but sway her hips as she walks through the living room, joins Grover. He holds the door open for her. “Let’s go!”

Grover grins. “Happy Halloween. Let’s go get some candy.”

[suchastart]

idk if my ask sent but the gist of it was: hi mina, i love you, your roommates au is the reason i breath atm, i love you, i saw that you said u had some extra paragraphs of annabeth & percy taking care of each other after she punched that dudebro and was wondering why you kept them from us? sincerely, ur biggest fan who loves you

here are the really messy extra paragraphs, but only because I love you, Teriza ♥

pjo roommates au

*

He follows her easily, succumbs right away to the tight grip on his forearm, the speed with which she tugs him through the gawking crowd. They’re up the deck stairs and into the frat house in no time--people move out of her way, startled either by the look on her face or the bleeding boy she’s tugging behind her, and she leads him quick through the mass of drunk college kids toward the second story bathroom, quiet and out of the way. Percy levers himself up onto the counter. Annabeth shuts the door.

Silence rings.

She steps past him, yanks the hand towel off the wall, wets it underneath the sink. Percy watches her hands as she moves into his space, into the gap between his knees. He watches as she presses the cool cloth to the swollen skin on his cheek, his nose, his forehead. He winces, and hisses, but he stays still, even as she dabs the towel to the bleeding cut above his brow.

They don’t talk, not for a few minutes. She rinses the towel, and turns the on the warm tap, and presses a little bit harder to his jaw. Her eyes are hard gray stones, and her fingers feather-light on his knee.

Percy swallows. He doesn’t--he doesn’t know where the line is. For herself, or for her. They’ve been dancing around one another for weeks now. He kind of wants to reach for her. He’s not entirely sure she wouldn’t punch him, too, so he contents himself with watching, and staying hyper-vigilant of her hand on his leg, and the way her gaze grazes everywhere but his own.

Finally, after an age, she says, soft and careful, “Are you okay?”

He closes his eyes. Breathes. Allows himself to reach blindly for her hand. When he opens his eyes, her gaze is direct, warm, cautious.

“Are you?” he asks.

She lets him hold her fingers between his own, does not pull away when he brings her hand up and presses a gentle kiss to the swollen red skin of her knuckles.

“I could’ve used a few more punches,” she admits.

Percy laughs. His breath ghosts across the back of her hand. He uses it to pull her just a few unbearable centimeters closer. “You and me both.”

And for a moment--

For a few hesitant, heartbreaking seconds--

They stare at one another, faces a few inches away, close enough that he can see the faint freckles across her nose, the striations of color in her eyes. She inhales, and he feels that, too, and he wonders if this is the line they’ve been toeing, if he’s looking at it right now, if he feels it in the slight shake of her hands, the way she seems scared, as she looks at his lips, and the way he feels terrified, emboldened, as he reaches for her waist--

The way he feels almost murderous, when somebody knocks on the door.

Annabeth steps back immediately, and the idiot on the other side of the door continues pounding. “Hurry up! I gotta take a leak!”

“I,” Annabeth starts, looking almost cornered, especially when Percy slides off the counter, crowds into her space.

He backs towards the door. “Sorry, I--”

“No, it’s, you didn’t--”

“Hey! I’m gonna piss myself! Get out of there and make out somewhere else!”

Percy and Annabeth laugh, both entirely uncomfortable, avoiding one another’s eyes. Annabeth tosses the wet, bloodied towel into the trash can, and Percy opens the door to yet another asshole in a polo shirt who glares up at him. He shoulders past the jerk, and makes sure Annabeth makes her way unhindered past him, glaring at the guy’s back.

[suchastart]

hi, i love your writing! but i have one request. can you tell us how percy and annabeth get together in the mass effect au? again, your writing is amazing!

the best au I’ve ever au’ed: pjo mass effect au, and @anxiouspineapples‘ here, too

*

“I don’t have time for your ridiculous questions,” Annabeth snaps, shoving the reporter’s camera out of her face. The Citadel docks are crowded enough–there’s little room for her to maneuver, kitted out in full armor, wending through stacks of crates and containers, and with refugees standing and shuffling and settling wherever there’s space. There are just about a half million things on her mind at the moment, and the destruction of the entire galaxy hovering just beyond the next relay, but sure, of course, all Nancy Bobofit wants to ask her about is ship scuttlebutt.

Not that Annabeth has much patience at the moment for any questions, but Reaper movements, or supply lines, or statistics of any kind would be slightly more palatable.

“Alliance fraternization is not ridiculous,” Nancy Bobofit says, keeping pace, trailing like comet dust as Annabeth’s glare clears an easier path through the crowds. “I’m sure your people want to know if this relationship is in any way distracting you from–”

Annabeth doesn’t stop walking. She wants to. She wants to turn, and grab that shining beacon of a camera, and crush it into splinters.

She wants to turn and punch Nancy Bobofit right in her pinched, orange face.

This relationship.

Distracting.

But she keeps walking, and tries to let the words slide right off her armor, as close to her skin as an exoskeleton.

“–something your delusional Captain Chiron ought to see to–”

Annabeth pivots. Nancy Bobofit bounces off her chestplate and looks up, surprised.

“Don’t you ever speak to me about Admiral Chiron,” she says, palming the camera drone out of her face again. She hesitates, as people pass around them, mildly curious as Commander Chase leans aggressively over a small woman in the middle of the docks, and then she adds, churlish, “And Jackson is currently a civilian consultant, so I’d thank you to keep your accusations about fraternization to yourself.”

Nancy Bobofit narrows her eyes, and takes a breath, but Annabeth is already gone, shoving the camera into a nearby trashcan and disappearing into the crowd.

*

Chiron’s apartment–old apartment. Chiron’s old bedroom. It hadn’t been so hard for her, before: dealing with change. She has Chiron’s old ship and Chiron’s old post and now she’s taking leave in Chiron’s old home, and it’s not like she feels that she’s living in his shadow, but she certainly can’t be living up to his expectations, either.

Not in his eyes, or the eyes of the galaxy.

Delusional.

Distracting.

She’s in the middle of the bedroom, in the middle of tossing pieces of her armor to the floor, in the middle of a terrible spiral of overthinking when she feels Percy approach. Not too close, not when she’s ripping off the shoulders of her hardsuit, not when she wants to break the ceramic plating of her chestplate with her bare hands. He lingers in the doorway, and waits, and doesn’t interrupt until Annabeth strips herself of her armor to her waist and feels the fight drain away.

Her shoulders sag, and she closes her eyes.

“Counselor Dionysus again?” he finally asks.

“Reporter,” she sighs. “Nancy Bobofit, Yancy News Network.”

Percy hums.

He approaches her much like he might a rabin varren, one he’s got tamed; his steps are slow but sure, and he nudges her fists from her hips, unbuckles the belt, the thigh plates, the knee pads. Everything hits the floor with a careful, soft thud, and Annabeth keeps her eyes closed to the ceiling until he guides her backwards toward the bed. She sits, and looks at the top of his head, the deft movements of his fingers that work on her shin guards, the tight laces of her boots.

She sighs, and falls back onto the blankets. The apartment hums around her. Air filters, and lights, and the distant whir of shuttles passing through the Strip. Percy continues to work on her boot laces. His silence is genuine, but she knows this game–they both do. He waits, and she grits her teeth, and doubts, and second-guesses, and blurts–

“She asked. About us.”

“Yeah?”

“About how we got together.”

Percy wriggles one boot off. He strips her of her sock, too, and doesn’t make a sound as she stretches her sweaty toes. She can only imagine his face. She’s been wearing her boots since she woke up however many hours ago.

“She called Chiron delusional.”

This time, he pauses in his unlacing. “You didn’t kill her, did you?”

She snorts. “I wanted to. I threw her camera drone into the trash.”

Percy snickers, and then laughs, and then grabs onto her leg as he leans into a loud cackle. His palms are warm on the back of her calf, and she feels light-headed, in his laughter. The rest of her anger drains away.

Distracting, she thinks–but for the best reasons.

Eventually he quiets, and pulls her boot off, and climbs up onto the bed next to her. His hand wanders, ghosts over the tight fabric of her under-armor, the sweaty skin at her collar. She tilts her head to the side, and looks at him, and thinks, with a certain amount of wonder, How did we get together? How did this ever happen?

And it’s not like she doesn’t know, like she wasn’t there for it–the first angry, hesitant weeks, the confusion and yelling and clumsiness on-field that bled into a wordless, seamless teamwork, the cold coffee shared in a quiet mess hall. Looking at the silent stretch of space on the starboard observation. Laughing, and being surprised to laugh, at stupid jokes in the middle of negotiations. Bandaging one another after a firefight. Vid calls. Silly gifts. Smiles.

Explosions, and last regrets, in that endless vacuum over a wintery blue planet.

Finding home again, after Omega.

“What’d you tell her?” Percy asks, his hand on her neck, his thumb over her pulse. Not measuring, but–protective, almost possessive.

Reassuring.

“I didn’t,” she says.

She looks over at him, the blue-green-black bruise of his tattoos, the actual yellowed bruise healing at the angle of his jaw. The product of a fight with a thug who tried to steal rations from a new arrival of refugees at the docks. She looks at the circles beneath his eyes, and the turn of his brow, and the gentle line of his mouth. She runs her thumb over his bottom lip.

“I told her you were a civilian consultant,” she admits.

And it takes a second, but Percy listens, and then dissolves into laughter again, leaning forward to press his face to her chest as he shakes. Annabeth smiles, and hangs on–her favorite place on the Citadel.

[suchastart]

I'm actually living for your pjo roommates au oh my god, please write more of it

Another frat house party. The music is too loud, and the beer is too warm, but Annabeth is dominating the beer pong table, and she’s never felt better.

Her partner is a statuesque girl she thinks she’s seen sitting at the back of Dean Chiron’s campus Town Hall meetings. She introduces herself as Reyna. Her hair is pulled up in a high ponytail, and she’s wearing a ripped black shirt, and every time Annabeth sinks another ball, she almost smiles.

They blow through a few pairs of challengers, and decimate them like clockwork. Loud bass beats through the stuffy rooms of the house, and someone hooks up a strobe light on the fireplace mantle that adds an actual element of challenge to the game. It’s a dizzying few minutes, trying to focus on the targets and not the flashing stutter of the world around her, and by the time someone gets fed up and yanks the plug out of the wall, she’s blinking back stars.

That’s when Reyna nudges her shoulder and nods towards the open back doors. Piper is weaving her way through the crowd. There’s a huge red stain across her--well, her everything. It looks like someone dumped a cup of tub juice on her; it’s on her shirt, and her jeans, and still dripping wet down her arms. It’s almost as red as her face.

She looks furious.

“I need you,” she says without preamble, grabbing Annabeth’s arm and tugging her away from the pong table.

Annabeth goes freely. She has to shout as they pass by the ridiculous stereo setup. “What is it? Why are you covered in tub juice?”

Her only answer is a shake of Piper’s head, and a tighter grip on her arm. The glass doors at the back of the living room open to a cool dark night and a wooden deck, and to stairs that drop into a grassy yard. If it weren’t home to a stupid fraternity, Annabeth might think it charming--there’s a wood fence around the perimeter, and white lights strung up in the huge tree beside the shed.

Of course, there's also a group of people circling some kind of shouting match where the picnic table used to be. Piper guides her right toward it. They push through to the center of the swarm, where a big guy in a red Mars Coup t-shirt is hunched over, holding his jaw, while two more guys grapple at one another, swinging and scuffling around in the dirt.

Annabeth recognizes the ripped jeans and the blue snapback immediately.

It’s like instinct, like gravity--she sees Percy and pulls away from Piper, moves forward, yanks at sweaty arms and shoulders until she can insert herself squarely between him and the drunk frat bro who’s trying to fight him. The guy’s a few inches shorter than Percy, built solid and wearing a pink polo shirt. It takes her a moment longer than expected to heft his weight away.

“Hey! Hey! Knock it off!” she yells at the both of them, pushing them away from one another. Percy relents, and she fists her fingers in his shirt. “What is wrong with you?”

“He punched Frank!”

“Yeah,” the bro says, motioning to the big guy behind Percy, “‘cause he called me an idiot!”

“You are an idiot,” Percy says.

“And you’re a pussy,” the bro says. He lunges for Percy. “Sticking up for your boyfriend over there!”

Annabeth pushes Percy back. It’s a crystalline moment of clarify. Everything after that feels like slow motion--she releases his shirt, and turns, and squares her shoulders--she meets the bro head on, looks him in the eye, cocks her fist, and swings.

It hurts just as much as she knew it would.

Her knuckles make contact with his face and follow through. Pain rockets through her hand. It’s enough of a punch to send him stumbling back onto his ass, and under the crowing of the crowd and the soft lights of the tree, they watch the frat bro squirm dramatically on the ground, clutching his face.

Annabeth takes a brief second to savor the scene. Her hand is on fire. Before the bro can get himself back up to his feet, she says, “Don’t fuck with my roommate,” and pulls Percy away.

[suchastart]

anything percabeth related, I just fought with my mom

Sally Jackson comes home to a quiet house, and for the short minute it takes her to kick off her heels and drop her purse on the side table by the door, to walk down the hall to the living room as Paul locks up, she’s almost afraid. It’s been years since her family has been in any immediate danger--years that are not yet far removed from her nightmares, years that haven’t quite dulled her immediate panic response to loud noises or her suspicion to complete silence.

It’s nothing, she tells herself, hurrying around the corner, pressing a hand to her chest as she steps into the doorway of the living room. Her heart skips a beat beneath her palm, flutters wildly--and she smiles. She can’t help it.

The living room is a littered mess of toys and books and socks and snacks, and in the middle of the room, a magnificent blanket fort stretches toward the ceiling. It is made up of old sheets from the linen closet, holiday tablecloths, a few of Sally’s favorite throws, and several of her daughter’s quilts. It’s beautifully constructed--she has no doubt her daughter-in-law has had a meticulous hand in its design--and beneath one of the raised flaps, in the dim light of a glowstone, she sees them all dressed in their pajamas and cuddled together in a pile of pillows collected from around the house.

Her daughter Sarah lies sandwiched and starfished in the middle, a hand tangled in Annabeth’s hair, a leg tucked over Percy’s waist. Annabeth lies on her side, curled around Sarah; she reaches toward Percy in her sleep, toward him and the tiny baby sleeping on his chest, dressed in a tiny onesie and drooling onto his shirt.

As quietly as possible, Sally takes her phone from her pocket and takes a picture.

And then Paul trips in the hall behind her.

Annabeth is a sudden blur of motion, pulling a glinting dagger from nowhere, rolling up onto her knees above Sarah. Percy is a little slower to move, cupping a hand to the back of his own daughter’s head, raising himself onto an elbow and murmuring, “Huh?”

“It’s just us,” Sally says quickly, somewhat grateful that she is not the only one that hasn’t let go of her fear, her nightmares. “We’re back.”

“Oh,” Percy says sleepily. He lies back down, smooths his hand across Daisy’s tiny little back. The baby has not made any move to wake. “How’d it go?”

Paul looks wearily at the glint of Annabeth’s dagger. She takes a steadying breath and tucks it back beneath her pillow, lowers herself to her heels beside Sarah, rubs at her eyes. “Good date?” she asks.

“It was great,” Sally says. “You guys go back to sleep.”

Annabeth sighs. “As if I could.”

Sally laughs quietly. She waves Paul off toward the stairs, and toes forward to press a kiss to Annabeth’s head. She tugs the blankets up over Sarah’s shoulders, and touches the gentle, soft curls of her granddaughter’s hair. All her girls, warm and sleepy and wonderful--

And her son, smiling up at her with that same boyish smile he’s had since he was her first baby.

He reaches up to catch her hand. “Night, Ma. Love you.”

Something in her heart seizes, dances, twists. Sally holds his hand, squeezes tight. “Love you,” she says, and means it more than anything. “Good night.”

[suchastart]

just waking up - percabeth ? If you don't mind!

Don’t mind if I do :)

*

“Wake up.”

Percy stares. His cheeseburger looks up at him. Its tongue is a tomato slice. It’s stuffed with lettuce and onions and globs of ketchup and mustard. One pickle-slice eye slides off the face of the bun. It gazes up at him with one remaining, wrinkled eye–the longer Percy waits, confused, the more it… transforms? Curly blonde hair sprouts from its head-bun, and the pickle eyes rearrange themselves, recolor silver, regard him tiredly.

He blinks. “What?”

“Wake up.”

He blinks again. His cheeseburger is not a cheeseburger. He was dreaming. His cheeseburger is Annabeth. She looks down at him, beautiful and disheveled, one of his old, worn, cut-up shirts falling off her shoulder, her curls riotous and tangled and golden. He knows he’s just waking up; his bed is so warm and comfortable, and the air coming in through the cabin window is salty and a little chilly, and he would much rather tug Annabeth back into his arms and drift back into sleep, if he has to be honest.

She resists his pull, and he groans with an arm still hooked around her waist. She says something else; the words are drowned with the pillow he stuffs his face into. “What?”

“Jason’s here,” she says, pushing him onto his back. She yanks the blanket from his bare chest. “He has something to tell us.”

“What?”

Annabeth, the love of his young life, pinches his nipple. Hard. “I’m not saying it again.”

With a loud groan, Percy forces himself sitting. It’s gotta be… early? Too early. Way too early, if he can’t tell what time it is. Weak sunlight filters in through the wide windows. He rubs the drool from his chin and swings his head toward the door, where Jason is standing with his back to them, his hands in his pockets.

Percy tosses a pillow at him. “We’re decent, you idiot.”

His shoulders go up; a blush crawls down his neck. “Well, you never know, I just–”

“What’s going on, Jason?” Annabeth asks. She sounds even more exhausted than Percy, and for a moment, he’s distracted by worry–did she not sleep well? Did she have less cheeseburgery dreams than he did? Granted, it is a relief beyond measure that he did not dream of fire and brimstone and lost friends on endless fields of battle, but he’d rather take those nightmares on himself than have Annabeth relive them.

Annabeth pinches that same sore nipple.

“Ow! Hey, c’mon, babe.”

She takes the sides of his face in her hands and turns his gaze physically toward Jason. “Go,” she tells him.

“Rachel’s gone glowy-eyed,” Jason says, wriggling his fingers in front of his eyes. He looks casually grim–a feat Jason usually pulls off, as if things usually go to crap for him, and he’s slowly gotten used to it. “Charon’s calling us to the Big House.”

Percy blinks. Swats Annabeth’s hand away from his chest. Looks at the rays of sunrise coming through his window, and the gentle bubbling of the fountain in the corner, and the soft blankets pooling at his lap. In one easy movement, he flops back down into his pillow and tugs the blanket up over his shoulder. “Call me when the Camp’s on fire.”

He expects immediate resistance–

–waits–waits–feels the bed shift as Annabeth probably gestures and mouths words to Jason across the room–closes his eyes and hopes he can catch that dream about cheeseburgers, hopes maybe he can add pizza to the mix–

–and does not expect, at all, to feel Annabeth lie back down beside him.

Her body is a warm curve against his back. She slips her arm around his waist, and tucks her knees into the back of his, and presses her forehead to his neck. She doesn’t say a word, but Percy’s chest constricts nonetheless–infinite thankfulness, and love, and peace. He reaches down and threads his fingers through hers.

“We’re gonna hear about this later,” Annabeth says, her lips warm against his spine.

“You care?”

He waits. And he thinks his heart skips just a little when she says, “Nah. Let’s nap all day. We deserve it.”

“Dam right we do.”

[suchastart]

For the writting prompts, maybe percabeth and number 12?

panicked/accidental confession

*

Friday family dinner turns quickly into chaos.

If it’s not one of the usual kinds of crazy–a baby-flung scrap of food turned into a full-fledged food fight, an offhand joke at the central brazier that turns into an impromptu camper roast, a loud and obnoxious and roaring sing-along–it’s most certainly the other. Screaming, and panicking, and a deafening boom that shakes the ground and rattles dust from the columns of the dining pavilion. The protective barrier around Camp Half-Blood flickers fire-red, then dissolves.

Clarisse is the first to stand, weapon in-hand; Piper is the second. “Everybody stay calm!” she shouts, climbing atop Aphrodite’s table. “Just–just stay calm!”

The screaming lessens, soothed by her charmspeak as much as her presence. Annabeth, for her part, mostly feels Piper’s anxiety atop her own. She gets to her feet and scans the visible borders of the camp, stares hard at the darkening shadows at the tree line, the stretching strawberry fields, the spaces between the cabins. The tall sanctuary of the climbing wall. The placid waters of the Sound. All the places something might easily hide. All the places an invading force might emerge from.

“Mama?”

She stares, too, at her daughter’s face, her round cheeks and scared, trusting eyes. “We’re fine, baby.”

“Loud,” Daisy cries, grabbing at her ears and leaning into Annabeth’s thigh. “Daddy’s coming back?”

Percy’s currently pulling Riptide from his pocket and joining Chiron and Clarisse at the brazier, quickly organizing campers into scouting parties. Children just a few years older than their daughter–we were twelve, Percy, can you believe that?–are running for the weapons shed and the borders of Camp, prepared to fight and defend with their lives. Annabeth looks down at her daughter and is not quite ready to let her face the same kind of threat.

“Come on,” she says, scooping Daisy up into her arms. She hurries toward the brazier. Will Solace has peeled off from the pavilion, and is directing kids this way and that as Nico melts toward the shadows.

The usual summer-blue sky above them shimmers with angry, unnaturally dark clouds. Thunder rumbles electric through the air.

“Hey,” Percy calls, angling Riptide away from their daughter as she reaches for him. He kisses her head, but does not take her from Annabeth’s arms. “Chiron’s gonna take Daisy and some of the younger kids to the Big House. Will’s sending some Ares kids to hold down the fort. You ready?”

“I can’t–”

“We’ll head toward the beach with Tyson and head inward toward the creek–”

“Percy, I’m not going, I shouldn’t–”

“–and meet Nyssa’s team near the–wh-what do you mean you can’t go?”

Annabeth hefts Daisy higher up on her hip, feels the words tripping and spilling out of her mouth, all wrong and ill-timed and desperate. She could go with him, leave Daisy with Chiron, scout out the perimeters of Camp, find the source of this invasion on their home, but–

“I’m–I have to stay with Daisy… Percy, I’m pregnant.”

Percy blinks. Piper calls for calm yet again as the ground tremors; Daisy grips Annabeth’s shirt and tucks her head underneath her mother’s chin, and the tiny little life beneath Annabeth’s belly draws Percy’s full attention.

“What?”

“I’ll stay here with Chiron and the kids,” Annabeth says, pressing her hand to Percy’s chest, his wildly pounding heart. “I’ll keep them safe. You go find out what this is about.”

“You’re–you’re pregnant?”

He sounds wrecked. He looks wrecked, reaching out toward her with his free hand, gripping Riptide white-knuckled with his other.

Annabeth pushes him back. “Go,” she says. “We’ll talk about it when you get back.”

And she knows it’s the last thing he wants to do–he gets that mulish, strong-jawed look when he wants to fight her, opens his mouth like he’s about to argue, then looks over at his daughter, holding close to Annabeth. She’s still crying, quietly, into Annabeth’s shirt, and looking up at him with his own wide, scared eyes.

Quick as lightning, he reaches for the back of Annabeth’s neck and presses a hard kiss to her lips. He rests his forehead against hers. “Be safe. You hear me? You keep all of you safe.”

“I will.” She yanks her bone sword from the sheath at her hip and backs away from him. All of you–herself, Daisy, and their new baby–she’ll protect all of them at once. “Go.”

Percy steals one last glance at them. She wants to remember forever the awed look on his face before he turns away.

“Alright, Daisy,” Annabeth says, holding her close, gripping her sword tight. “Let’s go.”

[suchastart]

8- Percy and Annabeth

cuddles -- reluctantly

*

It is far past midnight. Percy knows it by the shine of the moon through his tiny porthole window. He shifts restlessly in his bunk on the Argo II and counts to a hundred and back again. Again. Again. Imagines sheep hopping fences, and stars twinkling in deadened, dark brown eyes, and each silver of his mother’s hair; measures his slow breathing to each beat of his own heart; one, ten, a hundred… and back again. Again.

Again.

He closes his eyes to the dark. Tries desperately to think of anything but hot fire against his skin. Tries to remember anything before his memory was lost and found, and he fell into the depths of the earth, and--

There’s a knock at his door.

Riptide is in his hand before he can think, and he’s on his feet--

“Percy,” Annabeth says, on the other side of the door. “It’s me.”

He breathes. Keeps his eyes wide as she opens the door. Watches her slow steps, and the sallow draw of her skin, and the slack tangle of her braid.

She stares. He stares.

“Why aren’t you sleeping,” Percy says, as if he doesn’t know, as if the words aren’t already coming out of his mouth, wooden and terrified. He watches as she steps carelessly past the edge of his sword and into his space, into his arms. “Annabeth?”

“I can’t sleep,” she admits quietly, tucking her face into his neck, whispering the words like a shameful secret, like she’s weak for it.

Percy ducks his head. Riptide falls from his hand, and his arms come up and around Annabeth. She’s sturdy, and warm, and solid. She doesn’t shake as he does; she stands tall and wraps him in her arms. Together, they stand in the dark of his small, silent room and hold each other. The air smells clean, like sea air and sweat, so much unlike the soot and smoke they suffered when--

“Coach Hedge is gonna yell at us again,” Percy whispers into her hair.

“Don’t care,” she murmurs. “Let’s go to sleep.”

He’s not sure who pulls away first--they stand there for a while, unmoving, breathing in sync--and then they pull back the tangled covers of Percy’s bunk, scoot into the bed, arrange themselves as best they know. Annabeth lies on her back, this time, and Percy curls himself around her, rests his ear to her chest, tucks a leg between hers, slips his hand beneath her shirt and rests it on the rising cage of her ribs. She runs her hands through his hair, down his cheek, across his neck, and his shoulders, and his back--light, gentle touches, back and forth like easy ocean waves.

“We’re gonna be in so much trouble. Again.”

Annabeth huffs. It’s almost laughter. “The door’s open. We’re not hiding anything. And I’m not afraid to fight Hedge. Go to sleep, Perce.”

“Mmm,” he hums, pressing a kiss to her chin. Sleep. It sounds nice, with Annabeth here. He holds her a bit closer, prays that she is enough to keep the nightmares away. He wants to tell her he loves her--thinks he might mumble the words into her jaw, thinks he might trace the letters into the soft skin of her belly--but the shadows of the night pull at him, warm and comfortable and safe, and he slips into sleep.

[suchastart]

You think you are funny?

Something comes over her at breakfast that morning. She sits beside Malcolm and listens absently as he explains his latest ideas for updated Camp defenses--chews on a piece of toast, taps her fingers against the table, makes vague sounds of agreement--but she feels inexplicably giddy today, for perhaps no other reason than being alive under a beautiful, sunny sky. 

Plus, Percy’s got a terrible case of bedhead, and his shirt is on backwards and inside-out, and she can’t help but smiling as she watches him, three tables away, falling asleep in his cereal. 

“Sounds good,” Annabeth says, bumping her shoulder into Malcolm’s as she gets to her feet. She tugs her baseball cap from her belt loop. “Show me the plans later.” 

Malcolm sighs. “Because you only heard half of what I said. Don’t cause too much trouble?” 

“You know me.” 

“That’s the problem!” 

She pulls her hat on and slips from visibility, makes her way towards Poseidon’s table, where Tyson is humming along to a song one of the Demeter kids is singing. Percy is too easy a target--his chin rests in his palm, his elbow at the edge of the table, and he’s already nodding off. She sneaks up behind him, safe and grinning beneath her hat, and pushes the at back of his head. 

He face-plants in his cold bowl of cereal. 

Campers around him erupt into laughter as Percy comes up gasping, milk dripping down his face and cereal clinging to his cheeks. He looks accusingly at his half-brother, who raises his hands in innocence, before taking a handful of scrambled eggs and smashing them into Tyson’s hair. The Demeter kid stops singing. Someone gasps. Malcolm--wise, exasperated Malcolm--groans. 

A familiar voice at the Ares table yells, “Food fight!” 

Annabeth is safe from the initial volley. Invisible, she ducks behind Tyson’s broad shoulders, misses a glob of jelly that flies right by her head. She’s content to watch the chaos--Will Solace wields bottles of honey, and Hazel flings waffles like discuses, and Piper is cackling as she shoots sausages from her cornucopia. Goblets topple over and stain the white tablecloths. French toast and bacon sizzle as they land on the central brazier. Campers duck beneath tables and slip around the pavilion and toss muffins at one another like dodgeballs. 

She thinks Clarisse is the one that ends up landing the hit that gets her found. It’s a splatter of strawberry jam, and it lands right at her jaw. She reels back from the force of it, reaches back to catch herself, probably makes some sound of surprise. 

And Percy, ever in tune with her, whips his head to the side. 

She crab-walks backwards, hand after foot, as if that’s going to save her. A huff of breathless laughter escapes him. He stares at her, through her, the smear of jam across her jaw, the only thing of her that he can see. There’s a flash in his eyes before he’s throwing himself from the table. He lands on top of her in a mess of limbs, wrestles his way up her body, pins her to the ground. 

She can’t help but laugh. 

“You think you’re funny?” Percy asks, grinning. He reaches up and pulls her hat from her head, reveals her face in its strawberry-covered glory, kisses her forehead and nose and cheeks until she aches with happiness. “You did this!” 

Annabeth wraps her arms around his neck and rubs her face against his, smears jam across his cheeks, his chin, his mouth. She kisses it, sweet and tart, from his lips. She thinks her heart is going to burst from happiness, from love. “Good morning.”