Percy, At Some Point In Season Three After Bumping Into A Random Red Haired Girl At The Hoover Dam: I

If you're feeling like writing some percabeth, I would love to see the “Are you really going to leave without asking me the question you’ve been dying to ask me?”. Thank you in advance, love your writing!!

“I’ve missed you,” Annabeth murmurs, burying her head into Percy’s soft sweatshirt, trying to reconcile this warm feeling with what’s left of a memory from months ago. It’s been too long. 

“Me too, Wise Girl. Me too,” Percy says back to her, “I’ve missed you more.”

“I missed you most!” Annabeth leans back from the embrace, smirking at him and sniping at him competitively.

They laugh together. 

I can get used to this, Annabeth thinks. 

Even as they sail towards their next challenge on the Argo II, she feels fortunate. After not seeing him for so many months -- months of crying to Sally and torturing herself with what-ifs -- Annabeth can finally hold him in her arms. 

The only thing she has to do is to try her best on ignoring the voice in the back of her head, taunting her about her solo quest and the eventuality of what other horrors that can bring.

“Hey,” Percy says, drawing her back to the present, “we can talk more tonight. I know you wanted to check with Piper, Jason, and Leo to see how they are getting along with Frank and Hazel. Go ahead, I know we don’t have too much time before dinner. Frank wanted to run something by me, too.”

Annabeth nods, and looks wistfully at Percy as she moves to leave. When she glances back by the door, he is staring at her, smiling weakly. 

“What?” she asks, suddenly self conscious. Did she have something on her face?

“Nothing,” he says.

Just when she was about to turn back, Percy blurts, “are you really going to leave without asking me the question you’ve been dying to ask me?”

Annabeth is taken aback, briefly. She wonders if he knows which specific question she really is dying to ask, because there are so many. 

Did he really remember her all along? 

If he did, did he try his best to find her (as she did to find him) in all those months?

Did he get a chance to talk to his mom yet? Does he know how she and Sally had cried into each other’s arms for months when he disappeared?

Is he resentful for this world and all that it’s brought them?

So many questions flitted through her brain, but the one that makes it to him is, “you nicked your chin when you shaved.” 

“Oh,” Percy says, touching a hand to his chin, certainly not expecting this observation. 

Annabeth wants to scream into the heavens, on how unfair it is that they missed so much time together. Percy didn’t even used to shave regularly the last time they saw each other, the fall after they defeated Kronos. 

“Your invincibility -- it’s gone,” Annabeth explains, patiently waiting for Percy to tell her what happened. It hurts, more than a little, to know that the link between Percy’s mortality and her was severed.

He sighs and tells her about The Little Tiber. 

Annabeth swears that after all this (if there is an “after,” she isn’t quite sure), she will do whatever possible to leave the world of the gods behind.

never bothered watching the movie but I feel this frame on a spiritual level

hi i'd like to cause damage today :3

6 year old Peeta Mellark, very seriously, asked Mr. Everdeen for Katniss' hand in marriage when he was trading at the bakery one day.

Mr. Everdeen was absolutely chuffed about it. He thought it was the cutest thing in the world and it took everything in him to maintain a serious tone when he responded with:

"That's a really big commitment. What do you have to offer my daughter, young man?"

"I can draw real good, my cupcakes are way better than both of my brothers, and I'll always let her take the top bunk."

"Well, son. Those are all really fine and respectable offerings. But if Katniss is anything like her mother, she's going to do what she likes. But if you ever ask her, you'll have my blessing. Just make sure to lead with the top bunk, that's a major selling point."

Jesper: Why's Kaz in the corner?

Inej: he's in time out.

Jesper:...why?

Inej: he just pitched th idea that instead of discarding amputations, we should let cannibals have them, and that we should legalize cannibalism.

Wylan: ...he had a po-

Inej: CORNER.

it is definitely cannon that everyone at camp calls Percy "Annabeth's boyfriend". They'll be showing a new kid around the place and be like "oh yeah, that's Annabeth's boyfriend, Percy. He's also the hero of olympus, beat the god of war, and a child of poseidon or whatever."

say what u want but the last olympian was the fucking book!! the end of the world starting at the first line!! the reintroducing of our character faves!! the reading of the great prophecy!! the percabeth angst!! the sally jackson and may castellan parallel!! the percy jackson power up (with a dash of percabeth)!! the point of no return once the city falls into an endless sleep!! the actual war that took four books to set up taking place!! the percabeth!! the cursed blade!! the percabeth!! the payoffs!! the percabeth!! the setup for the next book series!! no book will ever hit as hard for me as that one!!

okay in case you’re not familiar let me introduce you to these two amazing cosplayers who do percy and annabeth and they’re actually dating in real life. plus the guy who does percy is actually latino

just something wholesome to warm up your day!!! i stan

something about percy winning against ares by drawing first blood, not giving a fuck that it’s the god of war he is making an enemy out of vs him being caught totally unaware by luke and luke drawing first blood because percy hesitated, because this is his friend, because making an enemy out of a god is way more preferable over making an enemy out of a friend. percy winning against insurmountable odds vs him losing because his loyalty is truly and undoubtedly fatal.

People talk about District 12’s meadow being a graveyard after the war, but if you think about it, the entire district is a graveyard.

Many of my ancestors do not have graves because they died in coal mining accidents and no one bothered to take their bodies out because it was too expensive. My dad can even point out where they are. There are warehouses built on top of essentially a graveyard, but that apparently doesn’t matter because they didn’t have enough money to be important.

Think about how many people are underneath District 12 because they were never gotten out of the mines. It was a district built on top of death from well before the war.

how do i talk about my loneliness? do i say it’s more a sense of alienation than anything else? do i want to risk naming the thing, to excavate the ruins of my old self? she is still here; a ghost, a haunting. maybe i am just made of echoes, never a real voice or an authentic sound but the remains of something. i am leaning towards the horizon like a flower towards sunlight but i am rooted. do i say that i have even forgotten how to write? words used to bubble out of me when i looked at a blank page, like freed prisoners or escape artists. now the words die on my tongue, like a betrayal. maybe i’m just tired. maybe it’s just weariness, a profound fatigue that precludes everything. i am a smudge. negative space. defined by things unspoken. wordlessness, a loaded silence. a loaded gun. how do i talk about the reasons why i cry myself to sleep at night without turning it into a cliché? how do i talk about the mood swings, the anger, the roiling mess of god-knows-what in my chest and in the pit of my stomach that i am no longer empowered by? where do i put the anger, the mourning? if not released by expression, then can i find a way to be a good cage for my restlessness? can i be a good ruler so melancholy doesn’t curdle into rage? now even the words on the page look hollow, lifeless. i realise i have been giving up for quite some time. it does not feel like relief. this whole time, i have been nursing a revolution inside me. i feel mutinous—against the world, against myself. if i cannot put my insecurities into poetry, if i cannot make my ugliness poetic, then i’m afraid there’s nothing left. do i say that sometimes i am seized by episodes of grief, facing the emptiness and silence pressing in around me, pulsing from within me, until i either suffocate from the claustrophobia or implode like a star? do i say that i am sick of trying, sick of feeling like i should give up, sick of needing to let go when holding on is the only thing i’m good at? do i say that i am a fundamentally hopeless person, oscillating between cynicism and optimism every day until i give myself whiplash? do i say that a scream has been building inside of me, drowning out the silence, perhaps even replacing it, but i do not have the freedom to voice it? do i say that my existence has been lined with incompleteness? do i say that i confuse solitude with agency, anger with redemption, and numbness with respite? do i say what i have never allowed myself to say before—that i am tension yet i persuade myself into thinking i am at peace; that i am always trapped in the push and pull of opposing inner forces, the old coward and the new fool; that i am a contradiction, egoistic yet self-effacing? my life is a perpetual attempt at reconciliation. i crave attention, recognition, care, clout—i know some part of me believes i am owed these things—yet every material accomplishment i am forced to call my own exists to negate this vision of myself, which is a delusion, at the end of the day. i think i am going insane. when push comes to shove, i stumble and fall. there is no rationalising my way out of this labyrinth of desires and dreams and disappointments. i am outlined in discrepancies, built up by expectations and then torn down by reality. is this loneliness? is keeping yourself to yourself strength or denial? the inarticulable parts of me i hate the most, yet they are a spectre that haunts me, a shadow self that i want to fistfight but am too jaded to. i am alienated from myself. i am fragmented, compartmentalised to the point of no return. i never bring my whole self towards anything; i don’t even know what wholeness is. everything matters, then none of it does. i am in limbo, neither heaven nor hell but a kind of purgatory, a small place where only i exist. it’s the solipsism of the depressed that i take refuge in, and at the same time want to disavow. is this loneliness, then? being too ashamed of these unflattering details of yourself to voice them out, so you have to carry them like a burden, and it ends up defining who you are anyway?