Breonna Taylor’s Petition Has Still Not Hit Its Goal. It Takes Next To No Time At All To Sign It. So

Take it from someone who has been around the fandom block: 

fanfiction.net is dying.

all the signs are there. 

if you have no other record of any fics you have there… you might wanna… like… do something about that. 

These difficult conversations are more important than ever. Here’s how to overcome the roadblocks.

follow @the-movemnt

I wish that ao3 had an option to filter warnings (and tbh certain authors) out like I will never ever want to read it and just seeing it puts me off so much that often I end up closing my browser because that content upsets me so much lmao

look if you're cis dont reply to jk rowling and then screenshot your tweet and post it. donate to trans charities, specifically british trans charities, because jk lives here and has been informed by british politics. thats why shes a terf.

i know everyone likes to pretend trans rights issues are universally similar, but trans rights issues in the uk are wildly different. fight on the context she is

mermaidsuk, which helps trans youth get help

albert kennedy trust, helps homeless lgbt people (the uk currently has one dedicated homeless shelter for lgbt people, and its in london)

all about trans, which is trying ensure trans people are better represented in the media

trans rights are human rights, and trans people in the uk deserve our voices heard as much as trans americans. jk rowling is noy an anomaly, and represents the average british feminist. fighting against terfs requires systematic change, something british trans people not only cant do alone, but something we have to try and do as terfs actively lobby the government to take away our human rights (with there currently being talk of a bill which would cause under 18s to lose the ability to begin transitioning in any form, and a member of the house of lords currently waxing romantically about having trans rights removed in multiple areas)

you have to understand that talking the jk doesn't work. she doesnt care. use your time productively and spread these charities around. dont even reblog this post if you dont want to, make your own. just make it known that trans people in the uk are used to people acting like this, and soon we may not be able to do anything about them at all

planning their next move

48 for percabeth! I hope u feel better about the show

Annabeth has known that Percy was going to die from the moment she met him. Four summers. Best case scenario. 

Twelve-year-old Annabeth wasn’t particularly concerned about falling in love with the trouble-making son of Poseidon who drooled in his sleep. Freshly sixteen Annabeth sometimes wishes she had opted for the quiet life some children of Athena preferred: strategize, keep your head down, live a comfortable and unremarkable life. She hardly would’ve crossed paths with Percy outside of the occasional class or Capture the Flag. He and Grover could’ve found someone else to be their best friend, or maybe they would’ve bonded as a pair. And Annabeth would have kept her distance from Percy in the name of self-preservation, knowing they would only have four bittersweet summers together at best. 

The summer before the Titan War is not the best case scenario. Percy is hardly ever at camp except for quests and Kronos-related meetings. He chooses to spend what they both know is his last of their four measly summers away from Annabeth. Grover is nowhere to be found, Thalia is with the Hunters, Luke is hosting the Titan Lord, and Annabeth feels more like a scared little girl than she has in a long time. At least she isn’t the runaway. That title fell to Percy. 

It feels like an insult to Annabeth’s love for Percy to wish they hadn’t met. She is so much better for having loved him. For loving him—present tense. But she says this while he’s still here. His smile may not be directed at her that often, but he still smiles. Sometimes Annabeth can even stomach the jealousy of Rachel being the cause of that smile, because at least someone is giving him joy before this all goes to shit. When it does, maybe Annabeth will understand what it means to wish him away, if only to end the pain of having known and lost a person like Percy Jackson. 

The feeling isn’t new. Annabeth’s gut has twisted in previous conversations where someone would bring up high school and college plans. Percy would talk animatedly about getting his license at sixteen, and Annabeth was left with a dry mouth she could not twist into a smile. He would beam at Beckendorf’s plans to attend NYU in the fall and make the older boy promise to swing by Sally’s sometime. Even Beckendorf, who had never heard the full Great Prophecy, could not stop the microexpression of pity. 

When Annabeth first heard the prophecy, it was too much for her ten year old mind. There was no face to connect to the doomed fate, no cursed blade to reap the hero’s soul. Sometimes her young brain conjured an image of Thalia, but that was a nightmare of its own. Every night, Annabeth would watch Olympus fall at the hands of someone she hoped never to know. 

She still gets those nightmares, only the visuals have improved. Percy is in every single one of them, saving or razing Olympus depending on the night. He never survives. You cannot outrun fate. Annabeth has tried. 

Still, she is a daughter of Athena, and Athena always has a plan. When Percy dies, Annabeth will fall to pieces. In a lucky string of events, she might fall alongside him. It’s a war, after all. But she has a sneaking suspicion that she will outlive him. She has a plan for this as well. The shroud they made when he was stranded on Calypso’s island was nice and communal, leagues ahead of the one the Ares cabin shroud that still makes Annabeth’s blood boil. But deep in her soul, Annabeth knows that she alone will make his shroud. Just as she’ll burn it.; just as she’ll care for Sally in his stead; just as she will lay blue roses on his headstone every time she’s in the neighborhood; just as she’ll be there for Grover, for Clarisse, for all of camp when he’s gone. She will do it alone. Annabeth held the sky, once. She will shoulder this as well. How much heavier could losing her best friend be than the weight of the world? In her anticipation, they feel the same. 

She will build a monument for him, something to last the ages as he was supposed to, as permanent as the love he has given her. It will overlook the gods on Olympus, a reminder of the boy they failed. The boy who was too good for them all. Regardless of how the war goes, this will always be true. 

He was never built to last. Nothing good ever can, and he’s been burning the candle at both ends for a while now. He was meant to burn bright, not long. 

Annabeth sits in the dark of the Big House rec room, the only quiet space now that camp is in full war preparation. Well, the only quiet space apart from the beach, but Annabeth knows the smell of salt air and the sound of waves will be her undoing. That is another key feature of her plan: never go to the ocean again. 

She curls her knees into her chest, feeling every inch the child that she is. But children are not supposed to have plans for their best friend dying. Children are not supposed to have their first kiss out of fear that said best friend will die before their four summers are up. 

The door opens, throwing the room into harsh shadows and blinding light. 

“Um.” Annabeth can’t see who’s talking, but she’d know his voice anywhere. “Chiron said there was a war council meeting today.” 

She raises a hand to block out the light and give her eyes time to adjust. “Yeah, later.” To Annabeth’s horror, her voice is hoarse. Her throat is clogged with tears. 

Percy’s sneakers stop shifting in the carpet. “Are, uh... are you okay?” 

He sounds hesitant to ask, like he’s expecting vitriol to spew from Annabeth’s mouth. And, in fairness, sometimes it does. But Annabeth doesn’t have vitriol in her right now. The awareness that she does not have many days left with Percy is painfully acute. To spend them angry feels like a waste. 

“No, I’m not.” By now her eyes have adjusted to the light, and she looks at him through bleary eyes. 

Percy stills when he sees her face, looking ready to bolt. He points to the door. “Do you want me to...?”

Annabeth sniffles. “I don’t want to be alone.” 

What breaks her is how quickly he is by her side. For all their faults, it is the one thing she can count on. As long as she lets him, Percy will come to Annabeth when she’s hurting.

She doesn’t tell him how deeply that statement is carved into her, that she is carved from loneliness the same way he is carved from guilt—the pitfalls of pride and loyalty. 

A kid carved from loneliness cannot plan to be held the way that Percy holds Annabeth. Such a selfless love was unfathomable as a little girl; how could she ever have accounted for it? He just.. holds her. He doesn’t try to talk or look at her face. He’s just there, unwaveringly. It kills Annabeth to know he won’t always be. It hurts to be with him, but it will hurt so much more to be without him. 

The dam breaks, and Annabeth sobs into Percy’s shoulder. He’s taller than her now, grown only to be cut down young. Still, he is steadfast, grounded, secure in his roots. The way a towering oak has no reason to fear a chainsaw until the cutting has already begun. 

“You’re my best friend,” she tells him, because she’s not sure she’s ever said it and it’s something he deserves to hear. “No matter what, you’re my best friend.” 

Percy strokes a gentle hand along the back of Annabeth’s head. “And you’re mine,” he assures her. He doesn’t say you’re my best friend too. Just you’re mine. As if the fact doesn’t haunt her. She is his, irrevocably. 

A gentle knock at the door interrupts them. Annabeth recognizes Silena’s quiet footfalls and almost withdraws from Percy, but he makes no move to. 

Silena’s voice is soft, not smug like Annabeth expects. “War council in fifteen. Figured I’d give you two a heads up.” 

Annabeth meets her eyes over Percy’s shoulder. “Thanks.” 

The older girl ducks her head in something resembling shame. “It’s the least I can do.” She leaves. 

“How much longer?” Percy asks when the door clicks shut. It isn’t an impatient question. In fact, Annabeth doesn’t know exactly what he’s asking. 

She gives an honest answer. “However long we have left.” And the sun begins to set on the fourth summer. 

all alone against the skies general audiences | 3.4k | for @posallys summary: a glimpse into poseidon and sally’s relationship

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This is how creation starts: a god feels lonely.  The skies, the seas, and all the creatures within come to be when a god feels a stirring of loneliness in the vast abyss of its nothingness.  Creation is created when a god wants love.

It's gonna be such a funny mess when Donald Trump dies of a stroke on April 1st, 2024.

Naturally everybody will think it's fake because of the date only to lose their minds (both positively and negatively based on their opinion of trump) when realizing it's real

There will be massive celebrations in the streets and on social media and lots of predictable "don't speak ill of the dead" discourse about those celebrations

Weird evangelicals will pull some weird number trick talking about how Jesus was conceived on April 1st and that makes Trump a sort of messiah and people will make fun of that

The Republicans (after they're done with the faux-sadness and faux-outrage) will stomp over each other to be his successor but none of them will succeed. They'll tear each other apart and have no single nominee for the November elections.

There will be discourse about if Biden and the living former presidents should go to his funeral (they won't, he was a traitor insurrectionist)

The Ukraine-Russia War immediately goes in favor of Ukraine as morale in the Kremlin is reduced. China similarly backs off from its threats on Taiwan.

Ten thousand new memes are made, some sticking around for years to come.

Not a month later a bunch of unofficial biographies of Trump hit the bookshelves, many with new details about just how awful he was.

there are more of us than there are of them. they are asking us to be peaceful because they know this. they have assumed our peace was the same as respect.

they will tell you - being peaceful is the right thing, the honorable thing. they will not be honorable. they will continue to enact violence on you while reminding you of your morals - the same ones they have taught you.

i've said it before: there is no magical barrier stopping them from going "too far", there is no place where they "just stop". this only gets worse. they want to see how far they can push. in the coming days, they'll smile around their champagne and shush you if you post their addresses. they'll shame you for being so unfair, cruel, unkind. they'll go to ground for a little while, hoping it blows over.

they will say - we cannot listen if you raise your voice too loudly. there will always be a hoop to jump through, an image to upkeep. they want you to be pleasant, charming - easily ignored. they want to print out posters of your face they can mock up with devil horns. they do not want you to actually say - okay. so now i'm the devil.

bring it to their door.

Riptide Chapter 7 

Annabeth paces furiously back and forth through the living room, taking small breaks to stop and give Percy death stares as he sits on the couch, his knee nervously bouncing up and down.

“Annabeth, will you please sit down?” he begs, desperate for a chance to explain.

“Why? So you can keep lying to my face?” she asks as she stops at the window and whips around. “I knew something had been going on with you but I thought you took like… a confidence seminar or something, not that you became a goddamn superhero!”

Percy runs his hands over his face. “I didn’t know when to tell you.”

She stops abruptly and crosses her arms to stare him down. “Definitely before we made out on your bed.”

He hangs his head. “That… is a great point. You’re completely right, I should have told you. I fucked up. I’m so so so sorry.”  

Annabeth exhales and sits across from Percy on the coffee table, as if the wave of initial anger has left her exhausted. “You’re an asshole.”  

Percy scoots forward until he’s sitting on the edge of the couch and reaches out to take Annabeth’s hand in his. “I’m so sorry, Annabeth. I wanted to tell you, I swear.”

“So why didn’t you?” she asks, and the hurt in her voice makes Percy want to crawl into a hole and never come out.

“This whole thing…” he starts, not entirely sure how to explain. “It got really complicated really fast. This isn’t meant as an excuse but I thought that by not telling you, I was keeping you safe. All I have ever wanted was to keep you safe. Please believe me.”

Annabeth bites her bottom lip as she scans Percy’s face. He keeps eye contact as he lifts her hand to his lips and tenderly places a kiss to it, praying to whoever is listening that he hasn’t fucked this up before it has even had a chance to really begin.

She looks over at Grover for a moment, who begins to stir, and she smiles. “I can’t believe it’s just been you and Grover this whole time. How the hell are you still alive?”

Percy’s heart soars as Annabeth’s hand squeezes his back, and he laughs. “Pure luck.”

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