trembling hands / saccharine + any pairing 🥺
Percy doesn’t know how to do this.Â
He should know, right? It’s Annabeth. The girl who he held at the bottom of Siren Bay, who kept him from dissolving in the Styx. He held up the sky for her at fourteen, but he can’t make a move on her now that she’s his girlfriend?Â
But it’s Annabeth, and he wants to do right by her. He knows her, sure, but he wants to know her in this new light, this soft glow of almost-love.Â
They sit together on the dock, their toes teasing the lapping waves that glint in the setting sun. Annabeth leans back on her hands and tilts her head to soak up summer’s swan song. The water slaps the dock like a kick drum underneath the cacophony of camp in the background. It’s more chaos than anything, but it’s music to Percy’s ears: the survivors all in the same place for the very last time.Â
It’s that thought that drives Percy to reach for Annabeth, even if it’s with trembling hands. Sunlight caresses her with a bravery Percy doesn’t quite have yet. Someday he will touch her just as gently.Â
He lacks finesse, but his fingers slip between Annabeth’s steadily enough. She eyes open slowly, her pupils adjusting to the brightness and then dilating once more at the sight of Percy. He’s half expecting her to laugh at him for grabbing her hand and staring at her all doe-eyed, but she just beams.Â
For someone who said she wouldn’t make things easy, Annabeth is an easy person to be sweet on. Her cheeks betray her, turning as red as the strawberries growing in the distance. She’s just as saccharine, just as soft and homegrown. It’s easy to slip a hand to the soft skin of her neck, to tilt her jaw, to press his lips to hers. She tastes like nectar, a home that warms his chest. She tastes like healing.Â
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
JUSTICE FOR CASEY GOODSON
On December 4th, 2020, Casey Christian Goodson Jr. (23 years old) was shot three times in the back and murdered by a Sheriff’s Deputy as he was entering his home in Columbus, Ohio. Goodson’s family stated that he was returning home from a dentist appointment, holding a Subway sandwich, his face mask, and his keys, when he was shot.
Two days later, the Columbus Police Department made a statement alleging that James Meade, the deputy responsible for Goodson’s death, saw a man believed to be Goodson with a gun while driving. Meade then approached Goodson after he exited his car and walked home, where he was shot.
Hours after the shooting, the US Marshal for the Southern District of Ohio, Peter Tobin, confirmed that Goodson was not the fugitive they were searching for. However, Tobin also added that he believed that the shooting was justified, claiming that Goodson was shot after he refused to drop his “weapon.”
Yet another Black man murdered by the police.
DEMAND JUSTICE.
art credit: @alex.albadree on instagram
graphics credit: @worldawarenessassociation on instagram
percabeth | angst with a happy ending | 4k | commissioned by @random-hallucinationsÂ
major character death but not really
Ω
Hubris and loyalty. Fatal.
When Percy and Annabeth’s wars are won and the prophecies are about other people, it’s almost easy to forget. Hubris becomes Annabeth refusing to admit she’s wrong. Loyalty becomes Percy’s tendency to put the needs of others before his own. Peace lulls memory into rest, slowing the mind and the heart until they are fickle things. Peace itself is a fickle thing.
They still train—they are still demigods. War is in their blood, running through their veins alongside humanity and divinity. It’s never over.
Cold rain pelts Annabeth’s skin, soaking through her t-shirt and jean shorts. Her boots slip in the mud as she hauls a petrified fourteen-year-old girl toward Half-Blood Hill, brandishing her Drakon-bone sword to ward off the hellhounds in the surrounding woods. Their presence is scarce save a muddy paw print or a pair of gleaming red eyes in the treeline.
It’s not the hellhounds Annabeth is afraid of; she’s killed more of them than she cares to count. It’s the reason the hellhounds won’t move in, the looming figure shaking the slick earth with heavy footfalls.
read on AO3
Ask and you shall receive. The dom!Annabeth we’ve all been waiting for.
does anyone hve any sin recommendations i just fell from the garden of eden five seconds ago
PULLING YOU IN FOR A KISS WITH A SCARF
The night is warm. Annabeth’s cheeks heat with the flush of wine—by now they likely match the red of her Christmas sweater, a thick turtleneck that tickles her jaw. Charles stokes the flames at the fireplace for the first time in the new house, filling the room with the smell of oak and cedar and replacing the smell of dinner lingering in the air. An earnest Rachel chirps over Charles’ shoulder about how to interpret and “read” the flame, which he indulges with the silent amusement only he possesses. Katie and Travis are in a playful argument that will culminate in a kiss any minute, Grover is passing out hot cocoa (with extra marshmallows for Annabeth), and the others are screeching an off-key rendition of “All I Want For Christmas Is You”, which is particularly remarkable when you consider Clarisse singing along with her spiked cider raised high.
Most importantly, warmth emanates from under her where Percy sits with his arm around her waist and a soft smile on his face. He looks so serene, taken out of the moment the way one does in a flash of sudden clarity that they are currently creating a memory they will long to come back to, looking through the lens of nostalgia for a moment they are still in. Somehow Annabeth is in that moment with him, watching their friends through grainy film and hearing them as though the audio plays in the next room over. Everything is muted, glossy, and so so warm.
Percy comes back to himself and presses his lips to Annabeth’s cheek, smiling against the heat of her skin. His hand lifts from her hip to point at the reckless carolers supporting each other with firm embraces and shaky harmonies. “They’re idiots,” he says, but he says it with that smile and it sounds an awful lot like I love them.
“Yeah,” she sighs. “They really are.”
Later in the night once the idiots have been rounded up and herded out the door, Annabeth pauses in the foyer to watch them stumble gleefully, fighting over who gets shotgun in Juniper’s car (Grover) and who gets stuck in the middle seat (Connor). Snow falls softly and settles on Rachel’s curls as she tugs Clarisse’s beanie over her buzz cut and past her eyes, cackling alongside Castor and Pollux and the rest of the gang. Laughter and clinking glass echo from the kitchen where Silena and Beckendorf stayed behind.
The city is cold but the world is warm and full of people Annabeth loves, and therefore it is full of meaning. She turns to Percy, her coat rustling with the movement, and tries to hang on to this warmth, to the man who brought so much of it into her life.
She says, “Thank you,” and it sounds like I love you. It sounds like I love you and it means I love you but there is wine in her system and she’s two seconds away from crying after drinking on an ordinary day with less emotions. If he asks her, she’ll blame the wine and the holidays.
But Percy doesn’t ask her. He finishes pulling on his scarf and coat and looks at her, just looks at her, patient and understanding and in love, the way he has looked at her for the past ten years of their life. Annabeth marvels at her ability to bask in the familiarity of this love. She knows the details of him better than anything; he is the one portrait she can sketch from memory, a monument to permanence in her heart, and still her gaze catches on his freckles even in the winter months when there is no sun to change them. Just in case she misses one.
So she knows he will respond, “Of course,” in that soft tone of his, and she’s ready when his arms wrap around her bundled body. This man, her life partner who drives her crazy in the most maddening and romantic of ways, has given her more than she could ever hope to repay, and he loves her anyway. When her mind plays tricks and plants seeds of doubt, he reassures her. He shows up. Every single time, he shows up.
Their friends are long since corralled by their designated drivers, leaving Percy and Annabeth in the headlights. She pulls him in by the scarf, and they don’t say anything, but it sounds like I love you. Thank you for bringing me in from the cold. Thank you for bringing me home.
http://m.dailykos.com/story/2015/08/03/1408341/-Psychologist-openly-admits-he-trains-police-officers-to-shoot-first-and-ask-questions-later S-I-G-N-A-L B-O-O-S-T