#b: hoo

[padmedala]

miscellaneous riordanverse headcanons

Selena taught Annabeth how to take care of her curly hair

Amos Kane shops at Blitzen's Best

Apollo flinches whenever he hears thunder

the reason Percy is able to remember Annabeth at the beginning of SoN is because she was his anchor when he bathed in the river Styx. that's why his memories start to fade before he regains them, once he crosses the Little Tiber he's just remembering remembering her

Jack has a playlist called "Friendship with Frey over ⚔️" and it's like 90% Taylor Swift breakup songs

because demigods can't carry phones most of them wear wristwatches. Annabeth has a classic leather watch that was her dad's when he was getting his PhD. Will has a digital star wars watch meant for kids

when Percy and Annabeth die (way in the future) they learn that this life was actually their third reincarnation, and they've already earned a place in the Isles of the Blessed

[mediumgayitalian]

When Lee and Michael pull him from Chiron's exceptionally dry Ancient Greek lessons, Will is excited. When they drag him down, ducking, behind the stables, as other campers walk by, he is intrigued. When they guide him all the way back to their cabin, sit him on his bed, and then drag two stools to sit across from him, silently, he is still excited.

A little nervous, now.

But excited.

"Will," Michael says, solemn. He presses his fist to his mouth, eyes carefully blank. "Will, you are almost ten years old, now."

Will bounces on his mattress, grinning. "Yeah! I'm nine and fifty-six seventy-thirds." He peers at his brothers hopefully, trying to lessen his fidgeting and appear Regal and Adult. "Am I getting my Dad present early?"

Gods, he hopes so. He has been counting down the days -- every tenth birthday, for every kid, Camp-bound or not, Apollo sends them a gift of gold jewelry, smelted in the heat of the Sun by Holy Hephaestus, jewels handcrafted by the finest artisans on Olympus, blessed by yours truly. Will has been watching in seething jealousy as Michael's signet ring glints every time he pulls back his bow, as Cass' hoops swing when she walks. He hopes the gift is earrings -- he finally convinced Michael to pierce his lobes a couple months ago, and he's tired of the ugly studs. Beckendorf made him promise to let him poke around at whatever Will gets, and Will has been itching to show him.

And to get the jewelry, obviously. That's priority number one.

Lee shakes his head slowly. "No. You will get your milestone when you get it." He exchanges a long, fearful look with Michael. Will picks at last summer's clay bead, with the trident on it. "Speaking of milestones…"

Michael makes a sudden, choked noise, covering his face with his hands and curling forward. Will startles. Lee sighs, looking down for a moment as well. When he looks up again, he meets Will's wide eyes with his teary ones, and places a supportive hand on Michael's back.

"Will…" he looks out to the open window, shaking his head slightly. When he looks back, his face is creased in apology, and his eyes are ringed with pity. Will feels his heart drop. "Have you chosen someone, yet?"

"Chosen?" Will straightens, fists twisting in his shorts. "Chosen someone for what?" Michael makes another strangled wailing noise. Will's breath hitches, and his ears white out. "Lee, tell me! Tell me now!"

"We are a Greek camp," Lee says, finally. "An ancient Greek camp. With ancient Greek customs, kiddo."

He says it softly, apologetically. Like the time a seagull swooped down and stole Will's ice cream, right from his hands, on the beach last week. Will recognizes the hopeless tone of his voice and his heart drops.

"How much did they tell you about…our customs?"

"I didn't listen to the admissions video!" Will confesses, panicked. "I'm sorry! It was so boring! There were a bajillion music numbers and they were all kind of bad no offense and the screen made my eyes hurt and I missed my mom and --"

"Will," Michael says, voice shaking. He meets Will's eyes and Will is horrified to see they are wet.

He has never seen Michael cry before -- not even once.

"It's okay, Will. Some people don't know."

"Tell me," Will begs. "Am I being sacrificed?"

To his great relief, both his brothers laugh, waving dismissive hands as they chuckle. Will sags into his pillows.

"Oh, no, gods no. That would be barbaric." Lee wipes a tear from his eyes. "C'mon, Will, we're a little more civilized than that." He smiles encouragingly. Will smiles, hesitantly, back. "You're getting married."

It takes a long enough moment for the sound to travel and the word to register that Will is sure his hearing aids have gone wonky. He taps them, as though it will do anything, and tilts his head.

"I didn't hear you right. What did you say?"

"Married," Michael repeats. "By age 10, like all people had to do back then." He and Lee exchange another weighted look. "That, or you have to marry Mr. D." He rushes to assure at Will's panicked shriek; "Only if you don't choose someone in time. You have until you turn ten, so don't worry. I'm sure you'll find someone in time. You'll have most of the summer, anyway."

There is a moment where Lee and Michael murmur to each other, nodding. "Yeah," Lee says, mostly to himself. "You'll be fine." To which Michael responds: "Of course, of course. I mean, we did it."

Will sits there, frozen.

"I can't get married!" he cries, coming back to himself. He begins to hyperventilate. "I'm -- nine! I'm a kid!" He looks to his older brothers, blue eyes big and watery. "I don't even know how to file my taxes yet!"

Lee and Michael are sympathetic. They move forward, immediately, one on either side of him; Lee slides a squeezing hand around his shoulders, Michael pats him on the leg.

"It'll be fine, squirt," Lee soothes. He gestures across them. "I mean, me and Michael found somebody. It all worked out."

"You're married?" Will chokes out. His breaths come quick and shallow, despite Lee's comforting hand. "Michael is married?!"

"Watch it, twerp," Michael warns, at the same time as Lee says: "It was a challenge and a half, but yeah, Michael is married."

Will glances quickly down. There is no ring on either of their left hands, but they must notice him looking, because Michael snorts, pinching him on the knee.

"We just told you it's an ancient Greek custom, dumbass. Rings were invented later. We just…" He makes an incomprehensible gesture with his ringless hand. "Followed the book, completed the rite, etc, etc. Boom. Matrimony."

Lee nods. He rubs Will's shoulder a final time, encouragingly, before pulling away enough to give him space to breathe.

"You'll find someone, Will. We just thought we'd warn you because it didn't look like you remembered yourself, and we don't want you to have to…well."

Will shudders. Vaguely, in the back of his blurry, blurry memory, he can recall someone saying something in a video somewhere about partners and their importance in Camp. He had not paid attention, and he curses himself for it, now -- he almost had to marry Mr. D. Mr. D. who is rude, who smells like vinegar, who always has something in his teeth, who sleeps all day and drools more than a waterfall, who scares the satyrs on purpose and never even says sorry. Who is mean and gross and the worst ever.

"Thank you," Will says, tearfully. He grips his brothers' hands in his small fists and shakes from his spot between them, almost-life flashing in front of his eyes. If his brothers hadn't warned him, Mr. D. would have made him rub his stinking feet and feed him grapes for all eternity for sure. There wouldn't even be breaks for episodes of Star Trek. He shudders. "Thank you."

His brothers return the half-hug, although Michal sighs about it. He is too short to see the smirks they flash above his head.

"Anytime, twerp."

-- -- --

next

[haifischkivenchy]

shameless self promo but i need people to be fully aware that i also draw The Robots and not in fact just yap!!!! i don't actually properly upload my art here though and I don't think it's necessary to reup them on my art blog

[ashpkat]

i can’t believe octavian died like… that. of all things in a middle grade kids books series. and everyone was chill about it. literally no one gaf octavian died so horrifically even if it was ‘just’ —and as the readers… we were chill with it too

[arataka-reigen]

Bruh, how do you make a character whose life is hanging on to a piece of wood destined to burn and another character with uncontrollable fire powers, and you don't make them fall in love in the end.

[aroaceleovaldez]

thinking about Piper's claiming scene in TLH but instead of her getting the stupid dress (that isn't even Greek-style it's just stupid) she gets a tear dress. cause that'd be fun.

[pestopastaenjoyer]

anyways. au but not rlly au where it’s late 1940s-early 1950s venice and nico is a university student studying literature. he lives with his single mother maria + his engaged sister bianca and he has an objectively good and cushy life for post-ww2 europe even if his family is desperate to set him up with someone like they did w bianca. he starts having weird dreams about living a life he surely hasn’t experienced and the number 1,995 keeps on recurring day-to-day. as it turns out this is our nico placed on an alternate theoretical timeline by a malevolent being (nyx strikes back perhaps) who erased his memories SoN-style. he’s aided by a plucky girl in one of his classes who may or may not be hemera (goddess of the day, nyx’s daughter who is not on good terms w mommy) and together they try to get nico back to his own place on the timeline

[punkeropercyjackson]

People always be forgetting Percy Jackson is canonically an anarchist with a strong sense of community who prioritizes minority kids and was an eco-activist in high school to make Percy more palpable and i'm not comfortable with that

[marvelsmostwanted]

(July 2024) Free community college is available for Massachusetts residents who have physically been in the state for at least a year and have a high school diploma or equivalent. They must also be a U.S. citizen, a permanent legal resident, or a non-citizen eligible under Title IV regulations.

Where did the money come from to pay for free education, you ask??

It came from taxing millionaires more. Massachusetts voted YES on this in 2022.

"This [policy] expands a program launched last fall and funded by the Massachusetts Millionaire's Tax, which made community colleges in the state free for residents ages 25 and older." (Source)

Try saying voting doesn't matter to someone who literally could not go to college at all because they couldn't afford it and is now able to. That is life-changing. Voting matters! Vote.org

[qoldenskies]

[quickie to kick off the bad things happen bingo!]

[bayetea]

reynabeth.......... in 2024?!?

♡ my daily pjo art tag ♡

[spirit-fingers22]

I don't know how to write it or where to find it but I pitch to you

Fictional boyfriends

Fictional girlfriends

Fictional Partners

Fictional Best Friends

Making you friendship bracelets

We already have the reader making them one why not the other way around?

Share it with a friend

[alltheglowingeyess]

“Mrs. Ferris—hi. Where’s Will?”

Mrs. Ferris doesn’t even blink. “You’re late. Third time this month.”

Naomi exhales, already fumbling for her wallet as she palms twenty-five dollars. “I got caught up at the end of my shift and then my car wouldn’t start. But I’m—just, sorry, I’m in a bit of a rush, so I’ll just give you the cost now and—”

“Ms. Solace,” Mrs. Ferris interrupts, folding her hands neatly over the papers she was massacring with red pen, “your son was already sent home. With his emergency contact. As part of his suspension.”

Crap. “Suspension?”

“Your son picked a fight in the hallway today. We had to forcibly remove him from another student after he lashed out.”

“I—he wouldn’t just do that,” Naomi says. “And why didn’t y’all call me?”

“We tried. It went to voicemail.”

Naomi frowns, digging her phone out of her purse. She flips it open, wincing when the screen stays dark. “Ah.” She snaps it shut, shoving it back in her purse. “Well, this other boy wouldn’t happen to be, uh… Noah Ricky or something, hm?”

“Noel Rickerby, yes. I don’t see—”

“Mrs. Ferris, Will has come home in tears multiple times the past few weeks over the things this boy’s been saying and doing. And you expect me to believe he was unprovoked?”

“William—”

“Will.”

Mrs. Ferris’s lips twitch. “Will has already demonstrated behavioral issues. Noel is a model student and—”

“And Will’s behavioral issues are only a problem because y’all refuse to give him any support.” Naomi feels her rage rising as she speaks, voice shaking. “I’ve been on my hands and knees begging this school to invest even an ounce of energy into understanding that he’s a brilliant kid, and you’ve done squat.”

She slams the money on the desk, shifting her bag on her shoulder. “Until y’all start treating my son with respect, I’m not sitting here listening to whatever half-assed story you’re cooking up to make him the problem.”

For reasons that evade her, Mrs. Ferris has the audacity to look offended. “Ms. Solace, you cannot speak to me this way in my classroom—”

“Great. If you want to continue this discussion in a productive manner, come by my apartment for a coffee and a chat, hm? You have a good day now.”

She doesn’t wait for a response. She nearly sprints out the room, sneakers squeaking against the linoleum. It feels good to finally say it—but as she reaches the car, it settles in her mind that this is definitely going to bite her in the ass. 

Still—there’s no time to worry about that now.

She fumbles with her keys, jams one into the ignition, and pulls out of the lot without hesitation. Her eyes flick between the road and the glowing red numbers on the dash. Ten minutes. Maybe less.

She makes half the trip in record time, barely slowing as she reaches the four-way near their complex. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees a silver sedan inch forward opposite her.

She barrels through the intersection, laying on her horn as the other car jerks to a halt.

“Wait your turn, asshat!” she yells out the window. She’s already halfway down the street before she can even tell if the driver heard her.

————————————————————————

She pulls into the driveway, grabbing the key and rushing to the door. She hears the faint thrum of music from inside—so at least she knows Will is there. Unfortunately, the current track does not sound very joyous, so she takes it that she will have to do some emotional damage control before the worker gets here. It takes her a few precious seconds to find the right key, and another five to actually slip it in the knob. As it clicks, she hurriedly turns the knob and—

The door opens just a crack and then stops. She frowns, pushing harder, before realizing the latch has been turned from the inside. The music is much clearer now and, yup—Only You by Yazoo—Will is definitely moping. 

Peeking through the crack, she sees him sprawled on the floor, staring forlornly at the ceiling. His stuffed bunny sits squarely on his chest as he pets it absentmindedly.

Ordinarily, she’d find his drama at least endearing. Right now, though, she wonders if it would be an overreaction to grab a bat and smash open the door.

“Will, what—open the latch, for the love of God!”

For a moment, there is no response. Then, he slowly turns his head—with way more drama than a five-year-old should be able to muster—and stares at her from the floor.

“No, thank you.”

“I—William.”

“I’m busy. Go away.”

“Busy or not, I’m not standing out here all day. Let me in the damn house, William.”

Will sighs loudly, then sits up. For a moment, she is hopeful that he might actually listen.

Instead, he reaches for the coffee table, cranks the radio volume even higher, and flops back down into his recumbent position.

She groans, loud enough that he surely has to hear it over the blaring music. Plan B, then.

She slips her hand through the crack, managing to get a quarter of her forearm inside as she fumbles for the latch. Unfortunately, it’s just out of reach, and when she shifts her arm, a sharp pain shoots through her hand as she pulls back.

“Fuck me,” she mutters, shaking out her arm. She gives herself a few seconds to hype herself up, then tries again, this time managing to squish a third of her arm in. Half-squatting to get a better angle, she grins as her fingers just barely graze the latch.

She tries again, inching closer, when footsteps sound behind her. Someone clears their throat.

“Naomi Solace?”

She yanks her arm back, wincing as the harsh edge of the door scrapes her skin. She does her best to compose herself, pulling the door closed to mute the music (The Winner Takes It All—God, having a kid with good music taste is truly a curse and blessing). The man behind her is solidly built, wearing a neatly pressed shirt and slacks, sunglasses shading the upper half of his face.

“That’s my name. Don’t wear it out.” 

Wow. That has… never come out her mouth before. Might as well throw a pair of finger guns in.

“And you must be the social worker for today, Mr…?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Armstrong. Though you seemed perfectly fine calling me asshat earlier.”

“...Um.”

Sure enough, when she looks behind him, that same silver sedan is now parked in the driveway. Naomi is at a loss for words. She tries anyway.

“Well, I’m very sorry about, uh... you have a lovely car. The silver, uh, matches your glasses?”

He doesn’t answer, just stares at her.

Awkward. “Alright, yeah. Let’s get to checking in. What are we talking about today, hm?”

Mr. Armstrong frowns, gesturing toward the door. “Let’s step inside first.”

Naomi laughs nervously as she tries the door again, still facing him. You know, just in case Will has, in the last three minutes, worked through whatever crisis he’s currently spiraling over and decided to listen to her. No such luck—it still only opens partway, the only difference being that The Smiths are now providing the soundtrack to his moping.

She slams it shut again, offering Mr. Armstrong an apologetic smile. He does not smile back.

“Dang locks are a little finicky here. Just—wait right here. I’ll be right back.”

She doesn’t wait for his response, hurrying around the porch to the side of the house. She tries four different windows before one finally budges (thank God for faulty locks). After failing to haul herself up twice, she manages it on the third attempt, gracelessly launching herself through the window and crashing onto the living room floor—right where Will is still lying corpse-style, his bunny still perched on his chest.

First thing she does: grabs the radio, turns the volume down all the way, and shoves it on top of the bookshelf.

That, finally, gets a reaction. Will springs up, launching himself at her leg and clinging on. “Hey! I was listening to that!”

With much effort, she shakes him off before squatting down, placing both hands firmly on his shoulders. “Listen here, kiddo. You’re going to be on your best behavior, alright? Five minutes—all I’m asking, got it?”

He blows a raspberry in response—fantastic.

She releases him without another word and bolts to the door. A few frantic swipes at her shirt, a quick hair flip, and she plasters on a broad smile before yanking the door open.

 “C’mon in!”

He stares at her for a moment, and she wonders whether she banged herself up a bit too much when diving into the living room. Then, he shakes his head, sighing as he steps in.

She leads him straight to the kitchen, grimacing as the front door rattles shut behind them. At least Will had moved his moping out of the living room. Unfortunately, that just means there’s nothing to distract from the disaster zone that is both the kitchen and living room: unwashed dishes piled in the sink, a leaky tap that won’t stop dripping, their mismatched dining set, and a table buried in bills and suspicious food smatterings.

As Mr. Armstrong glances around, she zeroes in on the open cabinet exposing a crime scene of snacks: a cereal box tipped sideways with its contents scattered, a broken jar of jam dripping down the shelves in thick, red clots, and what might be half a granola bar mashed into the floor. She swears under her breath and nudges the cabinet door shut with her hip just as he turns to look at her.

“Sooo… can I get you something to drink? Water?”

Mr. Armstrong raises an eyebrow, clearly trying to peer behind her, before nodding. “Tea,” he says, then looks at her expectantly. “If you have any.”

She resists the urge to bang her head against the wall. No, sir, we fucking don’t. What do you think this is—The Ritz?

“Yes, we do! Just—uh, take a seat. I’ll get right on that.”

He looks at the table, turning up his nose slightly. “Hm… I think I’d rather stand.”

She huffs but doesn’t argue, setting the kettle on the stove before rifling through the cupboards. She can feel Mr. Armstrong’s gaze boring into her back as each cabinet turns up empty. The silence stretches, broken only by the rising whistle of the kettle.

Finally, she finds a lone tea bag shoved in the back of the shelf. She grabs it swiftly, grimacing as she realizes the label has long since faded.

…Hopefully, tea bags don’t expire.

As she drops the tea bag into the cleanest mug she can find and begins to pour the steaming water, Mr. Armstrong clears his throat.  

“Your lightbulb is flickering.”

Naomi glances back momentarily to see—yes, indeed, the lightbulb is cosplaying as a disco ball right now. “Ah. You know technology, right?”

He gives her an unimpressed look that says, no, he does not know technology or whatever. Before she can try to explain, she catches movement in the corner of her eye—Will, peeking around the doorway before sidling in. He’s ditched his bunny, but has his homemade stormtrooper helmet on (technically, a white cardboard box Naomi painted and cut eye holes into, but the thought it there).

His gaze flicks between them before settling on Mr. Armstrong, wide-eyed and curious.

“Hi. Who are you?”

“Mr. Armstrong.”

Will squints. “Your head is very shiny.”

Mr. Armstrong frowns and touches his scalp. Naomi hurries to set his tea down and shoots a dramatic thumbs-down at Will behind his back.

Will rolls his eyes. “Nice to meet you, Mister…”

He pauses, all attitude dissipating as he glances at Naomi with a flash of panic. Right. One of many things he inherited from her—an absolute inability to remember names.

She mimes something at him—flexing one arm, nodding enthusiastically.

Will blinks owlishly, then slowly turns back.

“Mister Smith?”

How even? Naomi cringes.

Mr. Armstrong, thankfully, seems less bothered by the misnaming than by being called out for his baldness. Instead, he just tilts his head and crouches down to Will’s level.

“What are you wearing there, kid?”

“It’s a stormtrooper helmet! Mama ran over my old one and we can’t get a new one yet, so she made me this one!”

Just call me Da Vinci. Her pride fades fast when she catches the side-eye Mr. Armstrong sends her behind his shades. Not impressed. If that look’s anything to go by.

He glances back to Will, leaning in a little closer. “Are you happy, Will?”

Will’s brow furrows, confused. Then, catching Naomi’s eye over his shoulder, he pulls a face as she starts miming reminders at him.

“I’m adjusted,” he says, in the least convincing voice possible.

Naomi shoots him a look. He sighs, then continues with marginally more enthusiasm.

“I eat all four food groups, look both ways before crossing the street… and take long naps and nice baths…”

It’s not the most passionate delivery, but Naomi can’t help the grin tugging at her lips as he dutifully recites the speech they’d practiced. She rolls her hands in a wrap-it-up motion.

Wrong move. Will’s expression twists in confusion.

“And I… I know how to roll over?”

Naomi grimaces, quickly drags a hand across her throat in a cut-it-out motion.

“I’m… dying? Am I dying?”

The second question is aimed squarely at her, Will staring her down. Mr. Armstrong turns slowly toward her.

Immediately, she drops her hands like they’re on fire and forces a laugh. “You know how kids are! Beautiful imaginations. The youth is our future.”

She hears Will giggle at that and shoots him a Look. He cuts it off, ducking his head just as Mr. Armstrong slowly turns around, arms folded.

“Can I go now?”

Mr. Armstrong pauses, then nods once.

Will adjusts his helmet with both hands and gives him a solemn little wave. “Bye, uh… sir.”

She stifles a groan as Will walks off.

[jasongracetism]

sometimes I look up rare pairs on pinterest and read the comments just to make myself mad

[somewhereincairparavel]

can someone pls draw valgrace cosplaying as joker and Harley quinn for halloween PLS I'm desperate to see them like that-

[aroaceleovaldez]

tbh my latest biggest theory for why HoO and onwards is such a dramatic drop in quality and consistency is just. Rick stopped making teaching guides.

Like, the Lightning Thief teacher's guide is SUPER in-depth with even stuff like sources about middle grade child psychology and exact specifications of where he's applying that, explaining what different character's goals/motivations are, their dynamics with each other and their environments, etc etc. Even specifying which specific myths certain plot elements are supposed to reference or be about.

That stuff just doesn't exist for later books. There's activity guides and smaller, significantly more simple teacher guides for later books but they don't go into anywhere NEAR the same level of depth. The TLT one is a full lesson plan that breaks down the book at every level and explains what's going on and more or less why Rick did that. The others are all basically just glossaries of terminology and some simple question guides.

And they didn't even use the TLT teacher's guide for the Disney+ show because they clearly aren't adhering to any of what's discussed in that breakdown of the book.

By creating a teaching guide alongside writing the actual book, that's forcing you to document what you're doing, why, your sources, and information about your characters and the story they're in. It's like an even more in-depth version of a series bible. But that's lacking for later books (and etc) and it shows because that level of thought and depth and attention just isn't there anymore.