#untagged and unedited

[mediumgayitalian]

“Halt!”

Across the common, three suspicious figures freeze, glance behind them, and then resume walking as casually as they can.

“I said halt! Do not move! Cease all function!”

Milling nervously towards each other, Dumb, Dumber, and Dumbest pause, shifting the three massive cardboard boxes they hold each.

“Hi, Annabeth,” Will says, smiling innocently. Cecil and Lou Ellen match him, eyes wide, expressions angelic.

Annabeth stomps over to them, arms crossed tightly over her chest. She is entirely unmoved by the cherubic display in front of her. Nico stays right where he is, hidden by the shade of Cabin Eight.

“Explain yourselves,” Annabeth orders.

The three stooges exchange a look.

“Whatever do you mean,” Lou Ellen asks, shifting the boxes to free up her hand only to place it delicately over her chest. “Why, we are only helping our dear friend William —”

“Our dear, dear friend,” Cecil adds.

“— carry these many boxes of medical supplies, so as to lower his great burden —”

“Massive burden,” Will says sagely.

“— and free up his evening in order for him to spend his limited time with us, his most cherished friends.”

“Especially cherished,” Will and Cecil chorus together.

Unable to bite back a smile, Nico rolls his eyes so hard his skull hurts. They’re not even trying to not get caught, at this point.

Clearly agreeing, Annabeth scoffs. “Yeah, right. Boxes down, all three of you. You’re being detained for suspected illicit substances.”

“Annabeth!” Will cries, mock outraged, “after all I do for this camp, you would accuse me of being — illicit?! Me?! The outrage! The insult! The impugn, the —”

“Can it, Solace. Open the boxes.”

Huffing in perfect unison, the three of them carefully lower their boxes to the ground.

“Tape off.”

Intentionally slowly, they run a nail along the edge of the packing tape.

“Flaps open, guys, c’mon.”

With flourish, the trio fling open the thin cardboard panels. Inside each box is rows of bandages, packaged syringes, sterile bands, tongue compresses, and more that Nico can’t name.

“See?” says Cecil, gesturing grandly. “The shipment just came in from my dad.”

Annabeth’s eyes narrow. “Your dad is in a conference with the rest of the Olympians right now, Markowitz.”

“Well,” Cecil says, and then nothing else.

“He meant it in the royal sense,” Lou Ellen pipes up in his silence. Cecil nods frantically. “You know, ‘just’ as in, like, recently, as in this morning —”

“Do you three think I’m stupid —”

“It’s just medical supplies! You can look through them if you want —”

Even if they weren’t acting like criminals, Nico knows his friends. He knows his boyfriend, especially, and recognises that damn look on his face. He can also physically see Annabeth’s stress ulcer coming back.

Closing his eyes, Nico fades into Cabin Six’s shadow. It’s a quick jump, so the stretch is easy, and the darkness bows easily to his hold. He reappears silently behind the group, taking advantage of the setting sun, and darts out to grip Lou Ellen’s arm.

“Boo,” he whispers.

She shrieks at the top of her lungs, jumping three clean feet in the air. Coincidently, the boxes of medical supplies flicker, turning into a truly baffling amount of instant mashed potato boxes as her grip on the Mist loosens.

“I knew it!” Annabeth shouts.

On cue, all three doofuses turn to Nico, jeering and complaining about ‘ruining the fun’. Nico’s glare is ineffective on Doofus #1, but the other two can be cowed. He focuses on channelling the flames of hell to reflect in his eyes like his father showed him until they look away, muttering at the ground.

“We still don’t have any illicit substances,” Will insists, glaring right back. Nico sticks out his tongue. He crosses his eyes like a four year old. How immature, honestly. “So we’re just gonna take our stuff and —”

“Absolutely not, Golden Boy. Put that hand away.”

Wisely, Will draws slowly back from the boxes, tucking his hands in his pocket.

Annabeth stares, hard, at the three of them, flicking her dark eyes from the potatoes and back. The tips of her worn-out converse tap slowly on the packed grass, tip-tap-tip-tap, as they all squirm.

Understanding suddenly dawns on her.

“It’s supposed to rain tomorrow, for the strawberry plants.”

They squirm harder.

“Oh, you godsdamn bitches.”

“It would’ve been really funny,” Cecil mumbles, staring at the ground. “Rain making the ground turn into a sea of mashed potatoes. Like Cloudy With A Chance Of Meatballs.”

“The only meatballs around here are the ones clogging up your skull!” Annabeth shouts, which doesn’t quite make sense but sounds clever coming from her anyway. “Who was gonna clean that up, huh? Magic?”

“I mean, probably,” Lou Ellen says, promptly shutting up at Annabeth’s glare.

“And you, Will! I cannot believe! Where is that responsibility you’re known for, huh?”

Will pouts. “I can be responsible and do fun things.”

“Fun, he says. I’m going to fucking kill you. The one day I’m left in charge, I cannot believe —”

“If it helps, it’s less about you and more about April Fools being tomorrow,” Cecil interjects tentatively. “Like, we were going to do this whether or not Chiron left.”

Annabeth glares darkly. “Of fucking course you were. It’s always you three, I swear to the gods. I should have known.”

“It’s honestly kind of embarrassing for you guys, stopped before you’re even started,” Nico adds. He smiles smugly at them, relishing in their rolled eyes and mocking hands. “Like, everyone expected this. You did this to yourselves, honestly.”

“Boo, you jag,” Lou Ellen protests. The other two knuckleheads joint in the booing, Will taking it an extra stop forward and blowing a raspberry, both thumbs pointing down. Nico responds with a bright grin and two middle fingers.

“Enough,” Annabeth says, rubbing her temples. “Extra chores, all three of you. Go help the cleaning harpies until sundown. And not another peep of complaint or I’ll have you on chores tomorrow, too.”

Without another glance at them, she turns around and walks away, muttering at least you caught it early at least you caught it early at least you caught it early over and over to herself.

“Pretty sure you guys have physical labour to do,” Nico says brightly when she disappears into the Big House. “I’d get started on that, if I were you.”

“Butthead,” Cecil mutters.

“Kiss-ass,” Lou Ellen agrees, making a face.

“Traitor,” Will whispers, pressing a kiss to his cheek as he walks past.

Nico watches them go, standing guard over the boxes in case they try to come back for them.

He can’t help but think that they all look a little too jovial for having their plans ruined before they even started.

[ohbo-ohno]

happy new year's eve @luminousbeings-crudematter, here's another version of the purge au (4k) that i forgot i finished in the process of trying to get the first one done lol

(also when i said "it's essentially the same thing but with different smut" i meant... no smut. i didn't post this one bc i couldn't figure out what to do with the smut. but this has some kidnapping and overall rough creepiness!)

cw: noncon touching, kidnapping, graphic murder, blood & violence, unedited bc im lazy

The soles of your feet burn against the hot asphalt, even though the sun’s been set for hours. The flames roaring from the burning high school alongside you are enough to heat the ground, enough to leave you wincing with every step and trying your best to walk on your toes.

You’re not sure if the wetness on your cheeks is tears or blood, or some sick combination of both. You’d wipe it off to see, but your hands are covered in red, and you don’t want to smear it across your face.

It’s impossible not to flinch at the sudden sound of cackling laughter, some indeterminate distance away but clear as a bell. The laugh cuts off abruptly, followed by a high-pitched scream that makes you wince. You speed up as much as you can, breath shuddering in your chest. You feel a few tears slip down your cheeks, just adding to the tacky mixture already covering your face.

The street is crowded with Purgers, people wearing all sorts of different gear to make themselves seem as terrifying as possible. You’d feel lacking in your black pants and shirt, if you wanted any attention like them. Instead you pray that whoever’s looking for fun won’t focus on you, that you’ll disappear with so many other distractions out tonight.

The sound of a chainsaw revving makes you shudder, and you tuck your arms close to your chest. 

You can’t believe you were stupid enough to come out on Purge night, but there’s no use dwelling on that now, not when you’re still blocks away from home with absolutely no way to defend yourself.

You should’ve known your friend - your now very dead friend - didn’t have good intentions. She’d invited you out with her to vandalize your most recent ex’s house, and like an idiot you’d agreed and walked yourself right into a trap. Your only defense is that you’d had a few drinks before leaving your perfectly safe apartment, in hopes of forgetting all the screams you’d hear outside. It’s the only reason you can think that you were so quick to agree when you’ve got absolutely no way of defending yourself.

Her blood is still wet on your hands. You don’t feel bad about her death, and that makes you feel sick. You’d never thought you’d be the kind of person to actually partake in the Purge, let alone kill during it, but here you are - stumbling home covered in blood with two deaths on your hands. The fact that it was self-defense isn’t nearly as much of a comfort as you need to make your heart beat less erratically, to make the blood stop burning against your skin.

The quick flashes of their deaths won’t stop playing on repeat in your mind - you would’ve died if you’d been any less lucky, and you doubt your piece of shit ex would have made it quick. 

If you hadn’t caught them together - your friend fucking him in the bed you used to sleep in, that fucking bitch - you might not have had the anger necessary to kill them. Might not have had the rage, the energy, to stab them both until they stopped screaming.

Your arms already ache from the force you’d used. You can’t stop seeing your friend’s face, torn to shreds beneath you, blood splattering up onto your own face and neck while your ex’s corpse cooled beside you. You’re not sure if you’re hearing her screams still, or if someone nearby is suffering just like she had.

The only thing you can bring yourself to regret is leaving behind the knife. It would come in handy now, as you walk alone down one of the poorest neighborhoods in your city.

It would come in especially handy as a hand grabs your shoulder, yanking you to the side and into an alleyway, shoving you against rough bricks and ignoring your yelp.

“Well, well, look’it you…” the man drawls, his face hidden by a bright red skull and a black hood covering the rest of his head. “Wha’s a bonnie lass like you doin’ out tonight, all alone?”

You can’t speak, heart thudding painfully at your ribcage as you blink up at him. He’s all you can see, just a bright red skull floating in place.

“Please,” you manage to gasp, hands shakily raised in front of your chest.

“Please? Please what?” His words are sharp, almost bitten off, and he leans closer. “Haven’t even threatened ye yet, pretty thing. What’re you beggin’ for?”

You whimper as he leans closer, hardly inches away from your face, and a loud boom from somewhere nearby shakes the wall at your back. You still can’t tell if it’s blood or tears dripping down your face. You jump at the sound, and your chest hits his. Before you can move back, his hands are on your shoulders, keeping you pressed to him.

“Oh, did that scare you?” He coos, patronizing and mean. “You a little scaredy cat, all alone and afraid?”

You sob, hands pushing at his chest, and he makes a sound somewhere between a hum and a laugh, pushes you against the wall without pulling even an inch away.

“No, no, you’re not goin’ anywhere. ‘S not safe out there for you, kitty. It was so easy to grab you, you want someone else to get a hold of you? They won’t be as nice as me, I can tell you that.” 

“Get- get off!”

He laughs, loud and rough, right in your face. “Oh, I’ll be gettin’ off, kitty. Might take some teamwork, huh? A good way to get to know my new friend-”

He cuts himself off with a sharp Oh! as your knee jerks up into his crotch, the man doubling over in pain and groaning as his head comes to rest against the wall by your face. You barely have enough sense left in you to duck out of his way before his body goes limp against the wall, hand cupping your target.

“Fuckin’ bitch,” you hear him hiss, right before you stumble away, legs weak as you put all your energy into not tripping over your own feet. Your only thought is getting out of the alley, even though being more exposed is probably riskier than just taking your chances with the man in the red skull. Still, there’s some instinct at the back of your mind telling you go, run, and you’re not stupid enough to ignore it.

You hardly make it five steps away before you hit a wall - no, not a wall, a person. 

It’s almost comical, the way you bounce off of him and stumble backwards, losing your balance on weak knees and sending yourself straight to the ground. He’s a monolith above you, a massive figure clothed in all black, the light from the flames behind him almost making him glow. He’s all black cloth and white mask, a skull hovering well past six feet in the air.

The sight of him makes your heart stutter, brings everything into acute focus around you, slowing the world down to a near stop. That same instinct at the back of your mind tells you this man is worse than the last, that you should’ve taken your chances with the red skull. 

You’re jerked back and to the side, shoved roughly against the brick wall. Your face scrunches up at the rough texture against your cheek, your torso flush against the wall and the first man flush against your back. You manage to open one eye and track the new man, your other forced shut from the way your head is angled.

The white skull tilts, and its wearer steps closer. You can’t help the small cry you let out, the way you flinch back into the first man like he’ll do anything but expose you more. His hands are rough on you, one hand locked around the back of your neck and the other harsh on your hip.

The body behind you laughs, push further into the wall regardless of the stinging pain as the white skull steps closer. He stops hardly a foot away, when your vision is eclipsed by only him. You try to struggle against the hands holding you, whimpering when they dig in more harshly.

“You got her?” A voice asks, and it takes a minute for you to realize it’s the new man in front of you.

“Yeah,” the first man pants, holding you close and alleviating some of the pressure against your cheek. “Woulda caught her without you, y’know. She just caught me off guard.”

The white skull rumbles low in his chest, a rejection. You’re not sure if he’s got faith in your ability to escape, or doesn’t trust his partner’s ability to chase. He’s close enough that you can only see the black of his chest, close enough that you can watch him breathe.

“I’m sure. You got a good hold on her?”

The hands squeeze, you can’t help but make a sound disturbingly close to a squeal, and- “Yeah, course, got her tight to me, Ghost. She’s not goin’ anywhere.” There’s an air of desperation in Red’s voice, a strained tension underlying every word. He’s almost eager, but it’s all directed towards the man in front of you - Ghost - instead of towards the prospect of hurting you.

Ghost doesn’t respond, but he steps close enough to press his chest against your shoulder. The three of you are all less than a foot apart, and there’s absolutely nothing you can do to get away. Another tear slips down your cheek.

You can feel Red’s chest heaving behind you, and at first you can’t understand why - he hasn’t had to chase you, hasn’t had to fight, there’s no reason for him to be out of breath.

It hits you when you feel the hard plastic of his mask press into the top of your head. He’s eager, and it’s making him pant like a dog. You’d bet he’s drooling behind the mask and the thought makes you shiver.

You flinch when a gloved hand cups your chin, tugging your face up so you’re staring into the eye sockets of the mask.

His eyes are dark brown, so dark that you almost can’t see them past the shadows and the paint over his skin. The flames roar behind him, giving him a monstrous glow.

“Pretty thing,” he hums, chest rumbling against your side. You try to push away from him, but there’s nowhere to go. “You’re gonna be our little toy for the night. Things’ll get worse for you if you try to run. You hearin’ me?”

It’s pure instinct to nod, to give this man what he wants, but you know you’ll still try to run the second they look away. 

“Alright then. Let’s get you home. Johnny,” the man steps away, jerking his head in clear instruction for Johnny to follow and turning away. “Come.”

“Right behind ye,” Red - Johnny - assures, that same eagerness in his tone as he tugs you away from the wall, trotting behind his partner. “It’s gonna be a great night, lass. You and I are gonna have fun.”

You can’t help but whimper at that, letting your body go nearly limp as the man drags you by the elbow. You can’t even fathom the horrors they’ve got in store for you, what fun is to two men hunting for lone girls on Purge night. 

You try to let your feet drag, but they hurt too much for that to last long. You consider going limp, making them carry you, but you’re too scared that they’ll just drag you across the concrete and let you bleed. 

You only manage to keep up with Johnny because he doesn’t give you another choice. You’re practically hobbling from the pain in your feet, forced to walk on the balls of your feet and lean your weight into his hand where it’s wrapped tight around your arm. He doesn’t give you any slack, doesn’t even seem to notice when you struggle to match his pace.

The three of you have walked several blocks - you can’t quite focus enough to count - keeping to the sides of buildings and dodging other people, when you’re tackled to the ground out of nowhere.

It’s impossible to stop the blood-curdling shriek from leaving your throat. Your bare arms feel torn to shreds as you slide across the ground, head bouncing off the ground and leaving you with black spots dancing across your vision.

You’re hardly able to blink, body alight with pain, and the heavy weight over you only serves to make your panic worse. You moan as you roll your neck, staring wide-eyed up at the dark sky and praying the ringing in your ears isn’t permanent.

Your vision is just starting to clear when the man on top of you - and he’s definitely a man, he’s not even wearing a mask and his expression is mean and you find yourself glad you can’t hear what he’s saying - jerks back, his head pulled back until all you can see is his bared throat. 

You can hardly even register what’s happening in the next few seconds. Some distant, detached part of you can recognize that someone slits the man’s throat, that his blood comes gushing out and covers your face.

The first sound you can hear again is your own screaming - it’s an ear splitting sound that melts from the ringing in your ears. When you gasp underneath the man, the corpse, you can feel his blood falling into your mouth. Every breath tastes like iron, and the world is tinted pink from the drops of it falling from your brows.

You can do nothing but pant and shake when the corpse is thrown off of you, replaced immediately by Johnny. You can hardly focus on him, are only really aware enough to know he’s there.

“Hush, bonnie, yer fine,” he scolds, one big hand coming up to cover your mouth, pinky and ring finger holding your jaw shut. “Wanna draw people over? Ye wanna see me and Ghost kill someone else for you, ‘s that it?”

You shake your head on instinct, tears running down your temples, dampening your hair. Your chest aches with the force of your breaths, nose congested from all the crying. 

“Then hush,” he hisses, face so close that you can feel the breaths from his nostrils. You flinch at the loud sound of gunshots disturbingly nearby, desperately pushing against his body to try and see what’s going on. You can hear grunts and moans, the sound of something heavy hitting the ground, and your heart races.

Then, the sounds stop. It doesn’t go silent - not with other Purgers still out, still killing - but the area you’re trapped in is quiet again. Johnny drops a little more of his weight onto you, making it even harder to breathe. 

You have to focus on every breath, deliberately making sure you get enough air so that your lungs stop aching. You only notice the movement on top of you after nearly a minute of slow breathing.

Johnny’s hips grind slow and steady against your stomach, and it makes you sick to realize you can feel his erection through his pants. His chest rises and falls with harsh breaths, and his movements are just harsh enough to force your body to move with his.

There’s absolutely nothing you can do about it. Not with shock settling in, his weight holding you pinned to the ground, and the pain in your head shifting to something closer to a migraine. All you can do is focus on your breathing and stare up at the stars.

“Johnny,” Ghost eventually calls, and you can hear him kick what you can only assume to be a corpse out of the way. You can’t help but whimper when he crouches nearby, his boots splattered with blood. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Need-” Johnny gasps, hips stuttering against you before working even more quickly. “Needed to feel her, fuck, Ghost, she’s so fuckin’ soft. Can’t wait to be inside, to fuck her full, feel her squeeze-”

You whine against the hand over your mouth, trying to pull your face away from his grip and only succeeding in dragging your sensitive head across the harsh concrete.

“You’re gonna fuck her out here, where anyone can see? Doubt you’ll be able to keep her safe when you’re pussydrunk.”

Johnny moans above you, dropping more of his weight on each thrust. “Tha’s why you’re here, yeah? To keep me and the lass safe?”

Ghost grunts, fisting a hand in the strip of hair left revealed by Johnny’s mask. “Don’t be a fuckin’ brat, Johnny. You know I don’t have to do shit for you - either of you. Maybe I want to see my mutt get all defensive, growlin’ over his girl. You ever think about that?”

The whine that slips from Johnny’s throat is nothing less than pathetic, his pace becoming uneven as his eyes screw shut behind the mask. “C’mon, Ghost, I’m close, just let me… just watch for another minute, yeah?”

The scoff from Ghost is mean, and even you feel the absurd desire to try and placate the man. He stands abruptly, stepping away from where you’re pinned and leaving you staring at the cooling corpse of a man you don’t recognize.

“You do whatever you want, puppy. Stay here and get yourself off or behave and heel. You know what you’ll get either way.”

You can’t help but furrow your eyebrows as Johnny hisses out shit above you, hips working desperately against you for a few long moments before he drops his entire body weight onto you, knocking the air out of you.

“Okay,” he whispers, seemingly to himself. “Okay, alright, it’s fine. It’s fine.”

He pulls himself away from you with a long oan, pushing up until there’s no place the two of you are touching but you’re still entirely caged in by him. He takes his hand off your mouth to hold himself up and you wince at the string of blood between his hand and your lips.

“Not gonna fuck ye yet, kitty,” he tells you, staring into your eyes with an intensity you don’t quite know what to do with. “Ghost’ll make the both of us regret it, and ye don’t deserve that on your first night home.”

You hardly manage to bite back a whimper. “Please…”

His eyes crease, like he’s smiling beneath the mask. “God, yer so scared, aren’t ye? I can fucking taste it in the air, kitty. It’s delicious. Cannae fuckin’ wait to have you on my tongue.” You shudder, eyes dropping to his neck when his gaze becomes too heavy.

He forces you to stand before you’re ready, leaving you to lean on him if only to avoid crumbling to the ground like a ragdoll. You ite your tongue against a sob at the sight of three corpses around you, a twisted sense of appreciation and disgust warring in your mind.

Johnny herds you like a dog, pushing you by the small of your back and your shoulders as he tries to catch back up with his partner. You’re left stumbling in front of him, unsure and terrified, not quite strong enough to think running away would be a good idea. It doesn’t take long for you to spot Ghost’s large back on the street in front of you, and a part of you resents the fact that he’s already so recognizable. 

He’s an overeager shadow, unable to decide if he wants to tug you forward or chase you from behind. He ends up almost circling you, shifting from your back to your side to your front and back again, always moving, always rushing. It leaves you unstable and nervous, unable to predict what he'll do next.

Chills run down your spine at the thought of this man… taking you. If you’re this terrified of him fully clothed, you’re loath to think of how you’ll react when he gets you where he wants you.

The two of you only manage to catch up to Ghost because he stops for a cigarette. His pale jaw is exposed when he tugs the mask up enough, and you try your best to memorize the scars covering his face, telling yourself that you’ll remember him, that you’ll never let him near you again once this night is over.

The look he sends Johnny is approving, the look he sends you is distinctly smug. It makes your teeth grind, makes you really wish you still had that knife so you could lurch forward, thrust the blade into the solid center of him and twist, pull out again and aim a little higher, then again, then again, then again-

“Made your choice, then?”

“Yes, sir. Wanna be good.”

Ghost hums, flicking the butt of his cig then dropping it to the ground, the cherry still glowing. “Settin’ a good example for your girl, huh? That’s my boy.”

The sound Johnny makes is animalistic, and despite the harsh grip he’s got on your arm you try to lean as far away as possible. There’s a building energy under his skin, a twitch in his fingers, that unnerves the animal part of your brain in ways Ghost doesn’t. 

“‘Course. Gonna teach her how to be good, too, gonna keep her perfect for us.”

Ghost is completely stoic with the mask tugged back over his face, nothing but his heavy gaze as he stares you down. It’s hard not to jerk away from Johnny and run, no matter how futile you know the effort would be. 

He reaches out a big, gloved hand towards your face, moving quickly enough that you can’t fully flinch away and hide your face in your shoulder or chest. His thumb strokes across your cheekbone, smearing the sticky mess of liquid across your face and huffing a sound just loud enough for you to hear.

“Cat got your tongue, girl?” He rumbles, a faint note of something in his voice lost in the sounds of anarchy behind you.

You try to shake your head, unable to manage anything more than a, “Please.”

Johnny scoffs beside you, wrapping both of his massive arms around your shoulders and holding you close. “Broken record, this one. Hasn’t said much else since we nicked her.”

“That’s alright,” Ghost rumbles, give Johnny one firm stroke over his mohawk. “I’m sure you’ll drag all sorts of pretty sounds out of her tonight. Now, let’s get goin’. Don’t want your little toy gettin’ her nerve up and earnin’ herself a punishment so early in the night. Come, now.”

Johnny laughs, loud and harsh as he tugs you to follow him and Ghost. You know you should be upset about what he’s said, know he should be doing exactly what he warns against and try to get away.

But you’ve got no energy left to fight. Everything hurts, your system is overrun by fear and just the tiniest drop of adrenaline, and your best chance of making it through this night is passing out and forgetting any of it ever happened.  

A few tears, stragglers, drip down your cheeks when Johnny tugs you beside him. The places his fingertips squeeze against your arm have gone numb, and your feet feel like they’re on fire. Your arms are sluggishly bleeding and you’re not convinced you don’t have a concussion.

It’s hard to hold back sobs when you think of how much worse it’s going to get. Staring at the broad back of Ghost, feeling the feral energy of Johnny hardly contained by your side, all you can hope is that they let you survive the night.

You close your eyes as Johnny guides you, take a deep, steadying breath, and pray for your own strength. You tell yourself that maybe next year you can seek them out, find them at the very start of the Purge and get your revenge.

It’s a comforting enough daydream to lessen the aches of your body, to shine a spot of light after the hurricane of your future. 

[luckyy19]

Wordsearch

No one tagged me, I'm just bored and procrastinating ^_^ Feel free to see this as an open tag I guess?

My words (courtesy of a random word generator) are issue, describe, small, condition, and pick. All snippets come from my current wip, Feathered Wings & Broken Souls

Issue

“Your problem is that you’re Romeo,” she had said, simply and matter-of-factly, as though he was an idiot for not seeing the answer sooner. He snorted. “Wow, thanks. I feel so much better. Who knew I was just a womanizer this whole time? Next time, I’ll be sure to take it nice and slow. Maybe I’ll even die before—” “Romeo’s flaw isn’t being a womanizer,” she interrupted, shaking her head. “It can’t be. He cares too much to be anything like that and that’s your issue.” “I care too much about people I barely know?” he asked, skeptical. “Doesn’t sound like me.” “You feel too much too fast, Romeo,” she said. “Better step on the brakes before you get hurt.”

Describe

Feathers floated serenely in the ichor, too soaked to make out the true color. Instinctually, Erica’s upper lip curled in disgust. She was well accustomed to the sight, but it never failed to roil her stomach. There were many words she could use to describe her father. Merciful was not one of them.

Small

“I don’t want to hurt you,” she said again. “I don’t want to be the reason you get hurt.” “This doesn’t hurt me.” He offered her a small smile. “But it’s nice to know you care.”

Condition

She didn’t want to do much of anything, which was good considering the conditions. It was almost impossible to see with the snow and she was already chilled, but she needed time to stretch her wings, muscles just like any other part of her body, and she wanted time to think.

Pick

“You’re a guest,” he corrected, brushing by her and flicking the light on. She made a soft sound of surprise, and he laughed to himself. “I’m shocked you have manners, princess.” “My mother raised me well.” Apollo picked up a pair of sweatpants from the floor and slung them over his shoulder. “Makes sense,” he said, rifling through his drawers until he found a t-shirt and second pair of sweats. “I wouldn’t think a genocidal maniac would understand hospitality."

[amateur-glass-chewer]

on "if you leave a watch unguarded"

spent some time on the internet today. this was a mistake. now i am going to rant into the void.

(this is a rant about rape culture and bs arguments that blame victims for "objectifying themselves" or "asking for it" or whatever. click away now if that's a trigger.)

people like to make the argument that women showing skin is like standing in public, unguarded, while carrying $1 mill (or wearing an expensive watch or something).

before we even get into equating WOMEN with WATCHES, this argument is fundamentally flawed. in this essay (ok so it's not a proper essay, sue me) we are going to go over why it's a shit argument, starting with reasons that have nothing to do with the fact that females aren't objects, because apparently "females aren't objects" is too hard for people to understand.

so.

let us begin.

...

point the first: stealing is still wrong.

here is the thing:

if i stand in public glassy-eyed while carrying $1 mill in cash for some damn reason (why the fuck is this the classic clapback), it is still not my fault if i get robbed. it is the robber's fault.

here is the thing about ethics:

the goodness of an action is not based upon how easy or hard it is.

it is easier to rob a disabled child than it is to rob a trained and armed adult. this does not make it ethical to rob the child. this does not make it the child's fault for being robbed.

it may be more tempting to rob $1 mill if the security doesn't look tight. maybe you won't get caught because there are no security cameras.

still the robber's fault if they decide to rob.

so there's your fundamental flaw: it's still not the victim's fault if they get robbed even if they lack security.

...

point the second: consider other crimes.

if we've decided that all crimes are equal -- that we can make conclusions about every other crime based on an analysis of stealing money -- then we're gonna have to cross reference with other crimes.

and, well.

i do not walk around wearing a bulletproof vest.

this does not give you license to shoot me.

i do not carry a gun or a knife.

this does not give you license to shoot me or stab me.

i do not have a security team.

this does not give you license to kill me.

a lack of self-defense does not negate victimhood.

...

point the third: temptation is not an invitation.

i have a functioning heart.

this is not an invitation to abduct me so you can steal my heart to transplant it in someone else or dissect it for study or eat it because you're a cannibal.

doesn't fucking matter how attractive something is or how well-suited you think it'd be to your own ends.

you don't get to be an asshole just because you wanted to.

...

point the fourth: clothing is not a defense.

so let's say those arguments weren't enough. fine. for the sake of argument, i will pretend (for like, five seconds) that stealing is fine, as long as the victim was undefended, and that stealing is the same as rape.

well, then: clothing is not a defense against rape in the first place.

i hate to break it to you, but even IF rapists were deterred by different fashion choices, well, everyone has different tastes.

even when we're talking about discourse over how much exposed skin is acceptable, people will say both "it's a woman's responsibility to be modest" and "maybe men are just staring at you bc that much skin showing is ugly". so... if that kind of bare skin is unattractive to some men, then wouldn't that be a rape deterrent against those men?

i think a lot about my own body: about the fact that i am disabled and generally fucked up. i'd argue that's rather unattractive and un-sexy of me. but the blood and scars that make me (at least conventionally) ugly might be a turn-on for some. the unattractive disabilities might make me an easier target. so no, "ugliness" is not a defense.

(also, subpoint: what if wearing clothes shows that i own clothes and that motivates someone to rob me? guess there's really no winning here.)

...

point the fifth: attention-seeking is not always sex-seeking

"but women wear those outfits to get attention"

have you considered that even if they did, creepy sexual attention is NOT the kind of attention they were seeking?

like. maybe i wear short-sleeves to the hospital to provide easier access to my arms for shots/venipuncture when i am demonstrating healthcare-seeking behavior. yes, i'm dressed in a way to help seek attention for medical purposes. no, that is not an invitation to ogle or rape me.

rape is fundamentally non-consensual. so no, they were not asking for it.

we do not "objectify ourselves" by wearing revealing clothing. you (general "you") objectify us by deciding to think of us as objects.

...

point the sixth: people are not objects.

and here is the kicker, and the argument that should have always been enough:

people are not objects.

it does not matter how big their breasts are. it does not matter whether you can see their thighs. it does not matter how heavy their makeup is.

people are not objects.

even IF stealing was ok as long as the goods were out in the open; even IF stealing was ok as long as the goods looked tempting; even IF stealing was ok as long as it was easy --

people are not objects.

...

TL;DR -- stealing objects is illegal, no matter how easy or tempting.

and even if it wasn't? PEOPLE ARE NOT OBJECTS.

[takottais-art]

Charon!!! <3

Edited ↑ + ↓Unedited

I know I haven't fed y'all in a hot minute but like I fell out of love with digital art and back in with traditional I've literally only had this 80 pg. sketchbook for two months and I'm almost done with it lol

Reblog's > likes, please I need validation. Click/tap on image for better quality!

--------------------------------------------

Tag list: @swampbacon @romeoandromeo @goddesslunaris @squid--inc @kooky-spooks @clowniestjoke @gimmedatrn @stickthebonsai @nansblockit @mildlymortified

If you want to be tagged/untagged just comment on this post or shoot me an ask/message, have a wonderful day!

[malicedafirenze]

Unfiltered thoughts about Court of Wanderers by Rin Chupeco

Untagged spoilers below the cut, click at your own risk

For a proper review that makes a bit more sense, see here. This is just my unedited notes I took while reading

Love that Remy and Zidan are back to being bitchy

Lol only one bed but on purpose 

Did Eugenie just fuckin decapitate a guy with her long nails are you fucking kidding me 😂

Ugh Valenbonne showing up in person. Idk if I dislike it bc he’s a hateable bastard or because it lacks believability…

The overgrown castle and night empress cocoon give big video game boss lair energy 

She‘s described with „dark skin, the same shade as Remy‘s“

Oh I‘m glad Remy is finally giving his father a bit of honest ranting about his abusive bs 👀

Lil bit cringe that the kids at the Fata Morgana would ask if Remy, Zidan and Xiaodan are lovers, and take an interest in how Zidan slakes his thirst

Remy telling the kids stories feels a bit indulgent 

Malekh offering to let Remy take control 😍

Again, very self indulgent, could do with more subtlety but well

Good to know that she pegs him sometimes I suppose 😄

They‘re just so transparently horny the whole time. Like I‘m here for it but it gets cheap so quickly if there‘s extended focus on that

Ooov the villain was Aluria‘s colonialism? 👀 (remy‘s mother, re. her motivations, in his dreams)

Vampire pigeon 😂

Them arguing while fucking is funny but also a bit goofy 🙈🙈

I‘m on board with some bdsm familiar shit on display, but the presentation of it somewhere between kink and obligation is a bit off

Lady Rotteburg‘s apologies for her treatment of Remy ring a little hollow/indulgent too

I find it odd that Remy still meets with and gives info to his father‘s messenger?

Ooh okay that was in discussion with Malekh

I find it a bit toothless that xiaodan (and malekh) are so utterly supportive of remy‘s choice re. humanity/vampirism. They seem a big too perfect and potentially boring to me at the moment?

Ok good Zidan is weirdly controlling re. Remy‘s dreams shortly after

I‘m 12 Chapters in and a bit dismayed that I‘m finding it alright so far :')

Missing any acknowledgment of pressure/equalizing when Zidan drags Remy underwater 😑

Malekh‘s past with the night king 🤝 Raihn from TSatWoN

That the whole gathering of court leaders would pause to speculate on what remy has with zidan and xiaodan feels kinda cheap

I‘m here for the exhibitionism but I find it odd in its presentation. Like, ok their whole thing is submission, but it‘s still a weird af combo of a council meeting and an orgy

Like ffs her mother is watching 🙈

I just don’t love how much of the actual dialogue is so self indulgently about „oooh so a reaper is in bed with the third and fourth court leaders“. Like sure make that part of the conversation but it‘s so cheap if that‘s all there is to it

Some of the exposition is presented in sort of plump dialogue 

I‘m bothered that apparently Remy still doesn’t know precisely what being a familiar entails

Elke recapping the development between Allegra and herself feels v much like it could have been much better woven into the story :‘)

So much interpersonal stuff is just really plump. „Hi remy sorry for my lord attacking you I seriously want to be friends. Ok sure I‘ll then immediately answer your deeply personal question that perfectly mirrors your own internal struggle re. getting turned“

Ok them fucking on Ishkibal‘s throne to help Malekh make new memories of it is fun and hot

Gah why does everyone else need to keep talking about it afterwards though, including with Valenbonne 🙉

Still feel like everyone‘s being entirely too generous and forgiving towards valenbonne

I don’t mind the focus being political, but I feel like there’s too much tell vs show

Remy being hurt by Thaïs being one of the traitors rings a lil hollow, calling her a friend when they‘ve only interacted a handful of times and one of those was her being pushy af

And Xiaodan figuring out all the details of the priestess‘ plan is also a bit much? idk

Them both being in a frenzy and remy getting malekh back by insulting him is cute

The whole thing where it uses the nth court leader instead of names is so grating 

I‘m not a fan of how valenbonne is still their ally tbh

Increasingly bothered by everything that makes him appear sympathetic again

He apologizes but he‘s not really rueful about any of the horrible shit he‘s pushed remy to do??? 

This Jost twist is also kinda coming out of nowhere??

Not sure I got completely why and how Ishkibal is using the Night Empress‘ body

I do not like Valenbonne being all badass, using breaker to protect Remy etc, who is this for 😭

Valenbonne‘s „I should have died the day I realized you were still out fighting in those caves“ rings so fucking hollow what 😭😭

“I think the only legacy he wanted to leave behind was you” 

How tf is any of this earned

[lepertamar]

GAME REVIEW: GASSY CHOOSE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE WEIRDO, RAGNAR, 20XX

[ed. note: A1 Reviews was hospitalised in the course of writing this review due to terrific brain lesions. What follows are his unedited and hysterical notes.]

1. Meaningless vermin experiences have potential to exist outside of the economy of sensation by which time is strategically invested in things so as to optimise profit in either enjoyment or knowledge; a process which transforms the raw matter of life / perception into a kind of uniform casino chip, worthwhile only as means to an end! Purposeless and scrappy things can only trade one kind of equivalently valueless experience for another and thus highlight being as an act in itself rather than a kind of empty space to be filled with other things.....

[.........]

6. Note #12: I am slowly drifting through the walls of the castle due to unspecified tileset errors.

7. Author’s statement for GCYOAW: “ [….]for some reason teleports teleport you into trees and water and stuff in Gassy Choose Your Own Adventure Weirdo so you need the No Clipping in Test Mode where you hold down ctrl. Also you need to set Switch 1003 to ON or you can’t explore the town.” What is Test Mode??????

8. Most ethics of vidcon design based on humanistic principles eg not wasting a person’s time or money, not being coercive. A hypothetical offshoot or degeneration would consist of not even daring to take up any of the player’s time, of tactfully assuming he or she has better things to be doing, building games presumed upon the natural disinterest or contempt of every possible audience - things not meant to be played, but if they should be, that would consist of trivial meaningless activity spaces for people to tinker with if they should so graciously deign while occupied with their own infinitely more important thoughts and emotions, like a philosophical conference hall which is also a jungle jim[sic?]. Nonlinear and nongoal oriented due to excessive modesty but also no real aesthetics as that would imply the submission of viewer -would just consist of vague presence moment-to-moment. Recall the quietists who thought that to make any change to the world was in some way to defy god.

Possible that such sect already exists, in abandoned angelfire.com ratnests and untagged tumblr pages, or working on Advanced Dumptruck Simulator 2013 in hyperspecialised german forums. How would we know?

I’m stuck in a dead-end game loop with excellent music.

9. found it very sensuel[sic] moving around as the saucer note don’t put this in review

10. Aiiiieee!!!! My brain!!!!

Gassy Choose Your Own Adventure Weirdo: 400 Stars

[sorcerous-caress]

♡ Drabbles Masterlist

A place to archive my drabbles, asks and concepts when the search tags aren't working. Keep in mind that posts here are untagged, outdated and unedited, take your own risks.

♡ Dnd Human kink characters

Part One

♡ Reader concepts

Part One

Part Two

♡ Dark content

Part One

♡ bg3 Characters

Part One

Part Two

♡ bg3 Alternative universes

Part One

Part Two

♡ bg3 OCs

Part One

🐌Off-topic🐛

Part one

[anyaxbill]

Oi!

[June 5th] It appears my ask box is working now? Let me know if you can't send anything. Alternatively try to DM straight on Bill x Aya on IG or Pinterest allows for DMs too so, even though I have to removed and start setting things up in new boards you can still contact me.

gif by vesna

If you want to understand what's happening with Pinterest and my 10k+ collection of professional, personal and videos of her in HQ:

Pinterest not showing my immense amount of untagged HQ Anya content. I am slowly moving boards and also trying to keep as many as I can available unedited on the IG Page . Bill's Board is fine.

This is the response they gave me, which basically says "you're problem not mine"

[fowardfashionfindz]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: 5.29Cts Natural Bolivian Ametrine.

[sol-consort]

Drabbles

☆ Reader concepts

A place to archive my drabbles, asks, and concepts when the search tags aren't working. Keep in mind that posts here are untagged, outdated, and unedited. Take your own risks.

Part one

-

☆ Characters

Part one

-

☆ Galactic species

Part one

[kyouka-supremacy]

The best bsd trope is Akutagawa being one of the strongest mafia operatives and overall one of the most powerful skill users in the entire town but also being unable to open a jar of marmalade if he's not using Rashomon

[phykios]

the marble king, part 1 [read on ao3]

Constantinople, 1453

The end of the world began the evening of the 22nd of May, Anno Mundi 6961. Perseus, who usually never had a head for such things, would mark the date indelibly in his heart for the rest of his life. 

That night, the moon had risen, dark and eclipsed, and the men around him on the walls had shuddered, marking themselves with the sign of the cross. “An ill omen,” they muttered, fearful. “A portent of evil, surely.”

Surrounded on all sides by the Ottomans, Percy certainly couldn’t see how it might be otherwise. Amongst the rising smoke of prayer which surrounded him, Percy sent up his own. Poliouchos, Brotoloigos, be with our swords. Sthenios, guard your people here. Ennosigaios, he prayed, lifting his face to the dark moon, Father. May I bring honor to your name.

The night passed without further incident, but Percy could feel it coming, the way he could feel the earth shift beneath his feet, or the storms rolling in from the sea. What “it” could possibly be, however--that was the question. 

It felt somewhat futile to pray to his father, and the rest of the Olympians. Though they had answered him in the past, though his father had sent him more signs and gifts and summons than any other demigod he had ever known, the gods had, of late, been strangely silent. This was not terribly unusual in and of itself--most children like him rarely ever heard from their divine, yet distant, mothers and fathers--yet even Percy found his attempts at conversation thoroughly rebuffed. The rainbow messages would not reach their recipients. There was not a single satyr or faun to be found in the whole of the city. The nereids of the Bosphorus had vanished without a trace. Perhaps most concerning, he had not even heard from his cyclops brother in quite some time. It was certainly a question he wished to pose to Chiron, but Percy simply had not had an opportunity to visit camp, what with all that had been going on.

The journey to Sigeion was not so long and arduous, merely two or three days at most, even if he chose to travel over land rather than shortcut through Marmara, but Percy simply could not afford to leave at this time. Not with all their many and varied enemies closing in on them.

Leaving his fellow men to mutter and pray amongst themselves, he turned to view his city for himself, leaning between the merlons of the battlement, resting his arms on the lip of the embrasure. Even from here, one could see the dome of St. Sophia rising over the peak of the first hill, even in the darkened moonlight, silvery and silent and still. He looked above, to the jeweled night sky, and wondered, not for the first time, for what purpose was this divine silence that they suffered here.

He received no answer, of course, not that night, and not for three nights afterwards. 

On the fourth day, he had been forcibly shuffled off his post by his commander, who ordered him to get out and get some rest, after he had endured the very worst of the previous day’s rain and hail. The commander was but a mortal, but a damn good one, with a mind like Athena and a war cry like Ares, and arguing with him was a relatively useless proposition, despite the fact that, if pushed, Percy could rout his whole cohort. But he acquitted, and had spent his free evening walking up and down the misty, ghostlike streets of Constantinople. Hymns and prayers were sung behind every door, a litany of pleas, a symphony of sobs, a catalogue of wishes, all to the god of the Christians and to this god’s holy mother, which only made Percy more melancholy. How long had it been since he had seen his own mother? He had sent her away before the siege had begun, her and her husband and his half-sister, praying that his father had had enough continued affection for his one-time lover to see her and her family to safer shores, wherever they may be.

Small comforts.

Overcome with melancholy, he did not realize that his pilgrimage had brought him to the walls and domes of St. Sophia, the tether to Olympus. They were always a sight to behold, he thought ruefully, as facts he had never cared to learn himself surfaced from the recesses of his memory, even if he could not quite see them through all this damned mist. The mathematics of it was, in truth, quite beyond him, but still he could hear her voice as she explained, for the hundredth time, how the dome had been expertly balanced upon the pendentives, which then thusly bore the gargantuan weight downwards, how the forty windows gave the impression to the mortals that the dome floated above the cathedral, which of course it did, in a manner of speaking, hung on a silver thread from the heavens, how she had been quite nice when she hadn’t been an insufferable daughter of Athena--

“Percy?”

He turned, not to the blonde hair that he had half expected he would see, but to hair as red as firelight, the starkness turning her pale face even paler. “Rachael?”

“Oh, it is you!” And she leapt on him in an embrace that would have shocked the people around them, if they had cared to lift their heads from their unceasing prayer. “I cannot begin to tell how glad I am to see you.”

“And I as well,” he said, returning her embrace. They no longer had any awkwardness between them, and had not for years--and thanks be to the gods for that. What had once been a fumbling, awkward romance had blossomed instead into a deep, solid friendship, one that he was most grateful for. “What are you doing here? Is something wrong at camp?”

She shook her head. “No more or less wrong than the last time you were there. Troia still stands, for the moment.”

That was not a reassuring answer. “Then what brings you to our fair city? And,” he frowned, suddenly confused. “We are under siege… how did you--”

“I had to come,” she said, turning towards the church, despite the mist which shrouded it from view. “I just had this feeling.”

Oh,  would it were that her feelings were ever good. “The Oracle?”

Rachael nodded. “She has been restless, as of late. She has not spoken through me in many years, though I can feel her stirring.”

“Perhaps it will be good news, this time.”

She looked at him, pityingly. “Dearest Perseus, surely even you know better than to court the Moirai in this manner.”

“What more can they do to me,” he replied, “than has already been done?”

They stood in silence for some time, contemplating on the odd circumstances which brought them to this place, at this moment. Around him, the prayers of the people never ceased, though in the thick, heavy fog which surrounded them, it seemed as though they were the only two real people in the square. He could see very little, but whatever Rachael could divine from the walls must have been fascinating, he assumed, whatever it was she could see with her special sight. 

“This mist,” she murmured. “It is strong, and unnatural.”

“I suspected as much.” Dense fog such as this was not a common occurrence in the city, so sudden and out of place that even the mortals had noticed it, another malignant augury to haunt them. “Can you see through it? Do you know what has caused it?”

As long as he had known her, Rachael had possessed quite the unique gift, to see truth clearly and without alteration. Magic spells and enchanted fog were no match for her, she who had once traversed the fabled Labyrinth, Ariadne’s thread made manifest in a young girl. She had even been able to see Olympus as it perched on top of the dome, the severed head of the mountain balanced perfectly on the point of a needle, even as he and his fellow demigods could see nothing. As the Oracle, she had lost none of her keenness, speaking prophecy as precisely, and as cuttingly, as she had always spoken truth to her friends. She was not one who believed in lies or falsehoods, or who would hide the truth for any mere convenience.

So he knew that the naked fear on her face was real when she turned to him and said, “I can see nothing but this wretched mist.”

There were not many monsters he knew of who could create an illusion so powerful as to shroud even the Oracle of Delphi; Hecate, perhaps, but why she would have deigned to show her face when the rest of the gods remained silent was very uncharacteristic of what he knew of the goddess. And he did not think that even she would still be so bitter as to side with the Ottomans in this instance. 

Faintly, through the thick net of psalms which enfolded the square, he heard those other voices, sharp and piercing in tone, yet rich and mellifluous in melody, floating to them from across the Golden Horn. By his count, this was the fourth time they had sung today; thus, the time was now evening, a little after sunset, if he was correct. 

“What is that strange singing?” asked his companion, tilting her head curiously to the source of the song.

“It is the enemy,” said Percy. “Five times daily they call out to their god in this manner.” The Ottoman prisoners they had captured continued to pray their daily prayers, even in captivity, with a fervency and a dedication which deeply impressed Percy’s captain, though had sorely disturbed Percy’s other, more brutish fellow men. Having heard it up close and far away for so long, he had nearly grown accustomed to the melody, and found it oddly comforting in its sharp, even predictability, in this other man’s faith which would not desert him as it had with some of his Christian captors.

“It’s beautiful,” Rachael whispered.

“It is,” he agreed. He was sure there was much more to say on that topic, but the fear and unease of the magical fog was too much to bear, and, truth be told, he was quite hungry. Perhaps they could debate this another time. “Do you have a place to stay? I wouldn’t trust an Inn at the moment, if I were you. My mother’s house has an extra bed; you will be well come there.”

But she was not listening to him. 

He frowned, giving her arm the briefest of shakes. “Rachael?”

She stood, still as a statue, her gaze turned up to the dome, her mouth hanging open. There was not even a breath of wind to ruffle her wild hair. 

“Rachael?”

Her posture, already so straight, snapped even straighter, as though it were the string of a bow. Her head was thrown back, and she gazed sightlessly at the sky, her mouth open in a wordless shriek. He nearly toppled over as she fell onto him, her hands a death grip around his wrists. Green, sickly mist poured forth from her mouth, her eyes, her ears, and all around him in a horrible, deathless voice, the Oracle delivered its prophecy.

Tell the emperor, she gasped, in an ancient tongue that had not been heard for nearly a thousand years, that my hall has fallen to the ground--Phobos no longer has his house. In this state, she attempted to claw her way up his body, her shaking hands reaching for his face, even as he tried to hold her at bay. Nor his mantic bay, nor his prophetic spring. 

His storm sense tingled, the hairs on the back of his neck rising, the sweet scent of flowers in the air. Thunder rumbled above them, even as the fog retreated, revealing the walls and domes of the church to the open air once again, and the mortals increased their plaintive wails. 

The water has dried up! She shrieked, her eyes rolling into the back of her head. Tell the emperor--all is ended!

With an almighty crack, lightning struck over their heads, arcing with pinpoint precision onto the very tip of the dome. The receding mist lit up like gold and silver, like the celestial bronze of his secret sword, like the bright, blinding glow of a god’s truest form, one which mortal eyes were not able to comprehend, and in that light Percy thought he saw them, the twelve and the others, the hammer and the dove, the twin archers, the owl and the crown and all the rest, and for one terrible half of a heartbeat, there also he saw the trident, saw his father’s face turn from him in sorrow, and he could not feel the drag of Rachael’s fingers into his skin, nor hear the cries of the mortals as they beheld the terrible sight, though they could not understand what they saw, none but Percy could see how the gods fled the ancient city, leaving their people behind, leaving Percy behind, to slaughter and to ruin.

And just as swiftly, the vision vanished. The fog had lifted entirely. Rachael collapsed into his arms, the spirit of prophecy having left her form, and he shook her as gently as he could. “Rachael, are you alright? Rachael?”

As though she were emerging from a dream, she groaned, her eyes shut tight. “Percy?” she grunted, shuddering in his grasp. “What--where--”

“You had a vision, it seems,” he said. “Can you remember any of it?”

She shook her head, blinking. “No… what did I say?”

“You spoke of the Emperor.” It was likely that the man himself was within the very church, leading what was left of his people in more desperate prayer. “You said--”

But with a short, sharp scream, she cut off his words, and lifted one trembling finger to the sky. “Percy,” she gasped in fear and in terror, “Percy! Look!”

“You know that I cannot see as you,” he said, though his gorge rose within him. “What? What is it?”

“Olympus,” she cried out, with all the pain of a newly orphaned child. “Olympus! Olympus has gone!”

And as she wept into her hands, his arms around her, he sent up his prayers once again, to Athena and Ares and Zeus, to the father that had always professed to love him above all his other children, his thoughts rising like smoke up to a sky full of stars which no longer seemed to shine quite as bright.

[dorenarox]

Yes, okay, I see that THIS was not the greatest idea of the century-

[takottais-art]

@swampbacon

Edited↑ ↑Unedited

How dare you make me draw a hat swampy!! 😠 (/Joke) Anyway I hope you like how it came out, I experimented with watercolor and colored pencils. :p

Reblog's > likes, please I need validation. Click/tap on image for better quality!

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Tag list: @swampbacon @romeoandromeo @goddesslunaris @squid--inc @kooky-spooks @clowniestjoke @gimmedatrn @stickthebonsai @nansblockit @mildlymortified you want to be tagged/untagged just comment on this post or shoot me an ask/message, have a wonderful day!

[milkbeam]