something i feel like we don’t talk about nearly enough is the fact that percy is healed by water.
it’s so normal to us because it’s one of the first abilities we discovered he has. and it makes complete sense. but like… he’s the only demigod with that ability. jason doesn’t get healed by a gust of wind. hazel doesn’t get healed if she touches a diamond. nico doesn’t get healed if a skeleton gives him a hug. annabeth doesn’t get healed if she walks into a library.
like percy could be stabbed in the chest multiple times, he could break every bone in his body, he could be slammed in the head resulting in a crushed skull and hemorrhaging, but get him to some water fast enough and not only is he good as new in no time, but he’s stronger and freshly rejuvenated.
it’s insane when you think about it. no one else can do that. do you know how hard it is to kill percy? even if he’s not near the ocean, he can be healed by rivers and lakes and streams and ponds and all sorts of water sources. water recharges him. it makes him immediately stronger.
that’s a huge reason why i argue percy is the most powerful demigod. yes, he’s shown he has incredible super strength and super speed. yes, he’s a legendary sword fighter - arguably the best one alive. yes, he has control over air, land, and sea. (deadly hurricanes with heavy winds and thunder and lighting, huge volcanic eruptions, earthquakes, tsunamis, floods, etc.) yes, he’s capable of mass destruction. yes he can single handlely cause natural disasters and mass casualties. and yes, he’s capable of controlling people’s bodily fluids, including their blood and saliva. he is terrifying
but even if someone manages to beat him, he dips one toe in some water and he’s immediately healed and even stronger than before. whether the injury is internal and external. he’s healed all on his own. no ambrosia or nectar or external remedies necessary.
guys. percy is insane. he’s way overpowered.
and i love it.
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neuvillette is aware that he shouldn’t have let you get so close. but he did, and now he’s lamenting the fact that your hands are grasping at his soft horns — his fucking horns, of all places — and he might like it.
uptight and strait-laced, you’ve never known the chief justice to be someone so easily flustered. yet here he is with heat crawling up his neck, so warm that you can feel it against your palms as they ghost over his skin.
you can’t help but laugh at his current situation.
he was vehemently against you coming anywhere near his hair at first, grumbling about how his horns were on the sensitive side and he would rather not have to go into work feeling uncomfortably aware of their presence on his head.
however, you were hard to deny with that little smile on your face and such soft hands grabbing at his arms, tugging him closer. a sweet voice chanting, "please, honey? pretty please?"
neuvillette has never been good at denying you what you want.
it’s how he ends up sitting at your shared vanity. you comb through his long hair, watching him with amusement in the mirror as he huffs and jolts with every brush of your fingers against his horns.
the fact that he was letting you get anywhere near them was surely a testament to his trust in you. he was completely vulnerable here, at your mercy.
“sorry,” you mumble disingenuously, clearly enjoying seeing your usually serious husband falling apart with a simple action. you quickly tie off the end of his hair with a bow and he sighs in relief, thinking that the torment is over.
it's far from over.
he draws a sharp breath when you lean forward and press two gentle kisses on him; one on either side of his head just beside his horns.
neuvillette glowers at you in the reflection, disapproval written all over his face. "stop that," he scolds.
you do, but only because you're worried he might melt into a puddle before your very eyes if you continue.
it becomes a daily routine after that, with him sitting patiently in front of the mirror while you brush and tie off his hair. and you always end it the same way: two kisses, a soft "have a good day at work," murmured against him, and a mischievous little smile that makes him sigh.
he responds everyday with the same two words. "stop that," with a narrow-eyed glare.
the day you do stop, he's confused and irritated.
not only because you have the audacity to throw a wrench into routine again, which you know he hates, but also because he can't figure out why he misses your lips so much.
"what are you doing? i am going to be late."
"hm?" you peer up lazily from your spot on the bed, still half asleep.
"you have to do my hair."
"i thought you didn't want me to, so i slept in today."
your husband is eerily silent for a moment as he mulls over your words. then, he carefully perches himself on the edge of the bed, back turned to you expectantly and still wordless.
no, he would never admit he likes it just a little bit — the vulnerability, the trust, the feeling of your hands threading through his hair, the intimacy of it. hell no.
but neuvillette doesn't have to say a lot of things for you to understand; not when the way his skin heats up says it all; not when you're the first person to touch his horns in centuries; not when he’s saying stop that with such an affectionate glimmer in his eyes.
you give him four kisses that morning, two on either side.
© ALABOADOA 2023 — please do not translate or post my works to other platforms.
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What uh. What's the frog story 👀
back when i was in second grade, my elementary school organised a school market with every class selling their crafts for charity. the contribution of my class were hand-sized ceramic frogs we made in art class. each one of us made one of them to be sold for five euros a piece (this is important later). the quality of the frog i made varies drastically based on who is telling the story, and for reasons that will become very apparent later there is no way to check, but i stand by the fact that it was average looking, if a bit wonky.
the day of the market arrived, and all frogs were bought within minutes, snatched up by enthusiastic and proud parents. all except - mine. because my mother hates spending money on unnecessary things, and she hates children's crafts even more. so she - loudly and vehemently - refused, in her thick eastern european accent, to "spend five euros on an ugly frog".
i will never forget seeing my ceramic frog alone on the slightly wet cardboard, surrounded by the imprints left behind by the already sold frogs. all the while other parents are getting more and more agitated, trying to get my mother to put the frog out of its misery. eventually, she budged, and spend five euros on a wonky frog. she was absolutely furious about this.
so furious, in fact, that when we came home to where my father was remodelling the kitchen, she WALLED IT IN. that's right. she cask of amadillo'd that poor ceramic fool. put him into the open wall and slapped concrete over it faster than my poor seven year old self or my dad could protest. out of pure anger over loosing five euros. and that's where it remains, until this day.
my mom hates when this story is brought up, which is why we bring it up all the time. she also thinks she what she did was right, because "do the other parents know where the frog is? no. only your creation is safe. because i love you." morally, i would disagree, but on a pure factual basis, she has a point.
i made her another ceramic frog for her last brithday, which was not buried like some pharaoh, and everytime guests compliment it my brother loudly goes "oh you should see the other frog he made" and when they ask to see it, he points at the wall. this is hilarious to him and infuriating for my mother. and that's the frog story.
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