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#no claims but i love this

somewhereincairparavel · 3 days

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To the people saying "Jason wouldn't have jumped into tartarus for Piper, like Percy did for Annabeth" Jason, plunged into the sky from the grand canyon to catch Piper in the first few pages of the lost hero without even knowing who she was, and without the knowledge that he could fly. so he basically jumped to his death attempting to catch her. In the first few pages of his journey, he didn't mind dying to save Piper, and ironically, that's also what he did in the last few pages of his journey. Y'all just be saying anything when it comes to Jason.

#If you think you're complimenting Percy by saying “Jason wouldn't have done that” no you are not. I love Percy too but cmon now #You are simply deluding yourself by trying to antagonize Jason in your head because of pettiness #He is canonically a sweetheart through and through so go cry abt it with your made up fanon version of him #But don't you dare claim it as canon #Get over the fact that both Percy and jason are good people and loyal lovers #Stop comparing them for fucks sake it's not 2012 anymore #pjo #percy jackson #pjo fandom #pjo series #pjo hoo toa #pjo hoo #jason grace #annabeth chase #piper mclean #leo valdez #frank zhang #hazel levesque

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shootingst4rpress · 2 years

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the reason so many modern ‘feminist’/’gay’ retellings of classic stories or mythology are shit is because no-one wants to actually engage with a work on its own terms anymore. nobody wants to actually analyse and dig into the themes of a work they just want to plaster over it with what they consider self serving and ‘trendy.’ so instead of actually ANALYSING what a myth could say about women, or gay people, or society at the time in general, it just gets rewritten again and again to say what the author wants it to say. braindead fucking culture

#this is why i despise a/g/l #the people who present it as 'LOOK there WERE gays in medieval lit' are like. okay there were gays in medieval lit #and they (drawing from galehaut and lancelot here since that's what i know about) have incredibly important and interesting things to say #about gay love in their time #and about wider trends in society such as courtly love #but nobody wants to actually ENGAGE with those themes and dig into the texts to see what they do actually say #people just want to read something that caters to them perfectly #to elaborate this isn't about people who genuinely enjoy modern interpretations of a/g/l this is about people who claim it is somehow True

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malinaa · 4 months

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it’s probably been said before but there’s a poetic balance that the victor of the second quarter quell, where there were twice as many tributes, got to bring home two victors instead of one

#Haymitch I Love You #does op of that gifset where they used bob morley as a face claim for haymitch know what they’ve done to me #lit #the hunger games #haymitch abernathy #katniss everdeen #peeta mellark #text #tais toi lys #thgpost #*

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astrobei · 3 months

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in my heart of hearts mike wheeler is absolutely an athena kid but i also have to offer up a concept that i think has extreme comedic and dramatic potential aka: repressed gay teenager mike showing up at camp half blood unsure of who his godly parent is and feeling insecure about not having powers and one day when he’s making not-so-secret heart eyes at his best friend and son of apollo will byers is when a bunch of glowing floating hearts show up above his head. and that’s how mike gets claimed by none other than aphrodite, the goddess of love and sexuality, and is in full denial about it for three days because he thinks it’s some kind of sick and twisted JOKE

(on aphrodite’s end, she’s upset mike is throwing away the gift of true love and keeps trying to trick him out of repression by making more and more improbable and hilarious gifts appear when he and will are hanging out. mike hands will a book and it turns into a box of chocolates and he has to fling it away like a frisbee before will sees it. they’re having lunch and romantic music starts playing. she gives mike the same blessing she used to claim piper and will can’t even look in his direction for a full day because he starts blushing so hard. fifty bouquets of flowers show up at the apollo cabin’s doorstep with a note that says love, mike and by the end of it, mike isn’t even repressed and unsure about his sexuality anymore — he’s just trying to not throw himself into the bonfire out of sheer embarrassment)

#also shoutout to piper mclean bc i think her arc of not believing she is an aphrodite kid bc she doesn’t fit the model for it and having #been teased and made an outcast of sorts kind of jaded her and made her actively rebel against being an aphrodite kid #i just think that is very mike wheeler of her #n then she spends five books learning what love means and what being an aphrodite kid means #again. very mike. to Me #credits to abby bc i said ‘what if mike shows up at chb and he is repressed and gay and immediately gets claimed by iris the rainbow goddess #and she said i see this and raise you aphrodite #and i said oh my fucking god.#anyways might write this. (is opening a google doc)#but we will see.#again like in all actuality i think he is super an athena kid to Me anyway. although i think a pjo/st au is one that is very open to inter #*interpretation #i just think this hc has a little kick to it #before anyone gets MAD and says no that’s STUPID and he would totally be Blah Blah Blah. i don’t want to hear it #byler #mike wheeler #/astro posts #pjo

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macfrog · 4 months

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wish you were here | one shot

thank you lovely anon for this gorgeous request which felt like a huge mug of hot chocolate and a pair of socks fresh from the dryer to write. i hope you enjoy.

pairing: joel miller x fem!reader

summary: you and joel skip jackson’s annual holiday party in favor of some alone time. (not that kind you filthy animals it’s the HOLIDAYS)

warnings: fluff lmao, thirty-year age gap and u can stay mad, set around the holidays but no mention of christmas etc, nothing but love and two hints of sex. that's all. oh and no guitars were harmed in the making of this - joel canonically goes and gets the guitar after the fic ends. dw.

word count: 1.9k

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Jackson is alive with a thrumming heartbeat. Pulsing through the air, bumping gently against the quick-lying snow and filling the otherwise silent night. A steady, rhythmic heartbeat.

A heartbeat which sounds a lot like Blue Monday, but a heartbeat nonetheless.

The holiday party is in full swing down in the Tipsy Bison. Seven o’clock ‘til late! on flyers plastered all over the commune for the last month. Tommy had tried relentlessly to convince Joel this morning on patrol – It’ll be a good night; You oughta come along, show face at least. At the same time, Maria was on your back about it in the stables.

Y’all hardly come to anything fun, she’d argued.

We come to stuff.

When’s the last time you came to anythin’?

We were – we were at Mike’s birthday dinner.

What – five months ago?

We like alone time.

Alone time? You’re never apart from one another.

Alone time – together.

Neither attempt had been successful. Tommy and Maria had exchanged a disheartened glance as the two brothers passed their horses to you on their return. Joel clipped your cheek, took his gloves off and fixed them onto your frozen hands before making off for home, a proud grin on his face. You’d held your own as well as he had: you two had a clear evening ahead.

He had lit and nurtured a fire, had made himself a coffee and heaped half a damn bag of tiny marshmallows into a hot chocolate for you, but when he’d come through to take his place on the couch, you were already stood out front.

It’s bitter out – a soft breeze, but a thick chill on its wings. The sky a washed gray, heavy clouds overhead. He slips outside, setting the mugs down on the table, and slings a blanket over your shoulders. Kisses the curve of your neck, scruff of his beard tickling your skin.

‘s freezing, pretty bird.

Then keep me warm, you whisper, turning into his arms. He steps back, settling into his chair, flicking his fingers for you to fall down into his wide lap.

You curl up against his torso, your head hooked beneath his jaw. Wonder how drunk Tommy is by now. What is it – nine?

His wrist lifts, moonlight gleaming in the reflection of his broken watch face. Just gone ten. I bet he’s on his ass already.

You giggle into his shirt, breathing in the scent of the pine trees, the smoke from stoking the fire inside, the bite of hot coffee. The echo of voices swelling in merry song turns your attention down the street – two figures hooked onto one another, stumbling through the powdered snow. Some slurred rendition of September melting into All Night Long before the smaller of the two tugs their partner off into a darkened house.

Joel laughs to himself, the bristle of his beard catching on your hair as he shakes his head.

You ask him softly, Will you play me something?

His breath soars, a cloud hot and pale white, past your temple and up into the pastel sky. Gets swallowed somewhere overhead by the wash of warmth from the porch light. He turns his mug until the owl faces the street, the bottom gnawing against the wooden armrest of his chair.

I’m serious.

What do you wanna hear?

That one you’re always practicin’. The plucking one.

Another rumble between your shoulder blades. His chest jolts with a solid laugh. The pluckin’ one.

You know the one.

I know the one.

Will you play it, if I go get the guitar?

Baby, his lungs nudge on your back as they fill, it’s late. We’ll wake the neighbors.

Everyone’s at the dance. C’mon.

And he can’t argue with that. The entire street lies dark, vacant. Yours is the only house with soft-glowing eyes, the muted orange of the fire flickering behind closed blinds. Two figures, tangled in a chair on the dim front porch; a hunting jacket around his shoulders, and his body around yours.

You tug on the blanket, wrapping it around your elbows as you stand. Just once. Play me it once.

Joel’s looking up at you, setting his mug down on the table. Play you it as many times as you want, pretty bird. Just – quietly.

There’s a spring in your step that drags another chuckle from Joel’s lips: the kind that drips like honey down your throat and warms the pit of your stomach – a sweet, comforting thing, a sound you swear was made purposefully for you. Divine and deliberate.

Like – all of him. Like the shape of your name in his mouth, the curl of his tongue as the sound surfs over it. Like the curve of his hand and the way yours so neatly molds into it.

The way it did the day he found you, crouched in the gray backroom of some butchers deep in the city, and took you all the way back to Jackson. Let you cling to him on the back of his horse; your weak arms around his waist, anchored by the heavy jacket he’d thrown over your back. Your ear between his shoulder blades. And that was that.

Fifty-six. One brown-turned-silver hair away from thirty years your senior. He still remembers before. Talks about movies, talks about computers. Talks about Sarah, when the sun hits the wall at a certain angle and he reckons he could see her standing right there, the soft shadow of her hair dark against the golden wall. When you make a joke and he laughs a ghostly sort of laugh, like he’s hearing the echo of her voice make the same quip three decades ago. He always says she would’ve loved you; you like to think he’s right.

He found you: a lonely little broken heart, and he pulled you to your feet with a rough palm against your own. Hands calloused only from years spent carving wood and pressing the hard strings of his guitar into the fretboard, and nothing else. No violence and no bloodshed; no survival or threat. Music, and patience, and kindness.

And maybe you found him, too, in the same sort of way: roughened up, awkward and messy stitches holding him together. Maybe the two of you nursed one another back to life; each brush of your hands in the dining hall and each meaningful glance while out on patrol sewing those wounds up a little tighter, a little safer.

He sits forward when you hold the instrument out, sweeping a broad palm down the slope of the body. Pinches the pegs one by one, twisting them while his thumb taps on each string.

Come here, he says, beckoning you forward with a flick of his chin. He taps on the seam of his jeans, widens his legs for you to curl up between them at his feet – the way you always do.

Your elbows hook over his thigh, ear pressed against the inside of his knee. Staring up, blinking slowly, eyes glazed with the cold and with the light and with love.

He plucks gently, slow at first. Letting the strings snap with a twang, vibrating enough that you feel the small rattle in your jaw. Your eyes fall closed, head rocking with the light tap of his heel on the porch. When you peer at him through your lashes, he’s watching the skilled movements of his fingers intently; as if he’s as much a spectator as you are – his body doing all of the thinking and working for him.

So, he sings, and your stomach melts to a puddle, so you think you can tell –

Your eyes close again, the low rumble of his voice crisp in your ears. Like thunder, like the promise of something great and mighty. Something moving, something rolling and changing the landscape of your body, your mind and your soul. The lines between living and dying begin to blur, the seam tearing between this plain and the next.

Did they get you to trade – your lips parting to whisper the words with him – your heroes for ghosts?

His thumbnail dragging down the strings, his strong fingers flitting between chords. Like he was made to sit here, in the dead of night, and carve a space in the world for himself and his voice and for you – lain in the safe scope of his body, protected by his breadth and brawn and lulled by his sweet song.

His breadth and brawn – the parts of him which have kept him standing here. His skeleton, his muscle. But the thing that keeps you warm at night, buried side by side under a threadbare woolen sheet together, the thing that you link your arms around as he leads you home from the nights you dare to visit the Tipsy Bison: are his heart, his flesh, the gray-singed hair which falls in a featherlight wave over his forehead. The hair you sweep from his eyes when he’s on top of you, his hips cradled in yours, that all-encompassing feeling of every part of him filling every part of you.

It all feels that way. The warmth of him, the feeling of being wrapped around him. Hooked around his body, bones intertwined. Absorbing one another, his words breathing life into yours, slowly growing louder and braver with each pluck and strum of music.

We’re just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after year.

Your makeups entangling, ribcages locking together, flesh meeting flesh and hair twisting until one day, Tommy will come looking for his brother and find the two of you here on your porch, your arms still draped over Joel’s thigh and his fingers still mid-song. Stuck, alone, together.

What have we found? Joel looks down to you as though asking the question – his eyebrows raised – and you reply, a dumb smile across your lips, The same old fears, and then, together –

Wish you were here.

He plays until his fingers must start to hurt, the way he clenches and loosens his fist. Setting the guitar against your chair, hands hooking under your arms to pull you back up to him.

That one your favorite? he asks, the cold tip of his nose circling yours.

You nod. Only when you sing it.

I like the way we sound together.

You smile, shrinking into his chest again, your fingers surfing back and forth on the worn shirt. I like the way we do a lot of things together.

His hands slip beneath the fabric of your shirt, massaging your waist. He dots a trail of light, damp kisses along your forehead, dipping to your temple, the angle of your cheek until your jaw lifts and his lips are against yours, his tongue parting to lick purposefully at yours.

I love you, pretty bird, he whispers, the words falling sweet and fair on your tongue.

You take a moment to let them seep into your skin. ‘s the first time you’ve ever said that, you tell him.

Joel smiles. He knows. But you knew it already, he counters.

You know, too. Mhm.

Alright, he groans, slipping his hands under your thighs and hoisting you up to his height, bedtime.

It’s only ten, you complain, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders as he carries you inside. It’s too early to sleep – Joel.

Didn’t say we were goin’ to sleep, he mumbles, kicking the door shut.

#happy max monday is this becoming a thing? can i claim mondays? boomtown rats move the fuck over #i just wanted to sit between joel miller's legs and look up at him all dumb and in love ok?#joel miller #joel miller fic #the last of us #tlou fic #joel miller x reader #joel miller one shot #jackson!joel #joel miller fluff

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xanderindisguis · 4 months

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THE EXPRWSSIONS HE HAS WHEN TALKING TO SCARAB HAS ME CRAZY the way they say so much with so little.

THIS IS YOUR SCARAB HATER??? From just a few frames he comes off as concerned in a caring way, how did we get to a point he's portrayed as an evil, abusive, narcissistic boss??

It's so clear that Orbo doesn't hate Scarab, I firmly believe he gets fed up because Scarab refuses to look outside of his own point of view and any attempt to bigger the picture with him falls on deaf ears, that he's more likely to listen under threats rather than just words he obviously doesn't care for.

(I DON'T AGREE with threatening or actually tearing his legs off, but it's to consider ORBO'S POTENTIAL POV. I feel that's more likely than him just being a huge asshole who hates him for some bs reason)

#prohibitedwish #because of the prohibited wish fanfics #scarab #scarab the god auditor #orbo #fionna and cake #small analysis #feel free to discuss because i want to hear more opinions #whether that's against my claims or to suggest something else #seriously i love discussing #orbo slander #WE PRO ORBO HERE

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matchamabs · 2 months

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whoever put the phrase 'dungeon britishi' in my tags, this one's dedicated 2 u. i haven't been able to stop thinking abt it. i can't b arsed 2 finish these scribbles so take it and run ok quick

#LAYING DOWN MY CLAIM FOR WELSH CHILCHUCK OK #what is this dungeon meshi shameless au???#izutsumi being a roadman was fucking inspired i CANNOT stop thinking abt it #plus puckpatti being the y2k estate look for reals i love her #dungeon meshi #delicious in dungeon #dunmeshi #chilchuck tims #meijack #puckpatti #flertom #senshi of izganda #izutsumi #namari

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