chin of a greek god

*me playing tomodachi life*

*seven and saeran hanging out at the cafe*

seven: I wish I had a wider chin.

saeran: what are you talking about? you have the chin of a Greek God!

seven: we should build a secret base under the mii apartment

saeran: definitely, we could hide cheese cakes in there so we never run out again.

seven: I walked past Ai’s place yesterday, it smelled like she cooked something yummy.

saeran: is she holding out on us?!

seven: so I found out something about V yesterday—oh never mind.

saeran: whoa, what were you gonna say?

seven: how do you know when you’re in love?

saeran: it’s like when you both order the same thing at a restaurant.

seven: I have a secret but if I tell you, it wouldn’t be a secret anymore.

saeran: so not cool.

seven: what do you think the girls talk about when they get together?

saeran: if we knew, we’d be millionaires.


deathlvhallows  asked:

Oh wait. Yeah, um sorry. I sent one in as a fan mail because I was being an idiot. -_- Can you write a Percabeth Bonnie & Clyde AU where they are running from Olympus and the gods because of a crime they committed against them or something?

The linen sheets are too clean under Percy’s dirty fingertips.

Deceptively clean, he thinks, because he knows of the stupid world that created the sheets, and he knows that nothing about that world is as clean is the crisp white linen which is currently gripped within his fist. And he shouldn’t be resentful, he shouldn’t, but he can’t help it. He is exhausted and angry and he feels like his heart is caked in muck.

There isn’t anything pure left in Percy Jackson. There just isn’t.

“You can have the shower now.”

He turns around to see Annabeth wringing water out of her hair, a towel wrapped around her torso. The heavy bags under her eyes make him want to reach out to her and hold on so tight. But he’s still so unclean and she is standing there with glowing skin and those eyes that have followed him everywhere he’s gone, and he doesn’t want to touch her when he’s like this.

He shouldn’t. Shouldn’t touch her.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, sliding off of the bed. He doesn’t mean to sound as angry as he does, but it startles Annabeth. She’s got that look in her eyes, the one that says she’s terrified of him, and yeah. Things haven’t been the same since Tartarus. They really fucking haven’t.

“You’re welcome,” she says quietly, and she grabs Percy’s hand and squeezes it as he passes her to walk into the bathroom. He shuts the door and yanks his shirt over his head before turning on the shower. Almost immediately, dirt runs off of his hands and onto the pristine Plexiglas floor. He’s wrecking it. He wrecks everything.

It’s been three years, and he feels like he’s only gotten angrier. That anger has, of course, bled into Annabeth’s life, and now she’s here. Following him because she feels like she has to, rather than giving up on him and letting him be alone. She should have given up on him the moment he started refusing to fight monsters; the moment he left all of the heroics up to the real heroes.

Heroes like Annabeth.

She is his best friend, but he isn’t hers anymore. He took her best friend away. She must miss him so much. Percy definitely does.

The water runs smoothly along the plains of Percy’s body, slipping along the muscles that tighten his stomach, the bulges in his arms, and the scars that make up his entire body. He’s covered in them– little red and white lines that each have a story. He used to be able to tell all of their stories, each individual one. Now, he doesn’t know any of them.

Annabeth’s scars, on the other hand? Annabeth’s scars, he knows better than he knows his own heart. He has spent so much time whispering their stories into her skin, pressing her gently onto mattresses around America and letting his lips roam over the scrapes that make her his Annabeth. No matter where they run to, her scars are always apart of their journey. So are his.

But lately, he thinks that he wears his more in his heart than he does on his body.

The thought makes him ache. He braces his palm against the shower and leans forward to let the water get at the back of his head, where it flows from his head down his shoulders and back, eventually hitting the bottom of the shower, where brown, muddy dirt is piling up. It makes him sick to look at it.


Annabeth is standing there, now in her underwear and a tank top, her towel poised midair as she goes to hang it up. He stares. She stares. Finally, he winces and looks away.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“For what?” she asks gently, and he can’t believe how diminished she has become since they started this entire thing. She treats him like he’s breakable, when in reality, he is the one who has broken her.

“For dragging you with me,” he says, squeezing his eyes shut against the water. “For making you live like this. For who I am.”

“Who you are,” she says softly, “is Percy Jackson. And I love you.”

“You love him.”

“You,” she says fiercely. “Percy.”

“You’re afraid of me,” he says darkly. “And you know what? I am too.”

Annabeth shakes her head.

“I’m not afraid of anything,” she replies, jutting her chin out childishly. “Not spiders, and not the fucking Greek Gods, and not you. Never you.”

He doesn’t say anything because he’s gotten into a habit of not dignifying lies with a response.

“Fine,” Annabeth says, stepping closer and grasping his cheeks in her hands. When he refuses to move towards her, she wraps her fingers painfully around the wet strands of his hair and tugs him to her, kissing him bruisingly. He knows what she wants, but he’s not going to let her into this shower. Not going to let her stand among the grime from his body and pretend that everything is the same. He pulls away, backing up against the wall, and Annabeth just looks even more determined. She pulls off her tank top and slides off her panties, then steps into the shower with him. He stares at her, bare and vulnerable in front of him, and suddenly feels like crying.

It’s the most human he’s felt in months, standing here with Annabeth. He’s always at his most human with her.

“I’m sorry,” he says again. “I want to be the same, I want to so bad, but I’m not, and you shouldn’t have to live with this. This isn’t what you signed up for.”

“I would stay with you through anything,” she says, eyes searching his face to see if he believes her. “Percy. You are the only person who loves me unconditionally, and I love you unconditionally, and that is how this works, this marriage thing.” She holds up her hand, showing him the two rings that glitter on her finger. “And I didn’t get married way too young just to prove everybody right. This is it, okay? Forever. So you need to understand the fact that I will always love you, whether or not you ever change your mind about running. I’m running with you, not behind you. Stop imagining that you forced me into this, Percy, because you could never, ever do that.”

If she notices the bitter tears falling down is cheeks, she doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t know what she would say, anyways. There is a gun in her bag and caked blood on two of his shirts and it suddenly occurs to him that maybe he isn’t running away with the Annabeth that he’d grown up with either.

Percy breathes out.

“Unconditionally,” he repeats, wishing upon the word as it floats into the air. “Unconditionally.”

Annabeth nods, lips tight as she watches him breathe out, body sagging slightly.

“Good,” she says decisively. “Now let’s get you clean.”

(Recently I re-read “Robespierre” by Anatole Levandovski. I really like the description of Saint-Just in this book. I tried to translate it from Russian.)

But what about Saint-Just? Oh, Maximilian cannot look without trembling at him. Saint-Just - he’s extraordinary and unrepeatable natural phenomenon. Here are he is standing in the front row members of the Convention. He is twenty six years old. He is graceful. His beautiful long hair falls over his shoulders. He wears an earring in his right ear. Thin batiste tie comes up to his chin. His costume is perfect. The face of the Greek god: beautiful, cold, strict. Who’s that? Is he representative of the golden youth? Is he ladies’ man? Or maybe just a marble statue. No, he is a passionate fighter, gifted, opinionated. Antoine Saint-Just devoted himself to the revolution from his youth. One day, he swore an oath to conquer or die with his hand on hot coals. Robespierre became his ideal.

 - “Robespierre” by Anatole Levandovski

Smooches for Pooches

I always have to tag @sterektrashbag Also on ao3!

The annual Spring Fling Festival was a tradition in Beacon Hills.

Every year both local businesses and out-of-town vendors set up stands, booths, and tents along the bike path in Beacon Memorial Park, the line of attractions stretching for at least two and a half miles. Local farmers would set up displays of fresh produce and local honey for sale, and the hospital offered free CPR training and Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital water bottles. The high school always had a dunk tank and the vet clinic brought in puppies and kittens that were up for adoption.

Every year almost all the money went to various charities, mostly local ones, or the hospital’s donation fund, occasionally a few dollars getting set aside for the sheriff’s department or the high school. The rest of the proceeds went to various other local businesses and services, the fire department receiving a large chunk and the farmers going home with heavy wallets.

And every year, without fail, Scott dragged Stiles to the festival when he would much rather be playing video games or watching TV or jerking off. Throughout high school, it was partially due to Scott always volunteering to work the vet clinic’s stand and wanting Stiles to hang out with him while he did, bribing him with promises of letting him play with the puppies and kitties. It worked every time.

Except, this year, it was Stiles who had dragged Scott to the festival, having missed town terribly while he was away at Princeton, wanting to make the most of his spring break. This time, it was Scott who had moaned and groaned about going, wanting to make the most of his spring break by staying home in his underwear or going out with Allison who had ended up tagging along with them to the festival.

For the first half hour, Stiles had made it his mission to soak up as much of Beacon Hills as he possibly could: he bought a funnel cake that was bigger than his head from his favorite local bakery, jokingly smacking Scott’s hand away when he tried to grab a piece. He tried his hand at the high school’s dunk tank as Coach berated him like old times, bringing back fond and embarrassing memories of lacrosse practice.

The look on Mr. Harris’ face when Stiles hit the bullseye dead on and sent him tumbling down into the ice cold water was absolutely priceless.

They were still laughing about it on their way to visit his dad at the sheriff’s department tent where they were selling t-shirts, baseball caps, and bumper stickers. That was when he saw it. The perfect tent.

The words kissing booth were sprawled in sloppy red letters on a huge white banner, another smaller sign declaring only one dollar! in dark pink. But it wasn’t wasn’t buxom blondes reapplying red lipstick or muscular shirtless men spritzing breath spray into their mouths nor any other cliche at the booth.

No, behind the counter was a pack of dogs, tongues lolling out in the warm breeze, tail wagging excitedly. He froze in his tracks, hand shooting out to grab Scott’s wrist, tugging him to a stop as he gazed longingly at the booth.

“Dude, what?” Scott asked, waving his hand in front of Stiles’ face when he didn’t answer immediately. Stiles swatted his hand away, emphatically pointing at the kissing booth, stunned silent. Scott turned his head, following where Stiles was pointing, “What, the kissing booth?”

Stiles nodded vigorously, already dragging Scott, and by extension Allison, over to the booth where the group of dogs was eagerly awaiting them, barking in greeting as they approached. Scott rolled his eyes as Stiles made a beeline to the booth, whining, “Dude, really?”

A tall dark haired man greeted them at the booth, smiling brightly as he politely asked, “Hey, how can I help you?”

Stiles’ jaw nearly hit the floor. The guy working behind the counter should have been on magazine covers, should have been on billboards in New York and LA, should have been in porn. Gay porn. The gayest porn.

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