“But then he came out of the kitchen, drying his hands on a towel, and the second Annabeth locked eyes with him, she knew.
Fuck. It was Percy Jackson.
The spectral hands of memory ripped her out of her body and flung her back eight years in the past. Suddenly, she was thirteen again, stuck in a closet in Stephanie Fuller’s basement, unable to look her crush in the eye. He’d been shorter than her back then, but he still had the same eyes. Sea green and too full of understanding.”
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Annabeth is staring at the never ending decor of Percy’s room. It seems to encapsulate the last several years of his life, variations in interests and maturities. A solar system model with drawings taped to the wall, mountains of CDs, a couple skateboard decks. Her photograph from years before is still taped to his mirror.
Before they began dating just a month ago, Annabeth had only been in his room on a couple of occasions. There was always so much stuff she didn’t know where to start looking. But she now spends the majority of her free time in this very space, and she has graduated from looking and moved on to wondering.
The biggest question she has revolves around the blue electric guitar in the corner. She knows Percy likes rock music, but he has quite literally never mentioned playing the guitar. It just sits there collecting dust. Unless, he plays when she isn’t here.
Sitting at his desk, she glances at Percy’s lanky form, sprawled over his bed just a foot away. He’s on his back, holding a copy of the Great Gatsby above his face. He hums to the melody of what’s coming through his CD player, which tells Annabeth he’s just skimming the novel.
The end of her pen tapping against her chin, she ventures, “You know, I’ve never seen you play your guitar before.”
He glances at her. “I don’t play that much.”
“But you know how to.”
“I mean I got it when I was like thirteen.”
“Percy.”
He lowers the book, still looking at her upside down. “What?”
“Would you play for me?”
“Annabeth,” he whines. “Please no.”
“Please,” she says, making her eyes extra wide and sparkly for him.
“Fuck off,” Percy mutters, but he’s sliding off his bed to pause his White Blood Cells CD and grab the guitar. She grins.
He doesn’t plug it into the amp, which also makes Annabeth wonder how often he terrorizes his neighbors with the sound.
He sits on the edge of his bed, the body over his lap, and adjusts the tuning pegs. “You can’t watch.”
Annabeth sputters out a laugh. “What? Percy. It’s just me.”
He widens his eyes at her and she acquiesces, turning back around in the chair.
He strums once, then says, “It’s gonna sound weird, I don’t wanna plug it in.”
“That’s fine.”
He begins to play a soft tune, light and simple. Annabeth is shocked out of her system when he begins to sing, too, though quiet and mumbling.
“The book of love is long and boring, no one can lift the damn thing.”
Her face feels warm. Annabeth side eyes to make sure he isn’t watching her, before turning her head to get a better look. He’s hunched over, his curls covering his eyes. But I, I love it when you read to me. And you, you can read me anything…
A ball of something very grand expands in her chest. Something about the boy she loves sharing this fraction of himself.
“This one’s better on acoustic,” he mutters between verses.
He hums again, and Annabeth’s eyes burn. She watches through a blur of the way his fingers are curled, strumming up and down, over and over. His left hand switching between chords, one finger pressed over this string, shifting positions a second later. She swipes a tear of her cheek.
“It’s full of flowers and heart shaped boxes, and things we’re all too young to know.” He glances up with pink cheeks and a light smile, until he registers Annabeth’s state.
“What happened?” he asks, alarmed.
She fails to swallow the tightness squeezing her throat. “I just, like… I really love you.”
“I love you too, baby. Is—you’re not sad?”
“No.” She sniffles with a wobbly press of her lips. “You’re just really sweet, and I don’t know when I’m gonna get used to it.”
He sets the guitar down. “C’mere.”
She crawls into his arms and they fall on the bed, one of his hands cradling her head and she cries into his shoulder.
This has only happened a few times before, where the love she feels for Percy is so overwhelming that tears are her only form of expression. It’s been years of these expressions and years of Percy opening his arms for her, but just recently is the only time it’s been born out of pure, powerful adoration.
They’re not fighting a war, and they’re not fighting each other anymore. They walk to the park and do homework together and she climbs up his fire escape and he plays love songs for her. This peace is so incredibly foreign, it’s terrifyingly freeing. What can’t be accomplished when Annabeth has someone who loves her with every fiber of his being, and even past that?
“You didn’t write that, did you?”
“Hell no.”
“Why say it like that?” She raises her head to look him in the eye. “Your short story was really good.”
He laughs and shakes his head. “Beth, if I wrote a song for you, you’d break up with me.”
Annabeth doesn’t say anything. She’s learned that there’s no reason to when Percy’s being difficult.
“I didn’t even finish the song,” he says.
“Oh, now you want to play for me.”
“I think it’d just make you cry harder though.”
She swats at his chest. “You’re right, by the way—you can’t sing.”
“What the fuck is that logic,” he says with no bite, holding her tighter, “I put myself out there and you knock me down for it.”
“I did no such thing. It’s charming. Were you trying to serenade me or was that just the first song that came to mind?”
“Both? Doesn’t hurt to serenade you when I can.”
“Yeah.”
“I know this one really sick guitar solo, though.”
She chuckles at his upbeat change in tone. “Better turn on that amp.”
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I was today years old when I learned that when you type “otp: true” in AO3 search results it filters out fics with additional ships, leaving only the fics where your otp is the main ship
another reminder that what you put in your public bookmarks on ao3 is public, meaning anybody can see them, including the authors.
all of this. heavy on “the fastest way to discourage fandom writers is by rating/assigning numerical value to fanfics”. also the “but don’t you want to get better?” argument is so exhausting to me. because if us fanfic writers want to “get better” at our hobbies, the things we do out of love, and if we want constructive criticism, we will either directly ask for it (so if we didn’t ask, keep your opinion to yourself) or we will go to our trusted friends, whose opinions we actually value, for their feedbacks.
because more often than not, the unsolicited constructive criticism random strangers give us isn’t even constructive criticism but what these people personally want to read. so here’s the thing, us fanfic writers write for ourselves first and foremost. we appreciate people who read our works and show us support, but we’re writing and sharing our works for free — it’s our hobby and passion, our source of comfort, something we do as a form of self care, it’s not a job we are paid to do — so we’re not writing to please anybody but ourselves.
you don’t go up to a stranger you see in public, tell them what you dislike about their clothes and how they can “dress better” then defend your actions by claiming you “have the rights to criticize their clothing because they are in public”.
if you like our fics, cool. if you don’t like them, that’s fine. you can find something else to read. or, better yet, you can WRITE THE THING YOU WANT TO READ YOURSELF, nobody is stopping you. but keep your unsolicited criticism to yourself if we didn’t ask for one.
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what if percy, annabeth, and thalia got dressed for the westover hall dance at percy's house with the help of sally and then they took a mirror selfie together. what if i just wanted to draw them in fancy clothes while taking a mirror selfie together. what if
it took me like forty minutes to draw thalia and annabeth each meanwhile percy took 2 minutes max
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percy "the world was collapsing and the only thing that really mattered to me was that she was alive" jackson x annabeth "an asteroid could have hit the planet and wiped out all life, and annabeth wouldn't have cared" chase
The sirens had no effect on Percy because the only thing on his mind was making sure Annabeth was safe. This is insane. This is the most accurate Percy-fatal -flaw-tunnel-vision-Jackson ever.
Annabeth's fatal flaw making her think she could save them, and almost getting her killed, and Percy's fatal flaw actually saving them because the fact that she was in danger shielded him from everything else? It turns out that her fatal flaw ultimately saved him in the end, too. They saved each other!
This is the most soulmate thing in the whole world, when you are both unbelievably and irreversibly flawed, but your flaws complement each other in a way where neither of you could survive on your own, but together you can get through impossible things.
