#shesnows

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐎𝐎𝐑  slams  behind  him.  verso’s  eyes  flick  to  the  first  clock  he  sees,  &&  it  takes  him  a  second  to  register  the  time.  after  nine  o’clock,  before  three  in  the  morning.  somewhere  in  that  area.  it  doesn’t  really  matter  what  hour  of  night  is:  he  was  supposed  to  be  back  for  dinner  at  least  an  hour  ago.  he’s  rejected  iris  messages,  hissed  his  way  out  of  phone  conversations,  &&  now  here  he  is  in  aurelia’s  apartment  coming  apart  at  the  seams.   he  knows  what  set  it  off  this  time.  a  window  broke.  he  stepped  on  a  piece  of  glass  trying  to  deal  with  a  crocotta.  the  shard  didn’t  go  deep,  but  it  felt  too  familiar,  &&  it  made  him  double  over  in  a  back-alley.  some  poor  son  of  a  bitch  mortal  saw  him,  thought  he  was  someone  in  need,  went  over  to  check  on  him,  &&  damn  near  got  clocked  in  the  jaw  for  all  his  efforts.  verso’s  only  a  little  glad  it  didn’t  connect.  he’s  mostly  mad.   aurelia’s  going  to  be  pissed,  he  thinks,  running  his  hand  through  his  hair.  which  is  going  to  be  fucking  hilarious. the  odor  of  ozone  &&  alcohol  roll  off  from  him  in  a  dizzying  cloud.  he  wastes  no  time  in  going  to  the  fridge  &&  prying  the  doors  open,  immediately  searching  for  something.  his  flask  is  empty.  all  of  its  contents  were  drained  earlier.   maybe  she’s  asleep,  maybe  she’s  out.  both  of  them  are  extremely  unlikely.  even  if  she  was  asleep,  his  loud  arrival  would  have  woken  her  up.  if  she  was  out,  she  would  have  told  him.  or  she  would  have  locked  the  door.  no,  she  must’ve  known  he  was  going  to  show  up  tonight.  held  out  hope,  maybe.   he  drags  a  hand  down  his  face.   buckle  the  fuck  up,  sachs,  here  we  go.  where  the  hell  is  her  booze?  

@shesnows // plotted starter

She's already been sick once. Every sense that Bianca has is turned up to max, and not the way it was when she was given the blessing of Artemis. Everything that happens to her body-- Gods, even having a body-- is overstimulating to the extreme. She hasn't figured out what's happening yet, but it's been made clear she's on a boat. A big one. It is not helping her nausea.

People have tried to approach her, but give up quickly when she starts screaming and thrashing. More trouble than she's worth. The first time it doesn't work, she gives up easily. Bianca lays on the floor (she refuses this cot they've given her) with glassy eyes and trembling muscles. She looks up at a girl, maybe more a young woman.

traditionally,  on  a  normal  day  in  new  york  city,  thalia  grace  would  not  be  caught  dead  standing  in  manhattan  of  all  places,  especially  outside  of  100  west  33rd  street.  it  would  be  even  more  implausible  for  her  to  be  there  for  pleasure,  but,  hey.  today  isn't  a  normal  day,  now  is  it? 

𝑨𝑼𝑹𝑬𝑳𝑰𝑨 ( @shesnows ) sought an audience.

KHIONE AND DIONYSUS, TO ALL THEIR RECOLLECTION, have  never  been  particularly  close.  this  has  been  for  the  better:  her  chilled  nature  would  bring  a  terrible  want  for  expression  forth  from  the  god,  and  a  manic  winter  goddess  would  not  do  anyone  any  good.  this  does  not  dissuade  him  from  adventuring  closer  to  those  which  lay  claim  to  her  parentage,  of  course.  it  should  give  him  reason  to  mind  the  distance.  instead,  when  dionysus  catches  a  distant  coldness  on  the  breeze,  he  seeks  to  indulge.  the  god  bounds  forth,  perhaps  too  curious  for  his  own  good  -

❝  aha,  a  demigod  !!  i  was  curious  when  i  would  find  one  of  your  ilk,  which  was  once  my  own.  what  bringeth  you  to  such  a  place,  and  to  whom  do  i  owe  for  your  chill  ??  fair  khione  ??  or  dastardly  boreas  ??      ❞

"well,   you   know   what   they   say   about   like   ...   the   ocean.   it's   like.   *everywhere,   man."

percy   would've   had   a   fun   quip   to   go   with   it,   but   he's   sure   his   stupid,   shitty   grin   and   the   way   he   leans   against   the   wall   *should   be   enough   to   annoy   one   of   the   followers   of   luke   castellan.   he   honestly   prides   himself   on   it   -   there's   an   immense   enjoyment   to   the   son   of   poseidon   at   the   fact   that   he   so   *easily   riles   up   his   opponents.   sorry,   aurelia.

he   might   push   a   little   further   -   he   knows   that   chiron   wouldn't   really   appreciate   him   being   such   a   shithead   to   the   followers,   as   the   main   goal   of   the   campers   was   to   try   to   pull   followers   of   kronos   back   on   their   side,   as   their   numbers   were   *extremely   small   in   comparison   to   the   titan   lord's   ever-growing   army.

"do   you   *really   think   that   your   leader   should   be   such   a   whiny   little   shit   when   he   gets   in   a   bad   mood?   a   leader   shouldn't   be   so   moody,   they   should   make   sure   the   people   who   follow   them   *shouldn't   ever   see   them   so   quick   to   anger."

percy  has  little,  to  no  interest,  in  rewriting  history.  there  are  things  in  his  life  that  have  happened  that,  yes,  he  would  prefer  not  to  think  about  (his  mother  and  the  minotaur,  bianca  di  angelo,  the  list  could  go  on..),  but  he  does  not  want  to  rewrite  it.  and  the  that  fact  this  is  what  is  being  thrown  in  his  face  feels  laughable.  he  can  feel  his  own  feature  contort  into  a  look  of  annoyance,  tanned  hand  lifting  up  to  massage  at  his  scalp,  where  grey  curls  sit,  as  a  reminder  of  history.  of  what  he  went  through.  of  what  they  all  had,  all  those  years  ago,  and  then  some.  

“if  you  think  you’re  gettin’  an  apology  from  me,  you  should  find  tyson.  he’s  the  nicer  of  us,  trust  me.”

𝐀𝐔𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐀 ( @shesnows ) said, 'i told you not to do that! now look!'

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐄𝐗𝐀𝐂𝐓  cause   of   this   hurt   is   not   unknown   to   him;   it   sits   in   the   pit   of   his   chest,   angry   &&   longing   for   something   in   equal   parts   both   terrible   &&   righteous.   he   knows   it   by   the   surge   of   panic   in   his   veins,   by   the   rush   of   something   like   horrible   loathing   in   the   back   of   his   throat,   by   the   immediate   recognition   that   he   cannot   stop   it.    this   hurt’s   culprit   is   sulfur.   it   is   the   fumes   of   tartarus   -   of   the   distant   forge   -   which   is   the   cause   of   all   of   this.   verso   diverts   the   blame   to   the   smell   on   the   boxes   &&   which   carries   itself   through   the   ventilation,   rather   than   to   the   lightning   crackling   ‘round   his   fingers.    something   moved   atop   one   of   the   crates,   likely   a   rat   or   some   other   small   animal.   it   sounded   louder   than   it   should   have.   more   volatile.   visceral.   waiting   to   tear   him   asunder.   it   had   to   be   a   large   beast.   it   had   to   be.   ( it   was   only   disguised   as   something   smaller.   ) no   sooner   does   his   hearing   return   to   him   than   does   the   feeling   in   his   right   hand.   the   lightning   crackling   ‘round   his   knuckles   has   to   divert   itself   from   the   shards   of   wooden   shrapnel   sticking   out   from   his   wrist   &&   forearm,   some   pieces   a   solid   few   inches   in   length   &&   jagged   like   beast   teeth;   his   arm   is   slowly   coating   itself   in   his   own   familiar   red,   that   uncanny   &&   hateful   warmth   slowly   drawing   him   back   to   the   world   ‘round   him.    the   crate   is   obliterated.   it   seems   to   have   been   empty   already,   nothing   more   than   something   to   move   about   within   the   bowels   of   the   andromeda   to   make   room   for   both   monsters   &&   troops   alike,   which   is   for   the   best;   he   would   hate   to   get   on   the   bad   side   of   the   titan   by   destroying   something   precious.   he   doubts   anyone   will   mind   that   it’s   in   smoldering   pieces   now.   the   storage   area,   though,   is   a   labyrinth   -   much   too   similar   to   the   one   he   was   pulled   from.   crates   upon   crates   of   food,   supplies,   armor,   weapons.   all   things   that   they’ll   need.   &&   a   destroyed   one   which   they   never   will.    he’s   dimly   aware   of   the   fact   that   aurelia   must   have   caught   onto   something   before   he   destroyed   the   crate;   he   thinks   he   made   a   comment   about   blowing   up   a   rat   or   two   as   a   joke,   &&   then…    verso   takes   a   breath.   he   feels   it   rattle   around   in   his   lungs.   his   extended   hand   trembles;   he   shoves   it   into   his   pocket   a   millisecond   too   late,   the   tremor   perhaps   already   noticed,   perhaps   already   ignored.   just   this   once,   he   hopes   aurelia   pays   him   no   mind.   that   she   was   distracted.   that   the   frozen-hearted   daughter   of   khione   is   doing   anything   other   than   paying   him   mind,   despite   the   warnings   she   gave   about   his   jest.   his   mouth   is   impossibly   dry.    is   that   even   aurelia?   some   part   of   him   murmurs.   he   tries   to   ignore   it.   he   knows   when   he’s   failing, and curses himself,  we're not even halfway done. the fuck is wrong with me ?? ❝   shit,   ❞   verso   murmurs,      ❝  you didn't see that.   ❞

injury prompts ( accepting )

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐂𝐇  has  become  something  of  a  weird  second  bed.  sometimes,  it’s  the  first  bed  he  comes  back  to.  motel  rooms  fail  him;  his  eyes  flick  open  at  odd  hours  of  the  night,  watching  &&  waiting  for  something  to  plow  through  the  window  &&  maul  him.  here,  though,  no  such  threat  exists.  not  in  aurelia’s  domain.  not  in  her  place  of  comfort.  the  significance  of  being  here  has  never  been  lost  on  him.  the  couch  is  spectacularly  comfortable  to  rest  in,  albeit  he  objectively  refuses  to  sit  “normal”  whenever  she  comes  home.  today  he’s  upside  down,  legs  on  the  back  of  the  chair  &&  letting  tired  blood  thrum  around  in  his  head.   verso  glances  at  the  door  when  it  opens,  cracks  a  smile,  &&  gives  a  small  salute  to  khione’s  daughter.       ❝  i  cooked  some  lunch  while  you  were  out,  ❞  offers  the  son  of  zeus.      ❝  should  still  be  warm.  can  we  count  that  as  rent  this  time  ??  i’m  fresh  out  of  cash.  ❞

@shesnows // starter call !!