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[castllan]

“fuck u my child is completely fine”

ma’am ur child is making another tumblr post about how luke castellan was right

#o

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“For fantasy is true, of course. It isn’t factual, but it is true. Children know that. Adults know it too, and that is precisely why many of them are afraid of fantasy. They know that its truth challenges, even threatens, all that is false, all that is phony, unnecessary, and trivial in the life they have let themselves be forced into living. They are afraid of dragons, because they are afraid of freedom.”

— Ursula K. LeGuin, “Why Americans are Afraid of Dragons”

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““How does one hate a country, or love one? Tibe talks about it; I lack the trick of it. I know people, I know towns, farms, hills and rivers and rocks, I know how the sun at sunset in autumn falls on the side of a certain plowland in the hills; but what is the sense of giving a boundary to all that, of giving it a name and ceasing to love where the name ceases to apply?”

— Ursula K. Le Guin, The Left Hand of Darkness

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It’s Rachel Elizabeth Dare 👩🏻‍🦰

#simone the colours in this drive me WILD

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SHADOW AND BONE › Exclusive Character Posters

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the ages in Six of Crows are so unrealistic and I’m not even talking about maturity or anything like that etc (although that is valid), I’m just talking about time. like, Kaz, Inej, Nina and Matthias in particular. 

how did one of them become an established criminal figure, build a criminal gang, save a ton of money, the other be kidnapped, enslaved, forced into prostitution, then become a well-feared assassin/keeper of secrets, the other be trained as a grisha, join an army, work as bait, be captured, survive a shipwreck, make an alliance with an enemy, betray them, then work for a year in Ketterdam, and the other is apparently a seasoned army officer or something who has also been in prison for a year.

and they’re all meant to be 16/17/18.

like, I know Kaz Brekker started scheming in the womb but come on. 

#we can write ya novels about people in their 20s #its ok

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Percy Jackson is a good driver

#michael u just hate bad driving #@party ponies am i right #still this is a good take

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pjo fanart

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Henry: Do you only love me because I’m the prince of England?

Alex: Honey I love you despite the fact that your the prince of England

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[description: two screenshots from the afterword of "A Wizard of Earthsea" by Ursula K. Le Guin. together the excerpt reads: "To be the man he can be, Ged has to find out who and what his real enemy is. He has to find out what it means to be himself. That requires not a war but a search and discovery. This search takes him through mortal danger, loss, and suffering. The discovery brings him victory, the kind of victory that isn't the end of a battle but the beginning of a life." it is signed with Ursula K. Le Guin's signature. /end description]

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hmm...children of Zeus/Jupiter and their fatal flaws..

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Wait y’all have morals?

#luke energy

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“Something’s wrong, I can tell” for percabeth 💖🔪

(in which we ignore the fact that hoo exists)

Annabeth’s alarm clock blinks 5:00 PM on her bedside table, the bright red casting a glow over her dark dorm room. Her blinds are drawn back, but uselessly so. The sun hides behind rain clouds that drown the city in their gloom. And so the turn of spring is more limp than victory march, or maybe it just walks to a cadence Annabeth can’t hear. The moment her feet hit the floor this morning, it felt like she was stepping out of time. 

The darkness presses in heavily on Annabeth, like maybe it’s her fault the sun rose wrong today. The girl with a plan for everything can’t even rouse herself out of bed. Afternoon collapses into early evening, and the weight of the lost day pins Annabeth below her comforter. Alone in a twin bed, the way it way built to be. Even after nearly a decade of sleeping in a cabin with all her siblings, that’s all Annabeth has ever really been: alone, the way she was built to be. 

Sneakers scuff the carpeted hallway, stopping when they reach Annabeth’s door. A key scrapes the lock without a knock, which is how she knows it’s Percy on the other side. 

Light from the hallway follows him in, and both of them blink as their eyes adjust. Annabeth is blind for a moment, able only to focus on Percy’s silhouette. Even in the lowlight, she can see the way concern softens his brow and stiffens his hands. 

“Baby...” he says, a nickname that has become a common occurrence in their seven months of dating. This is the first time it has failed to warm Annabeth’s chest. “What’s wrong?” 

Annabeth tries—she really does—to sit up and wipe the tear tracks from her cheeks, but her nose is snotty and half her hair falls out of its scrunchie from being upright for the first time all day. Her voice cracks when she says, “M’fine.” 

Percy just crosses the room and turns on her desk lamp, giving the place a soft yellow glow. He looks like the sun sweeping away the shadows of a dim day. With gentle hands, he undoes Annabeth’s scrunchie and coaxes her curls into a bun that will hold in the wake of her wallowing. Annabeth leans her head back into his stomach to look at him upside down, at which point he holds her cheeks and breaks her with a gentle, “Something’s wrong, I can tell.” 

She just gapes at him uselessly, because isn’t the lack of words the very core of this pain? All the power of Athena’s wisdom, Daedalus’s laptop, and Annabeth’s own mind, and she cannot string together a sentence about Luke Castellan that rings true. 

He was a hero. Naive. 

He was a monster. Calloused. 

He loved me. 

Well, aside from that, which is the only thing she knows to be true. 

Percy senses the tectonic shift within Annabeth and holds her tight, laying her back on the mattress and tucking himself in behind her. His arms wrap around her like he can prevent the earthquake, but all that tension can only do one thing: snap. 

Luke loved her. It’s the one thing she knows. None of it makes sense if he never loved her. She has to make it make sense. 

Most days her brain buries the ache. Annabeth is a runner; she is good at lacing up her shoes and hitting the road, but her feet cannot carry her far enough. She is the house she’s running away from. Luke’s influence is a painful design that fuels self-hatred and frustration, but the bones were good. At its core, the house was built with love, the kind you want to share with family. Before her fearlessness and fire were her own, they were his. Luke was the first person to put a weapon in her hand, and Annabeth is nothing if not a warrior. He made her to be the exact thing she needed to be to survive him.

Seven months after his death, and sometimes a day goes by where Annabeth doesn’t think about it. Some days are too full of Percy’s sunshine smile for the sky to dream of dimming. Other days—ones she keeps to herself—the thought of Luke shines in the rose-tinted lens of nostalgia. And then there are days like today where she is rendered immobile by the mere memory of him.

Closure is a sick and twisted joke. Luke’s love for Annabeth saved his soul and the world, just the way she wanted. All the pain and suffering of the past four years was worth it. She was right to believe in him. So why does the burden still burn into her shoulders? 

Percy presses his lips to the back of Annabeth’s neck, drawing her back to the present. His arm rests underneath her neck and wraps around her shoulders while the other falls over and around her torso, linking their fingers over her heart. He’s grown considerably since the summer, a fact that bothers Annabeth until moments like this where the width of his shoulders eclipses her own. It almost fools her into thinking he can protect her from this. 

“Easy.” His voice is low, whispered into her neck. “You’re okay. Just breathe with me, alright? I’ve got you.” 

Each swell of Percy’s chest coaches Annabeth through her own. Inhale. Hold. Feel his hands squeeze each second. Exhale. Listen to him whisper affirmations like prayers into her skin. Repeat. 

It takes a while, but Annabeth’s heart slows.

Percy’s voice resonates again her back. “What happened?”

This, she thinks, is the hardest part. Annabeth doesn’t have an empathy link like Percy and Grover, nor does she have someone with shared experience to speak to. In her struggle with Luke, she is truly alone.

“It’s not fair,” she manages, breath hitching.

“What isn’t?”

“That he—“ A stray tear leaks onto her pillow. Percy’s lips linger on her shoulder, patient and steady and everything Luke couldn’t be. Annabeth sobs, a mortifying sound, and she’s glad Percy can’t see her face as she presses it into her cold pillowcase. The stain of fallen tears waits for her, inviting her back into old pain. “That he loved me. It’s not fair that he loved me.”

Though he tries to hide it, Percy’s body goes rigid. They have fought about this on Annabeth’s rose-tinted days or whenever someone brings up Luke’s legacy, be it as hero, pawn, or monster. Part of Percy will always be the twelve year old boy who was betrayed by Luke, and part of Annabeth will always be the seven year old girl who found a family with him.

“Love isn’t always enough,” Percy says, and she can hear the tension in his jaw. Bless him though, he tries for her. “It’s not your fault he couldn’t do a single damn thing about it.”

He pulls her into his chest and lays his head on her shoulder, keeping her from falling off the bed while her body shakes. She withers at the realization that she can’t offer him anything in return, not even a promise that she’ll take his words to heart.

Luke did something about it: he died. He became the hero Annabeth saw in him after years of struggling, and then he left her again.

But he kept his promise. 

Annabeth’s chest aches as it always does when she thinks about Luke, it just runs a bit deeper today. It was in his nature to cut to the bone. 

“I just don’t want to feel like this anymore.” She sounds every bit the small, bitter runaway. 

The cold of the pillow is replaced by Percy wiping away her tears and dabbing at her nose with the sleeve of his hoodie. “What can I do? Tell me how to help.” 

“Just stay with me.” She leans into his palm, kisses his wrist. “Hold me a little longer.” 

“As long as you need,” Percy promises, dropping kisses along the line of her neck, her jaw, her cheek. “But I need you to look at me.” 

They untangle their limbs for Annabeth to flop onto Percy’s chest. His arms wrap back around her, this time firm around her waist while his free hand slides to her neck, his thumb under her jaw to hold her gaze. His eyes blaze with the fierce love she is still learning to accept, the one that burns to protect. 

“I love you so much,” he says, his voice aching as though it almost hurts. “And if I could take this away, I would. You don’t deserve it. I know we don’t... That he...” Percy frowns, then tightens his grip on her. “I know I don’t get it. I know. But I’m still here, you know? I don’t want you to be alone. Ever.” 

The gears in Annabeth’s brain take a moment process, and her response comes out in a breathless, “I love you.” The phrase is warm, as it always is, like the sun shining through the rain on her window. Loving Percy turns the light on in every room she enters. The rest of her words fall short, though they’re honest. “I don’t know what to say.” 

Percy’s thumb swipes across her cheek. “Me neither. We’ll figure it out together, yeah?” 

She throws herself into the crook of his neck, knocking the air from his lungs. He just softens and holds the back of her head while tracing circles on her hoodie—steady, sweet, supporting. He holds her tight and kisses her temple with the same tenderness she presses into his collarbone: a small attempt at reciprocity, but a meaningful one nonetheless. They’re trying, which is all they can do. 

#look emma. u don't know me. but u wrote this and it feels like it was written just for me

[castllan]

dont look <3

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#ok oo ok ok ok #annie #im leaving #thats it #im DONE