#wn pjo au

[daisychainsandbowties]

chapter 3/? [15k}

r: M

a percy jackson au

///

She stood under the faucet, looking up at it and wincing as the water splashed over her face, sending grey-black tear tracts down her cheeks. She could hear the two of them – Shannon and Mary – arguing in hushed voices outside, keen senses bringing shreds of it to bear in her ears.

 “-can’t just land that on her now. I mean, fuck, this is satyr business. I don’t know how to even start explaining all this to her.”

 “Mary, do I have to invest in a swear jar?”

She stuck her head fully underneath the spray, drowning out their noise. High on the wall of the shower, she watched an indistinct shape crawling along the tiles. It was as big as her fist and made of shadows, but condensed. It reminded her of dust captured by wind after bombs fall, turning up into shapes that can make you flinch before you realise it’s only pulverised brick, or whatever they put between the bricks to get them to stick together.

The whole world loud and quiet at the same time.

Her shadow, nibbling at a cobweb up in the corner of the stall, was in the shape of a teardrop or a comet. It had a long, trailing tail and two large yellow eyes that glowed faintly. Two stubby, antler-like things protruded from its head, and little arms drooped underneath it as it turned around, staring sadly down at Lilith.

“Go away,” she hissed, but it just blinked, blackly, and returning to its slow circuit around the stall.

It had glommed up from her chest as they walked along the beach, Lilith staring at the hand trapped firmly in Shannon’s grip. She gasped as it happened, but when the older girl looked over her shoulder, brow wrinkled with concern, she didn’t seem to notice the great dark shape spreading over Lilith’s chest.

She knew what it was without having to ask, not that it would tell her if she did.

“Grief,” she pronounced carefully into the sound of the water. “What are you doing here?”

But she knew.

It was coming back to her. All of it, not just the harsh jabs that had assaulted her back down on the edge of the ocean. Maybe it was the water warming her skin, flushing the scent of the grave off her, down into the plughole, which gurgled fretfully at the clods rushing down into it.

She drifted, watching the whorls of dust spreading around her feet like the big splotches of candlewax that used to drip onto her windowsill from the candles her mother lit at night.

“To frighten the monsters,” she’d whisper, dipping to kiss the crown of Lilith’s head.

“Quali monstri?”

Lilith always asked this as her mother tucked the sheets in around her, going to fetch her stuffed toy. It was homemade from pieces of mismatched fabric, all of them black because they came from her mother’s old dresses and shawls. It was a spider, with eight dangly legs and two eyes made of scratched buttons. It lay next to her head on the pillow, perched to ward off its brethren.

Lilith was afraid of spiders, but they seemed to like her – slipping beneath her sheets at night to curl up against her legs, or to skitter over her ribs. They weren’t monsters though; they were just creatures and they lived everywhere Lilith lived.

“Mamma,” she’d say, as her mother shook the box of matches, peering anxiously through the glass at the world beyond, past the strawberry trees hunkered in behind the garden walls. “Are we safe?”

Her mother was thin, with outspoken elbows and a way of standing so she was just draped in her clothes. It had been difficult to buy flour for the past month, and no matter how many strawberries Lilith picked for her from the trees in the garden – washing them in the bucket outside the back door – her mother only grew more shrunken.

Set against the candlelight she looked even more ghoulish than she did with her arms all over in suds, washing the plates from a dinner she’d skipped in favour of one of her few remaining cigarettes. She turned at the sound of Lilith’s voice, the shadows cupping her face, her cheek – as though the dark itself loved her and wanted anything but to let her go.

The candles beat them back feebly as she crossed back to Lilith’s beside, brushed a thumb over her brow. Her hands were chilly despite the heat. “They will not find us,” she promised. “Not tonight.”

read on ao3

#warrior nun #avatrice #wn pjo au #sister lilith #sister beatrice #casper writes #wn fic #gays by the river styx or smth

[trickarrows-bishop]

wn pjo au? wn pjo au.

WN PJO AU 🗣️‼️

[daisychainsandbowties]

bea - eviscerate + stitch

this dark is everywhere, we said (and called it light)

a percy jackson au

///

Lilith wakes to the latent heat of volcanic glass seeping up through the palms of her hands, lacing along the blade of her cheekbone, drinking down the tears that scatter out of her lashes as she lurches awake, gasping.

She’s lying spreadeagled on hard, garish black rock, glittering with the reflection of enormous stalactites – a ceiling of sharp ends diving down out of the gloom. Her hair, distinguishable only as a more greyish shade of black, is stuck in clumpy patches to the ground and it peels away as Lilith forces her leaden arms to move, pushing away from the ground that always seems like it wants to eat her.

A tremor of white pain travels from her breastbone to the hook of her floating ribs, and she groans as she glances down at blood-sticky rock. It is shiny, glassy like a dead black eye – and Lilith sees her sword lying in the manner of a crooked smile underneath her upraised body. The hilt is shaped like a fishhook, the blade concave near the hilt and pitching out into a broad convex near the tip.

There’s a chain of soft gold running from the hook of the handle to the blade, and it shines strangely in the wet reflective surface of the volcanic stone that runs up to the high walls of hell itself.

Lilith knows, without looking, that there is a very specifically-shaped bruise running from just underneath one of her breasts down the rungs of her ribs, terminating just above her hip. Others too, splashed across her jaw and the socket of her right eye. There is dried blood crusted in her hairline and on her lips, cuts beneath her clothes that have bled into the fabric.

The last thing she remembers is fighting, knee-deep in snow somewhere in the Himalayas. Red spotted in the drifts and an old oil lantern trying vainly to scoop the darkness up off the snow, throwing reflections onto white-capped stone. She was following a fresh trail of blood and gore up a switchback that couldn’t really be described as a path when a great shape came crashing out of the night.

She recalls being swept aside by a massive paw, or maybe a hand, and landing dazed in the snow. Rolling aside just in time to avoid a sharp-seeming downstroke. Might have been claws, or a blade, or a set of enormous teeth. Her lantern rolled away, and Lilith heard the ringing in her ears that announced death. She scrambled to her feet and saw where her light had been tossed away, where it came to rest by a shape lying limp in the snow, surrounded by a halo of blood.

Lilith didn’t need to roll the corpse over – didn’t have time, as snow swirled and a shape stalked her. There, with snow and ice muddling the feeling of stone beneath her feet, she felt powerless. She couldn’t reach out and rend the earth, couldn’t call fire up from the mantle of the planet. Too much interference, too much fear.

There was a crumpled polaroid in the back pocket of her jeans, showing a smiling woman in a puffy green jacket, pretending to blow on her hands for warmth, though she stood next to a bonfire and underneath a clear, starry sky.

There was no need to roll the corpse over because the jacket lay in pieces around the body, rent by claw or blade or teeth, and Lilith felt anger surge up inside her as she tore her sword out of its sheathe and turned in a wary circle, trying to pierce the blizzard with the tip.

But then she heard a flurry of movement behind her and something rammed into her back, tossing her forward and face-first into snow. A phantom voice in her head whispered through the wind as Lilith reached vainly, dizzily, for invisibility, for her god-given power over not being. Coming up, as usual, against the wall of her own scattered focus.

A voice in her head saying, shut the fuck up and fucking Travel, or so help me I’ll come back to life and murder you.

And so she Traveled. Reaching out to gather up the shadows into a soft blanket, into a blade she pressed willingly through her own body, carrying it away from the blood in the snow and the monster in the dark. And there was nothing and no one and nowhere to think of but home, wretched though it is.

Hades.

Lilith stands, dragging the sword with her so that it dangles with the tip almost touching the ground, resting the blade flush against the curve of her boot. It has a soft black glow, down here in such proximity to the waters where Lilith stood, stripped to the waist and running with cold sweat. Where she dipped the fresh-forged blade into the polluted waters of the Styx.

She’s wearing her black aviator jacket, sunglasses sticking out of the pocket, over a somewhat threadbare t-shirt with a weird, shadowy creature on the front. She keeps meaning to Google what it is, but a giant snake ate her phone last month.

And, anyway, there’s no one left to call.

As ever, a pall of ghoulish green light sits over the gateway to the underworld, seeping along the riverbank in both directions. It’s a little like dry ice, but this isn’t a stage or a theatre. It’s just where she lives.

Lilith frowns down at herself, at the spots where her jacket has frayed, where the black leather has cracked or been scraped away by claws, the chill sitting barely above her bones from weeks of sleeping rough up on the surface. The golden chain on her sword settles against her knuckles – a faint, weird warmth – and Lilith lets a small sigh escape from inside her mouth as the greenish mist rolls past her.

There’s something about the mist that feels animate, today. It almost seems to cup her cheek, to flow over her cheekbone like a cold thumb, taking a little heat out of the bruises. Though, there’s a pressure to it – almost a reprimand.

Lilith stares towards the gates and the looming canine shape that sits squarely inside, worrying the inside of her lip. Is it her imagination, the slightly-chiding care that runs through the green light, the cool river mist?

She doesn’t speak to her father – not more than a handful of times in her life. He didn’t save her mother from the bombs or her sister from starvation, and he tucked her away in a dreamless sleep until he had a use for her. So what does she owe him?

Nothing.

Certainly not conversation, or whatever paltry imitation of love he can scrimmage out of his rotten heart. Fuck you, she thinks. There’s no benefit in saying it aloud, but Lilith lifts her middle finger, pointing it towards the mammoth walls, toward Cerberus and the stupid, banal bureaucracy of death.

The ghost in her head chuckles, low, and Lilith feels the golden chain brush her fingers again though there is no wind here to move it.

A wave of dizziness wash over her – a wild urge to lift the hilt of the sword up to her mouth and kiss the chain, but all she does is stand there in the shadow of her father’s kingdom, aching down to the marrow of her bones.

Then, from behind, from down in the direction of the ferry, she hears the scrape of wood over stone. Here, on the parallel shore of the Styx where nothing moves or walks or breathes but Lilith.

She whirls, sweeping her sword around so that she stands – unsteadily – with her body held sidelong in a narrow target, blade parallel with her raised arm, tip pointed towards whatever foul thing has crawled up out of the river.

Then she freezes, blinks, feels all the moisture in her mouth turn coppery and sour, because it’s not a monster.

It’s a girl.

Shorter than Lilith, with a pair of dark eyes pooled above a grim little mouth. Lilith realises – with a sense of disquiet – that she is beautiful. There’s a dust of freckles sitting like an afterthought on her nose, her cheeks, drawing out the dark shadows beneath her eyes. Her mouth is pulled tight, grimacing, but it hardly upsets the softness of her jaw.

She’s wearing a dark blue shirt over what looks like a thermal base layer. It’s cold down here, though it has never truly bothered Lilith. She’s built for it, or just used to it. Despite the extra protection, there is still a faint tremor sweeping through the girl as she stands, black rock glittering underneath her.

It’s easy to see why.

She is drenched in blood, leaning heavily on a spear made of bronze, decorated with tiny winged shapes. Lilith can’t make out what flying creature it is, but she makes a guess. There is, indeed, an owlishness to the girl as she stands, blinking through the gloom at Lilith, making no move to defend herself as blood spills out from where her palm is pressed into her stomach. Lilith can see the pink glisten of unearthed viscera beneath it, can see that her fingers are pressed inside to the knuckles.

A half-blood, then.

Lilith’s fingers tighten around the hilt of her sword. It’s Stygian iron – a substance that can only be forged in the waters of the Styx, capable of absorbing the essence of monsters, ripping them even out of Tartarus. Monsters and mortals and gods fear it, but the girl only blinks down the curve of the sword as Lilith holds it aloft.

Her voice, when it drifts out of her mouth, rolling into the mist, is clipped and precise and soft. All by itself it makes a crack in Lilith’s resolve.

‘You’re the daughter of Hades?’

It is, Lilith thinks, mostly a statement. In her bruises and her battered black clothes, with the life-eating pall of a Stygian sword in her hand, Lilith looks like the bastard child of death.

The stranger is a hazy shadow, cut to the quick by the perpetual drain of this place; the sewer of the Styx washing by with a sound like a hundred thousand muttering voices.

Blood patters softly onto the stone at her feet, but it scarcely has a chance to pool before the stone swallows it. The girl, hair half-unbound around her shoulders, strands falling down around her face to complicate it with shadows, stares at her own boots for an instant, wobbling. Lilith understands what she is feeling; it took weeks for the rock of this place to feel solid, to stop warbling underneath her with the threat of turning to liquid, to blood, to ink.

Lilith has dreamed of the bottom of hell, and this is not it. This is only the threshold.

‘Who’s asking?’ she growls, taking a careful half-step forward. It’s more of a shuffle, really – a habit born from fencing lessons held deep inside the walls of the Underworld, in a garden full of soft fruits and the promise of spring. The place she learned to fight.

The girl straightens, stiffening under Lilith’s scrutiny. There’s a sort of raw-boned intensity to her, like she’s holding herself very precisely in check. Her fingers, too, have tightened around the haft of her spear.

She’s shaking, blood now flowing down to drip from the tip of her elbow where it’s clamped tight against her body. Lilith wonders what it took for Charon to ferry a dying girl across the river.

The tip of her sword is only a foot from the girl’s throat as it bobs, as she raises her chin to expose the bumpy layers of cartilage sitting in a line; the very slight bulge above her windpipe.

There’s no point in asking who sent her. If she’s a half-blood, there’s only one place she could have crawled from.

Softly, again, the girl speaks. Backlit as she is by the green glow on the shore, she carries the countenance of a ghost. Lilith might mistake her for one, if she didn’t know better.

‘My name is Beatrice,’ she says, in a voice like cold water and warm milk, ‘I am a daughter of Athena.’

There’s blood on her lips, Lilith realises, as they pull into a grimace. They shiver as Beatrice pulls her fingers out of the slit in her stomach, holding them out in wry invitation.

It’s utterly bizarre, but Lilith finds herself lowering her sword, leaving it to sit against the leg of her jeans. Beatrice has proffered her right hand, so Lilith is forced to juggle the sword into her left so that she can reach out, tentative, to wrap her fingers into the sticky, blood-stained cup of Beatrice’s hand.

‘Lilith,’ she says. Somehow, it feels like an admission, like giving something away.

The daughter of Athena smiles. Pink-tinted saliva dribbles down her chin. It’s ghastly, but Lilith finds that she is somewhere on the opposite end of disgusted, wherever that might be.

There are, after all, no destinations along the river Styx but one. Death.

Beatrice squeezes her hand. She takes a ragged breath, her dark eyes heavy-lidded and hazy, boring into Lilith’s. ‘Pleasure,’ she says, a little giddily. ‘I thought I would have to go deeper into hell to find you.’

‘Well, here I am.’

A tightening around her hand, not quite a squeeze. ‘Here you are,’ Beatrice says. She lists forward, catches herself, ‘I’m here-‘

She coughs, and the redness of it floats weirdly in the mist. Beatrice stares, shakes her head like she’s trying to banish a ghost.

Her voice is very faint. ‘We need your help… daughter of Hades.’

Then the daughter of Athena, her skin like dark gold even in the bad light of the Underworld, falls forward. It happens slowly, at first, like she’s just taking a step, but then Lilith sees her knees buckle, watches the spear slip through her fingers.

And without thinking she steps forward, capturing Beatrice’s warm body in her arms.

...

Ten minutes later Lilith crouches next to a limp figure she has propped up against the pitted, high stone wall, feeling like a thief as she unbuttons Beatrice’s blue shirt and peels her black base-layer away from the slice in her lower abdomen.

Her sword is on the ground next to her, at a right angle to her body, the hilt in easy reach. Beatrice’s spear is propped up against the wall. It is, indeed, covered in tiny filigreed owls.

Beatrice does not stir as Lilith raises her hand, ignoring the unhappy shiver of the mist against her back as she draws on the power in her blood, summoning up a sliver of bone from a tiny vial of bone dust she keeps tucked inside her boot. It forms in the air, turning from powder to liquid to solid bone in the span of a moment, before settling down into Lilith’s red-painted palm.

It’s not ideal, but she can hardly wash her hands in the river. It’s full of plastic and rot and blood. Instead, she makes do with the little wadge of bandage and thread she keeps in the pocket of her jacket.

Beatrice continues to breathe as Lilith carefully threads her bone needle. There’s a voice in the back of her head spouting stupid facts about the history of needles and sutures, but Lilith hisses at it to shut up before dipping the sharp end of the bone through Beatrice’s flesh. The thread turns red as it passes in and out, but it’s proper surgical suture, so it also tugs the flesh back towards itself. It makes whole.

Distracted by her work, it takes Lilith too long to notice the change in Beatrice’s breathing. She finishes her row of stitches – they’re thick and lumpy and as elegant as she can make them, but there is no ringing in Lilith’s ears to ordain death, so it must be enough.

At a loss for any other implement, Lilith picks up her sword and carefully cuts the thread, leaving a little curl of it to sit against the taut muscle of Beatrice’s stomach. She has, of course, attempted not to notice the ripple of honed, hard muscle that runs the whole length of what necessity has forced Lilith to unearth; the evidence of a life spent fighting.

She has attempted to ignore it.

When Lilith looks up, sword resting on her knees where she’s crouched, balancing effortlessly on her heels, she finds that Beatrice’s eyes are open. Hazy with pain, but alert underneath it all.

A tentative smile flutters across her lips, ‘You saved my life.’

She dumps the sentence at Lilith’s feet like it means something.

Lilith shrugs, ‘I’m a freak, not a monster.’

The freckled skin on Beatrice’s cheeks wrinkles in tandem with her frown, ‘Wh-‘

‘You said you needed my help?’ Lilith interrupts before the question can come out and make everything awkward.

Beatrice’s stomach is still laid bare, covered in fingerprint marks where Lilith has touched her – in every single place Lilith has touched her.

Mercifully, the daughter of Athena lets her question fall away. Her bronze spear shines off of some strange reflection in the volcanic rock.

‘Yes,’ Beatrice says. There’s some depth to the word that Lilith doesn’t look down into, in the same way she doesn’t peer into the waters of the Styx as the ferry glides over it. Some mysteries are not fit for consumption.

‘Alright.’ Lilith nods, ignoring the way that the gold chain on her sword tightens against her hand, like a warm tongue, ‘Tell me what you need.’

#warrior nun #wn pjo au #sister beatrice #sister lilith #warrior nun fanfic #i'm reading these books again & now it's everyone's problem #gonna call this part 1 #it'll eventually be avatrice & camilith i think but in the meantime have the usual homoerotic bs between bea and lil #ty for the prompt! #casper writes #i'll put this up on ao3 when it's not 2:30am

[daisychainsandbowties]

Chapter 2 of my percy jackson au!

words: 7k

rated: M

read on Ao3

excerpt:

The moment she steps out of the ocean, salt sticking to her skin, Ava feels a prickle of pain travel up the column of her spine. It takes all of her determination to keep walking, trudging up the sandy incline, dodging the shards of seashell that stick up out of the wet sand. They’re beautiful, glimmers of purple and blue and inky black, growth-bands warping the surface into patterns. Calcium carbonate and chitin derived into a dark rainbow, scattered up the beach.

The pain spreads to her legs, erupting in pins and needles, trying to rock her off balance as she stuffs her board up underneath one arm, eyes on the ground as the dizziness hits. The surfboard is slippery, still dripping seawater down her arms and onto her swim trunks, which are patterned in tiny winking flamingos.

She stops, taking deep breaths as the anaesthetic of the ocean fades, willing herself not to pass out again because she’s already been fireman-carried up the beach twice in the past week. Both times by JC, and he’s sweet about it, but there’s only so many times a girl can be scraped off the ground by a cute boy before it turns from romantic to pathetic.

So she stands with the sunlight prickling the back of her neck in her pink bikini top and her flamingo swim trunks, wondering what the sweet fuck is happening to her. Even before that night in the orphanage, she was able to move most of her upper body. Maybe it was all the baths culminating into feeling, or maybe it was just time, but on her nineteenth birthday Ava managed to get herself into her chair before anyone could come in and wake her. She was still figuring out her hands and building up the muscles in her back and her arms, but it was momentum. It was the possibility of living by herself, of leaving.

But then the monster came and everything accelerated and now she’s here and she can breathe underwater, but she can’t sit out on her board forever. She has to come ashore, and when she does she can feel the livid traceries of scar tissue where they performed surgery after surgery on her back.

Sister Frances never laughed when Ava said she felt like a prawn getting de-veined over and over again.

Ava’s not ungrateful. She doesn’t know if it’s some fucked-up form of water-bending or if she’s secretly part-mermaid, but she’s not willing to look too closely at any of it either. It’s a miracle.

But fuck, it still hurts like a bitch when she leaves the ocean after a day of pushing her body hard, and most mornings she has to spend twenty minutes getting out of bed and stretching before she can sprint down to the beach or slap the bottom of JC’s ‘protein shaker’ when he’s drinking out of it.

Behind her, the ocean sighs, tripping over loose seashells. The sound feels amplified, somehow, like it’s calling her home.

She used to dream of it, there in the strange spiral of dust motes that floated in her room at night, washed into visibility by moonlight, streetlight, by the little lamp that sat next to Ava’s bed. It was decorated with little dragonflies, and it was the only faint nod to childhood that Sister Frances left alone. Beyond that the room was barren, a mausoleum more than a place you might expect to find a sleeping child.

It was a space of tiled whites and the grey of the nuns fluttering by, of the heat trickling in through the cracked windowpanes. Ava and her perpetually dry mouth, alone while the other children lay on the grass outside with juice boxes, their voices reaching her like stray birds, or stones.

So, at night, Ava shut her eyes long before they felt tired, opening them every now and then to watch a spider draw a web in the far corner of the room or to listen to a siren as it grew fainter and fainter, trying not to think of the last time she saw her mother and how the air then had been full of sirens too. Getting closer – the Doppler effect drowning them both in waves of sound where they lay in the weird shimmer of broken glass under the one working headlight of the car.

Both of them strewn onto the road because Ava forgot to put her seatbelt on, and her mother - with a sharp click not unlike the internal sound of breaking bone – undid her belt to reach into the backseat for Ava’s.

Her face, body curved to reach Ava in the backseat. The light in her eyes as she said, ‘Eu tenho você.’  

Then the road and the blood-draped shape of her, white light cutting over her shoulders and making her seem larger than life, though Ava imagines they must have looked small together, out on the asphalt waiting for sirens.

Deftly, sometimes, Ava managed to drift past the sound of her mother’s voice or the phantom feeling of glass cutting through her, hitting to road to find the pain had gone missing. She thought of other things while the world revolved, but not around her.

The lamp cast large dragonfly shapes onto the walls, stretching the wings wide and the long bodies longer.

Her dreams were always blue.

Not the plain, pastel blue of the blanket the social worker put over her legs before she left, passing the shape of Frances in the doorway. Not the too-brilliant blue of the sky, glimpsed through the old windows in her bedroom.

This blue was different. Deeper, and richer, and hungry. It was a blue that turned to black, turned inky and reflected back the night sky. A colour that sat up on the surface and caught sunlight, dragging it down beneath into wavy lines of white surrounded by slats of cerulean.

It was water, absorbing all wavelengths and leaving the blue alone, complicated and occasionally greenish, occasionally lightless. Kicked up into the storms or smoothed into glassy stillness.

Ava dreamed of bright coral a handspan under the surface, the light refracted sideways, sitting on the scales of tiny moving bodies. She dreamed of white foam, of cool dark depths and the bioluminescence that lurks down very deep, where creatures must make their own light.

The water gathered her, and held her, and she felt – somehow – that it wanted to keep her.

But she always woke up. A fish on a hook drawn by the noise of the orphanage waking around her, of someone rushing into her room to say good morning before Frances could get her slippers on. The cool weight of a palm on her forehead and a promise to listen in geography class today, ‘I know you like that bullshit.’

Ava half-asleep saying, ‘I do, I do,’ but only in time to watch the last flash of backpack disappear through her bedroom door.

cont.

#warrior nun #avatrice #camilith #wn fanfic #wn pjo au #casper writes #in which ava is incredibly bisexual and camila is Like That #ava silva #sister camila

[daisychainsandbowties]

Chapters: 1/? Rating: Mature Words: 7.5K

prequel to my percy jackson au

///

“How did you find me?” she calls, her voice wispy – thinned out from crying and from the fact that she doesn’t want to be using it at all. But her hands are otherwise occupied.

You can tell anyway that if not for you she would be silent. She has a way to talk without her mouth – with her hands and their motions. Of all the languages you know it is the one you feel most fluent standing inside.

But she speaks, and that is brave of her. You hate that she does it for you, to ask something as simple as a questions she already knows the answer to.

(how did I find you? of course I found you.)

#and like. if i told you this is 100% canon #warrior nun #wn pjo au #listen because i was weak this is bealil #beatrice x lilith #this is... weird and silly but i had a good time #title is from. guess. ocean vuong #second person and me are kissing again isn't it wonderful

[daisychainsandbowties]

Also please tell me Lilith reanimates the animals that the children of Apollo kill just to annoy them...

oh she is fully out there sending blood-drenched undead deer into the apollo cabin in the middle of the night

and then of course she’s crouched on the roof of the hades cabin watching with a smirk as shouts erupt inside when a hoodie-clad camila steps out with blood on her face from giving the dead deer a hug, her hands glowing with healing energies.

the stricken look on her face when she understands that there’s nothing to heal. just a spirit cupped inside a body for one more night.

lilith watching as camila plays tag with the deer, her laughter ringing bright toward the stars, as she washes the blood off of it, steals strawberries from the fields. sings a lullaby.

she falls asleep next to the deer just as dawn is breaking open the sky. lilith feels the spirit leave again - peacefully; unlatching from its body and racing back into lilith’s hands to be held for a moment and then released. let go.

camila stirs as the other apollo kids give her a wide berth, a raised eyebrow. silhouette of beatrice in the doorway of her cabin, finding lilith’s shape unerringly. picking camila up and half-carrying her to breakfast as two of the oldest apollo kids pick up the deer’s corpse to carry it back to a final resting place.

lilith hopping down, staring at her own hands still caked in blood and wondering at a girl who gives burial rites to dead deer. because she did, she did. washing it clean, kissing it goodnight, lending her warmth to make a less violent end of a short-lived life.

lilith wonders what it would be like to stand captured in that glow, to be loved as easily or as much as that.

#wn pjo au #camilith #warrior nun #anon #sad about them now

[daisychainsandbowties]

I wish to convey my unhinged love of child of Hades Lilith... this is communicated best by biting you? I am biting you. I bite you till I draw blood then I bite you some more, such is my love of Lilith.

child of hades lilith was possibly my best idea ever (along with giving her a red lightsaber) she’s just perfect she’s out there dressed all in black she’s got her sunglasses and a snake ate her phone and she’s ready to lay down and die for anyone who gives her one scrap of affection.

she’s living in a lean-to outside her dad’s house (hell) she’s got a sword that can eat monsters. she can commune with spirits but it’s gross and she has a gameboy advanced demigod version with her precious charizard and the dragonair she refuses to evolve like she’s so cringefail wet with ichor and polluted death-river water i’m obsessed with her

oh and let’s not forget that her best friend in the world is a three-headed dog who can eat the souls of the dead (lilith feeds him honey cakes)

#she’s MY lame-ass boyfriend you know? 🥺🥺🥹 #wn pjo au #demigod!lilith #anon #glad you like it. i cast spell of one million kisses

[daisychainsandbowties]

i love that the urge to write the pjo au again has come back to me as a vision of camila wiping blood off ava’s face with a handful of mcdonalds napkins. i mean like yeah what is this fic about if not blood and mcdonalds?

#pjo au is just blood. ‘is this gay??’ (about everything). mcdonalds fries are healing actually. and then of course #my two idiots still stuck staring at each other in lilith’s girlfailure lean-to against the walls of erebos #genuinely there’s no experience quite like a girl shoving you into a mcdonalds toilet cubicle and stemming the flow of blood with a wadge of #tissues <- says the guy who used to get murder scene-level nosebleeds every day #wn pjo au #‘is this… the will to write?’ i say staring anxiously at it from afar

[daisychainsandbowties]

Confession: I have never read any Percy Jackson anything. I have no idea what the rules are, and I don’t care I just want more Hades’ daughter Lilith and Athena’s daughter Beatrice

oh i love love love writing Lilith as a daughter of Hades and Bea as a child of Athena. the parallels of Lilith belonging to death, the fact that she is a girl full of ghosts with a certain monstrous aspect, but also despite her best efforts she’s so so incredibly kind (everyone say thank you mary and shannon).

she probably definitely plays fetch with Cerberus when she’s in her cringe hell-hovel marinating after a month of deeply self-loathing heroism up on the surface.

and then Bea as a child of Athena 🥺 in the books a notable child of Athena has a yankees baseball cap that lets her turn invisible. smth smth beatrice making herself unseen and then stepping into ava’s light. and Athena is all cold rationality and strategy but in the books there’s a certain unhingedness to her children as well and it’s 😌 so extremely beatrice. she has weird girlfriend vibes the whole way to the ceiling.

also you are really not alone in not knowing all the rules lmao. it’s been at least a decade since i read the percy jackson books. but when i get things wrong i, like a proper adult, pretend that i was actually being really clever

example i forgot that demigods can’t have electronics (admittedly, chapter 1 was written at 2am over an entire pot of coffee with more love than sense) because it attracts monsters but i gave lilith a phone literally to make a joke about a snake eating it. did i own this mistake and edit the fic? no. 😌

i just decided i was right the whole time actually because lilith is suuuuuch a weirdo freak she would have phone specifically to attract monsters, on purpose, to feed her specific brand of haunted by the narrative/ ‘oops i self-inflicted the horrors. will be doing it again.’

#i love writing the percy jackson au so much 🥺 #tacit permission to be gay about greek myth on main #like i don’t need permission but it’s nice to have permission #am SO glad that you sre having a good time anon it makes it all worthwhile to me 🥹 #wn pjo au

[daisychainsandbowties]

the saga of me writing a single chapter of a fic and more than doubling the overall wordcount of the fic continues

#wn pjo au #bea & lilith have gone from ‘can’t get these fuckers to talk to each other’ in swau to #‘won’t shut up’ in pjo au #it’s almost done but GOD #cas talk

[daisychainsandbowties]

9, 17, 22 (fav wn character to write), 38, 42, 50

9. how do you find new fic to read?

i used to actually just browse the tag every day on ao3 but now that i write probably 80% of the time i only have a few authors i read and then i find stuff on here or i’m forever happy to have people send me stuff.

mostly i don’t have to try find fic anymore because i have so many talented mutuals on here i’m constantly being fed 🥰🥰

17. what highly specific au do you want to read or write even though you might be the only person to appreciate it?

fjdjsjdjdj well earlier this evening it was my 17776 au, especially the way i’m writing it which is riffing off of This Is How You Lose The Time War in terms of style and approach. ava and bea as deep space probes is like… an out-there concept. i definitely thought i would be the only person interested in it.

aside from that… i have another space au based on the “Swarm” episode of Love, Death & Robots (also would kind of like to do one based on “the very pulse of the machine” AND “bad travelling”. the concepts from that series are kiss forever and ever) i feel like that’s pretty solidly niche, but honestly the people in this fandom are so good about weird concepts so,,,

22. who is your fav wn character to write?

ava. hands down. this surprises me sometimes but GOD. she’s so gorgeous to write and i always have the best time writing ava chapters. especially in star wars au and pjo au and chess au and- nevermind. in everything she’s my favourite to write. my first ever fic (oranges are the only fruit) was ava pov. i just adore her.

this might sound weird because i love lilith and bea so much (and i do i do i do) but they’re… like bleeding to write whereas ava is just,,, she’s light

38. did any of your fics get surprisingly popular? which ones? why do you think they are so successful?

i don’t think any of my fics are very popular by most standards. my style isn’t conducive to it but i didn’t think anyone would read chess au, so that was surprising. no idea why i guess chess is just really sexy and makes me weird and insane. and also it’s ava pov.

42. have you ever received a comment that particularly stood out to you for some reason?

YEAH. kei’s first comment on ligaments made me cry intermittently for three days straight. i have it saved as a pdf and as a picture on my phone. i just couldn’t believe someone had understood my intentions so well and been nice to me like,,, am forever and ever grateful for that comment

but any thoughtful comment does stand out to me, or ones where people say “i read this eating cheerios in bed” or “i saved this for friday as a treat” idk there’s something that just… makes me so emotional about how my fic fits into peoples’ lives. it’s why i write at all

50. answer any question you want or talk about something

oh. well today i was reading about Kēlen, a constructed language that sets out to violate one of the universal features or linguistic rules of human languages - namely that all human languages contain verbs.

it’s worth reading about i won’t explain it all here but i thought that was pretty interesting.

oh i can’t help myself here’s the ring verse from lotr in kēlen

the original for reference

#ask meme #these were GREAT questions thank youuu #someone talk to me about constructed languages i need to eat them

[daisychainsandbowties]

i was tagged by @gohandinhand and @thelastwarriornun. ty guys it’s so so brave to tag people 🥺🫡

favourite colour: i love yellow and i mean pikachu yellow mostly because that little guy was my everything growing up. i remember i had a pika plush and my parents still talk about “the tail incident” when his tail fell off and they had to sew it back on in front of me while i cried. i still have him but he’s kind of gross (affectionate)

currently reading: the poetics of space by gaston bachelard as my academic book of the week (it’s making me insane). then for casual reading i’m slurping down Promise of Blood (caspercore i know) by brian mcclellan and also Network Effect by Martha Wells.

last song: little bird by the weepies (wolfwren song of all time, to me)

last series: star wars rebels season 2 (and no i definitely wasn’t absolutely 😭 at the end of it. i’m too brave and strong for that)

last movie: i rewatched alien again recently. i’m not good at movies they’re chores to me. i prefer longform stories (as much as i respect the crafting of one-breath narratives 🫡)

sweet/savoury/spicy: i should say spicy but actually i love sweet things. mostly those sugar-coated marshmallows you get in Aldi but also the sweet you get from monster drinks. that mind-numbingly artificial taste does it for me 😌 i love hot sauces though but usually ones like sriracha that are mostly just sweet anyway. savoury food isn’t my ballpark i hate crisps and and chips and my ancestors are horrified at my indifference to all potatos. most savoury food i have to make sweet or spicy before i care about it. sad sad sad

currently working on: chapter 3 of my wolfwren fic. i know i posted chapter 2 yesterday but i have 5k of the next chapter written already.m 🫠🫠 on account of getting to stay awake forever and ever.

also my wn star wars au!! need to get my brain back into it but it’s the mental equivalent of rolling around in lava (enrichingly) and also feeling the urge to start on the pjo au again. and chess au. aaaand i have too many things i’m working on.

tagging @gowalkyourself @blueskies-keepraining @goldrushgold @brat-the-wurst and @knightsofrayx no pressure and i know this has been bouncing around for a few days so maybe you already did it 🥰

#tag thing