So, I have a fic. A pjo & batman crossover. I thought about making a Tumblr and said why the hell not. So here it is:
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Description:
After an accident, Percy is left in the streets of Gotham alone, with no way to contact or go back to Camp.
He's determined to handle this just like he's handled every other crisis in his life, but a certain group of vigilantes make that rather hard for him.
Currently, there are five oneshots:
1. I Guess There's Gotta be a Break in the Monotony (But Jesus When it Rains it Pours)
2. Skin has gotten thicker but it burns the same
3. No one seems to notice when you're down (Unless you are bleeding)
4. Dry and Drowning
5. Cassandra, what do you see?
6. Weak Link
Timeline wise, on the PJO side of things we're between SoM and TTC, and on the Batman side of things, while can't give you a solid timeline (because canon timelines give me a headache) , I can say that Tim is Robin and Jason is Red Hood and no one knows Damian exists. So. Yeah.
Relationships: Chrion & Grover Underwood; Percy Jackson & Grover Underwood; Percy Jackson & Cassandra Cain
Additional Tags: Panic Attacks; Dissociation; Percy Jackson Needs a Hug; Weird Gotham City; there are other characters but i only tagged those with dailouge and cass; yeah this is getting tagged tomorrow im too tired for this bs; Mental Link; Missing Persons
Description:
And then, through the haze of panic and breathlessness, something breaks through. A wave of alarm-worry-concern washes through him, and the feelings are distinctly not his.
Grover.
-
When Grover feels Percy's distress through the empathy link, he does the only thing he can- he sends comfort.
Don’t mind me…I’m just thinking about how spiders are naturally talented and skilled weavers and they know how to weave their webs and even make functional, stylish homes and nests and whatnot.
So maybe that’s why Spider-Man knows how to sew his suits. He inherited that trait from the spider and just instinctively know how to weave his suits. Maybe. That’s my explanation for it.
Aunt May: You're buying an awful lot of yarn lately. Are you making something?
Peter, who after getting bit by a spider has felt an inescapable need to knit and now his room is covered head to toe in yarn: Nope. It's just new hobby.
yknow what. i complained a lot about how it was unrealistic to suddenly know how to put together stretch knits and a perfectly fitting, absolute banger of a suit, but this is an explanation i’ll gladly accept
If I ever happen to make a Spider-Man fic, I will be sure to mention this, even if it's in passing. Best headcanon ever. Peter just has a corner in his room full of all kinds or knitting projects.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Characters: Danny Fenton; Sam Manson; Tucker Foley; Casper High Students
Relationships: Danny Fenton & Tucker Foley & Sam Manson; Danny Fenton & Tucker Foley; Danny Fenton & Sam Manson; Tucker Foley & Sam Manson
Additional Tags: Creepy Danny Fenton, Eldritch Danny Fenton, well sort of, rated t for all that death stuff, POV Sam Manson, POV Tucker Foley, POV Outsider, Graphic Description of Injury
Summary:
And that was the other thing. Danny had died. They didn't talk about it, but they knew. Danny had entered that portal alive, and he had come out something else.
He'd come out with white hair and green eyes and ever since he had been in what Sam thought to be a sort of limbo, because Danny had died and then came back to life fundamentally different.
They knew, but they didn't talk about it.
-
A boy dies and comes back, but Death isn't so willing to let him go. This doesn't go unnoticed.
Bad Things Happen Bingo:
Came Back Wrong
Ever since the accident, Danny's been weird.
Of course, Sam knows that the phasing and invisibility and flying are not normal, but that's not what she means.
No, she means the complete silence of his footsteps, the way he sometimes just stops breathing. She means his eyes that sometimes glow green and the chill that follows him everywhere.
God, those eyes.
The green, so unnatural it should never be near any human. The way it overpowers the blue of his iris, the pupil and the sclera, until they're just pools of strange, abnormal green.
He'd gotten angry, once, more than usual. His eyes had become pits of emerald, and his hair had started floating, the colour slowly bleeding out until it was a glowing ethereal white.
And a part of Sam had recoiled, even as she grabbed his hand to calm him down. A part of her wanted to hide, even as Tucker came in with some snacks and passed one to Danny as if everything was normal. But Sam could see the tightness of his shoulders, the strain in his smile.
It wasn't fair, Sam knew it. Danny was still their friend, no matter how Other he was now. He was still their friend, despite the aura of death he occasionally radiated.
And that was the other thing. Danny had died. They didn't talk about it, but they knew. Danny had entered that portal alive, and he had come out something else.
He'd come out with white hair and green eyes and ever since he had been in what Sam thought to be a sort of limbo, because Danny had died and then came back to life fundamentally different.
They knew, but they didn't talk about it.
—
Tucker and Danny had been friends for as long as they could remember.
(But that wasn't really true now, not really, because one day Danny had woken up and told them he remembered seeing the creation of the sun and its whole life until its inevitable supernova. Danny had seemed disturbed but amazed, and Tucker had just known he was telling the truth.)
Tucker and Danny had been friends for as long as Tucker could remember.
It was a simple fact of the universe. Grass is green, the sky is blue, and Danny and Tucker are friends.
They would do everything together, from playing video games to giving the other the cold because they would not stay apart. They played in the playground when they were little, tried new food that got added to Nasty Burger's menu, played new video games, or just stood in silence doing nothing because even that was a good time.
In short, they did everything together.
Or they used to, until Danny walked into the portal and came out a living, breathing walking contradiction.
Died , Tucker's brain said. Danny died.
They'd heard his scream, down in the basement, the moment the green portal had turned on. They'd heard as it rose and rose in volume before tapering off, and then as it started again. They'd frozen on the spot, staring with horror at the portal. They'd stared as slowly, Danny crawled out, now wearing a differently coloured hazmat suit. They'd watched, frozen, as he crawled out with green eyes and floating white hair.
And then Danny collapsed, unmoving, and whatever had been keeping them frozen to the spot broke like a spell.
They'd rushed to him, tried to wake him up, but he wouldn't even twitch. He just laid there, limp and unmoving, and Tucker had feared the worst.
And then, with a jolt and a gasp, Danny had shot up, eyes blazing.
Ever since then, everything has been different.
Now, Danny can transform from a human to a ghost at will. Now, Danny fights ghosts who come through to destroy, and they help him. Now, Tucker has to watch as his best friend is thrown into walls and shot at by his own parents . Now, Tucker and Sam patch him up and pretend the blood is red instead of green. They had to learn about all kinds of wounds, learn how to do stitches with the help of the internet and any books they could get their hands on.
Now, Tucker and Sam have seen more bleeding, gaping wounds than they have ever wanted to.
If Danny didn't have insane self-healing, he would have been fully dead by now, because no human could survive a hole in their ribcage like Danny had.
(It had been horrific, hearing the bones creak and shift as they went back into place, seeing the skin slowly grow back to cover the hole that was too big for them to stitch back together. They had sat and flinched at every pop of bone as Danny bled green all over Sam's bathtub.)
But no matter how much had changed, Danny was still their friend. They still played Doom together, Tucker and him still got each other sick, and if Tucker had to stitch him back together every other day to keep him some semblance of alive?
Then he would do it, as many times as he needed to.
—
There is something wrong with Danny Fenton.
That's something Casper High seems to agree on. The kid is just plain creepy.
He'd been just some weirdo, last year, a weird kid from a weirder family, but that had been it.
Now, though…
Since the second month of the school year, Danny Fenton had been the talk of the student body.
It all started with Rachel Brown, who had been paired with him for that chemistry class.
"I swear, he didn't let go of that beaker when it fell," she whispered to her friend.
"Come on, Rachel," Star laughed. "It couldn't have fallen if he was still holding it."
"Yeah, but you weren't there! I saw it , clear as day! It just… slipped through his hand. He didn't even loosen his grip!"
Star had laughed and brushed it off, but gossip was gossip and soon enough most of the students knew about the Fenton kid and the beaker that slipped right through his hand.
Usually, this kind of gossip, small and unimportant, would have died within two days. It would've, if it weren't for Danny Fenton's continued accidents with beakers.
He never dropped a beaker once last year, a student who shared chemistry class with the Fenton kid in middle school said.
He was super careful, knew exactly how to handle the equipment, another shared.
Still, Danny Fenton's mysterious new clumsiness could only be interesting for so long. So, the rumours died down again, and no one thought about him.
Until, that is, the school had a blackout a couple days later.
Because after the blackout, every student in Mr. Lancer's freshman English class was convinced that, for just a moment, Danny Fenton's eyes had glowed green.
And this wasn't a rumour started by just one girl. This time, not only was the whole class convinced, some of those students were a couple of the most popular kids in the school.
The only people who denied this occurrence were Tucker Foley and Sam Manson. Fenton's best friends.
They're hiding something , a girl whispered to her cousin.
Just his best friends, huh? Definitely covering up something, a boy muttered to his friend in the changing rooms.
Aren’t his parents mad scientists or something? Star asked Paulina, and suddenly the rumours became even bigger.
Tests, experiments, accidents, chemicals, the words floated through the halls, assumptions upon assumptions, trying to dig up a story with minimal knowledge.
The rumours grew and grew, snaking their way through the building, taking root in the windows and tiles. They grew with every strange thing that happened around Danny Fenton. They grew with his excessive requests to go to the bathroom, with every nap he took in class, with every time he would, for just a second, flicker out of everyone’s eyesight. It was weird, creepy, and the only interesting thing happening in this school. Danny Fenton was the mystery that kept on giving, and Casper High’s student body was perfectly willing to speculate on it.
And then-
And then, everybody found out that ghosts were real, and the Fenton parents maybe weren't so crazy after all.
—
Have you noticed? A girl asked her friends.
Fenton always excuses himself right before a ghost attack, a freshman shared with the higher classes.
People talk and talk and talk. They whisper and the whispers sprout in the hallways, they gossip and the gossip spreads like wildfire, they assume and assumptions take root in their minds.
They talk and talk and talk until-
Do you remember when-
he would sometimes disappear for just a moment-
his eyes would glow green-
things would slip through his fingers-
just-
like-
a ghost.
—
The ghost boy, with white hair and green eyes, is named Phantom.
The ghost boy, a lanky teenager in a hazmat suit, is called Phantom.
Do you see it? Someone asks
His name, his appearance, someone points out
How has no one else realised it yet?
The Fenton boy leaves, and Phantom comes. The Fenton boy is constantly tired, and Phantom is often seen fighting off ghosts at night. Fenton and Phantom, messy hair and lanky limbs and green, green, eyes.
Rumours bloom around the school, about soundless footsteps and a flickering appearance. Guesses about what and how and why became saplings in door frames and lockers.
But, though the student body of Casper High is always eager to speculate, they see Phantom flee from the Fenton parents, they see Phantom resist capture from the GIW, and they let this knowledge stay in gossip, their realisations hidden in the whispers that float through their halls.
And when they walk past an alleyway, only to see a flash of light and Danny Fenton stumble out? Then that will be just another whisper to join the ones in the walls.
Hey folks. If you're wondering where I've been, the answer is that I was mostly just dealing with a case of burnout and general lack of motivation.
However, I have managed to finish a Danny Phantom fic that has been posted to my ao3, and that I will also post here in a bit. It's my first Bad Things Happen Bingo fic, so that's cool.
For all my Demigod in Gotham readers, I think I've got a decent plan for the second half of the next installment that I'm now starting to work on again. It might take a bit, but I'm making progress.
Just a quick (aka hour long) sketch. I kinda want to make this a watercolour painting (the paper can handle it) but I also don't want to potentially ruin what I have.
In other news, I now have GF oneshot in my docs. I think it will turn out nice, but it just began, so we'll see.
To everyone awaiting the next TATDG (The Trials and Tribulations of a Demigod in Gotham) installment, I'm working on it. It's just burnout from only writing in those fandoms for a while, I think, which is a big part in why I'm enjoying writing the GF fic so much.
people seem to forget how smart Percy is. he's not book smart, but then, that's not the kind of smart he has to be, that's not the kind of smart his survival depends on.
Percy is an insanely good strategist. we don't often pick up on it, because he's placed himself right next to the smartest strategist at Camp, but he's a veritable chess master. book one, at twelve years old, we see him manipulate Procrustes to fall for his own trap in minutes. book two, he manipulates Luke into confessing his entire evil plan in front of the whole Camp, instantly clearing Chiron's name and revealing that hey there's a storm coming. we see that trend continuing all the way up until House of Hades, where Annabeth herself has to take a step back and reevaluate how she sees him.
Percy can be oblivious, certainly, but any time he acts downright dumb, he's doing so to make his opponent underestimate him or annoy them. he's loud, and brash, and speaks before he thinks, and honestly his sarcasm may get him killed one day, but all of that meshes together into a facade that he's happy to hide behind so that no one knows how smart he really is.
Tags: Hurt No Comfort; Nightmares; Blood and Injury; a lot of blood in the nightmares; Whumptober 2022; brief bout of; Dissociation; Background Character Death; No beta we die like the random dude in this fic
Summary:
It felt like everything was moving in slow motion. The knife sinking and twisting in flesh. The blood seeping out and on his hands. The knife coming out.
If his brain hadn't been consumed by some kind of fog, Percy is sure he'd have heard the man's scream as he fell to his knees.
-
When Percy, tired and hazy, is pulled into an alley, he reacts on noting but pure instinct. Unfortunately for him and his attacker, his instincts are to kill or risk the possibility of death.
Whumptober Day 7
The Way You Shake and Shiver
|Shaking Hands|
Fic under the cut
It happened so fast.
One moment, he'd been walking back to his apartment, the next, he was being pulled in an alley and pinned against a wall by his shoulders.
He'd reacted purely on instinct. Only, instead of pulling out Riptide, he pulled out his knife and stabbed.
Percy had never fatally wounded a mortal before.
Monsters, sure, he'd killed many of them. Every demigod had killed at least one. And he'd fought against demigods too, both sparring on friendly terms and facing an enemy in a life or death situation.
But whenever he'd fought with mortals, he'd always made sure to never land a killing blow, no matter how much he had to restrain himself.
He'd been taught how to fight to kill, and now his instincts had won over.
It felt like everything was moving in slow motion. The knife sinking and twisting in flesh. The blood seeping out and on his hands. The knife coming out.
If his brain hadn't been consumed by some kind of fog, Percy is sure he'd have heard the man's scream as he fell to his knees.
He should, he should do something. He should put pressure on the wound like Ashley taught him. He should get someone to call 911.
He shouldn't be standing there, with bloodied knife and bloodied hand, doing nothing.
He thinks his hands are shaking. He thinks his whole body is trembling.
Percy isn't sure how long he stands there, before his knees give out. He’s not sure how long he sits there, before the fog in his brain recedes a little, just enough for him to realise that he should get out of there, ASAP.
So, getting up on shaking legs, still feeling hazy and disoriented, knife clutched in his hand, he books it out of there.
—
Percy sat in his bed, staring at his hands.
They hadn’t stopped shaking. The blood was no longer warm and sticky. Instead, it was a dark brown, crusty and flaky. His sleeves were tacky with it.
“I just killed a mortal,” he muttered. “Oh Gods, I just killed a mortal.”
It was self defence, a part of him said.
Percy doesn’t think that’s ever going to make it right.
—
The blood seeps out of the wound, even long after the body has stopped breathing. It comes and comes and comes and Percy's shoes are drenched with it.
The blood gets higher and higher and it’s dark and cramped and it’s already past his chest.
The blood closes over his face, and he’s drowning.
He shouldn’t be able to drown yet here he is and he can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, he can’t breathe-
He can’t breathe and he can’t move and he’s going to die in the blood of-
Percy wakes up with a gasp, his whole body shivering. He sits on the bed and doesn’t dare lie down for the rest of the night.
—
Percy punches the man in the stomach and high tails it out of there before the guy can regain his bearings.
He feels the knife shift at his side, where it’s strapped by his belt.
He has yet to use it in a fight against a mortal. He doesn’t think he could fight a human with a knife again. Not after that night.
He stumbles into his apartment, closing the window behind him, and does his best to choke down some canned spinach he managed to steal a couple days ago.
The tiredness and haziness have become new parts of his routine, especially with the sleeplessness he experiences more often than not these days.
He lies down on his bed, and does his best to fall into a restless sleep.
Instead, he stares all night at his ceiling, and the next day, his hands won’t stop shaking from exhaustion.
—
The days blend into each other. One day becomes three and three days become a week and a week becomes three, and soon enough Percy has no idea how long it’s been since he got stranded on the streets.
And somewhere in there, he managed to accidentally kill a man.
He thinks his mom would be disappointed. Not angry, especially if she knew the details. And, maybe, just maybe, she’d be understanding too.
Percy isn’t sure what Chiron would think. No hero should harm mortals, he’d said. But he’d also said unless absolutely necessary. That was necessary, wasn’t it?
(Percy knows, he knows, he could have gotten out of it like he usually did, had he not been so out of it. Had he not reacted on anything other than pure instinct.)
He knows that Annabeth and Grover would never hold it against him. Maybe they’d be shocked or upset or something, but not angry. They wouldn’t hate him and push him away, not when a demigod’s survival relied on knowing how to take out your opponent, lest they end you first.
They would know what drove him in the moment was nothing but instinct, reflexes, and the knowledge that kill or be killed is how his life worked.
(Still, there’s a part of him that’s terrified they’ll despise him if they find out. That they might think him a monster and leave him behind.)
Percy loves his mother, he loves his mentor, and he loves his friends. One of them is already gone, and he doesn’t want to lose anyone else. He doesn’t know if he could handle losing someone else.
He thinks he might not be able to.
—
A man, tall and broad, wearing a red helmet, walks in an alley not that different from most in Gotham.
He crouches next to a lifeless body, surrounded by blood. There’s a knife wound in its stomach, but no weapon in sight.
The blood starts spreading more and more and out of the red, two flowers, a calathea and a spider lily, bloom.
Percy wakes from the dream, and he can’t remember the last time he didn’t wake up tense and gasping, the last time he woke up from a nightmare and his hands weren’t shaking like a leaf.
He has a distinct feeling that this time, it was more than just a nightmare.
-----------------
Artemis here! Some author’s notes:
Spider Lily
The Flower Meanings
Spider lilies are associated with death since they were planted near the graves of people, and some consider it to be linked to bad luck, disaster, the afterlife, and hell.
Calathea
The Calathea symbolizes a new beginning. That meaning is derived from the expression 'to turn over a new leaf', which is what the plant does when it gets dark.
I headcanon that demigod dreams have a lot of omens, usually in the form of flowers or animals, or both. So, you'll be seeing that every now and again.
And if you're wondering who the briefly mentioned Ashley is, that's the name i randomly came up with for the Head of Infirmary before Will.
Someone: I like your fic
Me, putting my hands in the Wonder Girl sized plot hole: Thanks, it has pockets!
Confession time: I just changed what the next part will be about so now I'll have to write a whole oneshot from the start so I'm sorry about that but honestly I think this is better for the next part.
As an offering, I give you the title in progress: Weak Link.
Keep in mind that I literally just came up with the idea (like, 30 minutes ago, so the title may change)
I have currently written only 381 words of Weak Link. It will grow into a beautiful oneshot.
Also, I might start posting snippets. We'll see about that.
I had a whole character analysis or smth like that I wanted to write last night but I was dead tired so I was just planning it out and I was thinking it was really good but now I've completely forgotten who and what it was about. There are no survivors, just the decimated war zone to hint that there used to be an idea there.
On other news, I've had my Bad Things Happen Bingo card for a few weeks now and I just started on one of the prompts! I'm writing this one for Danny Phantom.
I swear, I'm working on the next PJOxBatman installment, I'm just not used to writing so much dialogue and character interactions.
Tags: Hurt no Comfort; Homelessnes; Canon-Typical Violence; Percy Jackson is Not Okay
Summary:
Percy was good at fighting. It was possibly the only thing he excelled at. He learned how to protect himself, and how to kill his opponent. Even using an unbalanced sword, he fought like a demon, like there was nothing else in the world.
He's fought and fought and fought for what's been a few months longer than a year but feels like an eternity, because the only thing his own survival is second to is protecting his friends, his family. He would do anything to keep them safe.
He thinks maybe that's why people believe him to be so dangerous.
—
After losing his mom, Percy doesn’t have anywhere else to turn to but the streets of Gotham, New Jersey. He’s determined to handle homelessness just as well as he has handled every other crisis in his life, and he's doing good.
At least, that's what he tells himself.
Fic under the cut
At Camp, they learn how to fight, how to use any weapon of their choosing. Few of them only use one weapon, and the ones that do are scarily efficient in hand to hand combat.
They learn how to shoot arrows and how to handle a sword. They learn how to swing spears and how to throw javelins. They master using knives and all different kinds of weaponless combat.
They learn how to use their weapons in any kind of situation. They learn how to fight with loose rules and dirty tricks thrown in every movement.
They learn to use their powers in any way that assists them, learn how to make weapons out of their gifts. The Demeter children create vines full of thorns, sharp as knives, while Aphrodite kids use sweet smiles and sweeter voices to manipulate anyone foolish enough to listen.
And when they learn to fight, they learn how to survive. They learn how to make every movement count, how to make every attack as deadly as possible. They learn the best ways to get rid of any monster, from harpies and hellhounds to the ones hiding behind mortal bodies, the wolves in sheep's clothing.
The Aphrodite cabin, the masters of emotion, teach them how to smile and laugh in the face of danger. Teach how to make their opponent think they're oblivious to the risk, how to make the one they're fighting against underestimate them before striking, hard and fast and, most importantly, lethal.
The Hermes cabin teaches them how to be quick and subtle, how to steal and leave no evidence behind. They teach how to trick others, pull their attention elsewhere while you take what you need from their possession. They teach how to lie, how to convince someone you're telling the truth through simple words and body language.
Percy was good at fighting. It was possibly the only thing he excelled at. He learned how to protect himself, and how to kill his opponent. Even using an unbalanced sword, he fought like a demon, like there was nothing else in the world.
He fought his way through school after school after school, maybe not physically all the time, but if someone hurt him or his friends he would not sit and take it.
He fought before and after being claimed, when Luke pushed him to his limits, tearing at dummies and fighting other campers. Learning how to mix both techniques and dirty tricks in his fighting and ignoring the whispers of 'dangerous' that followed him after being claimed.
The first time he realizes that his learning curve isn't normal is when Chiron sees him pointing his unbalanced sword at the throat of an Ares child two years older than him after a sparring match, sees all the progress Percy has made in less than two weeks, takes Luke to the side, and Percy decides to eavesdrop.
(He thinks that's the first time he's been called 'extremely good, a prodigy even' at anything.)
He fought on his first quest, because if fighting meant he would win, if fighting meant seeing his mom again, getting her back, then that's what he would do.
He's fought and fought and fought for what's been a few months longer than a year but feels like an eternity, because the only thing his own survival is second to is protecting his friends, his family. He would do anything to keep them safe.
He thinks maybe that's why people believe him to be so dangerous.
But there's no one to protect, now, besides himself. Grover is off to another mission as a protector and all his other friends are either at Camp or with their families.
His mom is gone, and he tries not to break down at every thought of her.
Now, as a street kid, alone and without anyone by his side, Percy for the first time has to show control when he fights.
(He first realized there were few limits at Camp when Nicole, from the Athena cabin, stabbed Andrew, his at the time unclaimed cabin mate, in his side during a spar. Nicole was declared the winner as a healer rushed forward to heal the wound, like routine. Travis just patted him sympathetically on the back when he noticed Percy's shocked face.)
He can't just stab someone and leave them to die because they're trying to kill him, the way he would do with monsters.
He would do it if he had no other choice, if it was him or them, but he doesn't think he could handle killing someone. Not to mention that doing so would also put him in the radar of the local vigilantes.
Being noticed by the vigilantes would probably mean being put in the foster system.
Percy has heard the horror stories of Gotham's foster system from other children. He has an idea of what it's like.
Being put in the foster system would likely mean having to live with another Gabe.
And that. That's about the last thing he wants.
—
It was much easier, the first few days, when he was still relatively healthy and the lack of food and water hadn't gotten to him yet.
It's been two weeks. Percy has been staying in some condemned building that no one bothered to actually take down. The security around it is pitiful, too.
He gets hit more now, whenever he stumbles into trouble, his movements a little slower than what's safe.
He's fought on less than good conditions before, but never this bad.
His main sources of food are currently a bunch of soup cans, some chips, and a couple of granola bars he managed to lift when buying water.
Each day gets a little worse. Sometimes, he gets faint and dizzy and the world starts spinning.
But he's getting by.
—
Percy ran away from the fast food place before any of the waiters could realize that he hadn't actually paid for what he ordered.
The burger had filled him up to an uncomfortable level.
Before, he would've been able to eat the whole thing, no problem.
Now, though? Even halfway through, he felt full. But he couldn't just leave food to waste like that, so he had forced himself to eat.
He ended up emptying his stomach in an alley not too far from his apartment.
—
"Have you talked to anyone from Camp yet?"
"Well, Annabeth IMd me. Said that so far, the boarding school she wants to got to with Thalia seems good. Though she didn't look too optimistic. I called Grover a couple days ago, he was getting ready for another mission as a protector."
"That's good, honey. I'd like to think that things are gonna go well with Annabeth. And let's hope the demigod Grover is watching over makes it to Camp safely."
"Yeah, but… not just for the demigod. I don't think Grover could handle -"
A light from the window, rapidly coming closer and closer.
"Mom, watch out!"
The car swerves, but it's not enough, it's not enough.
Ten types of fuckery that stop you from writing the thing:
1. Imposter syndrome
You think you're not good enough or everyone else is better than you and you're just winging it AKA ye olde imposter syndrome bullshit. Yeah nah you're fine. No really, you're exactly where you need to be right now, and you'll keep getting better and better so long as you don't stop. Chances are, if you're filled with doubt about your abilities it means you've actually improved to the point where you can really start to understand what makes good writing. It means you know where you wanna end up and goshdarn it you're gonna get there.
Read this: 4 tips to kick imposter syndrome in the face and also genitals
And also this: How to silence the inner critic
2. Fear of rejection and/or failure
Yeah, us too. It fuckin sucks. BUT. Not all rejections are equal. And rejection is a necessary part of the process. Sometimes it takes a rejection to realise that a story isn't ready. Sometimes a rejection is entirely subjective and has ZERO reflection on the quality of your work. But shying away from the very idea of possibly maybe hypothetically getting rejected is only going to hold you back from even trying. And knowing why you got rejected and how to learn from it is one of the most valuable writing skills.
Read this: The different types of rejection (and how to deal with 'em)
Then read this: How to cope with rejection
And also this: Writing lessons from Groundhog Day
3. Not enough planning / too much planning
Leaping into a new story with nothing but a glimmer of an idea is exciting as heck (and can sometimes be a great way to begin) but at some point you're gonna need some sort of outline or plan to keep you on track. HOWEVER. Planning your story to within an inch of its life can also sometimes be a hindrance - leaving you stuck in the hypothetical stage of the process where your story doesn't quite exist yet (and therefore avoiding the prospect of it sucking). The sweet spot is in the middle. Having just enough of a plan to know where tf you're going, but enough freedom and flexibility to let the story lead the way...
Read this: Planning vs pantsing
Then read this: Five plotting techniques
And also this: The perils of overplanning
4. Your WIP just isn't working
Sometimes things just fall flat. Sometimes you work on the same story for yeeeeears and then it just kinda... dies. Sometimes you have the best plans (see above) and the best intentions and things still don't work out. Sometimes it's just time to move on. And sometimes it's not! Sometimes a story can be revived, fixed or changed. Sometimes you just need time. Sometimes YOU'RE the one that's changed and this isn't the story you need to be writing right now. Many variables. Muchly personal. Read the things below for more advice cos this is a big question:
Read this: What to do when your WIP isn't working
And also this: Give it space - how to grow a story in your head
Or how about this? Editing 101
5. You keep deprioritising it
Ah the irony of writing being the thing you love/want to do most of all AND YET the thing you procrastinate over and avoid and shove to the very bottom of your to-do list all the freakin' time. Maybe it's the comodification of art destroying our freedom to create without pressure. Maybe it's late capitalism sucking up all our available time and energy. Maybe it's a lack of self-belief subconsciously telling us our 'little hobby' doesn't really matter. Maybe it's maybelline. Whatever it is, you have the power to reclaim and revalue your writing. To say, "I'm a fucking writer, goddamnit!" and mean it. To ringfence your creative time so nothing and nobody gets to interrupt it. To do that thing you love.
Read this: Prioritise your writing
Read this: How to write in 30 second bursts
6. Shiny Thing Syndrome
You know that feeling when you're just getting stuck into a writing project and then — SQUIRREL! — you get distracted by another, better, more shiny writing project? Or maybe you're deep in the editing phase and your current WIP just isn't feeling very shiny at all and pretty much ANYTHING seems more exciting? Or you simply can't decide which of the many squirrelly writing ideas to actually start? You, fine writerperson, may be suffering from Shiny Thing Syndrome (STS). But fear not! There are a few ways to combat it, depending on the cause, and most of them involve embracing the squirrel-brain and injecting a bit of fun into your writing, like so:
Read this: Shiny thing syndrome - a writer's malady
Aaaand read this: Get excited about your writing again
And also this: Write like a kid
7. Perfectionism/self-sabotage
Look. Writing is scary as shit. What if someone READS it? What if they don't like it? What if they see into your soul and gain a deeper understanding of you through your words? Writing your truth, being vulnerable, smearing your heart juice all over the page? No thank you. But also, that's where the good shit is, so actually yes please. Just make sure you smear responsibly. And rest assured, even the most 'successful' and experienced writers ALSO feel like this sometimes, so you're in good company. It's just part of the art, bruh.
Read this: Why writing is scary (and why that's a good thing)
Read this: Beginning a story - what stops us starting?
And also this: Get out of your own way
8. The dreaded blank page
Oh godddd the blank page. It should be an exciting palimseset of possibility but is somehow also the most terrifying thing known to humankind. You wanna write something but where to start? HOW to start? You type that first line and immediately delete it. You watch the cursor blinking at you—taunting you—until you just give up and shut your laptop again. It's probably tied up with a bunch of things we've already covered so far: perfectionism, imposter syndrome, fear of failure, maybe a lack of planning or faith in your story or whatever. But it doesn't have to be this way. A blank page IS exciting and full of possibility. We just have to get over ourselves and learn to embrace the unknown...
Read this: Don't fear the blank page
And also this: The moaning method
9. Not enough time/energy/motivation/gnuuuughh
Dude, same x 1000. But you don't have to get up at 5am, do hot yoga, drink a kale smoothie and write a thousand words before sunrise to be a Proper Writer. You don't even have to write every day. But what you can do is hack your writing brain and figure out when, where, how, and why you write most effectively. Then tweak your schedule, your habits, and your attitude to ensure you're making the most of your time. Productivity is a big ol' lie but finding the secret to getting in your own personal writing zone is actual MAGIC.
Read this: Maximise your writing time
And also this: Get in the writing zone
And also unto this: The Writers' HQ Guide to Productivity
10. You're just fucken stuck
Got the writing morbs? In need of some literary sudafed? Stuck as a pig in a poke? Writing is a whole puzzle of a process—and to be honest that's what makes it so fun and exciting and addictive, because your writing brain is hardwired to both create AND solve the wordy puzzles within your story. Sometimes the answer is time. Sometimes it's a second opinion or a fresh eye. Sometimes a totally different approach or just a hefty kick up the bum. But whatever the problem, there IS a solution. You just gotta keep going and trust that you'll find it...
Read this: Troubleshoot your writing - why are you stuck?
And also this: Break through the writing blockage
And also also this: Write yourself into a pit (and then dig your way out again)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Alright, that's it for today. Now go write, you flithy animals.
(And if we missed anything, stick a question in our ask box or check out the rest of our shit here)
I got bored in class so have a Percy and a Cass doodle.
As you can see, they're pretty different from the previous drawing I've posted, and that's because I was still testing how I wanted to draw them.
I think Percy is pretty good like this, though I've got a page with slightly better quality sketches than what I can draw in history class.
Cass, on the other hand, has been giving me more trouble. I actually quite like how she looks here(though she still looks younger than she is, I think), which means I'll try to recreate it in my sketchbook, and hopefully it'll look better.
Do you want the slightly better quality Percy sketches? I'll start with the Cass ones after I finish posting this.
Their hair is kinda similar... I should probably fix that
I've seen people blame Percy for Bianca's death. I've seen people hate on Nico for how he reacted and the things he did in TLO. I've seen people hate on Percy for how he reacted to the whole thing in the Underworld.
I am fucking annoyed.
Percy, fourteen years old, saw this child, and promised to do his best to keep his sister safe. He never promised to bring her back alive. Only to do his best. Percy did not put a bow and arrow in her hand, Percy did not choose her to go on the quest. Percy came up with a plan to defeat Talos, a plan he would follow through himself, but Bianca insisted she do it, because it was her fault Talos was even attacking them (make no mistake, I am not blaming Bianca for anything, either. This was a bunch of children having to choose between bad and worse).
Percy, fourteen years old, just had to tell a kid his sister, his only sister, is dead. Percy, just back from a quest where he saw two people die, really die, for the first time, is given the responsibility of breaking it to Nico that his only family is dead and gone. They had a kid tell another kid about the other kid now having no sister. Not Chiron, the only real adult, not one of the older counselors who've probably had to do this before. No, they had someone who is still reeling from his own grief break the news.
Percy, fifteen almost sixteen, on the brink of a war he's convinced he's going to die in, just got betrayed. Percy, who is under the constant stress of making a choice that will either lead to destruction or safety, just got betrayed. He is not in a state of mind to consider the variables, to consider what Nico's thought process was. He is a child with the weight of the world on his shoulders (pun not intended), all he sees now is betrayal.
Nico, ten (eleven, twelve? The timeline is weird) years old, made Percy promise that he'd try his best to bring his sister back. To Nico, that's a guarantee that Bianca is coming back, because this amazing, strong, boy already saved them once. He cannot conceive that Percy's best may not be enough.
Nico, ten years old, just found out his sister is dead. Percy (amazing, beautiful, strong, perfect), lied to him. Percy got his sister killed. Percy promised he would bring her back, and then he didn't. It's all Percy's fault, and Nico hates hates hates him (he tells himself he hates Percy, because if he doesn’t then what kind of brother is he? If he doesn't hate Percy with all the hate he has, then is he a good brother to Bianca? Bianca, who left him the first chance she got, who abandoned him.)
Nico, eleven (twelve? thirteen?) years old, just got promised information about his mother. He just has to bring Percy Jackson to the Underworld. He already wants Percy to come down and get Achillies curse, this will just be a detour. But then his father locks Percy away and Nico exhausts himself putting all the guards to sleep so he can get Percy free. But when he does all he gets is a sword to the throat, and later Percy telling him to stay in the Underworld to convince his father to join the war. A dismissal disguised as a war strategy.
And Bianca. Bianca was twelve, and she had to take care of her brother. Bianca was twelve, and she was given the responsibility to be a parent. Bianca wanted to be a child, not a parent. So no matter how much she loved her brother, no matter how much she wants him to be safe and sound, she joins the Hunters of Artemis. She can finally be free, and she takes the chance no matter how much it pains her to see her brother draw away. So she picks up a little gift for him, on her quest, the only figurine he does not have. But then the little gift gets them attacked, and, ultimately, killed.
These are children. These children, presented with circumstances and choices and challenges an adult would break under, are not stable enough to consider every thought, every variable, every circumstance that surrounded every decision made by others. They're under constant stress and pressure and they cannot do this in a 'sensible' way because there are things happening to and around them and they are not stable. Especially at those specific moments.
Sometimes, I'll be doing absolutely nothing and then suddenly it's like I get possessed or something because I straighten so fast I give myself whiplash, grab my notebook and pen and furiously start writing.
On an unrelated note, my writing notebook has like twelve newly full pages in need of thorough editing.
