ficlet by @tealvneu, annabeth design by velinxi, I forgot that tumblr compresses the lengths of posts and so you can't see the images when you see my reblog of tealvneu's post by default.
Here's the timelapse because videos can't be in reblogs ig:
Lots of thoughts recently. Everything feels plastic.
I could go on and on about why all that AI "art" is bad. I could mention theft, lack of creativity, it's impact on the work field and environment, but countless people have already said all that. I wanted to touch on something that to me is the most utterly wrong about all of it.
Art is more than just something pretty to look at or listen to. It's therapeutic. It's a form of communication. A tool for human connection. It's a pure, human need.
“You heard me.” Ethan turns over in his bunk to face the wall, away from Alabaster. “If you really plan to defect, you better fucking leave me behind.”
“Why?”
“I’m in this for better or for worse, Bas. There’s no world where I take the easy way out.”
“The easy way—” Alabaster swallows hard as heat rises to his face. He’ll be damned if he cries in front of Ethan, even if the tears were of anger. “Ethan, if this goes on, nine-tenths of our army will be decimated by the time we win.”
“That’s the price of war.”
“Three of my siblings died today!”
“Not in vain. We rescued the Clazmonian Sow from the Hunt.”
“And that’s what they’re worth?” Alabaster’s voice crack. “A flying pig? Makes me wonder what you’d trade me in for.“
A sigh. Ethan sits up.
“Come here.” Ethan draws him in. A sob rips a path out of Alabaster’s chest as he buries his face into his boyfriend’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. I didn't mean it like that."
A few seconds is all he lets himself indulge in before Alabaster pulls away, furiously scrubbing at his eyes. "if you're really sorry, then come with us," he says heavily. "I'll lose my mind if I see any more of my siblings die. Or you."
"I can't." A strong hand tucks errant strands of hair behind his ear, rueful and loving. "Three of your siblings might've died today, General, but do you know how many other demigods have died since I joined the Army?"
Alabaster sniffles. Maybe thirty-two, thirty-three. He'd lost exact count at twenty. Keeping demigods alive as the Army moved around the North American continent without the magical protections that Camp Half-Blood offered had been incredibly difficult; not all newcomers adapted well, especially the younger ones.
He's so tired.
"We have a cause, and we have a responsibility to the corpses we stand on," continues Ethan. His hand slips down Alabaster's face, tracing his jaw before nudging the younger boy to look at him. "I can't let their deaths be in vain, even if you're willing to turn tail because some of them hit closer to home than you were prepared for."
"Do you always have to be so pragmatic?" Alabaster heaves.
"I'm not saying that I relish their deaths. There's a reason why I remember the number, and every single one of their names and faces." A trembling smile spreads on Ethan's lips. "But it's nothing that I don't expect of myself, too."
With the tidal wave of grief and the combined six hours of sleep he'd managed over the past three days, every remaining neuron in Alabaster's brain is struggling to keep firing. Too many emotions and arguments and apologies fighting its way out of his body.
It's infinitely easier to sink back into Ethan's embrace.
"I hate you," Alabaster mumbles.
"You like that I give zero fucks about openly disagreeing with you. I mean, you said so yourself when you very dramatically made your feelings for me known." Soft snickers escape them both, before Ethan's tone turns somber again. "Changed your mind?"
Their foreheads touching and fatigued breaths mingling, Alabaster traces the eyepatch strings along Ethan's temple.
"A good general doesn't leave his men behind, I guess," Alabaster answers, hoping and holding his mother's words to his aching heart as a balm.
We will be victorious, Alabaster. I'm sure of it.
---
"Child," his mother warns, Greek fire-green eyes flaring in alarm as Alabaster's discordant laughs echo around them.
"Mother," he says hysterically. "Even if I leave him here, I can't let his death be in vain."
"Think about the siblings you have left under your care."
"Ethan would've wanted this." His fist curls iron-tight around his sword, the handle of it now bound to his hand by the frayed eyepatch he'd pried off Ethan's broken body. "We regroup."
***
thanks for this req! it was extremely yummy to write 😋
this is based off an idea i had of ethan and al having kind of opposite trajectories wrt their loyalties to kronos. ethan is under no illusion that hes being a hero and this will be a bloodless fight, only turned by the excessiveness and aimlessness of kronos' violence; meanwhile al genuinely wants to be the good guy and struggles with making sacrifices even if it's for what he perceives as a good cause - right up until he's lost too much and he gets hits with the worst case of sunken cost fallacy known to man
ethan is a tad manipulative here, which is something i don't think i see that often in fanworks, but i just think that with al being Delusional™️, ethan is also kind of the og Delusional™️ even if it's to a lesser degree, so it's fun to kind of sprinkle in how one influenced the other... al had to learn his shit somewhere.
casualty numbers completely made up on the fly. im not here for statistics-scaling
wolf's pjo variant!
he's a real handful — think annoying younger brother who bites (rip ethan).
image text under the cut ...
Camper Form: Wolfgang 'Wolf' Hu
Age: 17
Cabin: 11 (Hermes)
Parent: Unclaimed Nemesis
Other relations: Patience Hu (Mortal mother), Ethan Nakamura (Half-brother), Damien White (Half-brother)
Year-round camper: Yes
Additional notes: Assign satyr to stop sneaking out (DOES NOT WORK). Will not wear shoes. No amount of arguing will make him wear shoes.
stormborns
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ellievsbear
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baratheonpilled
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germansingergirl
