will byers stan first human second
noise dept.

❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
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$LAYYYTER
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he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
cherry valley forever
trying on a metaphor

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EXPECTATIONS

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The Bowery Presents

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@celestialpercy
“He is always on the brink of suicide … because he seeks salvation through the routine formulas suggested to him by the society in which he lives.” — Umberto Eco on Charlie Brown
Mia Mingus, from "Moving Toward the Ugly: A Politic Beyond Desirability" [ID'd]
i lied actually here’s annabeth
rereading the lost hero and i’m so struck by how much of jason’s pov is about how his brave persona is a complete act and how inside he really feels scared and lost all the time. in his head he’s so full of self-doubt and fear, about not knowing what to do or where to even start. but jason always just shoves this down and puts on a brave face because he’s supposed to be a leader. this being a recurring theme of his life, too: jason having to stomp down on any weaknesses from the age of two because lupa, the closest thing he had left to a family, would tear him to shreds if he didn’t.
all of this only to be mischaracterised for years. like the whole point of jason’s image as this “perfect hero” is that it’s a facade. only a mask, not the real person underneath, who was constantly afraid, constantly wondering. who wondered if anyone actually cared about him, if anyone was out there looking for him like they were all looking for percy. who was devastated to find out that his mortal parent was unstable, neglectful and descended into madness. his only shred left of a family, and that was what he got. thalia telling jason about their mother and leo for once not being jealous of him, because even though his own mother was gone, at least she had been loving, at least there had been good memories. but jason didn’t have any. even if he did remember, those memories weren’t good ones.
for all his bravery, jason never had anything to fall back on. all his life he’d found that courage from inside himself, somehow, some way, because he had no other option. leo’s “you’re not alone” because in that moment he realised just how little jason really had.
it’s just so startling to me, how imperfect and human jason is, compared to this warped idea of him in fanon. he’s constantly doubting himself and afraid, he just puts on a brave face because he has to. “everyone seemed to think he was so brave and confident, but they didn’t see how lost he really felt.”
he didn’t ask “is it really you”. he asked “are you real”
Percy circa The Last Olympian when Annabeth called him a coward and he immediately decided to swim in the Styx and see if his soul would be obliterated
Imagine you finally kiss the guy you’ve had a crush on forever and less than 10 minutes later he literally explodes and takes a whole ass volcano with him
it just hit me again that he's actually crazy
I love me a post-war percy jackson that doesn't know what he wants, never could even imagine that he'd made it here so he doesn't have any projects or ambitions. He loves his girlfriend and his friends and his family and his life is great, but there's no expecting. He spent the last of his teenage years slowly waiting for summer to come again so he could go back to camp, now nothing is really stopping him. He has a future to look foward to but doesn't really... know what to do with it.
Achilles spot
A little Ruegard for pride month
These are NOT the same characters 😭
On June Blossoming in June
by Karen An-hwei Lee
This summer, we drank cardamom iced tea sweetened with agave — savoring an idea of sweetness lingering, not as if we actually ate honey from the lovely overflow of liquid summer heat and soft beeswax tongued with a wedge of spanakopita and a platter of shaved lamb strewn on pita bread with yogurt cucumber dip — glistening slices of salmon topped by edamame, wakame seaweed, crushed macadamia nuts mingled with black sesame on beds of rice, and steaming cups of chai with black tea and milk, loose-leaf sencha, and chunks of sea bass with a tossed mesclun of tender greens garnished by crisp curls of chicharrónes and chopped beet salad with tart beets—the mellow gold ones soaked in wine vinegar, dressed with tendrils of microgreens — corollas of night-blooming honeysuckle and star jasmine flaming with small cups of heady fumes wafting on trellises across the lot with a walk-in hair salon and laundromat — then avocados with eggs-over-easy in hollandaise sauce over muffins alongside triangles of toast dipped in yolks beaten with cinnamon, and flavorful black coffee with a drop of fresh cream, quiche with crimini mushrooms, feta, swiss cheese, not leeks or truffles, shot through with julienned sundried tomatoes the color of stop signs, and mocha spiced with chili, black pepper, chocolate, cardamom again by a plate of smoked salmon and capers, ricotta, buttery arugula, and baby spinach drizzled with olive oil on thin sourdough toast in glowing strokes of late June light fringed by the noise of peninsula traffic on the harbor laced by grease and silt from the machinery of life — the sea isn’t far away though only gulls could spy it from here — so why don’t we walk all the way to the inlet of the marina, a landing where children play in the fading light blanched on grassy edges as if already a memory of summer within summer — and you say, with the air of a prophet who ate locusts and honey, join me in the place where lives are bound together by a cord of three strands.
just saw this personal ad from 1966 (sourced here) and god. this is really it
close to the knives, david wojnarowicz
A drawing I did of Vida