#bringthunder

[seabraind]

🌊        ³⠀(⠀…⠀)        ⠀        [        @bringthunder.        ]        ⠀        ❝    hey  man  want  a  pizza?    ❞

the  text  comes  in  late  one  night.  late  enough  that  most  normal  people  would  be  asleep,  but  percy  is  far  above  a  ‘normal’  person.  he  finds  it  hard  to  exist  in  any  sense  of  the  world  ‘normal’.  sure,  the  demigod  stuff  doesn’t  help,  but  he’s  never  felt  normal.  sometimes,  he  wonders  if  he’d  feel  this  way  even  if  he  hadn’t  found  out  about  the  godly  stuff.  if  nothing  in  his  life  had  happened  the  way  it  did.  but  each  time  the  thought  comes  up,  it  bubbles  away,  because  he  remembers  that  there’s  no  way  for  him  to  truly  know.  

he’s  been  awake  for  verging  on  twenty  —  four  hours,  without  a  wink  of  sleep  even  remotely  close  to  gracing  his  eyes.  it’s  often,  now,  that  these  bouts  of  insomnia  hit,  and  he’s  forced  to  succumb  to  what  his  brain  wants  him  to  remember,  or  to  ponder  upon.  he  hates  it.  but  it’s  not  like  he  could  go  to  a  doctor  and  tell  them  he  needs  meds  for  the  intense  ptsd  of  falling  into  hell  and  surviving,  besting  a  god,  and  helping  take  down  a  titan,  now  could  he?  

no,      𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐋𝐘      𝐍𝐎𝐓.      so  he  takes  this  moment  to  sigh,  from  where  he’s  laid  up  in  his  own  bed,  and  drop  his  phone  to  his  chest  for  the  briefest  of  moments  as  he  considers  ignoring  it.  not  that  he  has  anything  against  verso,  no.  but  gods,  does  he  want  to  try  to  sleep.  

against  his  better  judgement,  he  lifts  the  phone,  and  texts  back  the  address  to  his  apartment  without  a  ‘yes’  even  attached.  

a  second  later,  he  sends  a  pepperoni  emoji,  too.  for  good  measure,  of  course.  

the  state  of  his  apartment  is  a  mess,  but  he’s  not  in  any  mood,  or  rush  to  clean  it.  at  most,  he  rises  from  his  bed  to  shove  his  dirty  laundry  in  the  hamper,  and  makes  sure  his  kitchen  is  presentable  enough,  before  draping  self  on  couch,  awaiting  the  arrival  of  his  fellow  insomniac.  

[shesnows]

starter for @bringthunder / starter call

❝ you are remarkably persistent.❞ from the lips of any other, the words would have undoubtedly been a compliment of the highest magnitude but spoken by khione's most disappointing daughter, they are more akin to a sardonic insult. maybe she doesn't even have any right to blame him. after all, isn't she the one who started this fiasco in the first place by even agreeing to consider helping some of the younger demigods with their training? she'd convinced herself it would be nothing but a short stint, a resigned acceptance as a means to an end and only indulged in hopes of steering clear of him once she appeased him with the bare minimum.

but try as she might (and gods did she try!), she couldn't seem to shake the guy. he was somehow everywhere all at once, a tornado of fizzing energy that seemed to have little trouble in breaching past the defenses of her cool aloofness.

the breeze is intent on wreaking havoc upon her hair, plaited stubbornly into a braid that trails down her back, but at present, she's more focused on the nuisance hovering at her shoulder. she leans closer over the gleaming metal railings of the andromeda, gaze fixed stubbbornly on the churning waves below rather than the company that's seemingly appeared out of thin air. for someone who seems to live life so loudly (at least in comparison with her much quieter life), the guy can move in silence when he so chooses. ❝ i think i've done more than my fair share with the kids, i've earned myself a reprieve. besides, they enjoy hanging out with you so much more!❞ for some, there might be a bitterness in admitting that another's company is preferable to people than their own but that has never been a difficulty for aurelia. she is quite aware of who and what she is.

❝ and let's be honest, all the preparation we've done is good, obviously, but nothing can really prepare them. there's this old military saying which goes along the lines of: no plan survives first contact with the enemy.❞

[madefate]

you have trouble accepting compliments? — to jason! / @bringthunder

❝ What ? Oh, no ! No, of course not ! ❞ Warmth floods Jason's face, embarrassment slamming into his gut at the thoroughly unexpected question from his brother. Where did this come from — and why on Earth would that matter ? His hand reflexively moves to the back of his neck, bracing like he can steady his suddenly whirling thoughts and worried instincts because what could possibly be the right answer ?

Obviously, not taking a compliment is rude, and Jason has perfected the easy deflection, the thanks, it really was a team effort! or that's so kind of you to say. He's no stranger to flattery — not as the son of Jupiter, as a Centurion or Praetor. Someone always needs something, even if Jason is in no way qualified to fulfill that need, even if he'd never even spoken to his father until the culmination of the Great Prophecy.

But accepting them feels equally wrong. Selfish. Complacent. It'd warp his objective sense of his flaws and strengths, blind him to the weaknesses he needs to work on. A good Legionnaire should never rest on their laurels; they should never think of themselves beyond the constraints of their own mortality.

❝ I appreciate them ! I appreciate it, Vers. Really ! Of course, I wouldn't be where I am without the people that have carried me, seriously, so there's, like, no need to dwell on anything. ❞

[anthcs]

@bringthunder | continued…

Katie thinks that she has prayed to her mother more times than she has actually encountered her by now.

Whether that makes Katie (and others like her) devout or desperate seems to be something of a debate.

There’s something about withholding the nutrients with her powers that unnerves Katie, reminding her too much of Tantalus and all that accompanied his duration as camp activities director, so Katie manually dries the flowers. There’s something about being reminded of Tantalus that makes Katie cringe, and her throat constrict, recalling that fateful patrol where… no. Not right now.

Now is not the time to slip back into the past, especially when Verso is glaring at campers who haven’t even done anything to him personally (contrary to what he might say about them uttering prayers to their respective parents out loud). Katie pauses adding already dried herbal remedies to the infirmary cupboards, and instead, decides to disinfect any of Verso's injuries.

Rubbing her equally dry eyes, Katie feels worry coil uncomfortably in her stomach. As much as she knows that Verso and Percy clash, Katie can’t help but be worried that something awful has happened. Reaching for nearby gauze and color organized coban, then then bandage scissors, Katie cuts an estimated amount (after all, knowing the exact amount needed would mean that the dyscalculia was kind to her, which it rarely was).

“I would be finished by now if you held still.” Katie uses bandage scissors to cut an estimated amount, before seemingly contradicting what she says next. Brows raised pointedly as she begins wrapping his injuries, she adds, “Though if you keep talking to me with that sort of tone, you can bandage yourself.”

[madefate]

SENDER gives RECEIVER their coat despite the cold. - to jason! / @bringthunder

The soft weight lands on his shoulders and Jason is caught by gentle surprise, blinking at being unexpectedly engulfed by fabric.

He's not accustomed to the cold; he's been on quests before that have taken him far from the West Coast, but never for any extended period of time. So he hadn't expected March to feel like this: frigid, damp, a cold that howls through his bones. His plan to visit Camp Halfblood in the spring to avoid the winter weather hadn't gone to plan in the slightest, and it'd be easy to blame his mood on precisely and only that.

Seeing his brother had buoyed him the first few days, particularly given the fact that the Argo crew were weren't there year round and, apparently, had school to attend and life to live. Jason hadn't even known that demigods could go to school or live outside of camp. Still, even if they'd been here, it would have been a particular treat to see Verso.

It had done the trick for the first few days but now, sitting on the steps of Cabin One, Jason's not sure if he can will his legs to stand up again. Which is patently ridiculous; he's nowhere near done serving out his duties — to Legion, to the Gods. To the world. And he has no right to complain, so he's simply swallowed his voice the last day and tended the altars through rote motions.

When his shoulders are suddenly warm it rouses him from the quiet, aching pressure that sits like an anchor in his chest. He looks up at Verso, blinks in the watery sunlight, and instinctually fumbles for something to say.

What he finds is: ❝ It's cold, Vers. I can probably grab something from ... ❞ And then his voice falters as the figure of his brother blurs. Strange, he doesn't think he's hit his head. Then he registers the sting at the corner of his eye and the prickle down his nose and dazedly presses a hand to his face, stopping the flow of tears.

❝ ... Huh. ❞ He doesn't know what to make of it, pulling his hand away to examine the wetness like he's never seen it before, as slow as if he were only just coming out of a dream. ❝ Weird. ❞

[altruprism]

he looks at tyson and grins.

❝ you ever try swinging a hammer in a fight, kid ?? let me tell you, i swear to god, you'd absolutely clock some fuckers with the right tool. not that you should fight, i mean. just, y'know. just in case. ❞

( to tyson! )

Verso seems to lose steam partway through, but Tyson considers him with a wide eye. It's an interesting proposition. He has only ever used a hammer for creation, shaping, assembly; using it for destruction feels almost disrespectful. He thinks of the the ringing clang of metal on metal and how easily it bends under his influence. He grimaces.

"That seems mean," He admits hesitantly. Humans, even demigods, are so delicate. A hammer would shatter a bone beyond repair. Suddenly he lights up and begins gesturing widely. "Maybe a big guy. Really big." He spreads his hands out in emphasis. Surely if another drakon came around then a hammer would be alright to use.

[madefate]

he grumbles. ❝ okay, so i might have bit someone. yeah, sure, okay, “unsportsman-like conduct” or whatever, but like… listen, dude. you put something in my face? i’m biting. anyways, case and point, you should try it sometimes. you’ve got good teeth for biting. ❞ — to jean! / @bringthunder

Jean attempts to shoot Verso a look of dry disinterest, and he thinks he may have succeeded. Time with the Trojans has softened his instincts to hide any discomfort in a tightly locked vault, but Verso is not Kevin. Or even Jeremy, now. Hopefully he is not observant enough, and doesn't care enough, to notice the icy, terrified revulsion that rolls down his throat at the mental image before Jean can kill it.

Grayson Johnson is dead and buried, but his teeth still haunt Jean.

Grayson's brand of cruelty was all blunt force and obvious scars. It wasn't precisely calculated like Riko's, or from a place of personal betrayal and exhumed pain like Zane's. It shouldn't bother him more than the others'. Grayson Johnson was a simple monster, and Neil had seen to his execution.

But sometimes, when he feels the scars that he still keeps covered on his neck and wrist throb in time with his heightened pulse, he doesn't hear the world around him — it's all grunting and yelling and flesh hitting flesh and the tangled knot of Zane and Grayson clawing each other nearly to death only feet from where Jean had been ordered to stay and not move.

He doesn't think of his own blood-slicked hands fumbling with the wrong codes to the Gold Court. He doesn't think of Grayson's second-heaviest weight on the entirety of the Ravens leering over him. Instead, Jean breathes and tries to think of what his therapist would say. Some nonsense about how his feelings are real but that he is no longer in danger.

What helps in the end is the gut feeling that Verso Sachs is not Grayson Johnson. That all his barking has never resulted in biting Jean.

❝ How crude, ❞ he finally says, clearing past the catch in his throat to sound as unimpressed as he can, looking away to hide his expression. ❝ As if I want someone's blood in my mouth. Besides, the Trojans have never received a red card. I will not be the first. ❞

[stygicniron]

🗡 :)

Meme Tag -- @bringthunder

Nico freezes in place as he feels the slim piece of metal slide across his throat, train of thought skittering to a stop as he's swiftly brought back to the present with the surge of adrenaline. Nothing to truly make you feel alive like suddenly having your life being threatened.

Styx and stones, he needs to pay better attention to his surroundings. The end of the war doesn't mean he's safe, not by a long shot.

Eyes strain to the side, trying to catch a glimpse of who might be holding the blade, but the smell of ozone is enough of a clue. And Thalia hasn't threatened him with a blade in weeks. "I'm not here for you," Nico says slowly, stopping himself from swallowing nervously before he speaks. If Verso meant to hurt him, Nico would already be dead, but he still would rather not cut himself on the blade.