thegestianpoet:

pulsifers:

snorting through my sobs
potter, please.
you’re twelve. no one cares about a twelve-year-old enough to be archenemies with them except maybe voldemort but then again he’s also the man who agreed to live on the back of other man’s head.
weird notion of “most powerful wizardry”, if you ask me.
and really, potter, are you actually that dense
can’t you see it written all across malfoy’s unhumanly large forehead that he just wants to be bffs with you
are you sure you’ve never banged your head on the ceiling of that stupid cupboard because i’m thinking brain damage here, sir

#omg i love that the over-inflated self importance applies to both of them like draco would TOTALLY consider himself potter’s archnemesis because it’s better than being his nobody meanwhile tom riddle is crying his deformed spirit baby self to sleep at night and anytime in between because what is he chopped liver? so sad how this changes after GOF like as soon as old voldermortz has a body again harry’s like SORRY MALFOY BIGGER PROBLEMS YOU UNDERSTAND and draco is like I MOST CERTAINLY DO NOT UNDERSTAND ugh the worst kind of transgression I THOUGHT THIS ARCHRIVALRY MEANT SOMETHING TO YOU POTTER and sirius dies and voldy truly becomes the sole recipient of harry’s rage I SAID I WAS BUSY MALFOY!!!!!! but malfoy’s dedicated antagonism is still this lovely comforting white noise throughout it all until it ISN’T and despite everything else he has to worry about harry’s like YOU GUYS I THINK MALFOY IS UP TO SOMETHING…. SOMETHING EVIL because obviously anything that distracts draco from their archrivalry is evil (see: voldemort in harry’s case) except draco doesn’t have time for HIM anymore and oh ho ho the tables turn and harry stays up late watching draco on the marauder’s map and thinking about his hair and basically voldemort is just the worst kind of cockblock

thegestianpoet:

pulsifers:

snorting through my sobs

potter, please.

you’re twelve. no one cares about a twelve-year-old enough to be archenemies with them except maybe voldemort but then again he’s also the man who agreed to live on the back of other man’s head.

weird notion of “most powerful wizardry”, if you ask me.

and really, potter, are you actually that dense

can’t you see it written all across malfoy’s unhumanly large forehead that he just wants to be bffs with you

are you sure you’ve never banged your head on the ceiling of that stupid cupboard because i’m thinking brain damage here, sir

#omg i love that the over-inflated self importance applies to both of them like draco would TOTALLY consider himself potter’s archnemesis because it’s better than being his nobody meanwhile tom riddle is crying his deformed spirit baby self to sleep at night and anytime in between because what is he chopped liver? so sad how this changes after GOF like as soon as old voldermortz has a body again harry’s like SORRY MALFOY BIGGER PROBLEMS YOU UNDERSTAND and draco is like I MOST CERTAINLY DO NOT UNDERSTAND ugh the worst kind of transgression I THOUGHT THIS ARCHRIVALRY MEANT SOMETHING TO YOU POTTER and sirius dies and voldy truly becomes the sole recipient of harry’s rage I SAID I WAS BUSY MALFOY!!!!!! but malfoy’s dedicated antagonism is still this lovely comforting white noise throughout it all until it ISN’T and despite everything else he has to worry about harry’s like YOU GUYS I THINK MALFOY IS UP TO SOMETHING…. SOMETHING EVIL because obviously anything that distracts draco from their archrivalry is evil (see: voldemort in harry’s case) except draco doesn’t have time for HIM anymore and oh ho ho the tables turn and harry stays up late watching draco on the marauder’s map and thinking about his hair and basically voldemort is just the worst kind of cockblock

(via thegenderqueeralchemist)

fandomsandfeminism:

High Yellow by Ellsworth Kelly 
Bear with me a bit as I talk art nerdy for a while. 
As I mentioned in my last post, I went to an Art Museum today. As is so often the case with modern and post modern art, the experience of looking at these kinds of pieces is far more subjective than, say, a classic oil painting. Few people are going to buck at the idea of a 1600s oil painting of the baby Jesus being “Art”, even if it isn’t done particularly well or in a particularly interesting way.
More modern stuff, well, that’s a different beast. Take the piece up there. 
No, I’m not punking you. That isn’t thrown together on MS paint or anything. It’s a real actual painting from 1960. It has hung in the Guggenheim. It’s pretty well respected as an example of abstractionist art.
My boyfriend uniformly dislikes it.
I find myself liking it more and more and more the longer I linger over it. 
Take a minute. Stare at it. Consider for yourself: Is this art? Is it museum quality art? What does it remind you of? How does it make you feel? Why do you like or dislike it? There’s no wrong answer here, but those are important questions. 
Here’s my thoughts. I like it. The colors are unusual. It’s hard to tell here, but in a gallery of other works, they REALLY stand out. From across the entire gallery, this massive thing just grabs you by the eye. The colors are plain, simple, and bright. There is no white space, no black space. Three simple colors, that’s it.
The works SEEMS to suggest a scene, doesn’t it? Green grass. Blue sky. Yellow…sun? Flower? Probably a sun, right? Yet…this isn’t a scene. It’s no still life. Even kindergarten drawings call to more actual realism than this. It only SUGGESTS a scene, and it does that solely through color and very basic form. A straight line, a wobbly ovoid.
We only see a scene in it because we WANT to see something in it. Because it reminds us of early childhood paintings, and our desire to draw meaning from the abstraction pulls us back to those memories, those archetypal images. Nothing about this REALLY looks like a field with a sun overhead. Grass is never that green. The sky is never that blue. The sun is not that startling yellow lumpy egg. Still, that is what it brought to mind. 
I think I like this piece because it’s challenging. It uses unusual colors and simplistic forms. It seems to purposefully refuse to impress. It makes us WORK for the associations- to childhood, to scenery. It gives us very little, but refuses to let our eye slip away from it with it’s hyper-saturated hues. 
I like it specifically because it has shed all of the pomp and circumstance and tradition that forces us, without regard to quality or effect, to see the ART-ness of the Jesus painting.
It does not insist that it is art. It does not insist that it is meaningful. It is not framed in gold. Yet art it remains. 
How little can suggest so much. 

fandomsandfeminism:

High Yellow by Ellsworth Kelly 

Bear with me a bit as I talk art nerdy for a while. 

As I mentioned in my last post, I went to an Art Museum today. As is so often the case with modern and post modern art, the experience of looking at these kinds of pieces is far more subjective than, say, a classic oil painting. Few people are going to buck at the idea of a 1600s oil painting of the baby Jesus being “Art”, even if it isn’t done particularly well or in a particularly interesting way.

More modern stuff, well, that’s a different beast. Take the piece up there. 

No, I’m not punking you. That isn’t thrown together on MS paint or anything. It’s a real actual painting from 1960. It has hung in the Guggenheim. It’s pretty well respected as an example of abstractionist art.

My boyfriend uniformly dislikes it.

I find myself liking it more and more and more the longer I linger over it. 

Take a minute. Stare at it. Consider for yourself: Is this art? Is it museum quality art? What does it remind you of? How does it make you feel? Why do you like or dislike it? There’s no wrong answer here, but those are important questions. 

Here’s my thoughts. I like it. The colors are unusual. It’s hard to tell here, but in a gallery of other works, they REALLY stand out. From across the entire gallery, this massive thing just grabs you by the eye. The colors are plain, simple, and bright. There is no white space, no black space. Three simple colors, that’s it.

The works SEEMS to suggest a scene, doesn’t it? Green grass. Blue sky. Yellow…sun? Flower? Probably a sun, right? Yet…this isn’t a scene. It’s no still life. Even kindergarten drawings call to more actual realism than this. It only SUGGESTS a scene, and it does that solely through color and very basic form. A straight line, a wobbly ovoid.

We only see a scene in it because we WANT to see something in it. Because it reminds us of early childhood paintings, and our desire to draw meaning from the abstraction pulls us back to those memories, those archetypal images. Nothing about this REALLY looks like a field with a sun overhead. Grass is never that green. The sky is never that blue. The sun is not that startling yellow lumpy egg. Still, that is what it brought to mind. 

I think I like this piece because it’s challenging. It uses unusual colors and simplistic forms. It seems to purposefully refuse to impress. It makes us WORK for the associations- to childhood, to scenery. It gives us very little, but refuses to let our eye slip away from it with it’s hyper-saturated hues. 

I like it specifically because it has shed all of the pomp and circumstance and tradition that forces us, without regard to quality or effect, to see the ART-ness of the Jesus painting.

It does not insist that it is art. It does not insist that it is meaningful. It is not framed in gold. Yet art it remains. 

How little can suggest so much. 

fandomsandfeminism:

2244 Modules  by Isabel del Rio 
Now this isn’t really about feminism directly, but I want to share some thoughts with yall. I went to the Blanton Art Museum today. This little art museum sits on the University of Texas campus (Hook em!) I’ve been a few times before, sometimes with a class, sometimes with friends, sometimes on my own. Each time I come, the same pieces pull me back and new ones find me for the first time. It’s a nice space. Quiet, thoughtful. 
One of the pieces in the Modern section, easy to overlook next to more flashy or attention grabbing neighbors, is 2244 Modules. That’s it in the picture up there. Go ahead and just look at it for a moment.
It’s almost hard to say why this piece draws me in so much. Stacks of tiles on pallets. It’s not the flashiest thing in the museum. (The next room over has a giant fiberglass cowboy riding a horse, lassoing a bull. It has glowing red eyes.) These unobtrusive columns look more like leftover construction material than anything else at first glance. 
Let me give you the story of this piece.

In 2244 Modules, Del Río physically registers the passage of time.  Over a period of six months, Isabel Del Río set herself the task of making several one-inch thick plaster tablets every day. Her efforts resulted in 2244 tablets, each stamped with the date it was produced. The number of tablets completed each day varied according to the artist’s “work” or “free” time. After six months, the artist had filled a considerable physical space with the results of her daily activity. The hours spent in apparently mindless repetition suggest a futile obsession, and also a desire to find a rational order.  Although at first glance 2244 Modules may recall a precise and mathematical Minimalist sculpture, the handmade quality of the tablets and the obsessive nature of the project suggest a more existential and personal concern

[source]
I find myself stuck on this piece each time I visit the Blanton. There’s something about the physicality of it, this way of measuring time. Each tile represents the time it took to make it, time spent not doing other things. 
I look at the days with the tallest stacks - hours and hours of work, surely. What were those days like? Did Isabel del Rio work alone? Sitting in a studio for hours, building bricks? Did she listen to music or sit in silence? Did a friend sit with her and tell jokes? Was it bitterly cold outside? Or bitterly hot? What kept her at her work so productively? 
Then I look at the empty spaces- the days with no tiles at all. The days when not a minute could be spared for art. What had happened? Did a friend from out of town come in? Did she get caught up in a good book? Was she ill? 
It’s such an odd way to measure time, these little stacks of unobtrusive white.
And which days are really the victories here? The days when the most tiles were made, or the days when life got in the way? 

fandomsandfeminism:

2244 Modules  by Isabel del Rio 

Now this isn’t really about feminism directly, but I want to share some thoughts with yall. I went to the Blanton Art Museum today. This little art museum sits on the University of Texas campus (Hook em!) I’ve been a few times before, sometimes with a class, sometimes with friends, sometimes on my own. Each time I come, the same pieces pull me back and new ones find me for the first time. It’s a nice space. Quiet, thoughtful. 

One of the pieces in the Modern section, easy to overlook next to more flashy or attention grabbing neighbors, is 2244 Modules. That’s it in the picture up there. Go ahead and just look at it for a moment.

It’s almost hard to say why this piece draws me in so much. Stacks of tiles on pallets. It’s not the flashiest thing in the museum. (The next room over has a giant fiberglass cowboy riding a horse, lassoing a bull. It has glowing red eyes.) These unobtrusive columns look more like leftover construction material than anything else at first glance. 

Let me give you the story of this piece.

In 2244 Modules, Del Río physically registers the passage of time.  Over a period of six months, Isabel Del Río set herself the task of making several one-inch thick plaster tablets every day. Her efforts resulted in 2244 tablets, each stamped with the date it was produced. The number of tablets completed each day varied according to the artist’s “work” or “free” time. After six months, the artist had filled a considerable physical space with the results of her daily activity. The hours spent in apparently mindless repetition suggest a futile obsession, and also a desire to find a rational order.  Although at first glance 2244 Modules may recall a precise and mathematical Minimalist sculpture, the handmade quality of the tablets and the obsessive nature of the project suggest a more existential and personal concern

[source]

I find myself stuck on this piece each time I visit the Blanton. There’s something about the physicality of it, this way of measuring time. Each tile represents the time it took to make it, time spent not doing other things. 

I look at the days with the tallest stacks - hours and hours of work, surely. What were those days like? Did Isabel del Rio work alone? Sitting in a studio for hours, building bricks? Did she listen to music or sit in silence? Did a friend sit with her and tell jokes? Was it bitterly cold outside? Or bitterly hot? What kept her at her work so productively? 

Then I look at the empty spaces- the days with no tiles at all. The days when not a minute could be spared for art. What had happened? Did a friend from out of town come in? Did she get caught up in a good book? Was she ill? 

It’s such an odd way to measure time, these little stacks of unobtrusive white.

And which days are really the victories here? The days when the most tiles were made, or the days when life got in the way? 

anunfinishedman:

let’s celebrate escaping the prison camp with kissing even though we probably both smell bad uwu

(via thegenderqueeralchemist)

nonbinaryanders:

spellcaster-queen-selene:

Remember that movie in which Jack Black was a teacher and building a rock band and when a little black chubby girl asked to be a singer he only said “sure! let me hear you” and the moment she started using her beautiful voice his lit up like all of his dreams came true, PLUS the same little girl was scared that people would make fun of her because she was fat and he started listing awesome singers with some weight on and included himself and told her that people wouldn’t laugh because she is awesome at what she does and that is all that matters PLUS that it’s ok to enjoy food?

Also, when a little boy asked to be the band’s stylist he just said “sure, go ahead fancy pants” like, there wasn’t a single second of questioning it, he went into “ok, that will be your position then” right away

That fucking movie is an hour and a half of Jack Black teaching kids to love themselves disregarding all of the stereotypes

What movie is this about?

School of Rock (Aka: The one Jack Black movie I truly enjoy)

(Source: selene-the-dragon-princess)

roachpatrol:

slipstreamborne:

You wanna talk Pacific Rim characters growing up with Harry Potter?

Stacker Pentecost was an eleven year old boy growing up in London when Philosopher’s Stone was first released. 

He literally grew up with the series.  Read one as they were released every year just before his own school year started up through age 14, waited anxiously through the long hiatus between Goblet of Fire in 2000 and Order of the Pheonix in 2003 (maybe followed along in fandom for a while in between, was there for the great Cassie Clare plagiarism drama and everything) only to cry and rage at Sirius’s death, betrayed, when OotP did finally come out (as me and all my friends who were also that age did). 

But that’s also the year we meet Luna (also his sister’s name), and the bright spark of heroism and faithfulness and goodness that burns so bright at the heart of the character reminds him so much of his own Luna that he has a hard time reading it to Mako, later, stays up long after she’s fallen asleep on those nights, hands brushing along the worn spine of the book, remembering another little girl he once shared the magic of Hogwarts with, back when he was much littler, himself.

And if you tell me that when he stepped out of his Jaeger, looked down, and saw this dark-haired little girl with all that she’d ever known and loved ripped away from her by evil, he didn’t at least flash briefly back to the boy he’d grown up with who’d suffered much the same, who’d been lost until he looked up with hope and wonder into the eyes of a literal half-giant stranger who came to be as much of a father if not more than any of the other protective figures in his life, then I will tell you that you are wrong.

oh my god i am going to cry

(via gamoria)

fandomsandfeminism:

[Description: Images of Michael Brown, Renisha McBride, Eric Garner, and Trayvon Martin, all unarmed black Americans shot and killed. Langston Hughes’ poem "Harlem"Image of the man with the American flag shirt throwing a tear gas canister in Ferguson] 

Or does it explode? 

fandomsandfeminism:

[Description: Images of Michael Brown, Renisha McBride, Eric Garner, and Trayvon Martin, all unarmed black Americans shot and killed. Langston Hughes’ poem "Harlem"Image of the man with the American flag shirt throwing a tear gas canister in Ferguson] 

Or does it explode? 

"Commander Vimes didn’t like the phrase ‘The innocent have nothing to fear’, believing the innocent had everything to fear, mostly from the guilty but in the longer term even more from those who say things like ‘The innocent have nothing to fear’."

Terry Pratchett (via beornwulf)

(Source: theredkite, via sailorstarengineer)

thelethifoldwitch:

Imagine Hogwarts after the Battle, after the War, sure –
But imagine Hogwarts’ students, after their year with the Carrows and Snape.
Imagine a tiny little first-year whose porcupine pincushions still have quills, but to whom Fiendfyre comes easily. The second-year who tried to go back, to fight; whose bravado got Professor Sinistra killed, as she pushed him out of the way of a Killing Curse. The third-year who perfectly brewed poisons, hands shaking, wishing for the courage to spike the Carrows’ cups. The fourth-year who throws away all of their teacups, their palmistry guidebooks, because what use is Divination if it didn’t see this coming? The fifth-year who can barely remember what O.W.L.S. are, let alone that she was supposed to take them. The sixth-year who can’t manage Lumos to save their life, but whose proficiency with the Cruciatus Curse rivals Bellatrix’s.
Imagine the seventh-year who laughs until he cries, thinking about the first-years who will fall asleep in History of Magic while their story is told.
Imagine the Muggleborn first-years left alive, if there are any: imagine what they think of the magical world, when their introduction to it was Death Eaters and being tortured – by their classmates –for having been born.
Imagine the students who went home to their parents (or guardians, or wards, or orphanages) and showed them what they’d learned: Dark curses, hexes, Unforgiveables; that Muggles are filth, animals, lesser. Who, yes, still can’t transfigure a match into a needle – but Mum, there’s a hex that can make you feel as though you’re being stabbed with thousands. (Don’t ask them how they know.)
Imagine the students who will never be able to see Hogwarts as home.
Imagine the students Hogwarts has left, when it starts up again – the lack of Muggleborns, blood-traitors, half-bloods, dead and gone – the lack of purebloods; the Ministry would have chucked everyone of age (and possibly just below) in Azkaban for Unforgiveables, wouldn’t they?
Imagine how few students there are left to teach; imagine how few teachers are left to teach them.
Imagine the students who can’t walk past a particular classroom, who can’t walk through a hallway, who can’t walk into the Great Hall without having a panic attack or breaking down. Imagine the school-wide discovery that the carriages aren’t horseless after all; that everyone, from the firsties to the teachers, can see Thestrals.
Imagine the memorials, the heaps of flowers and mementoes – in every other corner, hallway, classroom; every other step you take on the grounds.
Imagine the ghosts.
Imagine the students destroying Snape’s portrait, using the curses, hexes, even Fiendfyre they’ve been taught how to wield – it has to be restored nearly every week; Snape stays with Phineas Nigellus semi-permanently. (None of the other portraits will welcome him. His reasons do not excuse his conduct.)
Imagine the students unable to trust each other – everyone informed on everyone, your best friend might turn you in.
Imagine the guilt that everyone carries (it should have been me, it’s my fault s/he’s dead, I told on them, it’s all my fault), the students incapable of meeting each other’s eyes because it’s my fault your best friend, your sibling, your Housemate, your boy/girlfriend is dead.
Imagine the memorials piled high with the wands of the dead. Imagine the memorials piled high with the self-snapped wands of the living.
Imagine the students who are never able to produce a Patronus.
Imagine Boggarts being removed from the curriculum because Riddikulus is near impossible to grasp, even for the sixth- and seventh-years. Because their friends and families dead will never, ever be funny.
Imagine the students for whom magic feels tainted.
Imagine the students who leave the wixen world – hell, the students who leave Britain entirely, because there’s nothing left for them there.
Imagine the students who never use magic again.
(Image source.)
(From the mind of the wonderful lavenderpatil, a keen look at how students might be after war.)

thelethifoldwitch:

Imagine Hogwarts after the Battle, after the War, sure

But imagine Hogwarts’ students, after their year with the Carrows and Snape.

Imagine a tiny little first-year whose porcupine pincushions still have quills, but to whom Fiendfyre comes easily. The second-year who tried to go back, to fight; whose bravado got Professor Sinistra killed, as she pushed him out of the way of a Killing Curse. The third-year who perfectly brewed poisons, hands shaking, wishing for the courage to spike the Carrows’ cups. The fourth-year who throws away all of their teacups, their palmistry guidebooks, because what use is Divination if it didn’t see this coming? The fifth-year who can barely remember what O.W.L.S. are, let alone that she was supposed to take them. The sixth-year who can’t manage Lumos to save their life, but whose proficiency with the Cruciatus Curse rivals Bellatrix’s.

Imagine the seventh-year who laughs until he cries, thinking about the first-years who will fall asleep in History of Magic while their story is told.

Imagine the Muggleborn first-years left alive, if there are any: imagine what they think of the magical world, when their introduction to it was Death Eaters and being tortured by their classmates for having been born.

Imagine the students who went home to their parents (or guardians, or wards, or orphanages) and showed them what they’d learned: Dark curses, hexes, Unforgiveables; that Muggles are filth, animals, lesser. Who, yes, still can’t transfigure a match into a needle but Mum, there’s a hex that can make you feel as though you’re being stabbed with thousands. (Don’t ask them how they know.)

Imagine the students who will never be able to see Hogwarts as home.

Imagine the students Hogwarts has left, when it starts up again the lack of Muggleborns, blood-traitors, half-bloods, dead and gone the lack of purebloods; the Ministry would have chucked everyone of age (and possibly just below) in Azkaban for Unforgiveables, wouldn’t they?

Imagine how few students there are left to teach; imagine how few teachers are left to teach them.

Imagine the students who can’t walk past a particular classroom, who can’t walk through a hallway, who can’t walk into the Great Hall without having a panic attack or breaking down. Imagine the school-wide discovery that the carriages aren’t horseless after all; that everyone, from the firsties to the teachers, can see Thestrals.

Imagine the memorials, the heaps of flowers and mementoes in every other corner, hallway, classroom; every other step you take on the grounds.

Imagine the ghosts.

Imagine the students destroying Snape’s portrait, using the curses, hexes, even Fiendfyre they’ve been taught how to wield it has to be restored nearly every week; Snape stays with Phineas Nigellus semi-permanently. (None of the other portraits will welcome him. His reasons do not excuse his conduct.)

Imagine the students unable to trust each other everyone informed on everyone, your best friend might turn you in.

Imagine the guilt that everyone carries (it should have been me, it’s my fault s/he’s dead, I told on them, it’s all my fault), the students incapable of meeting each other’s eyes because it’s my fault your best friend, your sibling, your Housemate, your boy/girlfriend is dead.

Imagine the memorials piled high with the wands of the dead. Imagine the memorials piled high with the self-snapped wands of the living.

Imagine the students who are never able to produce a Patronus.

Imagine Boggarts being removed from the curriculum because Riddikulus is near impossible to grasp, even for the sixth- and seventh-years. Because their friends and families dead will never, ever be funny.

Imagine the students for whom magic feels tainted.

Imagine the students who leave the wixen world hell, the students who leave Britain entirely, because there’s nothing left for them there.

Imagine the students who never use magic again.

(Image source.)

(From the mind of the wonderful lavenderpatil, a keen look at how students might be after war.)

(via thegenderqueeralchemist)

Anonymous Asked:
With your Nico dying think ask: yeah I mean I ship percico buuuut...I don't want it to become canon because I feel like it wouldn't be very healthy for Nico? I'm in love with Nico x happiness (and future jasico. FUTURE JASICO). You made some very valid points and I just want Nico to be HAppY.

jasongraceless:

ineffable-hufflepuff:

jasongraceless:

Continuation of this discussion.

I’m sorry, but I don’t ship Percico, because I ship Percabeth way too hard, and Percy is definitely straight. I just find it weird to change his whole personality and sexuality just so Nico is happy… I think Percy has already found his match, and I 54353423431431234234234% doubt Rick is going to change that. And what you said about it not being healthy was totally true, again, it would not be a good impression on the kids reading, either. They need to understand that you can be happy without always getting the girl guy.

I totally don’t have any problem with Percico fan fiction, even if I don’t ship them, but I just really don’t want it to be canon, I’m sorry. However, Kate on FFnet really made me love Jasico… Again, I don’t want it to be canon, but I think it’s cute :)

So, yeah. I think Nico will end up forever alone with 82 skeleton cats, because there aren’t any other people we can canon-ly set him up with, and I don’t think there will be any new characters introduced in BoO just for him, but I’m pretty sure that it’s going to be enough for him to have seven amazing friends :) 

NICO x HAPPY IS THE BEST SHIP EVER

IT SHOULD BE A TAG

Why is this in this Percico tag?

Can we follow at least BASIC fandom tag etiquette please? 

Also, I see your Straight Percy, raise you Bisexual Percy who spends his early adolescence in the closet as most of us did, and ask you to leave. 

I put it under the Percico tag because we were discussing Percico. Anything that I discuss goes under its proper tag, even if it’s vetoed. I’m putting this under the Percico tag again, because that’s what I’m talking about right now. If anyone looking at my blog is looking for a Percico discussion, they go to that tag.

I realize that most people don’t come out or even realize they’re bisexual or gay until their late teenage years, or even later, and I didn’t mean to offend anyone by saying that, but this isn’t real life. This is fiction, and I highly doubt that Percy would come out in the last book and let go of Annabeth and the amazing relationship he’s built with her just to make Nico happy. If Percy was real, I would never doubt that he could be bisexual, because most people’s sexuality changes from time to time, it’s not a permanent thing, but for the sake of the story, I don’t think Percy will change. Most people who are unaware that they are bisexual have at least a little interest in people of their gender, even if they don’t realize it. We’ve had Percy POV before, and he’s never paid attention to any guys, as far as we know of. This adds to it. 

Again, these are solely my thoughts, and I wasn’t rude to you, so can we follow at least basic polite discussion etiquette, please?

Posting anti-ship stuff IN SHIP TAGS is against fandom tag etiquette. If you need tags for organization, create a personal tag that won’t show up in fan space. (“My percyxnico” would work, for example.) 

Posting anti-percico stuff in the percico tag IS rude. You were rude with your actions. I was not impolite in pointing that out. 

Now, we just spent 6 and a half whole books with the assumption that NICO was straight. (Well, I didn’t. But many fans did.) 

Do I think that Percico will become canon in BoO? Not really, because yes, Percabeth has been super built up. (Not because Percy HAS TO BE STRAIGHT. Because he absolutely doesn’t have to be.) Percy can be bisexual and love Annabeth. 

Now, you’re talking to a bisexual woman. I know how it feels to be bisexual and deny it from yourself. It’s very common for bisexuals who are still coming to terms with their sexuality to vehemently deny that part of themselves. I did it for years.

 Given Percy’s feelings surrounding Luke, in all of their complicated splendor, AND given the mythological context of the entire series, I’d say Bisexual Percy is the most reasonable interpretation of his character.