#he got his statue

[spacefloosie]

[curseofdelos]

mentally I'm still here:

Nico insisting that neither of them are going to be sacrificed/left behind to satisfy the prophecy is a perfect encapsulation of his growth over the series and it makes me SO soft to think about

Nico as a character - particularly in BoO - doesn't have a lot of self-preservation. He doesn't really care what happens to him as long as the mission gets done. We see this most explicitly after he almost fades into nothingness after the Bryce Lawrence incident:

And again when he considers shadow travelling into Octavian's tent to assassinate him:

(Nico himself notes here that it was unlikely he would survive another jump. If Will hadn't stopped him, he probably would have died.)

In both cases, Nico was willing to risk death for the sake of ending the war. He puts very little value on his own life, and repeatedly argues to Reyna, Hedge, and Will that the possibility of saving camp (a place he never felt welcome at, might I add) is worth the risk of losing his life.

Even before Nico went on the quest with Reyna and Hedge, the others were concerned about his safety. Percy tried to remind him how unpredictable his shadow travelling could be, and Hazel notes that he has been acting strangely lately:

It's not quite clear what Hazel is worried about here, but my interpretation of this scene is that she's concerned that Nico isn't thinking - or perhaps, isn't caring - about what effect the constant shadow travelling will have on his wellbeing. Between Tartarus, the jar, and the Cupid incident, Nico's mental state is at its worst at this point in the series, and I think Hazel is worried he'll do something reckless - something he can't come back from.

And so in TSATS, when Nico is told that he's going to have to leave something of equal value behind in order to save Bob, the old him would have had zero issue sacrificing himself if that's what it took to ensure Will and Bob's survival. This version of Nico, who's been going to therapy w/ Mr D and opening up more and built a little support system for himself, can't fathom it.

Nico in BoO did not have a future. He had fully convinced himself that nobody cared about him or would miss him if he was gone - not Percy who fought for him at every turn in PJO, not his sister Hazel, not his new friends Jason and Reyna. He was ready to leave both camps behind because he couldn't see himself ever being happy there. He couldn't see himself being happy at all.

But now, in TSATS, he has a boyfriend that he loves, he has friends that he loves, and he has a community in Camp Half-Blood. He has experienced so much loss that losing someone else is his worst fear. The old Nico would have considered sacrificing himself to protect Will and Bob. At the very least, he would have kept that option in his back pocket as a 'just in case'; he wouldn't have sworn on the Styx that he wouldn't stay behind.

This Nico, however, is doing much better - not perfect, but better. He loves Will, and he wants a life with him, and he's not willing to give that up for anything. Nico has hope for the future, and he's clinging to that hope with everything he has. He sees a light at the end of the tunnel, and he wants to reach it. He's not willing to sacrifice himself because it means losing that future.

Gone is the cynical pessimistic Nico who assumes the worst because the worst is all he thinks he can have. Here is the Nico who has had a taste of happiness and is willing to fight to keep it. He's not going to sacrifice himself because he wants to live. He's not just fighting for Will here; he's fighting for himself too.

And seeing him go from "if it kills me, it kills me" to "it's not going to be me" makes me so ASDFGHJKL

[tanglepelt]

Dc x dp idea 66

Danny and Damian are twins.

Danny does not excel at majority of training. He does excel at stealth. One day he overhears a discussion regarding how there could only be one heir.

He knows he can’t defeat Damian. He also just doesn’t want to. They are by no means close, but it’s still his twin. So right there and then he plots.

Danny fakes his own death. Lighting a fire “accidentally” to “dispose” of his corpse. No risk of the pits bringing him back.

This leads to him in amity park. The Fentons were strange enough to take him in. A son story about how his family wants him dead. Jazz had always wanted a little brother.

Over time Danny realizes just how toxic the league was. Jazz helped a lot. He feels guilty about leaving Damian behind. And for having Damian “kill” him. Sneaking into the league is out of the question so he stews in guilt. Then the accident happens. 5 years later.

So he does go back. Damian isn’t there.

He ends up at a gala with Vlad or sam.

He sees Damian. Danny shoots his shot. Just popping up by him. Apologizing for using him to fake his own death and asking if he managed to realize how bad the league was.

All while dodging Damian’s attacks.

[moeblob]

I love them! So much!

[yrsonpurpose]

When I was a boy, my father used to bring me here. Early in the morning before the museum opened. Now I like to come at night. In here, at night, no one else is around to gawk at you or try and take your picture. You can slip between the statues like a shadow. When I was younger, I would dream of taking somebody I loved here. And he'd love it as much as I did. And we'd dance right here amidst all these statues. Just a daft pubescent fantasy. Please be patient with me, and I promise I will try and be brave for us. Because when they write the history of my life, I want it to include you, and my love for you. History, huh? Bet we could make some.

[spaghettito3]

It's always been Curly (Pre-crash Curly x Reader)

Captain Curly, the dependable captain of The Tulpar. That's who he was and will ever be.  ... Until you joined The Tulpar.

---

Or; a small look into Curly and his relationship with his name and title, with sprinklings of fluff.

ao3

It's always been Curly. Cur–ly; two syllables, a trip up and down the steps, the natural progression of things, finishing off a dance with a bow. It's Curly from the hiring manager of that fast food place when he'd made it just in time for his interview when he was 18, dressed in a suit; It's Grant from that awkward girl in middle school who decided she liked him after seeing him score a goal, then Curly once she knew him a bit more; It's Captain from his crew, and back to Curly again when they want to get on his good side. He was Curly.

He doesn't know how it all began, but eventually people started to favour his last name. It made sense, though; a name like Curly fits the bill for a dude with golden curls. He didn't mind that shift, either—two syllables always sounded better, together, than one, alone. He was Curly.

Grant is that one person sitting on the seat closest to the pick-up area of a coffee shop that you'd see for half a second when you go to get your drink. Curly is that dependable captain of The Tulpar with a crew that relies on him. Grant is that flower pot bought at a market years ago, left sitting at the back of the closet. Curly is a bundle of flowers packed perfectly in paper from that same market, just a few, more-populated stalls away. He was Curly.

So if that's the case, why do you insist on holding onto Grant so tightly?

When you introduced yourself to him and the crew last minute—courtesy of the Pony Express—you referred to him as Grant. Grant; one syllable, an unceremonious fall down the stairs, an abrupt stop, finishing off a dance with a trip. He'd been so used to everyone referring to him as Captain or Curly that a single word alone felt similar to when the wind back on Earth would sometimes suddenly pick up and make a mess of his perfectly styled hair. And despite seeing the mess you've made, you'd continue as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Grant this, Grant that. No mention of that blond curly-haired captain, save for the one you were choosing to call Grant at the moment.

It didn't bother him; he didn't let it bother him, not when he had a job to do and bills to pay and a freighter to man. Hell, it wasn't even about your usage of the name as well; just the reasoning behind why when everyone else called him Curly. Though it was starting to become less like a small gust of wind and more like a rocky, thorny, bordering-on-uncomfortable bump in the road, and his brain soon added that train of thought to the things he'd think about when he'd try to sleep.

He eventually cracked one sleepless night down by the kitchenette with you.

There wasn't anything special that triggered it; no mocking tone he'd sooner expect someone like Jimmy to use back at home, just a simple:

“Hey, Grant. Couldn't sleep as well?”

“Why do you call me that?”

He remembers the slight falter in your smile when he’d lost himself. Curly wouldn't start the conversation with that if he decided it was even a good idea to have that conversation at all. Your act wasn't hurting anyone; it was just a name. There was no need to confront you.

Though as much as he hated ever asking and wanted to take it back, to his dismay, you took it on the chin and chuckled. “It's your name.” Your eyes remained on his, your mug clink-clink-clinking as you stirred on it.

“Everyone calls me Curly.”

“Everyone calls you Curly,” you repeated. That's when you dropped your gaze, and he hated how his eyes immediately followed the line of sight down onto your mug, as if desperate to chase it. You continued stirring on your coffee—surely it's at a drinkable temperature by now—and he debated on getting his own cup. It'd be a waste of time to try to sleep now; no way that he wouldn't overthink and repeat this conversation ad infinitum in his mind.

Eventually, you looked up and he met your eyes at an embarrassing speed. His gaze flickered onto your lips when they quirked into a smile, as if you remembered something funny. You then, with a gentle hand, slid your mug over to him.

“What if Grant gets lonely?”

That was the stupidest thing you could've said.

After all, weren't Grant and Curly the same person? Why the need for that distinction? That's when he realised your eyes were still meeting his; unwavering, curious. You weren't looking at the curly blond hair, the Pony Express uniform, or the body he'd worked so hard to get—just his eyes.

Grant wanted to laugh—actually, he did laugh, it seemed, when a chuckle bubbled out of him.

“That makes no sense.”

He reached for the mug you offered and took a sip. Then, he lowered his cup to speak, his voice softer this time:

“...But I'm sure Grant appreciates the company.”

That was the stupidest thing he could've said. You told him as such with your own chuckle.

“I'll keep on sticking by Grant, then.”

His eyes flickered onto your lips again, and it became abundantly clear that you’d grin every time you said the name Grant; first, an ‘o’ shape with your mouth for the ‘gr’, then you'd widen the shape for ‘an’—before finally grinning to enunciate the ‘t’. Grant; one syllable, a hop down the stairs, a period in a sentence, finishing off a dance with the last step. He teared his eyes away and brought the mug to his lips again, a faint heat rising to his cheeks, but it was too late; now he wouldn't be able to stop noticing your smile every time you said his name or the way you said it.

Ever since then, every time he'd hear a “Grant!” he'd turn his head that way—no longer out of a sense of obligation, but because he wanted to. Because maybe if he turned fast enough he'd catch a glimpse of your smile mid-Grant… But then he'd probably turn his head right back, eyes wide in a panic, because oh god he's not supposed to be anticipating his crewmate’s smile like this.

He’ll think about the implications of his feelings as the captain of The Tulpar later, but for now… It's not so bad being Grant.

[corrodedcoughin]

eddie going in to scoops ahoy dressed as a pirate and saying he’s here to ‘plunder scoops’ treasure chest of ice cream yarhar’ only he gets to the counter and it’s Steve serving, not Robin. He was expecting Robin. What comes out of his mouth is ‘I’m here for your pleasure chest’. Cue eddie turning on his heel, walking out of scoops and sitting himself down in the fountain of the food court, hugging his knees while the corroded coffin boys throw pennies at him.

[agerasiaa]

A crack fic about Lucifer, Vox and Husk making an Alastor Hate Club. And it’s just them once a week bonding over how much they hate Alastor and Husk realizes more and more how he doesn’t actually hate Alastor and is bitter about it, Lucifer randomly trauma dumps about his tragic life, and by each meeting Lucifer and Husk notice how Vox’s sheer hate borderlines on obsession and they share awkward glances every time he starts ranting and shows them his Alastor shrine or something. And when he makes some comments like “Alastor does this and that every day” (some very specific detail about him only a stalker/someone with a long history with Al would know) and the other two are like “how do you know” and he’s like “I just do.”

[peigslayers]

i loved the part of the book where piranesi resolves to take better care of himself while he's rediscovering his own history. he just has so much compassion for himself! the journal upsets him so he takes a week off and does things he enjoys and then he settles into a safe place when he wants to tackle the subject again. and he doesn't believe The Other when he's told about his amnesia! he values his own insights and his own knowledge of the House even when fucking ketterley is actively trying to undermine his sense of self. piranesi's gentle treatment of himself and the person he used to be is genuinely so moving.

[gingermintpepper]

There are many things people expect from one called 'God of Blood'. Always, the first thought is the blood of war, the blood of violence, the blood of the weak shed for the goals of the strong. Ares doesn't think of the blood of battle at all. When he thinks of blood, he envisions the many tied knots of blood bonds and bonds forged in the blood of battle. Blood sons and blood daughters, blood brothers and battle sisters, blood oaths and blood vengeance - he watches over them all and keeps close each one of these bonds.

One cannot begrudge his displeasure then when he realises he cannot tell Leto's offspring apart just by looking at them.

It was easier when it was just Artemis. Dark hair curled about her shoulders, a fierce mien whenever Father summons her to the mountain, a scattering of bones and blood shed whenever she was disturbed; the eldest child of Leto was a wild thing, sharp toothed with sharper claws always at the ready. There's whispers of her being a twin, of her other half being made to crawl on their belly as penance for their sin of god-slaying but Ares pays it little mind. What twins look alike among their number? Even dog litters are born distinct with all their unique markings inlaid in their fur. Artemis' twin too would be much more than their sister's mirror image.

Pouring over his list now, he wishes anything about Phoebus Apollo was that simple.

Mirror image did not begin to describe it. The twins were the same height, the same build, had the same colour and texture hair, ate the same raw food and drank the same amount of nectar. There was no difference in how they dressed, no difference in the company they kept, no variance in the weapons they used. There are some days Ares still cannot believe Phoebus will grow into a man and not some nymph with the way his ears have that slender point. He watches them now, sitting together beneath a shady palm and stringing their bows in an uncanny unison and curses because he still cannot tell them apart. What use is his skill in knowing blood when they both have the same damn blood running through their veins? What bond is there to sense when they are tied so tightly together, Ares can scarcely tell brother from sister?

He sighs. Unadorned and completely alone, the only way to know who is who is to speak to them. He'll have to find more ways to tell them apart from a distance. Surely they cannot stay this similar all the rest of their immortal lives.

[drenched-in-sunlight]

people bending over backwards to scream Marika never loved Messmer when he alone has more blessings personally bestowed by her than any other demigods combined are so funny to me. also the fact that it's implied he used to live in Leyndell too 😂😂

also she killed an entire god herself and made sure said God is called all manner of names and depict as ugly forever. for him 😂😂

[ant1quarian]

because the kustard thoughts are wild:

consider Craftverse Dust, Horror, Classic and Killer having dated Fell before, and now he's been recruited into Nightmare's multi-planetary gang.

and has to deal with all of his exes.

[quinn-of-aebradore]

Something that really makes me feel insane about Ashton is the way a solid chunk of their arguments have always been that they’re Just A Guy. They’re nobody. They’re nothing. The gods never paid any attention to me, I don’t matter. I’m not special. And sure, with the information that was available early in the campaign, that was a reasonable conclusion for them to have drawn.

But now? When they know the powers that live inside them, powers that never have been combined before and likely never will be again? When several people have all independently pointed out how unprecedented their existence is? That basis for their argument loses all credibility. How many people on Exandria are walking around day to day with a fragment of a titan and a piece of the Luxon inside them? One. Ashton is a singularly unique being. “I’m nobody, I don’t matter,” bitch you’re the main character in a YA novel, calm down.

[azurem]

hhhhhg inkmare with emotionless ink????

No drawing yet I'm afraid (working on an animatic currently...!) but the idea of emotionless Ink even without Inkmare is so interesting to me????

First of all, I'd assume Nightmare knows there's a state of "being" that Ink threatens to access whenever his paints dry off. A "blankness". But this kind of blankness would be particularly... morbid?? for them??? both as monsters and as beings that need not to sleep. Like. Ink usually doesn't sleep, so Nightmare wouldn't describe this state as Ink sleeping with his eyes open. Ink doesn't need to breathe, so seeing him just... being still? wouldn't ring any particular bells if not for how still and how colorless he looks.

I'd assume his first thought would be (to his horror) a state similar to death. Except that death doesn't look like that to monsters, Ink's not dust. (Also I wonder if blank Ink has any reflexes? Would his eyes follow moving figures?) maybe he's falling down? But Ink can't do that, only monsters drowning in hopelessness do that.

But then he'd go "oh yes, he's told me something about... something like this". And he, of course, would seek Ink's vials. They must be close, since Ink never takes his sash off. Are they empty? (How could Ink forget to refill them? Is there... Is the paint just... running out?) Are they full? (Is there a problem with the process of drinking it? Or, may it never be, has Ink just decided to drink them all together? What could that be, if not an act of—?) Are the vials just. Gone? Where's the sash? (Did someone steal it? Why didn't he search for help, to get back to the Doodlesphere and refill the blank of his chest? Was there something hindering him to get it?)

Anyways, the moment passes, shock is somewhat gone, silenced. Nightmare knows what to do (Ink has told him. Has he? Nightmare knows what the vials do. It makes sense for him to be able to piece it together, even if Ink never was very explicit on it). So he, of course, decides to give Ink back a piece of himself. (Ink gave him a blue vial for this purpose, after all. So even if the sash is gone he can still be recovered. Can he?) So he force feeds him paint as. Y'know. As one does. And Ink's himself again! But he's all sad and stuff cuz. Blue. Oh well. He can now get himself to the Doodlesphere.

But now Nightmare knows what Ink looks like when he's blank. And may he hate the sight as much as Ink does. Evil stuff

(i imagine that if ink got somehow stuck as an emotionless being, nightmare would actually struggle "giving him up" to the stars. Like, he knows theyd probably help him better than he could since theyre friends and they probably have magic paint somewhere cuz. Friendship idk. But also Ink is his, he just couldn't- give him up. What if he lowkey falls over and dies. What if hes wrong and they cant help him and ink's stuck there as a thing forever and theyre not with him and nightmares just failed to keep him alive and well and he cant do anything and the villagers maybe were right after all and he cant be trusted with guarding things and hes an abomination BUT HE SWEARS HE CAN SO HE COULD ALWAYS GO AND GET INK BACK AND EVERYTHING WILL BE OKAY AND oh nvm inks back. Anyways)

[pepperpixel]

SAID HE LIKES CRAZY GIRLS,

BUT HE HATES WHEN I ACT CRAZY,

IT TAKES TWO TO TOXIC!

FINALLY!!! Finished these pics of jinx I’ve been working on!!!!! HOLY SHIT, these took so long…. But finally… they’re done… pls enjoy this art of my beautiful princess w a disorder. Featuring alternate colors for the big pic and also a closeup! Cuz I rlly like how both the lines and coloring on her face turned out… like the pink gradients w her eye… her deer in headlights expression,, like uve just startled a raccoon digging thru ur trashcan and r two seconds away from getting mauled.. m proud of it!

[drowningmoon]

Rewatching teen wolf whenever I'm having a bad day because no matter what type of day I'm having, Derek Hale is having a worst one