#he got his statue

[spacefloosie]

[technically-human]

First meeting

[chloesimaginationthings]

Vanesss was NOT doing her job in FNAF movie

[guardian-angle22]

911 lone star -> tk & jonah waking up carlos in 5.12

[starry-bi-sky]

im dedicating this to @detectivedarling. i felt inspired after seeing their little ficlet yesterday sadhjfl 🫶

-

Danny's grip on his cane tightens.

"What—"

His voice cracks. He stops, clears it, then tries again in spite of the nausea twisting in his gut. "What are — you, uh, watching, Bruce?" He sounds horribly far away.

Bruce doesn't look at him, his attention laser-focused on the screen. Which is— fine. It's usually not a problem, Bruce gets like that when he hyper-focuses on a case, and unless it's urgent — or he's been at it for hours — Danny sees no need to pull him away from it. He likes the quiet camaraderie they have, it's companionable and unique to the two of them.

He wishes he was right now though. Looking at him, that is.

That way he wasn't watching what was clearly one of Danny's ghost fights. One of the nastier ones, if the collateral damage and rubble on the street is of any indication.

Danny tries to remember which one that is. He shuffles a little closer to the desk, ignoring the rock in his stomach or the ugly weightlessness in his arms. It's not the blood blossoms, that much he knows. He just recently had an injection so it shouldn't be bothering him this soon—

So it's just nerves. Perfect.

Most footage of his fights are— messy, at best. Unusable at worst. Amity Park was obsessed with appearing 'normal' when they first started happening, and typical news stations censor the worst of the fights anyways for publishing, since they can get pretty gory at times. And ghosts move too fast to be caught on regular standard cameras, not including distance and light and—

That is to say— finding usable ghost fight videos is hard.

Danny wonders how Bruce got his hands on this one, and then stops wondering.

The audio is muted, which is - good. Good, because the fight is ugly and chaotic and clearly this was taken on someone's phone. Fuck, he can't remember if he ever saw that before — clearly not. They're hiding behind an overturned car, and Danny grits his teeth so he doesn't tell that idiot to run.

The camera turns up, and focuses on two figures in the air. It takes a few seconds, but when it does, Danny gets hit with a wave of vertigo. His grip tightens and he leans heavily on his cane, he waits for the black dots to disappear.

He- uh, he remembers this fight now. Uh, sort of.

He remembers being twelve at the time, and he remembers some of the injuries he got out of it. His eyelid spasms abruptly. This ghost wasn't one of his regulars, so he doesn't remember whatever name they had, barely remembered what they looked like up until- uh. Now.

Was he always that small? Well— Phantom's never been particularly big, perks of being a dead kid, but— it's - different. Seeing it from an outsider perspective. Was he that small? Or is it just because he's wearing a jumpsuit clearly too big for him that casts the illusion of being small?

Doesn't really - matter. Now. He can't access his ghost form, and he already knows the answers to his appearance.

Phantom is clearly bleeding, viscous and violently green like the bubbles of a lava lamp, clutching onto a limp shoulder that's missing an arm from the elbow down. Half his face is drenched in similar blood, the eye on the drenched side is closed — not because he can't see through the ectoplasm.

Danny's memories of that fight slowly come in a bit clearer. Right. He took a pole to the eye in that one. That had - hurt. A lot. Getting an eye gouged out usually does. It and the missing arm took hours to grow back.

He rubs his eye with his palm for no other reason than it itches.

The other ghost isn't untouched of any injury either, but he's not in a state of dismemberment like Phantom is.

Danny drops his gaze down at Bruce, whose sitting in his chair with his hands threaded together, looking so tense that Danny half expects to meet solid steel if he were to touch his back. His face is - blank. Terribly blank, with an intensity in his eyes that Danny doesn't see often.

He looks terribly distressed.

He opens his mouth, and finds that nothing comes out. His throat is thick with an ugly, tar-like feeling that makes his eyes sting. Kinda reminds him of when someone wraps their hands around your throat and presses. He closes his mouth, then tries again.

"B—" hhhhhh, "Buzz."

Finally Bruce looks at him, one hand slaps the space button on the keyboard, and the video pauses. His expression doesn't shift, but there's a weight in the lines of his face that reminds Danny of a set of weights sagging.

He looks quite like he's grieving something.

Bruce opens his mouth, his voice comes out terribly soft and heartbroken: "He looks like you."

Which is— a terrifying sentence in and of itself. One that makes Danny's legs shake and ignite his ragged, poison-chewed nerves alight with the need to run. An instinctive urge to deny, deny, deny.

How could he? He could say, that's a ghost, Bruce. I'm not a ghost. He could crack a joke, and ask, 'do I look dead to you?' or say something about how he knows that his parents studied ghosts, but that didn't make him one.

He could say that, and he could say it knowing full well that Bruce would see right through it. He'd probably let Danny too.

Danny closes his eyes. They sting, you see? So does his nose, right in the back like someone popped him in the face. And his throat is thick and gross and like someone stuck a spider, the big fat tarantula kind, right down into his esophagus.

He breathes in — through his mouth, because his nose stings and so it'd be best not to irritate it further with air — and it's terribly shaky and uneven. But it clears a pathway to his lungs big enough for him to say — whisper, really:

"You know, I think you're the first person to notice that."

[wishyoudwell]

I thought Legend was bad with his present already but Four just did the Exact Same Thing. Okay. And Wars is jealous now.

[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

[chasing-faith-and-fate]

Moon 45

Pt 2

Moon 45 p1 | Moon 46

[agnesandhilda]

watched conclave last night and then read the wikipedia entry for the book and now I'm wondering about the category ten shitstorm that a publicly intersex pope would cause

[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!

[pixelatedraindrops]

Thats how it went right? XD

Yuma Kokohead's origin story.

Based on this meme. I had to do it. It was too accurate for them… Makoto is the perfect malewife haha. I love naegiri so much (even if my DR phase has been over, and now I'm fixated on its successor lol)

Bonus

A lil’ bundle of joy, hope, luck, & future sleuthing~ 💜

(and maybe some poor choices lol)

[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.

[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.

[emmavakarian-theirin]

soooooo i accidentally got lucanis killed trying to trigger new dialogue but i guess you could say i got a bunch of new dialogue anyway :')

[the epilogue slide]

[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.