#i hate losing too but-- idk

[chelleisamazing]

You know that meme which goes "things that would send a victorian child into a coma" etc? Well, I'm a bayern fan til I die but sometimes I see the things we complain about in here and think some of ya'll would go into a coma if you supported any other 'normal' club

[inkskinned]

he says i hate everyone except you and that is addictive and that is kind of romantic and beautiful because you're young and you're kind of a sarcastic asshole too and you don't like bad boys, per say, but you don't really like good ones either. and you like that you were the exception, it felt like winning.

except life is not a romance book, and he was kind of being honest. he doesn't learn to be nice to your friends. he only tolerates your family. you have to beg him to come with you to birthday parties, he complains the whole time. you want to go on a date but - people are often there, wherever you're going. he's just so angry. about everything, is the thing. in the romance book, doesn't he eventually soften? can't you teach him, through your own sense of whimsy and comfort?

at first - you know introverts often need smaller friend groups, and honestly, you're fine staying at home too. you like the small, tidy life you occupy. you're not going to punish him for his personality type.

except: he really does hate everyone but you. which means he doesn't get along with his therapist. which means he has no one to talk to except for you. which means you take care of him constantly, since he otherwise has no one. which means you sometimes have to apologize for him. which means he keeps you home from seeing your friends because he hates them. you're the single exception.

about a decade from this experience, you'll type into google: how to know if a relationship is codependent.

he wraps an arm around you. i hate everyone except you. these days, you're learning what he's actually confessing is i have very little practice being kind.

[gangles-toybox]

Ford, reading the Catcher in the Rye in highschool: *reads it like a good student but doesn't really understand why people like it as much as they do at the time, Holden is hard to relate to for him probs* [he would understand him more as he grew up]

Stanley, actually reading a The Catcher in the Rye and not cheating off of Ford for once: HE LIKE ME! HE JUST LIKE ME FR!!!!

[actuallyitsstar]

our past is a foreign country, our neighborhoods have changed. i was the fool who got l u c k y. you were the fool who flew s t r a i g h t. (insp).

[twinstxrs]

the gorgug-porter conversation is interesting to me because like. yea for the overwhelming majority of the conversation porter’s being shitty & trying to fit gorgug into a box that gorgug just does not fit into by trying to make gorgug’s relationship with his rage more focused on the aggression aspect of it. but then there’s also this specific thing that brennan brought up again in the ap, which is that gorgug’s relationship with his rage is wholly “this is a tool i use to protect my friends.” which isn’t a bad thing! but that’s his Whole relationship with it, & gorgug seems to place next to no value on his rage in relationship to himself. which is problematic, because it’s first & foremost his rage.

being raised in a household with a sort of toxic positivity largely meant that, whether or not it was his parents’ intention, gorgug internalized the message that more traditionally “negative” emotions such as anger are the wrong response to something. part of the reason he prioritizes his artificing is probably because it’s “fixing” things. in comparison to being a barbarian, which gorgug associates with “breaking” things. good vs. bad behavior, in his eyes.

it’s a totally unacceptable bar to measure a 16 y/o by, but i do think part of porter’s reasoning for not letting gorgug multiclass is him recognizing that gorgug generally does not value anger as a valid emotional response to something, at the very least for himself. & that directly conflicts with what being a barbarian is, because whether you like it or not, that rage is what fuels you. but again, barring a kid from pursuing something they deeply care about in part (not entirely, porter has a lot of more bullshit reasons) because of their fundamental values & world outlook is crazy.

so yes, 98% of porter’s reasoning is pretty shitty, immature, rife with a toxic view that there’s only one proper way to access rage, & generally not a good thing to do as a teacher, but also within that reasoning is the 2% of ‘there is a fundamental part of yourself that you only value if you can use it to take care of other people & you need to accept that as something that can take care of you, too.’ but that’s something to discuss with a therapist or a guidance counselor, not something that should hugely impact gorgug’s academic future.

[jerreeeeeee]

as much as i enjoy the more wholesome fantasy high parents like jawbone and sklonda and the thistlesprings there’s something so compelling and achingly real about bill seacaster that makes him my favorite. he and fabian have a relationship that is so deeply unhealthy and entrenched in distorted ways of viewing other people and parenthood and the world, and yet is so fiercely and undeniably loving. like, is bill seacaster a good dad? what does being a good dad even mean for someone like bill? bill seacaster has such unrealistic and toxic expectations of fabian and a myopic, entirely self-centered way of relating to him for most of his life, and yet, you truly get the sense that even if fabian disappoints him again and again and never steps out of his shadow and never becomes the man bill wants him to be, bill will never love him any less than completely and unconditionally. bill seacaster is a man who has built his entire life and sense of identity around doing whatever he wants and never facing consequences and never thinking about anyone else. bill seacaster becomes disappointed in his son. and he finds the idea of that so unacceptable that, instead of demanding that fabian meet his expectations, bill loves him so much that he reconsiders his entire concept of himself and the purpose of his life, and he grows. a man whose legacy and identity was based around selfishness and narcissism and unwillingness to bend, and fabian makes him change.

[coolcarabiner]

lesbians who are terfs will never make any sense to me crying about the supposed exclusivity of the “female experience” like my brother in christ she experienced an othered, lonely, confusing childhood where she was made to feel inadequate in her gender, sexuality, or both just the same as you and instead of letting this unify you against patriarchy you just enforce it on other people to maintain the sliver of “power” you think you have. how do u not see how dumb this is oh my god

[almond-tofu-chan]

the crossover of the century! cure feenie and cure trixie! ofc feat. molly as mofurun

bonus naven as headmaster kochou. and also a very confused rick who somehow got roped into being felice? ?

[smrtnik07]

[dots-in-my-head]

[dykedvonte]

I hate the stretch lines in the front of Curly's uniform because that means the devs rushed to make a model in like a month or so and thought "They gotta at least know he has huge knockers, gotta know he's got back pain." Cause like what is the thematic importance of his tits having overhang?

What responsibility is that representing? Breast reduction? It shows an inherent greed in his character due to the excess and heshouldletmeholdone and that he clearly is blinded cause if he tries to look down his damn ladder all he's seeing is his own cleavage.

[iknowwhereyousnoozeatnight]

couple of mello + near doodles

[booksandmore]

moshang as persephone and hades writes itself

[bittercappuccinu]

tried drawing a wallpaper for myself :)

shadow alone below because i like how he looks more

[teddybeartoji]

thank you everybody who crossed their fingers and toes bc aventurine AND acheron are now both safely at home:3333333333

[jankwritten]

Jasico Bingo Challenge: Boyfriend Sweater

When Nico walks into the dining pavilion wearing a golden yellow sweater, Percy does a double-take. Actually, it’s a triple-take: first, he thought it was a new Apollo kid, then he realized it was Nico, then he realized it was Nico. Wearing a color. 

Is the world ending again? Was there something really wrong with the milk in his cereal? What in the everloving Hades was going on?! 

Nico sits down at table 13, unbothered as ever, and pulls the sleeves of the hoodie up. It’s way too big on him, like Big Bird shed and some poor fucker decided Nico di Angelo needed the empty muppet skin in his wardrobe. 

(Is it Nico? Maybe some changeling creature kidnapped their resident son of Hades and has decided to take his place? Maybe Percy needs to go over there and test him out, y’know, knick him with some iron or something to see if he burns. If it’s an imposter, though, they’re doing a piss-poor job. Is it an intentionally bad job? Gods, it’s barely eight AM on a Tuesday, does he seriously have to go save Nico from somewhere and kill a monster wearing his face? That does not sound like his ideal Tuesday, if he’s really real. He’ll totally do it, but he won’t like it, and maybe he should start planning how to take out a creature like-) 

“I can see the mountain you’re building,” Annabeth says, popping Percy’s strangely detailed daydream of hunting down and killing a weird, half-Nico, half-demon gremlin creature. He blinks the image out of his eyes and looks up at her, her hip resting against the edge of his table. 

She looks amused. He squints. “Nico’s been bodysnatched.” 

“Mm, no,” she says easily, with a shake of her head. “Nico’s wearing a jacket.” 

“A yellow jacket.” Percy looks at the son of Hades again. He just- can’t wrap his head around it. He hasn’t seen Nico willingly wear a color since the guy was ten years old. “A yellow jacket that’s, like, twice his size.” 

“It’s a molehill, seaweed brain. A jacket’s just a jacket.” 

“But it’s yellow.” 

“What was your nightmare about?” 

Percy physically recoils at the non sequitur, tilting back in his seat incredulously. His- what? His nightmare? What does his nightmare have to do with a jacket, anyway, that’s got nothing to do with this. 

He folds his arms on the table and makes a face. “That’s unrelated.” 

Annabeth’s mouth raise at the corners, her eyes watching him like an all-knowing hawk. An owl, three-sixty vision and nothing but questions, who, who? 

She pets through his hair and pushes her weight back up. As she draws her hand back, she taps his cheek, then his chin, and says, “just leave him alone, then.” 

Percy watches her walk back to her table. When she sits, he buries his face in his arms and groans. 

“Jason has also been bodysnatched,” Percy hisses to Annabeth during pottery class. 

“What makes you say that.” She throws her lump of clay at the pedestal in front of her and gives Percy the same look she gave him this morning. 

Percy decides to ignore that look, because that is the look of reason and he is far beyond that now. “He was wearing this black jacket with, like, skulls in hourglasses and weird skeleton butterflies and shit during Latin.” 

“He is related to Thalia, you know,” Annabeth hums. She wets her hands as the plate before her starts to spin. “Maybe he’s going through the family goth phase.” 

Had she not just leaned in to start forming something magical and incredible out of clay, Percy would slouch over Annabeth’s shoulders and plead with her to at least consider that something weird is going on. Maybe it’s not bodysnatchers or changelings, okay, but something is strange! Jason Grace does not just decide to wear emo shit! Jason Grace once had a panic attack because the Aphrodite Cabin stole a pair of his jeans and cut them into shorts! This is a man who has a stricter sense of style than Nico, who, fucking hell, don’t even get Percy started on that. The yellow jacket has remained on all day and it’s haunting him. 

Annabeth dips her thumbs into the top of her clay and does not respond. 

Percy slumps down into the stool beside hers and huffs, more for himself than anything. 

Change is okay. Change is fine. But change like this, with no reason, is the opposite of fine. Change like this is a low-blow stink bomb in an otherwise perfect Capture the Flag game, impossible to get out of his clothes and his skin and his hair. Change like this is how people die. 

He claws his hands up into his hair and listens to the steady whir of the pottery wheel, the sound of wet clay being molded and shaped in different ways. There’s a lull of conversation from other campers in the class, kids from all different cabins, because to them this is any other day. 

Maybe this should be any other day to him, too. No, not maybe. It should be. This should be a regular Tuesday, full of regular classes with his regular friends who are ordinary in whatever ways they can be, but instead, Percy’s brain has to go and mix up everything, make everything feel- out of control. 

HIs next exhale shakes too hard for his liking. His shoulders are too tense. 

Beside him, Annabeth keeps calmly shaping her pot. She dips her hands into the water every so often, probably executing some flawless plan of action she drafted the night before. She’s not always delicate with her hands, with art like this - Percy knows that’s something she’s self conscious about. She never thinks she can be good at finer things. 

That’s normal. That’s normal for her. Ordinary, to think that Annabeth Chase would tackle arts and crafts in the same way she would a war strategy, devising the perfect approach for a flawless result. Executing it flawlessly. 

She pinches too hard pulling up the walls of the pot. It crumples, then swings off the wheel entirely with the force of it’s motion, splattering wetly across Percy’s arms and the other campers at the bench. 

Percy watches Annabeth glare at her failed creation. She sticks her hands in the dirty water to scrub the clay off, wipes her hands off on her shirt, and pulls on Percy’s sleeve. 

“I hate pottery,” she mutters as they rise together. 

Percy grins. “I think it knows that,” he teases, and follows as she stomps toward the exit. 

When the answer slaps Percy in the face, it feels more like a gut punch in the way it makes him breathless and off-balance. 

“You’re…huh?” 

Annabeth clicks her tongue. “You two couldn’t think of a better way to do this?” she gestures between Nico and Jason, standing awkwardly side by side as if they don’t know what to do with themselves. 

They’re still wearing the wrong jackets. Each other’s jackets. 

Percy makes a face, then realizes that might not be the best response to his two friends telling him their dating, so he tries to make a different face. 

The world’s not ending. They’re just…together. Sharing jackets, like couples do. 

“We didn’t want to make it a big deal,” Jason says. He keeps glancing at Nico and chewing on the inside of his lip. Nico, with the golden sleeves of apparently-Jason’s-jacket pulled over his hands once more, looks stubborn. Like he’s ready to fight about something. 

Percy wipes his sweaty hands off on his shirt and gestures, though he’s not sure at what. “But Nico’s wearing a color?” 

He feels more than sees Annabeth’s disapproving glare at the side of his head. Jason draws himself up, then seems to falter. His head cocks to the side and he shakes his head. 

“What?” 

“That’s a big deal,” Percy reiterates. “Nico doesn’t wear colors.” 

“Nico is standing right here, wearing a color,” Nico grumbles. He shoves his hands into the pocket of the sweatshirt and gives Percy a glare that is far more familiar than literally anything else happening right now. “I’m allowed to wear whatever I want to wear, for the record.” 

“But you don’t!” 

“Well I do now. If you have a fucking problem with it-” 

“I never said I had a problem with it,” Percy snaps back, immediately on the defensive. “I was fucking worried about you, you little shit, I thought something was wrong. I thought- I don’t know what I thought! I thought you two were swapped with some other versions of yourself, I thought you’d been- I don’t know- abducted by aliens, or fairies, or something!” He throws his hands up in the air, then drops them back onto his head, staring sort of at the middle point between the two of them. “You can’t do that shit and not expect- I mean, because, come on, guys, you’re you, you two fucking freak out if someone so much as touches your clothes. What were we supposed to think?” 

The hearth crackles. It’s too pleasant a sound for the sick Percy feels. 

Annabeth takes his hand, at least, and squeezes. His face burns with the shame of yelling like this, over this, it just feels so fucking stupid all of a sudden. He feels so stupid. Annabeth tried to tell him it was nothing, and he let it all get away with him, he let that nasty part of his brain win and win and win, and now he’s taking his losses out on them. 

“I’m happy for you two,” he makes himself say, when no one else speaks. “I think I just also need therapy.” 

Finally, Annabeth snorts. It’s a noise Percy knows, one he can ground himself with, same as her palm hot in his, her weight tilting into his side as her head bonks into his chin. 

The stress he’d held bundled up in his spine and his shoulders and his stomach all day releases in an instant. He slouches back in against her and laughs against the top of her head. 

“Jesus Christ,” Nico mutters, when Percy can’t stop himself, dissolving into a fit of hysterics over his own bullshit. “This is why I said we should just tell them. He’s laughing at us.” 

“I think he’s laughing at himself,” Jason says. He sounds uncertain. 

Percy hugs Annabeth tight, and laughs himself hoarse. 

EXTRA 

Nico stares at himself in Jason’s mirror, with the sweater hanging halfway down his thighs, sleeves hanging off his hands, the peak of his collarbone through the freaking collar. He narrows his gaze into a glare. 

“I look like a toddler,” he says derisively. 

Jason, still getting dressed himself, laughs. When he appears in the mirror behind Nico, looking far more proportional in Nico’s sweatshirt (which is frankly fucking unfair), his grin softens into a smile that’s- something. Sweet. 

Nico twitches his nose.  

“I look like I’m six years old,” he says, grabbing the hem of the sweatshirt and yanking down. “Why are we doing this.” 

“‘Cause it’s silly,” Jason says. He presses a kiss against the side of Nico’s head and hugs him loosely from behind. “You don’t look like a baby, either. You just look your age.” 

Nico looks down at himself. Maybe there’s a point there, a point to be made about how he dresses for practicality, dresses to blend in, but never to express himself. Maybe there’s a point to be made about how his discomfort isn’t really for how he feels about this, but how he thinks others will feel about it. 

He tugs at the hem again, and looks back up. Jason’s eyes in the mirror are bright, as if taking in the sight of Nico in his hoodie like this is something to savor. 

Nico likes when Jason looks at him like that. He likes how it feels to be looked at like he’s attractive. He likes how it feels to be wanted. 

“I guess,” Nico concedes, leaning further back into Jason’s chest. Immediately, Jason’s stance is more solid, sturdy, holding them both up as easy as breathing. He holds Nico like it’s a promise that he’ll never let go. 

He looks at the pair of them in the mirror, a cohesive unit rather than two separate halves. Jason in black is definitely something Nico wants to see more of, especially with the way Nico’s clothes fit snug over him, just a little tight at the biceps and chest. He looks good, not that he doesn’t look good otherwise. Different. 

With Nico his contrast in yellow…maybe it isn’t so bad. Maybe he likes being the counterbalance, even. 

Jason squeezes him again. Those damn eyes in the mirror are making Nico too warm, like his stomach is full of hot jell-o. 

“Okay, fine, let’s do this,” he huffs. The difference in his tone must be audible, though, because Jason perks up and grins, his eyebrows up, face aglow. Nico can’t look at him for too long. It’s still strange knowing he can make someone feel like that. He doesn’t know what to do when Jason turns the full puppy-love thing on. “And stop looking at me like that, you’re going to give me cavities.” 

“Okay,” Jason says in a voice identical to his expression. 

Nico grabs his hand and squeezes it twice. 

Jason squeezes back, so tight it aches. Nico’s heart swells with bright affection. 

Alright. Maybe yellow isn’t so bad, actually.