I Don't Mind That Walker Scobell Doesn't Look Like Book!Percy Because 1) He's Absolutely Got The Spirit.

Oh that fandom? I like it a normal amount *shoves pinterest boards under bed* *shoves playlists in the closet* *shoves the dream I had about it last night into a bush* *closes youtube and tumblr and throws computer into a lake*

Yes, like please correct me I mean I’m the one making a mistake..I srsly don’t get people who have a problem wth that

Reblog if you 100% okay with a transgender person correcting you if you accidentally misgender them or use their dead name.

please do

not a masochist but I want her to throw me into (preferably through) a wall :)

^^not mine

A response to this prompt from @gingerly-writing

CW: Death, mention of murder, serious wounds, reanimating the dead

"I wasn't important enough for [hero] to save, for anyone to save. I wasn't even enough to save myself. So why the hell did you bring me back to life?"

"To save you."

Villain crooked their finger, trailing the blue hue of livor mortis from Sidekick's cheek to the gaping hole at the base of their throat, raw and black but no longer weeping. A twin wound marred the back of their neck just below Villain's cradling grip, but they ignored both wounds as much as they did the deadly chill soaking into their fingertips.

Sidekick stared them dead in the eyes, hard, unblinking. They'd had such lovely eyes in life, a bright shade of bottle-green that even Villain couldn't help admiring from time to time. Now a hazy film clouded them a pale, greenish grey. How unfortunate.

Villain did not flinch or turn away, but the venom gathering in Sidekick's mouth did not dry.

"Liar," they spat.

Villain raised one brow. "Is that a fact?"

"You barely acknowledged I was alive. Why would that change after I died?"

Villain pulled them further into their arms, wet locks pasting to the criminal's face as they went forehead to forehead. "Perhaps I've always been secretly and madly in love with you."

Sidekick thrashed, but their limbs still carried the heavy stiffness of rigor mortis, and would for at least a couple more hours, so all they succeeded in doing was bapping the heel of one half-closed hand against Villain's chin.

Villain drew back a few inches and quirked an unimpressed smile. "What? Cuter up close? Come on, you've hit me harder than that."

"Let go!" Sidekick cried, squirming uselessly, tears pricking their clouded eyes.

"Alright, alright, calm down." Villain tutted at them like a tantruming child. "Let's get you out of here first."

Tucking their arm under Sidekick's cold legs, they hoisted them into a bridal carry and started toward the mouth of the cave. The leftover inch of chain hanging off the do-gooder's anklet clinked with each step and glinted vaguely as they stepped out into the sun. As Sidekick clumsily attempted to shield their face with one arm, Villain shifted them a little and laid one hand loosely across their eyes.

"You don't have to--" Sidekick began snippily, but the roar of waves crashing on the rocks cut them off. Their entire body seized, each muscle growing even stiffer.

Was that what they'd heard in the hours before the tide came? In Supervillain's videos, Sidekick knelt blindfolded on the cave floor. How would it have felt hearing that sound, not knowing how much time was passing or how far the water was rising? To feel the cold water start gathering around your legs? What a cruel way to spend one's final moments. Then for Supervillain to cut it all off with a blade? That was just unnecessary torture.

"The thing is, Hero should have saved you," Villain said, starting up the slope. They knew talking about a different angle to their death wasn't much of a distraction, but it was all they could think to say. They're plan hadn't gotten much further than a basic outline. "They're making themselves look like a mess on tv, wailing and crying about being too late, but I saw them that day. A lot of flying back and forth, and walking around, but not really going anywhere."

Sidekick sniffled a little, tears dripping icy on Villain's fingertips. "Why were you watching them?"

"I'm always watching them," Villain said. "Even right now, I'm watching them."

They lifted their fingers briefly to twist their square watch toward Sidekick's face.

"Click that button on the side."

Sidekick hesitated, but finally, with some difficulty, they jabbed their thumb into the button and lit the screen with a view of the street. Clicking it again switched the image to Hero's house, the lot outside their workplace, the rooftop view of the sky, etc.

"Cameras." Villain dropped their hand back over Sidekick's eyes. "If I want to keep on Hero's plans, I need to keep an eye on them. But I only get so much. I know Hero didn't try to save you that day, what I don't know is why."

"Like I said," Sidekick mumbled. "I'm not very important."

"I don't buy that."

Sidekick jolted. "Y-you don't?"

"No. Any human loss is a blotch on Hero's reputation, let alone their own Sidekick. They're spinning it their way now, but allowing your death was a huge risk."

They spotted their car at the top of the slope and jogged the last few meters to the back door. Sidekick blinked rapidly up at them as they removed their hand and laid them in the backseat.

Villain met their eyes. "I think you're very important. Enough to scare Hero very badly."

"That's why you saved me."

Villain grimaced. "Well I could go on about how gracious I am, but yes. Apparently, you know something big enough that Hero wanted you dead? I simply had to hear it straight from the horse's mouth."

Villain looked at them expectantly, but Sidekick only stared back.

"One problem with that," they finally said, voice hushed.

Villain leaned in closer. "What's that?"

"I don't know why Hero wanted me dead. I...I thought we were...friends."

Their voice cracked on the last word and a new set of cold tears streamed their cheeks.

Villain wasn't sure how to respond. The beings they brought back to life often carried trauma, but usually, they didn't deal with them directly or need them for quite so long. Not to mention they were in breach of their biggest rule: don't bring back anyone they knew personally.

It was a precaution put in place only a couple years after they discovered their powers. They'd quickly learned that the pain of losing someone was nothing compared to the agony of losing them a second time. People often wanted goodbyes. They wanted closure. Six more months of orange sticky buns and bedtime stories cut off in a random instant did not bring closure.

But they didn't really know Sidekick. Sure, they'd been caught in their fair share of fights, and they knew the basics about them, but that was different from being in danger of regretting aliving them. They wanted info and that was it. A few questions and they'd probably be done in no time.

"Hero is a greasy piece of garbage that deserves nothing less than a good crushing. Anything you know of them is probably a lie. Forget them."

They slammed the car door on Sidekick's shocked expression and moved up to the front seat, drowning out any possible comments with the rev of the engine.

***

By the time they reached Villain’s lair, Sidekick had been alive long enough to be able to stand. They resisted Villain’s proffered arm, but followed them slowly and creakily inside. So. Progress.

On the way in, they caught a glimpse of themself in the hallway mirror, freezing them to the spot. They ran their hand over their bluish cheeks and lips and settled their fingertips over the gouged hollow of their throat. For a moment their lips moved, like they might say something, or maybe where whispering real quiet, but then just as quickly they tore themselves away from their reflection and stumbled into the living room.

They flopped down heavily on Villain’s couch, sending a few cushions to the floor. They picked up the fluffy, sage roll pillow and began smoothing the fuzz back and forth.

“So, you brought me back to life.” They didn’t look up from the pillow. “Not CPR or anything, just regular supernatural reanimation.”

“You don’t have to make it sound so mundane,” Villain said. “It’s not like you know anyone else who can—“

"For how long?"

“Huh?”

“It’s not permanent, right? I know that much about you. Whatever you revive has an expiration date. So how long do I have?”

Villain paused for a long moment but finally said, “ I really can't say. No less than 3 months, no more than 2 years. It’s pretty random…”

Sidekick swallowed and nodded. They definitely weren’t comfortable with that knowledge, and who would be? Villain sometimes felt it was just as cruel for those given a second chance at life as it was for their loved ones.

“So how does this work exactly? Cause I could feel when you touched me but I don’t…feel this.”

They hovered their hand just shy of touching the death-wound.

“Basically you have the sensations of a living human, without being fully alive. You can touch, taste, smell, all that fun stuff. You can even eat. And even If you look like a corpse, I promise you won’t rot. But since you already died, you’re kinda immune to the things regular people need. No heartbeat, no breathing, no bleeding…no death—not until the reanimation-whatever-it-is wears off that is.”

Sidekick lifted their hand up in front of their face in amazement. "So I'm immortal?"

"In a way, but you have to be careful, if you injure yourself, you won't heal.”

Sidekick was already off the couch and not listening. “They think they can kill me and get away with it? Well how would they like an unkilllable target?”

Villain took a few steps after them. “No. I don’t recommend— Even if the pain only lasts a moment, you could still lose body functionality!”

"I'm going to kill them,” Sidekick seethed, hazy eyes narrowing. “Both of them."

With that they lurched toward the door, picking up speed with every step.

"Oh no you're not!" Villain cried, speedwalking out the front door after them. "You're going to help me!”

Master Taglist:

@moss-tombstone @crazytwentythrees @just-1-lonely-person @the-vagabond-nun @willow-trees-are-beautiful @cocoasprite @insanedreamer7905 @valiantlytransparentwhispers @whovian378 @watercolorfreckles @thebluepolarbear @yulanlavender @kitsunesakii @deflated-bouncingball @lem-hhn @office-plant-in-a-trenchcoat @last-ditch-entry @ghostfacepepper @pigeonwhumps

Mark Grayson, Peter Parker, Stiles Stilinski.

My loves

Oh how I love this genre of men

#Something something about Annabeth expecting help from her mother because she was always the perfect kid but getting sent to her own death and Percy expecting nothing because he doesn't believe in his dad and despite everything being saved from death by him

reblog to give more people the chance for one last boop!

AHHHHHH love it

Hi Jade ! I loove your sunshine!readers, could I request one for Carmy ? Maybe someone calls her to get to the restaurant when hes feeling anxious to calm him down idk if thats good lol love ya !

ty for requesting <3 fem, 1.4k

Is it The Beef or The Bear? In your head, despite the wishes of everyone who works there (except for Ebra, who seems to have mixed opinions), you always call it The Beef. But the sign brags otherwise, and when you push open the doors, nothing inside is left to remind you of the old restaurant. It was a total gut. 

“Hi, gorgeous,” says a familiar, warm voice. 

You almost walk straight into her table, distracted looking for brown curls through the kitchen door’s little window. “Hey, Tina.” You grin at your second favourite chef. Your most favourite Sous. “You taking a break?” 

She offers you a round butter cookie from a sleeve of them. Her cup of coffee billows with steam. “Uh-huh.” 

“Hiding from a meltdown?” you ask, taking a cookie, fingers oily with butter, sugar grains falling to the floor. 

“It’s not like that,” she says. 

Well, what is it like? you think. 

Richie’s text wasn’t exactly descriptive. Need ur help with the little Bitch, he’d said. Then, when you didn’t answer, ASAP!!!!

You figured it must’ve been another rant. He’s prone to these… episodes of anger where he doesn’t realise he’s spinning out and hurting people who really care about him. You try to bring him out of it, but he’s a Berzatto. They’re all the same, sort of. Everything that’s wrong with them has been stamped into them a long, long time ago. 

He’s been better since Nat steel armed him into AA, but still. You tilt your head to one side, sugar cookie between your fingers, listening for the goings on in the kitchen. “Sydney’s here?” you ask. “I thought she was sick.” 

“Sydney gets sick, but she doesn’t take sick days,” Tina says with a loving shrug. 

You smile at her in brief goodbye for now and make your way to the kitchen, where you push in quietly. All their ‘Behind!’ and ‘Corner!’ and ‘Hands!’ makes you laugh, and you can’t take it seriously so you don’t, but you’re not trying to be dangerous in there either. 

“Hello?” you ask. 

Sydney and Richie look up from a cramped notebook at the table nearest to the door. There are employees you're unsure of prepping vegetables along the wall, but Carmy isn’t anywhere to be seen. 

“Fucking finally,” Richie says, before rubbing his face regretfully. “I’m sorry, it’s just– I texted you an hour ago, babe, you’re letting me down.” 

You laugh. “Sorry, babe,” you tease. “I have a job, just like you.” Your hands are cold where you tuck them under each armpit, crossing your arms. “Hi, Sydney. You feeling okay?” 

“No. He’s stressing me out.” 

“Which one?” 

“Both of them.” She looks like she might rub her face too. “I need him to be in here right now, he should be doing this, but he keeps walking away and– and not saying where he’s going.” 

“He is stressful,” you agree, though usually Carmy’s stress tends to bounce right off of you, “I’m gonna find him and strap him down for you.” 

Sydney just frowns. 

“I’ll see what’s up,” you say more seriously. “In the office?” 

“Out the back,” Richie says. “Smoking like his mother. He’s a fucking steam train lately.” 

It’s like they want to worry you. You give them grateful nods, sorry nods, and start to make your way out of the main kitchen, past the dishwashers and the dessert station to one of the back doors. Carmy isn’t your responsibility. You don’t have to apologise for him, you don’t have to mother him, he should commit to his responsibilities all on his own, but… it’s hard. You like apologising for him because his behaviour isn’t always on purpose, and he struggles with commitment for similar reasons. There’s this aching, stagnated grief in him that’s reawakening, there’s the stress of the restaurant, his business, the scars of the last ten years, and before that. You know it isn’t your job to come here and make him feel better, but isn’t it? When you love someone, it’s half the deal. 

Carmy shouldn’t yell at his friends, or employees. He shouldn’t chain smoke, and he shouldn’t be sitting on the low wall by the dumpsters shaking so hard with his head so low that you can see the first notch of his spine in his shirt. 

“Carmy?” you ask. 

His head ducks further down. You can hear him breathing, not too hard as to alarm you, and yet unrelaxed. 

You smile without thinking. You hate seeing him like this, but looking after him is a pleasure. “Hey, Carmen. Can I sit with you?” 

He forces his face up. “What are you doing here?” he asks. 

Trying to make sure he doesn’t tear another chunk out of Richie. “It’s my lunch break.” 

You perch on the wall beside him and snap your nearly forgotten cookie into two pieces, one side bigger than the other, which you offer him. 

Carmy takes it. Looks at it without expression, though that slowly turns to a dry ire you’ve felt directed your way a hundred times. “What the fuck is this?” 

“Cookie.” 

“I don’t want this.” 

“Could you just eat it?” You put your own half in your mouth in its entirety, all aligned to your teeth. It shatters into sweet, soft crumbs between your teeth. You talk with a hand over your mouth, “It’s not gonna kill you.” 

Carmy looks at it for a long time before he eats it. 

You watch him. He’s more tan than you’d think, that Italian gene kicking in, skin clinging to whatever sunshine it finds. He spends enough time inside that you’re surprised it can muster the energy. He looks better with it though, his curls look gold toned under the sun, and his clenched jaw doesn’t seem so harsh. 

“What’s wrong?” you ask eventually. Almost conversationally. 

“Nothing.” His hand shakes on his thigh. He turns his palm down to clasp his knee. 

“You sure?” 

“No.” 

“That one’s my favourite.” 

“What?” 

You poke toward a tattoo on his hand. It’s a simple flower, same style as most of his tattoos. “I like it ‘cos it’s just a flower.” 

“My least pretentious,” he guesses. 

“Something like that.” 

He tips his head back. 

“Richie texted me. He thinks I’m gonna… like, I’m gonna calm you down, I guess.” 

“You always do,” he says. 

You give him a long, smiley look. “So you’re in love with me?” you ask warmly, pushing up into a knee to wrap your arm behind him, hugging him before he can move away. “You’re totally fucked for me, Berzatto, that’s fucking crazy.” 

“Fuck off,” he laughs. 

You rub his arm, his skin hot in your hold. He touches your waist very, very lightly. “What am I supposed to do, anyway? I can’t cook. You and Syd are on your own.” 

“You already… already did enough.” He grabs your waist where you wobble on the brick wall, grit biting your knees, his hand comparatively soft. 

“Such a crush on me,” you tease in a whisper, his hair crushed under your cheek. 

You’re tempted to kiss his temple, but affection with Carmy is like oil and water sometimes. You give him a last protective squeeze and sit yourself down again. 

“Carm,” you say, “you know you can call me, right? Like, if you don’t feel okay.” 

“Yeah. Yeah, I know.” 

“Or text me. If that’s easier. It’s hard to say hard things out loud.” 

He laughs again. “Sorry.” 

“I know, I don’t– I don’t seem like I know what you’re talking about, I get it, but I do understand. N’ even if I didn’t, I don’t mind listening. Or laughing at you.” 

“What’s that about?” 

“The laughing?” you ask. “You tell me.” 

His hand slides behind your back in half a hug. “Guess it’s funny.” 

“Can I change my mind about the tattoo?” 

“The flowers not your favourite?” 

“No. You know which one I like best?” 

His thumb rubs into your back. “The snail.” 

“Absolutely the snail. You’re so fucking silly sometimes, I’m supposed to take you seriously when you’re yelling and red in the face with a snail on your arm?” 

You can’t see his face with your cheek to his shoulder, won’t know that he’s smiling at you with a rare aura of peace. Can’t see the wanting, either.