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#and I am notably clumsy

mediumgayitalian · 2 months

Text

“Hide me hide me hide me hide me hide me.”

Nico blinks, watching blankly as Will ducks under his arm, situating himself behind the door and peeking around it. When Nico doesn’t move, he cranes his neck to look at him, face urgent, and says, “Close it, dude, hurry up!

“Solace!”

“Fuck,” Will curses.

Nico blinks again. He squints across the common, trying to suss out what Will’s staring at. It doesn’t take long. She’s hard to miss, especially in full armour.

“Are you…hiding from Clarisse?”

“Am I hiding from —” He scoffs. “No, I’m just behind this door for fun. Fucking obviously I’m hiding from Clarisse, Nico, now get with the program and close the damn —”

“Solace!”

Both of them jump. When Nico looks, Clarisse is already way closer than she should be. Before he can process enough to slam the door, and heedless of Will’s increasingly-harried oh my gods oh my gods oh my gods fuck fuck fuck fuck, Clarisse is closer, and closer, and then suddenly she’s barging inside, pushing Nico aside like it’s not his damn cabin.

Will groans. “Aw, come on, Clarisse!”

She doesn’t bother to humour him with words, choosing instead to grab him by the collar and drag him bodily out. Will does not make it easy, going completely limp and getting his clothes grass-stained beyond belief, because Clarisse tugs him along like a sled behind her, bouncing over every stone. Nico follows, on the grounds that it’s not being nosy if Will dragged him into it technically.

“You have siblings! You have a boyfriend!”

“And yet I’m choosing you,” Clarisse says easily. “I’ve already told Chiron. It’s a done deal, weatherboy. You’re chariot racing with me.”

Will groans, trying in vain to squirm out of Clarisse’s grip. “There is no reason for me to be your partner in the stupid chariot race, I am a healer, I am at camp to heal —”

She shakes him a little to shut him up. “All the more reason. You focus too much on one thing, brat. All you do is heal and study like a big nerd. You need to get out of your comfort zone.”

“Um, no way. I’m very comfortable in it. That’s why it’s called a comfort zone.”

“You could use some training,” Nico pipes up, and the betrayed look Will gives him would be more effective at making him feel bad if it wasn’t so funny. “Last time I tried to teach you how to use a sword you almost sliced off your own face, so.”

Clarisse looks at him with appraisal. “Maybe you do have some sense in you, di Angelo.”

Nico chooses to take that as the compliment it is.

“Ugh,” Will says dramatically, and finally manages to wrench out of Clarisse’s grip in order to embed the appropriate level of drama in his face-down flop to the floor.

Clarisse kicks him. “You’re pathetic.”

“Ugh.”

Notably, he stops protesting. She kicks him again, affectionately this time, and stomps away.

———

“If I work myself into another coma, I don’t have to chariot race,” Will says gleefully, shoving the bottles of nectar Nico hands him onto a shelf. He’s been buzzing around the infirmary all day, healing things he is meant to be healing with a band-aid and a stop being a clumsy dumbass, dumbass with hymns and salves. “I’m gonna try to cure cancer again.”

Kayla, walking by, reaches out and smacks him. “Try it and I’m crack your country CDs in half.”

Will turns to her, opening his mouth —

“Every single one of them,” she stresses, green eyes narrowed.

— and closes it again, huffing.

“I’ll find a way,” he says glumly.

Nico pats him delicately on the back. “There, there.” A pause. “I mean, personally, I can’t wait to watch you fall out of a chariot.”

The look Will shoots him is nothing short of wounded. “You think I’m so uncoordinated I’m gonna fall out of the chariot?”

“Gracefully!” assures Austin from across the infirmary, smiling supportively. He grins brightly when they turn to look, nose scrunching with the force of his smile. “I’m sure!”

Will’s scowl twitches in the face of his brother’s blind enthusiasm. (It is impossible not to be endeared by Austin. He is genuinely the sweetest kid in the entire universe. Nico even gets, to his horror, the occasional urge to squish him. Gently.) He sighs.

“Thanks, Austin.”

“Of course! Love you Will!”

The twitching scowl melts into a full smile. “Love you too, kiddo.”

———

Watching chariot race practices, very quickly, becomes Nico’s favourite pastime.

He sees, now, why Achilles would bring them up, unprompted, wistful look in his eye, every time Nico visited. There’s a beauty in the rawness of it; the whipping winds, wild horses. Squealing wheels and bending axels, open-backed and inches from death at all time. Dangerous, exhilarating. Humanity, at it’s most thrilling and old — some of the first tools, the first domestic animals, the first machines, all at once. It’s pure, raw excitement.

Also, Will falls out of the chariot, like, eight whole times. And there’s nothing funnier than watching him lose his shit at a splintered pile of wood that was once a carriage, helmet thrown to the ground in a fit of rage, accent so thick he’s literally incomprehensible. Nico never gets to see him like this. His stomach actually hurts from laughter on several occasions.

Slowly, though, he starts to get the hang of it. He’s smart — incredibly so — and when he stops spending half his time complaining, and the other half pouting, he actually gets pretty decent. He’s fast, after all, and quick to observe, to respond; the other teams struggle to land hits on him, in practice runs, and sabotage is difficult when your opponent seems to have an almost prophetic gift to see things coming.

He can’t, however, steel himself to hit back.

And therein lies the trouble.

“For fuck’s sake, Will, I’m not asking you to kill anybody,” Clarrise snaps. “You need to get your head in the game!”

Will’s shoulders curl defensively. “I know! I’m trying! It’s just —” He kicks at their broken wheel, in two clean pieces on the ground. “Do no harm.”

“Do some harm. Or I’m gonna kick your ass.”

Will brightens. “And then ask somebody else to be your partner?”

“No, and then make you my partner forever.”

“Oh.”

Will’s sullen face is hard to look at. He’s got those big, puppy dog eyes, round and sad and pouty. Not even Clarisse is immune. (And certainly not Nico, who finds himself halfway off the spectator’s stands and jogging to the tracks before he wonders what exactly, the fresh fuck, he is doing, and sprints right back.)

“Shit, Solace, don’t look like I killed your goddamn mother.” She cuffs him on the shoulder, sending him sprawling with a muffled oof. “We’ll figure it out. Let’s go again.”

Accepting the spare chariot someone wheels towards her, she pulls herself up, making space for Will to do the same. He doesn’t get on immediately, still looking miserable, but concedes eventually.

His forearms look kind of nice when he grips onto the rails for dear life, Nico notices. From a totally objective perspective.

The four practicing teams guide their horses to the starting line, running a few last minute checks. To avoid spilling any secrets or strategies, everyone uses the same practice-issue wooden chariot and wears the same armour, but it’s still obvious who’s who.

The Hephaestus team’s chariot, despite being standard issue, gleams like it’s brand-new. The wood is polished and looks to be altered, barely; a carved groove here, a sharper wing there. Nothing that could really be considered an upgrade, but definitely making the whole thing look smoother. The spears they hold promise a plethora of untold ability hidden within.

The Hermes chariot looks deceptively beat up. There’s a chunk missing from the top of the left side, and one of the wheels appears to be just slightly out of alignment. Upon careful inspection, though, Nico can see clear, hollow tubing attached along the rails and open to the back — definitely a quick rig of some sort. Base (not acid, Cecil had happily lectured him on the benefits of using a base rather than an acid when dissolving anything from steel to human flesh), if Nico has to guess, or maybe Greek fire.

The Aphrodite-Iris chariot doesn’t have to do much to look great. The whole thing seems to coast gracefully to the beginner line, and neither charioteer looks particularly bothered or preoccupied with the competition — if Nico recalls correctly, and he does, their goal is to win through “gay audacity”, which Nico does not understand but supports wholeheartedly.

Will and Clarisse’s chariot, by comparison, is pretty run-of-the-mill. They haven’t done much training with the Ares horses or the Apollo flying chariot, because Clarisse is primarily concerned with training Will — she knows the equipment is fine.

Lacy, standing at the edge of the track, puts a sparkly pink whistle to her lips and blows loudly. It’s not nearly as loud as one of Will’s sonic whistles, but it does the trick, and the teams are off in a blur of movement; Will and Clarisse in the lead, Hephaestus behind them, Aphrodite-Iris in third, and Hermes lagging slightly behind.

As they turn their first corner, positions largely unchanging, Nico hears footsteps from his left — Lou Ellen smiles at him as she climbs the stand, settling into the space he makes next to him.

“What’d I miss?” she asks, brushing dust off her hands.

He shrugs. “Not much. They were in the lead the last practice round, too, but on the last lap Hermes caught up.” He gestures to the heap that was once their practice chariot. “Julia had her sword at their wheels. They were on the inner ring, nowhere to move; the only way to get rid of them would have been to knock her arm, probably dislocate her shoulder. Will couldn’t do it.”

Lou Ellen winces. “Ah.”

There’s a ripping sound, followed by cackling — the Hermes chariot has finally made use of their hasty rigging, setting off an explosion behind them that rockets them forward. It has the added bonus of shaking the ground, slightly, unsettling the other drivers for just barely long enough for them to pull into third place. Far ahead, still in first, Nico can see Clarisse yelling instructions at Will, although he can’t hear what they are. His grip on the rail has tightened.

“Why,” starts Nico carefully, and based on Lou Ellen’s pinched face she knows exactly where he’s going, “does she make him — well, you know.”

Lou Ellen is silent for a good long while, watching the practice chariot race with eyes that aren’t paying attention. Hermes is gaining, but Hephaestus is gaining faster.

“Clarisse has always liked Will,” she says eventually. She meets Nico’s incredulous expression, snorting. “Well, as much as Clarisse can like people. I got here way after he did, so I don’t have any more details there than you do, but he’s never been afraid of her, and she likes that. He’s never been mean to her, either. I mean, I know she can be a bully, but people aren’t exactly light on her, to be fair.”

The Aphrodite-Iris chariot turns out to have some tricks up its sleeve — it starts to glow; barely at first, but quickly blinding. At its crux, everyone has to look away, allowing them to pull into first.

Well, except that Will doesn’t seem nearly as staggered as everyone else. In fact, he doesn’t look bothered at all — for the first time that Nico has seen, there’s something like competition pulling a crooked smile on his face. He stares straight at the still-too-bright chariot, reigns wrapped around his arms as he yanks them forward.

“Is that why she drags him away sometimes?” Nico asks. “To train?”

“Something like that. Most of his training was with —” she falters. “Well, you know who. Medicine and some archery.”

They’re both quiet for a while. Neither of them ever knew Lee or Michael well, if at all, but over time Nico has found himself almost clamming up at the mere thought of them, the way one might tiptoe around an authority figure when they have something to hide. Forbidden subjects, where before Nico simply didn’t think of them often.

“You can’t just not train, though,” Lou Ellen murmurs, eyes trained on the chariots. Hephaestus throws one of their spears, lodging it in the spokes of the Aphrodite-Iris chariot. They come to a very abrupt and very screechy halt, knocking them out of the race in any real capacity. “Not at Camp Half-Blood. She taught him hand-to-hand because she was the only one strong enough to physically drag him to the arena. Everyone else gave up after the first few tantrums — I think she was kind of amused by the challenge. Or something.”

“Or something,” Nico agrees. Privately, he thinks that there is something about Will Solace that makes you want to protect him. Not frailty — he is not by any means incapable — but something about his smile, his genuineness. The stubborn belief that people are good and kind and worthy of everything he has to give. A naivety, except someone who’s been through what he has (what they all have) cannot be naive — his hope in the world is hard-earned and well-won. It makes people want to protect his hold on it, by any means necessary.

Even, Nico reasons, ornery old fuckers like Clarisse LaRue.

The three remaining chariots start the last leg of the race — Apollo-Ares, barely squeezing out in front; then Hephaestus, quickly gaining; and finally Hermes, lagging slightly but not to be discarded. As they round the bend, Nico watches as Clarisse cuffs Will briefly on the arm, clearly proud. This is the farthest they’ve made in first so far, after two weeks of training. Will, reigns safely transferred back to Clarisse, beams at her — bright enough that Nico can see it from dozens of yards away.

With sudden, calculated speed, the Hephaestus chariot surges forward.

As if coordinated, Nico and Lou Ellen inhale sharply, leaning forward. He sees the scattered few other campers so the same in his peripherals, watching with single minded focus as the chariot levels exactly with Will and Clarisse. Nico eyes the spear nervously — of all weapons, they’re the easiest for Will to dodge, to fight off. More impersonal.

But the sons of the smartest god around would know that.

For at least a hundred feet, nothing happens. Ares-Apollo and Hephaestus stay neck in neck, every urge forward matched, every pesky road-blocking stone avoided. The finish line is dangerously close, but no one pulls ahead, nothing changes. Four shoulders remain tense, four helmets stare resolutely forward.

Then, in a quick movement, the taller Hephaestus charioteer hands the spear off to the shorter, swiftly taking the reigns, and the shorter lunges — aiming right for Will’s shoulder. Will’s quick, though, and has his own spear poised to parry in an instant. There’s a barely perceptible nudge from Clarisse, and then Will’s eyes harden, and he lifts his spear to jab right back, needle-thin tip gleaming in the late afternoon sun, right for the chink in the charioteer’s armour and then —

The charioteer rips their helmet off, dropping it at their feet.

It’s Harley.

Hephaestus’ darling; hell, the camp’s darling. One of their youngest and brightest, with big, mischievous brown eyes, contagious smiles, endless enthusiasm. Cute, clumsy Harley, the only one of Hephaestus’ children Will doesn’t have to nag to get treated, who walks dutifully over the infirmary every time he gets so much as a second-degree burn and treats each one of Will’s overcautious instructions with utmost seriousness. Who Will sends away each time with an affectionate kiss on the forehead and a prized purple sucker — who Will, frankly, favours. Who Will would never, in a million years, even consider hurting.

A dirty trick by the Hephaestus cabin.

But an effective one.

Immediately, Will flinches back, spear dropping from his hand and splintering under thundering hooves and spinning wheels. Without a second of hesitation, Harley launches his spear in the same move as before — sticking it in the wheel’s spokes, inertia sending the charioteer’s sprawling, knocking them out of the race.

Except, maybe it’s different when the chariots are so close. Or maybe the chariot was faulty to begin with. Because as soon as the spear gets wedged, the fragile floor of the chariot seems to implode — sending Will and Clarisse under the still-moving machine, instead of flying over. The horses, disoriented from the sudden change, rip free of their harness, adding more force to the already precarious tumble.

There’s a sharp, sickening crack, so loud Nico can hear it as if it’s next to him. In the brief nanosecond immediately afterwords, he closes his eyes, sending a prayer to his father: please be the axle. Please be the axle. Please be the axle.

As the Hephaestus and Hermes chariots rocket past the finish line, Clarisse lets out a shrill, blood-curdling scream.

———

Nico’s off the bench and halfway towards the crashed chariot before he can blink. He’s not the only one — he processes, barely, everyone else’s quick convergence, including the remaining charioteers — but he’s there first, diving into the wreckage seconds before anyone else is close enough.

There’s not a lot of actual debris, chariots being as small as they are, but the dust cloud from the track is so huge and the pieces of wood are so splintered that it feels like there is. As the dust settles, and he kicks some debris out of the way, he starts to see the shape of Will, kneeling, in front of a prone Clarisse and an ever-growing pool of blood.

There’s a bone sticking straight out of her thigh.

As the rest of the campers converge upon them, Will looks up and meets Nico’s eyes. His own blue eyes are dark, steely — determined, but afraid.

“I don’t have time,” is the only thing out of his mouth before he braces both hands on Clarisse’s leg, immediately starting to sing urgent hymns.

Nico understands.

“Lou, Julia, Chiara,” he barks, taking charge in absence of Will’s voice. The three girls snap forward to him immediately. “Sprint the the infirmary and tell them what happened. Austin’s on duty — make sure he doesn’t come with you, we need him to prep a surgical suite. Send everyone else and send them fast. Bring a stretcher.”

He turns to the Hephaestus kids. “Jake, Harley, start clearing the debris to make space. Damien, join them; move the big stuff first, small stuff is secondary. We need a space for Will to work and a space to lay the stretcher. Jen, Butch, Lacy —”

He barks off a list of orders, doing his best to channel the commands he’s watched Will give dozens and dozens of times. In minutes, he has the track cleared, Will’s medical bag dragged over from the stands, and everyone who is not helping stabilize out to the infirmary to help as needed.

As soon as there’s an opening, he rushes over to Will and Clarisse, kneeling by her head.

“Help is coming,” he promises, watching the glow dim and flicker in time with the rhythm of Will’s chanting. The bleeding has slowed, marginally, but he can tell from the volume of blood alone that this was an arterial hit. It’s going to take more than Will’s raw healing power, although there is a lot of it, to keep Clarisse alive and keep her leg functioning in recovery. He needs tools, he needs nectar and ambrosia; he needs the surgery suite. He needs time.

“Is it helpful for me to knock her out?”

Clarisse, of course, is still conscious. Barely — and in so much pain Nico will be surprised if she’s processing anything at all — but enough that every few seconds she lets out an agonised shout of pain, writhing and flinching so hard Will has to focus on steadying her as much as healing her.

Without breaking his song, eyes still trained on the injury, Will nods. Nico breathes, squaring his shoulders, then shuffled forward to rest Clarisse’s head gently in his lap, fingers pressed to her temples. He presses, hard enough to feel the beat of her heart — weak — through his fingertips, and squeezes his eyes shut.

He’s no son of Hypnos, but dreams are the Underworld’s domain. Are his domain, as heir and prince of the Underworld, in every way that matters, that can be counted.

He lets himself sink into careful limbo; body in physical space, mind and soul elsewhere. Not too much — he’s no use if he falls unconscious — but enough to slip into Clarisse’s mindscape, step into her subconscious.

The whole place bleeds white, hot anguish.

Nico stumbles when he first walks in, nauseous despite being nothing but his own mind. It’s been a while since he’s experienced this kind of pain, his own or not, and he has to consciously beat back memories of brimstone and rot; liquid fire, endless red, red, red.

“Clarisse?” he calls, softly as he dares.

She doesn’t respond. He’s not sure she knows how to respond, even if she could. Cautious of the memory and emotion swirling around him, he steps forward. If he focuses, her anguish is pointed — is central. She will be at the centre of it.

He has volunteered, but he’s not sure he wants to follow.

Steeling himself, he shoulders through swirling masses of pain, of hurt, of fear. It’s blisteringly hot, and feels not unlike the sandstorm he was once stranded within, in the middle of the New Mexico desert four years ago. His face prickles; he’s blinded.

He trudges forward.

“Clarisse? Clarisse! Can you hear me? It’s Nico!”

Desperately and uselessly, he wishes he had more practice. Will has offered, the few times he’s needed to anaesthetize someone, but for the most time Nico has foolishly declined. Why on Earth he would pass up a much easier mindscape to navigate through in preparation for something like this is a mystery to him. Fuck.

“Clarisse! Try to — focus on me, can you hear me?”

He forces himself forward, a few more — well, there’s no distance in a mindscape, nothing measurable, anyway. He forces himself to look up, braving the assault to his face, and try to scan his surroundings. The swirling mass is more centralized, now, almost hurricane-like and conal. He’s closer than he was before, but if he can only find…

He looks up, and almost cries in relief: weak against the roaring storm, but still present, is a flickering, golden light. A very familiar light. Nico squeezes his eyes shut, thrusting out his own energy in an uncoordinated mass — boy, is that going to be uncomfortable to extract later — and flails wildly until he finally feels the warmth of Will’s energy entangling with his own, grounding him. He opens his eyes, and suddenly everything is clearer.

Clarisse kneels in the centre of her mindscape, hands pressed tightly to her ears, eyes screwed shut, mouth open in a silent scream.

“Hey,” Nico murmurs, kneeling in front of her. It takes a few seconds, and a few moments of gentle coaxing, before she looks up.

“It hurts,” she croaks.

She’s more vulnerable than he’s ever seen her — eyes brown and big and wet, pained, face twisted and chin trembling and achingly, unbelievably young. She is nineteen years old, but in that moment she appears almost childlike. The years of warrior’s hardness has abandoned her; she is armourless.

Nico swallows the lump in his throat. “I know.”

“Help me. Please.”

“Come here, Clarisse.” He reaches out and wraps a gentle hand around hers, tugging her close. The knee jerk discomfort at close contact is barely a flicker — he is so entwined in her right now that her fear has started to bleed into his; her rawness. He needs this comfort almost as much as she does. Right now she is a person, in agony, and so is he, and it is unbearable.

He holds her until the pain slowly stops.

———

Will is in the surgical suite for seven straight hours.

“Bed,” Nico says softly, rising up to meet him as he exits. It says something about how exhausted he is that he doesn’t even protest, letting Nico place a hand on the small of his back and guide him past the on-call room, past the patient cots, past the Big House living room couches, past Cabin 7. He leads him across the common and right into Cabin 13, with its double beds and blackout curtains, with its insulated, soundproof walls. With Nico.

He helps him out of his bloodstained scrubs, peeling them off his skin and tossing them directly into a trash can. He’d guide him to the shower, usually, but there’s a — glassiness, to his eyes, that there usually isn’t after surgery. Nico chooses instead to skip it, guiding him into the sweatpants he left behind the last time he was here and an oversized The Doors t-shirt of Nico’s, and then to the spare bed he always uses, across from Nico’s. He peels the covers back for him like he’s a child, tucking him in, brushing the hair out of his eyes. He’s asleep in minutes, curled tightly around a pillow, furrowed crease not leaving the space between his eyebrows, even in sleep. Nico smooths it away with his thumb.

“Goodnight, Will,” he murmurs, brushing the backs of his knuckles across his forehead.

He watches him sleep far past what is normal, and then slips back out of the cabin.

———

“On the bright side,” Will says, squeezing the hand that has left to leave Clarisse’s arm, “you’re free from your chariot race obligation! As am I!”

Predictably, she only glowers.

“Not a chance, Solace,” she rasps.

Will helpfully gets her a glass of water, fussing over her blankets while she drinks until she bats him away. Chris watches the whole thing with great amusement, shoulders brushing Nico’s.

“He’s a mother hen, isn’t he,” he comments, tilting his head in Will’s direction, who narrowly avoids having his fingers bitten off trying to feed her a square of ambrosia.

Nico snorts. “Yeah.” He watches the fussing for a few more seconds, making note of Will’s shaking hands, his shakier smile. “He’s guilty.”

“He didn’t do anything. She doesn’t blame him.”

Nico meets his dark look, mouth twisted in understanding. They both know this logic is futile.

“Yeah, well, someone tell him that.”

“Will — stop it.” In a startlingly quick move for someone on as much morphine as she is, Clarisse darts out and clutches Will’s fluttering hands. He hesitates, wondering if it’s worth it to pull out of her hold and possibly jostle her leg. “I’m fine. And you’re still charioting.”

“You’re not fine,” Will frowns, conveniently ignoring the part of the sentence he doesn’t want to deal with. “Your femur snapped in half and tore through your femoral artery on its way out of your leg. You’re going to be on bedrest for a week at least, and it’ll be tender for a good long while besides. That’s what we in the medical business call a Big Fucking Deal.”

She tightens her hold, staring at him until he finally meets her eyes.

“Will.” She narrows her eyes. “You are still participating in the chariot race. I’m not asking.”

“It’ll have to wait until you’re better,” he says lightly. “Besides, we’re focusing on you right now.”

Nico can see in her face when she decides to switch strategies.

“Okay,” she says, stubborn glean in her eye, “then I’m asking you, as a personal request, to stay in the race. Or else I’ll drag myself onto a goddamn horse myself, killing myself in the process, and that will be on your head.”

The tactic works.

Will scowls. “You can’t tell me what to do.”

Clarisse doesn’t bother repeating herself, letting go of his wrists and readjusting her blankets.

“I am done talking now. I believe it’s time for morphine-induced unconsciousness. Please remember that I took down a drakon with my own bare hands; it is well within my abilities to drag myself out of heroin-haze and onto a chariot with no legs, let alone one. Good talk.”

As soon as the words are out of her mouth, she leans back on her pillows and passes out. Genuinely, actually passes out — not closes her eyes, not behind to fall asleep; she is unconscious. Snores ring through the air.

“Well,” Chris says carefully, unfolding his arms. “It might be time to let Clarisse rest for a while.”

Will, healer that he is, cannot exactly argue with that. Will, drama queen that he is, decides to make his fury known by stomping out of the room, a feat in flip-flips possible by him alone.

“She is so infuriating!” he shouts the second they’re in the main room, startling several people. He either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. “I put effort in! I failed! She can’t even — it’s not even about spending time together, obviously, since I still have to do it! What does she want from me?!”

Chris, like Nico, has wisely decided to let the hypothetical questions remain hypothetical and stay silent, lest his fury be turned onto them. Ten minutes into Will’s rant, Chris excuses himself to go sit by Clarisse. Nico waves him off.

“Will,” Nico suggests the next time he takes a breath, “let’s maybe go for a walk.” He glances at the group of wide-eyed patients. “I think you’re scaring people.”

Deflating, Will nods, following Nico out the door. “Yeah. Yeah, let’s go for a walk.”

The fresh air probably doesn’t fix things, per se, but as they lap around the cabins, Will seems to droop further and further, curling in on himself. The anger recedes from his features.

“I feel really shitty,” he admits softly. “Just, like, generally.”

Nico softens like a goddamn slab of ice cream on hot pavement. For the second time in three days, he opens his arms in offering, although this time it’s significantly less difficult.

“Come here.”

Without even a beat of hesitation, Will collapses into him, arms around his waist, head tucked under his chin. Nico fights the urge to wince — Will, usually, takes quite a bit of pride in his height. He likes to be the one to wrap around people, not the other way around. Nico has been indoctrinated into Will-affection, in the time since the Giant War, and if Will is the one curling into him, seeking comfort, than he is struggling.

Nico hates it when Will struggles. He always feels out of his depth.

“There, there,” he hedges, feeling a good bit like an NPC. “It’ll be okay.”

Will makes a small, wounded noise. “You don’t know that.”

“Um, yes I do, I know everything forever. I’ve never been wrong even one time in my life.”

His awkward attempt at lightening the mood is rewarded by Will’s laugh. It’s slight, and nowhere near the brightness it usually is, but it’s there and it’s genuine and that’s all Nico wanted, really.

“You good?” Nico asks softly, squeezing his arms.

Will nods. “Yes.” He hesitates. “Can I stay here a little longer?”

Nico wraps his arms impossibly tighter, aching at the quiet vulnerability in his voice.

“As long as you need.”

———

The last practice before the chariot race is nowhere near as fun to watch as the others. In fact, it’s not fun at all.

Clarisse, casted and upright, appoints her brother Sherman to race in her place, much to both his and Will’s very vocal complaints. Will’s, because he still doesn’t want to race at all and especially not now that Clarisse is out of the running, and Sherman’s because, well, when isn’t Sherman complaining about having to breathe the same air as someone or whatever.

Clarisse silences both of them with a glare. “Do it,” she orders.

They comply, stomping over to their practice chariot.

The practice race is awful. Nico is surprised, frankly, that they managed to finish at all, as badly behind as they managed. He could practically hear their squabbling all the way from the stands. For as much as Will is generally easy to get along with, he’s impossible when he’s stubborn, and worse when he’s petulant. He takes every command from Sherman like it’s a personal offence, and Sherman, being who he is, does too. Every shout to veer right or deflect an attack somehow sounds like a jab at Will’s speed, or a remark about his general intelligence. When they stomp off the track, helmets thrown in a heap with the rickety chariot, Nico is almost relieved.

“We’re going to lose, tomorrow, and I can’t wait,” hisses Will darkly, fists curled at his sides.

Nico watches him warily. “You’re not even going to try?”

“What, so he can remind me that even when I’m trying I’m a useless idiot? Not a chance.”

Nico has to almost jog to keep up with him, striding as powerfully as he is. He’s not even sure where he’s going — he seems to be, mostly, going away from the track and from Sherman, wherever that may be.

“You’re not a useless idiot,” Nico offers, when some of the stormcloud has lessened its hold on Will’s usually sunny face. “Nobody thinks you’re a useless idiot.”

Will closes his eyes, sighing. “I know.”

“And Sherman is just a generally grouchy person.”

“I know.”

“It feels very, very weird to be the optimistic and comforting one, right now.”

Will snorts, finally meeting his eyes. “I know.” He flops onto the ground, cheek resting in his knees, and pats the space next to him. Nico sits much more delicately. “I’m sorry I’ve been such an asshole lately.”

“You’ve been stressed,” Nico points out. “A little assholery is warranted.”

“I’m still sorry.”

Nico knocks their shoulders together. “I forgive you, then.”

Will smiles. “Thank you.”

For a while they sit in comfortable silence, watching the hustle and bustle of camp. Will’s presence is a comforting one, even though Nico can feel the turmoil leeching off of him. Strangely because of that, actually — sometimes Nico feels like he’s the only one who struggles out of the two of them. Will spends so much of his time smiling and joking and lecturing, hands on his hips, that Nico had almost forgotten that he doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing, either. He’s just good at faking it.

“I’ll be watching, tomorrow.” He bites his lip. “And I won’t, like, bring pom-poms, or anything, but I’ll be cheering you on.”

Will grins tiredly. “Silently and in your head?”

“Uh-huh.”

His smile softens considerably, melting into something almost shy, before he turns back to face forward.

“Well, then, damn. I guess I’ll have to try.”

———

On the morning of the chariot race, Will acts like Nico is escorting him to his goddamn execution.

“It is a race that will last a maximum of twenty minutes,” Nico says with no small amount of exasperation, “including prep time.”

Will looks no less grim. “A twenty minutes that will never be returned to me.”

Nico rolls his eyes and decides to stop humouring him.

He drops him off at his chariot with a quick pat on the shoulder, jogging back to the stands. They’re full, today, as expected, with every camper and countless others cramped into the minimal space. Nico looks at the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd, and is about to consider breaking his promise and fleeing back to his cabin before he sees a doodled-on hand stick in the air, waving wildly. He exhales in relief and heads over to sit in the spot Kayla and Austin have cleared between them.

“How miserable is he?” Kayla asks brightly, tapping her purple shoes. “He left before we woke up this morning. Assumedly to sprint around camp a few times like a feral cat.”

“Pretty miserable,” Nico answers. He reaches over to pat Austin’s head when he rests on his shoulder, knowing he’s nervous even if he tries not to show it. “A lot of it is self-induced, though. Like, yeah, Sherman is going to be a dick and it’s going to be stressful, but I feel like, in the grand scheme of things, this is among the least stressful things he’s ever been forced to deal with.”

“There was that one time he had to remove a brain tumour in the middle of the forest,” Austin muses. “I think that was probably pretty stressful for him.”

Nico opens his mouth. He closes it again.

“Demigod life is a nightmare,” he settles on eventually.

“Hear, hear,” both siblings mutter.

They lapse into silence as they turn back to the racetrack, evaluating the turnout.

Competition will be hefty.

Sherman has finally arrived, Ares horses in tow. The garish things look almost wrong next to the brightness off the flying Apollo chariot, but that may just be the tension between the team’s charioteers that’s so potent it seems to warp the air around them. Nico is vaguely surprised that they’re managing to stand so civilly next to each other, even if they could not be more visibly uncomfortable. Will, at least, tries for a smile, which drops immediately when Sherman mutters something too quiet to be picked up this far.

Nico sighs. This is going to be hard to watch.

There are about twenty other chariots lines up. Hermes, Hephaestus, and Aphrodite-Iris, like at practice, but Athena is competing too, as well as Nike, as per usual, and Tyche. In fact Nico, and by extension Hades, is one of the few cabins not participating — everyone else seems primed and ready for a chance of laurels and extra dessert. And, of course, settling personal rivalries via bloodshed, et cetera, et cetera.

The biggest competition, if Nico had to quantify it, will be Hephaestus, tricky as they were during practice; Athena, for obvious reasons; and Will and Sherman themselves will be their own worst enemy. He can’t tell if it would be better for them to fail out early to avoid racketing tension up further, or last close to the end to keep things at a healthy simmer.

In the end, it doesn’t matter. The second warning whistle goes off, and the chariots rush to the starting line — Will and Sherman at third position, Demeter to their left, Dionysus-Hypnos to their right. The stands go silent, the charioteers get in position, and with a sharp, shrill whistle, they’re off.

The first few seconds, as always, are chaotic.

In the ground with the settling dust are three separate chariots, including, surprisingly, Hermes, whose rigging backfired and sent their entire chariot up in smoke. They are luckily unharmed due to their unusually well-prepared fireproof armour, but neither Julia nor Connor seem too pleased about being out so soon.

The rest of the race continues on without them. Athena has a decent stretch of first place, but Nike is following fast. Behind them, barely a hair’s breadth of distance, is Will and Sherman, rocketing forward smoothly. Unlike Clarisse, Sherman does not care for giving Will any learning opportunities — despite the horses being Ares’, Will is on the reigns. Sherman is armed with his sword and his spear, slashing and jabbing at anyone who gets too close. Neither Ares or Apollo is big on tricks, not like some of the craftier cabins, but together they’re fast and strong and make a formidable opponent.

Or, well, they would. If they were working together, rather than two people simply being in the same chariot.

They cross into the second lap, Will guiding them across the innermost ring to move them up past Nike. They’re gaining on Athena, now, but that won’t be an easy task — challenging the camp’s wisest never is.

Kayla hisses through her teeth. “Shit.” She purses her lip at the trailing Nike chariot — they’re gaining, and they’re seething. Damien — at least Nico thinks it’s Damien, it’s hard to tell with the helmets — has an arsenal of throwing knives poised in his left hand, and as his teammate steers them steady, he takes aim. Nico has to resist the urge to shout a warning.

As the short knife sails towards the reigns wrapped around Will’s hands, though, aim ringing true, Will’s spine goes ramrod straight. Almost as if he can feel it. With an eighth of a second to spare, he shifts and jerks his hands out of the way, avoiding the knife and managing, somehow, to stay on track.

With a skill and ferocity that has Nico’s jaw brushing his toes, Will dodges all eight of the knives lobbed in his direction. In one memorable manoeuvre, he rips his left hand from the reigns, holding them in his teeth, and uses it to shove Sherman down behind the wall of the chariot right before a knife would have lodged itself in his uncovered cheek. Out of weapons, he steers their chariot right next to Nike, allowing Sherman to sever their reigns and send them rolling to a sad, victory-less stop.

Without pausing to look behind them, they race on.

Athena’s chariot has a lead, but their chariot is built for stability, not speed. They’ve accounted for every possible sabotage and built accordingly. They have not accounted for, however, stubbornness and sheer force of Will. The Ares-Apollo chariot gains on them, helmets glinting, skeletal horses gaining faster, faster, faster. Both Sherman and Malcom, Nico believes, have their spears drawn, ready, as the space between them gets smaller and smaller, to fight barbarically for first — for honour.

Nico doubts even Rachel, powers of prophecy fully restored, could predict what happens next.

Either too furious to accept a loss or simply deciding to throw the game, one of the Nike charioteers crawls out from their carriage, darting onto the live track. They scan the ground, looking for something. When they stand in the dead centre of the track, body perfectly tense, gripping something glinting in their hand, Nico gets it.

Austin gasps, nails digging into Nico’s arm. “Oh, no.”

Before anyone can say anything, they take aim. They measure once, twice, and then let the knife loose with deadly precision, knife cutting through the air with ease and hurdling with impossible power towards to two finalists chariots.

If the knife hits the Athena chariot, it will slice clean through the axle. Architectural wonder it may be, the chariot cannot withstand Celestial bronze at terminal velocity, and it will give, and the chariot will crumple. In an effort to lesson the chariot’s load, the Athena charioteers have largely forgone armour. Their fall will be painful and disastrous; as deadly as Clarisse’s, if not moreso. A hit to the Ares-Apollo chariot will be similarly as race-ending, but both Will and Sherman are in full armour. It will be bruising, but not deadly. They will lose, but they will survive.

All they need to do to win is shift, just slightly, so that the knife hits the Athena chariot.

Will, like with all the others before it, seems to feel this knife coming. Unlike the others, he glances backwards, looking at the knife, looking back at the Athena chariot. Sherman follows his gaze, and seems to realize what Will has calculated a split second after he does. He shouts something — presumably an order to move, to shift, to sabotage.

Will hesitates.

The knife hits the Ares-Apollo chariot, slicing through the left wheel.

It careens around, unbalanced, dragged into a heap by untethered horses.

The Athena chariot pulls forward to victory, the remaining functioning chariots quickly following.

The Ares-Apollo canon is left broken and humiliated only a few feet from victory, the almost-first-place.

———

As soon as they come off the track, things get messy. Both Will and Sherman are covered in dirt and grime, striped with grease from the broken wheels, bleeding sluggishly from various scraps. Sherman has his non-flailing hand clamped to an oozing wound on the side of his neck, and Will is limping.

“—and I cannot fucking believe you, Solace! All I asked for was effort!”

“Oh, forgive me,” Will says sarcastically, finally close enough to hear. “In the hustle and bustle of being shot at, I made a couple errors.”

“That gonna be your attitude in battle? ‘Oh, sorry, there was a monster chasing me so I lost all focus —’”

“Battles are not usually fought on a chariot going a hundred fucking miles per hour!”

“That’s no excuse! You need to be —”

“What, Sherman, fucking what? What indisputable flaw do I have, oh great one, that needs to be so desperately remedied?”

It’s startling when Will’s composure cracks. When he goes from bitey and sarcastic, eye-rolling from his usual distance, to right in Sherman’s face. It’s eerie to see him at his full height, no slouching, reminding anyone watching that yeah, actually, their laidback medic is six-two, strong, capable, in more ways than what they’re used to.

Sherman, in usual Ares kid fashion, doesn’t even flinch.

“Your reflexes, for starters,” he says coolly. “No matter what you do, Solace, you’re always one second too fucking late.”

A collective gasp ricochets through the gathered campers. The tension rackets up so rapidly that Nico coughs, lungs suddenly constricted. Will rears back so violently Nico is half-convinced Sherman actual punched him.

Sherman, for his part, seems to realise he’s crossed some kind of line. The cold look on his face twists into a scowl, uncomfortable and apologetic at once. “Look, Will, I just mean —”

“You don’t get to say that to me.”

Will’s quiet voice seems to echo through the entirety of the valley, cutting through laboured breathing of charioteers, pegasus neighing, even the crashing of the waves in the distant shore — everything goes silent.

Nico likes to think he knows Will pretty well. He knows what he sounds like when he’s giggly, watching his siblings argue about nothing; when he’s excitable, rambling about his newest obsession; when he can’t choose between amused and stern at whatever dumb thing Nico has gotten himself into. He knows what he sounds like when he’s exhausted, too, overworked and done with everything; when he’s annoyed, when he’s hurt and sad.

But he’s never heard Will sound so dangerous.

“Of all people.” His words are articulated, deliberate. The usual warmth of his eyes is gone. He’s completely still in a way he never is outside of surgery — no shaking in his perpetually trembling hands, no bounce to his curls, none of the constant energy that seems to constantly exude off him. Still, cold. Icy. “You do not get to talk to me about being one second too late.”

Sherman looks stricken. Guilt is written across each of his features, and for a second he steps back — as if afraid.

“Will, I —”

The son of Apollo turns without another word, striding over to the distant tree line and disappearing into the woods. No one chases after him.

No one even moves.

———

Predictably, the silence does not last long.

“You fucking idiot!” Clarisse explodes, the second Will is out of eyesight. She bats Chris’s hand away from her, and he, surprisingly, lets her go easily — his usually understanding face has hardened. She hobbles towards her brother, remarkably quick with her clunky cast, and starts truly tearing into him. “I asked you to do one fucking thing! One!”

Sherman quickly gets defensive under the scrutiny. “Well, you didn’t make it fucking easy! Just because he’s your protege doesn’t mean he’s my fucking problem —”

Nico doesn’t stick around to listen to their argument. He searches around the gathered crowd until he meets Kayla’s eyes, flicking his head towards the woods. She nods frantically. Knowing he’ll make sure they have privacy, he takes off, aiming for the same place Will went, barely slowing down once he enters the forest.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Will?” he calls, well aware he’s not going to get an answer. “Where are you?”

While there’s definitely no response from Will, he damn near jumps out of his skin when a dryad melts from her tree, shuffling towards him.

“Blond boy?” she asks, leaning close so he can hear her whisper. “Tall? Crying?”

Nico swallows. Fuck. “Yeah.”

“Headed down southeast, ways past Zeus’ fist.“

“Thank you,” he says, hoping she understands how much he means it.

She nods, then disappears back into her tree.

Following her directions, Nico jogs down beaten paths, heading in the direction that he is vaguely sure is southeast and mostly praying that he’ll find Will eventually. He shouldn’t have that much of a head start, since Nico left maybe five minutes after he did, but who knows. Will’s fast, and sometimes this forest seems bigger than it really is. It’s easy to get lost.

He searches for what feels like hours, and might actually be hours; sky darkening as the sun disappears into the lake. The temperature drops significantly. Nico is hoping that he won’t be spending the night sleeping in the dirt when he hears sniffling.

Heart pounding, he freezes, focusing on the sound. It’s muffled, sobs choked-off and sound hidden behind cupped hands. The echo sounds strange, too; it’s close, that much is obvious, but Nico almost can’t tell if it’s coming from the left or the right. Truthfully, it doesn’t sound like either.

On impulse, he looks up. Almost invisible in the branches of a large oak tree is Will, stained clothes blending in with the scratchy bark, leaves covering the rest of him.

Except, perhaps fittingly, his bright, golden hair.

Worried that calling out to him might startle him right off the tree, Nico begins to climb. He’s not great at climbing — he doesn’t have a natural sense of what is and isn’t a good foothold — but oak trees are easy. Every half-step has a branch, and this tree is old enough that the branches are thick, sturdy. He’s twenty feet up before he even realizes, barely breaking a sweat.

He pauses a few feet shy of his target, straightening until he’s standing on an almost flat branch, arm looped tightly around the trunk.

“Will.”

Will startles. He looks around frantically, struggling in the dark, until his bloodshot eyes finally land on Nico. He bursts into more tears, shoulders shaking as he sobs.

Alarmed, Nico crawls all the way up.

“Woah, Will, breathe, vita, breathe —”

He’s not sure what tree-sobbing etiquette is, but regular sobbing etiquette often involves some kind of comforting physical touch, so he goes with that. And Will, he knows, likes to be crowded, likes to be almost suffocated with the sights and touch and smells of other people, to remind him he’s not alone, even if he feels it. So Nico scoots as closely as he dares, legs wrapped around the branch, and slides one arm around Will’s back, one against his chest, and tugs him closely.

Will comes easily.

With a bit of manoeuvring, he’s tucked under Nico’s chin, shoulders hunched and shaking, enveloped entirely in Nico’s arms. He can feel a wet spot growing on his left sleeve, and honestly he should be at least a little bit disgusted, but he barely even notices. He’s too busy fighting the lump in his own throat, blinking back his own tears.

“It’s gonna be okay,” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to Will’s curls. “Let it out, Will. You’re allowed.”

Will wails, a deep, choking, broken sound, and Nico loses the battle with his own tears. He’s never heard Will like this. He’s never heard anyone like this, except himself, in the echo of this same forest, years ago. It hurts like biting ice.

“It hurts, they’re gone, they’re gone, and I hate them, I hate them so much —” he heaves, dragging in breath like it cost him to say it, like part of his soul was dragged out of his vocal chords — “and I hate myself for hating them, I hate, they’re gone, I’m never —”

He dissolves into sobs, again, words breaking into nothing understandable, crying around the same repetitions over and over again. Nico hides his crumpling face in Will’s hair, wincing at every broken cry, every hitched breath, every moaned word. His heart feels like it’s breaking into a million fractals. He’s never felt so out of depth in his life.

“Let it out,” he whispers again, for a lack of anything else to say. “Let it out, sweetheart, let it out.”

For a long time, Nico had no one to hold him.

When he lost Bianca, he was by himself. And when he thought he had someone to guide him, someone to fix him, he was wrong — he was vulnerable and easy to manipulate. He had no one to hold him until he was too bitter and too closed off to let himself fall apart, anyway, and losing Bianca stayed somewhere rotten inside him, a bruise that never, ever stopped aching.

Until Will.

Last December he had cracked like an egg. He hadn’t meant to — it wasn’t even in the back of his mind — but he’d opened the door to Will’s smiling face on the morning, cold and sad as it was, and just started bawling. Some part of him, some deep, buried part, stomped it’s way from the prison Nico had kept it in and took the hell over, yanking open the floodgates, forcing him to expel every last drop of shadowy, strangling pain that had stayed inside him so long. He thought he was going to die. His entire body shook and jerked like a rowboat in a deep ocean storm, and it had been Will’s lighthouse, his endless, light eyes, his warm hands, his firm hold that had held him steady until he’d dragged himself out to the other side. It was and is the most painful thing he’d ever done in his life. And the most important.

He doesn’t think Will has had anyone to hold him, before, either. Not ‘til right this moment. Not Chiron, not his mother, and certainly not an older sibling. Will has been running on empty for as long as Nico has known him. Longer.

“Let it out,” Nico whispers again, and holds him tighter.

———

By the time either of them move again, it’s pale, early morning, and they’re damp from the dew and Will’s tears. Nico is as stiff as the tree he’s sitting on, but doesn’t dare say a word about it.

“I don’t want to go back,” Will croaks, the first either of them have spoken in hours.

Nico tucks a strand of hair behind his ear, resting a gentle hand on his cheek. “Okay.”

“We can’t stay here forever.”

“We can stay a while.” Nico pulls away slightly, just enough so that he can cradle Will’s face in both hands, tilting his chin up to meet his gaze. “I mean it, Will. As long as you need.”

“What if I’ll never have enough time?”

“Then I’ll stay with you until time runs out.” He presses a tentative, careful kiss to the centre of his freckled forehead; staying when Will shudders, leaning into it. Against his skin, he murmurs, “But you’ll have enough time, vita. You’re the strongest person I know.”

“I don’t want to be strong.”

“So don’t, I gotcha.” He presses another kiss slightly above the first, and another, resting again at the crown of his head. “But you can be.”

They stay like that until Nico’s face starts to go numb, and even then he doesn’t go far, shifting so his cheek lays on the top of Will’s skull. He ignores the slight tickle of his curls against his nose, focusing instead on the brand of his hands on his waist, the shakey but constant inhales, holds, exhales, again, again, again.

“Clarisse is my friend,” Will starts. “She was as important to me as — as Cass, before the war.”

Nico hums. “But she betrayed you.”

“All of us.”

“And you resent her for it, a little.”

Will nods. “It’s disgusting.”

“It’s human, Will, Christ.” He moves them around so they’re both sitting facing each other, Nico’s eyes firmly meeting Will’s. “I will never fully forgive Percy for letting Bianca die. Never. It’s not fair to him, and I love him anyway, and I am choosing to move past it. But I will carry that burden. Am I disgusting for that?”

Will glances away. “No.”

“Will, you — look at me.”

He does.

“Clarisse actively chose her pride over her people. So did the rest of her cabin. She’s not fully responsible for that choice, and the blame, as always, lands on Kronos’ shoulders, but —” Nico laughs, a bitter, defeated sound. “Out of all of us, you lost the most. No one lost as many as Apollo. No one burned as many shrouds. You’re allowed to be hurt, allowed to be angry.”

“I forgave them,” Will admits. “I did it publicly and called off the stupid rivalry right after the war. It was the first thing I did as head counsellor.”

“Trying to do what Michael would have done?”

“Are you kidding me, he —” Will scoffs, swiping at the tears trickling down the corners of his eyes. “If Michael were alive, and he found out I forgave them after what happened to Lee, too Diana — he would have been furious. He would stop speaking to me. If I was trying to be like Michael, I might’ve refused them treatment.”

Nico tries to imagine that for a second — Will refusing anyone treatment. It makes something sour uncurl in his stomach, something unsettling.

“You would never refuse someone treatment. I didn’t even — I didn’t think you guys were allowed.”

Will shrugs. “There are no rules to our practice. I just never made refusal an option, and the kids are too young to know any different.”

‘The kids’ — as if Kayla and Austin aren’t as old or older than Will was when he was in charge, when he held the bashed pieces of his brother’s brain as it oozed out of his skull. As he sat, exhausted, hands shaking, next to Nico, and embroidered twelve shrouds. As if Yan and Gracie are his, rather than Apollo’s.

“You forgave them so your siblings wouldn’t grow up bitter,” Nico realises. “Oh, gods, Will.”

He shrugs again, picking at his nails. “For me too. Grudges aren’t healthy.” He tries for a teasing smile. “You’d know.”

“I would.” Nico tries to smile back. It’s easier than he thought it would be, although it fades back into something serious quickly. He reaches out, linking his hands with Will’s to stop him picking before he bleeds. “You can be selfish sometimes, you know.”

“Not in front of anyone.”

“You’re admitting it in front of me,” Nico points out.

Will hesitates. “That’s — different.”

“How?”

“You get it.” He looks down, voice quiet. “You get me. I can —” He meets Nico’s eyes again, a kind of helpless smile on his face. “I dunno. You’re safe. You’re okay with me, even when I’m ugly.”

“Even then,” Nico echoes quietly. He reaches up and tucks a strand of hair behind Will’s ear again, even though none were loose. His fingertips linger, and the skin under his touch warms. “Especially then.”

“You can, too, you know, I lo —”

“I know.”

Will exhales in relief. “Good.”

He slumps forward until his forehead rests on the swell of Nico’s shoulder, breaths warming the air between them. Nico tries to match his rhythm — in, out, in, out. Hold. Out, in.

“Can we — hide here, for a little bit? Just a little longer.”

“Of course,” Nico murmurs, squeezing his wrists. “I’ll hide you as long as you need.”

619 notes · View notes

smoft-demons · 3 months

Note

hey hey! I really like your writing :) I have a request for the brothers:

gn!mc who has trouble sleeping alone bc of nightmares. they can very rarely sleep but are great at hiding it, because they don’t want to bother anybody. they never notice because mc always sleeps fine during sleepovers??? until eventually the lack of sleep gets to them too much and it becomes too noticeable. how do they respond when mc (reluctantly) reveals the truth?

thank you and have a lovely day ❤️

Good prompt! I like this one :)

(This one took a good few hours! Hope you like it!)

MC has nightmares when they sleep alone

_______

Lucifer:

‘…something’s amiss with our human.’ Lucifer thinks.

He’s been observing them lately. Since he cracked down on his brothers sneaking into their room at night—in order to give the poor human a break, so they may rest well and have time to study for the upcoming wave of tests—they’ve been… sluggish. More forgetful. Their assignments are coming back notably worse. He was irritated at first, but when he brought them into his office to confront them about it, he couldn’t ignore how… off they seemed.

Lucifer sets his irritation with their slipping standards aside, in favour of concern. He is above petty reactions, he decides. No, he is reasonable enough to see that there must be a cause for this.

“MC. I did not call you here to berate you. I am not angry with you. Something is obviously wrong. Please, I cannot help you until you tell me what it is.”

You’re not sure if it’s the jarringly unmasked concern in his eyes, or the rising feeling of guilt for stressing him out more than usual that finally cracks your resolve.

Whatever it is, you confide in him. You tell him that you’ve not been sleeping well. He pries the reason out of you, by pointing out his observations about the timing.

Begrudgingly, you admit to having nightmares when you try to sleep alone.

Outwardly, he remains businesslike and practical as always. In his mind, he’s facepalming. In retrospect, the signs are all there! How did he not notice??

He feels just a bit sorry, too. In his attempt to help you, he directly made everything worse. What a great job he’s done…

Then he snaps out of it and steels himself. There’s no use dwelling on that! He can fix this. Very, very easily!

“I see. Then, sleep in my room tonight. I will ensure no nightmares bother you. Once you’ve recovered enough to learn again, I will help you bring your grades back up to your usual standard. Is this satisfactory?”

He refuses to hear any guilt from you about imposing, or taking up his time, or being a burden.

“I am choosing to carry you, MC. There’s no burden.”

From that point on, you’re always welcome in his bed. On the rare occasion that he isn’t home and none of his brothers can sleep over with you, he lends you his coat to sleep under. The familiar scent of him that clings to it is better than nothing.

_______

Mammon:

…Okay, at this point, he HAS to pry. Mammon is one of the first to notice that you’ve not exactly been well lately. You’re being unusually scatterbrained, clumsy, and spacey. You don’t have any energy. It’s obvious to him that there’s a sleep issue! He’s more observant than he looks, ya know!

Now that he thinks of it, these traits are not THAT out of character for you. They’re not usually this bad though!

…shit, does that mean you’re usually sleep deprived? That’s not good. Well! You’re HIS human, and he loves you lots and takes your well being very seriously, as much as he hates to say it out loud. So, he commits himself to figuring this out!

Evening comes. Mammon follows you into the hall leading towards your room. You bash your hip against a wall corner and almost fall to the floor as you dizzily stumble, trying to catch yourself. Mammon grabs you to steady you. Yeah, at this point he has to pry.

“Be careful, human! Seriously, you’d break all your lil toothpick bones without the great Mammon around to protect ya! What’s up with that, huh?”

You trust him of course, but… you’re embarrassed. You don’t want to tell him.

He clicks his tongue impatiently. You don’t say anything. He grabs you by the shoulders and steers you into his room. He pushes you down to sit on his bed.

“C’mon, MC. Talk to me. Your first man is here to help!”

“…”

“…please?”

Now, that… almost does it. You feel bad for being stubborn. You know he’s worried, and chaotic as he can be, he’s proven himself as a very good guardian demon time and time again. You take a deep breath, gathering your resolve.

You take just a bit too long. Mammon groans.

“I’m very annoying, yknow. I’ll get it outta ya somehow!”

Mammon pokes your cheeks, gently shakes you, tugs lightly at your hair, as he demands that you talk to him.

“Tell me, tell me tell me tell me tell me, c’mooooon humaaan, tell me!”

‘Oh, fucking fine!’ You think. You confide in him.

He’s mildly tempted to be like, ‘was that really so hard,’ but he won’t. He’s far more concerned than annoyed with you. He feels bad about all the super late nights out he’s been having lately. He wants to always be there for you! Him having missed something like this has him mentally kicking his own ass.

Mammon puts all that aside for now, though. He roots around in a drawer to get two pairs of his old, worn and comfy sweatpants, plus an old tshirt, faded and worn soft from use. He throws the shirt and one of the sweatpants at you

“Go brush your teeth and change, then come right back. We’re having an early night.”

When you return, he locks his door, then puts you back in his bed. He’s changed into the other pair of sweatpants. Mammon wraps himself around you as much as he can, as if to bodily shield you from the nightmares, then pulls his blanket over both of you.

“Sleep, human. No nightmares’ll DARE mess with you now. Not while I’m here. I’ll protect ya.”

Having him so close to you feels like home. Nothing else has ever felt so safe. You sleep deeply, for hours longer than you have in a while.

(Mammon is never letting you sleep alone again)

_______

Levi:

As much as Levi doesn’t want to bother you, he’s getting worried. You’re performing WAY worse at your video games than usual! You’re missing so many inputs! He knows your usual skill level, this game should be a relaxing walk in the park for you! He’s too worried to even make fun of you!

“Ok, that’s it! I can’t take it anymore! What happened to you, normie?? Are you sick?? Do you… not want to play with me? What’s happening??”

He’s worked himself into a panic. You know he’s sensitive enough right now to take it personally if you don’t confide in him. So fine! You’ll talk!

You’ll talk… auuugh, you can’t get the words out! You’re too self conscious about it. Fuck it. You take your DDD out of your pocket and send him a text.

>not been sleeping well. Nightmares. So tired, can’t pretend anymore! >:( Nothing personal, promise!

Levi reads the text. He chews the inside of his cheek for a long moment, thinking. Then he snaps to attention, looking at you with intense determination.

“We can’t have that! I need my player two in optimal condition! There’s no other way for us to win at any games!”

Levi resorts to his old faithful: relaxing slice of life anime! He makes a big pile of pillows and blankets on the floor, arranging them into an MC-and-Levi sized nest. It’s late enough into the evening that it’s reasonable enough to try to put you to sleep.

If just the anime and the blankets and the being in his room isn’t enough to knock you out, he’ll shyly inch over to you to hold your hand. Blushing and looking away from you because he’s shy, but he’ll do it.

If you ask him—or just look sad and cute enough—he’ll even curl up behind you in the blanket-nest and hold you. Levi won’t have ANYTHING hurting his Henry, not if he can do anything about it!

He doesn’t mind holding you all night like this. The fact that you’re asleep helps, he’s not shy when you’re not perceiving him. The anime he’s still watching is helping too. It’s a good distraction.

_______

Satan:

As soon as he started to get the feeling something was wrong with you, he began watching you intently. He’s sharp, so he would have caught this very early on.

He can’t help but have a little fun with this investigation at first, thinking of it as detective work.

Soon though, he gets concerned. You’re irritable, you’re not retaining information or remembering small things as well, you’re clumsier and less generally aware… all dangerous things to be in this realm.

He doesn’t need you to tell him what’s wrong. He puts it together himself. He knows you sleep just fine with him, he knows you seem well rested after sleepovers with any of his brothers too. Clearly it’s not general insomnia. He also knows that the usual frequent sleepovers haven’t been happening for a while now.

When he confronts you, he doesn’t start with asking questions. He lays out all the evidence he’s collected and states his guesses as to the cause.

He tells you he has concluded it’s most likely to be any of these causes: loneliness, separation anxiety, touch deprivation, nightmares, stress-induced insomnia. He asks you to tell him which it is, if it’s more than one, if it’s something else?

He’s so clinical about it, you pretty much forget to be self conscious. All you have to do is confirm that it’s nightmares and they only happen when you sleep alone.

“Thank you for trusting me,” he says, regardless of how little you’ve actually told him. “You’re more than welcome to sleep over with me any time. You don’t even have to ask. Just tell me that you’re sleeping over.”

That evening, he leads you into his room. He lies on his back, book in hand, and beckons you to lie on top of him.

He guides your head to rest in the crook of his neck. He balances his book against your shoulders, holding it with one hand. The other wraps around your waist, his thumb rubbing your side soothingly, and he begins to read aloud to you.

His voice and his warmth soothe you to sleep. Not a single nightmare dares touch you.

Asmo:

The first thing Asmo notices is the darkened circles under your eyes.

“Oh, my darling! Your skin!” He gasps, genuinely horrified. “Come, we can do better than that. Let your Asmo take care of you~”

As he often does, Asmo brings you to his room for a spa day. Evening. Night. It’s late.

He smooths moisturizer into your skin, using all the appropriate human-safe products for revitalizing you when you’re tired. He gets a helpful mask on you, then one for him too. As you wait for it to dry, he asks you what’s up.

“Can’t sleep, lovely? You know, if you’re restless I can always tire you out~”

You roll your eyes and elbow him lightly. You expected nothing less from Asmo. Knowing him as well as you do, it’s more endearing than bothersome. You know he’s showing you that he cares.

“Offer’s always open, darling!” He giggles. “But, is there anything else I could do for you? Need to get something off your chest? Or just some good company, hmm?”

Asmo’s really sweet. It’s easy to open up to him—or, as easy as opening up gets. He massages your hand in silence as you gather your resolve to confide in him.

He listens sympathetically. Nodding and humming encouragingly at all the right points as you speak. Squeezing your hand when you need support. Just… being the emotionally intelligent sweetheart that Asmo always is with you.

“You’re welcome to sleep here, love. Nothing you don’t want will happen, of course. Now, let me wash that mask off you, then we can snuggle if you like.”

He washes off the mask, touching you very tenderly as he does. He takes his time gently washing the product off your face, stroking your cheek with his thumb affectionately. He gives you a little forehead kiss when your face is clean as his thanks for trusting him.

He lets you lead on how much contact you want. He really just wants to help. He’s happiest if you choose to cuddle with him, but he’s totally chill with just holding your hand, or even just lying next to you. He’s awesome like that.

No matter what you choose, the familiar perfume of Asmo’s room and the reassuring rhythm of his breathing lulls you to sleep. It feels safe.

You sleep really well. Asmo really is the best.

Beel:

Beel understands nightmares. He gets them too. He spots the signs easily, familiar as they are to him.

All he has to do is spot the haunted look in your eyes when he sees you before breakfast. Very distracted he usually is at that time, yes, but he loves you. He pays attention to you. He notices it pretty quick.

He can’t help but wonder why you haven’t approached him about it. Hasn’t he demonstrated to you that nightmares in particular are a thing he’s safe for you to confide in about? He’s not going to take it personally, but he IS going to worry.

He keeps an ear trained on your room whenever he goes into the kitchen at night. Carefully listening for any signs of distress.

After a few nights of this, he gives into his impulse and goes to check on you after his midnight snack. He brings you something he knows you like.

He’s not surprised to find you awake.

“Hey.” He says through a mouthful of his own food. “Want a snack?” He comes in to put it in your hands as soon as you acknowledge him.

The two of you eat together, sitting quietly on your bed side by side. Beel’s careful not to drop any crumbs.

You remain quiet even after all traces of snacks are eliminated.

“Nightmares?” Beel asks gently, looking at you with those irresistible soft worried puppy eyes he does. You can’t lie to him. You’re not a monster!

You nod. He hums sympathetically, looking genuinely saddened on your behalf. He gets it.

“Want a hug?” He offers

You press yourself into his side. He wraps one very big arm around you, and you melt into him like warm mozzarella. His solid presence is reassuring. You feel so safe with him. You’re already starting to drift as he rubs your shoulder with one large thumb.

“Would it help if I stay?” Beel murmurs to you.

You nod again.

So Beel picks you up, settling himself in your bed with you and arranging you comfortably in his arms.

He starts softly stroking your hair. Trying to help you relax more.

“Thanks for letting me help you.” Beel says earnestly. It’s obvious that he really means it. He’s grateful you’re trusting him with this. He’s very happy that you’re accepting his comfort, because he wants nothing more than to help you and protect you.

He’s good at that. Being comforting. Helpful and protective—that’s Beel.

You drift off peacefully, with nothing on your mind except the sleep-blurred sentiment of feeling grateful for him, too.

Belphie:

Without question, Belphie is the first one to notice that you’re having nightmares. Sleep is his main thing!

You only get to have one bad night before he steps in. He drags you up to the attic to nap with you right after school. No nightmares happen, of course, because you’re not sleeping alone. Belphie congratulates himself on a job well done!

…wait. Again?? He finds himself aware that you’re having another nightmare that night, hours later when you’re trying to sleep by yourself. Fuck sake.

He goes to your room. You snap awake at the disturbance. Without a word, he pours himself into your bed, draping across you like a clingy cat and going right back to sleep.

Bit rude. But this is helpful. You go back to sleep too, and have no nightmares. Good job, Belphie.

Then the next night, it happens again!! Mildly vexed at the persistent issue, he does the same thing as last night.

The next evening, he doesn’t let you go to bed alone to begin with. He goes with you, staying just aware enough that he can snipe your nightmares before they get a chance to terrorize you—but… none happen? Huh. Wild. Okay.

The next night, he finally asks you what the deal is. You hesitate to tell him. Belphie has no qualms about annoying the information out of you, if his initial blunt concern isn’t enough to get you to talk. If you don’t crack, he’ll try tickling you until you talk to him. If you STILL don’t crack, he’ll sic Beel and his concerned puppy eyes on you. No one can resist Beel’s concerned puppy eyes. Especially not when it’s BOTH twins looking at you like that!

Resistance is futile. You reluctantly tell him that you have nightmares only when you sleep alone.

He mentally slaps himself. Obviously!

He was prepared to use any of his avatar of sloth abilities necessary to cure you of your nightmares—and he still is—but he’s happy (and secretly endeared) to learn that the cure is nothing more than his presence. Less work for him! Less work, AND a good excuse to steal you away for naps all the time! Two of his favourite things!

Belphie is never letting you sleep alone again. No, you’ll either be together in your room, together in his and Beel’s room, or together in the attic.

He’ll make an exception for sleepovers with his other brothers too if you miss them. You’re so lucky he loves you.

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prince-kallisto · 3 months

Text

Taking their Left Hand: A Deal with the Devil

I find it fascinating that now with the release of Crowley’s card and his groovy art, the “extending of the hand” theme has become even stronger. But now that I am looking at Crowley, Malleus, and the hand in the mirror, I noticed they are all extending their left hand!

In traditional superstitions, left handed people were associated with the Devil or just overall bad luck and clumsiness (sad to hear as a lefty myself 🤣). It is to the point that in the past, and in some cases in the present, that left handed children were forced to learn how to write with their right hand through the use of physical punishments or straight up tying their left hand down so they couldn’t use it. But where does this malicious association come from?

It varies from both culture and religion, but this book from 1891 covers the basics of it. Greek and Latin translations of “left” has several negative connotations related to clumsiness, ill omens, and in Latin it directly means “sinister.” Some lore also mentions that the left road is “the road to ruin,” and Scottish folklore even say that it is an ill omen to meet a left handed person when setting out on your journey. …Let’s put a pin on this particular note and return to it soon 👀

You may notice that in Christian iconography, God is often depicted with significance to his right hand- the “right hand of God” being his favored hand, and his left hand is the hand of judgment (The Archangel Gabriel is also known as “God’s left hand”). This is seen most clearly in the parable of sheep and goats, where the sheep are on his right side will “inherit the kingdom of god,” and the goats on his left are the fallen souls who will “depart from me… in everlasting fire.” The “right hand of God” is also used as a metaphor for his omnipotence.

This is where the Devil being associated with the left hand begins to grow. You’ll often see in art (such as cartoon or in movie cinematography) of an angel and Devil being on someone’s shoulder- and the devil is nearly always on the left- because it was believed evil spirits and even the Devil himself watched over one from the left shoulder. Some believed in the 17th century that the Devil “baptized” his followers with his left hand. And in the infamous statue of “Le Génie du Mal” (The Genius of Evil or the Spirit of Evil), Lucifer is depicted crying from his left eye, and holding a broken scepter and crown in his left hand. Notice the bitten apple below his feet, and how his left hand is also chained!

In western esotericism, there is a concept of the “left-hand path” and “right-hand path.” Right-hand path magic is light magic and associated with good and the right hand. Whereas the left-hand path is black magic, associated with evil, “amorality,” and the left hand. (Important to Note: Although the left-hand path is highly associated with black magic, it is not the same as what the left-hand path is. Many occultists critique this definition, some saying these paths don’t necessarily refers to good or bad magic. It is more the idea of amorality and seeking power and freedom through breaking constrictions, whereas true right-hand path has stricter moral codes and believe in the idea of karma/judgement)

It was even believed that witches greeted the Devil with their left hand. Women who were left handed or even had natural markings on the left side of the body were accused off being a witch during the time of the Salem Witch trials, and burned alive for it.

Now that we’ve went over this, what does this ACTUALLY mean for Crowley, Malleus, and the hand in the mirror? Returning to the pin I left earlier, meeting this left handed person is an ill omen, a road to ruin. Crowley and the hand in the mirror are the FIRST scene in the game, with Crowley even saying to take the hand in the mirror. This phrase of his is repeated throughout trailers and the manga.

Malleus is technically never the “first” person we really meet. He is notably absent at the opening ceremony, and even though he makes mysterious appearances at Ramshackle, it’s never really the “first” 🤔 BUT when we look back at Book 7, Malleus is essentially making everyone reborn into a new world without sorrow. And this scene is also where he says to take his hand. With Malleus recreating the world, he is the “first” to introduce you to it, and by taking his hand, it is the beginning of a new journey. Notice how his live 2D model has him using his left hand for magic in these scenes as well!

Crowley’s opening ceremony where he unlocks the coffins to wake everyone up feels very much like a parallel to Malleus being the orchestrator of the dreams- everyone is asleep and can only wake up by his command. We don’t yet know the identity of the hand in the mirror, but I do think it’s interesting that the Dark Mirror is the one who states that the nature of Yuu’s soul is shapeless and colorless.

And and, in official art, Malleus is frequently the one front in center, sometimes directly associated with the hand in the mirror. In this art above, there’s is the idea of the true “happily ever after,” where a crow with a key (Crowley’s symbol) is in front of the Dark Mirror, right above Malleus. All three of them are directly connected with a column of light 🤔

And and and, in Malleus’ Glorious Masquerade card and Crowley’s Raven Jacket groovy, don’t they look like they’re reaching out as a gesture of salvation or mercy? The way the light is always above on them only as they reach their hand out to you…and in Crowley’s card, the perspective is taken from inside the coffin- likes he’s leading you out/waking you from your death or something- even though he looks a bit sinister in his art🤔

Now, this is not to say that I think Crowley and Malleus are evil characters (*ﾟ▽ﾟ*) I do think there is purposeful symbolism with their left hand being an “ill omen” and associated with Devil imagery, but when I think about the left-hand path vs right-hand path, it feels like taking their hand symbolizes both freedom AND the road to ruin. Remember Crowley’s lines in the prologue- they are all running out of time, and Malleus in book 7 is looking for the happy ending. I think the story of Twisted Wonderland is inevitably a story that goes down the road to ruin, but these characters are looking for some hope in this darkness 🤔 Crowley has hope in Yuu and Grim in that they can change everything- and this change will indeed bring a lot of necessary suffering to it for the good of everyone.

I hope what I’m trying to say makes sense! 🤣 I think these parallels are really interesting, but in the end I don’t really know what they mean 🤣 I’d like to hear everyone’s thoughts on this pattern and your interpretation of things- there’s a lot of possibilities that I have never thought of! \(//∇//)\

I’d also appreciate any insight/needed correction for the biblical texts 🤔 I am not religious- so there’s possibly things I missed (*ﾟ▽ﾟ*) I have actually considered reading the full text of some sections of the Bible and such religious texts tho for Twisted Wonderland just because I’ve made several theories by now connecting to biblical lore 😭 One day perhaps- anything for my Crowley theories 🤣 I’d like to cover connections to Faust, Paradise Lost and maybe Dante’s Inferno too one day, so…my reading list is stacking up! 🤣

#twisted wonderland #twst #dire crowley #twst dire crowley #twst spoilers #twst theory #twst crowley #twst malleus #twst malleus draconia #kallistopost

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felikatze · 15 days

Note

I forgot did I ever ask for chrom facts? I remember asking for Roy and Marth facts. Anyways If I already have then tell me facts for a character of your choosing

This one is surprisingly more difficult as i've made so much unhinged Chrom content that i need to remember what is blatantly my five layers of headcanons and what isnt. uhm.

Chrom's base Falchion (legendary sword passed down for generations) has the same might as an iron sword. It's an unbreakable iron sword.

Despite Robin being the literal self insert, Chrom is the only character force-deployed on every map, and the only character with convoy access

Chrom (and male Robin) is the only dad in awakening to have a child associated with him. All other kids are associated with the mother instead.

Chrom is very clumsy. When he was a kid, he smashed a wall while training, and it never got fixed, so he and Lissa presumably covered the incident up by moving shrubbery over the hole.

This smashed wall is a legitimate plot point as it allows Lucina to inflitrate Ylisstol Castle and stop Chrom from being permanently wounded by an assassin

Speaking of Lucina, he really like. Post timeskip he's like, 25 MAX, and father of an Infant, so when a like, 18yr old girl shows up and says he's her dad. He's just like. Ok. My daughter now. Truly dad of the year. All his shortcomings as a father are External Circumstances he had no influence over ok

Literally all Chrom seasonal units are so mad to be seasonal units. Chrom hates wearing anything besides his stupid onesie. My respect tbh. I get it.

I'm a firm believer he has resting bitch face. The Autism Stare

I fear if i say more I'm going to get into deranged headcanon territory. I've written enough fanfic abt him tbh.

My fav thing abt his characterization is that he sees himself as a tool of violence yet deeply admires pacifism. It's like. He loves peace in theory. When its personified by his sister. But he just. doesn't know how to put it into practice.

This is especially notable in his first meeting with Gangrel, where Gangrel has a hostage and is demanding Emmeryn negotiate. And Chrom just immediately gets aggressive amd escalates the situation into a fight. Yeah sure he was being goaded, but the guy has a surprisingly short temper!

It's a very inch resting dualism and I am a total sucker for everytime fanworks do more with that than the game does. Bcuz most FE protags. Love peace obviously. But they see violence as the means to the end, they still see themselves as holier than thou, whereas Chrom really doesn't. Death is death. Gives him flavor.

It's blatantly obvious in his behavior and skills that he was NOT meant to be the leader. Most FE protags had their parents die to become king, but he had his SISTER die. He would've been behind any of HER heirs (if she had any) in the line of succession and probably only ran a militia because he never expected to be king at all. He can't negotiate for shit on a political level, only convince people on a personal one. He's very blunt and honest (...autism swag...), and not cut out for intrigue, as well as easily manipulated.

For real he would he fucked without Robin.

Can you tell I love him and think about him a normal amount. Chrom my wife

#Feli gets asked #fire emblem

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gorogues · 5 months

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15 Questions for 15 People

Tagged by @sammysdewysensitiveeyes -- thank you!

Are you named after anyone?

No, actually. I think my parents just liked the name.

2. When was the last time you cried?

The last time was over a sad news story, but I'm not certain what it was or how long ago. Might have been about the fire in Maui.

3. Do you have kids?

Just the four-legged kind (yeah, I'm one of those people).

4. What sports do you play/have you played?

I'm clumsy as hell and have never been good at anything involving co-ordinated activities, though I used to be an okay sprinter. My joints hate me now so all I can do is walk these days, and that's what I do nearly every day.

5. Do you use sarcasm?

It's just one of many services I offer.

6. What's the first thing you notice about people?

Anything notable except the eyes. Unfortunately when I'm really stressed in social interactions I tend to not notice much or anything at all, basically putting all my cognitive resources into not being rude or acting like a complete social idiot. When less stressed, I'll focus on anything visually distinctive about them + their voice to remember them in the future. My facial recognition skills aren't great, and it's so embarrassing when I run into a casual acquaintance and they know who I am but I don't recognize them at all. Or I recognize their voice when they speak, but look rude for not acknowledging them earlier.

7. What's your eye color?

Green, probably -- one eye is slightly more brown so I was wondering if they might be considered hazel, but I think they're overall more green than hazel.

8. Scary movies or happy endings?

Happy endings for sure, as I'm a huge wuss who can't take scary. Makes me anxious and rattled for a long time afterward.

9. Any talents?

Hopefully I've got decent writing skills. My best talents are probably a good memory and a stupid dogged persistence which have served well in my hobbies but are often a hindrance in everyday social interactions.

10. Where were you born?

Toronto, Ontario.

11. What are your hobbies?

Comics, obviously, and I'm hardcore into genealogy these days. I like writing fic when I've got the inspiration/motivation (that's been rare these past few years), and enjoy thrifting, tea, photography, and minerals.

12. Do you have any pets?

One cat, who is pure trouble. We found her last year while out for our daily walk, and she followed us more than a kilometre home despite a pronounced limp. Turns out she had an abscess on her hip, and once treated she regained her ability to jump and walk normally.

13. How tall are you?

5'9.5". That half-inch is important because I've got a curved spine and feel robbed of my full 5'10 :>

14. Favorite subject in school?

History or geography.

15. What is your dream job?

Always wanted to work in a museum as a curator or an archivist of the collection.

Tag 15 people (these are some folks I haven't seen tagged with this): @tricksterrune @hesmiledlikeaweatherman @longitudinalwaveme @purplecyborgnewt @kenais-posts @demonbirdsforever @octy-gone @jessequinnfirstofhername @ohhicas

As always, don't feel obliged to do this, and feel free to do it even if not tagged!

#memes

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imasloid · 2 months

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SHINY COLORS FASHION ANALYSIS - Kogane Tsukioka (月岡恋鐘)

"Ya make me an idol and there'll be no one better! Jus' leave it to me!"

This is a project analyzing and taking a look at the fashion design and application in the multimedia series, The IDOLM@STER: Shiny Colors. This section is about the countryside positive girl of the series, Kogane Tsukioka! If you want to jump to a specific section, go here!

(This is a reprint of my thread on Twitter. I put it on Tumblr for easier reading and for archiving purposes. Enjoy!)

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INTRODUCTION

“Kogane is a confident girl who always has a bright smile on her face, stylish with an eye-catching cuteness. Though known for being quite clumsy (falling down & making mistakes while dancing), Kogane’s natural positive attitude allows her to quickly recover from her failures.”

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Profile

Age: 19

Birthday: February 25th

Height: 165 cm

Weight: 58 kg

Blood Type: B

Hometown: Nagasaki

Hobbies: “My excellent home cookin'!”

Special Skills: “I can draw the spittin’ image of ya!”

CV: Carin Isobe

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Before starting the analysis, I would suggest if you haven’t already, read her W.I.N.G. (introductory) commu (through the broswer game's English patch or on YouTube). If you don’t play the game, I would listen to her image song and read the lyrics to get a better sense of her character.

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STYLE BREAKDOWN

Out of all of the Shiny idols, Kogane’s style is the most consistent from her debut to current day. Her fashion is polished and elegant, cutie-sexy while also modest. Kogane’s style is a Japanese take on 1950s fashion, highlighting her figure, fashion sense, and love of pink.

Most of Kogane’s earlier outfits were in the “girly” style, very cute and sometimes tacky with a bit of a playful edge with oversized floral and bow features and a predominantly pink color scheme. As seen in later outfits, her clothes compliment her figure very well.

A substyle of her girly fashion, the “cutie sexy” style (as I dub it) keeps her hyperfeminine style, but adds a coy maturity to her outfits that add a bit of sexiness to her cute ensembles. Details include exposed shoulders/cleavage, sheer fabric, & darker/more neutral colors.

Another notable girly substyle featured is “retro girly,” mostly taking influence from 50s American “housewife” style. A reference to her “countryside hospitality” and love to cook for others, it shows a bit more elegance and class compared to previous style inspirations.

I want to go more in-depth into the 1950s retro influence in her style, so I made two more graphics detailing the “New Look” style by Dior (made in late 40s but popularized in 50s & beyond) and the “American housewife” influences in her fashion.

Her final major style influence is “adult girly,” a substyle that still has cuteness that the “girly” style is known for, but leans in more to an elegant/classy vibe. A visual shift that shows her character growth as an idol as well as the leader/center of L’Antica.

Kogane’s image color is a medium shade of magenta-red, referencing her status of being the center and leader of her unit L’Antica, a trait of pink image color idols. Compared to Mano’s pink, it’s much more vibrant, pointing to her outgoing and larger-than-life self.

The main colors in Kogane’s wardrobe are pinks, browns, and yellows and are mostly a constant throughout her fashion through time. These colors are often paired together and with white/black as accent colors. Kogane also infrequently wears blue/purple, mostly in earlier outfits.

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FASHION ANALYSIS

Kogane is known as the leader and center of L’Antica with a huge love for her hometown of Nagasaki. Because of the overwhelming support and love she’s received there, she possesses unbudging positivity. She can say “I am the best idol!” without any self-consciousness.

Since leaving her hometown to chase her dream, she has went to and failed several auditions but never gave up, strongly persevering. Even after becoming an idol, she tends to mess up often, forgetting dance steps or lyrics, but doesn’t worry too hard and keeps moving forward.

In game, she’s known for having a very cute and “outrageously stylish” image, which fits her perfectly to be a center for an idol unit. Her fashion takes very accessible pre-existing styles like various “girly” substyles and makes a visually clean and unique style that is hers.

Kogane’s clothes heavily flatter her figure, such as a cinched waist, above-te-knee dresses/skirts to show her long legs, and tops that accentuate her bust. Contrary to assumptions, she doesn’t wear clothes to impress others, but just because she likes the clothes she wears.

She actually has a sizeable complex about her body type, not liking comments on it or being stared at/touched. Many agencies offered to produce her as a gravure idol, but she turned all of them down. Kogane has even wished to have a smaller frame/body type like Yuika’s.

Though some elements of her fashion are mature, there is a pureness in it seen in the styles it is based off of, especially the “girly” substyles. It balances many contrasting elements (e.g. cute and elegant, pure and mature, sexy and modest) which is quite commendable.

Though Kogane has such a positive outlook on life, she is not without insecurities. Perhaps as a side-effect of failing auditions due to being a “normal cute girl one can find anywhere,” she sometimes desires traits of others, like Kiriko’s gentleness and Sakuya's dependability.

Despite this, Kogane doesn’t change herself to appease anyone and wants to fulfill her dreams by being her authentic self. This can be seen visually in how her style evolves over time, keeping the same elements (e.g. silhouette, composition, color) constant with subtle changes.

Kogane has one of the most consistent styles out of all the idols, a testament to being a steady pillar of support for L’Antica. If you look at all of her outfits, there is little variation in categories like color, composition, fabric, or design elements.

One variation is how her silhouette changes subtly over time. Her first outfits were very girly and featured more tacky design elements but slowly started to become more clean, elegant, and mature. Her bottoms got less volume but longer, leading to a more linear silhouette.

Symbolically, this stands for her character growth through being an idol. While her positive & strong-minded personality doesn’t change much, her newfound relationships with her unit members & Producer have changed her worldview tremendously, hence a mature albeit subtle change.

Additionally, due to her family owning a restaurant, she is very skilled in cooking and often cooks for others as a sign of affection. This is a probable reason why there’s 1950’s housewife influence in her fashion, symbolizing her hospitality and love for taking care of others.

Overall, Kogane's fashion style is simple but effective, transmitting her traits of unyielding positivity and cutesy perseverance well. Though it doesn't change much compared to other characters, it shows her commitment to stay true to herself and her subtle development & growth.

-----

This is it for Sakuya Shirase!

If you liked this thread, check out my Twitter and give me a tip on Ko-Fi so I can do more things like this with other idol series! Thanks for reading <3

Next section: Mamimi Tanaka

#kogane tsukioka #imas #the idolmaster #idolmaster #idolm@ster #scfa #shiny colors

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sillygonk · 1 month

Text

Strings of Devotion [ao3]

pairing: Johnny Silverhand/V

word count: 5k

IMPORTANT DISCLAIMER – since this fic revolves around music, some song lyrics will be used. I am a songwriter in the same way as wine is a fruit salad, so I decided to borrow the music of a real band. It will be presented as Banzai Riot’s original tracks, but the songs are NOT mine, they all belong to original artists, I’m bending the reality for the purposes of this fic only! The original band is Halestorm and they are fucking amazing. For anyone interested in original tracks (or any other songs mentioned) of which lyrics I will use in the fic, I will be adding a links in the bottom notes. Thank you!

<- Chapter II Chapter IV ->

Chapter III – Reasonably Confident

Days seemed to be flying by in a blur, slipping away faster than a pickpocket in a Kabuki market. Between band rehearsals, late-night gigs and the constant buzz of the city outside his window, he was living in a perpetual state of motion. A normal person would probably be tired, exhausted even, but not him. There was this restless, nervous energy gnawing at him, always lighting his veins on fire. It was as if he was constantly chasing something just out of reach, barely having time to catch a breath. He got used to it though.

That was the rule after all – this city never slept, and neither did Johnny.

The only time when he could truly find some peace was at the break of dawn, when the exhaustion was usually starting to get to him. Only then he was not bothered by anything or anyone, cause everyone knew that it was better to just leave him be. And if they didn’t, he could always blow them off.

Johnny stumbled into his apartment just before four a.m., his head spinning. He dropped his guitar on the couch and made his way to the kitchen, his worn-out boots scuffing against the floor. He poured himself a glass of water and downed it in one gulp, the coolness soothing his parched throat. As he leaned against the counter, he ran a hand through his tousled hair and let out a weary sigh, already feeling the hangover creeping in. After gaining a little more balance, he made his way towards his bedroom, shedding his clothes with each step and tossing them carelessly to the floor. He collapsed onto the mattress with a heavy thud, burying his face into the pillow with a groan of relief, hoping to shut out the world and sleep at least until noon.

But just as he was about to close his eyes, his phone erupted with a series of insistent pings, shattering the fragile silence of the night. Irritated, Johnny fumbled for the device, his fingers clumsy with fatigue.

[Kerry] ur lucky im pulling an allnighter jackass received – 3:47 am

Oh, that’s right. He slammed the doors not really giving a shit if he woke Kerry up. Again.

[Kerry] ur unbelievable man the worst fucking roommate ever i shouldve move in with denny when she offered received – 3:47 am

[Johnny] that equals livin with henry sent – 3:48 am

[Kerry] true just fucking watch it next time received – 3:49 am

[Johnny] sure mom sent – 3:49 am

[Kerry] don’t be a dick netdir://brf.web received – 3:49 am

[Johnny] tf is this sent – 3:50 am

[Kerry] banzais fanpage just popped up received – 3:50 am

Johnny narrowed his eyes, trying to gain some focus. Since when exactly did he start caring about what his competition was doing? He navigated to the fanpage and began scrolling through the posts. There wasn't much there yet, since the account was brand new, barely a few days old from what he noticed. Just a handful of photos with vague descriptions, some of them introducing each of the band members, and a smattering of comments from early followers. As he examined the meager content, Johnny's gaze lingered on the photos, but there was one specific pic that caught his eye. It was a candid shot of a chick with short white hair, probably at some gig, guitar in hand, pouring her heart out into the mic. He clicked on her private profile but found it notably sparse, signed with only her name. Or rather an initial, because who the fuck names their kid “V”? Any photos she had added were either back shots that showed off her occiput tattoo, her guitar or shitty, blurry pics that he guessed were supposed to be aesthetic.

Curiosity piqued, he checked out each band member's profile. In comparison to hers, theirs were full of photos and stupid quirky anecdotes, offering a window into their lives beyond the stage.

A cynical smirk tugged at the corners of Johnny's lips. “Typical marketing ploy,” he muttered to himself. “Leave ‘em wanting more, right?”

She was the frontwoman after all. She was supposed to attract the most attention, yet she was holding back, posing as this enigmatic and mysterious doll. It had to be just cleverly calculated marketing. It didn't make sense otherwise. Lost in thought, he found himself thinking about her again. The way she'd apologized to him when they bumped into each other couple days back, the hint of shyness in her demeanor. Then her bitchy attitude and calling him an asshole when she thought he wouldn’t hear her. And earlier, in the Afterlife? That bubbly personality? She for sure was a tough nut to crack, but he wasn’t sure if he would call her enigmatic.

Well. If it really was some kind of ploy, it was definitely working on him, since his thoughts were constantly going back to her over the past couple of days. Shit, how many times he thought about her this week?

The realization caught him off guard, and he couldn’t help but scoff at himself. Sure, she was cute, and the fact that she was a challenge was making his blood boil in the best way possible, but that wasn’t a reason for him to-

Hollup.

Cute? Where did that fucking come from?

With a frustrated grunt, Johnny tossed his phone aside and rolled over in bed, burying his face in his pillow in a futile attempt to silence his racing thoughts. He couldn't help but wonder what it was about V that had managed to get under his skin. She lingered in his mind like an irritating itch he couldn't scratch. And it was fucking infuriating.

He rubbed his face and sighed. He needed to fucking sleep it off.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

After their rehearsal the next day, they sat down to discuss the specifics of their performances, with cigarettes and glasses in hand. Ideas flew back and forth as they debated which songs to include in their setlist for the Battle and which song should they choose for their presentation. After settling the details, they emerged from the dimly lit confines of the warehouse and onto the street, exchanging nods and handshakes. It was a surprisingly productive meeting, without the usual screaming matches and disagreements. Johnny was even able to finally get his head out of his ass and stop thinking about this white-haired chick. And his hangover was bearable. That counted as a good day in his book. But of course, just as Johnny was about to make his way to his Porsche, Henry stopped him.

“Hey, Alt is going to be there to see us, right?”

Yup. He spoke to fucking soon.

“The fuck is wrong with you?” Denny hissed, smacking the back of Henry’s head.

“Ow! What the fuck Denny? Alt’s always been a big fan of ours, right?” he rubbed his head and narrowed his eyes at his girlfriend. “I’m just checking to see if she’ll be there this time too, shit.”

“She was there to see Johnny, you gonk, not all of us,” Nancy rolled her eyes without even looking up from her phone. Henry looked at them all helplessly, as if he didn’t understand where he fucked up.

“Christ, chooms, you all know how they are,” Henry remarked pointing at Johnny. “Breaking up, making up, breaking up again and again, so I just assumed-“

“Stop assuming and just shut up Henry, just this once,” Denny glowered at him and made her way to Johnny, patting his cheek lightly. “Don’t listen to him. You made the right call, okay?”

“Yeah,” Johnny groaned and reached out for a cigarette, lighting it up, but still glared at Henry angrily. He took a long puff and then his phone started ringing. He froze after seeing the name on the screen. “You fuckin’ jinxed it, you moron,” now it was Johnny’s turn to smack Henry in the head. He didn’t wait to hear Henry’s stammered out apology, just spun on his heel and took a few steps away to answer the phone. “The fuck you want, Alt?”

“I want to talk. We-“

“We have nothing to fuckin’ talk about, thought I made myself clear.”

He had heard her excuses before, thousands of times, but this time he was sick of them. He endured a lot for her, but her working for a fucking corps was too much. That was a fucking knife in the back, honestly. She was a part of everything he stood against and she wanted to make an oopsie-daisy out of it? Fuck no.

“Johnny, if you would just listen-“

Johnny hung up before his patience wore thin. With a heavy sigh, he slumped back against his car, flicking the butt of his cig away and fishing out a fresh one. Even though he ended things with her a couple weeks ago, every attempt she made to contact him was a bitter reminder of her betrayal. She knew. She fucking knew what he thought about it and still went behind his back. He would lie if he’d say that he was the good one in their relationship. Hell no. They were both just fucking awful to each other. Their relationship consisted of a lethal brew of jealousy and possessiveness, fueled by insecurities, which resulted in constant arguing, guilt tripping and cheating, since neither Johnny nor Alt were strangers to infidelity. They were, overall, pretty toxic to each other. But associating with corps was something where he drew a line. Now he just counted his ex as another reason to hate corps.

He sighed, taking a long drag of his smoke. He just longed for a fucking closure.

“Hey, man…” Henry sheepishly approached him, and Johnny pretended that he didn't saw Denny chewing him out a minute ago. “Didn’t mean to. It’s just, you always say that it’s over and then, you know…”

“Yeah, I know,” he sighed again, shaking the ash from his cigarette. “But I fucking mean it this time.”

“Uh, okay, man. Whatever you say.”

Kerry, sensing Johnny's bubbling irritation at Henry's dismissive tone, interjected.

“Why didn’t you block her, Johnny? It’s been weeks. Months at this point, really.”

“I fuckin’ did. I block her every time, but turns out there are some smarts under the pretty face. She’s a fucking netrunner, and good one at that, guess you can figure out the details,” he wiggled his phone.

Kerry just nodded, but Nancy rolled her eyes again, and tossed her phone into her back pocket.

“Christ, are we gonna just stand here, creating a pity party for this dumbass?” she pointed at Johnny, but continued before he had the opportunity to speak. “Because I think that getting fucked up would do us all some good.”

Johnny’s lips curled into smirk at her audacity, but hell, he was not going to decline. And they still had nearly 24 hours until the Battle began, so they were good to drown their sorrows away and still be fresh as daisies for tomorrow evening.

Not that Johnny would feel bad if they’d ended up showing up hungover. Or still drunk.

“I’m down actually,” Kerry smirked. “I haven’t barfed in Johnny’s car in a long fucking time.”

“Fuck you, Kerry. And stay away from my fucking car.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“The Fool-“

“Oh, fuck no.”

V got up from the table, shaking her head. Nope. Not today. She was in a good mood whole morning, the stupid Fool will not ruin it now.

“V, c’mon. You asked me for a reading yourself to get some insight for the night,” Misty stated in a soothing voice. “And The Fool is not making fun of you.”

“Yeah, tell him that,” she pointed at the card with her chin, but still sat back down across from her friend.

“It’s very fitting if you ask me. Today a new adventure starts, after all,” Misty’s fingers grazed the card lightly. “The Fool symbolizes the beginning of the journey. You brim with enthusiasm, yet remain unaware of both your capabilities and the threats you face,” she pulled out another card. “Strength. Strength of will, discipline and courage will always be rewarded.”

“Now, that’s what I like to hear,” V nodded, finally a satisfied smile showing up on her face.

“But not necessarily at your destination, as the reversed Magician shows,” Misty states after pulling the third one from the deck. “Perhaps the path itself is what’s important…? And it will help you overcome your fear?”

“Well, I don’t like that anymore,” she crossed arms over her chest, pouting, making Misty laugh.

“And the last one,” her roommate pulled out the fourth card and blinked in surprise. “The Lovers. Balance, friendship, love… Though it can also mean difficult choices ahead.”

“Jeez,” V ran a hand through her hair. “You know what? I ain’t asking you ever again. Lately your readings are getting a little too real for my liking.”

“Some believe uncertainty is an evil that should be dispelled through divination,” Misty wiggled her eyebrows and shuffled her deck. “Let’s just say you belong to the second group and leave it at that for now.”

“Yeah, I think I prefer to be uncertain then uncertain and scared,” V stated and both of them giggled.

Their laughter was interrupted by the sound of a car horn blaring from the street below. V made a face at Misty, who just laughed harder, and walked to the window. She leaned forward, peering out onto the bustling street below, where she spotted Nova waving enthusiastically from the driver’s seat of her car.

“Get the fuck down, or we’ll leave you here and we’ll be famous without you!” Nova shouted, grinning from ear to ear.

“Stop yelling in my fucking neighborhood!” V yelled at her with an equally big grin and waved at Raf and Prime when they glued themselves to the window, sticking their tongues out. “What a bunch of kids…” V muttered to herself with a smirk. “We’ll be down in five!”

V turned back to Misty, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “Looks like our ride’s here,” she reached out for her guitar, securely hidden in a weathered leather case, and slung it over her back, while Misty packed her violin quickly.

V took one last glance in the mirror and smoothed a little smudge of her dark lipstick with her thumb. She nodded to herself and turned around, looking Misty up and down with a smile. Then, she scanned the room, looking for a special someone who could give them an unbiased opinion.

“How do we look, Nibbles?” The cat looked up at them with a tilted head, wagged their tail twice and meowed. “That’s what I thought,” V picked up the cat and kissed his furless little head. “Be nice while mommies are gone.”

She put the cat back at its usual snoring spot on the kitchen counter and, after Misty also said her goodbyes to the cat, they made their way downstairs, just in time to hear Nova yap at the kids in the backseat how they’ll clean her damn windows. Girls packed their stuff to the trunk and sat in the car, V calling shotgun. Music blared from the speakers when they went on their way to the Afterlife and when the car finally pulled up to the bar, the whole squad got out, unloading their belongings and making their way to the entrance. The bouncer nodded at them, recognizing V and Raf from a week ago and let them in without issue. The bar was already teeming with people, a vibrant mix of patrons and potential competitors. They navigated their way through the crowd until the bartender voice cut through the din.

“Hey there, kids from Banzai!” Claire called out, waving them over. V smiled at her.

“Hey, Claire.”

“Hope you guys are ready,” she grinned at them.

“Fuck yeah we are,” Nova smiled smugly.

“Good to hear,” the bartended nodded, satisfied with their answer, and pulled out five badges from under the bar. “Those are for you, they signify that you’re performing. There is also a room set up for you in the back. Feel free to use it anytime over the course of the competition.”

“Holy shit,” V laughed, reaching out for the badges. “That was not something I expected. Thanks.”

“No problem,” Claire chuckled. “We’ll start in around half an hour, so you still have some time to get in there and unwind. Just get back here, like, five minutes before the opening and you’re good,” she looked past them and waved. “And now go away, I have another ones to deal with.”

With one more “thanks” and “good luck” in return, they went on their way to the backrooms, finding their assigned room. V tried to ignore the fact that Samurai’s room was right next to theirs. She also tried not to ponder on how her next meetup with Silverhand will go. That was certainly not time nor place for that. They got in and settled, exchanging excited chatter while tuning instruments. Prime, the lucky one, didn’t have to do shit since the organizer thoughtfully provided drums for the contest, sparing them the hassle of setting up and tearing down their own equipment between performances, but still allowing quick adjustments. They made their way back to the bar after couple of minutes, passing other contestants on their way and exchanging small smiles with the ones they recognized.

And that’s when she saw him.

He was leaning against the bar, talking to someone – probably one of his bandmates. His hair was tousled, as if he just ran his hand through it, clad in leather pants and a black t-shirt with his band’s logo. There was a weariness etched into the lines of his face, as if he hadn’t slept enough, but there was still this rugged charm exuding from him. She swallowed thickly. She did not just thought about him like that. If not, why it’s so hard for her to look away?

Then, thank God, someone called her name, and she quickly averted her eyes before he noticed her staring at him.

“V!” Jackie smiled widely. “We’re here!”

She waved at him, a bit confused. We? She was sure Jackie would be there to support them, but wasn’t expecting anyone else. She moved closer and her eyes widened.

“Vik?” V couldn’t stop the grin. “The hell you doin’ here?”

“Thought I’d miss your career breakthrough, kid?” he smirked.

“How did you-“ her laugh was cut short when she realized something. She didn’t let him know earlier. She fucking forgot to tell him. The warmth in her smile faltered, replaced by a sudden pang of shame. “Shit, Vik, I’m so sor-”

“I know you have an attention span of a carrot, V, I’m not mad,” Viktor laughed and reached out to hug her tightly. “Jackie told me even before you all signed the application.”

She nodded and looked at Jackie over Vik’s shoulder. “You’re really saving my ass here, y’know?”

“That’s what friends are for, chica,” Jackie’s grin seemed to grow even wider, if that was even possible. Viktor also smiled at him before looking at V again.

“Okay now,” he ruffled V's hair affectionately. “I’ll go quietly sit in a corner before it starts. Don’t want to embarrass you in front of cool people.”

“Yeah, I’m sooo embarrassed about sticking to the coolest fucking person here,” she scoffed and he laughed.

“Aww, papa Vik!”

Nova ran over to them, wrapping her arms around Viktor and he chuckled, returning her embrace with a gentle pat on the back. Soon enough the rest of her bandmates joined in, greeting him and Jackie. V smirked a bit when she saw both Misty and Jackie blushing and exchanging hugs, and Jackie rolled his eyes when he noticed her sly gaze.

“I think it finally starts,” Vik looked at the stage from the corner of his eye. V’s eyes followed his lead. She noticed a young guy taking the stage, a presenter probably. “Good luck y’all. We’ll see you later,” he looked at V once more, wrapping her in one last hug and kissing the top of her head. “Break a leg out there, kid,” he whispered. “I’m already proud of you.”

“Shit, you’re gonna make me cry,” she laughed and sniffled her nose. He only winked and went on his way to the back along with Jackie, who showed them both thumbs up. V then turned around, adjusted her grip on the guitar and smirked at her bandmates. “Kay. Let’s get this fucking show on the road, shall we?”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

She was looking at him. He could swear. And he would have fucking caught her doing that if that tall guy with a bun hadn’t called her over. His jaw clenched as he shot a glare at him. Then his gaze moved to her again and lingered for a moment longer than he intended. He scanned her lazily from head to toe, taking in her dark make-up and the way her hair fell in disarray around her face. Her tight crop top paired with a leather jacket that hugged her figure. And the way her jeans clung to her legs, holy-

Denny jabbed him in the ribs, breaking through his reverie. “Pay attention, will ya?”

Johnny’s lips curled into a half-hearted smirk as he turned his attention to the stage. A presenter stood under the spotlight, microphone in hand, delivering an animated speech about the significance of the upcoming contest and how big of an opportunity it is for young talents, yada yada. But Johnny’s focus wavered, his gaze drifting back to the crowd. He noticed the rest of their opponents, most of them similarly bored and waiting for their turn to take the stage, though for a short while, since they presentation was supposed to be not longer than three and a half minutes. According to the schedule, they were fourth in line, so he still had time to finish his drink.

And maybe order another one.

As the presenter’s speech droned on, his fingers idly traced the rim of his glass. He took a long sip, the fiery burn of the tequila warming his throat. The words blurred into background noise as he tuned out the relentless chatter. With a heavy sigh, he finally tore his gaze away from his drink and refocused on the stage just as the bands began to take their places. The crowd erupted into cheers and applause, the energy in the room palpable as the first band kicked off their set. Thunderforge, if he remembered correctly. He quietly exchanged observations with his bandmates and they all agreed on one – their music fell flat, failing to capture their attention or ignite any semblance of excitement.

Now second one, The Shouty Hearts, they were better. Not his usual vibe, but there was something raw and authentic about their sound that resonated with him.

Johnny’s patience was wearing thin by the time Fivedust took the stage. He quickly took them out of the equation, focusing on his tequila again. They caught his attention for a fleeting moment before he dismissed them with a subtle eyeroll. Funk was simply not in the same league as them in his mind.

In conclusion, none of those were better than Samurai. And by the time they could finally take the stage he was ready to rub it in their fucking faces. Johnny couldn’t help but smirk at the crowd’s reaction – at least half of the audience erupted into excited yells and screams as they stepped into the spotlight. It was clear that they’ve been eagerly waiting for Samurai’s performance. The opening chords of “Chippin’ In” filled the air and Johnny’s voice cut through the noise. They were feeding off his energy and he fucking knew it, and by the time the song reached its climax, the audience was cheering and chanting along to every word. When the final notes faded away, a satisfied grin spread across Johnny’s face. Stepping down from the stage, he exchanged triumphant glances with his bandmates, each of them had a similar grin on their faces. As the presenter reclaimed the spotlight, Johnny’s attention shifted to the next act. Banzai Riot was called to the stage, and he couldn’t resist the urge to bump into V as she navigated through the crowd toward the stage. She looked up at him, surprised.

“Sorry, my bad,” he muttered with a smirk and leaned in slightly, his voice barely audible over the din of the crowd. “Good luck, princess.”

V clenched her jaw, and he was sure she was suppressing the urge to retaliate and to not make a scene. She forced a smile and looked him dead in the eyes. “Asshole,” she muttered, just loud enough for him to hear.

“Said I was sorry, didn’t I?” he smiled sweetly and made his way to the bar. He ordered a drink and leaned against the counter, watching with a smirk playing at his lips as V and her bandmates prepared to take the stage. He was actually not surprised at the applause they’ve got, but tried to not show it. He nodded at Kerry when he joined him at the bar and reached for his new drink.

“How you feeling?” Kerry beamed at him.

“Pretty fuckin’ good to be honest,” Johnny chuckled and sipped his tequila. The rush of adrenaline from their performance still pulsed through his veins, but he forced himself to focus on the show in front of him.

The frontwoman’s anger seemed to be gone by the time she reached the microphone, and he was honestly impressed by it. She smiled at the crowd and started their show. Johnny was initially surprised by their gentle start, which contrasted with the heavy, aggressive sound he had expected.

She seemed fully focused on the audience, but she met his gaze with a subtle hint of pity while singing “And there’s a man down below that needs my sympathy”, and he couldn’t help but smirk.

And then she unleashed the full force of her vocals, screaming the lyrics into the mic, and Johnny felt a shiver run down his spine.

Well. That was a good bait, he had to admit.

The audience seemed to realize that too, because after that stunt the crowd truly went wild, their screams echoed alongside hers.

“Shit. They’re actually good,” Kerry admitted begrudgingly.

Johnny couldn’t bring himself to fully agree so he rolled his eyes.

“They’re alright,” he retorted with a shrug. “But we’re better.”

They were. He truly believed that Samurai was better. But to be honest, he could consider Banzai Riot their only real threat in this competition.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Laughter echoed through the dark alley as V and her friends sat outside the bar, the dim glow of neon lights casting shadows around them. The presentation finished hours ago and since then celebratory drinks continued to flow. Viktor even had treated them to their first round before telling them how proud he is and then heading home shortly after, leaving them to celebrate their success. Every now and then, they would even engage in quick chat with members of other bands, exchanging compliments and sharing their impressions of each other’s performances. And, of course, V was avoiding Silverhand and those other fuckers from Samurai like the plague.

“Y’know what?” she slurred slightly while leaning on Nova for support. “’S going to be an amazing night which we ain’t gonna remember. But I’m still kinda sad,” she pouted.

“About?” Misty yawned and hugged sleeping, snoring Prime closer.

“I couldn’t finish my song,” V sighed, and ran a hand through her already messy hair.

“Y’kno we had to-“ Nova hiccupped. “Had to cut it short.”

“Naw, I know, ‘s just… Ain’t fair,” she pouted again. “Three and a half minute presentation my ass.”

“Oooh, someone’s maaad,” Raf laughed loudly and sipped his beer, almost dropping the bottle in the process.

“Yeah, I’m mad a li'l, yeah,” she looked up at him with glossy eyes.

“We can always sing that part now,” Nova smirked.

“Wait! Yeah, we can!”

“I think I should take you guys home,” Jackie laughed at them.

He probably drank a whole lotta more then them, but he still seemed to be most sober.

“Nah, no, wha- wait,” Nova stopped him. “Let the girl sing her song!”

“You’re the best,” V glanced at her with a lopsided grin. “D’you know that?”

Nova giggled loudly. “I know. Now c’mon, taaake me hooome tonight!”

“I'd do anything with youuu!”

They both started to laugh uncontrollably. Jackie rolled his eyes at them but couldn’t stop a wide grin. He crouched down and picked up Prime from Misty’s embrace, for which she shyly smiled at him, and he, in a fit of drunk courage probably, winked at her. Then he motioned at them to follow him as he moved forward, carrying sleeping Astra in his arms. They all did, but V and Nova were far from over, their voices wavering with each note when they took turns singing.

“Buy a bottle o' whiskey, we'll get matching tattoos.”

“Tell me that you love me, oh, let me drive your car!”

“We can sit 'til mornin' light, just countin' every star.”

“Cause if there's a hell, I'll meet you there,” they sang in unison, pointing their fingers at each other. “And if there's a heaven, they're serving beer, and if you're an angel, then I must be hiiigh!”

With each verse, their voices grew louder and more off-key, but they didn’t seem to mind.

“Oh, if there's a church, it's rock 'n' roll, if there's a devil, I sold my soul!”

“And it's alright, whatever we do tonight.”

“Cause if there's a God, dammit, she won't mind. If there's a God, baby, she won't miiind!”

Lost in their own world of laughter and tipsy melodies, no one noticed Johnny as he stepped out of the bar, the flicker of his lighter illuminating his features in the dimly lit alleyway. He paused mid-step, his gaze briefly fixed on V and her horrible drunken singing. A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips, softening the harsh lines of his face.

With a shake of his head, Johnny took a drag from his cigarette as he turned to walk the other way.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

side note – no one in Halestorm plays violin, but (1) violin in rock and metal music sounds fucking amazing and (2) Misty gives me a violin vibe, so, ta-dah!

Chippin’ In by Samurai (Refused) I Like It Heavy by Halestorm

#cyberpunk 2077 #cp2077 #alternate universe #au #silverv #johnny silverhand #fem v #fanfic #cyberpunk fanfic #slow burn #enemies to lovers #original characters

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iwtvdramacd18 · 6 months

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what are your thoughts on the louis/daniel dynamic? i love the old man personality but i feel like he can be harsh/insensitive to louis. the show makes it clear what daniel’s relationship to louis is like for daniel, but how do you think louis feels? i am rooting for them to end up friendly, hopefully more than in the books where i got the sense they were just connected through lestat & armand

I think Louis has a lot of complex feelings about Daniel, it seems like he comes into the interview with a man almost idealistic version of Daniel in his mind-- which makes sense in a lot of ways seeing as the last time he did see him was back in the 70s. And we know he's at least caught up with his body of work but he doesn't Know Daniel as the washed up journalist old man with the online journalism course. And I think there's this very interesting flip side that we're seeing in Dubai as compared to San Francisco bc Daniel is just as mundane in both eras I would say. He's got a way with journalism but as a person he's not really exceptional. He's WEIRD like you gotta be some level of weird to be in this deep with vampires? Like he came back???? But he's not like the Wolfkiller of his age you know? And that past ideal of Daniel as this clumsy but interesting mundane human that's the draw for Louis back in the day. The Daniel of today is also clumsy and mundane but he's also aged, he's also a lot more cynical about life. And he's also very much an old white man left-leaning American journalist. And if you know anything about those types the second interview is this very bitter dose of reality... Louis seems like he genuinely thought Daniel could turn Claudia's diaries into something that could honor her in some way (and at the same time there's that want for redemption, a want to do right by her, a want to ease some of Louis' own guilt I feel). But that's not how you become a lauded journalist in US American journalism. It's a scene rife with exploitation and bending to publishers and propaganda etc etc. And upon hearing what Claudia goes through Daniel switches RIGHT to that. And you see Louis have to contend with the fact that the mundane journalist boy (young man) grows up to be a mundane journalist man and this is the type of person the genre is made of. And despite all this we do see that Louis holds fondness for Daniel. I'm not sure if there's romantic or sexual feelings on Louis' end but I think it's a lot more plausible than DM in the show. if I'm gonna be real I cannot take another bundle of clips of Armand doing the "I need to act polite for this white man" expression special pushed forward as sexual interest it's just making me feel like people would ship me with any microaggressive guy that came my way bc I have to keep up a front to not get in trouble 💀. I PERSONALLY don't see Daniel making it to season 3 anyway, outside of my feelings towards him I think narrative wise it would be hard to make the Lestat-heavy POV switch while balancing Daniel in the narrative as a notable portion of it and I think Louis engaging with mortality through Daniel has a lot of potential.

#answered #Hcs #also I think Louis would let him fuck him.#I'm sorry I think I got off track and didn't answer quite what you asked #Daniel #Danlou

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genshinlover101 · 2 years

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Hi, I hope you’re having a good day! Can I request fem reader who’s clumsy and really bad at their job, but also has a big crush on their boss. For example reader being a new shrine maiden etc. With Yae, Lisa and Hu Tao? So sorry if this doesn’t make sense!

S/O Having a Crush on Their Boss/Her

Character: Yae Miko, Lisa, Hu Tao x gn!reader

Warnings: none

A/n: I wanted so badly to do a shrine maiden for Yae Miko, but for the sake of making this as gender neutral as possible I made reader into an employee for Yae’s Publishing House :)

• You were aware that Yae Miko would’ve been way more popular within Inazuma if her attitude wasn’t so antagonistic. Despite her undeniable beauty, many thought you had a thing for masochism because of how suppressive she was to those who were easy to manipulate.

• You don’t know what possessed you to stay loyal to Miko, maybe it was her cleverness, her charisma, her womanly charm. You’d even pick up extra shifts and work extra hard just for the recognition of the fox lady. Praying that she’d descend Mt. Yougou to visit Inazuma City so that you might see her that day.

• Kuroda, an editor for the Publishing House, very obviously knew how down bad you were for your boss. Every time she visited the store your eyes would fixate on her and it was only her voice that you’d respond to. Your favorite book from the store being “Pretty Please, Kitsune Guuji”, featuring none other than a metaphorical version of your beloved boss.

You had your nose deep into the spine of the newest light novel brought to Yae’s Publishing House, your legs resting on the stand as customers passed your petite little store. The day was particularly slow, with only a few people stopping by to glance at your merchandise during what normally was considered rush hour for you.

So when you heard the bell on the front desk rink once or twice you groaned, not being in the customer service mood. “Yes hello, how many I help you,” you mumbled as you rubbed your eyes from the sleep that plagued you. As your vision grew crystal clearer a certain pink kitsune rested her upper body on the front desk. A goofy smile on her face as you stuttered your eyes popping from the surprise.

Her index finger dragged across the wood, picking up dust along the way. “Not the cleanest I’ve seen this place hmm?” She said analyzing the gray particles on her slender hands, she didn’t look very impressed. “I supposed you’re working another double tonight? Are you burned out yet? You know I could’ve asked our editor-in-chief to lessen your hours,” she tried to make small talk with you.

Your face blushing a hot red, “C-certainly not Lady Guuji,” you shook your head vigorously. Cursing yourself that of all times for Miko to visit was when you felt your lowest. “I’ll clean the front desk immediately,” you bowed, ready to excuse yourself in shame.

That was until she placed a hand on your shoulder from over the front counter, her other arm supporting her weight as she stood on her tippy toes in order to reach you. Her mission was to stop you from leaving her sight. “That’s not necessary little mouse, you seem tired. I’m not so sadistic as to overwork my employees am I?” You felt your brain explode in overdrive as you tried to fathom her touch. Any bystander could see how weak in the knees you were.

• You were the only one with the official title of “Lisa’s Little Helper”. Everyone in Mondstadt thought of you like her little doggy who went out and did chores for Miss Lisa when she was taking her afternoon break. Just hanging around the library 24/7.

• You would run around hog wild in Mondstadt as you tried to pursue overdue books, reorganizing the bookshelves, and restoring damaged books. You were Lisa’s favorite, so reliable, and so hard-working, that it created an opportunity for her to laze around more than she already did.

• Even though you had no coworkers, regulars of the library could very obviously see your crush on your boss. Most notable is whenever you made a scene in such a quiet environment because Lisa had embarrassed you thoroughly. Even a child like Ella Musk could see how brainwashed you were.

You sat in a squeaky chair with your head resting in your arms, absolutely exhausted from chasing down a book thief all day. Someone had stolen a book from the library, making it your job to pursue them even if you had to travel to Snezhnaya.

With a pair of warm arms lowering around your neck, you felt the weight of someone rest on top of your back, taking deep breaths. You knew the only person with the nerve to bother your sleep was nobody but Lisa herself. “Lisa you’re crushing me,” you tried to say underneath her.

“Hmm so grumpy,” she pouted against your back, you could feel her squishy bosom crush your back. “You wouldn’t even cheer up for a kiss on the forehead? I heard your journeys today from rumors while I visited dear Jean,” You raised your body to face her properly, Lisa following alongside your movements, her arm’s grip never relenting from around your neck.

“Ah, so you heard,” you mumbled. Your eyebrows furrowed, you folded your arms, and your cheeks puffed up in frustration, not wanting Lisa to hear about your failures.

“Of course I heard,” Lisa spouted joyously, poking the air out of your cheeks with a gleeful smile. “I knew you could do it for me.” Her eyes were half-lidded, it looked as if she were intoxicated.

“You know something as special as that heroic act you pulled off will get any little lady’s heart-pounding,” she told you. Her seductive raspy voice went through one ear and out the next like a symphony. Regardless of how unreliable Lisa could be as your boss, as a woman she was the only one who could claim your affections. “Don’t be so uptight cutie, let me reward you from time to time Hmm?”

• Honestly, Hu Tao wasn’t the most reliable boss for the funeral parlor. She was 100% capable of running it when she was concentrating and in focus, but most of the time she was the same prankster that Liyue knew her for. Old man Zhongli was grateful for your helping hands at least.

• Hu Tao always had some unorthodox method of advertising on her mind, she’d jump up and down for you to make her ideas a dream come true. From a business standpoint, you wish you could deny every one of her requests as they all seemed crazy. But from a personal standpoint, you just couldn’t say no to her floral eyes begging you, claiming how epic it’ll be.

• Zhongli, the funeral parlors infamous consultant, would always roll his eyes at you two. Even though you couldn’t see it, you two were just two youngsters flirting in broad daylight. Even though it was supposed to be a relationship between boss and employee, the lack of professionalism was very prominent.

Hu Tao pranced around, her were spirits still high even after being rejected multiple times going door to door to advertise the Funeral Parlor. You would always mope around, it was a challenge not to get depressed after so much rejection. Almost none of the flyers you were carrying had been accepted, your feet dragging behind you.

She did a little circle around you, analyzing you up and down with her arms behind her back, everything from your facial expressions to your back aching in pain. “C’mon, look alive,” Hu Tao tried raising you from your slouched position, forcing your arm to wrap around her shoulders. “Hehe- get it? Look alive...? Man, you’re such a killjoy” Her puns certainly didn’t help anybody’s case. She continued on and on, her high-pitched voice rattling through your head.

For a brief moment, you felt like you could see through your blindness, why exactly all of Liyue found Hu Tao a pain. But no matter how much she annoyed you, something about her toothy smile, or her spunky way of talking, or the pep in her step, it put the veil over your eyes thata blinded you from the truth of your crush. “Boss, we still have many houses to go. Please save your energy as you’re the face of this brand.” You tried to reason.

“Pipe down you say?” She inquired. “How can I do that silly,” in fact your statement might’ve just riled her up even more. As if it were rather a challenge to see how long she could last. She began walking faster, her arm wrapping around your waist to get a better grip on you. Her other arm reached out to intertwine with the hand that floated over her shoulder, trying to drag your limp feeling body to pick up the pace. You could feel the cold feeling of her chunky rings in between your fingers.

“How could I manage to do this without you, my trusty attendee,” she mused. You couldn’t manage to find the words to reply to her obviously made-up flattery. “Number one in the Funeral Parlor will always be taken by yours truly, but number one in my heart will always be you y’know.”

#yae miko x reader #lisa x reader #hu tao x reader #genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #yae miko #lisa minci #hu tao

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saw5 · 7 months

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i used to obfuscate any "disagreeable" feelings i had in social situations to the point of outright lying (ex: saying my opinion aligned with that of the person to whom i was speaking when it didn't, even when the topic of discussion was entirely inconsequential) because none of the virulent hatred and disgust i felt towards my own behavior was sufficient to make it less than entirely automatic. (knee-jerk, ingrained since childhood, reflexive as closing your eyes when you sneeze etc)

so i started correcting myself after i'd do something like that, even if the space between incident and revisitation was minutes, or days. notably when a print shop misprinted my poster and offered to reprint it for free and i said no that's OK i went back the next morning and was like hey someone offered to reprint this and i said no but i'd like that actually. (this scared me very much at the time.) other ex: "i know i said x when we were talking about y earlier but i actually meant z" said a thousand different ways across a thousand different contexts. eventually the pause shortened & i could fix whatever i'd said immediately afterward, usually with a lighthearted "i don't know why i just said that! here's how i actually feel ....."

which i mention now because demonstrating repeatedly to myself that actually we're not going to slink into the side alleys of conversations anymore out of the overgrown fear of what follows disagreeableness has begun to have an extraordinarily beautiful payoff in that now i have started to say what i mean as instinctively as i once swallowed it. it emerges from my mouth clean, sometimes roughly worded or clumsy but honest and immediate. this has catalyzed a tremendous improvement in my self-esteem and run concurrent with a greater lightness in social situations, a firm feeling that i am stood inalienably on even ground and free to play and explore in conversation rather than rocket down tracks laid long ago. turning an instinct into its opposite feels like magic. look what the human brain is capable of doing! look what i am!

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mediumgayitalian · 2 months

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“Sit down, Solace, you pain in the ass, I’ll get it.”

Will huffs moodily, trying in vain to continue hobbling towards the cupboards against the infirmary wall. Nico has to physically wrestle him back to his cot, which in theory should be way harder, but luckily he’s weak enough from the pain meds that once Nico manages to shove him against the cushions, he can’t get back up.

Ha. Karma.

“You can’t get it,” says the most dramatic drama queen alive, dramatically, “on account of you not know what ‘it’ is.”

Nico smiles patiently. It resembles, to the outside eye and perhaps the inner one also, the bared teeth of a grinning shark. “Tell me, then.”

“No.”

“Then tough shit for you.”

“I’m just gonna wait until you’re turned away again,” Will calls against his retreating back. Nico flips him the bird. “So this was futile, really.”

He’s stubborn, but he’s not an idiot, Nico reassures himself. Surely, the many years — formative years — he’s spent as head medic have made him smart. Surely, Mr. Nagging Nag shall heed his own advice, lest the entire camp descend upon him in swathes of shrieking, not quite righteous fury, intolerant or hypocrisy. Surely.

He hears the creak of a rickety bed, a thunk of something hitting the wooden floorboards, and a soft oof.

He closes his eyes and exhales deeply.

For fuck’s sake.

When he turns around, he sees William Andrew Solace, Best Healer in Generations, Paraded Progeny of Apollo, Also Notably Naomi Solace’s Son, That’s Kinda Sick, Isn’t It, sprawled on the floor, ridiculously long limbs outstretched, attempting to wiggle across the floor to the cupboards.

“Solace, I am going to kill you.”

“Some healer you are,” Will mutters, as if Nico is not playing healer right now purely because he is the only one in the entire camp with a half a chance of wrangling the dumbass head medic himself. He continues to wiggle.

Wrapping a hand around his uninjured ankle, Nico drags him bodily back to his cot, ignoring the shrieking.

“One day on bedrest, you dipshit. One. Day. That is all anyone is asking if you.”

“My binder!” he insists, because he is difficult. “I don’t need to sit down and do nothing, I need to run my infirmary!”

“You need to sit the fuck down and heal your body before it schedules healing for you,” Nico snaps. “For fuck’s sake, Will, does it matter to you at all that other people would like to see you safe and healthy, even if you couldn’t give a shit?”

For a glorifying moment, Will stares at him, eyes wide, face frozen. Nico meets his gaze, glaring, his own chest heaving where Will appears to have held his breath.

Then, Will bursts out laughing.

“That!” he says, wheezing. “That is what I have been trying to nail through your thick skull! Karma, you little turd!”

Mouth opening, and closing again, it’s Nico’s turn to freeze.

“Oh, gods.”

The horror in his voice is tangible. Will laughs harder.

“Oh, gods, I’m becoming you.”

He stumbles to the closest cot, sitting down quickly before he gets any dizzier than he already is. Nausea builds up his throat.

Gods, that was a direct quote.

“Not so fuckin’ easy to wrangle you clumsy shitheads, is it!”

Nico cradles his head in agony. No. No! It can’t be! He refuses to lend any credibility to Will’s mother-henning! He is obnoxious, and overbearing, and hell-bent on restricting Nico’s freedom; there is no way Nico is emulating him right now, because that would mean he has a point when he’s bossing Nico around, and — no. Cannot be.

“I told you,” Will says, smug as a godsdamn rooster in a hen house. (Oh, gods, now his stupid cowboy idioms are ringing in his head? He needs to spend less time with Will. Better yet, he should take another dip in the Lethe — willingly, this time. Anything is better than this.) “You clumsy fucks are the sole reason I am going to die from stress-induced heart failure at twenty-two, and then I am going to resurrect myself as a ghost through sheer stubborn will alone to haunt each and every one of you for eternity.”

Nico chooses to focus on the part of the sentence that he can conveniently argue with. “You don’t get to call anyone a clumsy fuck, on account of you shattering three bones in your ankle because you stomped your foot too hard when you were trying to make a point.”

“What was the point I was trying to make, again?”

Nico keeps his mouth shut.

“Something something reanimating entire dragons to scare the shit out of Cecil is going to drain you to dangerous levels of energy and make me have to drag you from the brink of death yet again something something.” He pauses. “Even if it was really funny and he nearly actually pissed himself.”

“Well, whatever,” Nico says, elegantly changing the subject. “You’re an idiot, and if you don’t let yourself heal than you’re worse than the rest of us and can never lecture us ever again. So. And I’ll rat you out, too, they’ll believe me.”

Will glares at him. Nico glares back.

“Get some rest,” Nico orders, still glaring. Will pulls a face and repeats his words back to him, mockingly.

“There’s a difference between me and the rest of you idiots,” he grumbles, petulantly ripping loose the blankets and shoving himself under them. Nico smacks his hands away, tucking them around him for him, checking his pillow, and then his forehead for good measure, just in case his stupid ass somehow gave himself a fever. Will squirms, just to make things difficult, so Nico, as acting healer in the room, has to smack him. “I can feel my limits.”

“And yet you pirouette right on over them. I think that makes you worse, actually.”

Will, son of the god of truth, has nothing to say to that.

“Stupid,” Nico says, fondly, squeezing a gentle hand in his cheek. “Sleep, okay? You can go back to being dictator of the infirmary when you’re healed.”

“Tomorrow,” he insists.

Nico rolls his eyes, smiling, and pulls his hand away. Will darts out and snatches his wrist before he goes far, eyes pleading, and Nico caves immediately. Will’s skin is warm, and smooth.

“If you’re healed by then.”

He traces his thumb across Will’s freckled cheekbone, shivering slightly as his long eyelashes tickle the tip of his fingerprint.

“Mhm.”

He’s already puffing out small, quiet snores, head lolling against Nico’s hand, body exhausted from working overtime to try and heal.

Shaking his head, Nico ducks down, pressing a kiss to the space between his eyes before pulling away. He watches him for a moment, peaceful, face smooth and un-creased, delicate cupid’s bow pink and poised, skin spattered with paintbrush freckles. Heart skipping, he can’t resist another quick peck, lingering, at the top of his nose, the middle of his cheek; again at the dip of his brow. It furrows, briefly, under his touch, before relaxing again.

“Goodnight, Will.” He brushes a knuckle over his cheek. “Thank you, you dork ass.”

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sasholotl · 2 years

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okay, so here I am, consumed by an AU where Robin is a werewolf and Nancy is her very human girlfriend. so, got some headcanons, I guess. You can call it word vomit at this point. also, if anyone’s interested, I might try to write for it

- Robin has been turned into a werewolf when she was nine years old. She doesn't like talking about it, and sometimes, at night, she still has nightmares about it. Most of her memory of the attack is blurry though.

- Being a werewolf while being clumsy is not something that adds very well. Robin's body is adorned by many scars, some small and some big enough to be insecure about. The one between her neck and shoulder is the worst but there's also one against her ribs that makes her cringe everytime she sees it (Nancy makes it her job to kiss them all and show Robin that she is not disgusted at all).

- Steve is the first to know. One particularly rough night, Robin – as a wolf – comes into Steve's house and hides there until morning comes. No need to say that Steve is absolutely scared shitless by the wolf roaming around in his house. Cue to a very embarrassing explanation in the morning where Robin ends up borrowing Steve's clothes. After the shock dissipate, Steve is very supportive (''This is insanely cool Buckley ! Can you turn at will ?'', ''God you're a dingus. For the record, yes I can.'').

- The rest of the party – Nancy included – discovers when Robin turns into a wolf to rip into the demodog chasing Max. The reactions are mixed. Most of them are terrified – but also awed - but they all come around to accept it at one point (still, Robin doesn't think the pain of seeing them recoil from her is something that will ever go away. If Steve hadn't been there to calm them all, things would have gone south).

- Robin is a furnace. Both in human and wolf's form. Nancy cannot sleep with Robin in her bed in the summer because Robin is also very clingy. But Nancy doesn't love her girlfriend more than when it's freezing and Robin is there to provide warmth. Robin has stopped counting the times where Nancy just sick her frozen hands on her belly.

- Robin actually likes being a wolf. She finds it a relief from her human body when everything feels too much. When she's a wolf, she can just cuddle in silence with Nancy while her girlfriend works on her journal.

- Robin as a wolf is massive. Bigger than a regular wolf. Actually, she's big enough to drown Nancy in fur when she lays on her.

- Nancy thinks Robin looks awesome in her wolf form until she sees Robin trip and fall down the stairs. Watching a wolf big enough to eat her fall down is comically ridiculous. Since then, Nancy doesn't waste an opportunity to tease Robin (even though she still thinks her girlfriend looks magnificent as a wolf).

- Being a werewolf is like having a very messy and obnoxious roomate. Except it's in Robin's head. And her roomate is a wolf. Still, most of the time, it feels like she's herself until something triggers the wolf. One notable example is that one time Robin was lounging on Nancy's bed while her girlfriend's hands were buried in her hair and the sudden urge to roll over and show her belly to Nancy to get scratches was so overwhelming that Robin had to get up. (''Robin ? What's wrong ?'', ''You promise not to laugh if I tell you ?'', ''Promise.'', ''I, uh, suddenly wanted you to scratch my belly ?'', ''…'', ''Nance ! You said you wouldn't laugh !'')

- Robin cannot eat chocolate otherwise she feels like she's dying.

- Despite the numerous depictions of werewolves being possessive and jealous, Robin is not quite like that. In fact, she can become jealous, but just over the dumbest shit ever. Like that one time Nancy gave her unfinished meal to Mike. When she had turned to Robin, her girlfriend had stared at her with the most pitifying look ever. Or that one time Nancy had visited Dustin with Steve, and she had come back with cat's fur all over her shirt. She then had to watch Robin carefully rub herself on her shirt until all cat fur had been eliminated and remplaced by her own fur. The teasing had been relentless that day.

#ronance #robin x nancy #robin buckley #nancy wheeler #this is like extremely specific #but i just feel like Nancy would like having a fluffy werewolf as her girlfriend #and Robin deserves to have her head scratched

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bluiex · 1 year

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Hello dear Bluie's Anons, I am in need of external validation and I have been rewriting the same paragraph for a good hour, thus, I shall give you some crumbs of that hurt/comfort 3l!desert duo. Warning for violent intrusive thoughts:

He gently closed the door, looking around to see if he woke up the silence. After a breath or two, he headed to the kitchen. He could prepare something for Grian. He would force the man to practice self-care and it wouldn’t be a choice. He looked at the ingredients they had, still surprised to see their storage organized after the mess they made when they first arrived at the mountain. Something simple, something to keep his mind off revenge and murdering Ren, killing his allies in front of him.

Shaking his head, he took the necessary ingredients to make the most amayzin’ meal Grian had ever eaten. He guaranteed it. He tried to make as little noise as possible, but without using his cane for some stability, he was quite clumsy. He could already see Grian’s eye roll at the mess he made. He’d rather have Grian’s eye roll than a blank stare with no response.

Cooking became a hazardous task. Each time he held a knife, his mind screamed to stab the nearest creature around. His hand trembled, the cutting got choppy, and quickly put the rest of the ingredients in the boiling pot. An urge to light the house on fire itched his fingers. He had to take many deep breaths during this cooking session. Who knew intrusive thoughts could be this loud?

A loud clunk echoed in the kitchen. He let out a breathy curse and picked up the spoon that fell. A red life had some downfalls and some perks. Notably, he immediately knew Grian was walking to the kitchen, without turning around. Enhanced senses could be quite useful sometimes. He closed his eyes in frustration for his clumsiness, placed the bowl on the table, and turned around with a nervous grin.

Instead of seeing a death glare like he’d expected, Grian had his head tilt, a hand on the door frame, wings unbounded.

“What are you doing?” his quiet voice ricocheted in the room.

Scar glanced at the bowl, then glanced at his partner, and let out a nervous chuckle.

“Making stew.”

Grian frowned. “But we have golden carrots.”

“Yes, and I wanted to make something special.” Scar motioned his arm to the bowl on the table, hoping Grian would take the invitation and sit down. “It’s my special rabbit stew and it’s gonna be the most amayzin’ stew you’ve ever eaten in your life.”

Grian let out a chuckle and raised an eyebrow. “I dunno about that.”

“We’ll never know unless you try it,” Scar grinned.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Grian sent a smug look back.

They both sat down on the table, Scar giving an intense look as Grian took the first few bites. His fingers felt the rough sand stuck forever on the table. He hummed.

“Not bad,” he smirked, “not bad at all.”

“See? Whaddid I tell ya, I’m just that good.”

Grian scoffed. “Okay, calm down, Mister “I’m stealing everyone’s clothes”.”

“Hey!” Scar gave him an offended look, a hand on his chest. “We have diamond armor thanks to my charms and reputation points.”

Grian snorted as he swallowed. “Yeah, “reputation points”,” he air-quoted with his fingers.

“And it worked very well,” Scar harrumphed, crossing his arms on his chest.

“Sure did, Scar.”

When Grian finished his soup, he walked to the door leading outside. Scar snatched him, and, after squirming and protesting, sat Grian down on his bed.

“Oh no, you won’t, Mister. You’re gonna sleep and you’re gonna love it.”

Grian’s mouth opened, as if Scar had taken away dessert privileges. Scar chuckled at that image, and focused back on Grian.

“You said you would take better care of yourself.”

“And I will!” Grian stood up. “After I check no one is around.”

Scar pointed at the window. “You can look from outside, and besides, even if someone comes, we can just hide in the mine.”

Grian froze and lowered his gaze. His fists clenched, and he groaned. He sat on his bed with a big thunk, clearly showing Scar how unhappy he was with this situation. Scar simply patted the avian’s curls, feeling grains of sand, and smiled. He turned around to reach his own bed when something grabbed his wrist. He looked back to see Grian holding it tightly.

“Stay,” he looked down, squeezing it.

If it helped him fall asleep, Scar would do anything. He sighed and smiled nervously. He sat down and intertwined his fingers with Grian’s. Grian preferred his personal space, Grian often reminded Scar that he was not a physical touch person every time Scar tried to hug him or grabbed his arm to harshly to celebrate a victory. Scar decided he would still respect that.

Even if he pleaded Grian to fall asleep, he wasn’t any better. He guessed it was part of being a red life, not falling asleep until he saw blood or was completely exhausted. His legs rewarded him for putting his body weight on a mattress. He could feel his body relaxing, but his mind was reeling, staying partially vigilant for monsters or enemies, and watching Grian’s breath deepen and become slower. His body slumped next to Grian’s as he fell asleep. The next day, none of them said a thing when Scar’s bed was glued to Grian’s. None of them uttered a word when they woke up in each other’s arms. And it would stay that way until their dying breath.

-- Bloop anon

BLOOP THIS IS SO GOOD

I love it so much

#bluie gets an ask poggers #long post

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groty-codi-dolls · 1 year

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I didn't realize how much I missed repainting (or making my progress collages) until I got back to it today.

So, this blog is very rarely active as it is since... *vaguely gestures* but I'm happy to say I have a new contribution for it tonight

Waaaaaaaaay back in Spring (or maybe even late Winter) of 2022, my stepdad and I were talking about making a proportionate Snow White doll to go with his 6" Dwarf dolls (we figured they're around 1/3 her height in the movie, thus she'd have to be an 18" doll). The base was an easy pick: DC Superhero Girls's Action Pose Harley Quinn is 18", pale and articulated, which was the baseline for the requirements I had for a doll to transform into Snowy.

Aaaaaaand then my mental health went kaplooey for a couple months 🤷

I'm happy to say I've been slowly rebuilding my drive to create, thanks to inspiration from various doll and craft YouTube channels(with the overwhelming majority of my watch-time going to MyFroggyStuff -- I'll upload some of the crafts I learned how to make to this blog at some point), and I've essentially been building back up to put my hands on my dolls for the first time today.

I was initially gonna just learn and focus on rerooting with yarn(which I figured out how to do, despite usually being clumsy with needles! Yay me!), but then my brain told me to just focus on Snow White and get as far as I could with her... and, apparently, I was able to finish her in one (11-hour-long) take!

Her hair actually isn't rooted in -- her head is hard as a rock, and I broke a needle trying to shove a piece of thread in(it was a day of all sorts of milestones); I opted to make a yarn wig and glue it to her scalp instead, which was a good call in my opinion. I tried to get the face as movie-accurate as I could, despite Harley's face shape being notably different, and I even tore up an 18" Disney Store Snow White plush to rip up for her clothes, shoes and hairbow.

I am still very new to the world of actually being hands-on with creating dolls(I just don't have the money to keep up with the ideas I've had over the years, hence why I often dump them on this blog), so all I request is a little mercy if you're wanting to comment/critique. I honestly don't care who dislikes it, because this is the biggest project I've accomplished after months of dealing with a straining mental health; I can't not be proud of it.

If you don't have anything nice to say about this work(or "honest" or however you wanna put it), my block tag is "Codi don't look", so you can freely insult it there.

Thank you and goodnight ✌️ ✨️

#dollblr #dolls #doll #disney doll #disney dolls #custom doll #doll customs #doll custom #custom dolls #repaint #doll repaints #repainted dolls #repainted doll #doll repaint #snow white #disney #snow white and the seven dwarfs #disney princess

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witchesoz · 1 year

Text

Fashion in Oz: the Good Witches (4)

After the original illustrations of the books, and after the heritage of the MGM movie, let's look at another big part of the Good Witches history: the Wiz. And we will start with the Wiz's equivalent of the Good Witch of the North, Addapearl the "Feelgood Girl", in her original Broadway incarnation. [Note: I am certain there are things to say about the history of Afro-American fashion and symbolism in the Wiz's outfits, but unfortunately I do not have such a knowledge, so I'll stay with a superficial analysis based on what I see].(Note: sometimes Addapearl is written Addaperl. I will stick with the first writing because it is the one I am the most familiar with.] Already as you can see, the main color of Addapearl is blue - her outfit is made of all sorts of blue nuances, from teal to dark blue passing by cerulean and others. This does make her match the Munchkins, who also correspond to the color blue - and overall, it is a color chosen due to how "soft" it is and it highlights her "good" nature. The outfit is actually made of a dress, with a petticoat on top, and then a sort of translucid shawl-like cloak, forming a translucent hood around the witch's wild hair (in the Wiz all the witches have wild, spiky hair) before falling behind her as a sort of cape. Note that this cloak actually has little shining stars in it. The petticoat and dress themselves is actually patchwork in style, with various patches of different colors added in a quite disorderly order - and I think this is meant to reflect Addapearl's very own character. She is, in Urban Dictionnary's words, "hysterically clumsy", a mix of sweetness and craziness, the kind of witch prone to "crash her bubble" - as we see in the play her "magic tricks" often fail, and her exhuberant stage-girl persona contrasts heavily with her lacking abilities, and this sort of crazy bubbly personality does fit this strange blue patchwork dress - which, if you notice, has actually white gloves sewn on the skirt, to add a bit of strangeness to it all. The white gloves notably answer several white mail-like pockets also present on the skirt. She usually also carries with her a blue handbag, with on it a white glove, crescent-moon and star, that you can see in this picture:

If you want to see more of the costume, you can actually check the Smithsonian/National Museum of African-American History and Culture website, since the costume was kept as part of the "Black Fashion Museum". You have a detailled description here:

https://nmaahc.si.edu/object/nmaahc_2007.3.10.1ab

And some more pictures here: https://www.si.edu/object/costume-gown-petticoat-and-jacket-addaperle-wiz-broadway%3Anmaahc_2007.3.10

After seeing Addapearle in the original "The Wiz" musical, we need to take a peek at the recent "The Wiz Live" revival of The Wiz, back in 2015. What is truly fascianting here is that they did a complete reversal of the original Addapearl costume. Instead of having a floor-length, big dress with a small petticoat, here we have a smaller dress stopping above the ankle, with a longer, "full" coat. And instead of having a weird, bizarre, patchwork of color patches and sewn gloves, adding a sort of crazy whimsical nature to the witch, here we have much more refined, beautiful and delicate embroidering, with golden motif, suns and flowers, overall a very high-quality, "rich" outfit, for a more... well for a younger and I guess more "peppy" and energetic witch, leaning more into the "stage girl" aspect of the character. A last interesting detail would the hair of the witch, who is here literally shaped like a small witch hat. And it is more than just evoking a witch hat with a swirl, no, they actually did the whole brim of the hat with the hair too, to the point I thought at first this Appadearl wore a small blue witch hat... before realizing it was her hair shaped like that through a series of braids.

"The Wiz", the movie, changed a LOT of things from the original musical, and those numerous changes notably reflect heavily on the very design of the Good Witches. For example the character of the Good Witch of the North, who was completely reinvented for the movie. Out with Addapearl (or Addapearle, or Addaperl, nobody seems to agree on how the name is written), now we have "Miss One". Now several details are kept such as... well, the blue color for the witch - who is still associated and making one with the Munchkins, as Addapearl did in the original musical, and as MGM's Glinda will do too in the 2011 Wizard of Oz musical (there is this specific trend in musicals to have the "welcoming witch" of Oz be the same color as the Munchkins, and it is something that can raise some interesting topic about the link of the Good Witch of the North with the Eastern Munchkins, in the original canon vs popular culture). And we still find some of the discreet star motif of the original Addapearl, not on a shawl/cloak though, but here in the dress of the little old witch, which has stars and moon crescents woven into it (you might notice the "star and moon" pattern being a recurring thing with the Good Witches). It is especially interesting here since in the movie adaptation of the Wiz, both Good Witches are associated with the color blue and the star motif - but more on that with Glinda's breakdown. Beyond that, a lot was changed. Most notably is the fact that, while The Wiz was just about retelling The Wizard of Oz in a Black style, with Black actors and a certain Afro-American feel to it, "The Wiz" the movie decides to have the setting be specifically a reference to New-York, with Oz being a twisted and fantastical mirror of the Big Apple - as a result, the various characters have a more "urban" feel and Miss One here is based after... a "bag lady". And if you don't know what a "bag lady" is, it is a very common "type" of homeless people, a stereotype based on how often you see homeless women carrying around all of their belongings in an incredible number of cloth and plastic bags. And here, Miss One is a witch-version of this, carrying around an enormous amount of blue bags wherever she goes. The other main change to the character is the movie's addition that Miss One is a "math witch", obsessed with numbers - and so we find this in her very design. Around the collar of her dress, various numbers are embroidered. In her various bags, big 3D numbers can be seen popping out ; she carries around her neck an abacus/counting frame... And even more - in her curly, cloud-like gray hair, if you look carefully, you will see blue streaks of hair shaped like numbers. You can't see them very well here, but take a look at this picture and they'll become obvious:

#fashion in oz #good witches #the good witch of the north #the wiz #costume #addapearl #addapearle #miss one #the wizard of oz #land of oz #witches of oz

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