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mediumgayitalian · 2 months

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part two

———

Getting outrun for seven miles by an eight year old is a uniquely humbling experience. Compactly humiliating, coincidentally, is being outrun by an eight year old while dragging along a bouquet large enough that it cannot be adequately contained with two hands and must therefore be carried between two people.

Lee is having something of an afternoon.

“It starts in seven minutes!” shouts Will, at least twelve solid yards ahead of them and running backwards. He does not appear even to be sweating. “Hurry!”

“Could not be hurrying more if I tried,” Lee wheezes.

(It’s not that Lee isn’t a good runner. He is. It’s that Will is freakishly fast, because he has dimples when he smiles and has endeared himself to the dryads, who have been teaching him how to sprint like the hopped up little Energizer Bunny he is. Michael has been calling him Soda Boy for ages, on account of how he so closely resembles a can of pop that has been vigorously shaken, which he hates. Remembering it brings Lee some peace.)

“Let’s go let’s go let’s go!”

Clamping his mouth shut in a desperate attempt to preserve energy, Lee surges forward. Michael matches him, having to run significantly faster to keep up with his long legs. Their panting forms a discordant melody of despair. Poetic.

When they stumble through the door, chests heaving, Lee considers collapsing to the ground and weeping for joy. He will never run again. If a monster chases him, he will simply fight or accept his fate. He has reached his quota.

But, for perhaps the first time in his life, there is no time for dramatics. The lobby is devoid of the massive crowds it held earlier, shadows eerie in their absence, and only the final tail end of a line shuffles through the stage doors.

Despite his internal vow, Lee sprints forward to catch up with them.

“Hold it,” says a man in a venue volunteer! vest, holding up a hand. He glances at them, resting his gaze on Will’s messy hair, Michael’s scuffed shoes, Lee’s wrinkled shirt, and pausing for quite a while on the giant bouquet. The narrowed eyes and thinned lips are familiar. Lee stiffens.

“Go on in,” the man says to the middle aged couple in front of them, who’s crease-free jackets read ‘Dance Mom’ and ‘Prop Team Dad’ respectively. He shoos them inside, complimenting the honest-to-Apollo corsage in the woman’s hand, chortling along to the man’s joke. The laughter drops from his face the second the couple is guided through the doors, and the man turns back to the three of them.

“The show,” he says, nose upturned, “has begun. I can’t let anyone else in lest they cause any…disturbances.”

“The show starts on three minutes and forty-seven seconds!” Will protests, sticking his watch in the man’s face. Completely oblivious to his murderous look, he continues, “Forty-six seconds! Forty-five! Time’s-a-tickin’, let us in!”

The man bares his teeth in a smile. “Regrettably, you are too late. You’ll have to wait for the intermission.”

Will blinks at him. He looks at Lee, at the doors, then back at the man.

“But…we’re on time. And if we come back later, we’ll miss my sister’s dance!”

The man shrugs. “This will be a valuable lesson, then.” He purses his lips, glancing again at the bouquet. “Perhaps be more prepared, next time.”

Will turns back to Lee and Michael, crestfallen. He swipes quickly under his eyes, squeezing his thumb into fists, but the tears well up anyway. “We’re going to miss it?”

Michael snarls. In one quick move he shoves the massive bouquet entirely into Lee’s arms, yanks Will by the shoulders to stand behind him, and gets right in the man’s face.

“You listen here, you slimy ratbag, you had no fuckin’ trouble letting those last scragglers in so you better clean up your act quick before I —”

A loud crashing noise makes them all jump, interrupting him. Nearly crushing the flowers, Lee whips towards the source of the sound. One of the competition banners has been yanked down, metal frame collapsing on the tile floor. Fastening screws rattle to a slow stop beside it.

“What the —”

Another banner crashes to the floor. This time, the little hands that tore it down are a touch too slow to dart away, a blonde head not quick enough to duck behind a corner.

“Hey!” the man shouts. Shoving Michael aside, and moving quicker than Lee can think to stop him, he sprints towards the corner Will disappeared behind. “Get back here! You can’t do that!”

Lee curses, trying to manoeuvre the flowers to see and run at the same time. Michael runs ahead of him, on the man’s heels, chanting shit shit shit shit under his breath. Lee’s brain takes the initiative to alternate, chanting fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck every time he takes a breath.

They’re going to get kicked out for sure. Diana is going to kill them and it’s going to be justified, because Lee is going to have to live with the noble look he knows Cass will have on when she realises they’re not there to watch. The shakey, practiced smile she’ll slap over the disappointment in her dark eyes.

Shit shit shit shit indeed.

“Lee! Michael! Over here!” whispers a voice. Lee whirls around to face it — boy does he ever feel like a puppet on a stick right now — and, for the second time in as many minutes, feels his head pound at the disorienting frenzy of emotions that bubble up when he sees his baby brother’s face. Will stands half inside a doorway Lee hadn’t noticed on the way in, tucked in the shadow of a corner.

He is fast, holy shit.

“What the hell are you doing,” hisses Michael.

“Getting us inside! Hurry up!”

Lee doesn’t need further prompting, clock ticking in his brain. Gods, how long do they have left? Thirty seconds? Less?

“Most big theatres have sideline entrances,” Will explains after Michael helps shove the giant bouquet through the tiny door. He guides them, upright to their hunching, down a tight corridor. “They’re for performers to pop up in the audience without being seen. Mama and I race each other to find ‘em when she did shows.”

Lee had forgotten, for a moment, how much of his life Will has spent in and out of theatres, bars, stages. Naomi Solace has been growing more and more famous since…half of his life, at least. Lee remembers hearing about her four years ago, when she’d done a smaller show in Queens. A friend of his had gone.

Michael reaches out and tugs the mostly-undone ponytail he’d wrestled Will’s hair into that morning. “Good job, kid.”

He grins over his shoulder. “Thanks.”

They stumble into the darkened audience in the nick of time. The second Lee steps out of the cramped little corridor, dragging the stupid flowers (he is, in fact, regretting his choices at this point in time; when he has a free moment he will add this to the list of reasons he will be kicking his past self’s ass if the Hephaestus cabin successfully recreates DeLorean time machine) along with him, the stage lights come on. An announcer’s voice calls out, “Entry 109, Competitive Open Solo: Cass Hasapi.”

“Fuck,” Michael mutters. A quaint family of four gasps. He sneers at them. “Fuck, you see Diana?”

“No, is she maybe —”

“I think that’s her hair —”

“That person is way too tall, what are you —”

“I swear to the gods, I am going to kill you both,” whispers a beautifully familiar voice, and then Lee is being dragged. “Sit the hell down and shut the hell up. Will, baby, c’mere.”

Will climbs happily over the two empty seats, settling onto Diana’s lap and curling under her chin. He sticks his tongue out when Lee and Michael follow in behind him, struggling with the bouquet, muttering about favouritism.

“I’ve literally known you for six times longer than you’ve known him,” Michael mutters, sticking his tongue out right back. A grandmother with a severe bob whirls back and hushes him.

“Yeah, I’ve had all that time to get tired of your bullshit. Shut up.”

Before Michael can retort — Lee is sure he has an eloquent and devastating response, Lee has been helping him practice — soft piano drifts out from the speakers. A light turns on, pointed at the stage.

All four of them snap their mouths shut.

In the centre of the stage, Cass stands, poised. Her back is turned to the audience, arms extended above her and tilted to the right, as if reaching for the setting sun. Her hair, braided loosely back, brushes the edge of her thickly draping purple costume. Her knees are bent and locked and one bare foot sticks out like she’s trying to balance herself, like she’s mid fall.

A gravelly, male voice sings lowly along to the piano. How do you know which time might be the last? She moves along the dip of his voice, dragging her limbs through the rigid air. What I would give just to see you again? She moves with a swooping twist of her heels, twisting at the waist. Under the heat of the stage lights, her face contorts, forehead deeply wrinkled, mouth parted, breathing quickly. I’d walk to the depths of a world down below and demand to get back what some circumstance stole. She holds herself with such tension that Lee finds his own shoulders hiking up to his ears. Her chest moves rapidly, hands shaking, knees buckling. His breath goes stale in his lungs.

When the chorus starts, hard and heavy and sudden, I turned back one last time just to prove you were there, Cass hits the floor. He gasps with the rest of the audience, clutching the plush armrest, but it’s intentional, part of the dance. ‘Cause the last ray of sun made Eurydice cold. Collapsed on the floor, limbs bent, dress askew, she crawls, begging, towards the audience. Did she know? Did she know? Did she know? Did she know?

Cass does not move gracefully. She moves like a beached, gasping siren dragging herself back to the depths, like someone climbing out of a pit. Every movement looks heavy and painful. She looks at the audience and Lee is surging forward before he can stop himself, breath hitching, brain screaming: help her! help her! help her!

If I knew how it’d feel back then, I wouldn’t take another step.

Her body twists again, hair escaping her loose braid and sticking to her neck, her forehead. She claws at her throat like she’s suffocating, eyes accusing everyone watching like they’re holding her under. Each movement of her arms swell and sway on the beat, bare feet slapping the ground with every hit of the kettle drum. If you can see me it’s all in your head, but it feels real to me now, it felt real to me then.

Everything ends.

The piano fades out, the drums hit their last beat. All that’s left is the wretched guitar, taught like strings snapping, taught like the tense pull of her suspended muscles.

But I opened the door and went down the stairs; I turned back one last time to prove you were there.

As the last word fades, she drops. Not slowly, not evenly, but like whatever was holding her up crumbled to dust. Like she was shot. Her purple dress pools out around her like dark Hyacinth. She lays completely, entirely still.

The lights cut. The air in the audience goes heavy.

They come back on and no one says a word. Lee realises, as it drips onto his hands, that he is crying. Diana is, too, tear tracks too fresh to dry on her face, and Will is leaned forward so far he sways precariously. Michael’s hands are pressed harshly to his eyes.

Trancelike, Lee stands. All eyes snap, abruptly, towards him, but he ignores them. He looks straight across the rows of chairs and locks eyes with his sister, upright now, heaving, standing hesitant. She looks at him, and then beside him at Michael, and then at Will in Diana’s lap. They scramble quickly up next to him, and without any of them saying anything, they begin to cheer.

Cass’s face lights up.

With permission, much of the audience claps. No one stands as they do and as they continue hooting and hollering the claps fade quickly, replaced with stares and murmurs, but Cass still stands there, beaming, looking away and looking back like she can’t believe they’re there. That someone is there, that someone watched her, her, from beginning to end. A hand tugs on his sleeve.

“Can I sonic?” Will asks, raising his voice to be heard.

“Level four,” Lee allows.

He needs no further permission, grinning. He lets out a piercing whistle that makes everyone around them shout in alarm and Lee’s ears ring. But Cass laughs, loud and bright, so it’s worth it, and when Will looks at him in question he nods. The second whistle is definitely beyond a level four, but Lee doesn’t care. Cass looks the happiest he’s seen in a long time.

———

None of them care too much about staying for the other performances. But Cass has two more dances with her studio classes, spread out as they are, so Lee remains doomed to two hours of an aching ass and performances that come nowhere near Cass’s masterpiece. Will seems intrigued, though, by some of the pieces, so he grits his teeth and bares it. Besides, the rolled eyes he shares with Diana and Michael every time someone does something exceedingly cliche or tries and fails at depth (someone, often, being one of Cass’s teammates, shocker) makes it somewhat worth it.

By the time the judges call the last entry, though, Lee is ready to book it out of there.

The lights come back on and pop music plays through the speakers as dancers, in track suits over their costumes, congregate on the stage. Lee stands and stretches, letting Will stand on his shoulders and jump off into Michael’s arms to get some of his energy out. (And, also, ‘cause tossing a small child between them is fun. Diana jogs into the aisle so they can throw farther, but they all decide against it when a security guard glances over.)

After what feels like eight million years, the judges finally lumber over to the stage. The building voices hush as they climb the steps, standing in front of the gathered studios with cabled mics and stacks of foreboding envelopes.

“Welcome, dancers and families,” starts one judge.

She blabs on for several minutes about what an honour it was to judge and how wonderful everyone was. Blah, blah, blah. Lee spaces out about the time Diana’s eyes glaze over, and he looks instead to the gathered stage, observing. There are five different studios that he can see, each with about forty to fifty dancers. Mostly young women. They sit tangled together, legs on legs, arms around shoulders, feet tucked under thighs. Cass, he notices, sits on her own, at the very back of the stage. She sits straight-backed and proud, though. Chin lifted, braid resting over her shoulder.

Impossible to miss.

Two of her group dances win Diamond (Diana explains to them that this is Very Good. She thinks). Most others do not get this honour. Lee notices especially the older couple to their left looking quite sour. The glee he feels is indescribable.

“The winner for our open solo, for all age groups, was actually unanimous. It’s been a while since that happened!”

A girl near the front of the stage, who Lee recognises as the one to make a cruel joke about Cass’ mother, preens. Her solo was boring as hell. He’s not sure what she’s so smug about.

“With a score of 97.6, congratulations to Entry 109, Cass Hasapi!”

The four of them scream like lunatics.

They don’t even wait for scattered applause. Each one of them clambers up on the pristine chairs, covering them with scuff marks, and yell at the top of their lungs, jumping and cheering like chimps in a cage. Cass goes red, but she can’t hide her smile as she stands and accepts her award, grinning over at them. Michael holds up his camera and snaps a photo of her, pink-cheeked and wild-haired, glowing.

———

“Cass!”

Will sees her before the rest of them, sprinting towards the changeroom doors at top speeds and leaping up into her arms. She catches him easily, spinning them both around, pressing a thousand kisses to his hair and face.

“Hello, my darling! Hello hello hello!” Every word is punctuations with a kiss, or rather a press of her wide smile to anywhere she can reach. In seconds his cheeks are stained with her lipstick. “Oh, it has been weeks, darling boy, I missed you!”

Will clings to her sweater, face buried in the crook of her neck. She holds him just as tightly.

(Will has seen Cass more than Lee, in the past few months. He knows she’s made a few sudden trips to camp. But he also knows that she was the first one to welcome him into camp, the day his mother dropped him off, and when he was claimed she was the first to bring him home. She loves to tote him around, too, to have him trail after her for cabin inspections, holding the clipboard, or paint his nails when she’s bored. He misses her something fierce in the winters. She holds on tightly when she comes back home.)

Squeezing him one last time, she turns to the rest of them. Despite her wide smile, her mascara runs.

“You came,” she says, voice wobbling.

Michael clears his throat. “No shit.”

His voice wobbles, too.

“Come here, you goober.”

He’s the next to cling to her, inserting himself under her arm. She presses a kiss to his temple and he pinches her ribs, complaining, getting louder when she digs a knuckle into his hair. Diana jogs up and separates them, as she always does, flicking Michael on the forehead and pressing a kiss to her sister’s cheek.

“I’m so proud of you,” she whispers, squeezing her hand.

Cass’s tears spill over again. “Thank you.”

Lee clears his throat. He feels, suddenly, like a doofus, holding a bouquet of flowers the size of him, but Cass looks at them and grins again, chuckling.

“You sell your kidney for that or what?”

Lee snorts. “No, we exchanged Will. This is a clone.”

“Did not!”

Lee blows a raspberry. “Did too. Clone.”

“I’m not a clone! I’m me!”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Ya-huh!”

“Alright,” Cass interrupts, rolling her eyes fondly. She kisses the tip of Will’s nose again and sets him down, turning towards Lee, hands outstretched dramatically. “Hand me my dues.”

Because she is, at the core of her, a true daughter of Apollo, even though the amount of poise and grace that bleeds from her at any given time contradicts almost directly with the guy who beams Pocketful of Sunshine directly into their brains at five in the morning every single day without fail, she kneels with a flourish. Because Lee is, at the core of him, also a child of Apollo, he goes unquestioningly along with the bit, pulling out one of the flowers to knight her before resting the entire bouquet in her arms. She has to hold it with both hands.

“You guys are ridiculous,” she says, grinning.

“They are ridiculous,” Diana stresses. “Dumbasses were damn near late getting this for you. They already had flowers, mind you. They’re just dumb.”

Will holds up his hand with his watch. “I kept us from being late!”

Diana squishes his cheek. “Thank you, sweetpea. You’re already smarter than your brothers combined.”

“Stick out your tongue again and I’ll grab it, you little snitch,” Lee warns.

Will, darting to hide behind Diana, does not heed his warning. Because he’s a little shit. bc

The walk out of the building in a gaggle of movement. As other dancers and their families walk by, glowering at Cass’ flowers and at Cass in general, Lee makes a point to catch their eyes. To smirk. To let them know, without saying a word — you were wrong. Of course you were wrong. Look at how she’s better than your bitter ass without even trying.

It warms him inside, truly.

“I’m thinking,” Diana says, walking back to the car, “that we stop at Dairy Queen on the way home. On Michael’s dollar. Will, look real excited so Michael can’t say no.”

“I am excited,” Will says, turning to face him, “so that’s real easy.”

Michael sighs. He taps his foot on the pavement, glaring. He sighs again. “You’re getting s plain cone and that’s that. You understand me?”

Will takes that as code for ‘begin negotiating’. Diana joins him, the two of them chasing Michael to the car, yelling about Blizzards and sundaes. Cass falls into step next to Lee, adjusting the flowers.

“So,” she says, shooting him a small smile.

“So,” he intones.

“Diana told me you snuck the boys out of camp.”

“…Yes.”

“Organised the whole trip, basically.”

“It wasn’t hard. I just told Michael to pack his shit and he listened, for once. So.”

“Lee.” She waits for him to open the trunk, letting him stuff the ridiculous flowers inside before facing him, grabbing his hands and squeezing. “Thank you.”

“I don’t —”

He swallows past the lump in his throat. How can he say it? How can he tell her about being fourteen and older than half the unclaimed kids in Hermes, still reeling over camp as a whole, and the fear that had dissipated from his chest when she stood in front of camp and said, firmly, he’s ours? About the hours she spent listening to him ramble about Pokémon, learning the game for him, mailing him cards she finds around? About the letters she sends him every week without fail, even though she’s swamped with her own shit, because she remembers the night he cried, months and years of being weird and lonely and unlike anyone else he knew? How can he explain the bubbling in his chest, the ache for her, because of her?

“Of course, Cass.”

She opens her arms and he falls into them, forehead on her shoulder, arms tight around her waist. She grips around his back, pressing a kiss to his hair. His throat is dry, choking back the thickness of his tears.

“I love you.”

“Love you too, Lee.”

#AND WERE DONE #AND ITS FIVE THIRTY IN THE MORNING FUCK #percy jackson and the olympians #pjo #hoo #heroes of olympus #lee fletcher #will solace #michael yew #diana mckinney #cass hasapi #cabin seven #my writing #fic #longpost #song is orpheus by vincent lima btw #pjo hoo toa

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oozeandgoo-art · 2 months

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Stubbornness.

#oc #haven #i worked genuinely hard as fuck on this one #tfw you follow someone to their home to demand they speak with you face to face because you want to commit extreme violence on them #over a business dispute. and because they do not want you to do this they simply do not come outside. and you eventually make it clear you #will not be leaving until they come outside so you can discuss (read: harm them over) said business dispute. so they turn on their #sprinkler system and go to sleep. and you decide on the spot that this isn't that big a deal and if you leave now you'll lose ALL #credibility FOR EVER. so you decide to stand around and wait until they come out and . by the time the morning arrives you have #contracted Hypothermia and The Beginnings Of Pneumonia and also Did Not Maul That Guy #started this as a proof of concept test of doing an overpainting on super vivid red #expecting to spend like #maybe forty minutes on it #and then about uh.... like... at least seven hours later i was like okaayyyyy now im done #stay tuned i have two variants that didnt make the cut also #also the picture is big as fuck so i recommend straight up opening it into a different tab to look at details #not that there are that many #i painted it 80% at zoom-out scale

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minecraftrelatedrandomness · 7 months

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today's post-lore be like

#pirates smp memes #pirates smp spoilers #inthelittlewood #soupforeloise #bekyamon #i've had this on my mind for the past SEVEN HOURS.#the only reason i didn't post this sooner bc lore dropped at 2-3am for me and i had a 3-hour class this morning #pirates smp #scurvyblr #my post #isleposting

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bittersweetresilience · 4 months

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so do you think he succeeded?

#i woke up out of nowhere at seven in the morning with his speech playing in my head over and over again #a better world. a free world. turn me into shredded paper #and i was thinking about how i would be really annoyed if the wish never had any consequences because if that was the case félix deserved #to make his own. in this new world there's still obfuscation. people are still pulling the strings. there's still fucking nepotism LMAO #i also almost put the ring scene as who gets powers and who doesn't because i think a lot about whether ladybug would have granted all #sentimonsters autonomy or only the ones she perceives to be human #i didn't because i couldn't find anything else that fit what's right or wrong but know i have many thoughts on this subject #miraculous ladybug #🌃#ml gifs #ml emotion #ml recreation #ough... félix #sunny from the future here i kept this in my drafts for a bit but it shall now be dispensed to you because i am a magnanimous ruler

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abouttofillhisshoes · 17 days

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lenaaaaaa god help me I’m so high rn I’m thinking about mpind matty pole dancing ans also giving girlie a lap dance fhis isnt good or my health I think

dont be shy pass the spliff

also mpind comeback after a bunch of wank everyone be happy x

Love me - Matty Healy

A/N: bit wanky, barely spell checked except for @beforeyougo-turnthebiglightoff 's weird sim reactions to whatever i write. Legend anon i hope this is filthy enough for you my love xx

wc: 4.5k

content warnings: smut, fluff, tw: my shitty comedy, handjobs, strip clubs, its george's birthday!!, begging, teasing, lap dance, matty in lingerie pt. 43, mentions of alcohol, lots of swearing, cumplay, grinding, it gets a bit sappy guys soz, sub!Matty

“A strip club? Are you never scared of being a cliché?” you scoff as the venue comes into view, strobing neon flashing in your face. The summer night is warm, a breeze kissing your skin as the gravel crackles under your feet, your quite high heels still not making you taller than George.

His birthday, the big one eight, was today, and his chosen place was of course, a local strip club.

“If that cliché is seeing half naked girls, no.” he sniggers, Matty’s bickering with Ross and Hann faintly heard behind you. You hook your arm into his as you approach the bouncer, the line surprisingly short.

“I forget you're an actual man sometimes.”

“How can you possibly forget?!” he lets go, flexing his muscles at you as some sort of display of masculinity, making you giggle behind your hand.

Matty takes this ample opportunity to swoop in from behind, pressing the side of his body up against yours. The four of you watch George proudly present his real I.D to the bouncer, a wide smile on his face as he takes it from him. The bloke gives him a weird once-over, waving him and the rest through without a hitch.

It's bright inside, but not in the way you would assume. Different colored lights strobe around, switching every 20 seconds or so, the heavy bass of the music thrumming through your veins. Matty hangs on your arm as you look around, George immediately booking it to a booth with a stage as the table, wanting the best front row seat to the show. You roll your eyes at his eagerness, but then again, who could blame him?

Everyone files into the booth, George ending up wedged in the corner of the seating, uncomfortable but glass he could stretch his legs out under the table.

“Round of pints on me, happy birthday G. '' Everyone cheers, excluding Hann, who glares at Matty from across the table.

“Oh so now you have money? What about last week?” Ross lets out a quiet snigger, liking this turn of events.

“Shut up you cunt, it's G’s birthday! Lighten up a bit, old man.”

“Matty when I get my fucking hands on you-” Ross to the rescue, he presses a hand to his mate’s chest, keeping him seated.

“Alright girls, break it up.” he gives up, mouthing a curt ‘fuck you’ at Matty, rolling his eyes.

The waitress returns from the bar, bringing a platter of glasses with her. She sets them down, smiling at you before walking away, the neon lights of the club making her eyes shimmer.

“Cheers, happy 18th mate.” Matty plants a wet kiss on George’s face, making him squirm away in disgust.

“Get off you grade A wanker, your girl’s right there.” You blow him a kiss as Matty turns to you, licking a fat stripe up the side of your face, from your jaw to your cheekbone. Everyone at the table groans at his odd display of affection, Ross dramatically shielding his eyes and muttering incoherently as Matty finally sits back down, downing the rest of his pint.

Sure enough, right in the middle of Hann’s interesting story about his last date, a dancer comes over to the table. She climbs up, eyeing George, twirling around the pole a few times before doing this flip you didn't even know was humanly possible. The bralette she’s wearing glimmers in the light, reflecting off and into your eyes, distracting you.

George stares blatantly, eyes raking up and down her body as she dances, not letting her leave his line of sight. It's so obvious and she smirks at him, turning her body to face his direction before bending over, exposing her cleavage even more.

“Don't be a knob.” you hiss, not wanting to seem rude.

“She’s fit and it's quite literally her job!” a small laugh escapes the woman as she goes to speak, flattered at the exchange.

“It’s alright love, look all you want.”

“See!” George shouts a bit too loudly, proud of his correctness in strip club etiquette.

You sigh, nodding at her as Matty pokes your side.

“She is fit.” you whisper quietly, gesturing to her. Matty perks up, shoving you in offense.

“I'm fitter, don't forget.” you giggle at the statement, refusing to give him the satisfaction of agreeing with him.

“She’s literally sparkling, I need to know what brand that is.” The rhinestone adorned lingerie set she was wearing captivated everyone at the table, hugging her curves in all the right places.

“Who’s to say I'm not either?” your eyes widen slightly at the implication, but you brush him off.

“Shut it, don't be a tosser.” his hand grips yours right before he speaks, bringing it down to the waistband of his jeans. “I’m not.”

He uses your fingers to pull it down about an inch, revealing a pretty string of purple under his bottoms. Your breath hitches at the realization, eyes snapping up to meet his. Was he serious? Now?

“It’s George’s birthday.” you state, voice hushed so the others could overhear your conversation. Hann was already off to buy another round, leaving Ross and George to make ‘friendly’ conversation with the dancer, shamelessly staring at her tits the entire time. “He won't mind, just look at him.”

Sure enough, George is ogling the dancer, lips parted and being such a boy it hurts. She’s clearly enjoying the attention as he leans forward, stuffing a wad of cash into the flimsy waistband of her thong, smirking.

“He’s already imagining a future with her, look!”

She sets a paper crown on his head with the words ‘birthday boy’ on it, giving him a small kiss on the cheek. A boyish blush spreads onto George’s face as her kiss leaves a mark of lipstick, Ross quickly snapping a photo of him to take the piss when they left.

“He desperately needs a lay, it's sad.” you comment, knowing it had been ages since his last girlfriend or even hookup, too focused on his coursework and music to go out more than the few times you forced him to.

“So do I, so I'd prefer it if we didn't drag this out.”

Matty gets up, climbing over you despite your quite loud protests, announcing his trip to the dance floor. You wait a few moments before following him, the sway of his hips and faint back muscles under his mesh shirt flexing as he walks, convincing you to just go with it, hoping whatever he had planned wasn't totally scandalous and wouldn't get you kicked out of the place.

He turns right past the dance floor, leading you into a narrow corridor off to the side. You catch up to him, close behind him as he slips a dancer some cash, nodding as he makes his way to the door at the end of the hall. Matty rushes in before you, the door almost slamming in your face. ‘Private room’ flashes back at you in yellow neon, making you raise your eyebrows.

The room is dark for the first few seconds as you hear Matty shuffling. Suddenly, the room lights up, giant mirrors covering the walls and ceiling, reflecting the light back and forth. You glance around, eyes landing on Matty.

A tall pole is the centerpiece of the room, pink metal running from the floor to the ceiling. Matty leans on it, left hand wrapping around it as he spins, smirking at you as you watch him, something stirring inside of you.

“Did you plan this?” you ask, a skeptical look on your face.

“Maybe.” his fingers run up his chest, playing with his nipples right in front of you. His voice drips with lust, coating your mind with only a few words, making it difficult to get even semi-coherent sentences out.

“Jesus, you're mental.” you gasp softly as he moves, fluid and sure, captivating you with every change of direction.

“But you love me, now sit.” you listen, not knowing what else you were meant to do in this situation. The chair is soft, cushions letting you settle in comfortably.

“Everything is so pink.” you mutter, gesturing to the mirror frames and pole, every surface some variation of the same color.

“Sort of the point, yeah? To set the mood.” he smirks, trailing his hands up his waist, letting his nails graze against his skin, mimicking the same thing you do to him. “Mood for what?”

“You’ll see, be patient.” you roll your eyes at his words, the palms of your hands rubbing against the soft pillow of your chair. “That's rich.”

“Please, for me?” He sounds so sweet, like he was asking you to bring him a glass of water, not to stay still while he touched himself in front of you.

“We both know I can't deny you.”

“How true.” he sucks in a deep breath, throwing his head back as he holds eye contact.

“Watch.”

“What do I-?” you stutter over your words, your heart beating rapidly against your chest as he feels himself up, fingers ghosting over his tattoos.

“Me, keep your eyes on me.”

He turns his attention back to the pole next to him, strutting around it as the music from the dancefloor dictates his movements, his back pressed to the cool metal. Matty parts his lips as he slides down it, running a hand over his chest performatively, watching your every reaction.

Your breathing becomes more shallow as he moves, thousands of fantasies running through your mind. He knows the effect he has on you, everything he does is purely to rile you up, make you lose your composure.

“You’re mad, this is-” he cuts you off with a sly smile.

“Incredibly hot? I’d rather you enjoy the show than talk over it.” you scrunch up your face at the implication that this was a performance, even if you did expect nothing less from Matty.

“Show?”

He runs a hand through his slightly messed up hair, showing off his neck as you stare at him, biting your lip between your teeth to keep from embarrassing yourself.

“I hate you.” you mumble as the music changes, some hip-hop song coming on. The faint cheers of the people outside are barely audible, but it serves to remind of just where you were. The guys were still at the table, most likely speculating the reason as to why the two of you have been missing that long, Ross surely already making crude comments that neither Hann nor George wanted to think about.

“You won't if you just wait.” you grip the edge of your seat, blushing profusely as he struts over to you, wrapping his arms around your neck. His breath is hot against your neck, leaning over you as he settles into your lap. You finally clock it.

“Stay still.” he ‘orders’, attempting to mimic the way you speak to him when he doesn't listen.

“Are you giving me a lap dance?” he frowns at you, shaking his head in disappointment. A chuckle escapes you as the reality of the situation dawns on you.

“No need to define it darling, let it be abstract.” of course he’d say something like that, try to salvage the ‘artistic’ affair, failing miserably.

“You’re giving me a fucking lapdance, christ.” it's genuinely amusing. Your heart swells up at the thought of all the effort that went into this. Paying off the dancer with god only knows how much money, turning you on at the table just enough so you’d follow him, and probably even setting up the lighting in the room himself.

“You're such a bore, let me have my fun.” he kisses you, giggling into your mouth. His lips are warm against yours, your lip gloss rubbing off on him. “Oh, I will.” you promise, letting your hands fall limp as he grips your shoulders, rocking his hips back and forth. His movements are exact, practiced even as he grinds down onto you before lifting his body back up, bringing his hip tattoo up to eye level.

You don't think, mind clouded with desire and want. His shirt had ridden up a bit, and your rough tongue drags across the inked skin, warm against it as he shudders, feeling his cock twitch in his pants at the sensation.

“No touching the dancers” he tuts, coming back down on top of you.

“I’m exempt from that rule.” you say, your voice surprisingly steady despite the white hot heat pooling between your legs.

“According to whom?”

“You.”

You let your hands settle onto his waist, gripping him so hard you were sure there’d be bruises the next day.

“Fuckk, yeah okay,” he groans, the pressure on the front of his jeans increasing as all the blood in his head rushes south, his mind hazy.

“C’mon baby, finish your little performance.”

He moves to get off, smirking as you let him. You can see indents in his skin where you grabbed him, the sight making your breath hitch. He circles around you like a predator does his prey, wrapping his arms around you from behind.

His hands trail up your chest, fingers grazing over your exposed collarbones. Your skin flushes under his touch and you let out a soft moan at the feeling, earning a proud smile from Matty.

“You’re so gorgeous. I have to force myself to not get hard whenever you look at me.” his voice is sultry against your ear, making goosebumps bloom on the skin of your neck. “Oh, way to exaggerate.” you snigger, not quite believing him.

“Honest truth.” he swears, instinctively doing the ‘scouts honor’ sign with his hand.

You snort, your little giggling fit interrupted by his mouth trailing sickly sweet kisses up your neck and to your jaw.

It doesn't take him long to make his way back around, your heart skipping a beat when he comes back into view. His chest is glistening with sweat, the warm temperature of the room clearly getting to him. Most notably, you notice the front of his jeans is unbuttoned and unzipped, flaring out on both sides, revealing almost the entirety of the silky, purple panties he had chosen to wear.

He relishes in your reaction, the attention making his ego grow exponentially as he moves back into your lap. Your hands trail up his chest, doing your best to not immediately pay attention to the underwear. You can't resist, though.

“These are new.” you toy with the thin straps, silk reflecting the colored light beautifully. You can see a note of pride ripple through him as you admire the material, grazing his cock through it.

“Got them just for you, you like?” The question is so obviously rhetorical. Of course you like, no, love them. “So much.” your words are laced with love, soft and appreciative of all the effort he puts into getting you off, fulfilling your fantasy.

The way he looks at you is sinful, thoughts dancing behind his eyes visible as he stares, waiting for your next move.

He lets out a soft groan when you push him down into your thigh, biting his lip at you provocatively. “You're hard.” you smile as you say the words, his gaze softening when he sees the blissed out look at your face, eyes raking over his body. Even (almost) fully clothed, he was absolutely beautiful.

“See? Wasn't lying.” he presses a kiss behind your left ear, gently moving your hair out of the way. It’s loving, so honest. “You sure it's not because of the mirror behind me?” you still cant help but tease him, gesturing to the giant mirror your back was facing. He blushes in response, stealing a glance at his reflection.

“You’re so cruel! I’ll just stop then, seeing as all you see me as is some egotistical deviant.” he threatens, crossing his arms over his chest in retaliation. You bring a hand up to cup his face, stroking his cheek softly, almost patronizing. Your mind swims with the power you have over him.

“You wont stop, you couldn't if you tried.” For the first time that evening, you call his bluff, the way he reacts to you exquisite as his lips part, no words coming out. Silence fills the room, even the music on the other side of the door seeming to die down. How long have the two of you been here?

“Am i right?” you question, not letting him off the hook like you usually would.

“..yeah–” his words are small, and you know you have him right where you want him. The lightest, slightest touch could send him hurtling over the edge, his hips rutting desperately into your hand as you palm him through his underwear.

“So pretty for me, doing all of this. Thank you baby.” you whisper into his ear as he gasps under your touch. It's so incredibly intimate that you can't help but drop your facade for a few seconds, kissing him sweetly, his lips moving against yours with desperation.

“Anything for you.”

“Anything?”

“Mhm.”

You take his cock out of the confines of his underwear, a sigh of relief falling from his parted lips as your fingers ghost over the tip, teasing him.

“Just stay still, let me make you feel good.” you murmur, feeling him up under his shirt, your nails digging into the skin of his back. He shifts on top of you, his body yearning for your touch.

“Please.”

You reach down to wrap your manicured fingers around his cock, the sight of the pretty colors of your nails around him making his eyes roll back in his head, his mind spinning with all sorts of possibilities, mostly focused on not finishing right in that moment.

Tugging lazily on his cock, you drag your fingers from the base to the tip, a satisfying whimper spilling from Matty’s lips, the sound spreading through your entire body. His back arches against you and the kiss he presses against your mouth tastes like the cigarettes he chainsmoked on the way to the club, mixing deliciously with the hint of alcohol on his breath.

“Let go for me, feel it.”

He trembles, the noise he lets out is desperate, filthy, shooting straight to your core. Everything is heightened. You can feel his breath on your cheek as he leans forward into you, chest pressing against yours as you run your fist up and down his cock, small whimpers of pleasure spurring you on.

“Fuckk, that feels so good–”

Matty’s words are choked, his effort to hold back a bit obvious. He’s hungry, wanting, evident in the way he ruts into your hand, his fingers digging into the skin of your shoulders, the sharp pain making you sigh, pleased.

“Be nice and loud for me, let me hear you.” you coo into his ear, your free hand dragging up his back under his shirt, the mesh bunching up. “So good to me, treat me so well, god– shit.”

He twitches as you dig your thumb into his slit, a shiver spreading through his body

The way he’s not even undressed is obscene, the fabric of his jeans gathering under his hips as he’s perched on top of you, feet planted firmly on the floor for leverage. You watch him, engrossed in pleasure, completely blissed out expression on his face. His head is thrown back, exposing his pale neck, faded hickeys and marks still visible from your last encounter.

“You're staring” he breathes, your eyes snapping up to meet him. A filthy grin tugs at the corners of his lips, your focus on him and only him. His hair falls over his face, obscuring it slightly, much to your disdain.

“You're giving me reason to” you brush curls out of his face as your movements still, letting him speak properly, uninterrupted.

“Yeah, I want you to look at me.”

You smile lovingly, cocking your head slightly to the left as you tease him, one of your fingers twirling his hair.

“Gets you off, my attention?” he doesn't even try to deny it, knowing it wouldn't get him anywhere.

“Mhm-m” he nods, panting. His chest heaves with every breath he takes, silently begging you to continue.

His hips stutter as you grip his cock tighter, your other hand stroking his face sweetly as you stare into each other's eyes, his face flush as pornographic moans spill from his lips. His back arches again, your bodies pressed against each other as your hand snakes between the two of you.

“F-fuck, i’m so close, please let me cum, please.” His voice is high-pitched and whiny, tears threatening to spill at the overwhelming pleasure.

“You beg so nicely, let me hear you baby.” you whisper words of encouragement as his hips buck up into your hand involuntarily, every ounce of self control in him dissipating.

“I need it so bad, please i've been so good for you.”

He hiccups in a way that almost makes you feel bad, his desperation so obvious. You speed up a bit, just a bit, giving him that sweet, sweet relief he’s been begging for for god knows how long now.

“P-please, oh fuck, yesyesyes fuck.” precum bubbles at the tip of his cock, and you smear it down, coating him in his own arousal. It's unbelievably hot, his entire body twitching at the sight of your fingers on his cock, a sight he desperately tries to commit to memory.

“You’re leaking all over my hand darling, so filthy.” he whines into your neck, and you lick across his jaw, making him shiver

“Make a mess, c’mon, come for me.” an animalistic groan fills your ears as he rapidly approaches his orgasm, writhing under your touch.

“Y-yeah– fuck thats so good, your hand feels so good, fucking made for me.”

Matty’s possessive nature made your head spin with lust, his eyeliner smudging down his face as he stares into your eyes with such an intensity it felt like he was going to consume you.

His skin glows under the soft pink lighting, making him seem ethereal, like a true angel. His noises are like music to your ears as he spills into your hand, spurts of cum coating your bare stomach, barely missing your (quite expensive) cropped shirt. Matty kisses you immediately after, hands threading through your hair as he drinks you in, stealing your breath straight from your lungs.

Wordlessly, one of his hands moves down, gathering the remnants of his orgasm onto two fingers, tapping your mouth with the other. You indulge him, parting your lips to let him push his digits past them, the salty taste of him taking over your senses. His pupils are completely blown out in desire, not able to process what was happening in front of him, a loopy smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, his eyes crinkling in that way that made your heart swell up with love

“Perfect.” he mumbles as you lick his fingers clean, smiling mischievously at his dazed gaze. Matty pulls you in, holding you close, desperate to not let go.

—---------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Where were you two?” Ross’s voice is accusatory as the two of you finally return to the booth, the dancer from before having already left. A faint blush spreads onto your cheeks as the memories of not 20 minutes go flash through your mind. Hann doesn't help your situation at all.

“Probably shagging, just look at him.” your head turns, seeing Matty’s blissed out expression, a content smile replacing his usual nasty grin. You elbow him in the ribs, a silent plea to say something, but he promptly ignores your silent begging.

“Shut up you dickhead, you don't know shit.”

George points at Matty, now grinning wildly, reminiscing about the events of tonight. He’s oddly calm, which would be concerning if it wasn't for the monstrous case of post-sex hair he currently had

“Jesus, what did you even do to him?” George is taking the absolute piss out of you, and for good enough reason.

“I don't kiss and tell.” you attempt to change the conversation topic as you settle back into the booth, commenting on the pint glasses. You're ignored in favor of laughing at you further while matty remains completely unbothered, the glow he emitted so fucking obvious it hurt.

“Well he sure does, I've heard much more than necessary.” Ross sniggers, pulling a face at the not-so-distant memory of Matty’s sex bonfire-storytelling session that had happened a few weeks prior (not at an actual bonfire, but on the floor of your living room, completely pissed while you were out with your girlfriends.)

“Did you at least wash your hands?” Hann asks, the question directed at Matty, whose hands were loosely wrapped around his nearly empty pint glass.

“Didn't have to.” he grins, waving his hands in Adam’s face proudly, like it was some sort of achievement.

“Oh fucking hell, too much info.” George groans, cupping his face in his hands at the mental image of what he thought had just happened. You laugh inwardly, the whole situation absurd. This was the furthest you had ever gotten in discussing anything relating to your relationship with Matty, and it honestly felt weird.

“I’m never touching you again mate, no fucking way.” Ross stated, a disgusted look on his face. “Awwe Ross, how will you do without my touch?” You make grabby hands at him, climbing over George to drape yourself over the booth, touching his hair and face, Matty’s and Hann’s hysterical laughter spurring you on. “GET OFF ME!!” he yells, clawing at you to push you away, absolutely mortified.

George, slightly more pissed than the rest of you, announces his mission to get the dancers number, swearing up and down that “She had this look in her eye, i’m so fucking serious.” he manages to stumble over his shoes about three times before finally standing up straight, brushing off any ‘dust’ (crisps) that clung to his raggedy band tee.

“Good luck mate, not that you need it.” Hann tries to be encouraging, knowing just as well as the rest of you how George got when he had a few too many pints. Terribly emotional and impulsive, there was no stopping him once he had his sights set on something, or in this case, someone.

“I definitely don't” he glares at you over his shoulder, strutting across the dance floor in direction of where he’d last seen her.

As he walks away, Ross sniggers.

“He definitely does.” and you can't help but giggle along as he trips over a stray stair, falling right onto his face. Hann goes to help him up, ignoring your collective jeers to “Stop ruining his chances at true love!”

With an ice pack pressed to his face, George can only roll his eyes at the various comments for the rest of the night, despite it being his birthday.

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anannua · 2 years

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It's Big Sweater weather 💛

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wavesoutbeingtossed · 3 months

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Randomly thinking about “tolerate it” (narrator voice: it was not random) and how under the cloak of fiction it is ostensibly inspired by works like “Rebecca” (which Taylor said she read during the 2020 lockdowns I believe?), with the line of “you’re so much older and wiser” indicating that the speaker is significantly younger and inexperienced compared to the person she’s speaking to and a pretty direct reference to the plot of the book.

But I saw something somewhere once that stuck with me about how it might not be referring to relative age between the characters but chronological age as in the passage of time in a relationship. And that made me think about how in a contemporary context, it might not necessarily be referencing an actual age gap between the two characters, but rather a sarcastic or cynical response to the man’s claims that he has matured (“you’re so much older and wiser [than you were before/than you were when we met/etc.]”), which then made me think about that line in relation to the woman. And that it could be taken like, “you act like you’ve matured so much in our time together and like you know everything, while I’m supposedly still stuck as the girl I was when we first met.”

Which then made me think of the “right where you left me” of it all and did you ever hear about the girl who got frozen time went on for everyone else she won’t know it and the bit in Miss Americana where she talks about how celebrities get frozen at the age at which they got famous, and how she’s had to play catch up in a lot of ways not just in her emotional growth but kind of in general. (Which also made me wonder if she’s ever been called out for immaturity/lack of curiosity/lack of education about things in her life…)

Which then made me think about the rest of the song, and @taylortruther’s posts yesterday about “seven” and “Daylight” and the way Taylor idealizes her youth yet contrasts it with an almost sinister reality in its wake, and the line, “I sit by the door like I’m just a kid,” because the discussion raised that her relationship let her recapture some of the childlike joy and wonder she’d lost. So this line is a double-edged sword: the speaker sits by the door with childlike hope that the person will come home and cherish her, but on the darker side, feels like the child dealing with the monsters she doesn’t have names for yet and the feelings of isolation she felt as she aged.

I’m not saying the song is necessarily autobiographical; like most of the songs on folkmore, it’s clearly a fictionalized story based on media she’d consumed and created, but we know a lot of the fictional songs were infused with her own feelings and experiences and… This idea swirling in my head picked up steam and now I kind of can’t stop thinking about it. Sorry but I’m a little obsessed now.

Like maybe it might start to shed light on why she identified so strongly with the novel in the first place…

#the third eye has been opened #😵‍💫#like tolerate it was always a difficult song #even when we learned it was based on Rebecca it obviously took on new meaning post-joever #and especially in light of ttpd #but the thought spiral i went on last night when i started thinking about all these connections #and the evermore of it all #I’m Charlie at the conspiracy board again #writing letters addressed to the fire #me thinking too hard about Taylor lyrics #evermore my beloved #tolerate it #i kinda gave myself the ick with all this 😵‍💫#because of the ttpd of it all coming up #and i feel like i remember interviews where Taylor said joe was so well-read especially about like world events and politics and stuff #and supported her when she wanted to start speaking up (not getting into that)#but just based on ~vibes now I wonder if that was like a sore point too at some point #which again i have no proof of but just like… experience with pretentious millennial art bros lol #oh man oh man oh man #this feels like some sort of huge revelation at 1:00 am #when i started writing this lol #eta: when I queued this in the middle of the night i didn't see all the excellent discussion about the seven/folklore posts #so all of you who have been posting about them this morning consider yourselves tagged too!

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wikiangela · 10 days

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inspiration saturday

tagged for fuck it friday by @tizniz @aroeddiediaz @exhuastedpigeon @dangerpronebuddie @neverevan @diazsdimples thank you all 💖 it's closer to sunday now so using these for today and tagging y'all back for saturday or sunday 💁haha

haven't done one of these in a while but made a lil moodboard for my morning cuddles bucktommy fic so figured i'd share it and a lil snippet (the fic is done btw, and it's only 3k this time! might get posted today or tomorrow, just need to edit now and find a title, as usual)

(the top right pic is the oth scene that inspired this fic in the first place lol I heard that line and my brain had the idea ready in a second istg haha)

prev snippet

___

“Your morning breath is awful.” he whispers against Tommy’s lips, and Tommy laughs. Buck loves his laugh so much. He loves everything about him, from his kindness and understanding and competence, and the lame jokes and the worst fake mouth static, up to his huge arms and wide shoulders, and adorable cleft, and including even the morning breath he can currently taste on his tongue. He’s perfect and he’s Buck’s. He just adores all of Tommy.

“So is yours. So bad.” comes the amused response, before Tommy’s diving in for another kiss. And it just feels so intimate, so domestic, and like something Buck wants for the rest of his life. When they finally part, Tommy’s face hovers over his, as his eyes scan Buck’s face with that loving, soft look. He reaches to cup Tommy’s cheek in his hand.

“I like waking up to you.” Buck sighs contentedly, thumb caressing his cheekbone.

___

no pressure tags: @shortsighted-owl @eddiebabygirldiaz @watchyourbuck @eowon @loserdiaz @evanbegins @ladydorian05 @diazpatcher @monsterrae1 @weewootruck @spagheddiediaz @rainbow-nerdss @epicbuddieficrecs @pirrusstuff @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove @nmcggg @rogerzsteven @bidisasterevankinard @giddyupbuck @sunshinediaz @honestlydarkprincess @911-on-abc @jesuisici33 @steadfastsaturnsrings @buddieswhvre @fortheloveofbuddie @daffi-990 @hoodie-buck @thewolvesof1998 @theotherbuckley @underwaterninja13 @spotsandsocks @hippolotamus @your-catfish-friend @loveyouanyway

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mistydragonflyart · 6 months

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I felt rusty throughout the whole process. I'm still getting used to clip studio and still figuring out what brushes I like and everything and just trying to go with the flow and to trust the process. Anyways here's another Jack Frost.

#my art #art #digital art #fanart #rise of the guardians #jack frost #rotg #rotg jack frost #dreamworks #winter #snow #snowflakes #I hope I wake up tomorrow morning and like this drawing #because it's midnight right now and I'm too tired to judge #fun fact I've done this redraw for seven years now

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arospecsyourblockdudes · 1 year

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I hope everyone knows in canon during the Princess Tea Party Jimmy was horrifically drunk

#‘I have had seven mojitos’ ok babe #he wakes up next morning horrific hangover goes abt his business and is like guys why has Pix died #empires smp

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mediumgayitalian · 4 months

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It starts really…really stupid.

The Apollo cabin is having a movie night. Will’s DVD collection is bigger than his textbook collection, which is saying something, because he is a nerd. They baited Nico with a pirate movie: then, when he was comfortable and moon-eyed and unable to keep his mouth shut for a good twenty minutes after the end credits, they started phasing in the rom-coms.

Evil. Manipulators, the lot of them; so incapable of lying that they’re masters of bending the truth. Nico would leave, except they literally barricaded the door and keep all the lights on so there are no shadows for him to duck into (something he should have questioned from the very beginning, but unfortunately as soon as the Pirates of the Caribbean theme started playing, his reasoning skills hopped on a train and fled back to the Lotus Casino in 1938. So).

“This is stupid,” Nico grumbles, not that anyone is paying him any attention. Every single one of Will’s siblings stares at the TV with their chins in their hands, completely ignoring any and all of Nico’s (very valid) criticism.

Not that it stops him. “This is less realistic than Davey Jones,” he insists, largely just so his grievances are Known and Aired Out. The leading man says something stupid and cheesy, and three seperate doofuses in his company genuinely swoon. Nico scowls as hard as he can, pulling a blanket over his head. “Idiotic and cheesy.”

Nico pointedly isn’t following the plot — not that there is one — so he has no idea what’s going on. He squints. The leading man is wearing some ugly suit, too tight, and the leading lady collapses tearfully in his arms, thanking him about something.

Will sighs dreamily. Nico scowls harder.

“When is it my turn,” Will laments.

Kayla reaches over blindly and pats him on the head. She ends up more smacking him gently and lovingly on the face, but Will doesn’t seem to mind.

“Don’t we all want to know.”

“You don’t understand,” Will says dramatically. He flops backwards, hands flailing. Nico peeks over from under his blanket. His Head Medic camp shirt has ridden up in his dramatics, showing a sliver of skin. Nico flushes and intentionally looks away, focusing on his friend’s face.

“When will a rich, attractive older man come waltzing in here and offer to put me through med school, huh? When will my dream come true?”

Nico is 90% sure that Will is joking, but without his permission, be blurts out —

“You’d run off with some guy you don’t know?”

“Without hesitation!” Will cries. He yanks himself back upright, making Nico jump, arms thrown up and forehead creased. “You know how broke I’m gonna be when I’m done school?”

Nico doesn’t answer, but Will doesn’t wait for one.

“Very! I grew up on a pullout couch, which, I love my mom, and I love our apartment, but I want — I want —”

With his long, lanky limbs and flushed face, he begins to remind Nico of a kettle. He refrains from pointing this out. His siblings, on the other hand, openly snicker at him, dividing their attention between the movie and throwing popcorn at their eldest brother’s head.

“I want an Alaskan King! And — a mahogany desk! With lots of drawers! And windows! Floor to ceiling windows! And a rooftop garden!”

He glares playfully at his siblings, who are all giggling now, pointing fingers at them all.

“Lemme tell you right now. A man walks in here offering me that and a cheque for any school I want and it’s over for you people. I’m gone. You can fend for yourselves.”

“Yeah right,” Austin snorts, disbelieving. He reaches over and pinches Will’s thigh, cackling when he squawks. “We can’t even get you to leave the infirmary at the end of your shift. You’re stuck here forever, Rapunzel.”

“Just you wait! My prince will come!”

“As if he even wants a prince,” he hears Kayla whispering to a giggling Gracie, who responds with a cheeky, “Not when he’s got a king!”

Nico doesn’t know who they’re talking about, but the fact that there’s someone — his vision goes green. He has to tamp down a genuine snarl which is — ridiculous. And out of nowhere.

He cuts another glance to Will, who is still muttering petulantly. Every few minutes, he hears something about an “open floor plan” and “high pressure showers”.

He gets a very, very stupid idea.

———

The first mistake (because that’s what it is) is easy to explain away — the Hades cabin is still under renovation.

Well. Mostly.

“Please,” Will is begging, eyes big and pleading and painfully, beautifully blue. “Please? I’ll bring movies! And Yan’s Wii! And get Cecil to lend me some of the games he — uh, acquired! Pretty please!”

Nico has to bite back the you could be toting a pack of Lastrogonian giants with you and I’d still let you in that so desperately wants to come out of his mouth.

“Bring snacks and I’ll consider it,” he says instead.

Will beams. His eyes nearly squeeze shut, when he smiles like that, and there’s nothing Nico can do about the sharp inhale that rips through his chest. He blinks the spots away from his eyes, everything suddenly a little brighter, covered in golden sunlight.

“Yes!” Will cheers, pumping his fist and jumping up and down like a lunatic. Nico is so endeared that it aches something awful in his chest, and his cheeks smart from the size of his smile. “Sleepover! After my shift, di Angelo, I won’t be late!”

Yes, you will.

“I lock my doors and set a skeleton guard to watch it at eight,” he warns with a throat suddenly dry. “I mean it, Solace. I’ll sic the harpies on you.”

Will laughs as he jogs towards the infirmary, clearly not believing him. Nico watches him go the whole way, jumping when a hand lands on his shoulder.

“You,” says Drew Tanaka, blowing a bubble with her gum, “are a humiliating case, di Angelo.”

He shoves her, scowling. His face feels sunburnt. “Shut up.”

He absolutely does not spend the day moping after the infirmary, despite whatever rumours Drew’s lying mouth might spread. He has a job, thanks. He runs three separate sword fighting classes, and the younger kids are insane, so he doesn’t have time to be distracted.

Not that he is. But. Hypothetically, if he were to be distracted, he isn’t. Yeah.

He sits with Percy and Jason at dinner, distractedly wolfing down his food. Some kind of barbecue. He is not paying attention.

“No, Jase, we can say whatever we want, he’s not listening —”

“If he decides to stab you I am going to let him —”

“What’s going on?” Nico interrupts, looking up for the first time.

Percy smiles angelically, placing his hands under his chin.

“Nothing, Nico dear.”

Jason bangs his head on the table.

“I’m gonna…leave,” Nico says, slowly. “Y’all…do whatever you’re doing.”

“You said y’all,” Percy says gleefully. “You said y’all.”

Nico flushes hotly. “I did not. Shut up before I summon Jules-Albert to run you over.”

Percy cackles. Even Jason laughs. Nico throws his plate at them as he stomps away, sprinting extra quickly past the infirmary for no reason at all.

Time seems to slow down after dinner. For all Nico knows, it actually does. It wouldn’t make a difference. By the time there’s a knock on his cabin door, the sun has well past set, and Will is smiling sheepishly.

“I didn’t hear my shift alarm,” he says, the second Nico opens the door.

Nico sighs. He bites the corner of his mouth, hard, so it doesn’t do something stupid like turn upwards or something.

“There’s ADHD, and then there’s you, Solace.”

Will leans into his personal space and presses an over-exaggerated, smacking kiss to his cheek before he can stop him. Nico goes scarlet.

“But you love me anyway!”

There are no thoughts left in Nico’s brain to refute him. The only thing shaking around up there are alarm bells and KISS! KISS! KISS! KISS! KISS! repeated over and over again like a gong.

“Hngh,” he says, intelligently. Will doesn’t seem to notice, striding confidently right into the cabin.

“I brought the Wii and movies and stuff, like I promised, and I’ve been saving this chocolate I bought last time I went into the city — woah, when did that get here!”

Will freezes in the middle of the cabin, gaping. Nico nearly walks right into him.

‘That’ is the giant, brand-new bed tucked snugly in the far right corner — an Alaskan King.

Nico clears his throat, shrugging.

“Remodelling, remember? The coffin beds had to go. And no one else but me sleeps here, so. Hazel has her own bed on the other side.”

He gestures to the other corner, where Hazel’s — smaller — bed sits, empty, coral pink comforter straightened neatly. Will barely even glances at it.

“What! But I thought you already renovated the beds —”

“Temporary.”

Will squints at him for a moment. Nico squirms, trying to hold his gaze. He’s not lying — they were temporary. Of course, he only made the decision that they were temporary a week ago, but. Well. Truth is truth.

Evidently, Will decides that he isn’t going to get a real answer out of Nico or he doesn’t care to get one, because he quickly turns away and, with a running start, jumps and sprawls himself on the gigantic bed.

“Oh, gods,” he groans, and oh, gods, indeed, is Nico ever going to get a fucking break or is his face just going to be stuck like this all the time. “Gods, Neeks, I am going to move in here. I don’t even — look! I can stretch all the way and I don’t touch the edge!”

“I see that,” Nico says weakly. His shirt has ridden up again. Nico bites back the confessing comment he wants to make about undershirts and how Will should invest in them.

“Man, I feel like I could pass right out,” Will sighs, eyelashes — they are so long and so blonde who decided that who gave him that right — fluttering shut. He grabs on of Nico’s pillows and curls around it, content. Nico stares. And stares.

After too much time has passed, Will cracks an eye open, smiling slightly. “Well, don’t just stand there, Death Breath. Bed’s more than big enough for us both, now. Get over here.”

Miraculously, Nico does, managing to unglue himself from the floor and look anywhere but the long, languid stretch of Will’s body.

(They play four straight hours of Mario Kart — or, rather, Will spends four straight hours losing. When they finally fall asleep, they’re so far apart on the giant bed they might as well be in different countries — but Nico wakes up in the middle of the night with his arms around Will’s waist, and practically throws himself on the ground for the rest of the night.)

———

The next thing he does is just…embarrassing.

“I think you look hot,” Mitchell, Piper’s brother, assures him kindly. He pats Nico’s flaming cheek. “Honest. And it’ll work wonders! Will’ll be struck.”

“Why do people keep saying that,” Nico croaks. “I don’t even like him!”

“Uh-huh. Sure.”

With Mitchell’s unwavering — if teasing — assurance, Nico finds the courage to step out of the Aphrodite cabin and into the waning sun. He’s grateful he waited until after the summer ended to do this — the fewer people around the witness, the better. His reputation is hanging on by a string as it is.

A wolf-whistle rings out the second he steps off the porch, making him scowl. Cecil, unfortunately, is far too used to being on the receiving end of it and does not even flinch.

“Looking spiffy, Ghost King!”

“Bite me,” Nico growls back, and is only aware of the trap he’s walked into when Cecil gleefully says, “I believe that’s Will’s job, actually —”

He wisely scampers away before the skeleton Nico summoned can murder him.

The second he’s out of sight, Nico slumps.

What is he doing.

“Aw, jeez, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes! Lemme tell you the gar-bage I had to endure tod — Nico?”

Nico whips up to face the voice. Will stands a few feet in front of him, unmoving, wearing his scrubs today — heavily stained, yikes — and his favourite pair of ratty cargo shorts. The expression on his face is oddly inscrutable.

“Are you…going somewhere?”

“Yeah,” Nico says, flushing and repeating himself when his voice cracks three separate times. “Yeah, I’m. Um. Ambassador of Pluto duties, you know. I’m expected in New Rome in a couple hours.”

It’s not quite the truth — he is going to be in New Rome in a couple of hours, but his reason for being there is fabricated. Literally.

“I didn’t know you were visiting today.” Will steps forward, almost trance-like. His eyes are glued to somewhere around Nico’s chest, and he reaches out — hesitantly, although he’s never been hesitant to touch Nico in all the time he has known him — to brush his fingers over Nico’s collar. “This isn’t what you usually wear.”

Nico swallows. No, it is not. Usually, his Ambassador of Pluto uniform is his black toga. (It still is. If he was actually on duty and showed up in anything else, several Romans would have his head. Good thing he’s full of it.) But right now, he’s wearing a tailored, black silk suit made by hand by some dead Byzantine seamstress whose name Nico could not pronounce if he tried. Diamonds glitter in the lobes of his ears, freshly pierced, and his rings are more polished than usual.

“Special occasion today.”

Will doesn’t say anything for a long moment. His hand still curls at Nico’s collar, millimeters away from his neck, heat boring into his skin.

“You clean up nice.” An expression Nico can’t name flits across his eyes, and Nico’s breath catches, and then he’s grinning, too-wide and teasing, reaching up to dig a hand through his hair. “But maybe ditch the hair gel, Wilbur Robinson, and just let —”

“Gah! Get off of me! You’re the worst!”

Will stumbles back as he shoves him, weak from laughter, and Nico’s stomach flips.

———

The third thing is maybe the most ridiculous out of all of them — and almost gets him killed.

“I’m starving,” Will complains, apologizing to the random New Yorker who just walked into him. (Nico rolls his eyes. Will would get eaten if Nico wasn’t here — he is too soft for the city. He’s gonna get shoved into a puddle or something; he’s so unwilling to elbow his way through a crowd that Nico has to hold his hand so as not to lose him. Definitely not a city boy, that’s for sure.) “And we don’t have to meet Argus for another two hours — can we stop for food? I want something fried. Desperately.”

“I guess so,” Nico sighs, pretending to be more put-out than he is. Will doesn’t buy it for a second, rolling his eyes hard enough to hurt.

“C’mon, Nicholas Hoult. There’s gotta be a diner around here somewhere, and I still want to go shopping after this.”

He lets Will pull him around, even though they’d probably get somewhere faster if Nico leads. Will stops every three seconds to listen to a busker, or observe particularly interesting graffiti, or attempt to pet a pigeon. It shouldn’t be cute, it should be embarrassing because Will truly never gets out, but it is — endearing. A little. Even if Nico can feel his stomach eating itself.

Will brightens when he finally stumbles across some gaudy, mint-green painted, hole-in-the-wall family restaurant, beaming back at Nico like he won a sparring match rather than stumbled upon somewhere to eat. But his eyes are squished shut, the way they are when he’s genuinely excited, and some early January snow dusts his golden hair, and his nose is red from the cold, and it’s just —

It’s a lot.

They find a booth tucked in the back corner. Will slides in next to Nico, not across from him, and it makes him — flush, for some reason, cheeks glowing as bright as Will’s massive, dorky scarf.

The waitress brings them sodas. Nico doesn’t remember ordering them, but it’s cherry coke — his favourite — so he must’ve. Will has a water, because he’s annoying and pretentious, and he tries to blow his straw wrapper at Nico but he’s too fast and catches it. Will pouts.

“You’re no fun.”

“I’ll show you fun.”

He’s balled up the wrapper as tiny as possible and flicks it at Will’s face before he can stop him, except it hits him in the — eye, and Will shouts in surprise, and Nico jumps and rushes to apologise but he’s laughing too hard for it to be sincere, and Will scowls playfully at him, and Nico bangs his knee on the rickety table trying to move it and it only makes him laugh harder, and Will cracks soon, too. And he can’t sing for shit but his laughter is musical, low and baritone and a little raspy on the edges, like the country music he loves so damn much. And all the laughter gets sucked right out of Nico’s lungs as he watches him, bright-eyed, red-nosed and freezing, still wearing his stupid parka even though it’s barely below forty degrees, and he is suddenly achingly truly and obviously the most beautiful thing Nico has ever seen in his life, and he thinks oh, no. But it doesn’t hurt.

It doesn’t hurt at all.

———

(After the diner, they go window shopping, and Nico feels like he can’t function. His chest aches with new knowledge that he doesn’t know where to put. New York air is disgusting but Will smells like eucalyptus and sunshine, always, and the look on his face when they pass a dusty antique shop is blinding. He’s rambling about old anatomy textbooks and gods knows what else and Nico nods along with a stupid, endless smile on his face that he couldn’t tamp down if he tried.)

(In the back of the shop there’s a big, ancient, beautiful mahogany desk. It has a divot for an inkwell and more drawers than Nico can count. It’s nine hundred dollars. Nico pulls out the credit card his father gave him for emergencies, buys it before Will can stop him, and shadow travels all three of them — himself, Will, and the unbelievably massive desk — back to Cabin 13, passing out immediately after to the sound of Will’s shout.)

(His father is the first thing he sees in his dreams, arms crossed, legs tapping.)

(“I believe I told you that card was for emergencies,” says the Lord of the Dead, “not crises over cute boys.”)

(“You were down so bad you kidnapped your wife instead of talking to her like a normal person,” Nico blurts, and immediately wishes he would melt into shadows.)

(He wakes up to another arms-crossed, foot-tapping figure: Will lectures him for two and a half hours. He times it.)

(But Will does all his paperwork in the Hades cabin, now, skin glowing amber under the Greek fire torches, often falling asleep on the smooth wooden surface. He hasn’t spent a night in the infirmary in months. Often, if Nico can wake him, he’ll crawl into Nico’s massive bed, curling all six-two of him into a ball around the centre and puffing tiny little snores into his pillow.)

(His cabin smells like eucalyptus and sunshine all the time, now.)

———

He tells himself that this will be his last thing.

(It isn’t.)

It takes him four separate times to muster up the courage. It’s — humiliating, is what it is, and he’s never been a coward except for maybe about this one thing.

“Dude,” says Katie Gardener, the fifth time he walks by her cabin without saying something, “this is getting embarrassing. Pull yourself together.”

“I’m — pulled,” he defends, wishing he didn’t get red so damn easy. “And — what are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be at college, or something?”

“College ends in April, stupid,” she says, as if Nico has more than a fourth grade education and would somehow know that. He refrains from sticking out his tongue because that is Undignified, and clearly he is the more mature one of the two of them. “What do you need, flowers for Will or something? You don’t need to bother. He likes dandelions.”

“I know what flowers he likes,” Nico snaps, and wallows in immediate despair as she snickers. He should consider having Will remove whatever part of his brain is responsible for Stupid, Emotional Outbursts. Or just get a lobotomy. Whatever’s faster, honestly.

“I need — a garden.”

“…A garden.”

“Please don’t make me say it again,” he begs.

Perhaps college has somehow made her merciful — which he doubts, anyone who sustains a relationship with Travis freaking Stoll stopped worrying about mercy long ago — or perhaps he truly is that pitiful. But she relents, rolling her eyes and muttering something about stupid teenagers and refusal to communicate, blah blah blah. Nico knows he’s a mess. He would appreciate it if everyone else politely pretended he wasn’t. She comes back minutes later with a truly massive bucket of soil, a handful of gardening tools, and several packets of seeds.

“Well, you don’t have a lot of space for it, kid, seeing as your cabin is kind of tucked —”

“I want it on the roof,” Nico interrupts. He manages to keep his face in check. “Uh, that would make the most sense, anyways. It’s flat and I can get there easy and — yeah.”

She narrows her eyes at him. Years of Hermes cabin pranks have left her with a truly magnificent BS detector, but after a moment she sighs.

“Whatever, kid. Let’s go. Nothing will grow for a couple months, anyways.”

———

The last thing is what, eventually, gives him away.

The issue is that camp is crowded in the summer. And, really, he would have gotten it done in the spring, except he needed help — he needed an architect.

And he only really knew one, and her school year was kind of packed.

“You want,” says Annabeth slowly, “to entirely restructure your cabin.”

Nico squirms. “I just want to change the windows,” he mumbles.

She stares at him, fingers steepled, for what feels like ten solid minutes. At minimum.

“Kid —” Nico scowls, she is barely three years older than he is and technically almost a century younger — “installing floor to ceiling windows in your cabin will restructure it — entirely.” She pulls out a paper and pencil out of, as far as Nico can tell, absolutely nowhere, and begins to sketch. “There are foundations here, see? So everything has to be moved and reorganized to keep the structure standing. I can’t just, like…knock out the wall. It doesn’t work that way.”

Nico slumps. “So it’s not possible?”

“I didn’t say that,” she snaps, offended. “I just said it won’t be easy. Gimme a couple hours, I’ll have blueprints.”

She barely hears him as he thanks her, nose already pressed to the paper. Nico smiles at her anyway. She’s the best and brightest of them for a reason, after all, and he appreciates her help.

The walk back to his cabin is a surprisingly pleasant one. A lot of his friends (which, woah) are finally back, and Nico is realising he’s missed them, and it’s nice to see them again. It’s also nice to see camp as busy as it is, as much as he likes the quiet chill of the winter months. All the cabin doors are wide open as people sweep out the dust, shake out sheets, air out the staleness that has been locked inside some of them for months. Chatter fills every corner, and the air smells like strawberries.

His small smile widens as he approaches his own cabin — the flowers he and Katie planted a few months back have started to bloom, and with them comes the memory of Will’s gasping excitement when he’d seen them, the smile that lit up his face. They’re regular plants, but Katie — enchanted them, somehow, protected them; even when Nico is having his worst days, they don’t wither. (And they keep growing, too. Nico has taken to picking a flower every morning and leaving it in his (Will’s) desk — to brighten up the room, on paper, but the flower always ends up whenever Will is by the end of the day. (And, more often than not, tucked behind his ear, locks of golden hair caught among brightly coloured petals; a crown of his own making.)

The cabin is empty when he walks in, unsurprisingly considering how often Will is usually locked in the infirmary for the first week of camp.

(He’ll be back tonight, to do his paperwork before heading back to his cabin. Nico’ll have to be sure he actually makes it back to his cabin — Chiron has been turning a blind eye, because Will needs more sleep and Kayla and Austin can handle themselves, but the little kids need their counsellor. Well, most days.)

Nico stands in the door and realises: things have changed.

Maybe a silly thing to think. But — a year ago, this place was unliveable. Dark, and dreary, coffin-shaped and miserable, it was no wonder it had never felt like home. But the sight of Hazel’s bed (and the sketchbook she left on it last time she was here) fills him with warmth, and the windows are always open, now, so even the air feels lighter. Dozens of Will’s textbooks are strewn around the room, Lou Ellen’s jacket hangs on the back of the desk chair, a deck of cards is sprawled on the floor. A sun lamp is plugged into the wall. Nico’s giant bed is unmade. He’s got laundry peeking out of the closet doors, and he needs to clean his bathroom. A pair of obnoxiously patterned flipflops sit by the door.

It looks lived in. It looks like somewhere that can be lived in, and most of all, his friends — Will — have been living in it with him.

He swallows the lump in the back of his throat, stepping in and shutting the door behind him.

It takes him time to tidy up. He leaves Hazel’s sketchbook where it is, along with most of Will’s stuff — although he shoves a couple textbooks in random drawers when he trips over them. He puts the rest of his friends’ stuff by the door so he doesn’t forget to return it, and makes his bed (which, frankly, he hardly does, because it’s a massive pain — he tucks in one corner of the mattress cover and has to freaking summon Jules Albert to get to the other. But it was worth it). He barely makes it to dinner, too distracted to hear the horn.

“Finally,” bursts a voice sometime around nine, throwing open the door and flopping on the bed. Nico smiles, setting down his game and running light fingers through Will’s frizzy hair. He groans, leaning into it.

“I hate the first week of camp!”

Nico snorts. “No, you don’t.”

“Yes I do! It’s miserable! It’s all —” he contorts just face, mocking — “‘Will, do this.’ ‘Will, do that.’ ‘Will, I forgot how hard the climbing wall was and incinerated myself.’ ‘Will, we need you to treat the group of kids Clarisse beat up.’ Will, Will, Will! Constant!”

“How dare they take up all your time,” Nico says, grinning.

“Right! They should be less — I dunno, disastrous! I am one person! I can only be pulled in so many directions at once!”

Despite all his complaining, the slightest of smiles pulls at Will’s mouth — as Nico would expect. He’s exhausted and perpetually overworked, sure, but there’s nothing in the world Will relishes like being needed.

“I just —” He sighs, leaning further into Nico’s touch. Nico’s throat goes dry. “Man, I’m so glad we have this place to ourselves. It’s the only privacy I get. Sometimes I just wanna close the blinds and never come out, you know?”

Nico freezes. “Uh.”

“And it’s — nice, in here. Smells like you. And it just, well —” He smiles, broad and soft, and, suddenly, Nico understands his father on a level he never thought he would. If Will looked him in the eye and asked him for all the riches under the Earth, asked him to defy Zeus, asked him to rule the dead — Nico would bend time and space to do that for him. He understands, abruptly and wholly, why loving mortals ends in tragedy, why the gods promise more than they can give. He wants to give Will everything. “I like when it’s just you and me sometimes,” he says, softly. “It can be nice to disappear.”

There’s so much love bursting out Nico’s chest he doesn’t know what to do with it. He feels like every part of him is screaming his affection, every molecule is straining to meet with Will’s. He’s dizzy.

“I,” he starts, then freezes again. He doesn’t know what — what. Every thought he’s ever had hits him at once, and he can’t pick one out, can’t think with all the clutter in his head.

Will perks up. “Yes?”

“I have to. Cancel. My plans. With Annabeth.”

Will deflates. “Oh.”

There is something here, something charged, something about to change — and Nico is losing it. He panics.

“I asked her to restructure the cabin!” he shouts, startling Will. He squeezes his eyes shut instead of looking at those wide, wide blue eyes. “To! Make. Floor to ceiling windows.” He waits a bit. “Apparently you can’t just bust down the wall. You have to. Restructure.”

It’s silent for so long Nico is half-convinced Will left, if it weren’t for the faint sound of him breathing and the heat Nico can always feel leeching off of him. He peeks his eyes back open.

“Why?” asks Will quietly when their eyes meet.

Nico swallows. It takes several tries to moisten his throat enough to speak. “Why what?”

“Why do you want to…have floor to ceiling windows?”

“Same reason I wanted this massive bed,” he admits, quiet, whispering, near silent. “Same reason I — changed my Ambassador uniform. Same reason for the desk and the —” he stumbles over his words, blushing — “the garden and the flowers and — this, right now.”

“Nico,” says Will, very very quietly.

“I just. Well. You were joking, you know? And, gods, it’s been a year, now, but I think you were telling the truth? A little bit? And anyway, I want you to have the things you like, and —”

“Nico,” Will says again, louder this time, a particular quality to his voice Nico can’t name. He falters.

“…Yeah?”

“Shut up.”

Nico doesn’t even have the chance to be offended. He doesn’t even have the chance to think. Before he can rationalize the situation and connect the dots in front of him, Will’s hands are sliding into his hair, his face is inches away, and then they’re kissing.

They’re kissing.

Will tastes like Blistex, like mint gum, and like the breath he sighs into his mouth. His eyes are closed, and for a full six seconds before Nico recovers enough to close his, he has the best view of his pale, fanning eyelashes that he’s ever seen — long enough to think: oh, this is a child of the sun. He smells familiar and — intoxicating. Nico never wants to know pure air again, never wants to move without the brand of Will’s over-heated hands on the back of his neck. Never wants to forget the rough scrape of Will’s chapped lips, the tiny little sounds and sighs he makes every time Nico moves their mouths, the slightest curl of his lips when he smiles, unable to hold it back. The rapid beat of his heart, pressed against his own chest.

“Nico,” he says again, slightly more urgent, pulling away just enough that their lips still brush every time he speaks, “Nico, I love you to death.”

“I would do anything for you,” Nico chokes out. He meets Will’s eyes and tries to — communicate it to him, tries to beam his thoughts into his head. “I would — move the moon and stars for you, do you understand that? Do you know how precious you are to me? My tesoro,” he says, feeling Will’s breath hitch. “Il mio cuore. Il mio cuore battendo, sole.”

For a second Nico frightens himself. He’s never spoken words like that to anyone in his life — not his mother, not Bianca, not Hazel, nobody.

But Will’s smile is radiant. And he still holds Nico, gently, and says over and over, “You are the best thing that has ever happened to me.”

Something slots back into place in his chest.

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