#it was so stream of consciousness
Explore tagged Tumblr posts
Text
fish want me women dont
#k#my art#drew dis to keep me focused while my friend was talking to me#he carries the conversation of “I saw the TV glow”#it was so stream of consciousness#cuz referencing something was taking up too much brainpower so i switched to free stylin#i forgot i could do that LOL#and in fact do it so often wtf....#cant believe ppl can draw without a reference#including me#serval#dusty#my ocs#my oc#oc art#artists on tumblr#cat#cat art#cat illustration#clip studio paint
33 notes
·
View notes
Text
why was bashir a closeted homosexual in the 23rd century? like dude it's fine you can relax. actually wait the tense here is kinda funny. i used past tense because ds9 is from the 90s and i watched it in 2021 so in both cases it's from the past in my view. but when talking about a text you speak in the present: why IS bashir a closeted homosexual in the 23rd century? but the statement is half about how ds9 takes place in the scifi future: why WILL bashir be a closeted homosexual in the 23rd century?
#chirps#ds9#this post breached containment. i am so sorry if my personal hc of a character who has no canonical queer identity disagrees with yours.#however this is my post. that is my personal headcanon then followed by my stream of consciousness.#it's okay. you can make your own post.
5K notes
·
View notes
Text
in my wtnv era 10 years too late but uhhhh trying to figure out how to draw the guy nonetheless
#he’s soooooo idk silly billy#like monotone and matter of fact with methodical movements but also subtly flamboyant and stream of consciousness#that doesn’t make sense at all I know and that’s why coming up with a design IS SO HARD#also yes I will be drawing him with more ford prefect quotes it’s inevitable#welcome to night vale#welcome to night vale fanart#wtnv#wtnv fanart#cecil palmer#cecil gershwin palmer#carlos the scientist#wtnv carlos#cecilos
2K notes
·
View notes
Photo
Lots of them :))
#bubbline#my art#the pbs were way more stream of consciousness so please excuse the weird head shapes 😭
4K notes
·
View notes
Text
revstar emu save me
#please watch revue starlight#project sekai#pjsk#prsk#emu otori#proseka#Im so mad i wrote 8 million tags stream of consciousness style and then aposted this to the weong account#im not rewriting all that. you get NOTHING.#actually i will say again i have no idea why this kind of blee up on twit please WATCH TEVUE STAKRIGHTBTNGL#i KNOW 4 thiusand of you did not watch it Watch revue starlight Do not speak of yuri unless you partske in the revue#sorry. anyways#the jist of it was ahh the assignments -> making cosplay -> might post it here if i can take a bice photo for once in my life#because im proud of it. as mortifying as it is.#my best friend is cosplaying an im the clown Two lesbians walk into the metro convention centre(is that where toronto comicon is????)#Oh right i was thinking of making little drswings of pjsk charas or at least exs and printing them out in bulk on a dheet of paper#and coloring them in w markers and giving them to people at the pjsk meetup or vendors i get merch from..#i thought itd be fun. Also i swear to god i have a sheet of like MAGNET paper somewhere i want to make people emu magnets#Ok i fucking for real have to go to sleep i have to get up for class in 5 hours. wuit your college join my emo(daily affirmations)
789 notes
·
View notes
Text
I've been doing a lot of reflection as of late, especially after this past class.
This past class was about the Torah and Tanakh in general, and the way the rabbi talked about the commandments (specifically the ten commandments) has made me really reflect on how I interpret them, specifically the fifth commandment, or honoring your mother and father.
This is a commandment I have wrestled with for a long time - in fact, it brought me away from g-d at multiple times. I was severely abused when I was incredibly young by my mother, and I used to feel insulted at the implication that I were to honor her while she got to live a better life. It was hypocritical, in my eyes.
But this rabbi surmised that this particular commandment was because parenthood is an act of creation, something that is like the g-d from which we come from. My realization is this: I don't think we're necessarily meant to take even these commandments literally.
I this particular commandment is more of a call to honor creation - creation is a gift, and like any gift, many people simply will not like it and will discard it. The person who abused me created me, but she did not honor creation. She didn't honor me, but I can still honor it.
I have started to honor creation much more. I'm too young, too unstable, not mature enough to be a father (though I fantasize about it), but I create all the time. I create relationships, I create with my hands through crochet. I create memories, I create my world. And I can honor who I am and where I came from that made me who I am. I've been learning one of the mother tongues of my family (Italian, since part of my family originates there) and it was judaism that inspired me to do this.
I don't think g-d wants me to honor my abuser. I think He wants me to remember the Holy action of creation. When I am a father, that act of creation will be Holy, and indeed, I am already joyful about the thought.
I have seen many people struggle with this particular commandment, but I think this perspective helps me personally. I don't think I ever have to forgive my abusers (plural), and I don't think I am commanded to simply because they happened to be family. I am commanded to recognize the holy, to elevate the mundane. In doing so, I will remember g-d. Through creation, I honor g-d and everything he has done for us, for me, and for our collective people.
#jumblr#jew by choice#jewish conversion#personal thoughts tag#abuse tw#i am not sharing this for the sake of pity and i also ask not to be told to divulge my abuse story. that isn't relevant#i have been needing to engage with this topic for a long time though and judaism has helped me a bit in navigating healing#but i decided to share this publicly in the hopes it will help other survivors specifically of familial/parental abuse#i know how it feels (in general). it's so lonely and you can really harbor (understandable) baggage about this particular commandment#i have a meeting with My Rabbi (sponsoring rabbi) and i might bring this up. we've only spoken once face-to-face (zoom)#so that might be really Intense to bring up to him but he is very kind and i trust him (which is why he is My Rabbi)#and he has already told me that he WANTS me to wrestle with g-d and His word *with* him#again i am posting this publicly so i can document my thoughts and keep them straight but also with the hope it MIGHT help others#if it even *casually* inspires another survivor i will feel so grateful (though it is THEIR achievement and not mine to claim)#i want us to survive. i want us to eat well. i want us to smile#i will say that this must be a very sudden whiplash in tone from my last post about sex. from sex to awful horrific abuse#my stream of consciousness is just Like This though in the sense that i have very sudden realizations and tonal whiplashes#so you're just getting a very frank look into how my brain is structured and what my brain thinks are important enough to think about#if i seem much more verbose it's because i needed to write this on my laptop which makes typing and more importantly yapping even *easier*
286 notes
·
View notes
Text
*tries to organize my thoughts*
*remembers i'm not in school and therefore beholden to neither heaven nor hell nor any man's grading system*
*joyously shredding & tossing all my carefully arranged 3x5 mental notecards into the air like so much beige confetti. raising my arms in victory, cheering raucously until i accidentally inhale bits of homemade confetti*
(*coughing up itty bits of paper like a cat evicting a hairball with a firm understanding of tenants' rights*) wait wat happens next
#i marie kondoed my thoughts and *i* feel great. but now my stream-of-consciousness has escaped containment#so many innocent bystanders at stake#every time i try to organize my thoughts i run out of plastic bins and have to make a trip to the container store where i get even more dis#racted so. you can't just hand me THIS brain and NO catalogue OR library classification system#and expect me to single-handedly sort through all this nonsense? bad form but fucking form not in my job description#aNYways. formal education sure did a FUCKING NUMBER on us huh#(a number i measure not in gpa or dollars of student debt.#but in the number of therapy sessions & medical debt it will take to recover.)#seriously folks. our education systems are...innately traumatizing for a huge number of students. and we NEED to address this.#the fact that it is culturally common for adults to have anxiety nightmares about school/exams...even decades later?#that is not cute. it is Alarming.#no one--much less entire generations--should be spending their developmental years in an environment of chronic stress & pressure & strain#and yet that is the reality for millions and millions of pre-teen and teenage and young adult students#this isn't healthy and it serves and empowers NO ONE#...except of course the many exploitative educational & financial & debt-collecting institutions thriving from the current balance of power#and of course it's a nefarious and powerful way to sabotage/erase the middle class#which billionaires and the wealth-inequality creators they finance couldn't possibly have any noteworthy interest in whatsoever#it's not like there's an elite group of people with huge financial incentives to drain/steal resources from the masses...#anyways sorry for going all Conspiracy Theory on you.#obviously the billionaires who control the vast majority of our resources and news and political campaign funding#are not tied to every single itty bitty social issue and i'm a silly billy to imply it#please tell elon musk to ignore this tweet i am so subservient and acquiescent#mr musky u r so good at inheriting slavery-built mining fortunes & buying other people's companies#& building rocket ships & fancy cars that do NOT explode/catch fire & also NOT running billion dollar companies into the ground#mr musky u r so talented genius billionaire playboy with 10 kids and ex-wives who find you creepy af babe u r basically iron man
2K notes
·
View notes
Text
silverv makes for such a tragic love story im surprised it didn't blow up with the gays. like can you imagine, can you imagine coming back from the dead after 50 years to find yourself stuck in the body of somebody who is dying because of you. you're trying to help them figure out how to get rid of you before it's too late and along that path you get to know each other so intimately from sharing memories and a body. and it's not really your fault but you are an intruder here, you are a parasite actively killing them but they're nice to you and care about you anyway. and you care about them. but you know that inevitably you will either take over their body or be removed. you can't both be alive at the same time for long. can you imagine realizing that you're falling in love with them
#sorry this is stream of consciousness because the brain be rotting#i just i love them so much these poor fucking guys#cyberpunk 2077#johnny silverhand#v#silverv#cyberpunk v#v cyberpunk#cp2077#cp77#my nonsense
528 notes
·
View notes
Note
I saw in your baby death au story explanation that Harry can't sleep alone unless he has the doors open (correct me if I'm wrong). If I'm correct, does that mean Voldemort and Harry sleep in the same bed sometimes? And if not, how did Voldmort notice the specifics something like that?
Ah, good question!
He can sleep alone, but not very well (the door being open helps a bit but overall he just needs someone there with him). Even when he got his own room at the Dursley's, he had Hedwig to keep him company.
And like I said, there's no 'sleeping' together for quite a while, so how DID Voldemort notice?
The short answer:
They live in the same house (an agreement that was reached by the two of them, more for convenience sake, as they raise Thomas) so it would be odd if Voldemort hadn't noticed it eventually.
The long answer:
During the first two or three years of living under the same roof, Harry never slept anywhere besides the nursey. At first, Voldemort chalked it up as some sort of paternal instinct to protect Thomas. (most likely from Voldemort himself) However, while retiring to his own chambers in the evening, he always found it curious that Harry would leave the door slightly cracked.
'Would it not make more sense to have the door closed?,' he thought, 'The sound of it opening would surely be enough to wake him if someone were to enter the room...'
He shook his head, 'Perhaps the boy was clever enough to cast the appropriate spells to do so instead.'
He tested this theory once by walking into the room late one night and standing directly by the crib. Annoyingly, Harry never did stir from his slumber on the chaise lounge he had claimed in lieu of an actual bed. Both him and the baby remained fast asleep, completely unaware of the powerful wizard looming in the darkness so close by.
Voldemort honestly didn't know whether to be insulted (as he was clearly not viewed as a threat) or disappointed in the fact that there were, indeed, no protection or alarm spells in the room.
A problem he quickly remedied himself for the sake of the spawn's well-being, as it appears his 'Ma' would not be roused if an intruder were to somehow break past the home's already impressive wards.
And so Harry continued to sleep in the same room as his son, with the door slightly ajar, until Thomas was old enough to have his own bed.
This is when Voldemort began to notice that Harry did not take well to sleeping alone at night.
He would often find the 'boy-who-lived' looking quite dead on his feet, with heavy bags under his eyes, constantly drifting in and out of conversations.
After a good two or so weeks of this, Voldemort had finally had enough and decided to confronted him. Unsurprisingly, he was quickly brushed off, and the subject was changed almost immediately. No matter how many times he tried, he was always met with the same sort of response.
'Why do you even care?'
'Yes, I'm getting enough sleep. Stop asking, it's weird.'
'So what if I get nightmares, your probably the cause of most of them anyway!'
'I'm fine! Don't you have an animal or person or-or something to go torture other than me? Just-...just leave me alone...'
Needless to say, this was getting him no where and apart from drugging the boy with a sleeping draught every night, Voldemort was almost at his wits end.
That was unit one morning Harry came down from his room for breakfast looking fairly well-rested with a chipper-than-normal attitude.
Voldemort was puzzled.
What had changed? Did he just have one good night without anything haunting his dreams? Surely that was bound to happen at some point, but it was unlikely to be a regular occurrence.
However, weeks ticked by and Harry's eyes seemed brighter and his mood rapidly began to improve. He even started to engage in somewhat pleasant small talk when the two found themselves alone for more then five minutes at a time.
It was all very welcome and highly suspicious.
So, being the curious man that he was, Voldemort decided it was once again time to lurk about in the middle of the night for the cause of this sudden change in behavior.
And what he found, as he stood in the threshold of Harry's room, took him by surprise.
There, on the plush four poster bed coiled up next to his sleeping prophesized enemy, was Nagini.
Sensing his presence, she raised her large head to regard her master, who remained fixed in the doorway.
'Master's mate was in dire need of comfort. Nagini has decided she will be the one to provide it.'
Voldemort did not correct her, too busy trying to determine what exactly he was feeling in that moment to give her a proper response.
'...He is also very warm and a far better cuddler than master.'
That snapped him out of his thoughts long enough for him to huff out a quick, 'Don't be rude, Nagini.' To which she replied with a series of hisses that sounded suspiciously like laughter.
He sighed, and foolishly hoped she didn't notice the darkening of his cheeks.
'Very well, you may continue to provide...comfort. Thank you, my Nagini.'
She nodded once and went back to resting her head next to Harry's on his pillow.
He stayed in the doorway a while longer, observing the last two pieces of his soul huddled close to one another, before finally turning to walk silently back to his own room.
--
Nagini: you suck at cuddling and you're a terrible mate.
Voldemort:
--
Thanks for the ask, anon! ❤️
#and i apologize btw#im not a writer so i really hope this stream of unedited consciousness makes sense#baby death au#harrymort#ask
235 notes
·
View notes
Note
veryyyy desperately need to be in the clothes sharing loop with art, tashi, and patrick .... stealing art's hats right off his head, asking patrick "is that my sweatshirt ???" even though ik damn well he looks better in it :/, accidentally slipping on tashi's shoes instead of mine when i overslept in her dorm n im late to class ... sigh ,,,,
GODDDD cutesy stanford era polycule <333 The four of you sharing shirts/jackets/hoodies. You and Tashi swap shoes and dresses and pants. Borrowing Art or Patrick's boxers to sleep in when it's hot. You and Tashi sharing lipgloss and borrowing makeup/jewelry. Patrick borrowing one of you or Tashi's stud/hoop earrings for his piercing. Sharing shampoos/colognes/perfumes. borrowing Patrick's nice, fancy button down shirts because the fabric is expensive and sooo nice.
At a certain point when you go out shopping you start shopping for everyone instead of just buying something you want. Like you hold up a t-shirt and you're like hmmm i like this and tashi would definitely steal it <3 or grabbing a hoodie with your fav basketball team like "ugh this looks good but art hates this team".
154 notes
·
View notes
Text
buffy and drusilla are broken mirror reflections of each other and buffy hates that bc drusilla is the physical representation of angels violent past that they can no longer try to ignore and also both girls that angel targeted and seduced bc they were young, pure (virginal), and special (buffy chosen as a slayer and dru with her psychic sight) and while buffy is used as an ideal that angel can redeem himself drusilla is used as the ideal of the depths of his cruelty and buffy hates being reminded of how similar they are bc it blurs the line whether angel is that dissimilar to angelus. also buffy and drusilla have the same birthday. and they should kiss
#anyways stream of consciousness idk how eloquent this is#but mirrors as a motif with buffy and dru are interesting to me#buffy and dru! wish so bad they interacted more and we got more thoughts from each other abt the other#btvs
606 notes
·
View notes
Text
Virginia Woolf, A Writer’s Diary
#she’s so real for this#we went from August 1 to August 17 in just 3 minutes#we’re halfway through and I feel like it’s already over#she’s so relatable#virginia woolf#writing#words#august#august 18#a writers diary#stream of consciousness
193 notes
·
View notes
Text
Isaac speaking like three words at a time and just in a book 90% of the time, but then in Paris it pans over to him paired with Harry and he’s just going off on him is SO funny. Get his ass lmao
#heartstopper#heartstopper spoilers#heartstopper season 2#again I apologize to anyone following me who don't care about Heartstopper lol#I'm tagged all the posts as such so if you block the tag it'll save you from my current stream of consciousness#lee speaks
880 notes
·
View notes
Text
Eddie Munson's Guide for How to Adopt a Jock in Four Easy Steps (1/5)
Part Two
Eddie Munson is many things, but he is not the kind of guy who will kick someone while they’re down.
Call it a hero complex, call it too many hours spent licking his wounds after particularly harsh words from a bully- whatever name you give it, Eddie is vehemently against hurting someone who's clearly already hurting, no matter how much he may hate that individual.
Which is why, in early November of ‘84, Eddie hatches a plan.
It starts in the library, as most of his brilliant ideas do. He’s spending his lunch hour pouring over a borrowed fantasy novel to try and get ideas for NPC’s for his latest campaign with Hellfire, but he gets distracted by a loud thump and a whispered ‘shit’, followed by a sniff. Eddie turns, book still in hand, and proceeds to drop the book onto the carpeted floor of the library in shock.
Because there is Steve Harrington- face beat to hell, hands shakily holding on to a lunch tray, and a salad spewed in all directions at his feet. The librarian- Ms. Boliene (a bitch to everyone other than her outcasts)- began cussing Steve out, demanding he pick up the salad, and Steve got a glossy look in his eye that told Eddie that he was about two seconds from breaking down in tears.
Which- honestly, that was probably the strangest part of this whole ordeal. Steve was King of Hawkins High (and maybe, Eddie theorized, was was the operative word there). Steve had been on a downward slope of popularity since last year when he and Tommy had their falling out. Billy Hargrove (barf) had been getting more and more popular, and, after last weekend, there was a rumor going around that Steve’s girlfriend, Nancy, broke up with him then immediately hooked up with Jonathan Byers.
(Hey, Eddie’s always one to root for the outcasts, he is one, after all- but kinda a dick move, Wheeler. Also, not great of Byers to agree to something like that, especially if he knew about the situation.)
Eddie focused his attention back on the scene in front of him- Steve was now crouching down to pile the wasted salad onto his lunch tray and was blinking rapidly, trying to stave off tears. His head was also doing this thing where it was dipping forward than instantly picking up, like he was trying to even stay awake. Which… huh.
Eddie was sure at this point- this was the lowest he’d ever seen someone get. Even his dad after his mom passed wasn’t like this- at least that bastard could still go out and break shit and get arrested. Steve looked like the only thing he wanted to do at this point was fall apart. Why was he even at school?
Eddie sighed and stood, crossing the room to where Steve was crouching. He gently batted Steve’s hands away and finished cleaning up his lunch, tossing it (and the plastic tray- because fuck this school, honestly) into the large garbage can sitting by the front door of the library. When he turned around Steve was standing, looking a bit shell-shocked. “I… that was my lunch.”
“The floor salad was your lunch? I could believe that before you dropped it, but after? Dude, that’s a low that you cannot reach. I have an extra sandwich in my bag, c’mon.”
Eddie grabbed Steve’s arm, letting go immediately when he felt the whole-body flinch that Harrington gave. Eddie held his hands up, backing up towards the table where he was sitting previously. “I won’t touch you, but you should probably eat, Harrington. I’m extending the metaphorical olive branch in the form of food, I promise that I’m not gonna bite your head off.”
Steve assessed the situation, eyes darting around the library, before he finally nodded and joined Eddie at his table, sitting across from the spot where all of his materials were strewn about. Eddie grabbed his book from the floor and ripped into his backpack, pulling his lunch out and passing it to Steve. (It wasn’t really an extra sandwich, it was his lunch, but it was fine. Jeff always brought snacks to Hellfire and Eddie wasn’t even that hungry today).
Steve stared at the cling-wrapped sandwich in shock, then carefully set to unwrapping it. Eddie noticed a slight tremor in his hands, but decided against commenting on it. “So, uh… what happened?” Fuck, Eddie, abort, abort, that was literally the last goddamn thing you were supposed to ask.
“Um…” Steve finished unwrapping the sandwich, pulling the bread slices apart. “Bologna?”
“Hey, don’t knock it ‘til you try it. I know it probably goes against your rich folk sensibilities, but I promise it’s worth a try.”
“Yeah.” Steve took a bite of the sandwich, then washed it down with the bottle of water Eddie slid his way. “S’not my first time having bologna and it won’t be my last. Not bad, though.” Steve set the sandwich down, licking his lips. “Thank you, by the way. Eddie, right? You played at battle of the bands last year?”
Eddie blinked in surprise. The change in conversation topic made him totally forget his previous question. “Um- yeah, that was me. Me and the boys- Corroded Coffin. Not your thing?”
“No! I liked it, actually. Very ‘stick it to the man’. I can get behind that.”
Eddie raised an eyebrow at Steve, to which he received a responding chuckle. “My dad- he’s an asshole.” oh shit, did Steve’s dad do this?
Eddie’s expression must have shifted, because Steve immediately started rambling. “Shit- no, fuck, I know what you’re thinking, he didn’t do this, my parents have been out of town for like, three months. This was Billy- but it’s fine, really! Like, I can see, and I’m not super dizzy, I’m just a little lacking in coordination which- yeah, the lunch tray. You know what? I’m gonna shut up now.” Steve took another bite of the sandwich and another swig of water, and Eddie noted that Steve’s knee began to bounce up and down.
Eddie decided to push everything aside and deal with it later. Apparently this wound was still fresh (both emotionally and physically), and while Eddie could get into a number of things that Steve just spewed out (his parents have been gone for three months? Billy did this? Steve is halfway to falling over but he’s still at school?!) Eddie elected to change the subject.
“So, Steve, do you know anything about D&D?” Steve’s eyes lit up and he launched into a rant about a couple of kids that he hung around. Eddie listened with a small smirk on his face, eyebrow raised.
Steve was… different than expected. Kind, a little awkward, anxious. There’s only one reason that a jock like him has lunch in the library, and it’s because he didn’t have anyone left to sit with in the Cafeteria. He reminded Eddie of an abandoned dog… specifically a golden retriever with Steve’s eyes and his floppy hair.
Curse Eddie’s big heart and savior complex, but he knew what he had to do. Steve was about to become the newest member of Eddie’s little herd of lost sheep, whether he liked it or not.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I haven’t decided if I’m going to write a part 2- let me know if you’d be interested in one! I’m so glad to be back to writing after a very long semester of school. I should be writing a lot this summer, so drop some prompts in my ask if you want to see something specific!
#steddie#stranger things#Steve Harrington#Eddie munson#pre s4 meeting#<- top 5 favorite steddie tropes#my writing#once again my writing style fluctuates but this is my stream of consciousness so you just have to deal with it#stranger things fic#stranger things ticket#st fic#st ficlet
2K notes
·
View notes
Text
There’s no harm in wanting something beautiful.
#Metaphorically I'm posting this while staring at bioware and without breaking eye contact#It's fun that this looks like a semi formal painting? Especially the pose - it's totally something to hang in the dining room#Anyway#Anders 🫱having a thing for brunettes🫲Justice#(Just looking for a quote made me so nostalgic about Awakening)#End of the stream of consciousness#clip studio paint#mixed media#dragon age#dragon age fanart#da fanart#Handers#Justhanders#dragon age hawke#dragon age anders#da2#Idk what the proper tag are#justice dragon age
162 notes
·
View notes
Text
“Can I come over tomorrow?”
Nico’s hands still on the stubborn pillowcase. “To…my cabin?”
“Yes.”
“Um.” He resumes, sliding slowly away from Will’s wide round eyes, stuffing the puffy square of feathers into its fabric prison. The ghost of geese past are not happy with him. He is their prince. They will submit. “Yeah? You could all those other times, too.”
“Yeah, but I want to come over.”
“Yes,” Nico agrees, wondering if this is perhaps one of those moments Kayla warned him about. Has it reached day five of Will not sleeping? He doesn’t think so. He was napping when Nico came into the infirmary this morning to help with the tidying he promised to do. At least he was drooling enough that Nico hopes he was sleeping. “You mentioned.”
“So I can?”
“Yes, Will.”
Maybe it’s just an American thing. Nico has been noticing some Moments lately. He’s not sure if all teenagers have unanimously decided on some code they’d like to speak in during the few months he was busy defeating his great grandmother, or if maybe he’s finally stuck around long enough to notice, but nobody says what they mean, nowadays.
(He has gathered, thus far, that ‘on fleek’ is a synonym for ‘aflame’, although ‘yeet’ continues to evade him. Perhaps because Cecil and Lou appear to have indulged in the sick delight of replacing their every word with the term with the sole purpose to Confuse. Or perhaps, as Will has so indicated, they have each endured one concussion to many and are beyond any hope.)
“Sick!” That one Nico knows, at least. “I’ll come by after my morning shift? Connor got cursed by the Hypnos, Hecate, and Aphrodite cabins this morning so I have to do brain surgery before he forgets how to feel genuine human connection again, but I’ll be done by noon. Probably. I mean, Connor has a thick skull, genuinely I mean, which is why his lobotomy has been delayed so many times, but so long as I —”
It has been under Nico’s notice lately that Will eyes, genuinely, sparkle. He has read the cliche time and time again and rolled his eyes almost every time: diamonds sparkle. Water sparkles. Snow sparkles. Eyes reflect, and sometimes glow with reflection. They do not sparkle. To claim a set of eyes are sparkling is to profess to the world and all capable of registering your words that you are a brainless idiot who cannot dredge up from the depths of your mind, the most barren and bereft back corners, a single unique or clever comparison; a minutely original way to describe excitement or animation.
And yet.
Will is indeed very animated, and very excited about very many things, and it shows on his face; in the wideness of his grins, the springing mass of his curls, the stilted and flailing gilt of his languid limbs. It also shows, perhaps most obviously, in his genuinely magnificent eyes — Nico has seen the Logan Sapphire. He has touched the precious thing with reverent hands, stared in awe as it thrust out the light shine upon it like the golden ichor of Ouranous swirling with the sweet saltwater to birth Love Incarnate. He knows glittering, he knows gleaming, shimmering and shining and twinkling.
Will’s eyes sparkle, like the very tip of a mountaintop, like the crackling ends of a flame, like dewdrops on spider silk. It is transfixing. It is alluring.
“—ico. Nico! Hello-o?”
It is also a trap.
“Sounds great,” Nico says loudly, voice like cold soda over vanilla ice cream. He clears his throat, twice, to no avail. His vision begins to blur as the heat pouring off of his face warps the air. “Um. See you then?”
Will nods, or at least Nico hopes he does. His curls bounce, anyway. They are hard to miss. They remind Nico tangentially of how laughter sounds, unimpeded by shame; how the shimmering satin of a ribbon would curl and bend under the smooth slide of the scissor’s blade.
(His father’s circuit of jesters often included poets playwrights. They also doubled as Nico’s babysitters. Surely no lasting consequences, that.)
“Yes!” He flashes a smile, then, and it becomes imperative to note that his eyes squint at the force of it, and his slightly-too-big teeth brush his bottom lip, and he has, in fact, on each cheek, a dimple.
Now, Will is often and even frequently called Apollo Junior by just about every living soul in camp, up to and including Immortal Camp Director And Horse, Chiron; and uproariously once even Mr D, God of Wine. Allegedly, as taunted by Kayla, even by Will’s own mother. The golden hair and unfortunate habit of winking and legs for days do most definitely create an image.
Nico, however, contrarian he be, must deny: he has seen Apollo. Apollo is beautiful and golden and charming, but Will is not quite his spitting image. Will, more aptly, is the son of the Sun. He glows; the glare of his smile leaves impressions behind in the cells one’s eyes, the glide of his limbs is almost dragging, languid. To look at him is to commit yourself to blinding. To seek so desperately the solace of the light as to ignore the unsettling sting of the burn.
“I can’t wait!”
As a blissful cloud moving in front of the solar system’s brightest star saves your eyes the eternal fate of darkness, Will’s duty so saves Nico from an eternity of shadow. He returns, humming softly and horribly, to his work, sifting through folders and updating patient files, and Nico exhales the breath setting foundations in his lungs, slumping forward in fervent relief. A melancholic reprieve from the summer rays, if only for a moment.
He waves goodbye, or at least he hopes that he does, rushing out the infirmary doors and tripping down the rickety porch steps.
“Hurrying somewhere, Nicholas Claus?” drawls Mr. D, throwing darts a perilously balanced apple atop the horns of a satyr bleating in morse code.
“That was not even an attempt,” responds Nico, and hurries away before he can be dolphinized. Dolphinified? Made into a bottle-nosed beast. (Why bottle? Of all comparisons to make, who decided bottles were the utmost separate object to which the snout of the slippery beasts should be named? Oh, wait, drunk people. Bottles. Okay. Mystery solved.)
He manages, in his heroic retreat across the common, not to destroy entire swathes of grass and plants, a feat for which the Muses could perhaps write epics about. Truly he is capable of the utmost restraint and self-control. He does raise several full sized wolf skeletons, but they seem primarily preoccupied with hunting down the the Stolls, so a win-win as far as Nico is concerned. Probably not for Connor, who is apparently cursed or concussed, he doesn’t remember exactly, but he has managed thus far with his startling amount of daily braincell loss so by statistic and happenstance he is bound to survive another incident.
“There has to be away to shut myself off,” Nico says, out loud to himself, proceeding the slam of his cabin door and the heavy breathing upon it. He turns to his altar. “You mentioned an off button, Father. I don’t suppose it has been successfully implemented.”
No answer comes forth. He indulges in a brief moment of self pity, wherein the Nico who lives in his brain clears his throat, digs around the messy confines of his mind to find an imaginary black hoodie, slips it on, digs around again for a dagger, and stabs himself, choking and twitching pitifully. Real Nico then walks with great purpose to the exact geological centre of the stone cabin.
“Okay,” he says again. He nods, once, narrowing his eyes in determination. The Nico in his brain opens one curious eyelid. (Does Will do psychiatric assessments?) “Okay, this is. Hm.”
It is not the first time they have been alone together, after all.
In the weeks following Gaea’s defeat and Will Solace’s nonstop, irritating persistence, Nico has been thrust in his proximity an incredible number of times. From his three day stay, during which he was simply so unconscious for so long his father was concerned enough to manifest onto the mortal plane and poke at his soul until he responded, to his unofficial indoctrination (ha) as a nurse, to camp clean-up efforts, to cabin renovation, to general life — they have become friends. Coworkers, at least. Together they make the camp a little more bearable for everyone in it, including Nico. It is rewarding work. It is illuminating work; Will is a good teacher, and he is funny, and he is good company (and he happens to have very long legs that he does not bother to cover up very often and Nico has eyes that do what they please). They have been in Nico’s cabin together several times over the last few weeks.
Never before has Will come over without some kind of stated purpose.
At least, not and absence he has made so obvious. True, the renovations took longer than expected, and the paint on the east wall is smudged from where Nico shoved Will, shrieking, off the stepstool, and they have perhaps, on occasion, used Nico’s illegal Wii when they were meant to be helping Annabeth make plans for Capture the Flag, but —
But.
Intent.
Is important.
It has been made abundantly clear to Nico over the summer that he has friends upon which he can rely. Reyna has made a point to Iris Message him at whatever Roman tryhard time she believes he should be awake, prompting an attempted murderous shadow travel that left him unconcious in Missouri and at the unfortunate end of many people’s shouting. And Will’s friends, who can perhaps at this point be called his friends also, have created a game entitled “How Many Grapes Can We Flick At Nico During Lunch Before He Goes Ballistic And Sends Us To Purgatory For A Little While” (four), which they are inclined and inspired to play every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday. Piper enjoys dragging him around to do Things. Jason is just around constantly. (Does he sleep? Nico should check on that properly.)
He had a point, somewhere. He’s sure he did.
It was maybe the impending anxiety attack, helpfully informs Brain Nico.
“Ah,” regular Nico replies, then grapples around for his least favourite pillow, slams it into his face, and screams at the top of his lungs for several minutes.
Brain Nico decides once again that commentary is the way.
I think we are an all powerful demigod of something, he muses. Dirt, maybe? Bad vibes? I can’t quite remember.
“The dead?” inquires regular Nico.
Do you think those years isolated in the Labyrinth perhaps situated us firmly on the shores of mentally unwell? responds he, blissfully unhelpful.
“I think that was Tartarus, actually,” says regular Nico, and promptly banishes his brain self to the deepest recesses of his mind, among memories of the taste of liquid fire and Calculus.
With the remaining, functioning (well.) part of his brain, he places both palms on the cool floor and attempts to focus.
Juicy Fruit It gets right to ya Juicy salt Hmmm Juicy Fruit, The taste the taste that’s —
For the love of all holy things, Nico begs his brain. It doesn’t work, but what ever really goes right in his life, so he pushes past the increasingly louder replays of eighties commercial jingles and maps out the ground below the cabin floor, pushes through the layers of underground.
Ah. Perfect.
He pulls up the very aptly placed skeleton of a cat, letting it scratch and sniff about his cabin before cautiously approaching him.
“You will be sure to tell it to me straight,” Nico says solemnly, holding out his hand. The cat bobs its nasal cavities in and out of Nico’s fingers and, apparently deciding him to be worthy of its attention, rams its skull against his knuckles. Nico snorts, running a fingernail along its cranial sutures and grinning as its purring echoes in his mind. “You seem very wise.”
The cat’s caudal vertebrae rattle in indignation, miffed at the mere idea that it could be anything other than wise. Nico is honestly quite impressed by its ability to glare without actual eyeballs, eyelids, or thought power.
“I am going to name you after my sister and pray that’s not weird,” Nico says. “I mean, I don’t think she would mind. You’re pretty cool, actually, and Hazel’s cool, kind of, so. Win win.”
Hazel the Cat seems unbothered by her christening, curling up in Nico’s lap. He runs his hand from cranial base to coccyx, finger dipping and bumping along the ridges of her spines, and settles against the cool floor, attempting to breathe evenly.
“It’s just.” He swallows. It takes a try or two, to work around the massive stone borrowed in his throat, and Hazel the Cat nips playfully at his fingers until his lungs settle again. “Before we had something to do, you know? We’d be cutting bandages, and he’d be all, hey, did you know bandages are mentioned in one of the first ever medical manuscripts and definitely predate it by many hundreds of years, and I would say I did, actually, I talked to the guy who made that clay tablet, and his eyes would get all wide and he’d be like no way, tell me everything, and then I would just talk forever.” Nico huffs. “We had something to talk about, you understand. Something to do.”
Nico tries to imagine what Hazel his Sister would say. Probably something along the lines of you are an impossible person, which is code for I have about as much luck as you do in this century, pal, the best I’ve got is hope for the best and remember adults no longer smack you for standing wrong. Which. Fair.
Hazel the Cat just purrs in his head again. It’s as encouraging as anything, he supposes.
“Am I supposed to have…conversation starters? He likes twizzlers and intentionally bad poetry. Maybe I could do something with that?”
Hazel the Cat shrugs at him.
“It’s not even — okay, it’s not just that, though. What is — how close is close enough in a casual setting? Or too close? How am I meant to greet him? Am I supposed to offer something? Make something? What do I do if there’s a lull in conversation? Or if it’s all lulls? Oh, gods, how much silence is socially appropriate —”
Hazel the Cat twists in his hold, meeting his eyes as if to say well I don’t think you’ll be struggling with that last one.
“Shush,” he tells her, but his mouth is twitching. “I’m just — I don’t want him to finally realize I’m weird. Or boring, gods. He’s such a hyper person, you know? He never stops. And I am supposed to entertain him! I think!”
This time he can actually hear his sister’s voice, in the back of his mind — you’re such a dummy. Ringed with fondness from the many times she’s said it to him, shoulders nudged carefully together, head knocked gently against his. You are weird and boring. Most people are.
“Ugh,” he sighs, tipping his head back until it rests against the mattress. “Friendship is hard work.”
Hazel the Cat swishes her tail, rattling the discs of bone like a rattlesnake. It’s a surprisingly soothing sound, like rain pinging softly against his window, or the flutter of the poplar trees outside of his father’s palace. Unconsciously he matches his breathing to it, slowing until it’s even, gentle, deep. His eyes, without any direction from his brain, drift until they blanket his hazy eyes, heavy as stone..
“S’not that serious,” he murmurs to himself, soothed under the weight of his feline friend. “S’just Will, I guess.” A beat. He smiles, slightly, a small, curling thing, mimicking the coiled heat in his belly. “It’s just Will.”
———
part two
#i had so much fun writint adhd stream of consciousness lol#poured all of my neuroses in this one yep#pjo#percy jackson and the olympians#hoo#heroes of olympus#pjo hoo toa#nico di angelo#will solace#nico di angelo/will solace#nico/will#will/nico#solangelo#pining nico di angelo#autistic nico di angelo#adhd nico di angelo#fluff#getting together#my writing#fic#longpost
371 notes
·
View notes