#kayla | study.

[lurkingteapot]

Every now and then I think about how subtitles (or dubs), and thus translation choices, shape our perception of the media we consume. It's so interesting. I'd wager anyone who speaks two (or more) languages knows the feeling of "yeah, that's what it literally translates to, but that's not what it means" or has answered a question like "how do you say _____ in (language)?" with "you don't, it's just … not a thing, we don't say that."

I've had my fair share of "[SHIP] are [married/soulmates/fated/FANCY TERM], it's text!" "[CHARACTER A] calls [CHARACTER B] [ENDEARMENT/NICKNAME], it's text!" and every time. Every time I'm just like. Do they though. Is it though. And a lot of the time, this means seeking out alternative translations, or translation meta from fluent or native speakers, or sometimes from language learners of the language the piece of media is originally in.

Why does it matter? Maybe it doesn't. To lots of people, it doesn't. People have different interests and priorities in fiction and the way they interact with it. It's great. It matters to me because back in the early 2000s, I had dial-up internet. Video or audio media that wasn't available through my local library very much wasn't available, but fanfiction was. So I started to read English language Gundam Wing fanfic before I ever had a chance to watch the show. When I did get around to watching Gundam Wing, it was the original Japanese dub. Some of the characters were almost unrecognisable to me, and first I doubted my Japanese language ability, then, after checking some bits with friends, I wondered why even my favourite writers, writers I knew to be consistent in other things, had made these characters seem so different … until I had the chance to watch the US-English dub a few years later. Going by that adaptation, the characterisation from all those stories suddenly made a lot more sense. And the thing is, that interpretation is also valid! They just took it a direction that was a larger leap for me to make.

Loose adaptations and very free translations have become less frequent since, or maybe my taste just hasn't led me their way, but the issue at the core is still a thing: Supernatural fandom got different nuances of endings for their show depending on the language they watched it in. CQL and MDZS fandom and the never-ending discussions about 知己 vs soulmate vs Other Options. A subset of VLD fans looking at a specific clip in all the different languages to see what was being said/implied in which dub, and how different translators interpreted the same English original line. The list is pretty much endless.

And that's … idk if it's fine, but it's what happens! A lot of the time, concepts -- expressed in language -- don't translate 1:1. The larger the cultural gap, the larger the gaps between the way concepts are expressed or understood also tend to be. Other times, there is a literal translation that works but isn't very idiomatic because there's a register mismatch or worse. And that's even before cultural assumptions come in. It's normal to have those. It's also important to remember that things like "thanks I hate it" as a sentiment of praise/affection, while the words translate literally quite easily, emphatically isn't easy to translate in the sense anglophone internet users the phrase.

Every translation is, at some level, a transformative work. Sometimes expressions or concepts or even single words simply don't have an exact equivalent in the target language and need to be interpreted at the translator's discretion, especially when going from a high-context/listener-responsible source language to a low-context/speaker-responsible target language (where high-context/listener responsible roughly means a large amount of contextual information can be omitted by the speaker because it's the listener's responsibility to infer it and ask for clarification if needed, and low-context/speaker-responsible roughly means a lot of information needs to be codified in speech, i.e. the speaker is responsible for providing sufficiently explicit context and will be blamed if it's lacking).

Is this a mouse or a rat? Guess based on context clues! High-context languages can and frequently do omit entire parts of speech that lower-context/speaker-responsible languages like English regard as essential, such as the grammatical subject of a sentence: the equivalent of "Go?" - "Go." does largely the same amount of heavy lifting as "is he/she/it/are you/they/we going?" - "yes, I am/he/she/it is/we/you/they are" in several listener-responsible languages, but tends to seem clumsy or incomplete in more speaker-responsible ones. This does NOT mean the listener-responsible language is clumsy. It's arguably more efficient! And reversely, saying "Are you going?" - "I am (going)" might seem unnecessarily convoluted and clumsy in a listener-responsible language. All depending on context.

This gets tricky both when the ambiguity of the missing subject of the sentence is clearly important (is speaker A asking "are you going" or "is she going"? wait until next chapter and find out!) AND when it's important that the translator assign an explicit subject in order for the sentence to make sense in the target language. For our example, depending on context, something like "are we all going?" - "yes" or "they going, too?" might work. Context!

As a consequence of this, sometimes, translation adds things – we gain things in translation, so to speak. Sometimes, it's because the target language needs the extra information (like the subject in the examples above), sometimes it's because the target language actually differentiates between mouse and rat even though the source language doesn't. However, because in most cases translators don't have access to the original authors, or even the original authors' agencies to ask for clarification (and in most cases wouldn't get paid for the time to put in this extra work even if they did), this kind of addition is almost always an interpretation. Sometimes made with a lot of certainty, sometimes it's more of a "fuck it, I've got to put something and hope it doesn't get proven wrong next episode/chapter/ten seasons down" (especially fun when you're working on a series that's in progress).

For the vast majority of cases, several translations are valid. Some may be more far-fetched than others, and there'll always be subjectivity to whether something was translated effectively, what "effectively" even means …

ANYWAY. I think my point is … how interesting, how cool is it that engaging with media in multiple languages will always yield multiple, often equally valid but just sliiiiightly different versions of that piece of media? And that I'd love more conversations about how, the second we (as folks who don't speak the material's original language) start picking the subtitle or dub wording apart for meta, we're basically working from a secondary source, and if we're doing due diligence, to which extent do we need to check there's nothing substantial being (literally) lost -- or added! -- in translation?

[coffeebanana]

i live so well-protected in my little tumblr and discord fandom bubble that it's so wild when i wander outside. like. y'all people live this way? y'all believe these things? for REALZ?!

[cybervigilante]

this was so hot, actually

[loveenddeepspace]

Okay so the Android AU is definitely happening. I only had a small amount of time to write some stuff today because I had class, but tomorrow after D&D with my friends I will try and share some of the base information I have for the AU and a bit of background for each of the boys.

[emmaweaving]

For Further Study - Kayla Power

Made of Light, Made of Light Exhibition, Cotton and natural dye materials 2023

On Water, cotton and natural dye materials, 2023

Links to more resources:

An in-depth interview into her aspirations and processes as a fiber artist. This interview talks a lot about her dying processes and how she begins her new pieces.

This is an article on her dying processes from Little India. This goes in-depth about the steps she take sin order to create this vibrant color palette--also featuring her dress that she made with a similar process.

This is a link to Kayla's official website which displays her most recent works, upcoming works, and a biography.

[window-view-orion]

(Correction post)

From the Kayla X “Legendary Spirits” blind box figure collection:

Her name is Mirage.

My first thought when I saw her was of Princess Tamatori, or Tamatori-hime, who stole a pearl from the sea god and escaped him and his minions by cutting open her chest and hiding the pearl inside, which ultimately lead to her death.

However after having the figure in hand and noticing her tear, and doing a bit of searching, I believe she's actually a depiction of the myth of mermaid's tears. I couldn't find any reputable sources for the myth, beyond jewelry websites. The best source I found was this, from the description of artist's Sasha Katz's work based on the tale, (the image wouldn't load for me, so I can't comment on the art itself) from superrare.com

If you just google mermaid's tears, you'll find more places describing sea glass as the tears. Again, it's mainly jewelry websites trying to sell you pearls that reference this supposed myth. Presumably Roman in origin, given the appearance of Neptune. There's this slightly more detailed summary from capecodchokers.com

Here's the myth delivered with more purple, but this time with sea glass as the eponymous tears, from bohosilver.co.uk

I could go on, but I think I've pretty much hit the bottom of the well for sources on this supposed myth. In my opinion it's far more likely a modern creation for the purpose of selling pearls, or sea glass. There's a book from 2009 titled "Tears of Mermaids: The Secret Story of Pearls" by Stephen G. Bloom about the economic, political, and cultural history of the global pearl trade, which notably uses the myth as a title, but as far as I could tell from searches on Google Books, does not actually reference the myth anywhere in the text. It does look interesting though.

So that's the origin of Mirage, as far as I can tell. Her pearl in the right hand and tear from her right eye tell the story of how she fell in love with a sailor, and was banished to the bottom of the sea by Neptune to weep pearls for the rest of eternity. And she doesn't look too pleased about it!

Sources:

[hellokittykookies]

Tasty - J.JK - Mini (M) —

Pairings : idol! Jk x nepo baby! Reader

Genre : smut, idolverse

Contents/warnings : making out, unprotected sex(yk what to do), nepo baby! Reader, idol! Jk, tasty in busan reference, model! Reader, missionary, fingering if u squint?, oral(fem recieving), pwp

Note : this was kinda rushed. Please don’t expect too much from this. It’s 1:12 am rn huhu i should sleep i have exams💔💔also ive been watching gossip girls all over again. If you find my new characters in my new fics similar to the characters in gg then i probably got inspired. Hdidhudgs i need to sleeppp. scratch that, study actually. Goodluck to me tomorrow, or later…? I’ll be waking up at 4 anyway

Wc : 2k?

As someone new to the modelling industry, I’ll admit, I don’t know much about it. Except for the fact that my mom and dad are both in it, and yeah, maybe their names help. Okay, definitely their names help. They’ve gotten me the brands, the deals, the connections I need. But their advice? Practically useless. I get called ‘nepo baby’ often like it’s some big insult, but honestly? I don’t care.

If I was them, I’d wanna be me too.

this time, I want real advice. Not from my parents, or the people who are just dying to kiss up to me, but from people who actually know what they’re talking about. The real seniors.

The problem?

They’re not exactly the kind of people you can just text for advice. Or… are they?

I’m sitting in the director’s chair during one of my “breaks” (which are so not long enough), watching as he barks orders at the photographers and crew. My phone’s in my hand, and I’m scrolling aimlessly until something catches my eye. It’s a video. An old one. And not just anyone’s video. the exact senior I’ve been thinking about.

Hey, maybe advice isn’t the only thing i’d ask for.

I click on it, my lips curling into a smirk.

“What’s tasty in Busan?” someone asks. I think it’s hoseok? one of the guys in their group. He’s holding a microphone, and Jungkook leans over to whisper something in his ear. Hoseok immediately pulls back, laughing like he’s grossed out. “Jungkookie is weird!” he says dramatically.

Then Jimin jumps in, curious. “What did he say? Tell me too!” He laughs, shaking his head, before leaning into the microphone with this smug little grin. “Everyone… Jungkookie has turned into an adult.”

The camera pans to Jungkook, who’s at his desk, grinning that ridiculous bunny smile of his, looking both shy and pleased with himself.

I can’t help but laugh under my breath. What did he even say? It’s like some inside joke in their fanbase, and honestly, some of the comments on the video are gold. Others?…. Nevermind.

“Okay, Y/N! I think I’ve given you enough of a break,” the director calls out, clapping his hands. “Back to your position, please!”

I roll my eyes, shoving my phone back into my bag as I get up. My four inch heels click sharply against the floor as I walk to the set. It’s exhausting, sure, but if the pictures turn out hot? Worth it.

Still, even after the shoot, that video sticks in my mind.

——

You and your friends, Kayla and Zia, sit at the table, laughing and drinking like it’s the only thing you know how to do. A few hours pass, and predictably, the two of them are completely wasted, while you’re still sitting pretty, your alcohol tolerance saving the night.

“Hey, Y/N and Kay?” Zia slurs out, leaning in way too close and grabbing both your faces in her hands. “Don’t tell Zia I told you guys…” she giggles, already spilling the tea, “but we slept with each other.”

“What??” Kayla suddenly sobers up from the sheer shock, her eyes wide as saucers.

You’re just staring at both of them, blinking in disbelief. “I need more drinks. I don’t have enough brain cells left to process this,” you mutter, grabbing your purse and standing up to head to the bar.

You wobble slightly on your heels? terrible decision for a night like this, but you make it to the counter and sit down on one of the stools, finally giving yourself a moment to breathe.

“Hey, Kook. Truth or dare?” Jimin slurs, clearly a few drinks ahead of Jungkook, who sits there calmly sipping his beer.

“Truth,” Jungkook answers flatly, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Ugh, no fun, man.” Jimin groans dramatically, leaning forward.

“Fine. Dare,” Jungkook sighs, tilting his head in annoyance but accepting the challenge anyway.

Jimin smirks, his eyes darting across the bar. Then he spots you, sitting on the stool, ordering drinks, completely unbothered. “I dare you to go up to that girl and buy her a drink.”

Jungkook scoffs, raising an eyebrow. He glances at the table, half the members are already passed out drunk, while Jimin, Taehyung, and Yoongi look on. With a little smirk, Jungkook sets his drink down and gets up, the air of a challenge written all over him.

“Hey,” a deep voice greets you from beside the bar, nearly making you jump.

You glance up, surprised, and then let your lips curl into a small, amused smirk. “Didn’t think I’d find you here.”

Jungkook stares at you, confused. “I’m sorry?” he asks, tilting his head.

“Where’s your cool guy act now?” you tease, your voice dripping with playful mockery.

Jungkook bites his lip, staring at you for a second before shaking his head with a low laugh. “Let me buy you a drink,” he offers, signaling to the bartender.

“No need,” you say smoothly, already taking the drink you’d just ordered. You lift it slightly to emphasize your point.

“Well then… your number?” he tries again, his smile soft and genuine…. or at least i hope it’s genuine.

You raise an eyebrow, leaning in just enough to keep the game going. “I’m sure we’ll be in touch soon.” you say with a wink before turning on your heel and heading back to your table, leaving him behind.

For the next three weeks, Jungkook came to the same bar, at least twice a week, hoping to bump into you again. He played it cool, but let’s be real, it was obvious.… well this day must be his lucky day then.

A week ago

“Calvin Klein, you say?” you hum, admiring yourself in the mirror as you try on the lingerie you’d just picked up. The fit? Perfect. You smirk at your reflection, loving the way it hugs your curves.

“Yes, ma’am,” the stylist calls from outside the fitting room.

“I’m in,” you say with a final glance at yourself, satisfied.

Back to the present.

You sit in the chair on set, scrolling aimlessly on your phone when one of the stylists walks up to you. “Are you aware you’re shooting with a partner today?” she asks casually.

“Uh… no?” You raise an eyebrow, confused.

“Jeon Jungkook, Ms. He’s your partner for this shoot. Did your agent not tell you?”

You blink. “I think…?” You give her a weak smile, but she just rolls her eyes and mutters under her breath as she walks away, loud enough for you to catch.

“Doesn’t even have to try to get the brands, and she doesn’t even know who she’s working with,” the stylist grumbles.

You roll your eyes.

Irrelevant words from an irrelevant person.

Satisfied, you adjust your posture as someone calls you to get into position.

“Well, looks like it’s your lucky day, Jeon,” you whisper into Jungkook’s ear as the two of you move into position for the first shot.

———

“Think you wanna tell me the answer to the ‘what’s tasty in Busan’ question?” I teased, cocking an eyebrow at Jungkook as he kept kissing along my neck, his lips warm and soft but slightly distracted.

He froze for a moment, then leaned back just enough to look at me with a crooked grin. “Omygod, you saw that?” he asked, his voice dripping with amusement.

I shrugged, biting my lip to hide my smirk. “You said it so confidently in that video, like you had it all figured out. So? What’s tasty in there, Jeon Jungkook?”

He burst out laughing, his head falling into the crook of my neck as his shoulders shook. “Oh my god, did you actually see that? That was so embarrassing,” he mumbled between his laughs, his ears turning red as he tried to compose himself.

I grinned wider, running my fingers through his dark hair. “Of course, I saw it. It’s the joke of your fans. So wanna tell me?, or better…. Show me?”

Jungkook raised his head, his laughter fading into a playful glare. “Alright,” he said, his voice lower now, a teasing edge to it. “You think you’re funny, huh?”

“I think I’m hilarious,” I shot back, sticking my tongue out at him.

He let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as his hands slid down to my waist. “You wanna know what’s my answer?” he asked, his tone shifting as his grip tightened slightly, pulling me closer.

I blinked up at him, suddenly aware of the heat in his eyes, the way his lips curved into a sly smirk. “Uh… yeah?”

Jungkook leaned in, his nose brushing against mine as he whispered, “I’ll show you instead.”

Before I could process his words, his lips were on mine, soft but firm, moving with a confidence that made my head spin. His hands slid down to grip the backs of my thighs, and with one smooth motion, he lifted me off the floor like I weighed nothing.

“Jungkook!” I squealed, wrapping my arms around his neck as my legs instinctively locked around his waist. “What are you-”

He cut me off with another kiss, deeper this time, his tongue brushing against mine in a way that made me forget whatever I was about to say. “Still wanna know the answer?” he murmured against my lips, his voice dripping with mischief.

“You’re all questions, are you gonna show or tell me?” I muttered, though the breathlessness in my voice ruined the effect.

He just grinned, carrying me to the bed and laying me down gently, his body hovering over mine. “Oh i will,” he said, his hands already sliding up my thighs, pushing up the hem of my skirt. “But do you think you deserve it?

I rolled my eyes, trying to keep up my usual sass even as heat pooled in my stomach. “Im pretty sure i do”

Jungkook’s smirk deepened, and he leaned down to press a kiss just below my jaw, his hands sliding higher up my thighs. “That’s right baby, you do.”

The teasing tone in his voice made my heart race, and when his lips found mine again, any thought of arguing vanished completely.

Jungkook’s lips moved from mine to trail down my neck, his kisses lazy but purposeful, his teeth grazing my skin just enough to make me shiver. His hands were everywhere. firm on my thighs, sliding higher as he pushed my legs apart.

“You’re already quiet,” he teased against my skin, his voice warm and teasing, sending a jolt of heat straight through me. “What happened to all that attitude?”

“I still have it,” I shot back, though my voice was already breathless.

He chuckled, his lips moving lower, pressing kisses down my collarbone and along the curve of my chest. “We’ll see how long that lasts,” he said, tugging at the hem of my shirt.

“Don’t act so cocky,” I said, but the challenge fell flat as he yanked my shirt up and off in one quick motion, leaving me exposed in my lace bra. His eyes flicked down, darkening as his tongue swept across his bottom lip.

“You were saying?” he murmured, his hands sliding under me to unclasp my bra before I could even protest. The garment joined my shirt on the floor, and I swallowed hard as his gaze drank me in.

“You’re staring,” I muttered, trying to sound unaffected, but my body betrayed me as my skin burned under his gaze.

“Of course I’m staring,” he said, his voice low and warm. “You’re fucking gorgeous.”

My retort died on my lips as he leaned down, his mouth closing over one of my nipples, his tongue flicking against the sensitive bud while his hand teased the other. A soft moan escaped me before I could stop it, and I felt his smirk against my skin.

“Still got something to say?” he asked, his voice muffled as he moved to give the same attention to the other side.

I glared down at him, tugging lightly at his hair. “Shut up.”

He laughed softly, lifting his head to look at me. “Make me,” he teased, his hands sliding down to my hips as he tugged at the waistband of my skirt.

I arched an eyebrow, determined not to let him have the upper hand. “What if I don’t want to?”

Jungkook tilted his head, his smirk widening “Then I guess i better take the lead, baby,” he said, his voice dripping with challenge.

He grips my thighs before he yanks my skirt down with one swift motion, his eyes dropping to the soaked lace between my legs.

“Fuck,” he muttered, his voice low, “you’re already dripping, Y/N.”

Before I could snap back, he hooked his fingers into the sides of my panties and dragged them down, tossing them aside like they didn’t matter. His hands spread my thighs wide, and before i knew it, his mouth was on me

The first swipe of his tongue sent my back arching off the bed, a gasp tearing from my lips. He didn’t tease, instead he went straight for my clit, sucking it into his mouth and flicking his tongue against it with maddening precision.

“Jungkook,” I moaned, my hands flying to his hair, tugging at the soft strands as his mouth worked me over.

He groaned against me, the vibration making my legs shake. His tongue slid lower, teasing my entrance before he pushed it inside, fucking me with it while his nose pressed against my clit.

“Oh my god,” I gasped, my hips bucking against his face, but he just tightened his grip on my thighs, holding me down as he ate me like a man starving.

Every flick, every suck, every moan he let out against me drove me closer to the edge. “You taste so fucking good,” he muttered, his lips glistening as he pulled back for a second before diving right back in.

My thighs started to tremble, the tension in my stomach coiling tighter and tighter. “I’m gonna- fuck, Jungkook, don’t stop!” I whimpered, my voice breaking as he sucked my clit hard and slid two fingers into me, curling them perfectly to hit that spot that made me see stars.

“Come for me,” he growled against me, his fingers pounding into me as his mouth stayed relentless on my clit. That was all it took. I shattered, my body shaking as my orgasm crashed over me, his name spilling from my lips in a breathless scream.

He didn’t stop until I was a trembling mess beneath him, my body twitching with aftershocks. When he finally pulled back, his lips and chin were slick, and the look in his eyes was pure sin.

“You good?” he asked, smirking as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

I glared at him, still breathless. “Shut up and fuck me.”

“Thought you’d never ask,” he said, already tugging his pants down.

He then kicks off his jeans and boxers in one quick motion, his cock springing free and standing thick and hard. The sight alone made my mouth water, but he wasn’t giving me time to admire it. He was already climbing back over me, one hand gripping my thigh to hook it around his waist as the other lined himself up at my entrance.

“Ready?” he muttered, his voice low and strained, like he was barely holding himself together.

I rolled my eyes, grabbing his jaw and pulling him down for a messy, heated kiss. “Do I look like I want to wait?” I bit back.

That was all the permission he needed. With one smooth thrust, he buried himself inside me to the hilt, stretching me so perfectly that all I could do was gasp, my nails digging into his shoulders.

“Fuck,” he groaned, his forehead dropping to mine as he stayed there for a moment, letting me adjust. “You’re so tight.”

“Then move,” I breathed out, arching my hips against him, already desperate for more.

Jungkook’s lips curled into a smirk, but he didn’t tease this time. His hips pulled back, and then he drove forward again, setting a deep, steady rhythm that had me clawing at his back, moaning with every snap of his hips.

“God, you feel so fucking good,” he growled, his voice rough as his hands gripped my thighs, holding me in place as he fucked into me harder, deeper, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room.

My body was on fire, every thrust sending a wave of pleasure crashing through me. “Jungkook,” I whimpered, barely able to get the word out as he hit that perfect spot inside me over and over again.

“Say it again,” he demanded, his pace quickening, his teeth scraping against my neck as he kissed and nipped at my skin. “Let me hear you.”

“Jungkook!” I moaned, louder this time, my voice breaking as I felt myself spiraling closer and closer to the edge.

“Good girl,” he muttered, his hand sliding down between us to rub at my clit, the added stimulation sending me into a frenzy. “You gonna come for me again?”

“Yes- omygod!! fuck, yes,” I gasped, my nails digging into his shoulders as my entire body tensed, the pressure building until it exploded, my orgasm crashing over me so hard I saw stars.

Jungkook groaned as I clenched around him, his hips faltering for a second before he buried himself deep, his pace turning rough and erratic. “Fuck, baby, I’m close,” he growled, his voice strained as he chased his own release.

“Come inside me,” I whispered, wrapping my legs tighter around him, pulling him deeper. “I want to feel you.”

That was all it took. With a low, guttural moan, Jungkook’s hips slammed against mine one last time, his body tensing as he spilled into me, filling me with heat. He stayed there for a moment, his forehead resting against mine as we both tried to catch our breath.

“Guess that answers the question,” he finally muttered, a lazy grin spreading across his face.

I frowned up at him. “What question?”

“What you asked me,” he said, smirking as he kissed me again, his lips slow and soft now, as if he didn’t just wrecked me.

“Idiot,” I muttered against his mouth, but I couldn’t help the laugh that escaped me.

The next day.

the comments from my new post….. was surely what i expected.

“Is she a whore?”

“That nepo baby once again”

“New boy of the month?”

“Im leaving this fandom”

Surely i did make alot of fans mad, but what can i say? It was indeed tasty

[citysank]

TAG DROP 1

[under-your-floorboards]

Imagine Nico wanting to learn more about bones since it’s kind of his whole M.O. so who other does he turn to but Dr Sunlord himself, Will Solace. Will is thrilled to teach him the names of all the bones which then kind of branches into him rambling about how Nico’s raised skeletons make no sense because they have no muscle to conjoin the bones and no nerves to move them, how are they doing that. It turns into little study dates; whenever Will gets time off in the infirmary (when Kayla kicks him out) he and Nico will sit with Will’s Biology books in Nico’s cabin. Sometimes the son of Hades will raise a specific bone from the Earth that Will names as like their form of flash cards.

Eventually to help him study them, Will starts writing the bone names over Nico’s skin. Arms and hands and legs covered in skin safe ink (he was worried about ink poisoning) and Nico stares at them sometimes, not because he’s studying, but because it makes his insides fuzzy when he thinks about how Will held his arm and stroked his thumb on the inside of his wrist as he wrote them.

So one boring day at the infirmary Nico sees the pen in Will’s pocket of his white lab coat and he takes it, then Will’s free arm that he’s not doing paperwork with. Will pauses long enough to see what he was doing as Nico starts drawing a lopsided smiley face. From then on it becomes the norm to see one or both of them walking around with random doodles going up their arms.

[estapa-edwards]

Hey i love your work! I was wondering you could do a fic with Smitty. Maybe something along the lines of her being a dancer for University of Minnesota or somewhere and going to dance at UDA nationals since it’s in California and Will goes to support her. Maybe reader didn’t think he could make it or something?

Will Smith x reader

word count: 2.2k

requested? yes

warnings: none!

*¨¨* ≈☆≈ *¨¨*:·..·:*¨¨* ≈☆≈ *¨¨*:·..·:*¨¨* ≈☆≈ *¨¨*:·..·:*¨¨* ≈☆≈ *¨¨*:·..·:*¨¨*

The convention center in Anaheim buzzed with energy — glitter, hairspray, and adrenaline practically dripping from the walls. Every hallway echoed with counts of “five, six, seven, eight,” and your team had already run your routine four times since breakfast.

Your cheeks were flushed from exertion, your bun was so tight it was giving you a mild headache, and the butterflies in your stomach? Borderline aggressive.

“This place is chaos,” Kayla muttered beside you, stretching out her legs against the wall. “I swear, I almost got trampled by a group from LSU.”

You gave her a distracted laugh, glancing down at your phone again. Still nothing.

Will hadn’t texted you all day. Which, okay, fine — he was in the middle of a West Coast swing with the Sharks and had a game last night, so you shouldn’t have expected much. But part of you still wished he'd at least sent a little good luck message.

You opened your camera, checked your makeup, then backed out again and clicked on his contact. After a moment of hesitation, you hit the FaceTime button.

It rang once. Twice.

Then his sleepy face appeared, lit only by the glow of his phone and the faint blue light of... an airplane seat?

“Hey, babe,” he said, voice scratchy but warm.

“Are you sleeping?”

“Was trying to. Early flight.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “You look pretty. Is it glitter or sweat?”

“Both,” you deadpanned, but you softened almost immediately. “I miss you.”

He smiled gently, and it made your chest ache. “I miss you more.”

Your heart squeezed, and your brain tried to keep you cool. Chill. Normal. Not at all like the mildly unhinged girlfriend who’d been checking the arrivals board at the hotel lobby like a psycho just in case he magically appeared.

“I know you can’t come,” you said, trying for breezy. “It’s fine. You’ve got games, travel, you’re, like, an NHL player and stuff.”

Will raised an eyebrow. “You’re saying that like you’re not the one about to perform at Nationals. You’re kind of a big deal too.”

You smiled, cheeks heating. “Not Sharks-level big.”

“Okay, true,” he teased, smirking. “But I’d put University of Minnesota dance team up there.”

You rolled your eyes and leaned back against the hallway wall, lowering your voice as some of your teammates passed by.

“I just wish you could’ve seen it, that’s all,” you mumbled. “But it’s okay.”

Will tilted his head, studying you through the screen. “Hey. You know I want to be there more than anything, right?”

You nodded, biting your lip.

“Seriously. I hate missing your stuff.”

You tried to keep your tone light. “Well, unless you’ve got a time machine or a private jet, there’s not much you can do about it.”

He chuckled. “Not this time.”

The words caught your attention, but he immediately yawned and leaned back against the headrest. “Okay, I gotta crash for a bit. Text me after your routine?”

“Of course.” You hesitated, then added, “I love you.”

His smile returned, softer now. “Love you too, superstar.”

You hung up and stared at your screen, heart tugging in two directions.

Half of you was grateful for the call. The other half? Still lowkey devastated.

--- --- ---

You didn’t have time to be sad the next morning.

Nationals day was a whirlwind. Warm-ups, makeup touch-ups, double-checking your team jacket, eating half a protein bar while a teammate fixed your lashes — it was full-on competition energy.

Still, in the quiet moments — tying your shoes, stretching at the edge of the practice floor — your mind wandered.

You kept checking the audience every time you passed the performance hall, knowing fully well he wasn’t going to be there. And yet…

“Girl, stop scanning the crowd like it owes you money,” Kayla said, tossing you a water bottle. “If Will was gonna be here, you’d know.”

You groaned and collapsed onto the bench. “I know. I’m being insane.”

“You’re not.” She sat beside you and bumped her shoulder into yours. “Just in love.”

“Ew.”

She grinned. “Disgusting, honestly.”

--- --- ---

Will Smith was sprinting through the arrivals terminal at LAX with his duffle bag over his shoulder and his baseball cap pulled low.

He had exactly two hours until your scheduled performance time, and traffic in LA? His personal villain.

“Okay, okay, okay,” he muttered to himself, pulling out his phone. “Uber… no, Lyft’s faster right now… Anaheim, let’s go.”

His driver pulled up in a minivan that smelled like Febreze and stress. The guy didn’t say a word as Will tossed his bag in and jumped in the back, already loading up your team’s Instagram story to see if you’d posted anything.

Nothing. But the last story said “ON DECK IN 2 HOURS!!!” with a fire emoji and a team selfie. You were front and center, grinning — eyes bright, glitter catching the sun.

Will just stared for a second, smile creeping onto his face. God, he was so gone for you.

“Gotta get there,” he mumbled, like it would magically make traffic move faster.

--- --- ---

Back at the venue, your team circled up behind the stage. Warm-ups were done. Hair was set. You were minutes away.

Your hands shook as you adjusted your earrings. Not because of the routine — you knew it like the back of your hand. But the crowd was huge. The stakes were high.

And the one person you wanted to see wasn’t in the room.

“Alright,” your coach said, voice strong but emotional. “You’ve worked so hard for this. I want you to dance like it’s the last time you ever get to do this. Give it everything.”

You nodded, holding your teammates' hands, trying not to let the tears start too soon.

Then came the announcement. “Next up… the University of Minnesota!”

The cheers exploded. Lights shifted. You filed out onto the stage like you’d done in practice a hundred times. But this was it.

The moment.

The music started.

And your mind cleared.

Every count, every move — muscle memory took over.

You didn’t have to think about the turns, the transitions, or the final formation. You just felt it. The music, the beat, your teammates moving in sync around you — it all blended into this powerful, electric blur.

You crushed your turning combo, landed every leap with precision, and hit that final pose like your life depended on it. The second the music cut off, the arena erupted into cheers.

You were frozen in your final position, chest heaving, face burning with adrenaline and emotion. Then your teammates collapsed around you in a mess of hugs and high-pitched squeals.

Tears were already streaming down your cheeks as you ran offstage.

“We did it!” Kayla screamed, pulling you into a hug.

You laughed through the tears, wiping your eyes. “That felt unreal.”

You could barely process what was happening around you — the crowd noise, your coach crying, someone handing you water — but you still found yourself glancing toward the audience again, even though it was useless.

He wasn’t here.

You knew that.

You told yourself it was fine.

You were proud of yourself. Proud of your team. You didn’t need him there.

You just really, really wanted him.

Then a voice behind you said, “You didn’t even look at the front row.”

You spun around so fast you nearly tripped over your dance bag.

Standing there — sweaty, flushed from running, hair a mess under his Sharks cap — was Will.

You blinked. “No.”

He grinned. “Yeah.”

“No freaking way.”

Before he could respond, you launched yourself into his arms. He caught you instantly, laughing as he spun you in a small circle, ignoring the chaos around you. You were pretty sure half your team had noticed and were collectively losing their minds in the background, but none of it mattered.

“You said you weren’t coming!” you said into his hoodie, your voice muffled by emotion.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, hands on your waist. “I lied. But, like, romantically.”

You hit his chest. “You’re the worst.”

“You’re welcome.”

You stared at him for a second, blinking like he might disappear. “Wait… when did you get here?”

“Fifteen minutes before your routine. Security was a nightmare. Your coach almost didn’t let me back here — I had to show her, like, five photos of us together to prove I wasn’t a stalker.”

You laughed, a little breathless. “You’re insane.”

“I told you I wanted to be here more than anything.”

You grabbed his face and kissed him, glitter and all. “You’re a menace. But I love you.”

He smiled, leaning his forehead against yours. “Good. Because next time? I’m not letting you compete without me in the front row. Ever again.”

“Deal.”

*¨¨* ≈☆≈ *¨¨*:·..·:*¨¨* ≈☆≈ *¨¨*:·..·:*¨¨* ≈☆≈ *¨¨*:·..·:*¨¨* ≈☆≈ *¨¨*:·..·:*¨¨*

I’m so sorry for the unexpected hiatus — I recently started a full-time job, and it’s been a bit of a whirlwind adjusting to the new schedule. Writing had to take a backseat for a little while, but I’ve missed it (and all of you!) so much.

I’m going to do my best to get some new works out soon! In the meantime, feel free to send in any requests — I’d love to start working on things you want to see 💛 Thank you for being so patient and supportive!

[steddie-island]

Tender Headed

I saw this post by @mothofmyth and couldn't stop myself. I hope this does your idea justice. ❤️ ao3 | Divider by @cafekitsune

Someone else was standing at Steve’s usual station, instead of his usual girl. 

It wasn’t a girl at all. 

“Hey! Do you have an appointment?” not-regular-stylist asked.

“No– yes? I, uh– I have a standing appointment. With Kayla?” Steve brushed his fingers through his hair and looked around at the otherwise empty salon. 

He’d been looking forward to this for weeks, practically since the end of his last appointment. The thought of having to cancel, of having to reschedule because she was out sick or something– it made Steve’s skin feel too tight, itchy.

It made tears prick at his eyes like this was a bigger deal than just a stupid haircut. 

Which. Okay, maybe it was for him, but it’s not like any of the stylists, like this stranger , needed to know that. 

“Are you okay, man?”

Steve blinked, bringing the man back into focus again. He was pretty, with long curls piled up on top of his head and a delicate black hoop hanging from his septum. His cut off sleeves showed the ink decorating his arms and disappearing under the fabric. 

He had to shake himself to bring the man’s voice back, to stop ogling him. 

“--won’t be back for a few months,” he was explaining. 

“What?” Steve knew this guy probably thought he was an idiot, but his mind was thick and sticky and nothing this guy was saying was sticking. 

“Early maternity leave,” he said again, patiently. “I’m Eddie, I’m taking her station over while she’s gone.” He gestured to the empty salon again. “I don’t have any appointments right now, if you’re cool with a substitute…” 

Steve almost turned around, but there was something about the wide brown eyes that fixed on him that made him stay. 

“I… sure. Yeah.” It wasn’t like he was that attached to his hair anyway. Yeah, he wanted it to look good, but not to the point that everyone else thought he did. 

It wasn’t about the haircut. 

He followed Eddie back to the washing station. Even though this was a stranger who was going to be taking care of him, Steve still felt a shiver go through him as he got situated. 

There were a few clinks, metal against ceramic. Steve tipped his head back enough to see Eddie removing several chunky rings and placing them in a little dish. A towel was rolled up carefully and placed beneath his neck. 

“Tell me if this is too much.” 

The water was cool, which Steve was prepared for. What he wasn’t prepared for was the way those long delicate fingers touched him. Kayla was gentle, but it was nothing like this. 

The way Eddie scrubbed so carefully at his scalp made Steve melt. Each fingertip was so deliberate in its movements, in the way his hair was gathered back and brushed out of his face. Eddie’s fingers trailed over his ear and Steve had to bite his lip. 

Maybe this was too much, but he couldn’t stop it. 

He’d never been handled like this. No one had ever touched him like he was a delicate, breakable thing. Sure, he cuddled with Robin. He got to hug the kids, and Joyce, and Claudia.

But this was… something else. 

Eddie wasn’t getting anything out of this– not the same way everyone else got something, like, paying him for his service was different, right? 

Steve was going to see it as that, anyway. He imagined Eddie wasn’t touching him like this because he was getting a big tip from it. 

He imagined that Eddie was brushing water off of his forehead with a knuckle because he just wanted to know what the skin felt like there. Those calloused fingers were tucking the hair behind his ears because he wanted to study the curve of his tragus– maybe wondering what Steve would look like with a hoop there, like the one in his own ear. 

Eddie’s thumb was wiping away water from his cheeks because he wanted to know if Steve’s cheeks were rough with stubble or not, and not because this was just a professional courtesy.

Only maybe this wasn’t a professional courtesy. 

Because it wasn’t just water that Eddie had sprayed on him. Steve was fucking crying . 

He wanted to run, but before he could even get up Eddie was putting a damp hand on his shoulder. 

“Stay. You’re okay.” Eddie’s voice was a low rumble that Steve wanted to hide in. “I’ve got you, big boy.” 

How was Steve supposed to not listen to that? He settled back into the chair and let Eddie rinse away the shampoo. Then those nimble hands were working the conditioner into his hair just as gently. The touches were a little more solid now, though. Eddie’s fingers grazed his neck, touched his cheek, wiped more tears from his cheeks. 

“You’re not the only person who comes in here for this.” Steve couldn’t even find the words to ask if he was that transparent. It wasn’t like the crying couldn’t have been from him being tender headed, or from the water being too hot. He was too focused on Eddie speaking to him to try to make excuses for himself. 

Eddie’s voice was soft and low. It was comforting, and it wasn’t hard for Steve to imagine how he would sound if he were singing, the way the words would wrap around him. Would it make him feel the same way he felt with his hair wrapped around Eddie’s hands? 

He was in the shampoo chair for three times as long as he normally would be. Eddie took his time with the conditioner and gave it extra time to sit. He was just as thorough about rinsing it, then about working a smoothing serum through his strands. 

By the time Eddie was wrapping Steve’s hair loosely in a towel and sitting him up, Steve was feeling lighter than he’d felt in months. He figured he should have felt raw and vulnerable, and there was a little bit of that, but Eddie’s presence was calming. Maybe it was the way he chattered as he started working on Steve’s hair. He talked about other customers, about his uncle, about how he’d been doing his own hair for years. He even brought up the time he’d burnt his hair with bleach so bad he’d had to give himself a buzzcut, because that was better than the spongy mess he’d left himself with. 

Steve started opening up, too, by the time Eddie was drying and styling his hair. He talked about his own worst haircut, about the time Robin had let him bleach her hair and she had ended up with a streak of green in her hair instead of blue. At least it had been cute, though. 

Eddie spritzed Steve’s hair once… twice… a third and then a fourth time before smiling at their reflections in the mirror. This close, and without tears in his eyes, Steve could see the dimples in his cheeks. 

“What do you think?” Eddie brushed his fingers over the ends of Steve’s hair, then dropped a hand to let the weight of it rest against his shoulder. 

“I think it’s great.” Steve smiled back at him. It looked the same as it did when Kayla had worked on it, but he’d never looked this good before. Maybe it was the cut, or maybe it was just the way Eddie had put something bright back into his eyes. 

Steve pulled his card out to pay but Eddie refused. 

“I think we both needed today,” he’d said before smiling and sliding his card across the counter. “I hope you come back and see me sometime, Stevie. I’m happy to take care of you anytime.” 

Normally Steve might take that as flirting– and maybe it was, the way Eddie’s dimples popped even more and his eyes really sparkled under the light. It wasn’t just flirting, though, and that made warmth blossom in Steve’s chest. 

“Yeah, man. Definitely.” Steve tucked the card away and turned for the door. “Actually…” He looked back at Eddie, who had picked up the broom. “Do you maybe want to get a drink after work?” 

Eddie’s grin was bright. “Hell yeah. Why do you think I didn’t charge you?” he teased. “I get off in an hour.”

Steve laughed with him. “Cool. I’ll see you in an hour, then.” 

---

As it turned out, Steve didn’t need to come back in an hour because he hadn’t left yet. He was still there, helping Eddie clean things up. They talked about the kids Steve babysat, and Eddie pointed out that maybe it was okay for him to just say they were hanging out, because fifteen and sixteen year olds didn’t tend to need babysitters anymore. 

They picked up food in Eddie’s van, and they drove to the quarry to eat sitting in the back of it, with the doors open and two milkshakes between them. 

When they shared their first kiss that night it tasted like salt and fake strawberries. They parted ways with plans to see each other again the next day.  

Maybe it was okay that Steve didn’t have a standing appointment with his usual stylist anymore. 

[coffeebanana]

they call it editing, which sounds nice and calm and concise but what's actually happening on a cellular level is that my last remaining neuron is bouncing around my empty skull incessantly as i bang words together, and statistically at some point, after an avocado's number of collisions, it'll eventually spit out the write words and i can note them down, bang them through a few more iterations, and eventually come up with something that keeps me up all night because i'm so damn excited about it lets me sleep at night and holy shit i love that feeling

[jaeyunluvr]

Noooo😭😭😭😭 we literally were going insaneeee and @pockettwinzz do you want me to continue to give you a jay brainrot🤩

I think I've just had my 927462 heart attack within the span of three days..... and @jaeyunluvr, @antonitty & @pockettwinzz have all experienced it first-hand 😮‍💨

[mediumgayitalian]

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

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

“Solace!”

“Fuck,” Will curses.

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

“Are you…hiding from Clarisse?”

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

“Solace!”

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

Will groans. “Aw, come on, Clarisse!”

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

“You have siblings! You have a boyfriend!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nico chooses to take that as the compliment it is.

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

Clarisse kicks him. “You’re pathetic.”

“Ugh.”

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

———

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

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

Will turns to her, opening his mouth —

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

— and closes it again, huffing.

“I’ll find a way,” he says glumly.

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

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

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

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

“Thanks, Austin.”

“Of course! Love you Will!”

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

———

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

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

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

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

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

And therein lies the trouble.

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lou Ellen winces. “Ah.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s Harley.

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

A dirty trick by the Hephaestus cabin.

But an effective one.

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

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

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

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

———

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

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

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

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

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

Nico understands.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The whole place bleeds white, hot anguish.

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

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

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

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

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

He trudges forward.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It hurts,” she croaks.

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

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

“Help me. Please.”

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

He holds her until the pain slowly stops.

———

Will is in the surgical suite for seven straight hours.

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

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

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

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

———

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

Predictably, she only glowers.

“Not a chance, Solace,” she rasps.

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, well, someone tell him that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The tactic works.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Come here.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“As long as you need.”

———

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

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

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

They comply, stomping over to their practice chariot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And Sherman is just a generally grouchy person.”

“I know.”

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

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

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

“I’m still sorry.”

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

Will smiles. “Thank you.”

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

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

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

“Uh-huh.”

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

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

———

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

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

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

Nico rolls his eyes and decides to stop humouring him.

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

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

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

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

Nico opens his mouth. He closes it again.

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

“Hear, hear,” both siblings mutter.

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

Competition will be hefty.

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

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

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

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

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

The first few seconds, as always, are chaotic.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Without pausing to look behind them, they race on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Will hesitates.

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

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

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

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

———

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s no excuse! You need to be —”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You don’t get to say that to me.”

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

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

But he’s never heard Will sound so dangerous.

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

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

“Will, I —”

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

No one even moves.

———

Predictably, the silence does not last long.

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

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

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

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

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

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

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

Nico swallows. Fuck. “Yeah.”

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

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

She nods, then disappears back into her tree.

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

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

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

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

Except, perhaps fittingly, his bright, golden hair.

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

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

“Will.”

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

Alarmed, Nico crawls all the way up.

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

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

Will comes easily.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until Will.

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

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

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

———

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

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

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

“We can’t stay here forever.”

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

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

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

“I don’t want to be strong.”

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

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

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

Nico hums. “But she betrayed you.”

“All of us.”

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

Will nods. “It’s disgusting.”

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

Will glances away. “No.”

“Will, you — look at me.”

He does.

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

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

“Trying to do what Michael would have done?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not in front of anyone.”

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

Will hesitates. “That’s — different.”

“How?”

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

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

“You can, too, you know, I lo —”

“I know.”

Will exhales in relief. “Good.”

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

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

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

[pandapetals]

The Wolverine

You tell Logan about the myth of the Wolverine.

professor logan howlett x professor fem!reader - married couple, cute, fluff, teasing, no y/n used, no reader description, your an english professor, logan is a history professor - imagine days of future past logan with the white streaks in his hair

a/n: Im sad that logan doesn't remember kayla. She deserved better, well both of them did. So i wrote this for her. I did some googling and found in Innu culture they see the wolverine in a few different ways so i took that and ran with it.

read on ao3 or find more parts for the series: here

divider credit: @enchanthings

You were curled up in the oversized armchair on the balcony, wrapped in a soft blanket, gazing out over the garden bathed in silvery moonlight. The stars sparkled overhead, scattered across the sky like tiny, far-off promises, casting a gentle glow over everything. Logan sat beside you, his arm draped around your shoulders, thumb tracing slow, absent-minded circles along your upper arm.

After a comfortable stretch of silence, you let out a quiet sigh, eyes still fixed on the stars. "Sometimes I wonder if I made the right choice, you know? Studying literature. Maybe I should’ve gone into astronomy instead." You paused, a small smile playing on your lips. "Stars are just so beautiful. There’s so much out there."

Logan chuckled, a low, warm sound that rumbled through his chest. "Oh yeah? So you could spend your days talkin’ about constellations and meteors? Think I’d go crazy, darlin’."

You nudged him playfully. "Oh, because listening to you ramble about ancient battles and military strategies is so riveting."

He smirked, tilting his head down to look at you. "Hey, at least I know how to make it interesting."

You rolled your eyes, leaning into him a little more. "Sure, you do, tough guy." After a moment, you tilted your head back to the sky, the light of the stars casting a soft glow in your eyes. "But, really... I've always wondered. Why Wolverine? I get the whole 'fierce and growly' thing, but it’s oddly specific."

Logan gave you a look, a playful warning in his gaze. "Watch it, sweetheart," he drawled, though there was a hint of amusement in his tone. He hesitated, his brow furrowing slightly as he looked back out over the garden. "Truth is… I’m not sure where it came from. Can’t remember. Might’ve been ‘cause I was a… well, an animal. Felt like one back then, anyway."

You reached over, resting a gentle hand on his arm, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "You're not an animal, Logan," you said softly, your voice filled with quiet conviction. "You never were."

He let out a faint sigh as if he didn’t fully believe you, though he appreciated the sentiment. "Maybe not," he murmured, his gaze drifting back to the stars. "But it sure felt like it sometimes."

A peaceful silence settled between you, and you leaned your head against his shoulder, watching the stars glitter above. "Did you know," you said softly after a moment, "that in one Innu legend, the wolverine was actually a creator of the world?"

Logan raised an eyebrow, looking down at you with a skeptical smirk. "Now you’re makin’ stuff up."

You laughed, nudging him again. "I swear! It’s true. According to the story, the wolverine built a boat to save the animals from a great flood. Then he told a mink to dive into the water and gather mud, and he used it to create an island. That island eventually became the whole world."

Logan shook his head, a small, reluctant smile tugging at his lips. "You always gotta turn everything into a story, don’t you?"

You grinned, looking up at him with a twinkle in your eye. "I can’t help it. It’s what I do." You paused, then added, "There’s another story that says the Wolverine tried to steal light from the midnight sky. He fashioned bits of it into the sun, moon, and stars, creating the northern lights. Kind of fitting, don’t you think? A wolverine bringing light to the world."

Logan looked at you, amusement and something deeper flickering in his eyes. "You got quite the imagination, you know that?"

"Comes with the job," you teased, snuggling closer, resting your head on his chest. "But honestly… you bring light to people too, Logan. Even if you don’t see it. You’re gruff, sure, but there’s a big heart under all that scowling."

He huffed, though his chest rumbled with a laugh as his fingers absentmindedly traced circles along your shoulder. "You’re really layin’ it on thick tonight, aren’t ya?"

"Just stating the facts," you replied, looking up at him with a grin. "You’re kind of like the stars. Tough on the outside, but warm and steady when people need you most."

Logan’s gaze softened, and he reached up to brush a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering on your cheek as he looked down at you. "If that’s how you see me… guess I can’t argue."

You smirked, snuggling back into his chest. "See? Not so bad being the wolverine, is it?"

He chuckled, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head. "Guess not," he murmured, his voice low and comforting. "Not if it means sittin’ here with you under these stars."

You looked up at him, eyes twinkling with playful warmth as you took in the way the moonlight softened his rough edges. "Who would’ve thought?" you whispered with a teasing lilt. "That the Wolverine could be more than just a trickster… that he could be gentle, even thoughtful."

Logan let out a low, skeptical chuckle, giving you a look that was both amused and exasperated. "Oh, is that so?" he rumbled, his voice a soft, low vibration beneath your cheek. "Here I thought I was just some ornery old fighter."

You chuckled, reaching up to trace a finger along his jaw, feeling the roughness of his stubble. "You’re definitely more than that. There’s a lot more to you than the tough-guy act. There’s… heart, kindness." You paused, smirking as you added, "Though the ‘ornery old fighter’ part is pretty accurate."

He let out a mock sigh, though his eyes glimmered with affection. "Don’t push it," he muttered, pulling you closer as he looked down at you, the corners of his mouth twitching in a reluctant smile.

You shifted slightly, resting your chin on his chest so you could look up at him. "You know, in some stories, the wolverine’s not just a trickster. He’s a protector. Fierce, unyielding. The one who keeps everyone safe, no matter what."

Logan’s eyes softened, and he reached up, brushing his thumb along your cheek as he gazed down at you. "So you see me as some kinda myth, huh?" he murmured, his voice low, almost vulnerable. "Better be careful, sweetheart. I’m just a man, remember?"

You smiled, covering his hand with yours. "Oh, I know," you whispered, your voice tender. "But you’re my myth, Logan. My hero. The one who showed me what real strength looks like."

For a moment, he looked taken aback, his usual composure slipping as he took in your words. Then, his gaze dropped, as if the weight of your affection was almost too much to bear. "You say all that… but sometimes I still feel like a lost soul," he murmured, his voice rough. "Someone who didn’t know where he belonged."

You cupped his face, guiding his eyes back to yours. "You belong right here," you whispered, your thumb tracing his cheek. "With me. Right where you’re supposed to be."

A soft, genuine smile played on his lips as he leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours. "Damn, darlin’," he muttered, his voice barely more than a rumble. "You’re gonna make me go soft."

You laughed, brushing a gentle kiss against his lips. "Too late for that," you teased, smiling against his mouth. "I think I’ve already uncovered the soft side of the Wolverine."

He rolled his eyes, but his hand found yours, his rough fingers intertwining with yours as he brought your hand to his lips. He pressed a lingering kiss to your knuckles, his gaze warm and unguarded. "You really make people question my reputation, you know that?" he murmured, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Oh, am I ruining your whole 'grumpy lone wolf' image?" you teased, grinning up at him.

Logan pretended to be annoyed, though his eyes sparkled with affection. "Damn right, you are," he replied, his voice a low murmur. "Can’t go anywhere without folks thinkin’ I’m a softy now."

You leaned in, your face close to his, your smile teasing. "Well, maybe you are.”

He let out a low chuckle, pulling you even closer, his arm secure around you. "You’re lucky you’re cute," he muttered, his thumb brushing over your hand. "Otherwise, I might actually be annoyed."

You looked up at him, your heart full, and whispered, "I think you’re cute too, even if you try to hide it."

He groaned, tipping his head back. "There goes my whole reputation," he said, but when he looked back down at you, his gaze was filled with warmth, something so genuine that it made your heart skip a beat.

You squeezed his hand, giving him a playful smile. "Good.” You grinned, closing the small distance between you and kissing him, slow and sweet, letting the world fall away. When you finally pulled back, he was looking at you with a smile so genuine it made your heart skip.

"Happy?" he asked, his thumb tracing gentle circles on your hand.

You nodded, resting your head on his shoulder as you both gazed out at the stars. "Always, with you."

[taniahylian]

Ms. Grace: a Foundation spy

Okay, buckle up because this is a wild theory, which was sparked by just a single word, but it's backed up by a lot of facts, so let's dive into it, shall we?

First of, left's look at the description of an event that will become available next patch: Phototaxis in study.

You see it, don't you? Now, let's first remember that we, as the player, see everything through Vertin's eyes. As such, if someone named "Moth" sent intel to us, they're likely affiliated with the Foundation in one way or another.

Moth is likely a codename, however, and not the character's actual name. Why? Because we have already seen a character associated with moths, and her name is Ms. Grace, and she's a spy.

Quite a lot of moths in her design, right? Seems rather intentional. Not to mention that, when she's disguised as Kayla, the only difference between them, aside from the eye color, is that Grace has a moth pattern on her bandana.

Not to mention that, when Vertin encounters Grace for the first time, an odd detail is mentioned; a white moth landing on the flowers Grace was holding.

Okay, so we've stablished that Grace is heavily associated with moths, but how do we know she's a Foundation spy that infiltrated Manus Vindictae? Very simple; a trail found in this event.

First we see this report from Andreas Sylvester who, if you remember, is a low-ranking Zeno soldier that was left behind at the abandoned Texas facility. As such, he is unlikely to be privy to classified information and, although he does in fact seem to know that Grace is a spy, he came to the rather logical conclusion that she's a Manus Vindictae spy that was sent to report to them about Zeno's activity in Texas. However, Constantine's response is very suspicious.

She recommends him to not interfere with Ms. Grace's work, likely because she knows Grace is actually a Foundation spy, carrying out her orders, rather than an actual Manus member.

Also, if Ms. Grace is a spy, that would explain why she was using transformation rituals; she needed to change her appearence into someone the Manus would have no knowledge of (since she's likely a high-ranking Investigator, the Manus probably already knew her original appearence), so she picked a random country girl (Kayla) to change into her, and ended up accidentally trapping her in a mirror in the process... or perhaps it wasn't accidental at all; after all, it'd be very bad if the Manus ever met the real Kayla.

Let's also not forget that, according to Vertin, the Foundation teaches this particular transformation array to their SPDM students, which furthers the connection even more.

There's also what happens at the end of Anjo Nala's trailer. If you need a refresher, after the Manus members give Anjo order after order, she snaps and kills them... but here's the thing: Anjo physically can't disobey the commands given to her by the seal, and she also can't even touch her master, much less harm them. So how could she kill the Manus members? ... Unless she was ordered to.

And who was holding Anjo's seal during that scene?

Ms. Grace, of course. She's also the one who says the final line in the trailer, in the format of some sort of report: "Towards the end of 1990, the succubus left for Sao Paulo". And we know for a fact that, indeed, Anjo followed their orders and ended up going to Sao Paulo.

So, Ms. Grace isn't dead; she's the only survivor of that massacre and, if my theory is correct, she's also the orchestrator. She used Kimberly to kill these high-ranking manus, while at the same time not blowing her cover, and making Kimberly seem unstable/unreliable, so the Manus would probably want to get rid of the seal. Quite a smart move, if you ask me.

But what do you think? Too crazy? Honestly I can't wait for the big reveal that Grace was working for the Foundation all along, if it happens at any point in the future.