#((alright!))

HI all. it has been some days since ive posted. ive been feeling weird but im better now mostly. anyway.

it is time at the moment to choose one of five (+1, got more requests than usual this week and i am benevolent) wips for me to update tomorrow. will i 100% listen to democracy? we shall see. is there i chance i leave it to the last minute and get too tired to write anything but a 100 ways? you betcha. but regardless: the poll will immediately succeed this message. then, i will link previous iterations of each wip AND a small snippet of what i currently have for the update. i will work on and post this TOMORROW. read snippets before u vote. mwah. love u.

naomi fic: art more art 1 2 3

The baby does not scream. He does not cry. He does not even blink, for a moment, for a heart-stopping minute; he does not even move.

This is what the nurses tell her, anyway.

Naomi does not know. Naomi was unconscious, and damn near died on the table; her little parasite wormed his way out of her limp as a rag doll and the doctor had sworn he was dead, but he was only resting, taking a breath, a minute, to situate himself. To feel the cold air of the new world before committing to existing inside of it. Cautious, her little parasite. Wary. Already heeding her warnings.

All Naomi knows is that he is small, when she holds him. He fits in her one hand. There is still blood and fluid caked everywhere but his little face, where the nurses wiped him clean, and his nose, even this early, is dotted with freckles, spreading across his cheeks. He opens his tiny little eyes and they are blue --

-- celestial blue --

-- sky blue --

-- and Naomi gasps, struck breathless. He is silent. He is open. He is trusting, tiny and helpless, but quiet in her arms, against her chest.

"You and me," she whispers, tucking her baby son against her chest, against her slowly beating heart, "you and me, sheer fuckin' Will."

divorce fic: 1

Will huddles in the fork of his favorite tree, Cass nearby, gathering herbs, and taps his pen on his notebook. On a page near the end, in careful, neat writing, are names, scrawled up and down the page, crushed into the margins. It reads:

Top choyses: - Bekendorf (nice) - Clarees (proteks me maybe) - Carter (plays soker with me) - Silena (pretty) - Annabeth (frend) - NOT ellis (anoying)

Among others. Will works the end of his pen in his mouth as he squints at the list, considering. He tries to remember some of the summer-only campers, but he can't keep them straight as well since he hasn't seen them in almost a year.

"Cass," he calls, waiting for the sound of a snapped root and her followed yes, firefly? "Which summer campers are the least annoying? Nobody like Michael."

She ponders that question for a good moment. Will watches several different expressions morph across her face.

"...Well," she says, biting her lip to hide her smile, "it might help if I knew what you'd been scribbling away at for the last hour."

pomegranate au: 1 2 (*snippet once again subject to change; i have like 3000 words written that i am not vibing with so i might need to restart)

In his dream, they are in Ephyra. Will stoops low over a flowering bush in a meadow between two orchards, and Nico stands, hair curling in the misting humidity, watching him.

He looks good in red.

There are bangles of gold on his wrists and ankles, like there usually are. His fingers glint gold off the sun. Wine-dark begonias make home again in his hair, twisted among the strands, and black leather sandals adorn his feet. Nico tilts his head, noting them; the thin bands that wrap up his calves and the new soles sitting stiffly under his feet. He shifts, bending low towards the flowers, and Nico imagines he can hear them creak, creasing under the changing weight.

He steps, once, towards him.

He does not move.

He calls out, or tries to. His voice travels out of his mouth and wraps around the rain, disappearing into the low-hanging clouds; he huffs, and drops to the ground, crossing his feet under his thighs and resting damp palms on his knees.

Rain drips, stinging, into his eyes.

He watches Will for a long time. Or, it feels like he does, in his dream; Will flits, humming, from plant to plant, gathering stems and flowers in the apron of his robe, stretching ever few moments as the bend pulls the muscles on his back. When he has gathered enough, and his apron is overflowing, he stands, sighing, and walks up the hill to where Nico is sitting.

Will does not look at him. He looks through him, where he sits, he moves in his eyes in the direction where Nico is watching him but no recognition lights up his features, no part of his irises trace the shape Nico takes up. He only walks, as if there is no one, and sits an arm's length to Nico's right.

Nico reaches out. There is stone, between them, invisible, or at least it feels like there is.

scientific method fic: prologue 1

———

Step Two: Research

———

Will wakes up and beelines for the Hermes cabin, long before they are anything close to getting up for the day, and climbs through the window. He paid Connor seven dollars for a map of their booby traps yesterday, so he manages alright, only setting off the one pie plate full of whipped cream that Connor neglected to tell him about, but jokes on him 'cause Will tripped trying to get over the window sill and landed on his face before the pie plate could nail him on the nose.

He steps around the mess, creeps to the bunk on the lateral side of the cabin, nestled right in front of the opening of the secret tunnels Will isn't supposed to know about, and crawls very, very carefully on top, balancing on his knees. It's a strain, but it's no worse than the climbing wall. He breathes carefully and shallowly, hovering over the sleeping body, waiting for the sun to cheerfully inch all the way above the horizon, and for the rays to turn mussed auburn curls gold, for the light to fan over dark eyelashes. There is squirming, and then a sleepy yawn, and then, from across the cabin, a what the -- followed by harsh shushing. Will manages to bite back a grin.

And then there is the slow blink of brown eyes.

"Hi," Will says.

Cecil screams at the top of his lungs.

"There is something -- fucking wrong with you!" he shouts, kicking Will off his bed, and then cusses him out in so many different languages that Will loses the ability to actually inhale, dying in a little ball on the floor.

"Your -- your face," he wheezes, having no energy to dodge the kick Cecil aims for his ribs. "Oh my gods, your soul left your body --"

"I hate you."

"Oh my gods --"

"Genuinely. Die."

"Gods," Will says, wiping a tear from his eye. A quick glance around the cabin shows several of the other Hermes kids in a similar state. Connor seems to have actually blacked out. Julia reaches over and high-fives him. Will smacks her hand with verve, cementing his role as Cecil's replacement. Currently he is winning their eternal prank war 2,701 - 2,699, which has to sting.

"It doesn't sting. Just know that when I get you, there will be no mercy involved."

"Yeah, yeah." Will snorts, crawling up onto his best friend's bunk and making himself comfortable. He watches as Cecil tries to get dressed in the clutter that is his cabin in the early mornings and offers unhelpful commentary -- "You are colorblind, please stop trying to tell me what socks pair best with this shirt." -- until he sighs and stops fighting the smile pulling across his face. "You love me."

"Whatever." Will pouts. Cecil sighs. "Yes, I love you, you rat bastard."

"Excellent. Hey, subject change -- have you ever died before?"

road trip au: 1 2 3 4

It is not quite dark, when they cross the Tennessee border, but the sign is squarely behind them and deep, dark orange, glinting blindingly off the blue road sides. Regardless, Will doesn't falter; he does not slow down and squint at every exit sign or murmur to himself as he counts the miles. This is unusual, because Nico has seen him squint to verify the street signs on the road he lives on.

Nico watches him, quietly.

Will pretends he doesn't.

They are in and out of Chattanooga. The mountains, too, are only flashes -- beautiful, staggering flashes, but Will winds through them with ease, and does not pause. Nico notes the bored holes every few feet and traces the jagged cliff faces with his eyes, memorizing the way the setting sun turns the stone to ruby.

He flinches every time there is a sharp turn, or a hole in the road. Every twitch of Will's shoulders has him gripping onto the holy shit handle, and if Will so much as removes one hand to scratch his nose Nico stops breathing. They are never doing this again.

But it is nice, this one time. To watch the world whir by outside the rolled-down windows.

pillow princess: 1 2

He wakes up before noon, as instructed. Today there is no struggle. He does not bother to pray for the strength to keep his eyes open. In fact he almost leaps out of bed, and would have outright sprinted to the Apollo cabin was there not a piece of paper balanced on his nose.

He sits upright and collects it off his lap, where it falls, inspecting it closely. It is heavy paper. Cardstock, ivory. Folded crisply once, like a place card at a banquet table. The writing is elegant cursive and shiny gold, which is murder on his dyslexic eyes, and takes him a good twenty minutes to puzzle through.

To His Highness Niccolo di Angelo, son of Hades, Prince of Hell, it reads, in confirmation of your appointment at the Chelsea Hotel, Penthouse Suite. On this day, June 5th, no later than 2 post meridiem.

And then, in messier, penciled handwriting, under elegant swirling decorations:

do NOT shadow traval!!! xoxo Will <3

Nico traces his finger over the misspelled 'a', grinning.

well well well