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Best thing ive ever read wtf???

❝SHE’S A MANEATER!❞ – 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐭𝐰𝐨. 

LOSER!ELLIE ﾒ MEAN!READER

❝OH-OH HERE SHE COMES WATCH OUT, GIRL, SHE’LL CHEW YOU UP!❞

ᝰ.ᐟ ⌞SUMMARY⌝﹕After bumping into you on her first day of college, Ellie spends the entire year captivated by you from a distance. You're everything she could never be—popular, wealthy, and effortlessly alluring, with a perfect, disgustingly rich family to match. Convinced she didn’t stand a chance, Ellie resigns herself to watching from the sidelines. But when her best friend Dina suggests they work at a public pool for the summer, Ellie agrees, hoping to save up some money. What she never expected was to find you there, commanding the space with a magnetic, dangerous charm that pulls her in. Now, Ellie’s summer is about to take a turn she never saw coming, and she’s about to find out just how close she can get to you before it all falls apart.

✶.ᐟ ⌞THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS⌝﹕ approx 12.8k words⨾ cursing⨾ angst⨾ mention of drugs⨾ reader being a bitch for no reason⨾ 18+ CONTENT (porn with plot)⨾ fingering (𝑒!receiving)⨾ tribbing⨾ thigh riding (r!receiving)⨾ coworker!ellie⨾ dom!reader⨾ fem!reader⨾ player!reader x loser!ellie⨾ slapping⨾ jealousy issues⨾ overstimulation⨾ choking kink⨾ use of names (dollface, sweet/pretty girl, baby, babe, slut, etc...)⨾ ‘i love the smiths’ scene⨾ ellie loves spiderman boxers💔⨾ they 69 on a big canvas???⨾ lmk if i missed anything!

.ᐟ.ᐟ ⌞AUTHOR´S NOTE⌝﹕i've decided it's going to be three parts instead :p i also wanted to say thank you for all the support on part one i appreciate it sososo much mwahmwah🫦. proofread by @sapphichotmess!!

#.ᐟ ⌞TAGLIST⌝﹕@pick-me-up-im-scared @rew1nds @aouiaa @satellitespinner @boobdrug @ivying @elliewilliamsbelovedwife @mina-281 @hysteriawillnotsuccumb @chxrryvalxntine @bookpagecandlescent @fionaapplelover2010 @andersonslove @macaroni676 @elliesbabygirl @vampcubus @visupremacysstuff @elssaphica [comment to be added!]

#.ᐟ ⌞CHAPTERS⌝ ↯

˗ˏˋ 𝐨𝐧𝐞 ⋆ 𝕥𝕨𝕠 ⋆ 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 ˎˊ˗

palestine masterpost ⋆ read this ⋆ daily clicks

8th of August.

You and Ellie spent almost every day together, hanging out and spending time together without a care in the world. However, the way you acted when you were around other people, as if you hadn’t been spending time together in private, bothered Ellie. Alone, you were a completely different person—affectionate, clingy, and seemingly unable to keep your hands off her. Logically, she assumed you weren’t exceptionally comfortable showing affection publicly, and she understood that. Still, it stung each time you rejected her, even for something as simple as holding hands in public. 

No pet names allowed, no subtle touches, no little gestures of affection—nothing. It hurt Ellie deeply, but she tried to convince herself that it was normal. After all, not everyone was comfortable with PDA, and you had told her that you weren’t ready yet. You had only been together for a few weeks, so it made sense. Every time you pulled away in public, you would notice the change in Ellie’s demeanor, the way she’d go quiet and distant. You’d try to comfort her, soothing her with your words, calling her your girl, and showering her with compliments and affectionate whispers. It worked; it always worked. She’d soften in your arms, her pissy mood disappearing as you reassured her. Ellie couldn’t help it, falling for your charm every damn time.

The auburnette knew that you meant everything you said; she knew you genuinely wanted her just as much as she wanted you. Whenever you had to reassure her, Ellie felt guilty, pushy, and selfish for even bringing it up. She would tell herself that it was okay, that she could wait for you to be ready. After all, it wasn’t a big deal, and who was she to rush you into something you weren’t comfortable with? She could be patient. 

Being with you was enough for her. Ellie was so damn grateful to have you by her side. She still couldn’t wrap her head around how she went from admiring you from a distance to being with you every fucking day. She could feel you, touch you, and memorize every inch of your body with the rough, calloused palms of her hands. Her heart would flutter, and the butterflies in her stomach would go wild at every pet name you had for her, every sweet word, every compliment, every touch.

Everything you had to give, she took it all greedily. The sage-eyed girl knew she was lucky as hell to have you, lucky that you finally let her in, let her get to know you. The more she discovered about you, the more she liked you. Each detail that came out about your personality made her want to be around you every second of the day. It was like she was addicted, hooked on every little thing that made you who you are. And she couldn’t get enough, feeling like some sort of lovesick idiot.

So she’d wait as long as it took. It was going to be worth it in the end.

Ellie tried to brush those thoughts aside, but they were like an unwelcome guest in the back of her mind. Now that you were there, in her room, none of those concerns mattered anymore. Instead, she focused on the way your lips pressed against her skin, little smacking sounds filling her ears.

Sweet, damp kisses trailed along Ellie’s jawline as your hand eagerly squeezed the fat of her ass, making her whimper into your mouth. You found it endearing how sensitive and responsive she was to your touch. You could get her dripping wet with no effort at all, and she was so fucking loud and so easy to play with. You loved every second of it. 

The sensation of her soft skin under your fingertips, the way she involuntarily arched her back under your touch as you pleasured her just right—it was addictive. 

You pushed her back towards the bed, your hands roaming her body hungrily as she stumbled over her sneakers, which lay discarded on the floor. You giggled, lips detaching from her neck just long enough to capture her mouth again. Ellie’s slender fingers tangled in your hair, a smile stretching across her face at your soft laugh.

Your hands remained glued to Ellie’s body, refusing to let go, gently skimming your hands over her waist and sides, your fingertips tracing along her bare skin in a soothing motion. Her body molded effortlessly to yours, every curve and line fitting perfectly against you. 

Ellie was convinced you were made for her, crafted together by some higher power. In your arms, she felt like the center of your universe, making her feel special and desired. The cinnamon-haired girl loved being the recipient of your unwavering adoration, a privilege not everyone was fortunate enough to experience. You were everything she could ever want or need, her perfect match in every way.

Ellie’s freckled back sunk into the soft surface of her mattress as you straddled her, claiming your spot on top of her. Her hands ran over your body with an almost desperate touch, as if they had never touched another human being before. She gripped and gently clawed at your flesh, unable to get enough of the feel of you underneath her fingertips, fearing that you might evaporate or disappear into thin air. It was too good to be true. Even she struggled to believe someone like you would sneak around with someone like her.

The kiss became a mess of open mouths and tangled tongues, both of you becoming more and more desperate with each passing second. Finally, you pulled away, both of you panting and out of breath, your lips swollen and sensitive from the never-ending connection. “You sure he won’t be back anytime soon?” you asked, your lips hovering just an inch from hers. 

Ellie’s eyes fluttered open, her gaze meeting yours as she took a deep, shaky breath. “Joel’s staying at my uncle’s for dinner,” She reassured, her breathing ragged and uneven and her face flushed as red as a ripened strawberry from the intensity of the kiss.

A subtle, self-satisfied smirk played at the corners of your mouth as you hovered above her, your forearms resting on either side of Ellie’s head. You found yourself entranced by the sunlight pouring in through the windows, casting a warm, golden glow across her face, highlighting all of her best features—everything, basically. The sight of her was like gazing upon a masterpiece, each freckle and sun-kissed spot a deliberate brushstroke that came together to form a breathtaking work of art. Her beauty was nothing short of enchanting, like a Claude Monet painting coming to life before your very eyes, and she wasn’t even aware. No work of art could compare to the beauty of the girl under you. 

“So we can be as loud as we want,” You whispered in her ear, the low timber of your voice sending delicious shivers down her spine. 

You continued to pepper kisses along her jawline, savoring the unique taste of her skin. You took your time, slowly trailing your lips down her body, determined to give each inch the same amount of attention and love. Ellie let out a small gasp as your mouth tenderly traced across her skin, her fingers gently running through your hair to keep it out of your face, fingers lingering on your scalp. Her thigh pressed between your legs, creating just enough space for her to slide her knee against your center, the contact eliciting a moan of pleasure from you.

Ellie could never put into words how much pride she felt whenever a soft moan escaped your lips. It was as if she had just created a masterpiece, your sounds of pleasure serving as tangible proof that she had done something right. Every mewl and gasp from your lips filled her with a profound sense of satisfaction, like a child finally getting their drawing just right. 

“Oooh, I like that,” A soft, raspy chuckle escaped the auburnette’s lips; she glanced up at you, her pupils dilated, and a broad smile spread across her face, the left side of her mouth forming a deep dimple. The sight was both endearing and incredibly attractive, her features a mix of playfulness and undeniable lust as she struggled to maintain her composure. You were getting her so worked up that it was almost laughable.

Your head tilted down as you met her gaze, eyes locked on her watchful, beautiful forest-green irises. “Like what?” you questioned, continuing to press kisses against the soft skin of her chest, right between her breasts. Your brows furrowed with confusion, your mind consumed by her, causing her question to bounce off the walls of your mind, not quite able to make sense of her words.

“The way you sound,” Ellie purred with a soft, appreciative hum, her fingers trailing lazily along your shoulder. 

You pulled away for a moment, a smirk playing at the corners of your lips as you looked down at her, enjoying the way she looked like a complete wreck beneath you. “Yeah?” you sultry whispered, leaning in closer, your breath hot against her lips. “You ready for me, sweet girl?” A stray lock of your hair dangled between you, and she lifted her hand to tuck it gently behind your ear, her touch light as a whisper against your skin. The action was so natural, so casual,  yet it was laced with a sense of intimacy and affection that made your stomach churn for a split second.

“Always ready for you,” Ellie uttered, her voice a breathless confession. And she meant it in every possible way. The redhead was always ready, obediently waiting for your gaze like a loyal dog, ready to be whatever you needed her to be at that moment. Whether it was to be your girlfriend or just a plaything to take your frustrations out on, she was there for you, patiently waiting for you to use her.

You pressed a kiss to Ellie’s lips, soft and lingering, before trailing a path back down to her chest. Your mouth found her hardened nipple, and you latched onto it with a hunger that proved to her how much you had been longing for her. Your tongue danced around her areola, lazy circles that made her shiver and sigh. One of your hands wandered to her other breast, kneading it with a firm yet tender grip. Ellie’s whimpers filled the room, each sound a love song that told you exactly how much she needed you. Her back arched, pushing her chest deeper into the palm of your hand, a desperate plea for more. Ellie’s fingers tangled in your hair, pulling you closer, urging you on. 

You switched your attention, your mouth finding her other nipple, lavishing it with the same adoration. “You taste so fucking good,” you murmured against her skin, your voice rough and urgent. She moaned in response, her hips shifting restlessly beneath you, seeking friction, seeking release.

Your hand slid down the moss-eyed girl’s body, fingers dancing across her skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. She was already trembling, her breath coming in shallow gasps, her eyes locked on yours, darkening with need. The soft palm of your hand cupped her mound, her trimmed, auburn hair tickling your skin. Your index and middle fingers spread her folds, gathering all the slickness you had created and smearing it up to her clit. It twitched at your touch, throbbing like crazy, almost painfully, making Ellie whine.

She was truly mesmerizing in her neediness and desperation for your touch and attention, enjoying every second of your affections. Her body responded to you as if it were made for you alone by the Gods above.

Your teeth gently grazed her nipple as you pushed two fingers inside her, making her gasp louder this time. Ellie’s hips bucked instinctively, craving more, her body reacting to every touch, every sensation you delivered. And she just took it like a good plaything.

“God, you’re so wet,” you groaned against her skin, your voice thick with desire. “So fucking ready for me.”

“Oh… god,” Breathy moans spilled from her lips, ricocheting off the star-filled wallpaper adorning her room. 

You released her nipple with a satisfying ‘pop,’ the little bud glistening with spit. Your mouth found her other nipple standing erect and waiting for your attention, looking a little too lonely for your liking. Her breasts fit your palms perfectly, filling your palms just right. You could see her trying to maintain control but her brain shut down, unable to process anything besides your touch.

Ellie’s nipples were always so responsive, hardening instantly under your touch, and you could feel her entire body quivering with need. You teased her relentlessly, feeling her writhe beneath you, each lick and gentle bite sending jolts of pleasure straight to her needy cunt. You loved the way her breath hitched with every pump of your fingers, her back arching slightly, and her hips bucking into your hand. What a fucking sight.

“Oh, so you believe in God now, huh?” You teased her, your fingers increasing the pace of their movements. She pushed her head back into the pillow, wholly lost in the sensations you were creating. Ellie’s eyes squeezed tight, her dilated pupils no longer able to focus as the pleasure consumed her entirely.

You curled your fingers inside her, brushing against that magical spot, and she gasped, her hands clutching the sheets, her knuckles turning white. You could feel her walls tightening, her whole body tensing as her orgasm built ridiculously quickly. Her breathing was ragged and uneven, the sound of her wetness making you feral. “That it? ‘s that the right spot?” you chuckled.

“Hmmphh—not funny,” Ellie weakly protested, but the attempt was feeble, her words faltering as she tried to sound grumpy. In reality, she was a mess, a moaning, beautiful mess that was falling apart at the seams, unable to form coherent thoughts. The type of mess you loved.

“Baby, look at me,” you commanded softly as your fingers picked up speed, curling upwards to hit that sweet spot inside her again. Her walls clamped down, promising to swallow your digits greedily. 

Ellie’s green eyes fluttered open, understanding the silent threat, knowing damn well that if she didn’t, you wouldn’t let her finish and milk your fingers like she had been begging to do all day. Bugging you at work, begging for a quickie in the restroom like usual. You had denied her all day, leaving her desperate and needy. 

But there was a reason behind your earlier refusal. And now that she was at your mercy, you intended to make her wait a moment longer. 

You pressed your body against her thigh, grinding against it rhythmically as if drawn there by some magnetic force. Your movement was subconscious, automatic, and involuntary, your cunt aching. 

“Feeling good, huh?” You said, your voice slightly breathless as you held back a groan that threatened to escape you. You couldn't help but smirk at her frenzied nodding. Shaking your head slowly, you expressed your disapproval with a sharp click of your tongue, clearly unimpressed by her response. “C’mon Els, you can do better than that,” You urged her to use her words, your intention being solely to hear the whiny words only you could coax from her, wanting to savor every little gasp and sigh that fell from her lips like they were your own personal currency. 

“Y-yes…yes.” Ellie was completely breathless, and when her walls seemed to squeeze your fingers hungrily, you eagerly complied, burying them inside her. A contented gasp escaped her lips, her mouth hanging open in pure euphoric ecstasy as you brought her closer and closer to her orgasm. You were making her see stars and all the planets above, and this time it wasn’t the cheap plastic stars and planets glued to her ceiling—which did not glow in the dark anymore, much to Ellie's disappointment. What a ripoff. But then again, she didn’t need those when she had you, painting all the wonders of the universe behind her lids. 

Ellie’s eyes rolled back, threatening to close again, but she fought against it. She needed to keep her eyes on you, to remember who was making her feel this way. It was you; you, you, and only you. You were all she could think about.

She was so full of you, literally.

“Just like that… keep your eyes on me, gooood girl,” you cooed, “Begging me to touch you like this… what a fucking slut,” your voice dripped with fake disdain, feeling her body coiled with tension as your fingers moved faster and deeper. Your breath hitched as you rode Ellie's toned thigh, your clit throbbing against her soft skin. You could feel your own orgasm building, mirroring hers. Your hips moved faster, seeking that final push, desperate for release.

Ellie whined at your words, soft sobs escaping her lips, filling the air with the sound of her desperation. She was at your mercy, unable to do anything but follow your lead. “Who’s making you feel like this, hm?”  Your voice was laced with possessive undertones, making her whimper in response and her clit twitch madly. She loved it when you got possessive of her. The pointed question’s answer was obvious, but you wanted her to say it, to acknowledge the power you wielded over her body and soul.

“You… fuck, you…” You increased the pace, your fingers moving in and out of her with relentless precision, your thumb brushing against her clit, adding to the overwhelming sensations coursing through her body. Ellie’s back arched off the bed, her body straining towards yours, every muscle taut with anticipation. You could feel her getting closer, her walls tightening around your fingers, her breath hitching with every thrust. “Pleaseplease”

Your wetness coating her thigh filled Ellie with a sense of pride and disbelief. She found it difficult to believe that you liked her, but feeling the evidence of your desire on her skin was undeniable. The thought that she could turn you on in such a way was surreal and hard to wrap her mind around. 

“G’na cum on my fingers, dollface?” The pet name and the tone of your voice sent her heart into a flurry of flips and somersaults like a caged bird. She could practically feel the petals of a thousand blooms unfurling in her stomach, each beat of her pulse, another seed taking root. 

Despite her tough facade, Ellie was a sucker for compliments and pet names, but only when they came from you. You couldn't miss the way her cheeks would turn cherry red as she blushed, her poker face failing miserably. She was an open book, easy to read and please, and you knew exactly how to get a reaction out of her. Sometimes, it felt like you could read every thought flitting through her mind just by looking into her expressive eyes. Not only were they breathtakingly beautiful, but they conveyed so much without her having to utter a single word.

Ellie’s responses were reduced to whiny “yeahs,” as she struggled to form coherent words. The way your hips rolled smoothly against her thigh elicited a tight clench around your fingers buried deep inside her. Her brows furrowed, and the moans escaping her swollen lips grew higher in pitch, threatening to reach an octave too sharp for your ears. Just as you felt her walls start to pulse, ready to explode, you withdrew your hand, leaving her gasping and aching for more.

Her head lifted weakly from the pillow, her eyes meeting yours with a pouty expression, mirroring the look of a kicked puppy. She was confused and dazed; the pleasure that had been consuming her just moments ago was fading away, leaving her feeling frustrated and unsatisfied. “What, wh-” but before she could start asking questions, you swiftly dismounted her thigh and gently patted her hips before grabbing her legs and pulling her closer. 

“Wanna cum on your pussy. Gonna let me do that, yeah?” Though posed as a question, your words were laced with a commanding tone, as if you expected Ellie to comply. She didn’t mind, though; in fact, she found it quite attractive that you were so firm and sure of what you wanted, always in control. And, if there was something the auburnette loved to death, it was feeling your drenched core pulsating against hers, like she could die right there and then, utterly content. So pussy drunk.

Straddling Ellie, you aligned your soaked pussy with hers, a moan escaping her lips before you’d even begun to move. “Oh fuck…” she gasped, her back arching as she ground against you instinctively. 

A moan escaped you, followed by a sharp slap to Ellie’s thigh, making her yelp. “Only patient girls get to cum,” you growled, positioning one of her legs over your shoulder. Your arousal dripped down onto her mound, making a mess. Her pussy was so slippery that it almost made it challenging for you to find the perfect angle that would satisfy both of you. You rotated your hips, testing the waters, and after some trial, you elicited a gasp from both of you.

“You feel so good, shit…” Ellie’s hips started to move on their own accord, picking up speed, creating a messy, erratic rhythm. Your nails dug into her toned flesh, leaving tiny half-moons behind as you ground against her at a more steady and controlled pace. She was becoming increasingly desperate, her body aching for the pleasure that you had cruelly taken from her, leaving her feeling frustrated and unfulfilled. “I’m close,” she gasped out.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” you threatened, your eyes narrowing in disapproval. Ellie was a mess under you, her head pressed into the pillow and her eyes fluttering shut in bliss. Her bottom lip was caught between her teeth, drawing blood as she desperately tried to hold back her orgasm. “Hold it.” Your voice grew stern, echoing in the room. Rubbing your clit harshly against hers, you increased your pace, teasing her mercilessly. Smirking, you reveled in her struggle, knowing she was close. “You’ll wait until I say so," you commanded, your breath ragged with desire.

Not even a minute had passed before Ellie was vigorously shaking her head, her big green eyes welling up as they locked onto yours, begging with an adorable pout you knew would remain indefinitely until she got her way. But she wasn’t going to get shit. “I can’t… can’t,” Her whiny tone, desperate and pleading, sent a wave of amusement through you, drawing a bemused chuckle from your throat. 

“Does it look like I give a fuck?” Your voice was a low, hissed whisper dripping with devilish intent. You were so close to her face that you could see the desperation in her eyes. The auburnette let out a puppy-like whine as you denied her what she craved. All she could do was lie there, pleading with her eyes and whimpering in frustration. “Gonna be good for me.” And again, it wasn’t a request, it was a statement that left no room for disobedience. “Gonna hold it like a good girl.”

As your thrusts became more insistent, Ellie’s lips parted in a silent gasp, “You cum when I tell you to,” you repeated, emphasizing your words by increasing the speed of your hips. You relished watching her squirm and pant, her breasts bouncing with each movement. She couldn’t hold it anymore, and you knew it. Knowing the power you had over her made it all the better. 

Ellie’s body shook uncontrollably, her eyes squeezed shut, tears of pleasure streaming down her cheeks. You could see the conflict in her, the struggle to hold on. To her, it felt like she was about to walk through the gates of heaven, but you denied her that final step.

“P-please…please!” It made you proud, reducing her to nothing but a mess, a sobbing and pleading mess, and she was all yours to take advantage of, to ruin and destroy. A toy to play with. And she would take it all gladly.

Her doe eyes looked up at you pleadingly, begging for your permission, desperate for a sign, anything. 

Her mind completely shut off when you were on top of her, your body pressing against hers in a way that made her feel like a virgin all over again. Even though she had experienced sex multiple times before you, it was never like this, so intense, so passionate, with her emotions and thoughts all over the place. 

Ellie’s hands gripped your hips tightly. She didn’t know if she wanted to push you away or encourage you to keep going. Her abdomen tensed, holding onto her orgasm just like you had requested. “No, baby. Just wait for me,” your voice dropped to a velvety whisper as you leaned closer, your face mere inches from hers. A few strands of your silken locks found their way between the two of you, caressing her cheekbones and eliciting a slight scrunch of her nose in response. The ticklish sensations only lasted briefly, disappearing as soon as your hand encircled her neck, instantly transforming her expression into a mix of surprise. “Like the way my pussy feels?” Lewd noises filled the auburnette’s messy yet neatly organized room, and she was so loud you were sure the neighbors could hear you.

“It’s so… fuck… so wet,” she babbled between breathless cries and heavenly whimpers. The olive-eyed girl was breathtakingly beautiful as she gave herself over to you, taking everything you gave her with eagerness and lust. “Feel… so good.” Poor thing couldn’t even form proper sentences. Your stomach fluttered at her words, grinding harder and faster, and only after a few seconds, you felt it, too.

“Fuck, fuck,” You cursed under your breath as overwhelming pleasure took over your body, your eyes closing and your head rolling back in ecstasy. Your grasp around her neck became firmer, “Ellie…” The way you cried out her name would’ve been enough to make her cum right on the spot, but she had to hold it like you told her to. “Cum with me, baby. Wanna feel you,”

You didn’t even have to tell her twice. She was already spasming against your core, her puffy clit pulsating like crazy against yours. Between the two of you, Ellie couldn’t tell who was being the loudest, not that it was an issue, considering you were alone and Joel wouldn’t be back until later in the evening. 

When you and Ellie came down from your highs, you collapsed beside her. Despite her trying to pull you closer by wrapping her fern-tattooed arm around your waist, you rolled away, still panting and sweating. Her eyes flickered towards you, disappointment etching across her heavenly features, not understanding why you never stayed in bed cuddling after sex, each time hoping it’d be different, but it never was. The exhausted girl was also in disbelief—how could you be so energetic after sex? She will never understand.

“Where you going?” she rasped out, her green eyes never leaving your naked body, scanning your sweaty back to the way your bare chest heaved with each deep breath you took. You could feel her eyes on you, tracing every line and curve of your body. Her disappointment hung in the air, heavy and palpable. You knew she longed for those tender moments after each of your passionate encounters. 

“‘M sweating like crazy, gonna shower before your dad comes back,” You padded to her closet as if the space were your own, your steps soft on the carpeted floor. You riffled through the hangers, knowing where everything was. A crisp scent of laundry detergent and Ellie's perfume wafted into the room as you carefully pulled out a fresh pair of clothes. You didn’t even bother to ask for permission; after all, you had done this countless times before, staying at her place and acting like you lived there. In fact, you had even met her dad, and he had taken a genuine liking to you.

“And you should too, Angel Knives,” you taunted her, your gaze drifting to the floor near the bed, where her Savage Starlight shirt lay discarded. The shirt was clearly a favorite, judging by the faded lettering and the soft, worn fabric, and even then, Ellie refused to throw it away.

She rolled her eyes at your teasing words, sitting up on her bed. The nickname made her cheeks flush, a playful annoyance glinting in her eyes. You could see her struggle with wanting to protest and the realization that you were probably right, feeling the sticky humidity cling to her skin.

“You a fan, too?” she asked, peeking at you with a mix of curiosity and amusement. 

“Nah, my sister reads that nerdy shit.” You scoffed, rummaging through the drawers of her wardrobe, most likely hunting for fresh undies to wear. “Do you have anything that isn’t… Spider-Man boxers or–” You paused, pulling out banana-patterned boxers and letting it hang from your index finger. “...weird-lookin’ underwear?”

Ellie’s brow arched, a mock offense etched across her face. “Well, excuse you! I’ll have you know that boxers are highly comfortable,” she retorted playfully. “And they don’t ride up your ass like those damn thongs you wear.” She huffed out a laugh, clearly amused.

“Okay,” you shot her an unamused look. “You love my thongs,” you added, pointing your finger at her. 

She shrugged, the corners of her lips curving into a lopsided smile. “Never said I don’t. They’re just uncomfortable—why do you need a thong anyway? Who’re you getting ready for, hm?” She stood from her bed, reaching for her wrinkled shirt, forgotten on the messy floor.

“I’m not the one flirting with Alexa all day at work,” you snapped half-jokingly, seizing the opportunity to needle her, which made the auburnette roll her eyes and groan. It wasn’t the first time you’d complained about their friendship, convinced there was more to it than just friendly banter. You could see how Alexa looked at her, or whatever her name was—not that you gave a shit.

“Here we go again,” Ellie muttered under her breath, rubbing her damp forehead with the palm of her hand, clearly exasperated.

“Uh, sorry? Couldn’t hear you.” Your hands were already on your hips, staring at her, daring to say something more. Your authoritative demeanor, once effective, seemed to be losing its impact on her.

Ellie exhaled deeply, pulling her shirt over her head. Her hair was a tangled mess, her face still flushed from your recent activities. “Throwing that drink at her was unnecessary.”

“You smiling at her was unnecessary.”

“I was just being nice!” she protested defensively, her brows knitting together in frustration.

“Right.” You scoffed, finally picking out a pair of boxers, deliberately avoiding her gaze. Ellie frowned, her eyes tracking your every move. She picked up her dirty boxers from the ground and pulled them on, feeling the uncomfortable dampness of dried precum, but they’d do until you emerged from the bathroom and she could finally shower and freshen up.

“Babe, c’mon, it’s not like that. You know it isn’t.” Ellie’s voice softened, reaching out to touch your arm. Every fiber of her being seemed to be pleading for reassurance, comfort, and attention. She couldn’t handle it when you got pissy with her.

“Gonna shower,” you said flatly, your expression unreadable, as you walked away from her and disappeared into the bathroom. “Don’t join me,” Your words echoed behind the door you slammed shut, cutting off her access to you cruelly. 

But she did just the opposite. Ellie walked into the cramped shower after you, joining you in the steam-filled space. There was something about the steam of the shower and the sensual touch of her hands that immediately calmed you. She had learned how to soothe you just the way you liked, the combination of warm water, gentle caresses, and her worshiping touch making your body hum with pleasure. Soon, her name was a whispered plea on your lips.

When Joel returned home, the room felt like a still-life painting of quiet contentment. You and Ellie had already transformed, dressed up and looking more presentable than earlier. He stepped in and shut the door quietly, exhaling deeply, the weight of the day's burdens evident in the sigh that escaped his lips, a white cake box in his hand, which she recognized as the box from Maria’s bakery.

His tired, wrinkled eyes scanned the living room, taking in the remnants of your earlier feast—the pizza boxes stacked haphazardly on the coffee table, a testament to an easy, carefree evening. The two of you were nestled on the couch, your head resting gently on Ellie’s shoulder, your long lashes brushing against your cheeks, picture of serene slumber.

“Hey, kiddo,” Joel’s voice, a blend of gravel and warmth, broke the silence. His greeting was aimed at his daughter, who was still awake, her eyes fixed on the TV. The screen’s muted hum was a lullaby for you, drawing you deeper into the realm of dreams, while Ellie, her heart swelling with affection, watched over you, cherishing the sight of your peaceful expression. Ellie’s eyes lit up at her dad’s voice, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. She gently shifted, careful not to wake you, moving just enough to acknowledge Joel’s presence. 

His gaze softened as he looked at the two of you, seeing not just his daughter but also the close-knit friendship that had blossomed between you. It was a sight that brought a subtle, contented smile to his weathered face, glad that, for once, Ellie had stepped out of her comfort zone and made a new friend.

“Maria made a cake for you. She thought you were coming, too,” The middle-aged man said, swiftly placing the cake box on the table near the entrance and shrugging off his coat. “Your favorite.”

Maria loved to cook, not for herself, but for the people she cherished. She’d make Ellie’s favorite dishes whenever she knew Ellie was coming over, baking cookies or whatever the redhead craved.

Joel’s brother and his wife had always been like a second family to Ellie. Being a single dad wasn’t easy for Joel, and Tommy was always there to support him, as was his wife, Maria. She had been a rock for Ellie, comforting her during the turbulent waves of adolescence, like when she got her first period and cried hysterically in her arms. Maria was the mother Ellie never had, guiding her with gentle wisdom.

Whenever Joel became too suffocating, Tommy’s house was Ellie’s sanctuary, and Maria was the only woman she could pour her heart out to, complaining about how harsh her dad could be at times. Joel wasn’t a bad dad; he was trying his best. He was always willing to learn and adapt whenever he made mistakes, ready to listen to his daughter’s needs.

The young girl nodded at her dad’s words, the small movement causing your head to slip from her shoulder, waking you instantly. Your eyes darted to Joel, confused and half-asleep.

“Hi, Mr. Miller,” you yawned, straightening your posture and offering a soft smile.

“Thought we were past formalities, kid,” he responded with a half-smile. “Staying for the night?”

“Not this time. My mom’s coming back from a business trip,” you explained, glancing at Ellie for a moment before looking back at Joel.

Every time you looked at him, Ellie noticed a sparkle in your eyes, as if you were gazing at the most precious gem, something you desired but couldn’t have. Despite your wealth, the cinnamon-haired girl was unaware of how much richer she was in the things that truly mattered—she had a small house, yet it was full of joy, life, love, and a dad who would do anything for his daughter. 

Love. Something so simple yet elusive, even for people like you.

Ellie saw the bittersweet smile on your face whenever Joel teased her or made silly dad jokes to make her laugh. Your dad never cared, nor did your mom. They were too focused on appearances, money, and molding you into the perfect daughter, but never actually caring for you. They were always traveling for work, never home, no family dinners, no Sunday picnics in the park. They’d praise you and leave money in your hand, their fake and forced words ringing in your ears, making you smile even as your stomach churned with dissatisfaction and longing. But you wanted more than words. You wanted more than money could ever buy.

26th of August.

You unlocked the front door and entered your family’s mansion, the heavy wooden door creaking softly on its hinges. You held it open for Ellie, who hesitated for a moment before stepping inside. She had never been to your place before, and with both of your parents gone for the week on business, you had seized the opportunity to bring her over.

The mansion was pristine, everything looking like it had been plucked straight out of a glossy magazine. The warm hues of the hardwood floors and the soft, ambient lighting softened the clean lines of the modern furniture. 

Yet, despite its beauty, the house felt impersonal, like a perfectly staged showroom devoid of any real warmth. The pristine walls were adorned with a few framed photographs—mostly of your parents’ wedding, your first birthday, and a picture of your dad at what appeared to be a promotion party. No clutter, no personal touches. It was a house, not a home.

“Make yourself at home,” you kicked off your shoes and placed them neatly on the shoe rack by the entrance. Ellie hummed in response, her eyes roaming around the space as she wandered deeper into the house, her backpack still slung over her shoulder.

Her gaze remained fixed on the picture frame, a puzzled expression on her face as she asked, “Is this your sister?”

“Sister? What sister?” Your reply came out quick and unfeeling, as if the mention of a sibling was foreign to you. 

Ellie’s eyebrow arched in skepticism at your dismissive tone, clearly certain of what she was saying. “You told me you had a sister,” she repeated, her gaze unwavering as she tried to jog your memory. Confusion evident on your face, she continued, “You know, the Savage Starlight fan…?” she prompted, recalling the conversation, her confusion deepening as you remained oblivious to what she was talking about. 

“I never said that,” you scoffed, “Maybe your brain is scrambled from all the weed you smoke on breaks with Dina.” Ellie’s eyes widened slightly at your accusation, a flicker of surprise and amusement crossing her face.

“Whaa—”

“Ooooh, thought I wouldn’t notice?” you teased, a playful chuckle escaping your lips. You adopted a mock scolding expression, pinching her waist gently, making her squirm and jump away from you.

“Hey!” she exclaimed, raising her hands protectively in front of her abdomen. A playful grin tugged at the corners of her mouth. “It only happened once.”

“Uh-huh,” you responded, your skepticism evident in your tone.

“...or twice,” she added, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

“Uh-huh,” you repeated, giving her a look that was a mix of disbelief and amusement.

Ellie chuckled, the sound warm and genuine, echoing through the otherwise silent mansion. She dropped her backpack by the foot of the couch and flopped down onto the plush cushions, sinking into their softness. You watched her for a moment, the way she seemed to bring life into the sterile environment, her presence a stark contrast to the usual cold perfection of your home.

“Seriously though,” she started, looking up at you with a more earnest expression. “Thanks for inviting me over. Your place is... well, it’s pretty amazing.”

You shrugged, trying to play it cool, but her words brought a small, genuine smile to your lips. “It’s just a house,” you said, dismissing the compliment. “But you’re welcome.”

Ellie nodded, her eyes drifting back to the framed photos on the wall. She seemed lost in thought, her fingers tracing patterns on the couch fabric absentmindedly. “So, what do you want to do?” 

A sly grin graced your lips, the corners of your mouth curving up. “Well, with the parents away, we’ve got the place to ourselves. I was thinking we could order Mexican food, watch a movie, and just hang out. Sound good?”

Ellie’s face lit up with a genuine smile. “Yeah, sounds perfect.”

She ended up staying for more than just the night. One night turned into two days, then three, with Ellie insisting she couldn’t leave you all by yourself while your parents were gone. “I’ll keep you great company,” she had said with a mischievous grin.

Your days in her company were a blissful blur of sex, cuddles, kisses, and more sex. 

Rinse and repeat.

You groggily woke up one morning, instinctively reaching out for her, but the soft white sheets beside you were empty and cold. The faint scent of something sweet hung in the air, mixing with the lingering vanilla from the candles you had lit the night before, back when Ellie had eaten you out so good that it put you to sleep.

Sitting up, you rubbed the sleepiness from your eyes. Ellie’s over-sized shirt hung loosely on your body, brushing against your thighs as you stood. Your steps were almost inaudible as you padded toward the kitchen, drawn by the soft sounds and sweeter smells.

There she was, by the stove, flipping golden pancakes with practiced ease. A soft smile spread across your face as you admired her quietly. The morning light tiptoed through the window, casting a gentle glow on her goddess-like features. She hummed a tune to herself, a song you didn’t recognize, so engrossed in her task that it made your heart swell, a warm and unfamiliar feeling creeping up into your chest.

You walked up behind Ellie quietly, wrapping your arms around her waist. She jumped slightly, her humming stopping abruptly, before chuckling softly. “You scared the shit outta me,” she murmured, revealing her perfect pearly teeth in a smile you were too late to see. You pressed your cheek against her back, hugging her tightly. One of her hands gripped the spatula expertly while the other came to rest on top of your forearms, which were snugly hugging her waist.

“Sorry,” you mumbled softly, still half asleep.

Ellie laughed gently, the sound a soothing balm to your sleepy mind. “Didn’t hear you coming.”

You nuzzled closer, inhaling her scent, a mix of morning freshness and something uniquely her. God, you loved her smell. “Pancakes?”

“Yep,” she said, flipping another perfectly golden one. “Figured you’d wake up hungry after last night.” she teased.

“Oh, haha” 

She chuckled again, a warm, melodic sound that filled the kitchen. “I made a whole stack.”

You stayed like that for a moment, just enjoying the simple intimacy of the morning. The pancakes sizzled in the pan, the smell of syrup and vanilla mingling in the air. The light continued to play across the room, casting a halo around Ellie’s head, making her look even more divine.

Finally, you loosened your grip, and she turned around, her eyes meeting yours with a tender look that made your heart skip a beat. “Breakfast is almost ready,” she informed you softly, her fingers brushing a strand of hair from your face.

“You didn’t have to,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. Ellie didn’t have to go out of her way like that. Not even your own mother bothered to show that level of care. She never worried if you had eaten while she was out all day in meetings or away for a whole week on a work trip. Ellie really didn’t have to be so incredibly kind to you, to spoil you, to push you to your limits at night only to care for you in the morning. And the worst part was that you were becoming accustomed to it.

Ellie leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “I wanted to,” she murmured.

You smiled up at her, feeling a swell of emotion you couldn’t quite put into words—it was nothing you had felt before. It wasn’t just the sex or the cuddles or the endless nights of talking and laughing. Moments like this, simple and pure, made you realize just how much the auburnette actually meant to you. That’s when a sudden wave of worry washed over you, wondering what it would be like if all this was ripped from you. It all felt too perfect to be real.

“Where’d you even learn to make pancakes?” you suddenly asked in disbelief, your eyes fixed on the impeccable stack of pancakes sitting on a plate atop the glistening white marble. They looked like they had emerged from a step-by-step tutorial video or one of those captivating cooking shows on TV. The kind of pancakes that you’d attempt to recreate but could never quite make as beautiful as the ones on the screen.

“Maria,” Ellie smirked, clearly proud of her cooking skills. “You should try hers. They’re sooo good.”

The morning continued, filled with laughter, stolen kisses, and inside jokes. Ellie insisted on washing the dishes, her movements swift and efficient as she tidied up the usually immaculate kitchen. She almost felt guilty for using and messing it up in the first place.

You leaned against the living room door frame, watching Ellie with a soft smile. Her fingers traced over the spines of the vinyls on the shelf near the record player, curiosity etched on her face.

“That’s all my dad’s,” you said, tugging her back from her reverie. “But I doubt he’s ever used it once,” you added, a wistful sigh escaping your lips.

Ellie turned to you, her brows raised in curiosity. She had seen a vinyl record once at one of Joel’s friends’ places when she was a kid. Bill had a bunch of vintage stuff, and she had asked if she could try it, only to get a gruff, “Don’t you even try, you little shit,” in response. That had obviously been met with a scolding glare from her dad.

She hummed in acknowledgment. “Does it even work?” she asked, her fingertips tracing the edge of the record player.

“‘Course it does. I use it all the time,” you revealed. Ellie’s eyes darted to the vinyl in the player, assuming it was only for decoration before your words. You walked over and placed the needle on the record, the familiar crackle filling the room before the first notes of a ‘The Smiths’ song began to play.

Ellie laughed in disbelief. “The Smiths, really?” she teased, a hint of humor in her tone. She couldn’t help but find it jarring that this soft, romantic song didn’t mesh with the polished, cool exterior you usually projected.

“Surprised?” you teased back, a glint of challenge sparking in your eyes. “There’s more to me than meets the eye, you know,” you whispered mischievously. 

Ellie smiled, shaking her head. “I guess so.” She moved closer, her hands finding their way to your waist as the music played softly in the background. “What other secrets are you hiding?”

You wrapped your arms around her neck, pulling her closer as you swayed together, your bodies moving in perfect synchrony. Her body was warm and soft against yours; you couldn’t help but tease her in return, a playful smirk on your face. “Wouldn’t you like to find out?” you echoed, your voice low and suggestive. 

The room seemed to constrict around you, the music creating an intimate bubble that isolated you from the rest of the world. Ellie traced patterns on your back, her breath warm and comforting against your neck. The song played on, its melancholic lyrics weaving a spell around you as if the music herself had woven a net to capture the moment. 

Her gentle laughter, a delicate and enchanting sound, intertwined with the lyrics, creating a mesmerizing harmony in the air. Leaning in, she whispered, “Oooh, I want to know everything about you,” her words caressing your lips before capturing them in a soft, lingering kiss. Time seemed to stand still in that moment as if transported into a surreal dream or a romantic movie scene.

The moment the kiss shifted down to your neck, you instinctively tilted your head, surrendering to her touch and allowing her to explore the sensitive flesh with her lips. Your eyes fluttered shut, a soft hum of pleasure escaping from your throat as you leaned completely against her, letting her control the slow, swaying motion of your bodies. 

Ellie mumbled something against your neck, her words lost as she continued a trail of soft kisses along the sensitive flesh. Your mind was hazy with pleasure, your body responding instinctively to her touch. “Hmm?” you hummed, realizing you hadn't entirely caught what she said.

“I said I love the Smiths.” The redhead repeated herself, pulling away from you to meet your eyes, her dilated pupils fixed intently on yours, her mouth shaped in a sheepish, dumbfounded smile. In that moment, you could see firsthand how love had a way of making even the toughest person look utterly idiotic. 

You grinned widely at her words, your hand reaching out to tenderly tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Your gaze flicked down to her lips, a sly gleam in your eyes before you abruptly crushed your lips against hers. Her eyes widened momentarily, a pair of small, smiling wrinkles forming at the corners before she melted into the kiss, her hands needily pulling your body closer to hers, almost tripping as she stumbled backward.

28th of August.

Ellie’s sobs filled your ears, a melody of desperation and delight, messy and unrestrained. Her body was a masterpiece, splattered with a riot of purple paint, accented with hot pink and blue, those elusive spots that refused to blend together, tangible proof of her impatience. She lay sprawled on the largest canvas your dad’s studio could offer, a living, breathing work of art.

It all began with an innocent, trivial question. “What’s with the face paint?” Ellie’s eyes widened with wonder as she caught sight of the face paint set tucked away in your bathroom. The tubes were crusty with dried paint, a relic of past experiments, and her inquisitive nature couldn’t resist the lure of discovering more about you. 

She needed to know everything about you.

One thing led to another, and soon, you were painting her body a delicate shade of blue. Flowers bloomed around her areolas, her pink nipples hardening instantly as the brush’s bristles teased her sensitive skin, causing giddy giggles to erupt from her. Her thighs, once adorned with intricate floral patterns, now bore the marks of your passion, a chaotic blend of colors that turned into a deep purple.

You continued your creative spree, doodling and pouring your love into each stroke, turning her into your personal canvas. She lay there, naked and willing, on the actual canvas, her body the perfect medium for your artistic expression. She was so fucking perfect. Prettier than any supermodel. Your instrument moved across her honeyed flesh, connecting the dark, espresso-colored dots to create unique constellations. Your brushstrokes caressed her skin like a stargazer tracing patterns in the night sky.

When she was given the chance, Ellie’s hands moved with an unexpected elegance, sketching whimsical, Van Gogh-esque drawings on your soft, supple skin. But your features were so perfect, so divine, that they hardly needed any embellishment. And Ellie was nothing more than a devoted disciple, ready to worship your body at any second. She tried her best not to ruin her masterpiece by pouncing on you, but the temptation was too strong. She pressed her body against yours, her pink-stained hands exploring your form, leaving behind a beautiful mess on the once-blank canvas beneath you.

In a heartbeat, you had Ellie pressed against the canvas that would soon become a masterpiece. Her body was sprawled across the expanse of white as you trapped her beneath you, enclosing her with your thighs like the frame around a piece of art.

You were dead sure all those well-known artists would be jealous, their hands trembling with envy at the passion you poured into each other. Each movement etched another stroke as you worked together, painting love into existence, daring history itself to look away.

Your fingers worked relentlessly inside her, thrusting with a fierce, almost reckless abandon. You watched the redhead quiver and squirm, her soft sobs echoing through the vast mansion, filling the silence with a melody of need and desire. The mansion felt so empty, yet so complete with the addictive sounds of her pleasure.

“Just a bit more, pretty girl. Gonna make such a cute painting, yeah?” you purred, your tone dripping with sugary sweetness. Your free hand held her hips down firmly, abandoning her tits to focus on the task at hand.

Ellie nodded, crying out your name, her legs twitching and threatening to clamp around your hand, trapping it between her toned, plush thighs. Thighs that bore the marks of your love from the night before, purple love bites adorning her slightly tanned skin. Purple suited her so well, whether it was the paint or the love marks you left behind.

“I’m gonna hang this masterpiece where I can see it every day. A reminder of how fucking perfect you are,” you murmured, voice like liquid sin, your pink-stained knees planted firmly on either side of her hips as you hovered over her, your body a kaleidoscope of passion painted in wild strokes of color. Your lips brushed against hers, whispering sweet nothings; your words ignited a flurry of excitement in her stomach, making her insides perform all sorts of acrobatic feats at every syllable that escaped your lips. The idea of you displaying both of your bodies—or, well, the mess you two had made on the canvas while you destroyed the shit out of her—turned her on even more and made her feel special; it made her feel oddly appreciated.

Your fingers, slick and relentless, plunged deeper inside her, exploring her depths like an artist lost in the throes of creation. “Babe… g’na cum again,” she panted, her voice trembling with a mix of desperation and anticipation. Her hands, stained with pink and blue, clung to your arm, leaving smears of paint like love notes on your skin.

“I’m not stopping until you do,” you promised with a wicked grin, your free hand roaming her body, feeling the curves and dips like a sculptor molding clay. Your breasts hovered over her smaller ones, purposely rubbing your hard nipples against hers in a slow, sensual motion, feeling her chest rise and fall with each breath, “Muses deserve to be worshiped.”

The auburnette couldn't agree more; her sketchbook was filled with drawings of you. Every line, every curve, every feature of your face and body were etched onto the pages as if they were a permanent fixture in her mind. The sketches captured your essence in a way that words could never fully describe. The casual moments she had spent observing you burned into her memory, and she felt compelled to translate them onto paper. 

She had never shown them to you, of course, and she hoped you would never find out. The sketches were her secret stash of stolen memories, snapshots of intimate interactions, a reminder of the unique connection she shared with you that words alone could never capture.

Ellie’s back arched, pressing her painted body closer to yours, the heat between you both almost unbearable. The canvas beneath you was a riot of color, a testament to your passionate union, each brushstroke a symbol of a moment where flesh met flesh.

“You’re my fucking masterpiece,” you rasped, fingers working faster, deeper, drawing out her pleasure with every thrust. The sounds escaping her lips were almost musical in their intensity—mewls and whines so high-pitched and fervent.

Ellie cried out, the sound echoing through the usually silent mansion, a symphony of unfiltered sinful pleasure. Her legs wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer, her body trembling with the intensity of her orgasm. You felt her cunt squeeze your fingers, her release painting you in a mess of sticky wetness and raw need, mixing with the paint all over each of you. 

Your sacred nectar dripped onto the rough canvas, merging with the pink and blue stains like a varnish promising to seal the artwork, smudge-proof. But it wasn’t enough; it was never enough for you. You always pushed Ellie past her limits.

As the emerald-eyed girl came, you left her no time to recover from her orgasm. “Sit on my face,” you commanded. You never just asked—you took whatever you wanted, doing as you pleased. And she complied, like a good brainless little thing, letting you use her, just like always.

“Am I too… heavy? Can you breathe?” The questions rolled off Ellie’s tongue, her anxious mind racing. She was almost afraid of putting any weight on your face; the last thing she wanted was to hurt you. Oh, if she knew how much you wanted to suffocate between those toned thighs.

Blue-stained hands gripped her hips firmly, dragging her down onto you. You huffed at her nervous questions. “Just like you’d sit on a chair,” you instructed. She let you control her every movement, shivering as your breath ghosted over her wetness, her hand resting gently on your abdomen to steady herself.

You took a moment to admire the mess you had made of her, translucent cum coating her cunt and various colors painting her body, making her look like a beautiful mess. “So messy,” you murmured, your voice muffled. Your tongue traced along her slit, gathering every drop of her essence with your muscle. You teased her entrance with your tongue but never quite stuffing it inside, instead traveling to her swollen clit.

Ellie squirmed and jerked away from your face, still incredibly sensitive, but you stopped her in her tracks, gripping her hips to keep her anchored to your mouth. She cried out as you teased her throbbing nub, applying the smallest pressure, and she couldn’t take it anymore.

“Oh my god…” she gasped, her head thrown back, mouth agape in a silent cry, eyes rolling back as you began to suck gently. But when she looked past her shoulder and took note of your paint-smeared thighs, the way you rubbed them together in search of desperately needed friction. She couldn’t drown the urge to make you feel good. You were always so good to her, taking care of her body with fervent dedication and love, and she wanted to do the exact same thing to you. Ellie swiftly turned to lay on top of you, her body adhering to yours perfectly, mixing paint with sweat and cum; she gently parted your legs to bury her face between them. Her fingertips traced a delicate pattern, and a shiver ran through your body, goosebumps erupting on your skin at the feather-light devoted touch.  

Your body shivered with anticipation as she began to play with your sensitive core, her long fingers circling your entrance and making you grow more impatient by the second. The auburnette couldn’t help but smirk at your urgent movements, watching as you bucked against her, desperately needing more from her touch. 

There was an unspoken competition between the two of you. You were determined to make Ellie come before you, and she had the same goal in mind for you. Her fingers filled you, her mouth on your clit, sucking harshly, as if she was drawing life itself from you, making it hard to focus on anything but the building tension in your belly.

Your paint-smudged face contorted, a beautiful blend of frustration and ecstasy, as you succumbed to the overwhelming knot tightening in your stomach. Your thoughts were scattered, unable to focus on the task ahead anymore. What prevailed was the connection between you, a cosmic collision that was both fierce and gentle, like the merging of planets, or the joining of stars.  

Your mouth left Ellie’s core, your nails sunk into the plump flesh of her colored ass, paint collecting under the nails, and your eyes squeezed shut. The redhead’s mind was lost in the filthy noises you were making, so lewd and animalistic. She was eagerly slurping on you, tongue flicking against your clit, her digits coated in the slick wetness that was pouring out of you with each pump of her slender fingers. 

Ellie’s rough fingers dug deeper and deeper, and as soon as she added a third finger, you came; she enjoyed the feeling of you pulsating around her so much, like a kid who had found the toy they had wished for under the Christmas tree. You left a trail of crimson nail marks etched onto her skin, a vivid reminder of the moment that would replay endlessly in her mind like a film caught in a loop.

Her hands glided over your trembling thighs, fingers tracing gentle reassurances in the paint that anchored you in the moment. “Did so good for me,” Ellie murmured, her voice a soft caress that warmed your skin like sunlight filtering through leaves. For a heartbeat, it felt as though roles had reversed. But the shift was fleeting, like a breeze that stirs the leaves for only a moment. Her breath hitched as your mouth found its place again. Her voice caught in her throat, countless stifled sounds bouncing around the room as you pressed on, more determined than ever to bring her to her orgasm.

The ivy-eyed girl gasped, the word “fuck” tumbling from her lips, raw and unguarded, as her body shifted above you. But you held her close, your arms encircling her, a protective, possessive cage that kept her pressed against you, unable to escape. Your grip left marks, but she didn’t mind; they were reminders of the intensity of this moment, of how much you needed her. Her hips moved with a desperate rhythm against your tongue, her essence mingling with your own, painting your chin with slick saccharine juices. “I’m close again,” she warned, her words more of a plea than a warning.

“You’re so fucking good at this,” Ellie breathed, the words tumbling out in a mess of praise that barely held meaning, but you understood them perfectly. You continued your worship, devouring her like she was the first taste of sweetness after a lifetime of bitterness like you had never known anything more intoxicating than the flavor of her. And it was true. She rode the waves of her peak, her hips undulating in a rhythm you wished you could capture, freeze in time, and replay endlessly just to marvel at the poetry of her movements.

When she finally shattered, you made sure to savor every fragment of her, to pull every last drop of her essence into you, draining her completely. She was your ambrosia, a feast for a hunger you hadn’t known you carried until you met her. And there was something almost unholy in how desperately you craved every part of her, a need that would remain your secret. She didn’t need to know all that.

You lay there together, bodies tangled in a heap of sweat and colors, the aftermath of your passions a vivid painting that had yet to dry. Your breaths mingled, an echo of exhaustion and contentment, until finally, the euphoria began to fade. You helped each other to your feet, and together, you made your way to the bathroom, the remnants of your creative explosion still clinging to your skin, a Picasso of emotions splashed across your bodies, leaving the actual canvas you had fucked her on laying on the floor, drying.

The moment you two stepped into the shower, steam began filling the bathroom, sticking to your paint-splattered skin. It felt oddly intimate, a sensation that left you struggling to comprehend how taking a shower with Ellie could feel so profound. You had showered together countless times, often after sex and sometimes leading right back into it, your hands unable to keep to themselves, drawn to explore and touch.

But this time was different. Neither of you spoke nor dared disturb the comfortable peace that had formed in this box-shaped sanctuary. Yet, without words, you were communicating more deeply than ever. Ellie’s touch wasn’t hungry or greedy; she wasn’t pulling you closer to satisfy her own desires. Her hands moved with a tenderness that almost made you cry as she carefully massaged the soap onto your skin. 

Have you ever been touched like this before?

Her green eyes watched your body with such love and care, meeting your gaze with an intensity that spoke louder than words. It was as if you could hear the unspoken confession that echoed in her mind like a haunting refrain she couldn’t shake off. She didn’t want to overstep, didn’t want to scare you away, but the feeling was there.

Your eyes remained locked on each other, the silence both comforting and suffocating, your minds plagued by the same simple yet devastating confession.

“I love you.”

But neither of you dared to say it. The fear of such vulnerability held you back. You had never felt this way before. Your heart and mind, usually so guarded, ached with the desire to be loved, to be unwrapped and discovered like a precious gift. There was so much more to you than the expensive clothes, the money, the bitchy attitude, and the snarky comments. She saw it all. She could see right through you.

And that’s when it clicked. You kept Ellie around, not just because she didn’t let your bullshit faze her and snapped right back at you like a boomerang, but because she made you feel seen. This feeling of being truly seen was the most terrifying thing in the world. It sounded so simple, so stupid even. Wasn’t that what everyone wanted? To be seen?

Not when it came with the power to destroy you, to leave you in pieces if they ever decided to walk away.

Only when you had stepped out of the shower did you finally speak, both of you trying to ignore the intense moment that had just transpired. You pretended it wasn’t there, that the feelings and infatuation didn’t linger in the steam-filled air. Ellie helped you wrap a clean towel around your body, her touch lingering just a fraction too long, and you did the same for her, your hands brushing her skin with a familiarity that felt both comforting and dangerous.

“When are they coming back again?” she asked, breaking the sacred silence, her voice soft. Her crystalline eyes bore into yours with an intensity that made you almost uncomfortable, compelling you to look away. 

She could sense it—like a truffle-hunting dog, she picked up on the uncertainty, the fear radiating from you. But she didn’t call you out on it, not even when you turned your back to her, pretending to be too busy tidying up the self-care products scattered on the gray marble of the sink.

You busied yourself with arranging the bottles and jars, your hands moving with a mechanical precision. “The day after tomorrow, but I invited my friends over tonight,” you announced, your voice cutting through the thick silence.

The auburnette hummed in acknowledgment, a sound that felt more like a placeholder than a response. You sighed, the weight of the moment pressing down on you, and turned to look at her. An apologetic, guilty expression painted your face.

“What?” she mumbled, her brows lifting ever so slightly, confusion knitting them together. She couldn’t read your expression or decipher the tangled thoughts wandering through your mind.

“It’s gonna be a girls’ night.”

Ellie’s brows arched in perplexity, and she huffed out a chuckle. “I’m a girl too,” she uttered, the confusion clear in her voice, her eyes searching yours for clarity.

“No, I meant... I want time alone with my friends.” You could see the shift in her eyes, the realization settling in like a storm cloud, darkening the light in her gaze.

She let out a scoff, her voice tinged with sarcasm as a bitter expression took over her features, her freckles standing out like splatters of ink against the canvas of her anger-flushed cheeks. “Ah, yeah, sure.” She could feel her patience slipping away at your bewildered and wide-eyed look as if she had been waiting for this very moment to unleash her true thoughts. The meadow-eyed girl’s expression hardened, a slight frown crossing her face as she prepared to speak her mind. “Is it that or the fact that you’re ashamed of me?”

“What are you on about?”

“C’mon, Y/N, I’m not fucking stupid.” She shook her head in disappointment, her eyes clouded with hurt. “I thought we were past this bullshit.”

You chuckled, a hollow sound that echoed off the marble walls, trying to brush off her words and dismiss them, just like you always did whenever you wanted to avoid confrontation. “You’re overthinking it.”

But she wasn’t having it, not this time. Ellie stood there, the dampness of the shower still clinging to her skin, her frustration palpable. Her eyes, usually a soft haven, were now sharp and piercing, searching yours for any sign of the truth you were so desperate to hide. 

“Yeah, say all you want. I know what you’re doing.” Her voice raised ever so slightly, her flushed face contorted in anger. A few baby hairs stuck to her damp and humid forehead, a loose strand escaping her little bun and framing her face like a wild halo. “What about when we’re gonna date, like, officially?” she blurted out, frustration dripping from every syllable.

“Date?” you scoffed, your voice softer than hers, your expression starkly contrasting her intensity, almost… mocking.

“Yes, date. What the fuck are we?”

“Ellie, do not start with this again,” you grumbled, annoyed, your eyes rolling at her question. “We’re having fun, that’s what we are.”

Her eyes narrowed, the hurt and anger blending into a storm behind her gaze. “Having fun, really?” she echoed, disbelief and desperation lacing her words. 

“We’re having fun, Ellie. Isn’t that enough?” you snapped back, arms crossed, your posture defensive, closing off like a fortress. The air between you felt electric, charged with the tension of unspoken truths and buried fears.

“Enough? For who?” she shot back, her voice cracking with emotion. “For you, maybe. But not for me. I need more than just ‘fun.’ I need to know what this is. What we are.”

You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose, the weight of her words pressing down on you. “We’re just… Can’t we just keep it simple for now?”

“Simple?” The freckled girl’s scoff was sharp, her head shaking in disbelief as she tried to banish the tears that threatened to well up in her eyes. She refused to let you see her cry, to give you the satisfaction of thinking that she was weak, that you had any power over her emotions, feeding your ego like some kind of gluttonous beast. “You call this simple? Hiding me from your friends, pretending like we’re just hooking up? That’s not simple; that’s cowardice.”

Her words stung, each one a dagger to your carefully constructed defenses. “It’s not like that. It’s just... complicated.”

“Complicated? Or are you just scared?” she challenged, stepping closer, her eyes locking onto yours with a fierce intensity. “Scared of what this could be. Scared of letting yourself feel something real.” she had this almost devilish smirk on her face, “Have you ever even been in love before?”

The accusation hung in the air, heavy and undeniable. Ellie was right, and you knew it. The truth was, you were terrified. Terrified of how deeply you felt for her, terrified of what it would mean to let her in, truly and completely. Not again, at least; it was something you couldn’t afford.

The fear was suffocating, and you couldn’t bring yourself to admit the truth. Not yet. “I just need time,”  you whispered, your voice barely audible over the pounding of your heart.

“Time,” Ellie repeated, her voice hollow. “How much time? Because I’m here, right now, ready to give you everything. But I won’t wait forever.”

You looked at her, really looked at her, and saw the vulnerability she was laying bare. The silence between you was deafening, a chasm that threatened to swallow you both whole.

“Ellie, I…” you started, but the words caught in your throat, tangled in the web of your own fear.

“Forget it,” she said, turning away, her shoulders slumping in defeat. “Just forget it.”

She walked past you, bumping your shoulder as she stormed off, her footsteps echoing in the tile-lined hallway. She rushed to your room, her movements frantic and determined, immediately gathering her clothes—everything. By the time you ran after her, the auburnette was already half-dressed, slipping on the last piece of clothing. The distance between you felt insurmountable, and you realized with a sinking heart that you might have just lost the best thing you never knew you needed.

You stared at her with wide eyes, your fear laid bare. “El, c’mon. Stop acting like this.” You tried to shake her out of it, but it was clear she wasn’t going to sit there like a good puppy and let your lies control her every decision. Not this time.

She kept pacing back and forth quickly, shoving her belongings into her backpack with an urgency that broke your heart. You walked towards her, reaching for her arm. “Baby, hey, look at me.” Despite the softness in your voice, she snatched her arm away from your grasp.

“Don’t fucking ‘baby’ me,” she snapped, her voice a whip crack in the tense air.

“Let’s talk about it, please,” you pleaded, desperation creeping into your tone, something you never even dared to do, not even in your wildest dreams.

She paused for a moment, her back to you, her shoulders trembling with the effort to hold back tears. “Talk about what?” she finally said, her voice breaking. “Talk about how you’re too scared of being seen with me? How you’d rather hide me away rather than face your stupid fucking friends? Or…  whatever it is you're scared of.”

Your silence spoke volumes, the truth too heavy to put into words. “Ellie, I’m trying. I really am.”

“Trying?” she repeated, her voice laced with bitter disbelief. She turned to face you, her eyes red-rimmed and shining with unshed tears. “I can’t keep doing this, Y/N. I can’t keep waiting for you to decide if I’m worth the risk.”

Her words sliced through your soul like the bite of a razor-sharp blade, the sheer weight of her anguish resonating deep within your very bones. You wanted to reach out, to pull her into your arms and promise her the world, but the fear held you back, a dark shadow whispering doubts into your ear.

“Ellie, please,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “Don’t go.”

She shook her head, the finality of her decision clear in her eyes. “I can’t stay,” she said softly. “Not like this.”

“Hey, hey, stop it. Don’t.” You stepped right in front of her, stopping her in her tracks. Your hands gently cradled her face, and you gazed intently into her intense emerald eyes. You pressed your forehead against hers, your breaths mingling as you held her gaze.

Ellie’s hands delicately rested on top of yours, her voice barely audible as your name escaped her lips like a gentle sigh. Her long eyelashes fluttered closed briefly, as if the moment’s intensity was enough to take her breath away, leaving her feeling overwhelmed.

“You don’t wanna leave,” Your voice was soft and soothing as your thumb tenderly caressed the freckled plane of her cheekbone, your words a silent plea that you couldn't bring yourself to speak aloud.

Why not simply reveal your feelings, confessing that you loved her just as much as she loved you? Why not lay bare your heart and express how her absence leaves an aching void within you, a void that can only be filled by her presence alone? Pride had a way of ruining everything, an invisible force that drove wedges between hearts. Add to that fear of vulnerability, and the situation becomes even more dire, a toxic combination that threatens to destroy even the strongest connections.

You couldn’t bring yourself to say it, the words caught in your throat like thorns. And so, Ellie left, slipping away like sand through your fingers. 

You watched as she zipped up her backpack and slung it over her shoulder, her steps heavy as she walked past you. The door clicked shut behind her, the sound echoing in your ears like a death knell taking with her that little warmth only she could provide, your house growing uncomfortably cold and empty again.

Back to the origin.

FINALLY SOME ICE APPRECIATION OMG

SWEETEST GIRL ON CAMPUS • a ice brady fic

ice brady's pov ❀ fic collab with @ayannatv

Isuneh 'Ice' Brady • Freshman • UConn #25 • The Watcher

Isis Li Arnold • Freshman • UConn Cheerleader • The Pretty Girl

sweet / i thought you wanted to dance by ttc

conceited by sza

all mine by brent faiyaz

bound 2 by kanye west

japanese denim by daniel caesar

bad habit by steve lacy

bed peace by jhene aiko

my kind of women by mac demarco

white ferrari by frank ocean

boy is a gun* by tyler the creator

summers over interlude by drake

firefly by childish gambino

end by frank ocean

Leilani Creed • Sophomore • UConn Dancer • Isis's Bestfriend

Neveah Saint • Freshman • Art Club • Isis's Bestfriend

Solangelo my children

“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.”

Where are the fics where reader is the baddest bitch on the planet and the boy is on his knees begging for a SECOND her attention.

THIS WAS SO CUTE AND SAD HOLY SHIT

the sun & it’s shadow

pairing: percy jackson x fem!nike!reader (platonic)

genre: fluff, angsty, & violence

word count: literally no clue. started to write it on here & was on a role & never transferred it to goggle docs

warning(s): NOT PROOF READ! (i will do it once i have time), mention of reader death (so sorry), timeskippy (first part takes place in the pjo show season 1 & the second takes place during the 5th book), mentions of sun!reader & shadow!percy, mentions of blood + traitor siblings + murder

note: i tried to make this poetic but very much failed at it so enjoy my attempt :) <3

The sun is many things. In realistic terms, it’s a glowing ball of gas in the middle of our solar system. In metaphorical terms, it is something that gives life and provides warmth for those on Earth. It’s a vital source of life that humans cannot live without. And for Percy Jackson, (Y/N) (L/N) was the sun.

She was one of the first people he met at Camp Half-Blood.

(Y/N) had been on her way to sit with her half-siblings when she noticed a petit blond boy sitting by himself during dinner. He had been left abandoned by the Hermes cabin as they did their nightly offerings to their godly parent. Occasionally, he’d stab his fork into whatever was on his plate and push it around, clearly disinterested in what was in front of him. (Y/N) quickly changed course and decided that she was going to sit with the lonely boy instead. Her siblings would see her later in the night anyway.

Percy felt her before he saw her, blue eyes darting up from the mashed and jumbled food in front of him to the figure approaching. The light hair on his eyebrow bone furrowed together in confusion at the sight. But before he could express his confusion, the girl opened her mouth and began to speak.

“Hi, I’m (Y/N). You must be Percy, right? I’d say it’s a pleasure to welcome you to Camp Half-Blood, but it never really is. Especially on your first day”.

The young boy let out a small snort at her saying, a small, but genuine, smile painting his lips.

“Nice to meet you, (Y/N)”.

During the entirety of their conversation, Percy swore he could see literal light shine from the body of the daughter of Nike. Maybe even a little more whenever she smiled. She produced such a warm and comforting aura that Percy found himself seeking solace in her presence nearly every day. She was a comfort that was not being provided anywhere else at Camp Half-Blood. He truly believed that she was a literal interpretation of the sun, even from the first moment he saw her.

He often bugged Luke about her. Requesting that she be the one to show him around and show him how to properly fight. Albeit Luke being basically the best option of being Percy’s mentor, the boy only wanted the sun. He used the excuse of her being the literal daughter of Nike, Goddess of Victory. She surely had to have better, if not as good, swordskills as Luke. The elder son of Hermes eventually gave in, only for a week though, then it was back to business.

“Your elbows too low. It needs to be level with the hilt of the sword,” she’d speak to him in such a gentle voice that his mind often wondered to his Mother and her tenderness. “Your grip needs to be loosened. It’s too tight”.

The more she spoke, the more Percy found himself soaking in her advice and actually listening to her. She made it easy to listen. Her voice was as soft as honey and as sweet as his blue gummy candy. She never raised her voice nor scolded him when he got something wrong. Her touch was so soft that Percy barely felt her fingertips brush the point of his elbow as she corrected his stance as needed. He flourished under her watch and it was noticeable.

“Your skills are improving,” Luke heaved, picking back up his sword as the young son of Poseidon managed to disarm him within minutes of them dueling. “Your lessons with (Y/N) are really paying off huh?”.

Pride swelled within Percy’s chest at Luke’s comment, a smile spreading across his lips. He was proud of the improvement he has made in such little time and the only person he could think to thank is you.

“If I’d know any better, I’d say she’s a better mentor than me,” the son of Hermes grinned, slight disgust and jealousy tugged at his stomach. He felt Percy slipping through his hands and he needed to act quick before he lost the demigod for good.

“Perhaps,” Percy smirked, happy with the result.

When it was time for his first quest, the young twelve-year-old found himself at the Nike cabin, asking for you when one of your siblings answered the door instead.

“What’s up, kelp boy?” (Y/N) croaked out, voice still laced with sleep. She rubbed her eyes as she leaned against the door frame of her Mothers cabin.

“Sorry to wake you,” Percy spoke, teeth tearing at the dried skin on his lower lip. “I just – I just wanted to ask you something”.

“Shoot,” she replied.

“Have you ever been on a quest?”.

“A handful, I’d say. Why? Are you nervous for yours?”.

The tone of which she spoke was so sweet and soft, Percy found himself already at ease, shouldering relaxing from their prior tense state.

“I won’t tell you not to be because that’s not very helpful. But I will tell you to be careful. Don’t get too over in your head or you and the others won’t end up back home. Just because you’re the son of Poseidon and got your first ever quest at the ripe age of twelve doesn’t mean you’re immune to what’s out there. Remember what you’ve learned throughout your stay here and hold steadfast, Jackson. You’ll be just fine”.

And he was. He was fine, at least for some parts of his quest. Percy often found himself thinking back on your words spoken that night. How you unknowingly repeated the same phrase his Mother told him before being taken by the minotaur. How you had unwavering faith in him and his, limited, abilities as a new and fresh demigod. The blond often found himself thinking about what you’d do in this kind of situation. Of how’d you approach the entire situation. Of how’d you hold your sword in your hands. Of what you’d say in the times he’d need it most. He found himself shaping and molding hisself to what you’d do. A perfect making of a protégé.

When he arrived back at camp, you were the first to pull him into your arms, nearly squeezing all the air out of his lungs as you did so.

“Welcome back, kelp boy,” you’d whisper, teary eyed and thankful to the Gods that twelve-year-old Percy Jackson was brought back safe and sound.

And he never left your side much after that.

He’d go wherever you’d go. He was your shadow and you were his sun.

And it stayed like that for years, even throughout all the losses and defeats and Luke and his growing Titan army. But, it came to a final halt during the Great War.

(Y/N) had been too busy aiding the wounded and fighting for her life to notice the glittering sword blade of her traitor half-sibling. It being too late as the weapon sunk it’s entirety into the back of Nike’s daughter.

A gasp had been the only thing to alert Percy and the others of her demise, the sound of ripping flesh and gushing blood being the next.

Poseidon’s son let out an angered scream, rushing towards the person he looked up to the most. He gathered her into his arms as she practically went limp in his hold, his pale hands coated in her blood as he tried to stop the seemingly never ending flow.

Percy’s cried pleas where the only thing that echoed throughout the now quiet night. He begged her not to go and that she was going to be okay because she had to. She had to or he didn’t know who else was going to make sure he remembered to eat breakfast or make sure his swordskills were always refined and perfect.

The horrible realization that she had been gone the minute her body hit the hard concrete had settled into Percy Jackson’s bones as he let out an anguished roar, holding the body of his sun close to his chest as his salty tears made streaks down her dirt covered face and droplet marks in her battered orange Camp Half-Blood shirt.

At the end of the war, Percy had made his way back to the body of someone he considered a familial figure. The sight of her Mother gently stroking the cheek of her slumped over body brought fresh tears to his eyes. He wasn’t able to bring himself to carry her body back to camp. He left it to the children of Apollo, making sure they treated it with the upmost care.

The days following her passing, Percy found himself in the Nike cabin most nights, sleeping on the floor next to (Y/N)‘s bed, for he was too afraid that the smell of you would disappear too quickly due to his presence on the sheets. He found himself finding you in a multitude of things and it always shattered his heart into pieces once more. Everything served as a reminder of you, even the actual sun, for he missed the warmth and comfort you brought wherever you went.

And with the sun gone, it’s shadow would forever search for it’s source of light, destined to never find what it so desperately craved.

as it being blk history month i order yall to make more clarisse x reader fics 😚😁

This is the cutest thing ever omg

Let The Light In

Clarisse La Rue x Fem!Demigod!Reader

—-

synopsis: sick clarisse is a heartless monster

this ask

a/n: i do like fluff too! i promise!

Let The Light In - Lana Del Rey

side note: i liked this song before you tik tok bitches liked this song. first day the album came out i said “oh so let the light in is literally my song” y’all can back off mkay…..

warnings: MOTHER Y/N FR!!!!!!!!, ares kids are big babies, don’t tell anyone they’ll kill you, no plot, clarisse is sick and needy and cuddly and basically a baby, bitch gets austin mcbroom post-catherine sick it’s embarrassing, i still love her, tell me if i missed anything!!

—-

—-

As soon as you walk into the Ares cabin, you can smell it. It’s not like anyone’s thrown up- you hope, at least- but the entire Ares cabin reeks of snot and wet coughs. You didn’t even know that had a distinct smell. The entire cabin just reeks of a bad, bad, summer cold.

It started off slow. And to their credit, the Ares kids did stay strong for a while. While the rest of the camp was falling into a apocalyptic-esque nightmare, no on in the cabin got sick. Until someone must have.

You remember snorting when Clarisse announced fo all of her siblings that whoever got sick would be sleeping inside.

Obviously, that person tried to hide if, and the entire Ares cabin woke up sniffling yesterday. Clarisse vowed to find the rat, but her and the rest of the cabin ended up going to be early after being asleep on their feet all day. And, as the head counselor’s girlfriend, you felt a motherly responsibility to take care of the dying soldiers.

Which is what they were acting like.

“Good morning,” you say softly, quickly shutting the door. The cabin is a mess, even after one night. There’s tissues on the floor, blankets strewn about, everyone’s moaning and groaning. The curtains are all drawn firmly shut, so it’s seems more like 10pm when it’s actually only 10am.

All of the siblings have gathered on the first floor, sometimes two to a bed, couches filled up with sleeping kids.

Everyone mumbles back very pointed “mornings” while you sigh and open up your bag filled with wash cloths.

“Okay,” you say. You already got the sickness a few days ago, and while you’re still sniffling, you’re much better. “I’m here to help!” you announce. Then, you frown. “Where’s Clarisse?”

Matty, on the floor, leaning against the couch, points to a blanketed figure in the corner.

“Asleep,” he yawns. “Which I’m about to be.”

You smile but ultimately walk past her, letting her have a few more moments of what seems to be a fitful sleep- she’s frowning in her sleep, which is absolutely adorable.

You head towards the bathroom, cringing at the overfilling basket of tissues, before you set out your bag on the closed toilet and take out a few wash cloths. You wet them with cold water and hang them over your arms, walking around and putting one on each person’s warm head.

A few actually compare you to a goddess in that moment, and you just hide your giggles and say you’re welcome.

When you finally reach Danny, curled up in a ball on the end of the couch, he looks up at you with big puppy dog eyes.

You’ve quickly realized that all of the Ares kids turn into literal toddler’s when they’re sick. But Danny, how is actually only eleven, seems like a literal baby in this moment. He’s a skinny kid, so when you pick him up he feels like nothing.

“I miss my mom,” he groans into your neck.

“I know,” you say, patting his back.

You complete your rounds of washcloths against hot heads, finally turning around with Danny in your arms. You go back into the bathroom and focus on him for a second, the youngest member of the cabin, touching his forehead.

“You’re not too hot,” you say, encouragingly. You run the tap, wetting the plain white cloth. “But we’ll stick this on anyways.”

“Thanks, Y/N,” he says, head back in your neck. “You’re the best,” he yawns.

When you turn around, Clarisse is crossing her arms in the doorway.

She’s trying her best to look angry, but she’s just pouting.

“Hi, baby,” you smile.

She glares at Danny’s back before reaching forward to grab him from your arms.

“She’s my girlfriend, you little snake,” she huffs, clawing at him.

“Hey!” you shout, pulling back as Danny desperately wraps his legs around your waist, gripping onto your neck for dear life. “He’s eleven, Clarisse.”

“And?” she scoffs. “I’m really sick, Y/N.”

You roll your eyes, wetting another washcloth.

“Here you go, you big baby,” you slap it over her forehead and she pouts again, raising her hand to hold it there. “Puppy dog,” you giggle, urging her back to the couch.

“I am not a puppy dog. I’m a pitbull, if anything.”

She sits back in her corner, pushing the blanket aside and opening her arms wide.

“C’mere,” she says, eyes closed, expectant look on her face. “Ditch the snake.”

“Nope,” you smile, flopping down onto the couch, making Danny laugh at the way the two of you bounce.

Danny and Clarisse both settle into your sides, glaring at each other. Danny’s head pressed against your chest, Clarisse’s in her neck. She wraps her arm around your waist and he wraps his around your stomach.

“Gods, Ares kids are so possessive,” you mutter.

“Exactly,” Clarisse replies. She tries to push him away. “Scram,” she says, but it ends in a yawn.

“If Y/N tells me to go then I will,” Danny replies. “I’m only eleven, Clarisse. I need a mom when I’m sick.”

You watch him try to look serious, but he eventually breaks out into a smile.

“Snake,” Clarisse whispers. “Gonna kill you when we’re not sick.”

“No you’re not,” you say, leaning your head against hers. “I’ll walk out right now and take Danny with me.”

She holds you tighter.

“You can’t abandon me in my time of need,” she huffs, and you resist the urge to laugh at the genuine fear in her voice. “I just need you really bad, I was thinking about you all night, angel.”

“Then be on your best behavior,” you smile.

“Yes, ma’am,” she mutters, burrowing her face into your neck. She tugs you closer to her. “You’re so soft. I love you.”

“Okay, Clarisse,” you smile, kissing her head.

She shakes her head and pouts. “No.”

“Puppy dog,” you say again, but she chooses to ignore you, placated by the feeling of your lips wuixk king pressing against yours.

“Pretty girlfriend,” she mumbles, eyes falling shut. “Pretty, pretty, really soft girlfriend.”

Matty scoots over to put his head in your lap.

Now permanently caged in, you give up any hopes of escaping when they all fell back asleep, resigning yourself to a day of boredom, being used as a literal pillow for the sick “toddlers” of the Ares cabin.

“Thanks for bringing the light in, Y/N,” Matty mumbles against the top of your thigh. “You, I mean. You’re the light. Was that clear?”

“Matty, go to sleep.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he mumbles.

“But thank you,” you smile.

You look around the dark, dreary, dirty room.

“Big babies,” you mumble to yourself.

—-

shoutout to danny from music to watch girls too making a second appearance ily

matty is prob my fav original side character for the area cabin i love him sm so shoutout to him too!!!

and ofc shoutout to clarisse “she’s my girlfriend” la rue

—-

taglist:

@lvrue @t-wylia @laughingcheese037 @kroumi @urdeadpoet @colezb @rey26 @harmzilla @elliewilliamsbae @amberfreemansburntface @kyuupidwrites @neverwaakeme-up @shark1008 @liballer @heyimadison @nvirskies @pnsteblnme @mar2ss @restellsss @ravisinghs-wife @marsconer @evangelinexo @randomhoex @luvrrish

Listen I am 100% down for more Luke fics. I’m nothing if not a girl who loves a broken man…

BUT

After ep 7, Imma need one of you nasty freaks to start writing some stuff for the Gods. We all saw Poseidon, there’s no way I’m alone on this. 😮‍💨

And on a side note, why is there nothing for Chris Rodriguez?? Does he have much screen time? No. Has he contributed anything to the plot yet? Also no. But I’ve seen people get more love for less.

Guys I’m literally BEGGING for scraps here

Real

clarisse: “but i’m a bully-”

that don’t matter, come sign these marriage papers bbg.

missing you, quietly — luca fantilli

warnings; mentions of death & suicide. read at your own discretion.

-

Nobody really remembers what happened that night. They were up by three in the second period, everyone was happy.

Someone, an officer administrator came out onto the bench and called over coach. He walked off and spoke to her before he returned, his face was white.

Nolan noted the whispers of the staff and he looked concerned but before he could ask what was going on, Naurato called the officials over.

They huddled up and mumbled to each other before the officials announced

“The game has been stopped per request of Michigan, all remaining minutes will be played after a period break”

Nobody knew what was going on as they traipsed back to the locker room.

“Coach what’s going on?”

He stood in the middle of the room and cleared his throat “We were just contacted by a member of campus police. A student has been killed on her way here this evening by a drunk driver”

There were immediate mumblings of who it was.

Brandon turned to Ethan who dropped the stick in his hand and scrambled for his phone. The sudden movements caught everyone’s attention.

“Ethan, buddy don’t-“ “No! No, it’s not her!”

Coach watched him as Ethan called you again and again with no response. Tears streamed down his face and coach sighed

“The student who was killed this evening was y/n”

Everyone walked to console Ethan while Luca sat in his stall, mouth opened and heart beating at what felt like a million miles a minute.

They never went back out to play. Michigan forfeited the game.

The days and weeks following your death were nothing short of painful and silent.

Ethan went home to be with his family in this time but ultimately it was decided the Edwards would hold a funeral for you in Michigan, that’s where you felt at home.

Luca didn’t talk much to anyone. Adam had made comment about it once or twice but their mom simply said “Luca’s an empathetic boy, Adam he’s probably just feeling sorry for his teammate”

He wasn’t. He was heartbroken over the death of the love of his life.

Luca attended the funeral service and sat in the back row, waiting until everyone had left to then approach the front and mumble through his tears

“I miss you, so freaking much baby”

He consoled Ethan on occasions, listening to him tell everyone nobody knew what it was like to be this upset. While Luca hadn’t lost a twin and he wouldn’t know that feeling, he so desperately wanted to shout out how he did know the sadness because he was sad too!

He didn’t. He stayed quiet.

Luca thought that by three months past your death, it was all over. He didn’t have to bite his tongue during commemorations of your life.

That was until the team were suiting up for practice one Wednesday morning.

"how you holding up, Eddy?"

Ethan shrugs "My moms still hysterical everyday but the police dropped off her phone to me on my way here" he says, waving your iphone around in his hand.

"You look at it?" Mark asks, slipping his jersey on.

"Nah, I don't know her password"

"It's you guys' birthday" is all mark replies, earning a skeptical look from Ethan but it works and Mark smiles

"She always let me use her phone for the aux in the car'

Ethan stands and scrolls through your phone. Your background was a picture of you and him on his draft day, the devils jersey in your hand while you looked so proud.

A few texts from friends and family members gone unread; mom, dad, even one from him he sent late the night you died begging you to call him and say it wasn't true.

then he landed on a text thread from 'my love

he clicked on it, eyebrows furrowed. There were messages sent since you died.

call me, tell me it isn't true

baby please, please be ok

I love you, come home

There were more he read through, still no idea who this person was. He clicked on the contact and dropped the phone, causing everyone to look over at him.

Ethan looked up, eyes scanning the locker room until they landed on who he'd been looking for.

"You son of a bitch! You were fucking my sister!"

Ethan storms across the room, out to hurt someone when he was held back by Adam, Luke and Mark

"Ethan stop, he was not!" Adam yells.

Luca gulps "Yeah... I was"

Everyone stared at him, he felt as if the walls were closing in on his chest.

Adam steps forward, protecting his big brother “Back off Edwards… I mean it”

Ethan scoffs “You were seriously fucking my sister? Dude what the fuck is wrong-“

“I was not! I wasn’t just- Jesus, fuck Ethan she’s dead stop being so fucking vulgar!” Luca screams, throwing his helmet across the room.

The rest of the boys take a few steps back.

“I wasn’t just fucking her, she’s not some puck bunny you dick! She was my girlfriend!”

Ethan scoffs “no, she would’ve told me”

“No, she didn’t want to because she was scared of how you’d react… clearly she was right!” Luca snaps, shoving past him and leaving the locker room.

Ethan stands with his chest heaving still “Can you believe him?”

Nobody speaks until Johnny stands up “You didn’t hear him Eddy, he screamed and cried that night I thought he was actually going to be sick and he couldn’t breath”

Ethan’s glare snaps to him “So you knew?”

“y/n used to tell you she was coming to study with me but instead they’d go out together” Johnny sighs “She liked him a lot and she didn’t wanna tell you because she was scared it would hurt the team”

Ethan doesn’t respond

“Luca tried to kill himself when you went back to Alberta”

At that, Adam’s head snaps to his teammate and Nolan goes to speak when Johnny continues “I found him real early in the morning with way too many pills and he was just scared and alone, he grieved her death for far too long all alone”

“Ethan, you aren’t the only one who was hurt when she died don’t be so hard on him, he’s already beating himself up too much already”

Luca didn’t speak to anyone for the following days, Adam had left food for him and his mom tried calling along with Nolan but he didn’t talk to anyone.

Ethan sat with your phone watching as the notifications came in from Luca, texts confiding in you as if you were on the other end still. It was when Ethan read the text;

you’re the love of my life, I’m feeling pretty lost without you.

That he knew, Luca had been suffering in silence.

Saturday came and the team were facing off against Ohio state for the first time since the night you died.

The teams had prepared a ceremonial jersey for Ethan to receive with your name and number on the other side. The girls team, your team were in the stands to watch too.

Luca was there early to avoid being in the room with Ethan.

By the time warmups had come and gone nobody had spoken to him. All a little concerned.

When the puck was ready to be dropped the lights dimmed and the announcer read

“Three months ago, when these two teams last played we lost a member of our Michigan family — y/n was a star hockey player, daughter, student and twin to one of our own. Tonight we gift her jersey to her twin brother, Ethan. To honour her by the people who love her most”

Ethan skated forward to collect the jersey and thanked those who gave him it. He placed it on the bench and the game got underway.

You were seemingly controlling the score for the team that evening because when the game finished 7-2 everyone said

“Hey look, seventy-two joined us this evening!”

Luca smiled, headed back to the locker room remembering back to you telling him how you got your number as you were all but one minute older than Ethan so you had a number one before him.

He was snapped out of his thoughts when he walked back to his Stall only to find a maize jersey staring back at him.

Edwards

72

Luca didn’t speak, his fingers grazed the number before he looked back to Ethan, who was already staring at him with a soft smile.

It wasn’t much and nothing was going to fix this but it would be a little better now Luca didn’t have to miss you quietly.

☆ ~ you don’t have to fight anymore

pairing: platonic!mizzen x district 5!reader summary: while you’re stuck in the cage you offer to be someones pillow for the night—or which mizzen ditches coral to get some well earned rest, maybe even a friend. but friendships don’t make it that far when it’s all for themselves. warnings: bonding (at first), canon violence, death, some language, uploaded via iphone, this was in my drafts for too long so i uploaded it :0

when he first approached you you’d felt fear, it wasn’t a secret that his district partner was one of the scariest tributes in here and your position didn’t really make you trust others that easily. but when you looked over you could sense he wasn’t planning to harm you, him looking more scared than you as he approached.

you were quiet as he stood infront of you, eyes directed away from his form to hopefully encourage him to spill the reason he came. but only after a few moments you couldn’t stand the awkward silence any longer, “with coral’s tight grip on you i never thought you’d ever make any connections with anyone but her.”

mizzen’s eyes embarrassedly shot down to his feet, your tone letting him know this was already a bad idea, “well i- just wanted to talk to you, it kinda gets boring talking to one person all the time.” at that your eyes softened a little, reminded that the other tributes you’d soon be against we’re around your age - mizzen looking like he were one of the youngest - and were all coping in different ways.

“right, sorry,” you shot him an embarrassed smile before patting the open spot next to you, “here, to make up for the bad first impression i made.”

he shot a sideways smile in thanks, making himself at home on the uncomfortable rock you perched yourself on before nervously turning towards you. “what’s your name,” there was genuine curiosity on his face, making you both confused and appreciative in a way.

“(name),” you smiled for a short moment but then frowned as the awful thoughts of what’s to come poisoned your mind and shot down your elevated attitude from moments before, “what does it matter anyways? in a few days we’ll be fighting to the death, not caring about our opponents name or the life they had before.”

“oh,” hurt blossomed across his face, sitting in silence for a bit as he pondered what to say back, “it matters because our names are the only thing we can keep, the rest of our life stripped away from us as soon as our names were called.”

“i know we’re all gonna die - that much is clear - but i just hoped i could know you all before that,” guilt bubbled back at the back of your throat again, his face scrunched up in a sad frown when you looked back at him. 

“shit, m’sorry kid, things have just been overwhelming,” you finally turned towards him, averting your whole attention to the conversation, gesturing towards him as you muttered your next words, “and that doesn’t excuse my behavior, since you’re obviously handling it somewhat better than i am.”

you paused for a moment, “it just that, knowing eachother will only make it harder when one of us have to die,” a tinge of sadness in your gaze as you looked at the young boy.

“that’s true,” mizzen looks down at his hands, a tear slipping down his cheek as he tries his best to get it together, upset at how emotional getting reaped made him and not wanting others to find him as an easy target because of his open vulnerability, “ it’s just, maybe we don’t have to be enemies.”

his innocence made your heart hurt, “maybe not out here but in the arena you have much better chances with coral, so sometime along the way we’ll be on opposite sides.” not sparing any time after to change the subject.

“well I’m actually kinda glad you came,” you offered a smile, “it’s nice knowing that they’re people who care enough to ask those types of things regardless of the circumstances we’re in.” mizzen smiled in return - the drying tear tracks staining his cheeks - although halfway through it, it broke into a yawn.

“you should go rest with coral,” you gestured where she was, not hiding the fact she was watching our interaction, “don’t want her coming for my head before we even get into the arena by keeping you here.”

mizzen looked back at her before shrugging, “i don’t think i mean that much to her, she’s probably just watching to make sure i don’t betray her in the arena.”

that caused the words to die in your throat, not knowing how to respond, having to have him to continue the conversation, “could i just stay here for the night? I don’t want to go back.”

you nodded in response as a sense of protectiveness washing over you, “you can rest on my shoulder too if you want, i know that there isn’t much in here that’s comfier.” mizzen looked at you for a second, contemplating your offer before gently resting his head on you, muttering a little ‘thank you’ before he closed his eyes.

-

it didn’t have to end like this, it shouldn’t have ended like this. the guilt bubbling in his throat mixing with the bile that he had to force himself to hold back as he watched your body fall from the beam before landing with the harsh smack on the arena floor.

what’s worse was that he was apart of this.

although he knew coral was planning to kill you, did he have to be apart of the joint effort? couldn’t he have distracted her a bit or maybe messed up so you could get away? couldn’t have coral asked tanner or treech to do it with her instead?

his momentary shock was dissipated as coral called for him and the others, readying up to hunt lucy gray after catching her emptying the water bottles they had gathered prior to killing you.

he carefully climbed down from the beam before crouching at your body - making sure the others weren’t watching before continuing - to mutter the last message to you that’ll come from his lips, “rest, it’s your turn to dream now.” he paused for a moment before his shaking fingers gently shut your eyes closed.

before making his way to the others, he shot a sorrowful look over his shoulder one last time, knowing that soon he’ll either join you or he’ll have to live with the guilt of what he’d done.

-

a/n: uploading a treech fic soon! and completely disregard the fact that this wasn’t posted on saturday :0

whose idea was it to put Leigh’s character in this slutty little shirt, chest out to god

Y’all where are the story’s of my man Diego Cortez from Saw x??? He’s so pookie I’m in desperate need of some angst ones or any in general

Literally like 😩

Chads little giggle with the “yeah… you did” right before he throws that guys down the stairs…. HES SO BABYGIRL