Advid-vibe-stealer - I Steal The Vibes

I would like a innocent little kid to come up and call will dad and kayla mom and see how they freak out about it If any one make this a fic I need to see it

Things I think happened in the chb’s infirmary No Order my references are prophetic dreams and war memories from when i was a health student

- they have like this huge old whiteboard glued god knows how with a little cartoon caterpillar sticker saying “get well soon?” where they (Will and any other poor souls that are in infirmary duty) put everything they need to remember but they can’t make themselves write complete sentences so is just “JuYCE” and “neomicinabacitracinanitrofural” and “CLARISSE = OUT”

- there is this hole on the floor that they always forget to ask a Hephaestus kid to fix so its like a rite of passage to not notice it and end up falling

- They are in a camp. Sharing cabins. Bathrooms. ADHD kids who love to run and procrastinate everything including hygiene. THE INFECTIONS GET SPREAD INSANELY FAST. They have to WEEKLY go renovating the “PLEASE WASH YOUR HAIR WE NEED TO ERRATIC THE COOTIES” ads around the camp.

- we need to rip off the band aid. where there is teenagers there is sex. Michael Yew was pioneer on the sex education topic and his legacy isn’t going to die on Will Solace reign. One thing is cooties another one is herpes. There will be informative and traumatizing videos and awful teen pregnancy documentaries. They are all gonna watch.

- And since they are already here there will be having safe drug use convos too and dionysus is the one sponsoring them there is a rap battle at some point i think

- kids will be kids and most part of the time they are taking care of spread ankles, stomach aches, allergies and flu season at this point Will doesn’t even need to touch them to know when its a flu case

- since they (the infirmary squad) are spending a lot of time walking around they need to wear comfy shoes. At some point Kayla shows up wearing a neon monsters inc slippers. So Austin decides to wear his clown shoes. Now they only accept sandals and crocs. Rules are rules. The weird socks keep going tho.

- on the topic there is a lot of unspoken rules. One of them is that the communal and personal things limits are very rigid. Everyone gets to drink the coffee. No one is going to use Austin personal “Grammy Winner” mug. No one is going to use Kayla’s special glitter rainbow hairbrush. And, mostly important, no one is going to give their bureaucratic work for Nico to help. That is Will’s personal secretary.

- on the communal help tho, sometimes they will use Drew’s charmspeaker as an anesthesia. The Stolls are always there to get a couple of stuff outside their monthly rides to get things. Clarisse is amazing to held people when they need to put their bones back into place. They make it work.

- the communal work have one problem unfortunately. They are neck deep into drama. And into a complex cobweb of they likes them and they kissed them and they hate them. And. Worse of all. They cheat them. Thats when there is screaming. And chairs floating into peoples neck.

- the smaller kids don’t get the drama on its fully complexion. But they still gossip. At least five of them have called Will “Dad”, at least three of them have called Kayla “Mom” and all of them have said “Thats embarrassing, dude.” For everyone around there.

reblog to blow up a transphobe

POP QUIZ

This is so true.

He doesn't want to hurt people and I feel like the only time he is mean to someone is when he knows them really well and they won't take it seriously

He wouldn't be an absolute jersey to people but he also wouldn't be all cute and sensitive

I think that Will helped soften him, but he's only let's Will see that Soft Kind side of him

i know we all hate the “uwu sensitive gay boy” stereotype nico di angelo is thrust into. and believe me when i say i have a battle to fight with it. but what about the one where he’s overly mean. no he would not tell two campers to fuck off cause they looked at him. no he would not disrespect random leaders/people for no reason. no he would not be blatantly rude to everybody who approaches him. no he would not be an asshole. is he standoffish, awkward, a little creepy, and had a period in time he believed everyone hated him? yes! this does not mean he’s a smartass or enjoys hurting others. it’s perceiving him in a way that would probably make him nauseous. that boy is very polite, especially towards women, and the safety of others is dare i say one of his main priorities. he knows what it’s like to feel hated and would never inflict that upon someone else. i KNOW he holds the door open for people, helps old ladies cross the road, smiles at babies, and invites younger campers to sit with him if they feel out of place. he is an angel. ted talk concluded

Another solangelo sketch that I will never finish

ranking the best things I have heard surgeons say mid-surgery:

1. "Five second rule!" while scrubbed, after dropping a sterile scalpel on the floor (no they did NOT pick it up again but I swear everyone's buttholes puckered)

2. (spoken during the closing of a particularly long and difficult case) "Nurse - my tunes." :heavy metal starts blasting:

3. Gently to a fretful patient, pre-anaesthesia: "It's going to be okay. I promise, I've dealt with worse." As soon as the patient is unconscious: "This is literally the worst thing I've ever seen."

4. [okay this one was a med student] "Wowwww, that's so gross!!" Reg: "Please remember that [patient] is awake for this procedure." Student to patient: "Oh my god. I am so sorry, that was really unprofessional - " Patient, cheerfully, also engrossed with what's happening inside them on the screen: "Nah - it's, like, super gross, right?"

5. [another procedure where the patient couldn't be put under GA] Patient: *starts singing country roads midway through the procedure* Surgeon: *shrugs and joins in with surprisingly good harmony*

fair and pre-emptive warning

i am enjoying the fuck out of the smut i am writing right now. im like 2000 words in and nowhere close to stopping. it will be tonight's post. it's a lot lighter than last time's but if that's not your thing don't sweat it. i'll be back later with chill stuff. but if you are a fellow deviant lock in we're eating GOOD tonight

Nico doesn't notice it, at first.

Most of the day his eyes are just blue.

Pretty blue, of course. Most of Will is; pretty that is. He sounds it, especially, rolling r's and loud lovely laughs and a lower voice that's right on the edge of raspy. He matches it, too, his voice, he has the wild golden curls and veritable spattering of freckles that match the paint-spatter splash of his very being. He is pretty the way dandelions are pretty, bright and explosive and covering hills as far as the eyes can see.

Nico doesn't talk as much as he does. Most people don't, honestly, if there's one thing about Will it's that he's got something to say. Nico likes it when he talks, he likes to walk along and listen or track the waving of his arms as he rants during breakfast. When he watches he can see his big big eyes widen and narrow with every raised and falling pitch of his voice, he can see them sparkle with something secret every time a tripwire gets pulled and someone blames the Hermes cabin. When he watches he can see the shimmery, sky-blue catch in the sunlight, glowing with the pride of his father.

It takes a morning on the silent Apollo cabin veranda for Nico to catch the difference.

It is a Sunday, and he's awake by force of habit. He's been out of his time-distant past longer than he's ever been in it, but ten years of waking up at the crack of dawn, or before in the winter months, to slide on a starchy shirt and squeeze into pinchy shoes he hated, dutifully if grumpily holding onto Mama's left hand and making faces at Bianca around the curve of the pews, has made its mark. He's yet to spend a single Sunday morning anything but groggy but conscious, glaring out the lone Cabin Thirteen window.

One morning, he catches movement across the common.

The way the cabins are set up puts Nico on a small hill. It's interesting, really, and Nico doubts it was on purpose -- what with the disastrous design of the cabin before Nico renovated it -- but nothing venerating Hades is ever looking down on anyone else. His father is quite pleased with it, he knows, and for it the cabin is always pleasantly warm, and smells slightly like turned dirt. Garden dirt, thankfully, not grave; Nico cannot be sure and will never ask but sometimes he suspects his stepmother might have something to do with it. Either way Nico has a clear view of the entire camp from end to end, including the line of cabins gently curving from his down to Zeus's. Three doors down, and smack at the crux of the curve, is Apollo's: in the warming, rising sun, the gilded walls glow, making the red cedar beams holding up the roof look warm and lively, like there's life still growing inside. On the rickety, camper-built porch sits Will, up earlier even than any of his siblings, curled up in the corner of a porch swing. He rocks it ever slightly with one bare foot.

Unthinkingly, Nico walks over to join him.

It's harpy time still, technically. They have reign until the sun is high and clear in the sky, even in the lazier winter months. They glare at him, now, some more restlessly than others, but they know better than to come at him. Nico's sword is dark and obvious from its spot at his side, hands twitching towards it. Besides that his death aura clears him for a solid radial mile.

Will smiles, when he sees him coming.

"Mornin', sunshine," he says, voice soft in the barely-daylight. He taps the cushion next to him. "Come sit?"

It's pleading, almost, Nico notices. Not will you come sit, or wanna come sit. But come sit, as in here is your spot. Come sit as in I want you to.

Nico flushes and joins him.

"Yer up early."

His accent is thicker this early in the morning. Nico almost wants to shiver when he hears it, words short and vowels long. He looks like it, too, eyes closed and face mirroring the sun, tipped up to meet it. Long limbs curled up but bent, like the awkward ends of a sweet-tea straw. He bleeds warmth, from the foot of space between them.

"Sunday," Nico admits, just as quiet. He watches as Will drags a hand through his messy hair, smile tugging at the dimpled corners of his mouth. "Habit, I suppose."

"Yeah? Were ya up with them church-goers, once 'pon a time?"

Nico nods, suddenly restless. He sits on his hands to keep them from reaching out, to keep them from brushing along the bob of Will's Adam's apple.

"My abuela -- my mama's gramma, that is -- was Catholic, too. Crack'a dawn every week."

"Oh."

Nico forgets Will has a mortal life, sometimes. He seems so cornerstone to camp, mentioned in passing in every other story, a part of the schedule from breakfast's daily mental health check-ins to sing-along at ten. Even the infirmary bears his name -- never you should probably head over to the infirmary, but go on and get Will. Nico tries to imagine him without the backdrop of the strawberries, or in the empty desert, and comes up blank.

"Y'seem surprised."

"I am, I guess."

"How come?" He cracks an eye open, grinning. "'M too much of a sinner for it?"

Nico snorts, thinking of the thundering of the Ares cabin last night, coming home after campfire -- where Will has been suspiciously and conspicuously absent for all but his little number at the end -- to each and every bunk and possession attached to the ceiling. As far as Nico is aware, they spent the night on the cement floor.

"Something like that, you menace."

Will smiles, a self-satisfied little thing, and settles back onto the cushions. He exhales as it rocks and all tension melts from his broad shoulders; his extended hand rests limp and tempting in the cushion between them and every cell in Nico's blood itches.

The run rises, slowly. It takes its time by the measured sound of Will's breathing, warming the cracking calluses of his bare heels to the wind-rustled hem of his shorts. With every inch of sunlight he gets brighter, and Nico gets warmer, and warmer, and warmer.

When more than half of it has pushed its way over the crest of the horizon, he shifts, stretching, turning to face Nico fully. He opens his mouth to say something or make a comment and Nico does not hear it, in fact his ears go long and ringing, because his --

His eyes.

For the first time that morning, he faces Nico head on, elbow off the curve of his forehead, blond eyelashes catching in the warm rays. For the first time that morning, eyes fully open, Nico can see -- not the languid spread of him, or the endless, summer-dark freckles, but the width of his irises, the shine of his pebble-sized pupil: in the bright, early-dawn morning, Will's eyes are endless.

Blue is no longer the right color for them. Desperately, Nico searches around the porch roof, above the chimney of the Big House, and there they are, reflected in infinity: Will's eye are every jealous painter's deepest desire, they are the exact makeup of the morning sky from the pale blue at the rounded top to the golden clouds reflecting the flares of the gentle yellow sun. There are even lines, cutting straight through, of pure, gentle gold; like the angular rays of Heaven looking kindly on the spinning Earth, so stretch the lines in Will's infinitely expanding irises. Layered in between the blue and the gold is the color Nico has never been able to name, the color like pillow softness, the color like soft hands on a fevered forehead, the color like coming in from the biting cold. The color like welcome on in and I got you, darlin'. The color like a long, easy inhale that sits soft and easy in your tired lungs.

"You're starin'," says Will, quietly.

Nico swallows. He doesn't even know what to think in response.

"Everythin' alright?"

Nico's hands twitch, again, and this time he doesn't have half to strength to stop them; unbidden they move slowly up the curve of Will's cheek, pinky lingering on the prominent tendons of his scarred neck. He rests his palms on the softness of his jaw and his thumbs on the dips under his eye, hands cupped like before the holy Eucharist. He waits, mouth dry, tongue poised in anticipation of the I believe.

"Your eyes," he breathes, finally. Its mirrored in the hitch of Will's chest. "My God above."

"Ain't nothin' special," Will argues, or tries to. Heat begins to bloom under the curl of Nico's palm, and Will's voice as gone reedy and thin. "I'm -- they're just blue, darlin', what have you --"

"They're not." Nico stops himself from becoming vehement, barely, but can't slow the firm shake of his head, the whip of his rapidly warming hair. "They're -- they're sky blue Will, gods." He tilts Will's head, slightly, and he goes, swallowing heavy. "This is the kind of thing artists dream about."

That makes Will blush, heavy and hard from the tips of his forehead to below the collar of his shirt. Nico smiles, fond, something heated along the bridge of his own nose, but he cannot help but notice that Will's eyes are still shifting, even as he narrows them, even as he cringes away from Nico's words; the golden along the bottoms spreads, now, past half his irises, like sunlight on shoreline.

"You're -- full'a somethin, di Angelo," he accuses, only his pretty voice cracks. "I dunno what's got you smoother than a polished river stone, but cut that right out, y'hear me?"

Or what, Nico wants to challenge. He is emboldened, now, by Will's embarrassment; as much as he squirms he does not move away. But as the sun crests higher and higher the gold begins to fade, irises smoothing bright and blue and reflective of the sky, still. Robin-egg pale at this exact moment. But familiar enough that Nico exhales, obedient, and drops his hands, scoots way.

"You got possessed," Will mumbles, still curled in on himself. But he smiles slightly to himself and Nico mirrors it, drinking in his shy, shocked pleasure. When he looks over and huffed there is a brazenness in his teeth, a sudden realization of what Nico has been seeing this whole time: he is pretty, and quite obviously so. Even in the neon of his Head Medic shirt. "Oddball."

Nico says nothing, knocking him gently across the shoulders. He settles back in the cushion right next to him, and together they rock, on the creaky old swing, watching lights flick on, shadows move across curtained windows.

Nico looks up into the brightening sky and finds it familiar.

POV: two types of people realizing that they are in fact, fucked.

(*whispers* they're both me)

I see Will being the most introverted and socially anxious person because he went to camp at such a young age and he is a year round camper and the only adults that he really talks to is Chiron and Mr. D so I feel like he's scared to talk to anyone outside of camp. When Will and Nico go out to eat, Nico always orders for Will.

Nico on the other hand once his trauma gets better he is very extraverted and loves talking to people (mostly people he knows won't make fun of him or hurt him in anyway) but he still wants to appear mysterious and scary so he represses the urge to overshare things but he still needs to recharge after doing something

I feel like Nico would yell at the manger when Will asks for no pickles