Latest Posts by advid-vibe-stealer - Page 2

bianca di angelo wouldve loved waking up, going into nicos room, standing there, pissing him off, petting his hair aggressively, then leaving

What do yall think Nico and Will will look like in the TV show

They are changing many things(not that it's a bad thing) all I hope is that they keep them relatively the same and don't like white wash them or Change them completely

Also they need to make Nico so cool

Gimme more solangelo pweasee

To be honest the only reason I started reading Percy Jackson was because of solangelo and now I'm like addicted to Percy Jackson and I can't stop thinking about all the books

I joined for the Gays but now I can't leave I feel like I joined a really cool Cult

my baby my love my life

i must make him feel pain

just some experimental doodles i’m testing out some different brushes. my least favorite part of being a digital artist is trying to figure out which settings DONT make me want to rip my skin off and crunch on my wrist bones like smarties.

Nico,Lou Ellen and Clovis on a daily basis when shit happens at CHB:

(They are a trio for me–we need to gave them a trio name)

(Guess who is who)

The first thing Will ever destroys is a songbird. He is four, and screaming, and his mother is twenty-three and exhausted and screaming back, and he wants to tear the world to shreds with his bare hands. And the little feathered thing out the window chirps at the wrong volume at the wrong time, tilting his little head, and Will just thinks deathdeathdeathdeath. And it keels over, and it dies.

The second thing Will ever destroys is immediately after and it is a little thing in the centre of his belly. And it is gone. Others have it, he’s sure, and it is what tethers them to the place between Hades and Heaven and what will float them gently to Elysium when their string withers, but his died with the bird. He felt it drop like a stone echoing deathdeathdeathdeath.

Every other thing he destroys wraps its twisted tethered tendrils around his throat.

———

He learns how to use it. Eventually. There is a moment in Cabin Seven in the dead middle of the night, after a nightmare, when Lee blinks green smoke out of his wide eyes and says, when he recovers: “Never speak of this again.”

And Will, eight, destroyer of so many things Abraham and his sands could not count them, nods. And Lee takes his hands and presses a gentle, squeezing kiss to his knuckles and in two years’ time Will destroys that, too. He holds the fragments of Lee’s skull in his hands and green smoke pools from his palms, from his eyes, from his mouth and his nose, and the grinning Cyclops cannot hold his breath in time and Will thinks deathdeathdeathdeath.

And the songbird was quick and the hole in Will’s belly gets bigger and Lee was slow, slow, slow. And for ever second his brother suffered Will extols it tenforth upon his enemy, and he collapses to his knees, tongue blackening, eye shrinking in its massive socket, throat screaming around sounds Will drags from his lungs. Boils pepper his skin and his bones crack and splinter into his muscle and blood seeps from his pores. And Will watches, and Lee’s blood pools in his hands, and the smoke thickens. And thickens. And thickens. And the Cyclops does not turn to dust when he dies, but a shrivelled, slimy corpse of a bird, a crow, and bile crawls its way up Will’s throat. He turns his head just in time and vomits all over the disintegrated grass and watches it smoke and bubble, devouring everything it touches. Lee’s stained skin smoulders under his palms. He drops him.

Michael watches, wide-eyed, and says: “Oh, my gods.”

And later when they are fitting the fragments of Lee’s skull together and tucking a coin in the spaces between his broken fingers, because the plates forming the roof of his mouth have been torn apart, Michael holds his shoulder. And he breathes, and he says.

“Never speak of this again.”

And Will feels around for that empty spot in his belly, and he rubs his hand over his burned, bruised throat. He imagines Lee’s big hands joining the fray, squeezing.

And he nods.

———

When he destroys Michael and follows Percy off the ruined bridge and then watches as each one of his older siblings is dragged into the broken hotel infirmary and drags sheets over their heads. When he closes their eyes and commits their blame to memory. When he saves Annabeth’s life and comes back to find his youngest older sister dead.

He squeezes his eyes shut and he thinks deathdeathdeathdeath. And the smoke is thin and cooling and scaly, and it slithers through the cracks of the ruined Manhattan pavement and wraps around exposed heels. And it bites, sinking into flesh, and demigods die, shrivelled, diseased, screaming. And they join the chain of souls wrapped around Will’s neck and whisper their echoes into his ears: deathdeathdeathdeath. And when he is the last and only son to walk through the only gilded doors he will ever see there is an electric fan still humming. There is floral wallpaper still up on the walls. There are unmade bunks. There is the smell of sweet hyacinth and the gentle curve of bowstrings.

He squeezes his eyes, sinks to the floor, and thinks deathdeathdeathdeath. And the hyacinth spots and dies, and the dandelions turn to ash. The wallpaper yellows and yellows and crumples in on itself and the wood of guitars rot. And when he wakes up on the creaking floorboards in the morning there is nothing but broken metal frames and a thin layer of soil, of grave dirt, where there were once painted hydrangeas. And he sweeps it out the steps and tells Chiron his cabin was burned to ash by Greek fire. His throat itches and aches, a fraction as much as his palms.

It is renovated by the end of the week.

The walls are sterile-white.

———

When a straw-haired suffering boy stretches into his face and screams I am the son of Apollo, Will squeezes his eyes shut. And he thinks: death.

And Death wraps a hand around his elbow, squeezing, stalling, and says: “Octavian, think of what you’re doing.”

The praetor-elect snarls, and does not. His robes catch on the twisted end of the onager, and his string of Fate is cut. He is launched into the air, screaming, and when his ghost floats back down, it does not join the thousands on Will’s back. Instead it sits on Nico’s shoulders, and Nico takes the weight, breathing through his mouth, and soldiers on. Will watches him with wide eyes.

———

“Never speak of this again,” his brothers warned him.

———

His father told him: you are marked.

———

He hears, endlessly, echoed: deathdeathdeathdeath.

———

“I could use a friend,” he says, and swallows. The dead on his back echo their laughter: friend. Friend. Friend.

“Friend,” Nico echoes.

Will nods. He tries for a smile. It’s thin, but Nico does not comment on it. “Or a friendly face, if that’s easier to swallow.”

“You don’t want a harbinger in your infirmary, Solace.”

And Will cannot help but laugh out loud. And Nico scowls, offended, but Will holds up a hand, palm open.

“I know something about harbingers,” he promises. “You are not by far the worst thing to happen to this camp.”

Nico’s eyes widen. Will snatched his hand back, and there must be something in his face. Because Nico nods, slowly, big eyes blinking.

“Okay.” he says, and swallows. “I have to do something, but I’ll be — back.”

And he is.

———

Nico controls the dead. He cares for them. Like his father he is commanding, but he is fair. He gives the dying the chance to fight, the space to plead; when it is time to collect souls he will take them, gently, and guide them, weeping, on. Death is compassionate. Nico moreso.

Will curls his blackened rotting fists to his sides. The snake wraps up his leg, tongue resting on his scraped knees. It hisses, gently.

Nico places a soft, caring hand on his shoulder.

“It’s not your fault,” he says, gently. “Some deaths are not preventable. You know that.” He squeezes. “You are a light on this Earth, Solace. She was suffering. She will be granted Elysium, as all the heroes who died here will be.”

Heroes.

Nico searches for his eyes, and smiles. The snake around Will’s ankles hisses, moving close. Will holds his breath.

“Remember all your hands have done, Will.”

Will swallows, and tucks his palms into his pockets.

Death.

Death.

Death.

Death.

“Believe me. I will.”

the accuracy omg 😭

announcement:

im gonna he writing a lot more porn.

(i didn’t know how fun this was.)

Do yall think Will has a fear of bridges because of what happened with Michael

@onetiny-inkdropuniverse @mediumgayitalian @cometjuice

Sorry for tagging yall i just want to know your opinions

was reading solace fics and was hit with this concept:

will solace is a life 360 friend. he knows where all his friends and family are at any given time. if demigods could have phones, he would have like 5 different tracking apps on his siblings. and even if new campers find it weird; old campers understand. Because Micheal didn't just die, he went missing. They never found his body. and Will feels like he should have known Micheal was still on the bridge and found a way to get him off. so now he makes sure none of his family can go missing and be somewhere scared and alone.

solangelo part bc i mean I was reading solangelo. What do you EXPECT from me?

the first time nico goes somewhere without telling Will it's a mess. Will's health goes so far down the gutter that tarturus can't find it. Lou Ellen and Cecil take to kidnapping him from the infirmary and camp border because those are the only 2 places he goes anymore. Kayla and Austin start working their first double shifts to keep will from working himself to ACTUAL death. When nico returns, Will is so overwhelmed he just cries. (he totally yells at him later, but it can't be before everyone gets to lay into him, you can tell i love nico based off how much I beat him up [he's perfect but I feel angsty],) 💙 He cries himself to sleep outside all campers are concerned. someone puts will to bed, and Kayla, Austin, Lou Ellen, and Cecil rip nico a new one. they actually hit him like the dude is bruised. They make his sit through a PowerPoint on a projector Cecil stole. He leaves a changed man and now keeps Will updated on his whereabouts like a champ. he's actually the best at it after that. mans becomes the standard. the perfect example. needless to say, after Will says, "they need to keep him updated like nico does," the third time their all a little pissed

(Maybe I'll do Nico angst later beat up Will a bit. I mean, I also love him)

Headcanon that Will Solace knows his routine so well he's found little breaks in between to be able to have a short ass breakdown before going back to out himself together and be his happy self again.

(Ya'll I can write.😃)

"See you!" Will waves as he steps down on the grassy floor of camp. He feet pushing against the wooden panels of stairs as he rushes to talk to Chiron about the lack of supplies arriving in time for the infirmary.

The infirmary to Big House wasn't exactly a five minute walk. Camp was supposed to fit at least a hundred campers in estimation. The acres of camp had to be doubled for that many ADHD demigods to have enough ground to cover.

Will Solace was no exception. And yet he still ran across the field, dodging campers barreling through groups. (And maybe him.) If he wasn't careful, he'd hit the ground faster than you could say— eat dirt!

Routines like these weren't common. But they were often enough that — Will found loopholes to take a break, allow a little slip-up from the perfect smile he had practiced over and over in the mirror.

He still ran across the field. Like a coward running away from his problems and misery. With a goal in set. So different yet so similar.

He found himself somewhere secluded, somewhere people haven't made it into their spot by now. Will hid it well after all, he made sure no one was looking or following his direction.

No one approaching or noticing his existence behind the thick trees.

It was perfect. A perfect place to rest just for a few minutes before going to his mission. He had left earlier than normal. The sudden arrival of news about a day with the supplies of Nectar and Ambrosia had been delayed, and Will had sauntered off to hide between a small area surrounded by bushes.

They were thick enough to gain some time alone even for a short moment. And yet Will knew it so well, he didn't have to glance to know. Arriving at the same place for years has done things that came in handy later.

His feet hits the ground sending vibrations through the earth floor. He takes a moment to catch his breath. To make sense of the smile he had shown to everyone earlier.

A twitch appears. Corners of his mouth droop and it doesn't take long before Will slowly sucks in a breath that seems a little burdening to hold. It doesn't take long before a rush comes out crashing like a quiet sob.

The noises die out. Chattering fades into white noise. Heart pounding as his breath grows uneven just like the ground he stands, his chest swallows him whole. Like the pressure that had been building under that lock and key.

Only he threw the key out and was shoving his emotions in a cage as they grow twice in size. Doubling till the cage breaks.

Just a few moments. He said to himself, slowly dropping down to curl up in his own form of tried that still undoubtedly troubled him. Maybe for good.

He pulled his knees to his chest, as close as it can be. Even if uncomfortable from the way his back stretches. His arms wrap around the scraped knees and counted.

One. Two.

Breathe in.

Three. Four.

Breathe out.

A routine he's been familiar with all these years. Count two — hold it in. Count two again — let it go.

Five.

It was repetitive but it kept Will grounded for all these years since the Battle of Manhattan. A routine he had so carefully pieced together to relearn how to piece himself back as well.

Six.

He needed to be strong for his siblings, for camp. The children that knew nothing but only that camp was safe for them. It was supposed to be safe. He was supposed to be perceived as safe.

If he breaks down in the middle of nowhere how the hell is he going to live that image up? Children would realize the person that they depended their lives can easily break as them— will they perceive him as strong? Or just a fraud?

Seven.

Tears filled his eyes but never out to other's. Just a few moments. A few moments to collect himself, let him break, just a small slip-up he'll allow this time. And then—

He cracked.

Eight.

Slowly his breath grew uneven. Not frantic. No. Even in his worst times, even if he's not able to grasp himself. He still tried to take control. He was greedy of it. Even in death he wouldn't let go of it.

Because if he had control he wouldn't be so miserable. If he had control no one would've died, no one would suffer. If he had control no one would mourn their loss like he did over and over again.

But he couldn't.

Nine.

In his own spiraling state. He let just a bit of desperate control slip. Hot tears streamed, his body shook and it was only a matter of time before he needed get back up again.

His sobs were like distance screams of an animal. If you were close you would hear it more clearly. The agony, the distress. Everything that had all been piled into life's cruel hands. Because everything had a place and time. And it never went out of schedule or stepped out of line. So did he.

Ten.

He gripped his arms, forcing himself to stop his shaking. He stiffled his breathing, counting backwards. Eyes closed, he looked up. Trying to breathe again. It was enough time for his self-loathing. He decided.

Opening his eyes, wiping his tears, pinched his cheeks to gain back it's rosy color. Fixed his composure and smiled.

Then with a steady stature. He willed himself to get up. His legs wobbled but never fell. Taking off with his goal in hand. He prompted himself to forget his vulnerability until another time came where he could allow himself to crack again.

He ran across the field to talk to Chiron about the lack of arrival of the supplies he had requested, just like a routine;

Will Solace never stepped out of line as everything always had time and place.

It’s not your fault king that pole came out of nowhere !!🙏🙏

Another solangelo sketch that I will never finish

"Oh Iris, Goddess of the Rainbow, show me Will Solace."

Show him, she does.

It must be steamy in Texas. Nico has been informed that the heat that way south is often desert dry, but there is nary a bath or tap in sight -- only Will, shirtless, right leg bent, lounging on clean white sheets, and humming to himself. He is covered in a thin sheen of sweat, as if he's been glazed in oil. Nico's breathing gets a little heavy.

"Wha...oh! Nico!" Will clamors upright, tucking his knees up, leaning forward on his hands. Nico can tell from his voice he is smiling. He can tell from his own eyeballs that the way he is sitting presses his chest together, just so, and then out, and boy is that a scene he has not observed in years present. "Hey!"

"Hey," Nico says, completely incapable of feeling his tongue. He drags his eyes upward, meeting Will's sparkling eyes and raised eyebrow. He clears his throat. "Uh, hi."

Will watches him. He tilts his head, ever so, observing through the staticky film of the mist, scanning his eyes across Nico's face, the set of his jaw, the raise of his shoulders. The corners of his pink mouth twitch.

"Hi," he indulges. Both eyebrows rise, now. "Everything okay?"

Nico uncrosses his arms. He recrosses them. Will giggles. He uncrosses them again, face flaming.

"Everything is -- good here in the hood," he says, then vows to kill himself. Percy first, as this whole thing -- it always is -- is his fault, but then he is stabbing himself straight through the eye. Will's giggles turn to outright laughter. "I am -- holding down here at The Fort. Word." He makes a hang-tight motion with his hand. It spasms. He tries to yank it back down to shove deeply into his pockets, but in his urgency he just kind of shakes it a little. Can you die from too much blood to the brain? Nico is pretty sure you can die from too much blood to the brain.

"What is wrong with you, weirdo." The fondness drips from his voice -- which has become a little more twangy in the weeks he's been gone, Nico is noticing -- and Nico wants to lap it up like chocolate syrup. He wants to -- swallow it, him; he wants to dive through the screen and devour him.

That was not the purpose of this call.

The purpose is long gone, however.

"Nothing is -- wrong," he defends, defensively. It would be a better defense if Will were not fucking shirtless and if he could fucking think. As it is all his brain is doing is recalling the exact flavor of Will's clavicle when it is sweaty in that way and his mouth floods with saliva. He has to check that he is not drooling. "Everything is -- groovy. Can I not call to say hello."

Will grins indulgently. "You can." He moves, slowly, and were Nico not laser-focused on the very twitches of his muscles he may not have noticed. Alas. "But you said so, already. What's next?"

He has slowly moved back into a reclining position, hands tucked behind his head. This way Nico can see the flex of his biceps, the strain of his pectoral; the blonde, curly hair under his arms and trailing under his pierced belly-button are on full glimmering display, and Nico's teeth ache. He's going to die. He's going to die.

"Next. I." Will draws a leg up, bending it thoughtlessly to the side. Nico trails off.

"Next you...?"

It's on purpose, is what it fucking is.

Look, Nico is -- a man. Okay. Despite the running jokes of his ancestry and his lower-than-normal temperature, he is indeed warm-blooded. And warm blooded men do this thing when there is six-foot-two of lean and hot stretched out and teasing in front of them and that is called suffering. Will is no fool. Nico is no subtle person. There is a reason all his fucking volleyball shorts are three sizes too small and that he goes for a run every day. He doesn't actually like it as much as he claims he does. His throat fucking closes every time he lies about it. But he does it every fucking morning because he takes his sweet fucking time stretching beforehand and his 'laps' are in direct fucking view of the one Hades cabin window and he is a sgualdrina, okay, he is his father's fucking son, and he knows damn well what he is doing and knows damn well why half the camp gets up early to watch. He is an attention-hungry little fuck and he knows Nico by the ridges of his fingertips and nothing he does is fucking accidental.

Nico's brain cells are gone. Kaput. One hundred fucking percent of his blood is concentrated around his flaming face and his genuinely painfully hard cock. Thought is difficult. When he is face to face with his boyfriend again he is going to strangle him, and it is going to do nothing, because the horny fucker will like it and then Nico is going to be blue-balled to death all over again. He can't fucking win.

"Talk to me, Nico. So I know you're alive."

"I hope you fucking explode," Nico grits out. He keels over, a little, desperate to alleviate. "I hope you --"

"Hands up."

Nico freezes.

It is rare that Will gets that sort of tone.

Rarer still that he gets that look in his eyes, that dark-brazen belligerence. He meets Nico's gaze head on and he is smirking, openly, hand tracing down his chest, circling the dark splotch of his own nipple. Will is a lot whinier, usually; he's needy, and he likes that, he likes it when Nico pushes him around, when he presses his buttons and crowds him against the headboard, the supply closet corner, the bathroom stall of the bodega. He likes that Nico can put his hands on his hips and he will crumble, he will sink into Nico's touch; he likes the sharpness of Nico's grin and the sharper edge to his teeth. He likes that Nico wants him. That Nico gets him.

But Nico can't get him, here. Not eighteen hundred miles away. And there is a spark in his eye, at the reigns he has here, a gleam he gets like when his siblings are on the third and final warning he'll give them, like when a new horse comes trotting into the stables, self-righteous and cocky. A lax to his muscles and a tension in his big, steady hands.

"You can touch yourself," he says, quiet, "when I say so."

Nico scowls. "And how are you going to stop me?"

Will shrugs. He ducks out of view for a moment, and Nico's heart stops -- he cranes his head around, for a second, like that will magically work, like he's be able to see outside the screen. Will's voice is muffled, interrupted by the wheels of a pulled drawer and the rustling of it's contents.

"Well --" He huffs, audibly, off screen, humming when he finds what he's looking for and crawling back on his bed --

"I'm going to finger myself, regardless, but if you're good I'll let you watch."

The grin he shoots in Nico's direction is goading and devilish. He is under no delusions that Nico is going to up and walk away -- his cock is actually straining in his pants, and his balls are starting to ache -- and no matter what, he gets off. He wins. And gods, Nico does not mind in the slightest.

"I hate you," Nico mutters, voice muffled in the palms of his hands. Will laughs, smug and airy, and it shoots right up his spine, right down his dick. His hands strain to touch -- not only his cock, but across the IM, across the distance; he wants to run his hands up and down that warm chest, he wants to slide those ridiculously tiny boyshorts down with his teeth. He wants to bite him so hard they can hear his shout across oceans, he wants to stuff him full of cock so relentlessly that his eyes roll back in his head and he forgets his own fucking name.

"Mm, too bad for you," Will singsongs. "All you get to do is sit there on your big, lonely bed, my pillow in you face, as I edge myself so hard I lose my voice. Unfortunate!"

Nico stifles a shout, incapable of stopping his hands from diving down his pants. The half-second of relief is divine -- as his heated skin of his cock cools in the cabin air his head calms, for just a moment, and he can focus on the weight of his dick in his hand, the sensitive glans by the head. Fuck. He gathers precum in his palm and rubs it up the shaft, closing his eyes for a second and imagining it's Will's saliva.

"Strike one."

Nico's eyes fly open. "Hey, wait --"

Will shifts, carefully dragging a pillow under his hips, drawing his knees as far up as they will go and arching the length of his broad, freckled back; the fabric of his boyshorts stretches over his ass, so thin Nico can see the shape of each cheek, dead center of the screen in front of him. Will looks over his shoulder, eyebrows raised, mouth pulled into a thin, mocking line.

"Three and you're out, di Angelo. I mean it. I don't need you watching to finish the job." He winks. "Certainly ain't bad, though. Somethin' special about havin' eyes on me."

Heat flows through Nico like hot oil.

"I better be the only fuckin' eyes."

"Yeah? Or what?"

"I'll make you howl, pretty boy. I'll jump all two thousand miles and rail you, don't think I fuckin' wouldn't. In front of all your little admirers, too."

That makes Will moan, thighs quivering like Nico is actually there between them. It takes him time to recover, panting, and it would be gratifying if it did not make every one of Nico's nerves sing, if it did not make him have to sit on his own hands to avoid wrapping them fist after fist around the length of his cock.

"We're -- exploring that," Will says, breathless. "Later, when you can -- make good on your promises."

"I can make good on them now," Nico says darkly. He watches as Will inches his shorts down the tanned globes of his ass, resting the -- fuck, resting the elastic right under the bottom of his ass, pushing the fat and muscle up from the crest of his thighs. It looks like glazed dough, and the want of it makes Nico buckle, makes his chest swim with it. His fingers twitch like clawed nails.

"You're shadow-banned."

"I think your ass would be a fine last meal."

Will laughs, shoulders flushing. "Shut the fuck up."

Nico smiles softly. "Never."

Will rolls his eyes, but Nico can tell by his breathing that he's pleased; he recognizes the hitch in his inhale, the little sound in the back of his throat. He needs to hear it and Nico loves to say it: he wants him. Not for what he can do, not because he is tall, or because he looks like his father. Because every part of him from the bend of his biteable shoulders to the curve of his -- and Nico is an entirely objective observer in this department -- fat ass is the most addictive, mind-ruining, lust-brewing thing imaginable. He is beautiful, and he is breathtaking, and he is capable, and he is clever, and he is unbelievably, unbeatably smart: all things Nico will tell him. All things Nico will drill into him, eventually. But he can show Will that he is sexy without even trying. And it is his most favorite guilty pleasure to indulge in.

Without meaning to -- and without even thinking -- his hand drifts to his cock, kicking off his jeans and socks and settling back onto the headboard, watching. Will pants, shifting side to side, and his ass shakes tantalizingly with every little movement, with every little mewl from the back of his throat. His lubed-slick fingers are quick and skilled and bely some recent, skillful practice -- Nico mourns every viewing he's missed -- and Nico is completely mesmerized by the crook of his long fingers, the stretch and give of his pretty pink pucker. Nico has his fingers squeezing the base of his cock and his palm against the seam of his balls before he is even aware that his hands have moved. It's like pure, magnetic instinct: Will is fingering himself, and Nico is jacking off to it. They have been there before, too many times to count.

"Hey, are you --" Will huffs, bleary eyes narrowing. "Strike two, you shameless motherfucker."

Nico inhales sharply, glancing down at his own traitor hands with as much frustration as he throws across the screen.

"I'm -- I'm the shameless one, how am I supposed to --"

He throws his hands up, aghast, and Will does nothing but huff at him, pausing his scissoring fingers -- no -- and sticking out his tongue. Nico, mournfully, wants to suck on it.

"You remember that time? Early December?"

Nico tilts his head, paying slightly less attention than he means to. (He has one-mind focus. Okay. It's battle reflexes. In the demigod handbook and everything.) "No?? I can't remember breakfast --"

"When you handcuffed me. And ate me out 'til I lost my voice and then rode me so hard I actually lost consciousness!"

Nico pauses, shoulders stilling. A slow, heady grin speads across his face.

"Oh," he says, settling back. He holds his hands up in faux surrender, drinking in Will's lidded eyes. "Yeah, I remember."

"You fucker. I told you I'd get you back for that."

"Did you? 'Cause me personally I remember a lot of Nico, Nico, please and don't stop, don't stop, I'm gonna cum --"

"See, this is why you don't get to touch yourself. 'Cause you're an asshole."

Nico blows him a kiss. He rolls his eyes, hole visibly clenching around his fingers.

"An asshole whom you seem to enjoy."

"Nobody asked you."

"I'm always asking me." For all his attitude, Will is working mighty hard to keep in frame. It does not escape Nico's notice. "And you like it when I tease you."

"Shut up," Will grumbles again. "I'm trying to focus."

"Alright, alright." Nico waves a hand. "By all means."

But he can't quite pull off the playful disinterest he goes for. Will knows it, because he exhales, stretching, and shakes his hips ever so slightly, smirk coming back in full force. He's easy to rile up -- Nico hopes and suspects he always will be -- but one thing about Will is that he will always finish what he started, and finish hard. In minutes, he has a third finger slipped through his ring, then a fourth, and just when Nico has his head against the wood of the headboard, breathing heavy, there is a sound from the other end, a tiny, frustrated grunt, and then a slick pop noise, like a dropped-open mouth. Nico whips his head over so fast he damn near twists his neck.

Will has all five of his fingers in, just above the knuckles.

"Please tell me you are not," Nico begs, jerking forward with the effort of keeping still. A low, groaning kind of shout fights its way out of him, a sound he's never made before, and he fears for a moment he's actually lost control of his body, astral-projecting his soul to wherever Will is so there's half a chance more he can touch. "Will, I swear to the gods, if you fist yourself when I'm not there and I can't touch my dick will actually explode off my body. Jesus fucking Christ."

He's joking, a little bit. But not really. His cock twitches hard and it genuinely hurts, like a fresh, bone-deep bruise -- which, fascinatingly, seems only to make the hard-on that much harder. Will sees, and huffs a laugh.

"'M not," he promises, words a little slurred. There's a little cloudiness in his blue eyes, and on reflex Nico softens, hands twitching out to him. "I didn' -- 'm not prepped enough, baby. It'd hurt."

Nico files that edge to his voice away for later. For now he nods, exhaling long and slow, and lets his face crumple into something shameless, something pleading.

"C'mon, Will. Please. Let me -- let me touch myself, okay, I want to feel it when you finally find your --"

Will moans so loud, suddenly, that Nico pauses and frantically glances at the window to make sure it's shut tight. And then every nerve in his system lights on fire. There's something dissonant about watching Will cum but not being there. He's usually on Nico's cock, see. Or tongue, or hands, or anything, really; if Nico has half a chance to get him panting and red-chested and shouting his name in place of his own, Nico will fucking take it, obviously, because when Will comes he is beautifully, blissfully loud, and every insistence that he can't sing or hold a tune is shot into the stratosphere because he sounds like roaring flame, like whipping race cars; when he cums he rakes his nails down Nico's back and the burn is so heady Nico's eyes roll back into his head. When Will cums his chest burns bright red and his face glows golden, when Will cums he is heat to the point of intolerance and sunburn. And Nico dreams of it. He dreams of the moment he brushes against that tiny little nub -- because that is all it ever takes, sensitive as he is -- and hears him beg and plead and howl, hears his voice crack on Nico's name like the gods with jealously for their own praise. It is like wind roaring, when he comes, like swords clashing.

Across the screen, Nico only gets to see it.

It is breathtaking.

Nico watches, mouth open, hands loose and rested palms up on his knees; when Will cums, apparently, his toes curl, and his back dips low; when Will cums, apparently, his pretty cock twitches just so as it spurts up his flushed chest; when Will cums, apparently, the freckles along his shoulder blades glow in perfect constellations; when Will cums, apparently, his lips mouth Nico's name, once, as he pants, in the small, nano second before the shouting begins and the euphoric twitches flick up and down his arms. Nico thought he had him memorized. He is thrilled, from the stiffness of his nipples to the end of his weeping cock, to know there is more to learn.

"Please," he begs, as Will comes down from the aftershocks, "please, sweetheart, let me --"

"Go," Will nods, and his voice is hoarse, wrecked, and Nico wraps his hands around his shaft like a drowning man grips a rope.

He is used to his own callused hands, although his rough spots are in different places than Will's. As he drives his palm up and down his length, gathering leaking spend from the tip, he hears Will's raspy, road-gravel voice:

"Waited so long, didn't you, darlin'. Listenin' so good to me. If I was there I'd be kneelin' at your feet, tongue out; you could paint my pretty face how I know you like --"

Nico groans, curling in on himself, and spurts into his hand, eyes screwed shut, imagining ropes of cum decorating Will's face, his long, straight nose, his mussed hair. He hears Will giggle tiredly and it adds to the image, making him think of the way his nose always scrunches, freckles disappearing in the folds of his skin.

"Stop being cute when I'm thinking unholy things about you."

"I'm not trying to be cute, I am cute, and you're an innocence-ruining deviant."

Nico pops his eyes open, snorting. "Sure, real innocent, Mr. Paint My Pretty Face."

"Exactly, exactly. Glad you agree."

Will grins at him, wide and soft. Nico memorizes the shape of his teeth, the outline of his frame; his wide shoulders, the jut of his hip. The shapely curve of his legs.

"I miss you."

Nico exhales. "I miss you too, my lifeline."

"Hm. Lifeline. That's new."

Nico watches the shy, pleased curl of him and aches with the need to touch, to press soft kisses to his warm, flustered skin. To wipe the sweat from his belly and shoulders and stroke his hair until he can't keep his eyes open, until he snores into the crook of Nico's neck.

"Not new. Not for me."

Will sighs, eyelashes fluttering. "Y'r my lifeline too, you know." He presses a heavy, tired hand to his lips, extended it out in Nico's direction. "S'pecially when I'm lonely."

Nico swallows. "Good." He leans back into the pillows, careless of the spend on his stomach, on his hands. He'll deal with it later. "You sleepy?"

"Little. Was gonna take a nap 'fore you came bargin' in and seduced me."

"Oh, is that how it happened."

"Mhm."

The tiny little smirk on Will's face makes Nico's chest burn something heavy. He feels the phantom press of it along the web of his thumb.

"Go ahead, Will. I'll wait 'til you're out."

"'Kay." He doesn't need the permission, half-out anyways; but he curls in on himself, hands tucked up to his chest, and hands twitch where Nico usually holds them. "Love you."

"And I, immeasurably, you."

He watches Will sleep and drinks in the glow of his smile.

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

"CANT WAIT FOR CECIL MARKOWITZ IN THE COURT OF THE DEAD!!!!" i scream as i am dragged to a mental facility

Do it I believe in you

100 LIKES and I'll talk to my parents about maybe getting a binder

This is unrealistic on purpose

Reblogs and comments don't count but you can still reblog

Tag as many people as you want

I will tell you if I do it or if I chicken out

Edit 1: changed to 100 instead of 1000

goal reached!

not done yet!

hear me out guys. bottom!will solace isn’t just hot. it’s a full-on character study.

we always see him written as the calm one. the steady one. the one who holds everything together. and that absolutely makes sense—he’s the camp’s head medic, he keeps people alive, he’s responsible, dependable, always putting others first. he’s the one who drags Nico out of the shadows and doesn’t flinch. he’s strong. he’s in control.

but what if all of that control is exhausting?

what if Will—who spends all day making decisions, fixing people, managing crises—actually wants to let go when he’s with someone he trusts? not because he’s weak or submissive in a simplistic way, but because it’s the only time he gets to stop holding the world up. it’s the only time he gets to focus on what he feels instead of what he needs to do.

he’s a child of Apollo, raised to shine, to soothe, to be the golden boy. and that can be a heavy role. he carries so much pressure, not just from the world but from himself. he’s the kind of person who people expect to be okay all the time, who makes himself okay for other people. that builds up. and the more he tries to control it all, the more you know he probably craves a space where he doesn’t have to.

and that’s where bottom!Will becomes something intimate and powerful. not just sexy, but safe. because to give up control, you need trust. to let someone else take the lead, you need to feel completely seen and accepted. that kind of surrender becomes emotional. vulnerable. and no one makes more sense for that than Nico.

because Nico is the one person who doesn’t expect anything from Will except for him to be real. he’s not afraid of Will’s darkness or messiness. he doesn’t want him to be perfect. and Will knows that. he trusts that. so of course he’d feel safe enough with Nico to give up the act, to stop being the healer or the bright one or the caretaker, and just exist in someone else’s hands for once.

that’s not weak. that’s not soft in a diminishing way. it’s deep. it’s powerful. it’s one of the clearest signs of love and trust we could get from a character like Will.

so yeah. give me bottom!Will who shudders when the tension leaves his body. who’s used to carrying everyone else and finally gets to be held. who gets to feel instead of fix. who gets to fall apart a little and know he won’t be left behind.

to me, that’s not just smut. that’s a love story.

@onetiny-inkdropuniverse I know u share my vision!!

Nico di Angelo is in love.

Unfortunately.

Not with Percy Jackson anymore. That would’ve been easy. Unattainable, sure, but at least he could’ve filed it away under Stupid Mistakes I Make When I’m ten. Curse you, Aphrodite.

He knows the feeling — that jittery, restless buzz, like waiting for the sun to rise after an all-nighter you know was a terrible idea. It’s an old enemy by now. Like most of his enemies, it’s winning.

Will Solace is light and butterflies and every other nauseating thing Nico pretends not to give a crap about. His laugh lights up the room — because of course it does — like the universe personally handed him a spotlight and said, Here, make everyone else look worse. 

His absurdly long fingers drum a rhythm on the table, like he’s starring in some indie coming-of-age movie nobody asked for. Nico included.

Every stupidly perfect curl, every freckle that looks like Aphrodite got drunk and decided to show off — it’s enough to make Nico want to set himself on fire. He wonders how much gold it would take to recreate this disaster. Everything in Hades’ palace. Twice. Maybe throw in Cerberus for good measure.

Will’s eyes crinkle when he smiles — soft and blue and filled with that unbearable, stupid early-morning light that makes you want to punch the sunrise and then crawl into a pit and die.

“Oh my gods, Cecil, please don’t—”

Will’s laughter detonates — loud, wild, full-body laughter — and Nico feels it like a bomb going off right inside his ribcage.

He bends over clutching his chest dramatically — Nico’s chest, technically, since that’s where the explosion hits.

His back curves like some stupid heroic mountain or whatever. It’s disgusting.

The first sound of his laugh practically plants flowers in the air. Actual, metaphorical, revolting flowers. Nico would throw up if he weren’t too busy mentally composing sonnets about Will’s jawline. He is a disaster.

“Yo, Death Boy, what are you staring at?”

Will waves a freckly hand in front of his face because of course he notices. Of course he has functioning eyes. Meanwhile, Nico can barely remember how breathing works.

“Nothing,” Nico says, dead inside. “Just the sunrise.”

And somehow, Pandora opened the box and you didn’t fall out. Miraculous.

“Sunrise? D’Angelo, it’s literally ten in the morning. And raining.”

“Cecil, shut up before I hand-deliver every skeleton middle finger we planted on the Ares cabin roof last night into your bunk.”

“Geez, Nico! Fine! Shutting up!” 

Will: If it’s any consolation, Nico got me there under a very misleading text message.

Reyna: Technically, you were about to be screwed in the biology room.

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.

I long for every detail on the ptsd episode with Will. I know I will cry in so many different ways. I crave Will angst.

i would be happy to tell you. ahem. (be warned the concept is. a little ridiculous. nor do i know why i structured this like a poem but alas we carry on):

middle of the summer after the giant war.

something happens at dinner. who knows who started it (hermes cabin). there is a food fight.

someone gets WAY too intense and fucking. launches a watermelon at someone else.

they miss thankfully! but it splats on the stone

and everyone jumps cus the sound but then they’re back to laughing and throwing shit but will just.

freezes.

and starts to walk very slowly to the watermelon.

and tries to.

piece it back together.

and after a second people are looking like oh my god what’s going on what’s his deal….

and percy stands up and rushes over and he’s like hey, man. you okay? you good?

and the camp has gotten silent enough to hear a quiet, panicked i don’t know what to do, michael, what do i do, what do i

and percy gets this LOOK on his face this horrible look and he’s like will, it’s percy. can you look up at me? do you know where you are?

and he just gets increasingly hysterical. trying to put the pieces back together. red juice spilling down his arms and pooling on the inside of his elbows. michael what do i — michael! michael! it’s not working, i can’t — i can’t feel him! michael! michael —

there are very few people at camp who understand what’s happening.

but a handful of them.

know will is not seeing a watermelon right then.

percy is just holding wills wrists and clutching him tightly and just saying it’s okay, will, it’s okay, it’s okay over and over

crying himself

i don’t have an ending it would just be painful. i do however have the image of clarisse, watching aching and angry in the sidelines. i like to imagine her barking at everyone else to look the fuck away and mind their business. i like to imagine chris holding her hand, and her tightening, hard. her crying. the little kids in apollo crying, too, because they've never seen their brother like this before. maybe nico remembering a golden shroud and a boy around his age who couldn't stop sobbing.

So I can't get this out of my head and I can't find any fics about it

How do campers (Nico,Cecil, just mostly Will's friends) react to getting shots and physicals do they hate it or not.

I just need headcanons from you because yours are the best

oh god they do not handle this shit well cus they're all babies.

will is the world's worst patient because he's the world's worst hypocrite. he had to be pinned down by four people to get his shots & checkups as a kid. now he just lies about having done them to himself or gets guilted by his little siblings lol. (gracie is frequently sent in with her big green eyes to bawl about how worried she is. it works every time without fail.)

nico loves shots. genuinely. the idea of having all these vaccines just...free...to Get...is almost unbelievable for him. he had friends to die from polio as a kid. he is the first in line and snarks at people who try and refuse.

kayla rolls her eyes and whines, cus she's an apollo kid and doesn't GET sick, ugh, why does she have to, but understands she sets an example and does the stupid checkup.

austin is a little nervous about needles and hates admitting it. will always does them quietly in the back room with him, and holds his hand.

all the little apollo kids -- and most of the little kids in camp -- are dragged in kicking and screeching, except the odd couple who are morbidly intrigued. for a grand many years will and nyssa have paired up to bodily drag them inside. once nico starts acting like they're the coolest things ever, though, the little kids follow. they listen to him quietly tell stories about what the 20th century was like at campfires and start to understand how lucky they are to live where they do.

lou ellen will actually pass out if she is aware she's getting nicked. she gives will permission beforehand and he either waits until she's entirely locked in on a spell and won't notice anything around her and does it, or he just has to straight up wait for her to pass out and do it then. lol.

cecil keeps fucking Escaping. will'll be like hey. i need to check to make sure you don't. have fucking cancer. and cecil will follow him to a cot and two seconds later has straight up Disappeared. like the door to the infirmary was closed with three people watching them, the windows are clamped shut, there are no other exits. he just sunk into the floor. it takes cecil eight days every single time and will is always ready to Actually Strangle Him

Will Solace will not want to work as a doctor. That boy is so traumatized from being a field medic at such a young age and losing all his siblings.

He had to become Head of Cabin Seven and Head medic at 12 or 13, so he would have to be the person the campers go to when they're bleeding out or have a bone sticking out of their arm. He has all the pressure on him to save lives when he is just a teenager, and he should be living his life instead of having everyone in a camp counting on him to save others. So why would he want to continue to do so in the real world when he could be something else that's not so trauma-inducing

Will has a talent for healing, so I don't think he would leave the medical field

But I don't believe that he would be a doctor, but there are other opportunities that he could take, and not have to see gruesome wounds and people dying all the time

He could be a veterinarian. It can be gruesome at times, but I feel like Will loves animals and would love to take care of them, but he also gets to use his healing skills.

Or he could be a wildlife conservationist. Protecting Wild animals and wildlife. still doing some things in the medical field, but not as much as he would be doing as a Doctor

I have a strong feeling he would be a pediatric therapist (after healing his trauma), helping kids who have hard lives or those with mental disorders, because he wouldn't want kids and teens to go through what he went through when he was growing up

Thanks for listening to me yap

Credit to @onetiny-inkdropuniverse for the idea In the most recent chapter of Binary Stars

Felt like polishing this warmup a bit inbetween commissions, it's been a while since I did EPIC art so here u go have a treat~

Circe's saga is such banger holy moly

Sometimes Nico just sits.

And he watches.

Will, squirming, lets him.

“I don’t know what you’re hoping to find,” he admits, one day. The sun is out, but it is cold; Nico wears a sweater over his camp shirt, and had borrowed Will’s least offensive flannel. Goosebumped skin peels through the holes in his jeans. “On me, I mean.”

Nico blinks, slowly. His mouth is hidden in his arms, tucked into his bent knee.

“To find?”

“Yes.”

“Hm.”

He has huge, dark eyes. Brown, will supposes, but really they’re black; black like river mud, black like crumbling ash, black like polished stone. Black like the deep dark bottom of the well, so far down you can see yesterday’s reflection. Black like the stars so far up they blink at the child-age Earth.

“I’m not much,” Will explains, or tries to. His shoulders draw back like a string has been pulled between them, the hilt of his humerus brushing against the fleshy end of his earlobe. “To — look at, I guess. Or anything.”

Nico blinks. Will exhales, quick and sharp.

“Says who?”

“I — don’t know.”

He’s itchy, he realizes, at the back of his neck and under his chin, heated blood churning and pressing until the skin bubbles with irritation, nerves sparking. He pinches at the side of his neck.

“Just know, I guess.”

Nico hums again. There is the tiniest of separations, Will notices, between his pupil and his iris. Only if you — look. If you stare, searching for flakes of gold, of amber. They’re there. Will’s sure of it.

Nico reaches out, slowly. He waits for the weight of Will’s breath to return, for the pound of his heart to calm somewhere near normal; the tip of his fingertip is cool and rough, sword-rough, and in its tracing path across his nose and down the sides of his cheek leaves a trail of ice and pricking needles.

“You’re interesting,” says Nico, quietly. He pauses on the jagged, rounded scar off-centred on Will’s cheek, dug through two years ago, trying to piece together fragments of a skull. He presses his narrow fingertip into the outline, inspecting the contrast. “I like you.”

The coarse wind blows, and Will shivers. Nico’s steady shoulders twitch in the cold, and his finger moves with them.

“I like you. Too.”

There is no smile to be seen with half his face masked so tightly. But there is a flash in his sky-black eyes, like a strike of gilded lightning, like the flaming arm of solar flare; it burns, for a moment, in the dark space behind Will’s eyelids, and he takes the time to memorize it. To stick it in the walls of his memory, like glued-on attic wallpaper.

“Good.” He pulls back, tucking his hand back against the curve of his neck. He nods, once, graphing Will’s exhales “Good.”

———

based on this post