He burns with questions. This, he cannot have learned from his father -- Will remembers a boy, dark-eyed and mischievous, wide-mouthed and non-stopping. He remembers the winter afternoon and Lee muttering to himself, scowling, about a motormouth worse than Will's. He remembers crouching by the entrance of the ampitheater, breath caught in his lungs. He remembers wild, cackling laughter, and cheering sons of thieves.

That boy resurfaces, sometimes.

"Are you thinking?" Nico grimaces as he says it, shrinking back; but it is too late, and Will has acknowledged him. "Of -- something, I mean. Working something out."

Will places his head on his knee. "I'm thinking," he agrees softly. "I wish I wasn't."

"How anti-intellectualist of you."

Will cracks a smile. "Yes. You've cracked my master plans -- once the rest of this foolhardy camp has succumbed to my brainwashing, I will easy control the complacent masses."

"I think I have to kill you," Nico says sagely. His eyes sparkle, like granite. "Your threat is too great."

Will tries to hide the panic in his face. He does not succeed, because Nico frowns.

"Hey," Nico says, hand outstretched. "You --"

Will scoots back, pressing his back to his bunk. His heart thunders, his pupils shrink.

"Ha," he says, weakly. "You got me."

He turns so his forehead touches his patellae, and breathes carefully through his mouth. He stays there until Nico stops staring.

He hides his fevered palms in between his thighs.

-- -- --

Sometimes Will thinks he was destined to die at four, in penance. He should have choked on his own disease, his own plague; but he did not, and the only thing that died in him was the sparking flame Prometheus gifted them all, blown to matted ember in the stalk of his chest.

Instead his brothers watched his shame bubble out of his mouth, circle him in clouds of spores, and they lied for him. They clung to his bloody hands and pushed him behind them. And then they were slaughtered, as were the punished firstborns, for the crime of their knowing existence: Will, marked, stood on their shrouds and ashes.

He smells of guilt, he thinks. Of guilt and germ and rot. He hides it, in all the antiseptic he can bathe in, in all the ethanol he can consume. But his breath still stinks of it and his lying tongue burns. He is tall, removed from those around him; they cannot see the sores in his mouth or the inflammation of his throat from years and years of choking hands. Bandages hide the bright red spots up and down his arms. Burn scars cover his blackened fingernails.

But the tallest obelisks are swallowed by the length of their shadows. And nothing can hide from Fate, from the servants she sends to collect for her.

Nico gets closer, and closer. His hands are cool compresses on the hidden sores on Will's skin. It is relief, as he is never felt it.

Will is afraid.

-- -- --

"Connor is cute," Will blurts, one day, catching Nico looking. He swallows, hard, and the wail of his failures -- his victims -- echo louder than the crack of his heart. "He's, uh. He's into boys, you know."

Nico snorts. "Connor is into money," he says, turning away. He meets Will's eyes with a grin. "He found out I have an infinite credit card and proposed on the spot. He wept when I turned him away."

Will fights the urge to sigh. He is unsurprised that Connor is a gold digger -- if anything he kind of respects the commitment to the bit -- but he just wishes --

He's not blind, Will. Or maybe he is and it's just that Nico is so obvious. He is always -- looking, always, when Will is standing, when he is slouching, when his hands twitch and when they are shoved into the hollow of his chest, hunched over at the campfire. Will can feel the pinprick of his gaze when he is startled into laughter and when he climbs out of the cabin in the middle of the night, gasping, and crawls onto the sun-warmed roof to face the stars. He watches and he touches, featherlight: Will's elbow, the shell of his ear, the sensitive small of his back.

He guards, too. This one Will has noticed the most. When Will cannot find the breath to fill his lungs, or when his hands shake too badly to thread the suture needle, Nico stands like a shadow two paces ahead of him. And the whispering voices that follow Will's every stumble are glared into mute, mum terror. And the aching tired muscles of his back go lax.

Connor is cute.

Will wishes, with all the audacious hoping he has left, that Nico cared about that kind of thing.

-- -- --

"Will. Hey."

Will realizes, abruptly, that he has automatically leaned into Nico's gentle touch. He wrenches forward, bile rising in his throat -- if Nico is offended, he does not show it.

But he does not move his arm. His big, sky-black eyes watch him, round and steady, until Will forces his breathing to even.

"I have something to tell you."

The souls on Will's shoulder screech so loud he flinches. Death! they cheer. Death! Death! D --

Nico watches him critically. "You know, I think."

"I can't," Will blurts, and hunches in on himself. "I can't, I'm not --"

"Into boys?" Nico finishes. He does a good job of hiding it. The hurt. He keeps his hand light and careful on Will's wrist, thumb brushing over the edge of his bandages, and a safe distance between them. Friendly. He has more strength than he realizes. It is only in the smallest twitch of his mouth, that it is obvious, in the watery gleam of his dark, dark eyes.

Now, Will has --

He inhales, quick and short. No exhale comes after.

There is an easy escape, here.

He cannot tell a lie. They burn him, coming up his throat, and are always shroud in smoke and warning. His father has many domains and it is the job of his heirs to reflect them: Lee had healing, and charm. Michael had the gift of the shot. Cass had prophecy, Diana poetry, Kayla her bow, Austin his music. Dozens more that Will met and loved and who died before him carried on dance, light, education. Will's father is a warm, bright man: he shines upon his children and endeavors to make them beacons among their peers, laughing, trustworthy fortune-tellers and music-makers.

But there is more to the Sun than warmth and light. The Sun brings dry desert, and heady drought; the Sun cooks and it burns and drains a man's sanity out of his ears and onto the sizzling sands. The Sun is all-loving, and it is unforgiving. For every one hundred children there must be one to represent his father's shame, his rage, his fear; for every one hundred children one must coil the snake in which the Sun will meet His end, devoured and digesting. For every one hundred children there must be one who is marked, who is covered in rotting, rancid scales. Will has been shadding as long as he has been alive. For every hubric act of divine grace he forces he must match in decay from the bottom of his own soul. When he opens his mouth, his truth is obvious, it is evident: when he speaks, lies burn him, as they bolster the devil. Will cannot tell a lie.

But he can nod, if someone guesses. If someone presumes his silence for contempt or his neglect for dismissal, he is not beholden to their correction. He cannot lie, but obstruction is outside of his father's domain, and he has no responsibility for it.

Nico watches him, heartbroken. Hand still stubbornly extended, beating muscle bleeding with every pump.

He could nod. He could say: sorry, and squeeze Nico's hand. He could take one step backwards and let his hand fall.

It would be so, so easy.

"Ton angélon," Will chokes out. His hand twitches, in Nico's hold; Nico frowns and brings up his other hand to match, squeezing until the spasms stop. "You are celestial, Nico, you are breathtaking, you're --"

Nico inhales sharply. He blinks once and his eyes open wide, brown in the gold of the sun; amber, cassiterite, quartz. The bow of his perfect lips drops, slightly, mouth in a perfect, shocked little O. Will blinks and a crown of thorns digs into his marble temples; he shakes his head and necrosis climbs up his sharp jaw.

"I ruin everything I touch," Will says, hoarse. "I destroy -- all that is innocent, all that angels breathe life into." His heated hands glow, under bands of cotton; green pulses through his eyes and his pores, and he flinches wrenching them away. "There is nothing of me worth holding, Nico."

Will is expecting nothing because he has forbidden himself from imagining it. Or, he is expecting rejection. He is expecting disgust.

He cannot say in good conscience that he is expecting offense.

"I'm going to smack the shit out of you."

He opens his squeezed shut eyes. He sees Nico's hands, first. Still gentle. And then his narrowed eyes, his sideset jaws.

The failures resting on his shoulders are silent.

Will stares, breathing heavy. His hands twitch.

"You think," Nico begins, and stops himself, breathing out through pursed lips. "You think I -- care? That you've lost people?"

"It's more than that," Will says, desperately. Nico takes a step forward and all the thousands of souls on Will's head scream, at once; he flinches, shoulders aching, hollow stomach scraping against the shake of his spine. "Nico, you guide people, you shepherd them --"

"And you save them from me!"

Nico takes another stubborn step forward and Will can't turn away fast enough, he cannot duck out of his strong fingers on either side of his chin and can't pull away from his magmatic, furious eyes.

"Death is inevitable," Nico says calmly, firmly. "Some deaths cannot be prevented. I'm -- making my peace with that, Solace. I am not the plague I think I am." Will makes a low, groaning noise. Nico smiles sadly. "You are not to blame for your mistakes, either."

Will realizes, abruptly, that he will never be able to say it.

He is not sure who has designed this. It could be the shame, balling solidly in the back of his throat; it could be his many victims, coiling tightly around his neck. It could be his father's warning hand: grow out your hair, child. Keep your marked forehead to yourself.

He swallows, and pulls back. Nico lets him, dark eyes narrowed and curious, head tilted. In the Hades cabin there is nothing for him to destroy -- there are bones, and stones, and raging fires -- but the only lively thing is Nico, and he is doing a fine enough job on his own trying to wiggle under Will's stained palms, drying to swim close enough to the blood he is drowning in to choke to death on it.

Instead, he picks at the yellowed bandages. It takes time, to unroll the layers, but the cotton piles at his feet, and his forearms are bare: layered, upon unflinching burn scars, are varicella spots, EB blisters. Open, weeping sores, cracked skin and inflamed blisters. A spot, where the first drop of Lee's blood hit his skin, that is black and rotted. A patch of reddened rashing that wraps around his elbows.

Nico lurches. Will tucks his arms quickly away.

"I'm contagious," he says, softly. He ducks down and scoops up the bandages, stumbling fingers pressing them back against his skin. "I'm okay, in small doses. But loving me is -- poisonous." He always struggles to tie the last strand. He is not, for all his trying, ambidextrous, and his right hand is clumsy along the cut of his wrist. He blinks aware the moisture in his eyes and yanks on it, frustrated -- he has to leave, quickly, before he can endure the humiliation of Nico's horror, of his disgust. But if he leaves his arms uncovered than someone will -- see.

They'll see, and they'll know.

Deathdeathdeathdeath, murmur his spirits.

Will swallows. I know.

"Stop," says Nico, voice cracking and hoarse. Will squeezes his eyes shut, as his voice gets clearer. "Will, stop it."

"Please," Will begs. "Don't tell. I'm careful, I promise, I can -- I can keep it under wraps, I can control myself --"

He is surprised, again, by Nico's sob. By the balm of his cool fingers on the heel of his hands and the contained unit of his weeping.

"Those look like they hurt," Nico whispers, lump in his throat. He traces his fingers, slowly, over the criss-crossing bandages, removing them carefully. Will, stunned, lets him. He peels them all off and stands, on hand on either wrist, turned so he can inspect the scarred and infected insides. "Gods, Will, this -- you must be in agony --"

He is, he supposes. Or: he always has been. But it is quiet most mornings, and the ache is dull by evenings. The pressure of elasticized cotton is as familiar as the weight of a t-shirt.

"I can handle it," Will insists. He tugs, but Nico holds firm. "It is penance, anyway. There was none of this -- before."

Before he watched his cousin burn into the air. Before he heard his brother's back crack clean across Manhattan. Before he poisoned dozens of demigods, as hurting as any other, for the crime of pain and anger. Before he pieced together the fractured pieces of Lee's skull. Before the shriveled crow cawed three times, beady eyes reading the black rot of his soul.

They came one by one by one.

Slowly, Nico walks him back, until his tailbone hits his bed. He presses, gently, on his aching shoulders; Will sits, bewildered, and watches him flit away, watches him sink into the shadows and appear halfway across the room, with an armful of new bandages, first, then a tube of cream, a jar of nectar.

"Nico," he says, quietly.

"Shut up," says Nico hotly. There are still tears in his eyes, and every fifth breath shudders. "Just -- sit down and be quiet."

Will sits. The roar, even, of the dead, is only simmering; curious as he is.

Nico is gentle, when he heals.

"Drink this," he orders.

Will takes the nectar. "It won't work." He drums his fingers against the glass. "These are -- marks, Nico." He exhales. "Punishments."

Nico stares, jaw set.

Will drinks.

It tastes like cloying sweet. It always does. Like a strawberry on the wrong side of soft, like the underbrush of autumn. It does not fix the viruses who have made home in his systems -- he knows the sound of them dying -- but it does, for a moment, ease the ache.

"You're dumb," Nico says, when he has finished. His voice is short, eyes hard. "For -- the best medic in centuries, you're fucking stupid."

"Comes with the self-destructive tendencies," Will says drily. "Takes one to know one."

"That -- okay, fair. Fair. But." He tilts Will's face to meet his eyes, softening. "That means you have to listen to me, okay. I know what I am talking about." He pulls down the collar of his shirt, stretching down to his sternum. Will inhales, sharp -- where there should be skin, and muscle, there is nothing but dry, gnarled ribcage, right in the patch of space around his beating heart. Nico breathes slowly, heart slowing. He releases the shirt and Will stares through it, eyes wide.

He kneels by the edge of the bed. "I'm marked, too."

Will takes his hands when he offers. The shouts of his victims scream: death! Death! Look what you have done to him!

But the ice cool of Nico's hands reminds him: not everything is yours.

"We can be outcasts together," Nico suggests. He quirks a smile. "Something very Greek about that, I think."

A bubble of hysteric laughter escapes Will's chest. "Like -- Patroclus."

"And Achilles long after."

Nico's breath is warm against the scarred skin of his knees. He stays there, eyes soft, hands gentle around the ring of Will's wrists. He doesn't seem to mind Will's twitching, or the awful, palliative smell of him. He seems drawn to it, actually, breathing deeply.

"I'm scared," Will admits, voice small. "I don't want to hurt you."

Nico inclines his head. "I'm half-dead anyway." He squeezes gently. "You'd have to try pretty hard."

The last thing Will destroys is --

Will is going to be destroying things for a long time.

There will be other wars. Battles. There will be moments, when there is screaming, when Will's lungs coil in his chest, and smoke pours from his mouth. There will be moments when the herbs he picks wither and die in his hands.

Deathdeathdeathdeath, wail the voices.

Will inhales. The clean air settles deep in his ruined lungs, sweet and cooling.

"Try," Nico says, jaw set. "Me. Us. You -- loving, I mean."

Will nods. The pressure lifts from his throat.

"I will."

Tags

i love this so much plauge doctor Powerful Will solace This is deep

PSA TO YOUNG ARTISTS

or artists who aren't used to people commissioning them.

NEVER trust someone who comes into your comment section asking for YOU to DM THEM about a commission.

99% of the time they are scams and they will try and take advantage of you. An actual commissioner will DM you directly or ask you about a price sheet.

Also!! double check that they are following you, and if they aren't, that's a big red flag. It's SUPER fishy when it seems like this person is willing to pay real human money for art that they don't regularly enjoy. A follow is free.

DO NOT FALL FOR THIS!! It's a common scam. Stay safe lovelies!

81 notes View Post

advid-vibe-stealer

3 months ago

Tags

silver bronze vote Keys chase cinderella boy goldie cinderella boy keys

0 notes View Post

advid-vibe-stealer

3 months ago

completely forgot to post these cuties☠️ i wish uni was not so harsh

4K notes View Post

advid-vibe-stealer

3 months ago

crying 😭😭😭 saw this on pinterest and like--

3K notes View Post

advid-vibe-stealer

1 month ago

rb to tell prev they're being so brave right now and pat their head a little please

63K notes View Post

advid-vibe-stealer

3 months ago

basically

1K notes View Post

advid-vibe-stealer

1 month ago

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!

1K notes View Post

advid-vibe-stealer

1 month ago

No because I think that Will believes he has to be perfect every moment of his life so when he's not perfect or does something wrong he takes it out on his body so the amount of scars on his body is so sad

I love will so much

funniest thing about percy jackson and will solace is that they’re actively suicidal but they’re so chill it’s easy to forget. so you get gems like:

will: worst part about trying to kill yourself is that if you fail you just have to go to work the next morning.

percy: oh gods. real. like heaven forbid you get time to try again or anything it’s all nooooo you gotta go save the world or some shit. fucksake.

will: RIGHT

literally anyone else: Hey What The Fuck

Tags

somone get a camp therapist for all these kids pls they need serious help

265 notes View Post

advid-vibe-stealer

1 month ago

"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.

Tags

great job!!! they are so in love with each other This was so fun to read

145 notes View Post

advid-vibe-stealer

3 months ago