Autistic Five HC Is That He Likes Being Upside Down

How do yall think Deacon finds out about the kiss

Will they tell him or something else

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

announcement:

im gonna he writing a lot more porn.

(i didn’t know how fun this was.)

“can I be honest with you?” Austin scoffs before he said; “William Andrew Solace, if you say you miss your boyfriend for the 37th time today, I’ll dismiss myself and leave you alone in this shift.”

Will acted surprised with all dramatic hand-on-chest. “you counted? damn. but seriously it’s been—“

“3 days, Will. ”

“3 days! how wounded i am being left? can’t you see here I’m suffering with all these loving feeling all alone? Austin! please!” Austin rolled his eyes as he open the storage box, lining bandages, gauzes, adhesives, elastics, and triangular in their respective lines. “oh please, what is Nico doing anyway?” Will shrugged as he rolled a tray of scalpels into sterilizer.

“his father called him. saying he needs Nico for the underworld things. complicated applications, judge control and all that stuff. he said he needs to check up on Menoetes’ work too, for the nectar and ambrosia collecting. you know, being the prince of the underworld. he promised not going on Tartarus though. he said to check on Asphodel and Elysium too.” Austin nods on that.

“I just- I just-? you know I’m-“ Will sat down before Austin walks to him. “you’re worrying his safety. Will, you do know he survived two wars with and without us. he went to tartarus twice, Will. he’ll be okay. he’ll be fine.” Will sighed. “he only pack his stygian iron sword and the clothes he wear!” Austin shrugged. “pretty sure he has his own room is his dad’s palace? era, ero?-“ “Erebos. you’re right. but what if he gets hurt? what if-“ graaughhr

“Sweet Apollo! you scar’d me!”

“Will, wha- is this a zombie?!”

Will gives Austin’s weirded out look the same look. “I don’t know? what are you doing here, Mr. Zombie?” graughrhs. said the undead, while holding out a surprisingly clean letter—sealed with black stamp, and a black box filled with two family packs of golden Oreos , enough ambrosia squares and canteens full with nectar. the zombie—somehow shyly—also held out a flower bouquet of night-blooming cereus (which is the flower persephone offer to him), hyacinthus and asphodels.

the Mr. Zombie then take a few space from both Will Solace and Austin Lake and stood there as Will processing of what just happened. “dude, I think it’s from Nico.” Austin gets a hold of the box and bouquet onto the table as he watch his brother holding onto the letter as if it was an ancient victorian fragile artifact. “whoa, do I need to get Cecil and Lou Ellen?” “nah, stay with me, Austin. catch me if I pass out.”

“and fill the shift alone? damn man.” but he agreed anyway as Will undo the stamp after reading the swift writing on the envelope.

to : Will Solace, My significant annoyance.

Dear Will,

I hope you don’t trouble yourself any harm.

I’m writing to you from Menoetes’ farm here. I’m fine and my journey went incredibly well, I might finish the tasks before next week comes. how are you, Night Light? Menoetes and Geryon here say hi. the troglodytes also give hail to Will Solace the Texan Son of Apollo.

Do you miss me? do you like the bouquet? Persephone insists on sending the bouquet, talking about ‘darkness’ and all. next meeting, I need you to tell me your conversation with her, seriously. I asked John to buy golden Oreos and put it with ambrosia and nectar. is it done? those are for you and infirmary needs. do you need me to get you anything for yourself? share the oreos with Kayla and Austin, you greedy dork.

this sound incredibly sappy, I can’t believe you turned me this way, Solace. either way, I miss you. ugh how do you cross words without making the ink spill? you can send me anything in return through John—I mean if you want to, I’m not forcing you or anything. you know that, don’t you?

I’ll soon be back, don’t miss me too much, Carebear. I love you.

Love, Nico Di Angelo

“that’s real sappy. just saying—wait, how come you are so red? it’s been a year and a half and you’re still flustered over him? gods, you guys are so gay” Austin fake gag while Will softly slap his shoulders “oh shut up, you are gay too, dumb ass. now let me write my return letter in peace” “oh please, like a pigeon war love letter? spare me your emotional train-wreck please.” Austin waves as he walk to the beds, to fix up the bed? he don’t know, all he know is he want to avoid Will Solace’s flustered manner as good as possible.

————————————

Months, years later…

“what’s with the pout, Will? it’s only been 5 days since Nico’s next mission! I’m sure he’ll be fine, doing his prince duty and allat” Lou Ellen shrugs as she punch Will’s upper arms jokingly, while Will is still fidgeting on top of the picnic mat near the lake.

“it’s been 5 days, Lou! without any messages!” Lou Ellen rolled his eyes. “oh come on, he’s probably too busy. he’ll send those ‘elite-victorian, love-letter-pigeon-like zombie sooner or later.”

Cecil pops his stolen lolly. “I don’t know, Will. how are you so calm about a zombie being your transpor of sending messages? aren’t you scared?” Will shrugs. “at first, it does. but now? I’m waiting for his presence! to know what my boyfriend’s doing!”

Lou Ellen gives Cecil a look. “he’s down bad, he doesn’t care about the transport and all this undead things” Cecil laughs. “I don’t know, Lou. he fell head over heels, what do you expect him to not like about Nico Di Angelo?”

——————

hc credit and tag ; @princessofghosts-posts

CBC

These are the 1st images of humpbacks having sex, and they're both males | CBC Radio

Photographers Hawaii captured what scientists say is the first documentation of humpback whale sex.

let's hear it for gay whale sex

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.”

Guys what if season 2 is in Buddy's point of view or we get like a switching pov.

Headcanon

Will introduced Nico to Dress to Impress and now Nico is super obsessed and cannot stop playing it

"Don't cry."

"...I'm not."

"Omigods. Will. Don't cry."

"I'm not!"

But there are welled up tears making his eyes looking huge, and even as he bites it his lip still trembles. In seconds there is the slightest of sniffles.

Nico groans, slumping against the handle of the grocery cart. A WASPy mother glares at him in passing. He glares back and sics an errant soul onto her monstrosity of a hairdo for good measure.

"Will," he groans, metal bar digging into his forehead, "Will, it's a lemon."

"I know," Will sniffles, bravely. "Just -- leave it. Let's go."

Nico moves his arm, just enough to watch his too-tall over-empathetic dumbass best friend try and fail to pull himself together in the, and Nico cannot emphasize this enough, very public grocery store in the suburbs of Long Island, where people stare.

And, like.

The staring is not too unusual.

Will is in cutoff shorts and flip-flops. It's early March. Climate change is not that bad yet. The two of them are wearing neon camp t-shirts -- Nico's good, goth t-shirts have been stolen from him to be 'washed' -- and are both, Nico must emphasize again, fifteen years of age, with a grocery cart each full to the actual brim with Pop Tarts, Twizzlers, medical supplies, socks, and silly string. Will is approximately nineteen feet tall. They make a scene. That is a fair evaluation.

But rare is the day where Nico cannot quell the stares by reflecting hellfire into his eyes. Mortals usually flee in terror or at least walk away traumatized. Today they aren't even looking.

"Will," he says, as gently as he can manage. Will looks over, after a minute, and his bright eyes look so glassy and miserable that whoa, hey, Nico can manage a whole lot gentler than he thought he could, can't he. He reaches up and pats a palm against Will's wet cheek, swiping a thumb under his eyes. "Do you. Want." He glances over at the lone, half-dried up lemon on the floor by the produce baskets. "Would you like to take the lemon home with us.

"Yes," says Will quietly. Nico's hand falls away and Will wipes his face, crouching down to scoop it up. He hesitates before putting it in the cart, cradling it against his chest. "It's just." He looks at Nico through his eyelashes. Nico tries to smile encouragingly. Based on the immediate tears and sobbing of a child directly behind Will's shoulders, he is unsuccessful. "If we don't take it, no one will, you know."

"Yes," agrees Nico slowly. "Due to the fact that it is garbage."

Will snatches his hand back like Nico had smacked it, glaring hard. Nico is really starting to consider those bipolar pamphlets Kayla left pointedly on the Apollo table. Yeesh.

"It's not -- garbage! Just because -- just because something isn't as good as everything else doesn't mean it's garbage!"

...Or not.

Ah.

"Ah," says Nico. He clears his throat. "Ah."

Some cultures attribute tact and gentleness to his father -- Death accepts all, and in facts invites all, to reside with Him. He will take your hand and guide you to whence you have never travelled, where you have no kin. He will speak to you in your shock of your life and your triumphs. He, when you have no one, is your compassionate, voluble friend.

Hazel inherited all that, unfortunately. Nico got the dead-eyed stare and fruitiness.

"Uh," he tries, anyway, "if you were a rotten lemon, I would take you home."

Will looks at him skeptically. "You would?"

"Y -- uh, yes. I would make." He wracks his brain. "I would use you to clean surfaces."

"...Oh."

"Yes. Like -- chopping boards, and the like." He makes a karate chop motion with his hand. He immediately takes the hand and shoves it into the untraveled depths of his pocket, which is a challenge due to the fact that it took him forty minutes to paint his jeans on this morning, and vows to cut its quisling digits off as quickly as possible. Why is he alive.

He is grateful at least that his friend is about as stupid as he is.

"That would be a good use for me if I was a rotting lemon," Will agrees. He looks down at the rotting lemon cradled in his hands. "Maybe we will use you to clean."

"Yes," Nico says, gentle coaxing. "Now let's put the lemon in the cart, okay? We're almost done. We just need the nineteen quarts of ice cream Cecil paid me ninety dollars not to disclose to Chiron. Let's go."

"'Kay."

Garbage lemon safely laid among a braid of licorice packages, dead centre in the cart, they move on. The stares follow them, but Will at least does not seem to mind -- used to it, veteran camper that he is -- and slides his arm through Nico's crooked elbow. Nico takes that as the opportunity it is to steer him away from the cake that a nefarious teenager has pushed to the floor, lest that set him off next. They have only minutes until they make it to the cash register, where Nico will pay for whatever Will is watching him scan, and are home free.

"Hey, Nico."

Nico hums, eyeing the self-checkout line. "Yeah?"

"Would we still be friends if I was a worm?"

"Oh, for fuck's sake."

His eyeliner got sharper too.

Just wanted to point this out…

Punkos art has obviously always been incredible, but there’s such a difference since the beginning of Cinderella boy! It’s really impressive ⭐️

I guess that’s what you get from drawing the same characters hundreds of times a month 😂