Archive of Our Own

Nico knew that his tendency to hold grudges, paired with a sharp streak of pettiness, got him into trouble more often than he cared to admit.

Some demigods fell to hubris. Others to loyalty. And Nico? He let anger calcify in his chest like marble. He let it shape him, cool and hard and unforgiving.

He knew it wasn’t healthy. Knew any halfway decent therapist would have a field day with the repression, the self-sabotage, the quiet fury he wore like armor.

He knew.

It didn’t stop him.

Not when he followed Poseidon through the mist-drenched cliffs to one of the sea god’s oldest temples after the latest Winter Solstice.

Not when he’d stepped inside that sacred place where the air was thick with salt, and ancient prayers clung to the stone walls like moss.

And definitely not when he sprawled himself out on Poseidon’s altar, back arched, eyes burning, knowing exactly what message this would send.

There was little that would enrage Hades more.

And gods, did Nico want him angry. Wanted him to feel even a fraction of the betrayal Nico had tasted when he found that file.

So he let Poseidon take him apart.

Let his hands bruise his hips. Let his weight press Nico into the altar like a prayer. Let himself unravel beneath the slow, relentless rhythm of a god who should’ve been off-limits.

He shattered there, beneath Poseidon’s mouth and hands and unrelenting rhythm, until there was nothing left but breath and trembling limbs and a heartbeat that echoed like thunder in his skull.

By the time he rose, slow and unsteady, skin flushed and throat raw, the sun had already climbed above the cliffs.

Olympus was awake. The whispers had started.

Minor gods and nymphs watched him pass, their eyes wide, their voices laced with something between awe and scandal.

Worry curled at the edges of their gossip. So did something sharper. Amusement. Curiosity. Delight.

And Nico?

Nico smiled — slow, sharp, and unbothered — like he hadn’t just lit the match between two powder kegs.

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It started something like this: Nico was absentmindedly shelving files in the Underworld archives, sorting them alphabetically, until he reached the letter D. Curiosity tugged at him, and before he could stop himself, he was thumbing through the folders until he found the one marked "di Angelo, Maria."

Nico flipped open the file and began reading. He scanned the pages slowly, eyes narrowing as he took in each line.

Years ago, Nico had tried to contact his mother — to summon her spirit, speak to her, just once. But his father had stood in the way. Or so Hades had let him believe. He'd forbidden Nico from reaching out, dangling her memory like a prize, using it to keep him in line. He made it seem like one day — if not in life, then in death — Nico would see her again.

But it had all been a lie.

Maria di Angelo had been gone for over sixty years. Not just dead — reincarnated. She had chosen to move on.

And Hades had never said a word.

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“For years you let me wonder, you let me hope that I could one day meet her. And it was all a lie.”

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As Hades’ ambassador, Nico attended meetings on Olympus — sometimes with his father, sometimes in his stead.

This time, he was not alone.

He sat casually on the armrest of Hades’ obsidian throne, a picture of composed indifference amid a room thrumming with tension. One boot dangled lazily over the side, the other planted firmly on the marble.

The air was tight. Unspoken grievances hung heavier than the columns towering around them.

Across the circular hall, Poseidon sat with arms folded, his sea-green eyes narrowed — less the rolling tide today, more the crushing undertow. He met Hades’ stare with one of his own, both silent, but unmistakably hostile. The kind of silence that said unfinished business.

Hades sat still, but there was nothing calm in him. His jaw was clenched, his fingers curled against the armrest Nico occupied. Darkness pulsed faintly around his form, a barely restrained wrath radiating like heat from a furnace.

Nico, by contrast, looked unbothered — even faintly amused. His gaze flicked between the gods like a spectator at a tennis match.

A sharp voice cut through the tension — Hermes, perhaps, trying to corral the meeting back on track — but it barely registered. The real conversation was happening in the silence between glances, in the stillness thick with history and grudges.

Hades didn’t blink.

Deliberately, Nico turned his head — not to address the room, but to look straight at Poseidon, knowing full well the gesture would only deepen the scowl on his father’s face.

Poseidon must have felt the weight of his gaze though, because his own shifted, locking with Nico’s. His eyes were seafoam green, startling in their clarity — reminiscent of Percy’s, yes, but older, deeper, layered with an ancient stillness no mortal could ever carry.

And when they met Nico’s, those eyes darkened just slightly. A corner of his mouth lifted — subtle, unreadable, devastating.

Nico felt it immediately: a flicker of heat low in his spine, a memory rising without permission. The press of rough hands. The scrape of a beard trailing fire across sensitive skin. The way his breath had caught — and stayed caught.

His cheeks flushed, despite himself.

Unfair.

Nico looked away first.

Poseidon didn’t.

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It had been meant as a single night — one glorious, reckless, vindictive act of vengeance.

That was supposed to be it.

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It was, perhaps, unwise to find himself on his knees before Poseidon just a week later — the sea god’s fingers tangled in his hair, firm and unyielding, dictating every breath he took.

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It wasn’t the first time Nico had acted without thinking things through completely.

He didn’t care much for the gods’ gossip — let them whisper behind their gilded hands, let Olympus buzz with scandal. But the murmurs didn’t stay confined to divine halls. They trickled down like rainwater through cracks, spilling into Camp Half-Blood, into New Rome.

Now demigods watched him differently. In the streets, in the dining pavilion, in passing glances that lingered too long. They spoke in hushed voices when they thought he couldn’t hear, their curiosity sharpened with judgement.

The truth was this: demigods generally knew better than to ever get involved with a god.

It wasn’t just about fear or pride — though both were dangerous enough on their own — it was about history.

Gods ruined people.

Not just in the metaphorical sense — though that too — but in real, jagged ways. Scorched lives. Shattered loyalties. Broken oaths and bleeding collateral.

Wars had started over less.

You didn’t let yourself be seen by a god, not like that. You didn’t climb into their bed and pretend you’d walk away unharmed, like their touch wouldn’t destroy you.

Because the damage was never immediate. It was slow, creeping, corrosive. A divine kind of rot that got in through the cracks you didn’t know you had.

And Nico?

He had offered himself up anyway — not blindly, but deliberately.

Not expecting mercy.

Not even wanting it.

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If Nico was being honest, he did feel a little sheepish.

Not regretful. Not ashamed. Just… aware that maybe, maybe, spreading himself across Poseidon’s altar for the whole divine grapevine to feast on hadn’t been his most subtle move.

It had been cathartic. Most certainly satisfying. Undeniably effective.

But now?

Now he was getting looks.

From campers. From satyrs. From the Naiad in the canoe lake who wouldn’t stop smirking at him.

And worst of all—

“Really?” Percy asked, flatly. “My dad?”

Nico groaned, letting his head fall back against the tree behind him. “Oh, gods.”

“Yeah,” Percy said, dropping to sit beside him with far too much energy for someone who’d just cracked open Pandora’s Awkward Conversation Box. “That was kind of my reaction too.”

“I was hoping I could die before this conversation happened,” Nico muttered.

Percy crossed his arms, eyebrows raised like he wasn’t sure whether to be offended, impressed, or vaguely traumatized.

Nico shot him a sideways glance, squinting. “Is this where you challenge me to a duel or demand a detailed explanation of my intentions?”

His cousin made a face. “No offense, but the idea of asking about your intentions with my dad makes me want to crawl back into Tartarus and stay there.”

That actually made Nico chuckle. Just a little. Just enough to let the tension crack.

“I’m not sorry,” he said.

Percy paused. Then: “You shouldn’t be.”

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There was a beauty to the gods — a ruinous, radiant thing that pulled mortals in with the promise of divinity and the certainty of destruction.

It wasn’t meant to be kind. It wasn’t meant to be safe. It was the kind of beauty that tore apart ships at sea, that lured sailors with songs only the drowning could hear.

Poseidon was that beauty incarnate.

He stood like something carved from deep ocean pressure and ancient myth — not handsome in a human way, but in the way storms are beautiful right before they swallow everything whole. His skin held the glow of salt and sunlight, but his eyes were something else entirely — that sea-glass green with fathomless depth, too ancient, too still. Looking into them was like staring into open water: beautiful, bottomless, and unforgiving.

His presence pressed against the world, just slightly wrong, just slightly too much — like reality was trying to stretch around him and failing. The scent of brine clung to him, electric and sharp, and when he moved, it was with the casual grace of something that didn’t need to care if you survived the encounter.

And yet, he was beautiful. Devastatingly so.

And Nico — though he knew better, though he’d watched this story play out in a thousand different ways — kept finding himself drawn back to him, again and again, each step a slow descent toward his own ruin.

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The knock on the door was light — barely more than a tap — but Nico heard it anyway.

He didn’t get many visitors. He didn’t encourage them, either. Most days, he kept to the Underworld, where the silence suited him better, where no one asked too many questions. But since the fight with Hades, he’d been surfacing more often. Spending time in the small apartment he technically owned in New Rome but rarely used.

Still, when he pulled the door open, he wasn’t all that surprised to find Hazel standing there, wrapped in a soft shawl, curls pinned up, cheeks touched pink from the evening chill.

“I brought pie,” she said, holding up a small box like a peace offering.

Nico blinked, then stepped aside. “Well, come on in, then.”

The apartment was quiet. Sparse, but lived-in. There were very few decorations, save for a few carefully arranged books, some old mythological texts, and a cracked skull of something Nico swore wasn’t human perched above the mantle.

Hazel moved through the space like she’d been there a hundred times. She toed off her shoes by the door and made her way to the small kitchen table, setting down the pie.

“It’s apple,” she said over her shoulder, already rummaging through the drawers for plates. “Fresh. I got it from that bakery you like, the one near Temple Hill.”

They settled into their seats. Hazel cut two slices and passed one over. Nico took it without protest, and for a while, they ate in silence. Not the tense kind, not the kind that begged to be filled — just the familiar hush of siblings who had long since learned each other’s rhythms.

Hazel was the only person Nico didn’t feel the need to guard himself against. The only one whose silence felt companionable, not expectant.

After a few bites, she looked up. “You’ve been... distant lately.”

Nico didn’t respond right away. He let the words settle, let them hang in the stillness like dust suspended in sunlight.

“I’m always distant,” he said eventually, voice quiet, almost flat.

Hazel gave him a look — patient, knowing, the kind that had no edge to it, only concern. “You know that’s not what I mean.”

Nico sighed and leaned back in his chair, letting his head fall against the wall with a small thunk. “It’s complicated.”

“I’m not asking you to explain everything,” Hazel said gently. “Just... I want to know if you’re okay. I’m worried about you.”

Nico closed his eyes. “I’m okay,” he settled on. Then after a beat: “Ish.”

Hazel let out a small, crooked smile. “Ish is better than nothing.”

Nico huffed something that might’ve been a laugh if you squinted. “I’m just... tired.”

“The dangerous kind of tired?” she asked, the humor slipping just enough to make space for real worry.

“No,” he said quickly, opening his eyes again. “Not that kind. Just… the usual kind. The ‘I’ve spent too much time around gods and I think they’ve burned holes in my soul’ kind.”

Hazel nodded, her gaze soft. “Yeah. That kind I understand.”

They sat there a while longer, the pie growing smaller on their plates. Hazel didn’t push. Nico didn’t run.

And for a few minutes, the world felt bearable.

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Nico never thought he had a thing for older men.

But lately, he kept uncovering new truths about himself — quiet revelations that slipped in like the tide. Like the roughness of a salt-and-pepper beard against his skin. The solid, unapologetic breadth of shoulders built like ancient stonework, solid and sure in a way that made him feel strangely safe. The simple pleasure of letting his hand wander across a chest dusted with dark curls, warm and real beneath his palm.

And then there were the creases, deep lines carved into the corners of a mouth that had smiled, commanded, and ruined things across centuries. They shouldn’t have been beautiful. But gods, they were. And they made his knees just a little weaker every time.

But maybe it wasn’t about age at all. Maybe it was about power.

Nico was the most powerful mortal child Hades had sired in centuries. These days, only Percy might come close to matching him, and even then… Nico suspected his cousin wouldn’t be able to keep up for much longer.

For all that Tartarus, the streets, and half a childhood in near-death had left Nico leaner than most other demigods, rough around the edges — less muscle, more wiry resilience — none of his partners had ever truly overpowered him.

Until now.

And it was a hell of a realization to have with his face shoved into a pillow, his fingers clenched in the sheets, and his ass in the air, Poseidon driving into him with a pace that bordered on punishing.

There was nothing tender about it. Nothing he could control. Just relentless, consuming power, and Nico taking it, again and again, as pleasure crested into overstimulation, then something even sharper.

All he could do was endure it, take whatever Poseidon gave him.

His toes curled, nerves alight and burning, every sensation drawn taut like a wire about to snap. His voice broke from him in a helpless, humiliating sound — a soft, wrecked mewl — and still, Poseidon didn’t slow.

And Nico shattered.

His voice caught in his throat, breathless and ruined, nothing left but the trembling of his body and the echo of the god inside him.

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Persephone found him in her garden — a quiet, secluded patch tucked beneath the Underworld’s vast silence, where ever-blooming nightshade curled alongside blood-red poppies. The silver light bathing the space had no clear source, as though the moon had bent the rules just for her.

Nico sat on the lip of a stone fountain at the center, boots scuffed and dust-worn, shadows coiling around his ankles like drowsy hounds. His posture was loose but alert — arms draped over his knees, head bowed slightly, like someone waiting for a blow that never came.

He didn’t look up when she approached.

“You’ve been avoiding your father,” Persephone said, her voice soft but pointed.

Nico’s jaw tightened. He said nothing.

She didn’t wait for permission, just lowered herself beside him, her gown pooling like moss over marble, the faint scent of crushed pomegranate curling in the air. The quiet that stretched between them was long and still — not cold, exactly, but shaped by a shared stubbornness.

“He doesn’t know how to talk to you,” she said at last. Her voice was careful, measured, as if testing ice that might crack. “Not when you’re like this.”

Nico still refused to glance at her. “Like what?”

“Angry. Wounded. Unwilling to be seen.” His stepmother turned, meeting his gaze with eyes that shimmered — bright, ancient, deeply tired.

He exhaled through his nose, sharp and dismissive. “That’s rich, coming from a goddess who spends half the year pretending the Underworld doesn’t exist.”

Persephone arched an eyebrow but didn’t take the bait. “Maybe. But I always come back.”

Nico didn’t answer. The shadows at his feet twitched, stirred by a breath of emotion he hadn’t meant to let loose.

“He’s trying,” she said after a moment. “In his own way. You may not see it, but I do.”

Nico scoffed, eyes fixed on a crack in the stone beneath them. “So that’s why you’re here — to defend him?”

“No.” A hand reached over and laid on his own. He stiffened, but didn’t pull away. “He is sorry, Nico.”

His fingers curled in against the stone.

“He may never say it — not out loud, not in the way you want — but he regrets what he’s done. Hiding the truth from you. Hurting you.”

“Then why did he?” The question ripped free, raw and fraying at the edges. “I asked him, years ago. I begged him to let me see her. Just once. And he looked me in the eye and told me it wasn’t time. That I wasn’t ready. That maybe someday…”

His voice cracked, and he trailed off, hands clenched white against the stone. “But she was already gone. There was never going to be a ‘someday.’ He let me believe in something that didn’t exist.”

Persephone didn’t speak, but her silence wasn’t dismissive.

“I know,” she said finally, and the words landed gently, like snow on scorched earth.

Nico turned his head slightly, just enough to glance at her from the corner of his eye. There was something weighty behind his gaze now — not anger, not exactly, but a bone-deep weariness. “Why are you even here?”

She looked at him, her expression unreadable — regal and aching all at once.

“I’m here because I’ve seen him pacing the throne room like a ghost, muttering to himself when he thinks no one’s watching,” she explained quietly. “I’m here because neither of you will do the one thing that would help: talk.”

She held his gaze, unwavering now. “You’re your father’s son in more ways than you’d like to admit.”

Nico let out a bitter laugh, dry and sharp. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

Silence fell again, soft and slow. Behind them, the fountain gurgled in its eternal rhythm, water slipping through obsidian mouths worn by time.

Persephone rose, smoothing the folds of her gown. “You don’t have to forgive him,” she said. “But you should talk to him. Or at least,” — her tone sharpened, ever so slightly — “stop deliberately provoking him. Because for all his guilt, Hades has limits. And you won’t like what happens when he reaches them.”

Nico’s eyes narrowed, jaw locked. “I don’t know what you mean.”

She paused mid-turn, glancing back over her shoulder — not gently, this time, but with a quiet steel behind her eyes.

“If you think we don’t know what you’re doing with Poseidon,” she said, low and unflinching, “then you’re a fool, Nico di Angelo. And I’ve never taken you for one.”

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“You look like someone told you you had to attend a family dinner,” Melinoë remarked, not looking up as Nico dropped onto the fallen log across from her.

He slouched immediately, elbows on knees, the weight of too many thoughts pressing down on his spine. “I talked to Persephone yesterday.”

Melinoë winced—overdramatic and unsympathetic in the way only siblings could be. “Oof. How many metaphors about grief, rebirth, and emotional constipation did she squeeze in before you made your escape?”

“She was… surprisingly direct, actually.” Nico frowned at his sleeve, worrying at a loose thread. “She wants me to talk to Dad.”

Melinoë snorted. “Of course she does. That’s her personal Olympus-wide campaign—turning this cursed little dynasty into a functional family. Just wait. Any day now she’ll break out a trust-building exercise or some infernal scavenger hunt to strengthen our bonds.”

“I’d rather die,” Nico muttered.

“Oh, don’t tempt the Fates.” She raised a finger. “Or Dad.”

They fell into a brief, comfortable silence—one of those rare pauses that didn’t feel heavy or strained.

“She said he was sorry,” Nico murmured eventually, his voice quieter now. “That he won’t ever say it, but he is.”

Melinoë lifted an eyebrow. “That... sounds like him. Sincere as a tombstone and twice as cold.”

“Exactly!” Nico leaned forward, shadows curling around his boots. “It’s like he thinks being the god of the dead gives him a free pass on being emotionally available.”

“Oh, I’ve got a whole list,” she drawled, propping her chin on her hand. “Never checks in. Sends messages through ghosts like we’re field commanders, not his actual children. And don’t even get me started on the dramatic silence. If I have to decode one more meaningful look like it’s a prophecy from the Oracle—”

“—I’ll raise a skeleton just to have someone to scream at,” Nico finished, deadpan.

They both paused.

Then Nico laughed—small, startled, but real.

Melinoë grinned, a rare softness flickering through her usual sardonic mask. She didn’t say anything, just let the moment settle between them.

They sat with it for a while, wrapped in the kind of quiet that felt earned.

“Thanks,” Nico muttered after a long beat, his voice rougher than before.

Melinoë bumped her shoulder against his. “Don’t thank me. Just promise that when you finally do talk to him, you make it at least slightly uncomfortable.”

“Oh,” Nico said, a slow smile creeping in. “I was planning on it.”

His sister’s expression twisted into something sly, mischief glittering in her pale eyes. “Also, not to pry—but if your goal is to piss Dad off beyond recognition, sleeping with Poseidon is honestly kind of inspired.”

Nico groaned and buried his face in his hands. “Oh gods. You too?”

“Oh, please,” she replied, smug. “Half the Underworld knows. You think ghosts don’t gossip? They’ve got centuries of boredom and nothing but time.”

Nico let out a strangled, defeated noise behind his palms. “I hate everything.”

Melinoë just laughed—sharp and delighted—and leaned back on her elbows, perfectly at ease with the chaos.

“I know,” she said, smirking up at the gloom overhead. “But hey… at least you’re getting laid.”

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The hall shimmered with divine light. Olympus didn’t do subtle, and tonight was no exception — marble and gold, nectar sparkled in crystal flutes, and music floated through the air like perfume. Gods lounged, laughed, whispered.

Nico stood near a column, a glass of something too sweet untouched in his hand. He wasn’t sure why he’d come. Maybe he’d hoped to feel normal for once. Or maybe he was just looking for a distraction.

It wasn’t really working.

Still, it was better than lingering in the Underworld, weaving through its endless dark corridors and trying not to run into Hades—or worse, feel the weight of his gaze from the throne. Besides, all things considered, Dionysus and Ariadne weren’t bad company. They’d acknowledged Nico when he arrived, welcomed him without ceremony or expectation.

Then Eros came into view.

He hadn’t arrived just now—he’d been in the hall all along, of course. Slipping between clusters groups like a rumor on the wind. Nico didn’t know why Eros — or Cupid, or whatever the god of inconvenient truths was calling himself tonight — thought it wise to approach any group that included him, but he still did.

Cloaked in silk, hair perfectly tousled, a faint shimmer of wings trailing behind him like perfume. And now, for reasons known only to the gods, he was walking toward them.

Nico felt the shift before it happened—some invisible thread pulling taut in the space between them. Eros approached the group with a half-smile playing at his lips, exchanged a lazy greeting with Dionysus, offered Ariadne a wink and a compliment.

And then he turned to Nico.

There was a beat — a deliberate pause, heavy with the kind of silence that meant to unnerve. The god's form shimmered faintly, like heat over stone. His wings unfurled in a slow, showy stretch, and his face flickered — one and a hundred faces all at once, each unsettlingly beautiful, before settling into a shape more Roman than Greek, sharp-edged and imperial.

“Do I know you?” Cupid asked at last, tone casual, airy, as if genuinely trying to place him.

Nico’s fingers curled tighter around the glass.

He didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. The fury was already pulsing beneath his skin like a second heartbeat.

Cupid cocked his head, then laughed—soft and mean.

“Wait, I do know you,” he said, tapping a finger to his chin in mock recollection. “You’re that demigod. The brooding one from the House of Hades. I remember now.”

Nico stared, unmoving. A shadow twitched at his feet.

“But why the glare?” Cupid asked, his voice light as air and sharp as a dagger, his form inhuman in its beauty. “You should be thanking me, you know.”

That did it. Nico’s entire body went still.

“If I hadn’t dragged your truth out of you,” Cupid continued, “you’d still be choking on it. Or was honesty too painful for the son of Hades?”

The words landed like glass shattering in his chest.

Nico could feel the old fear rising in him—not from what Cupid said, but from everything that had come before it. From memory. From when he was just six years old. From Signor Rossi lying broken in the street, beaten mercilessly, all because of who he loved. From his mother’s voice, hushed and hard: They killed him for his shame, Nico. Do you understand?

Of the few childhood memories the Lethe hadn’t claimed, this one burned the brightest.

But now, Nico understood exactly what shame was—and exactly who had wielded it like a weapon.

He met Cupid’s gaze, dark eyes narrowed. “I have nothing to thank you for. You didn’t help me.”

Cupid’s smile didn’t waver—smooth, almost teasing. “I didn’t? But look how strong you are now.” He tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing as if searching for something just beyond sight. Then they flickered to the side, catching on an invisible truth with a sudden, cruel delight spreading across his face. “How far you’ve come... Poseidon’s little whore.”

Some of the minor gods nearby gasped, startled. Insulting Nico was one thing, but dragging one of the Big Three into it? That was a line few dared to cross.

Nico’s jaw clenched. He didn’t notice that shadows had begun to pool at his feet — just slightly darker than they should be, tendrils curling like smoke.

“You think humiliating me made me better?” Nico’s voice dropped low, cold as winter’s edge.

Cupid tilted his head. “I think if you weren’t so afraid of your own heart, you wouldn’t still be looking at me like I’m the worst thing that ever happened to you.”

“I’m not afraid of my heart.” Nico took a step forward. “But I am tired of you.”

The room had gone quiet. Somewhere, a lyre stopped mid-note.

Cupid arched a brow, amused. “Is that a threat, little boy?”

“No,” Nico said. “It’s a challenge.”

Gasps rippled around them. Nectar spilled. A few minor gods eagerly stepped forward.

Cupid’s smile vanished.

“Well,” he said softly. “How deliciously mortal of you.”

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Challenged before the assembled gods of Olympus, Cupid had no choice but to accept. He hesitated only for a moment—just long enough for his gaze to flicker toward Hades. That brief hesitation was quickly swallowed by a steely resolve, a silent calculation made and dismissed.

Because what did a god have to fear from a mortal?

Especially one who, in the eyes of Olympus, was so clearly outmatched.

And as for Hades—why would he waste his wrath on a child so reckless, so foolish? There was no reason for vengeance here. No stakes worth raising a god’s ire.

So, Cupid stepped forward, confident and unfazed.

It was his mistake.

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Nico was not fourteen anymore. The years had carved him into something harder, sharper. These days, when he bled, he did so more in gold than red.

But Cupid hadn’t realized that.

The god had faced him with a self-satisfied smile, eyes glinting with that familiar, cruel amusement—the kind that had once dragged Nico’s worst fears out of him like a confession. He had expected a boy still trembling in his own skin.

But fury always found a weapon—

and when it did, Cupid found himself sprawled on the marble floor, breath punched from his lungs, wings splayed like broken glass beneath him.

Nico didn’t hesitate.

The Stygian iron blade in his hand moved with cold precision. Feathers fell like snow. Flesh split. Bone cracked. Cupid screamed.

He carved deep, knowing exactly what he was doing—how the metal, forged in the River Styx, would leave wounds no nectar could mend, no divine will could erase. The cuts would scar. Permanently. Eternally.

By the time it was over, Nico stood before the assembled Olympians—drenched in ichor, shadows coiled at his heels, and Cupid’s severed wings lying limp at his feet.

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Poseidon stood just beyond the crowd, the revelers too stunned to notice a god gone still.

He hadn’t meant to linger. This had been another of Olympus’ foolish gatherings—wine, laughter, petty jabs. But now…

Now his gaze was locked on the boy.

Stygian blade still clutched in one hand, his other slick with golden ichor, fresh from Eros' ruined wings. Shadows curled at his feet like adoring hounds. The scent of blood and magic clung to him, sharp as salt on skin.

Poseidon felt something shift deep within him. Not shock. Not disapproval. Hunger.

It moved low and slow, like the pull of a tide he hadn't known he'd missed. There was fury in Nico di Angelo’s shoulders, a cold, precise violence in his movements. Nothing wasted. Nothing spared. A beautiful, dark clarity.

He’d seen that kind of rage before—in the sea during storms, in gods too long denied—but never like this.

Nico stood above the god of love as if he were nothing.

And Poseidon, watching, wanted to devour him whole.

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The streets of New York were damp with late rain, the pavement slick and shining beneath the dim wash of city light. Nico walked with his hands in his pockets, though he could still feel the ichor on them—thick and sticky, not unlike blood, yet humming with a wrongness that made it impossible to forget what he’d done.

It hadn’t come off, not really. Not from his skin. Not from his soul.

He glanced down at his fingers. To him, they looked stained. Touched by something divine and ruinous. But what did mortals see, if they bothered to look? Just a boy in black, pale and strange, walking with his shoulders tight and his mouth set in something too hard for his age?

A cab passed, splashing water near the curb. He didn’t flinch.

What had he done?

He didn’t know where he was going—only that he had to leave Olympus behind before the weight of it crushed him.

That was when he heard it. The soft sound of another pair of footsteps, perfectly in step with his own. He didn’t need to turn to know who it was.

Poseidon walked beside him, tall and unhurried, as if they were simply two men sharing a street. No trident. No thunder of waves. Just the sharp scent of sea brine and something older, deeper.

Nico didn’t look at him directly, only spared him a glance from the corner of his eye.

There was no heat in him. No sharp retort. Just exhaustion.

"I'm not in the mood," Nico said, his voice flat. Perhaps rude. Perhaps stupid. But true.

Poseidon didn’t take offense. If anything, he seemed... thoughtful.

He looked at Nico then—really looked—and his eyes were darker than he had ever seen them. Not stormy. Not angry. But deep. Endless.

“Have you eaten?” Poseidon asked.

The question stopped Nico in his tracks.

He turned toward the god, brows drawn slightly together, confused. “What?”

“Have you eaten?” Poseidon repeated, like it mattered. Like it was the only thing that did.

Nico opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked away. “No,” he admitted, quietly. “I haven’t.”

Poseidon gave a small nod, almost imperceptible. “Very well,” he said. “Let’s go then.”

.

.

.

Next thing Nico knew, he was sitting at a sun-drenched table overlooking the Amalfi Coast, the salt-tanged breeze brushing his cheeks. The sky was impossibly blue, the sea stretching out in glittering waves beneath it.

Poseidon was across from him, lounging like this was the most natural thing in the world, sandals kicked off beneath the table, shirt half-unbuttoned and hair tousled from wind or sea or simply divine indifference. A menu was folded haphazardly in front of him, but he wasn’t looking at it. Instead, he was reciting their order in smooth Italian to the trembling water nymph hovering at their side, pen poised over her notepad.

“We’ll have the crudo di mare to start,” Poseidon said, barely glancing up. “Then the spaghetti alle vongole, extra garlic, and a bottle of the white—no, not that one. The one from Sorrento.”

The nymph gave a small bow and scurried off, nearly tripping over her own feet. She risked a single glance back—at Nico, at the streak of ichor across his face—and lost all her remaining color.

Nico stared.

Poseidon turned his gaze on him finally, ocean-green eyes crinkling at the corners like he found this mildly amusing. “You looked like you needed a break.”

“A break,” Nico repeated flatly. “After I maimed a god.”

Poseidon shrugged, leaning back in his chair like they were discussing the weather. “I’ve never much liked Cupid.”

“I maimed a god,” Nico said again, slower this time. “I dismembered him.”

“Yes,” Poseidon said, picking up a cloth napkin and flicking it open with the ease. “And it was quite impressive.”

Nico stared at him. “You’re…just alright with that?”

Poseidon gave him a look, one that was half amusement, half exasperation. “Cupid is like a rash—unwelcome, persistent, and almost always brought on by some bad decision. You just scratched the itch.”

“I mutilated his wings,” Nico said, voice low. “They won’t ever heal.”

“Good,” Poseidon said, sipping water poured from a chilled bottle.

Nico stared at him. “That’s it?”

“What more do you want? Applause? A fresco in your honor?” Poseidon leaned back, gaze drifting to the pale horizon outside the restaurant’s terrace. “He’s a god of love, not war. If he didn’t want to lose feathers, he shouldn't have provoked you.”

Nico pinched the bridge of his nose. This was going nowhere. And yet, he couldn’t help himself—

“You’re a god,” he muttered. “What do you even know about rashes?”

Poseidon raised a brow, the corner of his mouth twitching.

Mercifully, the nymph returned with their food before the conversation could spiral into anything more horrifying. She moved with the careful precision of someone aware of both the power at the table and the absurdity of serving grilled calamari to the god of the sea.

“Thank you,” Poseidon said, his tone warm enough to make the nymph flush and hurry off.

Nico watched her retreat, then glanced down at the food—slivers of tuna, scallop, and amberjack glistened beneath a drizzle of citrus and olive oil, garnished with fennel and pink peppercorns. It looked like something out of a dream.

Nico picked up his fork, hesitated, then stabbed a thin piece of tuna. He tasted it without ceremony. It was cold, clean, and sharp with citrus. His stomach unknotted just a little.

“I’m assuming this isn’t a reward,” he said after a moment. “For maiming a god.”

“You really can’t let it go, can you.” Poseidon looked up, chewing slowly. “But no, it’s a reprieve.”

Nico frowned. “There’s a difference?”

Poseidon wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Rewards imply you’ve done something good. Reprieves are short pauses—just enough time to catch your breath and remember who you are.”

Nico didn’t answer, but he kept eating—slowly, methodically. The food was exquisite, each bite delicate and precise, and somehow it felt like sacrilege to sit here savoring it after what he had done.

The breeze shifted, gentle and salt-kissed, threading through the scent of jasmine like a secret. Far below, the sea sang its slow, endless lullaby against the cliffside rocks.

“Besides,” Poseidon said after a moment, his voice dark honey, “if this were a reward, your mouth wouldn’t be busy with food.”

.

.

.

Fingers threaded through his hair — firm, possessive — guiding him with a control that felt both effortless and absolute. Each subtle tug, every breathless pause, set the rhythm of Nico’s world: salt on his tongue, heat coiled low in his spine, the electric thrum of divinity skimming over his skin like a rising tide.

His breath caught, throat convulsing, eyes brimming with tears as he looked up from where he knelt.

Poseidon said nothing. He didn’t have to. His hands spoke for him — commanding, greedy, almost reverent in their ruin.

Nico’s fingers curled against the god’s thighs, not in resistance, but to anchor himself — to keep from drifting too far out into whatever he was becoming under that touch.

And he let it happen. Invited it. Welcomed it.

Because in that moment — wrapped in moonlight, need, and something far too vast to name — he didn’t want to feel like himself at all.

.

.

.

The café was bright. Too bright.

Nico blinked against the gold-washed sunlight pouring through the glass storefront, shadows shifting beneath his eyes. He tugged his hoodie a little lower over his forehead, even though it was warm. The place smelled like cinnamon and burnt espresso. Hazel was already at the counter, ordering—voice light, casual, like nothing was wrong.

People were staring.

They always had, but this felt different. The looks weren't just curious anymore. They lingered longer. Murmurs slid between tables like smoke.

"That's him."

"The one who—"

"Did you hear what he did to Cupid—"

He clenched his jaw and dropped his gaze to the scuffed tile floor. The whispers didn’t fade. They sharpened.

A barista's hand trembled slightly as she took Hazel’s money.

Nico had thought he’d gotten used to the way people looked at him—the wary glances, the double takes. He was the son of Hades, after all. One that had a very public affair with Poseidon. But this was something else. After Cupid, everything felt... worse.

Hazel turned, handing him a to-go cup. “With milk and sugar, like you like it.”

He managed a ghost of a smile. “Thanks.”

They stepped outside into the crisp morning, away from the staring, though the air felt no lighter. Nico took a sip. Scalding.

Hazel glanced at him sideways, her expression unreadable. She hadn’t said a word about what he’d done.

Nico doubted she ever would.

.

.

.

They used to sneer at him for fucking a god — now, they only watched in silence, eyes wide with fear.

.

.

.

The air was cool and crisp on the balcony. Olympus stretched out before him, all luminous marble structures and winding, impossible paths that shimmered faintly with divine light. The sky arched endlessly above, painted in shifting hues of gold and pink.

It was a relief to escape the throne room. If he’d had to sit through one more argument between Athena and Ares, he might’ve flung himself off the mountain just for a moment’s peace.

Poseidon stood at the edge of the balcony, hands resting on the railing. He didn’t turn when Nico approached, but his body shifted ever so slightly to make place. Nico stopped beside him. Their shoulders nearly aligned. They didn’t speak at first.

Then Nico asked, voice dry, “How do you stand any of them?”

Poseidon exhaled through his nose, the faintest sound of amusement in it. “With great patience.”

Nico gave a small scoff. “Poseidon. Stormbringer. Earthshaker.” He looked up at him with a crooked smile. “You? Patient, my Lord?”

Poseidon turned his head slightly, considering him.

“You need not call me my Lord,” he said.

Nico froze, the next words caught behind his teeth. It wasn’t just casual familiarity—this was something more. Percy might joke and banter with the gods like it was nothing, but Nico knew better. Titles meant power. Deference. Distance.

To be offered otherwise... it wasn’t small.

Nico glanced away, out toward the sky where the clouds drifted lazily beneath them. A hawk circled far below, distant enough to look like a speck.

He didn’t know what to say, how to shape the knot in his chest into words, so he settled on the simplest truth he had: “Thank you.”

.

.

.

Nico stood in the middle of the produce section, glowering at a bundle of kale like it had personally offended him.

He wasn’t even sure why he was holding it. He didn’t like kale. He didn’t know how to cook kale. He was almost certain kale wasn’t even food.

The air behind him shifted—too cold, too sudden. A familiar chill crept under his skin.

He didn’t turn. “Please tell me you’re here for the celery.”

Then, with the resigned slowness of someone preparing for emotional turbulence, he turned—kale still clutched in his hand like a shield.

Hades stood before him, draped in a shadowy black suit that managed to look perfectly tailored even in fluorescent lighting. His hair was impeccably styled. His expression was unreadable. And yes — he had a shopping basket. It was empty, save for a single pomegranate.

Of course.

“You’re in a Trader Joe’s,” Nico said flatly.

“Yes,” Hades replied, as if this were the most natural thing in the world. There wasn’t even a flicker of shame in his voice.

Nico blinked, then gave him a once-over, like he was still trying to confirm the surreal image before him: the God of the Underworld, standing between a display of organic persimmons and a sample table offering gluten-free vegan pesto.

“I see,” Nico’s voice was resigned. “Why?”

“You haven’t been home for a while.”

Nico let out a sharp breath, half a laugh, half a sigh. “Yes, well. I’ve been avoiding you.”

“Yes,” Hades said evenly. “I noticed.”

A beat of silence passed. Somewhere nearby, a toddler squealed with joy over freeze-dried strawberries. It might’ve been the most absurd moment of Nico’s week, and that was saying something.

“I do not like to see you hurt,” Hades admitted at last, voice low and strangely careful. “And I regret I am its cause this time.”

Nico’s jaw clenched. “You lied to me. For over a decade.”

“I believed it was mercy,” Hades explained. “I see now it was cowardice.”

Nico narrowed his eyes. “So what is this, then? Divine penance in aisle five?”

“No,” Hades said, straightening slightly. “This is me trying. Which, as you may have noticed, is not something I do often.”

“Trying to do what?”

“To be your father.”

Nico blinked. For a moment, the steady noise of the store—the hum of refrigerators, the distant chatter of shoppers—felt like it had been turned down, muffled by surprise. It wasn’t an apology, exactly. It wasn’t grand or dramatic. But it was more effort, more honesty, than most gods ever offered.

And the truth was, he was tired. Tired of the silences, the arguments, and the avoidance. He missed his home. He missed the quiet stillness of the Underworld, the echoing halls that had once brought him peace. He even missed their strange but warm weekly family dinners.

And standing here now, in a grocery store aisle under fluorescent lights, Nico found himself wanting that back. Or at least, wanting to try.

He turned back to the kale and regarded it carefully. “You’re not very good at it.”

“I am aware.”

Another pause.

Finally, Nico dropped the vegetable in his cart with a reluctant grunt. “Fine. You can help me carry things.”

A flicker of something passed through Hades’ expression — amusement, maybe. Or relief. He moved to stand beside his son.

They walked together in silence for a few paces, until Hades asked, far too casually:

“Will you stop your infernal affair with my brother now?”

Nico didn’t even look up. “No.”

Hades sighed, long and regal. “I thought not.”

.

.

.

Nico must have blacked out at some point — when he came to, the air was thick with salt and silence, and a damp cloth was moving gently between his legs, wiping away come and sweat. He was on his back, legs parted, sprawled open and boneless — and Poseidon knelt between them, deliberate and unhurried, as if savoring the quiet aftermath.

When the cool cloth brushed over his tender and sensitive hole, a moan escaped his throat — low, involuntary, shamefully soft.

He bit down on it too late.

Poseidon paused, the barest curl of amusement at his lips. “Still so sensitive,” he murmured, almost fond.

He set the cloth aside, his hands returning to Nico’s thighs. With slow, deliberate pressure, he pushed them further apart, exposing him fully to the god’s gaze. Poseidon's eyes darkened, hunger simmering just beneath the surface as he took in the sight of his spend dripping out of him.

A flush crept up Nico’s skin, blooming across his chest and throat like a slow-burning fire. He shifted instinctively, legs drawing together—but Poseidon's grip was unyielding, firm without force, as immovable as the tide.

He bit his lip and turned away, unable to endure that searing, ancient gaze. It was a mistake. He didn’t see the god’s hand move—fingers tracing the slick warmth trailing down his taint, gathering it, then pushing it back into his hole. Two fingers pressed in—slow, deliberate, exploring with measured intent.

“Ah,” Nico gasped, nerves sparking like struck flint, too raw to contain.

The fingers kept moving—steady, unrelenting—brushing against his prostate with almost clinical precision. Nico felt hollowed out, wrung dry; he was certain he couldn’t come again. But Poseidon wasn’t asking. He shifted Nico easily, carelessly, lifting his legs over broad shoulders.

His breath fanned hot against Nico’s skin, the rough drag of his beard scraping along the tender inside of his thighs.

“I can’t,” Nico whispered, voice wrecked and fraying at the edges.

Poseidon hummed low in his throat. “You can,” he said, calm and merciless. “And you will.”

His tongue licked over the exposed entrance, firm and precise, as if testing the limits of flesh. It pressed in easily, cold, wet, and unyielding, a shock against overheated skin. Strong hands slid up his thighs, guiding him closer with a grip that brooked no refusal.

Then a finger slid in alongside the relentless sweep of his tongue, firm and unyielding. The contrast made Nico jolt, nerves flaring as the added pressure stretched him further, deeper. The intrusion was slow, deliberate, coaxing him open inch by inch, until he could feel the distinct difference between the slickness of Poseidon's tongue and the firmer insistence of his finger.

Nico whimpered as another finger pressed in, the stretch sharper now—insistent and undeniable. Then a third joined, and he gasped, the sudden fullness wrenching a sound from his throat he didn’t recognize. It was too much—too much pressure, too much heat, too much of Poseidon everywhere, inside and around him.

His thighs trembled, breath stuttering as his body struggled against the sensation. Every nerve felt scraped raw, strung tight between pain and pleasure, defiance and surrender. His fingers twisted in the sheets, desperate for something to anchor him, but nothing held—nothing except the overwhelming presence of the god between his thighs.

Incapable of holding back any longer, Nico reached out—fingers trembling as they sank into Poseidon's impossibly soft hair, strands like water slipping through his grip. He didn’t know what he meant to do—whether to push him away, to reclaim even the smallest measure of control, or to pull him closer, to anchor himself in something solid amidst the storm unraveling inside him. His grip tightened reflexively, torn between resistance and need, the ache in his chest almost worse than the one in his body. Poseidon didn’t flinch, didn’t pause—he merely hummed low in his throat.

Nico wasn’t hard. He hadn’t been for a while, and he wasn’t sure he could be—not now. His body felt used, wrung out, stretched too far past the point of want into something else entirely. Every breath came shallow, his muscles aching in that dull, distant way that made it hard to tell where sensation ended and numbness began.

Nico’s hands tightened in Poseidon's hair, the silken strands slipping between his fingers as he pulled hard, desperation overtaking hesitation. He arched off the bed, voice cracking as the words spilled out—shaken, breathless, final. “I can’t,” he gasped. “Please… I can’t. Not anymore.”

For a moment, everything stilled.

The relentless tongue withdrew, the sudden absence almost as jarring as the intrusion had been. Poseidon lifted his head slowly, like a tide pulling back from the shore, revealing slick, glistening lips and eyes too ancient to soften. Three fingers still remained buried inside him, unmoving but unforgiving.

He stared down at Nico, breathing steady, calm in a way that felt inhuman. “Are you sure?” he asked, voice low and almost gentle.

Nico’s chest rose and fell in shallow gasps, the question echoing in his head like a stone dropped into deep water. Was he sure? About this? About anything? His mind was a blur of frayed nerves and too-much-touch, his body trembling on the edge of something he didn’t have words for. And still, when he looked up at Poseidon, he felt the last pieces of certainty slip through his fingers.

“No,” he whispered, voice barely audible, a confession more than a response.

And yet, even as the word left him, his hands moved of their own accord, gripping the god’s shoulders and pulling him down—desperate, searching, hungry for something he didn’t know how to ask for. Their mouths met in a kiss that was anything but tentative: searing and consuming, the kind of kiss that blurred lines, rewrote boundaries, and burned away everything that had come before.

Poseidon didn’t resist. He allowed himself to be pulled into it, deepening the kiss with a practiced ease that made Nico feel both cherished and devoured. There was no safety in it, no promise of gentleness—only surrender, raw and irrevocable.

When Poseidon entered him—slow at first, then all at once—Nico’s breath caught so sharply he thought he might lose consciousness. Despite how recently he'd been stretched open, the god still felt impossibly large, forcing him wide in a way that bordered on unbearable. His back arched off the bed, body clenching reflexively, overwhelmed by the sheer depth and pressure.

Then Poseidon moved.

His hips snapped forward again and again with brutal precision, each thrust driving deeper, shaking Nico down to the marrow. There was no gentleness, no pause—only the relentless rhythm of a god who knew no limits and offered no mercy. The bed creaked beneath them, protesting the force, and Nico knew he would have been shoved halfway across the mattress if not for Poseidon's iron grip pinning him in place.

One of those unshakable hands slid from his hip to his stomach, not caressing but claiming—pressing firmly into the muscle there, grounding him, branding him. Nico gasped as it continued downward, fingers ghosting over skin flushed and trembling, until it reached his soft, unresponsive cock. And yet, even in its limp state, the contact sparked something: a twitch, involuntary and faint, like the flicker of a dying flame.

That was all he had left to give.

And then he came—sharp and sudden. Dry. The release ripped through him like a shudder rather than a climax, more spasm than pleasure, pulled from a body pushed far past its limits. There was no moan, no cry, only a soft, broken exhale as his head fell back against the pillow, every nerve frayed and useless.

He floated in a haze, only distantly aware of Poseidon pulling back and working himself until warm release painted Nico’s stomach in pale streaks.

.

.

.

The sun was too bright. Nico had his arm draped across his eyes, shielding himself from the warm glare overhead. The grass beneath him was cool, prickling faintly through the thin fabric of his shirt. Somewhere nearby, children laughed, a dog barked, a breeze stirred the leaves above them — but all of it felt distant, muted, as if the park were wrapped in a protective layer of quiet just for the two of them.

Beside him, Hazel sat cross-legged in the shade, a plastic cup of wine balanced carefully between her knees. Her curls glinted gold where the light caught them, and her eyes scanned the open book in her lap with steady focus.

There were Tupperware containers scattered around them — half-finished sandwiches, fresh fruit, a small box of salted olives.

Hazel's voice broke the silence, soft but clear: “I became what I am today at the age of twelve, on a frigid overcast day in the winter of 1975. I remember the precise moment, crouching behind a crumbling mud wall, peeking into the alley near the frozen creek.”

Nico shifted slightly, but didn’t open his eyes. Hazel had chosen The Kite Runner as their next book. Her voice — always more fluid than his would ever be — carried the words softly. Nico, whose dyslexia had often made him feel estranged from books, let her voice guide him through stories he could only ever half-touch alone.

Hazel continued, “That was a long time ago, but it’s wrong what they say about the past, I’ve learned, about how you can bury it. Because the past claws its way out. Looking back now, I realize that I have been peeking into that deserted alley for the last twenty-six years.”

She turned the page with care. Nico took a sip of wine. It was warm now, slightly sour on his tongue. He didn’t mind. There was something grounding about the taste.

Hazel had a talent for finding books that got under his skin in just the right way — stories that spoke of grief and guilt, of forgiveness and the long, aching road to it.

“One day last summer,” she read, “my friend Rahim Khan called from Pakistan. He asked me to come see him. Standing in the kitchen with the receiver to my ear, I knew it wasn’t just Rahim Khan on the line. It was my past of unatoned sins—”

Her voice faltered slightly, but only for a breath. Nico lowered his arm, cracking one eye open. Hazel didn’t notice.

“There is a way to be good again,” she read and paused immediately after. Let the words hang.

Nico looked up at the branches above, then over at her.

“That’s a good line,” he murmured.

Hazel smiled faintly, tucking a curl behind her ear. “I thought you’d like it.”

He didn’t say anything more. And Hazel continued to read.

The past always clawed its way back. But maybe — just maybe — that didn’t mean it had to win.

.

.

.

Poseidon adorned him in jewelry, strands of pearls harvested from the ocean’s darkest depths, each one cold, luminous, and heavy against his skin.

And where Poseidon’s hands gripped him, the pearls pressed hard, biting into flesh and leaving ghostly imprints in their wake — marks of worship, or possession, or both.

.

.

.

The sun hung high and golden in a sky scraped clean of clouds, spilling heat across the world in lazy waves. The sea shimmered like molten glass, each swell catching the light and tossing it back in a thousand glints.

Nico squinted at the horizon, black hair curling damply at the nape of his neck, shadows clinging to him in spite of the sun. His shirt was discarded somewhere in the sand, and the warmth on his skin felt alien. Still, he didn't move. The waves rolled in and broke gently around his feet, cold and insistent.

The water whispered to him in a tongue he wasn’t born to understand. It spoke of depth and vastness and secrets buried where sunlight never reached. And beside him stood the god who ruled it all.

Poseidon’s presence was quiet, but impossible to ignore. He stood relaxed, ankle-deep in the surf, skin bronzed by the sun. His trident was nowhere in sight; he didn’t need it here. Power radiated from him as easily as heat from the sand.

“You’re tense,” Poseidon observed, watching the demigod beside him with mild, amused patience.

Nico didn’t answer. His arms were crossed over his chest like a barrier.

“You don’t have to be afraid,” Poseidon said softly. “Not here. Not with me.”

Nico shot him a look, sharp and unsure. “I’m not afraid.”

Poseidon’s lips twitched in a faint smile. “A child of the Underworld, standing on the edge of my domain, and you expect me to believe that?”

Nico’s jaw tightened. His body was still, but inside, every instinct was blaring warning—loud and familiar. And yet… he didn’t move. Didn’t retreat.

The sea crept higher, licking coldly at his shins, as if testing him. Inviting. He didn’t flinch this time.

“I don’t belong here,” he murmured, eyes fixed on the dark horizon.

Poseidon turned to him, stepping closer. “I am the Sea,” he said, voice low, unwavering. “And you belong with me.”

A silence passed. Then, slowly, Nico stepped forward, the waves climbing higher with each stride. He waded in until the water kissed his hips, the pull of the tide stronger now, urging him away from shore. He paused, breathing hard.

Poseidon appeared at his side again without a splash, the ocean parting easily around him. “Lean back,” he said gently. “Let me show you how to float.”

Nico hesitated—then he did as told.

The water caught him, cooler now, but soft. Poseidon’s hands were there, strong beneath him, one against his back, the other grazing the curve of his hip. Nico tried to breathe slow, even as every instinct screamed at him to run. But the warmth of the day, the god’s hands, the lapping rhythm of the sea—it began to calm him.

He floated.

The sunlight poured over his pale skin, and for a moment, he felt almost weightless. Safe.

Then—without warning—Poseidon’s hands shifted, and Nico was pulled under.

The world flipped. The warmth vanished, replaced by cold and pressure and depth. Panic exploded in his chest. His limbs thrashed against the press of water. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t—

He felt Poseidon's hands again, firm, pulling him close, holding him like the center of a storm.

“Peace.” The voice rang clear inside his skull, echoing through the water, deep and commanding. “It’s alright. I won’t let anything happen to you. Just breathe.”

Nico struggled—but then the voice came again, softer now.

“Breathe, Nico.”

And against all logic, Nico did.

He inhaled—not air, but water thick with magic and warmth. And it filled him like oxygen. It didn’t choke him. It sustained him.

His eyes opened.

They were far below the surface now, in a pocket of light that moved with the current. The water wasn’t just water anymore—it shimmered around them, alive with Poseidon’s power. Nico’s body floated easily, his limbs no longer heavy, his panic dissolving.

Poseidon was before him, still holding his hips, his eyes an impossible, fathomless green. “There,” he said. “You see how the ocean yields to you?”

Nico could only stare, wide-eyed, his voice lost but his thoughts crystal-clear.

“You tricked me,” he murmured, and impossibly, his voice echoed through the water.

Poseidon’s grin widened. “A little.”

He drew Nico closer—not threatening, but steady—and Nico, to his own disbelief, let himself be pulled into the god’s arms, weightless in the water. Around them, fish drifted like living jewels, a sea turtle spiraled lazily past, and below, coral bloomed across the ocean floor.

And for the first time, Nico felt it—not fear, not otherness, but something gentler. Something like belonging.

In the hush beneath the waves, in the warmth of the arms that held him steady, Nico let himself breathe. Really breathe. As if for the first time in a long, long while.

.

.

.

It was late afternoon when Nico rang the bell.

The house sat at the edge of a town that barely existed—just old gas stations and the kind of diners that still had jukeboxes. The lawn was overgrown, and ivy clung stubbornly to the brick facade like it had nowhere better to be.

He shifted his weight on the porch. The sun was too warm for him, the air too alive. He was already regretting not shadow-traveling straight to camp and pretending he hadn’t gotten the message.

But Persephone had asked.

Personally.

The door creaked open before he could knock again.

A girl—maybe seven, or eight—stood in the doorway. She had Persephone’s eyes: green and sharp like spring cutting through frost. Her curls were wild and shoulder-length, sun-kissed but tangled, and her jeans were ripped in a fashionable way.

“Hello,” she said. Calm. Measured. Not afraid, just… curious.

Nico cleared his throat. “Hi.”

“Who’s at the door, Mary?” a man called from deeper in the house. His voice was rough with exhaustion—too many years packed into too few syllables.

A second later, he appeared in the hallway. Middle-aged, stubble on his jaw, shirt untucked. He stopped cold when he saw Nico.

The shadows probably didn’t help—the way they seemed to cling to Nico’s shoulders, even in the sun.

“Who are you?” the man asked, already stepping protectively toward the girl.

Nico didn’t flinch. He was used to that look.

“I’m a… friend of her mother’s,” he said, carefully. “I’m here to take her to camp.”

The man’s expression shifted—something subtle, complex. Nico couldn’t quite name it, but he recognized the weight behind it. “Persephone sent you?”

“Yes,” Nico answered. A silence followed, heavy and resigned.

“So…it’s time, then?” the man asked, though he already knew the answer.

Nico only gave a small nod, and watched as a quiet sorrow settled across the man’s face.

.

.

.

The room was quiet, except for the slow crash of waves beyond the open window and the faint creak of the bed as Nico shifted his weight. He was perched on his elbows, propped against Poseidon’s bare chest, their legs tangled in a lazy knot beneath the sheets. His hair was still damp from the ocean, leaving cool, salty trails on warm skin.

Poseidon lay flat on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, the other resting lightly around Nico’s waist. Not gripping—just there. Steady. Casual. Like Nico belonged there, and they both knew it.

“I’ve been catching up on some myths,” Nico murmured, voice quiet but threaded with a glint of amusement. “It’s made me wonder a few things.”

Poseidon quirked an eyebrow, the smallest tilt of his head betraying interest. His thumb moved idly against Nico’s side—not deliberately, not even quite a caress. Just a gentle, grounding presence.

Nico paused, watching the faint play of moonlight on the god’s skin. “So…” he began, feigning nonchalance. “Should I be expecting a dolphin messenger anytime soon?”

Poseidon blinked. Then he laughed—low and rich, like distant thunder echoing through the sea. “Is that what you want?” he asked, amusement thick in his voice. “A grand mythic seduction? Dolphin and all?”

“Not at all. Just wondering why I didn’t rate the same theatrics,” Nico teased, dragging his fingers lightly across Poseidon’s sternum.

Poseidon’s laugh faded into something quieter. “If I’d sent a messenger in my stead,” he said, his voice brushing against Nico like the tide against a pier, “you wouldn’t have given me the time of day.”

Nico shifted, resting his chin lightly on Poseidon’s chest. The rise and fall of the god’s breathing was steady beneath him, like waves just before they broke. “Maybe,” he admitted.

A pause. Poseidon’s eyes turned to the ceiling, but his hand tightened ever so slightly at Nico’s waist.

“I’ve done many foolish things in my time,” he said. “Fought wars for pride. Built kingdoms on shifting sand. Behaved too recklessly. But this—” His gaze dropped again, meeting Nico’s. “You. This… I approach carefully.”

Nico didn’t move for a long time.

He didn’t speak either, not immediately. He just listened—to the waves outside, to the silence between their words, to the beat of something dangerously close to hope thrumming in his chest.

Finally, he said, “Careful isn’t the first word I’d use for you.”

Poseidon smiled faintly. “No. But I’ve learned a few things. Mortals are fragile. And you…” His fingers ghosted over Nico’s ribs, pausing near the faint edge of an old scar. “You’ve carried more weight than some gods I’ve known.”

Nico’s throat felt tight, and he wasn’t sure why. He turned his face so that his temple rested against Poseidon’s collarbone, hiding his expression in the curve of his shoulder.

“You still owe me a mythic seduction,” he mumbled.

Poseidon laughed again, soft and low. “Don’t tempt me, Nico di Angelo. I’ve sunk cities for less.”

.

.

.

The sun cast long, slanting shadows across the border of Camp Half-Blood as Nico stepped through the magical boundary. The air shimmered faintly around him, the ancient wards stirring like a breeze, murmuring their quiet acknowledgment of his return. His arrival went unnoticed by most—quiet as a ghost. But not by everyone.

He hadn’t taken more than two steps before a small figure hurtled toward him like a launched arrow.

“Nico!”

He barely had time to brace himself before a warm weight collided with his front, arms wrapping tightly around his middle. The impact forced a surprised breath from his lungs, and he stumbled back half a step, blinking down at the tangle of golden-brown curls now buried in his shirt.

“Marigold,” he said, voice caught somewhere between fondness and disbelief.

Marigold Greenbriar, Persephone’s youngest daughter and possibly the only one of her children who didn't treat Nico like a walking curse, grinned up at him, her eyes shining like sunlight through autumn leaves.

“You’re here! Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?” she demanded, already tugging on his sleeve.

“This wasn’t exactly planned,” Nico replied, still catching his breath. “Chiron contacted me.”

“Well, Chiron can wait,” she said matter-of-factly, releasing him only to grab his hand. “Come on! We’re going to see the pegasi!”

Before he could protest, she was dragging him along, her small hand warm and persistent in his. The Persephone cabin came into view—a tidy structure nestled at the edge of the woods, ivy and wildflowers climbing the white wood like a living tapestry. On the porch, several of her older siblings lingered in the shade, their eyes flicking toward Nico with unreadable expressions.

He felt their stares like thorns under the skin: wary, curious, maybe even resentful. He understood. Persephone was complicated—distant with her own children, elegant and cold. But with him, she was... different. Not warm, not soft, but real. Honest. She was the one who chose him.

Nico gave the campers a short nod. None of them returned it.

“They’re boring,” Marigold muttered under her breath as they passed. “They never want to do anything fun.”

“And you think pegasi are fun?” Nico asked, a faint smile tugging at his mouth.

“They’re amazing,” she said with reverence. “And today’s perfect. No lessons, just grazing. So we can pet them and stuff. Come on!”

The meadow opened in a sweep of green and gold, dotted with wildflowers and framed by the woods. A handful of campers lingered near the fence, watching or feeding the winged horses. The pegasi moved in small groups—some pale as snowdrifts, others as dark as storm clouds, wings flicking lazily in the sun.

Nico stopped at the fence line. He didn’t move to climb over.

“Go on,” Marigold urged, pointing. “They’re really gentle.”

“They don’t like me,” he said simply.

She turned to look at him, brows furrowed. “How do you know?”

“Horses can sense what’s in a person. Pegasi even more so. And children of Hades... don’t exactly scream comfort.”

His mouth twitched, the almost-smile a pale echo of humor.

Marigold planted her hands on her hips. “Well, I like you. So maybe they will too.”

Without waiting, she ducked under the fence and sprinted into the field, her laugh light and easy as a breeze. Nico stayed where he was, one hand resting on a sun-warmed post, letting the warmth seep through his jacket. Watching was enough. It had always been enough.

Until it wasn’t.

A silver-gray mare, her coat glinting like starlight and ash, turned her head toward him. She looked for a long moment, unblinking. Nico didn’t move.

Then, with slow, deliberate steps, she began to approach.

His brows drew together. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered.

The mare stopped at the fence and extended her neck, nudging Nico with her muzzle. Her eyes were dark and steady. Nico remained still, uncertain.

She nudged him again—more insistent this time. He shifted back half a step. She followed.

Then came a third nudge, stronger now, almost exasperated. He stumbled, catching himself against the fence—and instinctively, his hand landed on her neck.

The pegasus didn’t flinch. Her skin twitched slightly beneath his fingers, but she didn’t pull away. If anything, she leaned in.

Slowly, Nico let his fingers trail through her mane. The strands were coarse and cool, like wind-whipped silk. She huffed, a warm breath against his wrist, and pushed gently into his hand.

From the field, Marigold’s delighted shout rang out: “I told you! She likes you!”

Nico kept his eyes on the mare, his hand moving in slow, deliberate strokes. Something tight in his chest loosened—something old and sharp and constantly braced for rejection. The pegasus stayed.

Pegasi didn’t like children of Hades.

But Poseidon’s creatures... answered to him.

And Poseidon never did anything by accident.

Marigold dashed up, grinning from ear to ear. “You’re doing it! You’re petting a pegasus! You’re a natural!”

Nico’s voice was soft, almost distant, but not unhappy. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Maybe I am.”

.

.

.

Percy stood in front of Nico, pacing.

“You know,” he started, voice climbing, “I thought it was a one-time thing.”

Nico raised an eyebrow. “Define thing.”

“That—!” Percy flailed a hand vaguely, like he could swat the implication out of the air. “That incident. Two years ago. The one with the... temple.”

Percy looked scandalized. Comically so. He ran a hand through his hair, then pointed an accusing finger at nothing in particular. “My dad is married, Nico.”

Nico’s eyes were flat, his voice dry as he said, “You do realize that both of our fathers have wives who aren’t our mothers, right? That we’re bastards?”

Percy opened his mouth, then closed it. His brow furrowed.

“Besides, fidelity has never been a defining trait of Greek gods,” Nico uttered, dry as desert bone.

Percy made a noise halfway between a groan and a laugh. “Oh gods. I’m gonna need therapy. Again.”

Nico shrugged one shoulder, as if that was Percy’s problem to deal with.

There was a beat of silence. Then Percy said, quieter, “Is it… serious?”

Nico looked out over the lake. The horizon was fading into deep blue. “Define serious.”

Percy blinked. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet.” Nico smiled. “you came all the way out here to ask.”

They stood in silence again, the breeze tugging gently at their clothes. Percy sighed.

“Just—be careful,” he said finally. “He’s a god.”

Nico looked to the side. “I know.”

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.

.

The mortal world was too bright. That was Nico’s first thought as he stepped out of the car after Persephone.

The second was: Why are we doing this?

The storefronts glittered in the early afternoon sun—artificial light behind polished glass, mannequins posing to show off the clothes. It wasn’t his scene. Not even remotely. But Persephone looked at home here, her black sunglasses reflecting the city.

“I still don’t understand why I had to come,” Nico muttered, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets.

Persephone didn’t look at him. She was already striding toward the doors of a boutique lined with ivy and gold-leaf lettering. “Because you’ve been wearing the same jacket for six years and it’s time for something new.”

The shop was nearly empty, save for a few bored employees pretending not to eavesdrop. Nico stood awkwardly near a mirror, arms stiff at his sides, while Persephone drifted through racks of designer shirts like she owned the place.

“That shirt costs more than my rent,” Nico grumbled, eyeing a sleek button-up she held up to the light.

She gave him a sideways glance, amused. “You don’t pay rent.”

“If I did,” he amended, “it would still be cheaper than that.”

Persephone held the shirt up to his chest, tilting her head critically, as if assessing a canvas. Her expression betrayed nothing—only a flicker of interest as she adjusted the collar against his neck.

Then, with a carelessness too deliberate to be anything but calculated, she said, “You’ll need to start watching your back.”

He blinked. “That’s not ominous at all.”

Persephone didn’t look at him. Her fingers moved fluidly to the next rack, this one lined with dark, expensive coats. She trailed her hand across the fabric, her voice as smooth as velvet.

“Cupid doesn’t let go of grudges,” she said. “Especially if you made him bleed.”

Nico stilled.

Persephone lifted a coat from the rack and held it up against him. “You bruised his pride, Nico. Do you know how dangerous that is? Wounding a god is one thing. Humiliating them in front of the entirety of Olympus?” She set the coat over his shoulders. “You made yourself a dangerous enemy.”

He met her eyes. They were green and ageless and impossibly kind, in the way only someone who had been cruel once could be.

“He’ll come for you, Nico,” she warned. “And you’ll need to be ready.”

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.

.

“You were gone for a while,” Poseidon commented, voice low and even.

Nico turned his head slightly to look at him. He was stretched out on the couch, one arm thrown over his eyes to block out the soft light streaming through the high windows of his apartment. His boots were still on, dust from the Underworld clinging to the soles. He hadn’t unpacked. He hadn’t even showered.

Three weeks in the Underworld. Three weeks of constant work. It clung to him still—the cold, the weight, the ghosts.

He gave Poseidon a tired smile, one corner of his mouth tugging up. “Did you miss me?”

He expected a quip. Something evasive, or playful. If Poseidon was feeling generous, maybe a soft yes, disguised as something offhand.

Instead, the god said, “Even a god may hunger for touch.”

Nico blinked, letting the silence stretch between them. He dropped his arm from his face and stared up at the ceiling for a beat, brow furrowed faintly.

“Touch?” he echoed, voice dry, thoughtful. “Is that all you want from me?”

Poseidon didn’t answer right away. He was standing just inside the threshold of the room, the fading afternoon light catching in his hair, turning it to bronze. When he moved forward, it was unhurried. He sat down at the edge of the couch, the cushion dipping under his weight.

“Do you truly have to ask?” he said finally, eyes fixed on him—deep and dark and far too honest. “All the trouble with Hades would not be worth this if it was simply about touch.”

Nico studied him then, something shifting behind his gaze. Not quite softening, but not hardened either. He pushed himself up on one elbow, close enough now to feel the heat radiating from Poseidon's skin, the smell of salt still clinging to him.

Poseidon reached out then. His hand found the curve of Nico’s jaw, his thumb resting just beneath his cheekbone.

“I’ve weathered storms, Nico di Angelo,” he said. “But I haven’t ever known one quite like you.”

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.

.

The ghost had slipped the Underworld two days ago. Nico had barely managed to catch its trail and followed it through winding roads, never-ending highways, and small towns. His boots were heavy with mud, shadows clinging to him like breath in the winter air.

He hadn’t slept properly since this began.

The ghost was fast, slippery, and cunning. But it wasn’t the ghost that was bothering him.

It was the feeling.

It had started yesterday. Faint, like the brush of a gaze across the back of his neck. An itch he couldn’t scratch. Every time he stopped, every time he blinked too long or listened too closely, he swore he could hear footsteps in the distance—just one beat behind his own. The hairs on his arms were constantly raised, as if his body knew something he refused to admit: he wasn’t alone.

Not truly.

He pressed deeper into the night, tracking the echo of the ghost’s presence—a hollow pull in his chest, like a magnet buried under the earth. The trail led him through a fog-drenched field, moonlight thin above the treetops. Corn stalks hissed in the wind. Every now and then, a shadow shifted where it shouldn’t have.

He stopped at a crossroads where an old barn leaned sideways with rot, and the silence was deafening. No traffic. No birds.

A breath behind him.

Nico spun, blade half-drawn, eyes narrowed into the dark. But the road was empty. Still, the feeling didn't pass. It only dug deeper, coiling around his spine.

Something was watching him.

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.

.

The apartment was quiet when Nico stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind him with a soft finality. The air was cool, touched faintly by the earthy scent of dried herbs and old stone—familiar, grounding. He shrugged off his jacket, letting it slide from his shoulders and onto the back of a chair with a lazy flick of his hand.

It was late. New Rome’s streets outside had stilled to the hush that only came after midnight—when the city’s ghosts finally settled, and most of its citizens went to sleep.

He moved toward the kitchen, barefoot and quiet, the weight of the day sloughing off his shoulders with every step. He set the kettle to boil with practiced ease, reaching for a tin of loose tea tucked behind a jar of ambrosia.

Then a hand slid across his waist.

He froze, just for a moment—only out of habit. Not out of fear. The touch wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t violent. Just a slow, deliberate curl of fingers pressing against the fabric of his shirt before splaying open, palm warm over his stomach.

And then came the pressure—a gentle tug, pulling him back until his spine met solid heat. A firm chest. The steady, silent kind of presence that didn't ask permission, because it already had it.

A mouth found the soft skin just beneath his jaw, brushing his pulse point with enough intention to make him shiver. Lips parted. A breath, not quite a kiss. Teeth, almost.

He should have felt alarmed. His body should have tensed, his pulse racing with the instinct to fight or flee.

But instead, he melted.

His eyes slipped shut as he leaned back into the body behind him, breath catching softly in his throat. The warmth of the touch, the scent—salt and ozone, something old and wild—wrapped around him like a second skin.

Nico didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.

He could recognize him by touch alone, by smell. The truth was, that he would know him blind.

Poseidon.

Nico exhaled, slow and sure, and tilted his head just slightly—to offer more of his throat.

The kettle hissed quietly behind them, forgotten.

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.

.

He moved, slow and deliberate, thighs burning with the effort as he raised himself again. The motion drew a soft gasp from his lips, swallowed by the closeness between them. Poseidon's hands were steady on his hips, firm but reverent, guiding him in a rhythm that had become instinct—constant, unrelenting, grounding.

Their foreheads pressed together, sweat-slick and trembling, breath mingling in the narrow space between them. Nico’s fingers found their way to the nape of Poseidon’s neck, curling into the short hairs there, holding on as if he might come undone otherwise.

Each movement drew a breathless moan from his throat—fragile, involuntary, lost to the god beneath him.

And then—eyes half-lidded, lips parted—Nico met his gaze.

Poseidon looked up at him. There was salt and storm in his face, a beauty shaped by the chaos of tides—wild, weathered, eternal. His eyes were like dark water lit from beneath by drowned stars, gaze unfathomable and deep as the ocean’s oldest trenches.

Yet, in all that unknowable vastness, he looked at Nico with something close to reverence. Not possession. Not desire alone. But worship—quiet, undemanding, as if Nico were something sacred and fleeting, and Poseidon the ancient force afraid to break him.

And in that gaze, Nico felt the ache of something he had been too afraid to name—something tidal and inescapable, something that had already claimed him long ago.

It hit him all at once—soft and brutal.

He loved him against reason, against peace and hope and happiness, against all discouragement that could be. Every whisper of warning in his bones, every hard-earned scar, every quiet voice that told him to run before it was too late —none of it had been enough.

He loved him.

And he had known it, somewhere deep in himself, for longer than he cared to admit. But here—in the dark, in the heat, in the ache and breath and movement—he could no longer lie to himself.

It was wonder wrapped in ruin.

Joy laced with quiet disaster.

And it sealed his fate.

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.

.

The music inside Leo’s apartment pulsed faintly through the walls—muffled laughter, the occasional crash of something being knocked over, voices raised in joy or drunken argument. But out on the balcony, the night was still.

Nico sat with his legs threaded through the iron railing, a half-finished glass of wine cupped in his hands. The city stretched out before him, a sprawl of golden lights and shadows, humming with life.

The balcony door slid open with a soft rasp. Hazel stepped out, the warmth from inside spilling briefly into the cool night before she closed it again. She didn’t say anything at first, just sank down beside him with the familiar ease of someone who didn’t need to fill the silence.

For a moment, they just sat like that—shoulders almost touching, breathing in time, as the wind tugged gently at their hair.

“I don’t know what I’m doing, Hazel,” Nico said finally, voice barely above the hum of the city. “I should have never gotten involved with him.”

She didn’t answer right away. Her gaze followed his—over rooftops and temples, the winding cobblestone streets glowing faintly in the moonlight. The breeze toyed with a loose strand of her hair, lifting it across her cheek before she tucked it behind her ear.

Then, gently, she spoke. “We’re all fools in love.”

Nico let out a breath that was almost a laugh. Bitter, but not sharp. He tilted his glass, watching the wine catch the light, deep red and slow.

“Some of us more than others,” he murmured.

Hazel leaned her head lightly against his shoulder. “Maybe,” she agreed, after a moment. “But maybe that’s what makes it worth something. Doing it anyway. Even when we know how much it could hurt.”

Nico didn’t answer. But he didn’t pull away either.

The sounds of the party behind them—clinking glasses, off-key singing, the occasional burst of laughter—faded into something faraway and harmless. Out here, it was just the two of them. Two quiet hearts suspended above the city.

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.

.

The chamber was quiet, the only sound the gentle lapping of water against stone. Steam hung in the air. The pool shimmered, its surface catching the flicker of torches inset into the temple walls. The scent of salt and crushed minerals lingered faintly, as though the sea itself had exhaled into this space.

Nico stepped onto the smooth stone floor, shrugging off his shirt with slow, tired movements. The bruises across his ribs and side bloomed purple and blue in the low light—fresh, raw, and sprawling. When he turned slightly, Poseidon's gaze sharpened. His face didn’t change much, but something dangerous coiled beneath his expression.

Nico ignored it. He descended the steps into the water, the heat of it drawing a sigh from his lungs. Across the pool, Poseidon stood waist-deep in the gently swirling water, still as a statue.

He looked like he’d been carved from sea-polished marble—shoulders broad, chest defined, every line of him honed and serene. His wet hair clung in dark waves around his temples. Yet his gaze stayed locked on Nico, unreadable and heavy. Something colder, older, moved behind those eyes.

When Nico came up to him, Poseidon reached out with a hand—slowly, deliberately—and brushed his knuckles down the bruised side. The touch was feather-light, barely there, but it burned with attention.

“You should see the other guy,” Nico muttered, trying to summon a smirk. It didn’t quite land.

Poseidon didn’t laugh. Instead, his expression deepened—darkened—like storm clouds gathering on the cusp of a still sky. The calm was a mask, and for a heartbeat, it slipped. His form shimmered, faltered—and something else surged to the surface. Something vast and ancient. Terrible in its majesty. Beautiful in a way that hurt to look at.

It was like staring into the heart of the sea: unknowable, endless, and full of the promise of ruin.

Then, just as quickly, the truth vanished, and the man stood before Nico again. But the air still trembled, and the taste of salt lingered like a warning.

“Mortality ill suits you, Nico di Angelo,” he said, voice even, but threaded with something heavier.

Nico exhaled, water curling around his waist. “It’s what I am,” he replied.

Poseidon’s eyes didn’t leave him. “It doesn’t have to be.”

That silenced Nico. The words weren’t new. Poseidon had hinted at this before—in moments of silence that stretched too long, in touches that lingered. But he’d never said it plainly, not until now.

“You don’t have to die,” Poseidon said, his voice quiet, almost reverent. The water rippled gently between them. “You could live forever.”

Nico’s eyes searched the god’s face—stone-carved, unreadable, but watching him with something too deep to name. The offer hung in the air, humming with possibility and cost.

He thought of the Underworld, of the dead he had guided, of the ones he’d loved and lost. He thought of the cold permanence of grief. Of eternity not as a gift, but as a sentence.

Nico’s gaze didn’t waver. He held the silence for a long, measured beat before he spoke—his voice quiet, but steady with conviction. “Gods have never understood the simplest truth.” His hand rose, fingertips brushing lightly along the line of Poseidon's cheek—an intimate, almost reverent gesture. “That it will never come again, that it ends... that’s what gives life meaning.”

His eyes searched the god’s face, not with defiance, but with something gentler. Sadder. Certain.

“That’s what makes it matter.”

.

.

.

“The gods envy us. They envy us because we’re mortal.”

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.

.

Nico didn’t notice it at first—the creeping weakness threading through his limbs. His sword was still slick with gorgon blood, and his breath came heavy but steady. Fights like these always left him drained, shaky from the adrenaline crash.

But then the edges of the world blurred.

The sky seemed too bright, the air too sharp. A pressure built in his head like a vice tightening. His vision swam, and that’s when the thought hit him—poison.

He swayed where he stood. He had to get out. Fast.

He reached for the shadows, willing the darkness to swallow him whole and spit him out in the Underworld. But when he re-emerged, he was still in the mortal world, only two blocks from where he started. His knees nearly buckled.

He tried again. This time he landed hard on his side in an alley choked with trash bins and heat haze, somewhere unfamiliar.

Then the air changed.

A soft, unnatural laughter drifted through the cityscape—mocking, melodic, far too close.

Nico scrambled to his feet, his fingers twitching around the hilt of his sword. He didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. The air carried that humming, heart-deep wrongness.

Cupid.

A whistle sliced past his ear and an arrow embedded itself in the stone wall beside him with a sound like cracking ice. Another one struck the ground where he’d just been standing. He barely had time to flinch before the third found its mark, punching into his shoulder with a sickening, meaty sound.

Pain lanced through him. He gasped.

Nico dove into the shadows again, not caring where they took him.

The next landing was worse—he tumbled into a fountain, half-drenched, vision tunneling. He coughed water, bile, and something metalic. Blood, maybe. His stomach twisted.

Screams rang out. People scattered at the sight of him—ghost-pale, dripping, wild-eyed, with an arrow jutting from his shoulder.

He couldn’t stop shaking. The poison was in him now—he could feel it, a slow, coiling fire threading through his veins. The world warped around him, colors shifting wrong.

And then there was his shoulder. It throbbed with every heartbeat, a deep and relentless ache. He reached for the arrow, fingers trembling, but it was buried too deep—lodged in bone, maybe. Every brush of his hand sent shockwaves of pain through his body.

And still, somewhere behind him, he knew Cupid was hunting.

Nico didn’t stop to think. He leapt again. And again.

The world warped and snapped with each jump. One moment, he materialized in the middle of a bustling city street—horns blaring, brakes shrieking, bodies shouting. A car nearly struck him; he slammed into the hood with a grunt, barely staying upright. Tires skidded. Someone screamed.

Before he could even breathe, he threw himself into shadow again.

The next moment, he was in a forest—dense, silent, the scent of pine and damp earth replacing exhaust fumes. The contrast was jarring. Trees towered around him, birds startled into flight above.

Each jump drained him further. Each re-entry cracked his mind like glass under pressure. He couldn’t fight. Not like this. The only choice was escape.

At last, he emerged into cool salt air. The sting of it in his lungs jolted him half-awake. He was in a city by the sea, the buildings old and crumbling, the streets winding like veins. Somewhere in Europe, maybe Croatia.

He didn’t have time to wonder.

Another arrow shattered a clay pot beside him. He ran, slamming into shoulders and bodies as he pushed through narrow passageways. People yelled after him, but he didn’t stop. The wind carried more laughter behind him, closer now.

The sky above shimmered strangely, too pale, too bright, and the world tilted dangerously under his feet. He hit a wall, stumbled sideways, nearly dropped his sword. His muscles burned, his breath came ragged, but he kept going.

The street ended.

The world burst open into blue and white.

Nico had reached a cliff’s edge.

Below him, the sea surged — vast, untamed, stretching into eternity. The wind tore at his clothes, salt sharp in the air, the roar of the waves like a heartbeat rising in his ears.

He turned, breath ragged, and faced Cupid.

.

.

.

He should’ve listened to Persephone’s warning.

.

.

.

He was half agony, half hope.

The wind howled around him, salty and sharp, pulling at his clothes as if urging him to move. He stood at the cliff’s edge, the sea churning violently below, and Cupid before him—bow drawn, eyes gleaming with something ancient and cruel.

Nico’s chest rose and fell in shallow breaths. His shoulder throbbed where the arrow still burned. The world tilted, blurred by pain and poison, but in this moment he was clear. A single, cutting clarity.

If he was to die today, would it be by the hand of this twisted god of desire, or within his lover’s embrace?

It wasn’t much of a choice.

He looked Cupid in the eyes, and for once, he didn’t flinch.

Then Nico stepped back. One foot, then another.

A silent prayer bloomed in his chest, aching and tender, flung toward the god he loved but had never dared to name aloud: I wish I had done everything on Earth with you.

And then—he let go.

The sky yawned open around him as he fell.

Into the wind. Into the sea.

Into the arms of a god who, just maybe, would choose to catch him.

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