Percy Jackson One-shots

Tight Jeans (Solangelo)

"Hey, these jeans aren't mine," Will says, digging through our shared suitcase. 

I look up from tending my father's altar in the corner of the cabin to see what he's talking about. "Oh, those are mine." I don't even know why he would think they were his; he doesn't wear black unless I make him. He's only got one pair of black jeans anyway. 

We're back at Camp Half-Blood for the weekend with special permission from Chiron to give Percy, Annabeth, Piper, Jason, Will and me a chance to catch up. It's been seven, or is it eight years since our quest to defeat Gaea ended. I don't even know. Time still feels tricky to me. After it slowed down to the point of stopping in the Lotus Casino, and then jettisoned me seventy years into the future all at once, I don't like thinking about it. 

"But they're big," Will insists, checking the tag. He looks up at me from under playfully raised eyebrows. "At least two sizes. I wonder if they'd fit me."

I roll my eyes. My boyfriend is simultaneously one of the smartest people I know and the most insufferably young at heart. I smile despite myself. I love that about him, even if I act like it annoys me. 

"Sure, fine," I murmur as I light a sprig of incense to chase away the stagnant air of vacancy that has fallen in the cabin. The incense is one of Persephone's blends; my father will find it pleasing. 

"Well?" Will asks when I look over, his hands on his hips. I pause, unable to move my eyes up past his hips. The jeans fit him, barely. They aren't so tight as to be obscene, at least as long as he keeps his underwear on and doesn't get a stiffy, the very idea of which has me halfway there. They cling to his long legs, accentuate his taut curves. "What do you think from the back?" He turns around and I'm all the way hard in an instant. I stand up and adjust myself out of necessity. The backside of the jeans mold to Will's ass like they were painted on. I take a few steps closer, my eyes fixed on where his cheeks meet in the middle, my mouth watering. 

I shake myself before I start going Pavlovian on him. "No. Take them off. I don't want you to wear them out."

He turns back around and I snap my eyes to his face, not wanting him to see me ogling his ass. He smiles, turning on his charm. If Aphrodite passes charmspeak down through her daughters that works on straight guys, then Apollo's doing the damn same thing to his sons for gay guys. There's no other explanation for how Will manages to convince me it's fine for him to wear those jeans in public. 

"Come on, Nico. It'll be hilarious. It's only our friends who will see, and they're not going to judge. Besides, we'll be out in public when the sky is dark. Not like I'm going to be walking all up and down the streets of New York. We'll be in the van for the drive to town, a short walk at twilight to the theatre and it's dark in there, then it'll be night when we leave."

I drown in the blue of his eyes, utterly whipped. He bats his eyelashes and I can't say no. 

"Alright." He grins and kisses me and wrapped in his lips, my hands on his ass, all I want to do is call off tonight's plans and throw him down and fuck him, maybe even through the jeans. I'm wondering what sort of blade I could use to cut a hole in the fabric without cutting him when he breaks the kiss. His eyes sparkle as if he can read exactly where my mind has gone, and I cast around for something to say as a cover for my thoughts. "Why can't you wear your own jeans again?"

He smirks and turns around, waving the question away on his way to the bathroom. I let the question fade, my eyes on his ass until it's out of sight. 

"I'll be ready to go in two minutes," he calls from the open door, bringing me out of my stupor. "Don't forget your wallet this time. I wonder if you do it on purpose so they won't admit us."

I scowl. It's not my fault I look younger than I am. He knows it too, and he loves it. I can't even count the number of times he's reminded me to be thankful for my youth, that we'll be the hottest couple among our circle of friends, the longest. I pat my jeans, to make sure I do have my wallet, and then keep patting. My front pockets, my back pockets, panic rising up in my chest until I spot it on the dresser. That damn punk – he probably saves me from embarrassment more times than he puts me at risk of it. I shove my wallet in my back pocket and look around for my boots.