To Be Honest The Only Reason I Started Reading Percy Jackson Was Because Of Solangelo And Now I'm Like

pls reblog <33

Please reblog this if you believe that people under the age of 18 still need to have privacy and being a minor does not invalidate their feelings/need to have a safe space.

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Arrow

<Reblog to get a sword.> o()xxx[{::::::::::::::::::::::::::::>

PAUSE would you have any more hcs about cecil/will 😭😭i love cecil thirsting over will (as he should because will is a blonde bombshell)

cecil and will met when they were very little and in the same cabin together (hermes). neither had been claimed yet.

will's coming to camp was...rough. it wasn't something camp saw often. no one really knew how to handle this eight year old who hated everything and anyone and never responded to anything.

when he cried, at night, people put a pillow over their ears.

but cecil has these giant brown eyes. and he would sit up and watch, on his bedroll, as this boy cried and cried and cried, never running out of tears, freckles glowing in his fury and sobbing until he was sick.

once cecil decided to sit with him.

he didnt say anything. will glared at him anyway.

but he sat there. watching. quiet. all the way until the sun came out, and he blinked awake to will's quiet snoring.

he got the hell out of dodge before will woke up. he didn't really want to learn what morning-grouchy will looked like, and besides if he skipped out of the cabin fast enough he didn't have to help sweep.

(cecil will saw off his own arms to avoid chores. he'll take a monster attack any day of the week.)

he barely sees will all day. their cabin is huge and the camp is huger.

but at night will cries again.

and he comes again.

and he sits.

and watches.

this time will talks to him. snaps at him, rather, but it's something.

cecil just shrugs.

will gets used to his presence eventually. cecil's mama tells him he is like a a hissing baby monkey; grip like a steel trap and impossible to shake. will finds this too.

they talk, eventually. it would be hard not to. plus, will didn't know the camp store had candy. neither of them have any money, but will is a really good lookout and he's faster than cecil is.

(twizzlers is a balanced meal. there's protein in there.)

it takes some time for will to warm up to anybody. but cecil is funny, even though will doesn't like to admit it, and if he can make will laugh more than five times in the day will has to give him his bedroll for extra padding and sleep on the floor. them's the Rules.

it's boredom, really.

there aren't a lot of kids at camp. well, there are, but not kid kids, you know? mostly tweens, and they all suck and think they're too cool for anything fun. cecil and will form an alliance to avoid being wedgied from the top of thalia's tree again. they make a pretty good team anyway.

plus. as mentioned. cecil is tricky and will is fast.

together they bleed the camp store dry, along with most hip-length pockets.

they are friends first. it just happens over time. they spend most of their time together and they have similar interests. duh.

there is also the marriage incident.

the dumbass flirting is a result of the most poorly timed romantic relationship in the world.

look, they're both kind-of year rounders. moms are busy and travel. camp is stable, and neither fares well in the mortal world. and camp is fun but when it's not crowded, it's barren, and there is fuck all to do.

there's like.

studying.

and homework.

but homework is for people whose parents care about them, so.

what will and cecil do is a lot of fucking around.

they live in eternal summer and have a forest to screw around in, and will went ahead and got tall this summer, which cecil didn't know was allowed, and also he's starting to look more like his dad every day and not that cecil was looking, or anything, but field trips to olympus are boring as all fuck and apollo is literally the sun god, okay. he glows. he's hot. cecil has Eyes and he notices.

he also has eyes when he is not bored and those eyes are not blind to the fact that will is hot when he's mad and boy is it easy to make him mad. cecil is a growing boy with urges. there is no wifi at camp. what is he meant to do.

so one day they are thirteen years old (well, cecil is thirteen years old, and busy lording that over twelve year old will's head for five months) will comes to him, chin trembling, hands shaking, and says i like boys. im bisexual.

and cecil thinks very very quickly. son of the god of cunning, you see.

and says bullshit you are.

and will blinks.

he had a list of contingencies and responses. cass helped him write them out and something.

i. fucking of course i am, cecil.

eh.

i am. allergic to lying, you jackass.

no, i just mean -- you dont know. youve never kissed a boy in your life. maybe youre just trying to impress your dad.

are you????? fucking??? unwell???

and cecil is very good at keeping a poker face. it is a genuinely god-given right of his.

along with, of course.

trickery.

especially trickery in the name of Getting It.

and so he keeps a straight face and goes, nah. i'll believe it when i see it.

and will is very clever and very observant and an excellent planner etc etc. but he also has a temper. and cecil's number one favourite hobby is poking the bear.

(will is, aforementioned, hot when he is mad.)

and will stomps his foot and his face gets tinkerbell red and says i'll SHOW you kissing a boy!! dickhead!!

and well.

he sure does.

and it takes him approximately ten seconds to realise he's been Duped but he's kind of charmed by the idea of being manipulated into getting kissed.

and they're already techincally husbands.

so they date.

it's not that cecil is unattractive. he's cute actually.

and it is not that will does not have the occasional dream.

again.

attractive.

good with his hands etc.

it's just that.

well.

they forget.

to do boyfriend things.

they've been friends for so LONG okay.

literally the vast majority of their waking days for five fucking years. no weekends or summers off. constant.

they FORGOT.

three months later they're both like oh shit we're supposed to be making out aren't we.

and it's like. cecil has been flirting. but he ALWAYS does that bc it makes will roll his eyes and it's for the bit

he forgot it was not for the bit anymore

so they try again but they keep FORGETTING and adhd is their enemy in this moment and another month later they're like kay i give up. if you feel inclined to ravage me go for it i guess.

and cecil is like yeah good plan. i will hot stuff. and will Rolls His Eyes and they move on.

the issue now is that 1.

theyre married. technically.

2.

every time this greasy angsty emo boy comes to camp will is a kicked puppy about it. has been for years.

3.

cecil's literal favourite hobby is pissing his best friend off.

4.

he knows will thinks he's cute.

so sometimes he just...influences things.

will would jump off a bridge before admitting it but he has a thing for nerds. so when cecil wants to bother him he locks in for the month and picks up a really intricate hobby and stops wearing his contacts.

and lo and behold.

a couple weeks later.

there is Screeching in the night.

YOU ARE DOING THIS ONE PURPOSE.

bat eyelashes. bat eyelashes.

whatever do you mean, my darling.

KISS MY ASS, MARKOWITZ.

can i?

SHUT THE FUCK UP AND -- PUT THE EYES AWAY!!!

they're never going to date. they would never even bother it goes Nowhere. but hoo boy are they both attracted to each other and is it not the funniest ordeal in the world

it's funnier bc they were genuinely each other's first time. they decided to before the manhattan war bc they both didn't want to die virgins as in their Lifetime Pact.

but the issue is that cecil thought it would be funny to show up to the Event™️ in a honkable clown nose and will has never forgiven him.

so.

it is in the dream sometimes.

Apollo Cabin Camper headcanons

Lee was an avid writer, and was planning to go for a Creative Writing before he, you know, kicked the bucket. Michael and Will ended up posthumously publishing his diary as a fiction story (because monsters and all) so that he could have his dream of being a published author. Nico brought Lee a copy in the Underworld.

Michael would only ever call his younger siblings his "little siblings" despite the fact that most of them passed him in height at like 9 or 10.

Will has Michael and Lee's names tattooed on his wrist in their handwriting, as well as a quote from one of Lee's poems on his forearm.

Kayla's known she was a demigod since she was really young, since her father had to explain why she has no mother. Darren could see through the mist, and would just shoot the monsters that came because of Kayla's stronger sent.

Kayla was brought to camp by Hedge when he was in Toronto in TLO (is this a common hc? I feel like it should be)

Austin could play any instrument, except the kazoo. For some reason, he sucked at playing the kazoo.

Jerry's accent was so strong his first summer at camp no one could understand him except for the other internationals.

Yan would hide in the armory with their book so that they didn't have to do sword-fighting or archery practice

Gracie would make rainbow loom bracelets for literally everyone. Even though she came to camp after the Battle of Manhattan and the Battle of the Labrynth, she still made bracelets for her deceased siblings based on Will, Kayla, and Austin's description of them.

Will was protective of the chariot in TLH not because he cared about it, but because Michael cared about it

Lee was born in Connecticut, but lived practically his whole life in NYC, and Michael was from Maine.

The cabin has a world map with push pins indicating where everyone is from. Every camper has also signed the wall around it on the day they were claimed, so there's well over a thousand names by the time PJO takes place.

Cabin 7 has a music room in it's basement, that has every single instrument you can imagine. (Austin is banned from playing the kazoo of course)

The only way the cabin can be cleaned is if It's A Hard Knock Life (Broadway version) (and the reprise as well) are playing. The youngest kid sings at Molly, and they play rock paper scissor to figure out who jumps in the laundry basket like Annie (one time Michael accidently fell asleep and was brought to the laundry room by the harpies. He did not let Lee hear the end of it) (The same thing almost happened to Gracie, but Will found her before the harpies could)

It's tradition that the last day of camp the younger campers write a song for their counselor and play it before bed. There's a binder of all the lyrics of every song dated back to the 1940s on the shelf, when the tradition was started

I'm not even sorry about how many there are, I'm just a tad bit obsessed with Cabin 7 (as indicative of my ao3 fics dedicated to them all)

(Octavian's a legacy and I'm only 150 pages into my reread of Son of Neptune, I can't remember if there are any canon Apollo kids barring Octavian's ancestors.)

Gimme more solangelo pweasee

Nico doesn't notice it, at first.

Most of the day his eyes are just blue.

Pretty blue, of course. Most of Will is; pretty that is. He sounds it, especially, rolling r's and loud lovely laughs and a lower voice that's right on the edge of raspy. He matches it, too, his voice, he has the wild golden curls and veritable spattering of freckles that match the paint-spatter splash of his very being. He is pretty the way dandelions are pretty, bright and explosive and covering hills as far as the eyes can see.

Nico doesn't talk as much as he does. Most people don't, honestly, if there's one thing about Will it's that he's got something to say. Nico likes it when he talks, he likes to walk along and listen or track the waving of his arms as he rants during breakfast. When he watches he can see his big big eyes widen and narrow with every raised and falling pitch of his voice, he can see them sparkle with something secret every time a tripwire gets pulled and someone blames the Hermes cabin. When he watches he can see the shimmery, sky-blue catch in the sunlight, glowing with the pride of his father.

It takes a morning on the silent Apollo cabin veranda for Nico to catch the difference.

It is a Sunday, and he's awake by force of habit. He's been out of his time-distant past longer than he's ever been in it, but ten years of waking up at the crack of dawn, or before in the winter months, to slide on a starchy shirt and squeeze into pinchy shoes he hated, dutifully if grumpily holding onto Mama's left hand and making faces at Bianca around the curve of the pews, has made its mark. He's yet to spend a single Sunday morning anything but groggy but conscious, glaring out the lone Cabin Thirteen window.

One morning, he catches movement across the common.

The way the cabins are set up puts Nico on a small hill. It's interesting, really, and Nico doubts it was on purpose -- what with the disastrous design of the cabin before Nico renovated it -- but nothing venerating Hades is ever looking down on anyone else. His father is quite pleased with it, he knows, and for it the cabin is always pleasantly warm, and smells slightly like turned dirt. Garden dirt, thankfully, not grave; Nico cannot be sure and will never ask but sometimes he suspects his stepmother might have something to do with it. Either way Nico has a clear view of the entire camp from end to end, including the line of cabins gently curving from his down to Zeus's. Three doors down, and smack at the crux of the curve, is Apollo's: in the warming, rising sun, the gilded walls glow, making the red cedar beams holding up the roof look warm and lively, like there's life still growing inside. On the rickety, camper-built porch sits Will, up earlier even than any of his siblings, curled up in the corner of a porch swing. He rocks it ever slightly with one bare foot.

Unthinkingly, Nico walks over to join him.

It's harpy time still, technically. They have reign until the sun is high and clear in the sky, even in the lazier winter months. They glare at him, now, some more restlessly than others, but they know better than to come at him. Nico's sword is dark and obvious from its spot at his side, hands twitching towards it. Besides that his death aura clears him for a solid radial mile.

Will smiles, when he sees him coming.

"Mornin', sunshine," he says, voice soft in the barely-daylight. He taps the cushion next to him. "Come sit?"

It's pleading, almost, Nico notices. Not will you come sit, or wanna come sit. But come sit, as in here is your spot. Come sit as in I want you to.

Nico flushes and joins him.

"Yer up early."

His accent is thicker this early in the morning. Nico almost wants to shiver when he hears it, words short and vowels long. He looks like it, too, eyes closed and face mirroring the sun, tipped up to meet it. Long limbs curled up but bent, like the awkward ends of a sweet-tea straw. He bleeds warmth, from the foot of space between them.

"Sunday," Nico admits, just as quiet. He watches as Will drags a hand through his messy hair, smile tugging at the dimpled corners of his mouth. "Habit, I suppose."

"Yeah? Were ya up with them church-goers, once 'pon a time?"

Nico nods, suddenly restless. He sits on his hands to keep them from reaching out, to keep them from brushing along the bob of Will's Adam's apple.

"My abuela -- my mama's gramma, that is -- was Catholic, too. Crack'a dawn every week."

"Oh."

Nico forgets Will has a mortal life, sometimes. He seems so cornerstone to camp, mentioned in passing in every other story, a part of the schedule from breakfast's daily mental health check-ins to sing-along at ten. Even the infirmary bears his name -- never you should probably head over to the infirmary, but go on and get Will. Nico tries to imagine him without the backdrop of the strawberries, or in the empty desert, and comes up blank.

"Y'seem surprised."

"I am, I guess."

"How come?" He cracks an eye open, grinning. "'M too much of a sinner for it?"

Nico snorts, thinking of the thundering of the Ares cabin last night, coming home after campfire -- where Will has been suspiciously and conspicuously absent for all but his little number at the end -- to each and every bunk and possession attached to the ceiling. As far as Nico is aware, they spent the night on the cement floor.

"Something like that, you menace."

Will smiles, a self-satisfied little thing, and settles back onto the cushions. He exhales as it rocks and all tension melts from his broad shoulders; his extended hand rests limp and tempting in the cushion between them and every cell in Nico's blood itches.

The run rises, slowly. It takes its time by the measured sound of Will's breathing, warming the cracking calluses of his bare heels to the wind-rustled hem of his shorts. With every inch of sunlight he gets brighter, and Nico gets warmer, and warmer, and warmer.

When more than half of it has pushed its way over the crest of the horizon, he shifts, stretching, turning to face Nico fully. He opens his mouth to say something or make a comment and Nico does not hear it, in fact his ears go long and ringing, because his --

His eyes.

For the first time that morning, he faces Nico head on, elbow off the curve of his forehead, blond eyelashes catching in the warm rays. For the first time that morning, eyes fully open, Nico can see -- not the languid spread of him, or the endless, summer-dark freckles, but the width of his irises, the shine of his pebble-sized pupil: in the bright, early-dawn morning, Will's eyes are endless.

Blue is no longer the right color for them. Desperately, Nico searches around the porch roof, above the chimney of the Big House, and there they are, reflected in infinity: Will's eye are every jealous painter's deepest desire, they are the exact makeup of the morning sky from the pale blue at the rounded top to the golden clouds reflecting the flares of the gentle yellow sun. There are even lines, cutting straight through, of pure, gentle gold; like the angular rays of Heaven looking kindly on the spinning Earth, so stretch the lines in Will's infinitely expanding irises. Layered in between the blue and the gold is the color Nico has never been able to name, the color like pillow softness, the color like soft hands on a fevered forehead, the color like coming in from the biting cold. The color like welcome on in and I got you, darlin'. The color like a long, easy inhale that sits soft and easy in your tired lungs.

"You're starin'," says Will, quietly.

Nico swallows. He doesn't even know what to think in response.

"Everythin' alright?"

Nico's hands twitch, again, and this time he doesn't have half to strength to stop them; unbidden they move slowly up the curve of Will's cheek, pinky lingering on the prominent tendons of his scarred neck. He rests his palms on the softness of his jaw and his thumbs on the dips under his eye, hands cupped like before the holy Eucharist. He waits, mouth dry, tongue poised in anticipation of the I believe.

"Your eyes," he breathes, finally. Its mirrored in the hitch of Will's chest. "My God above."

"Ain't nothin' special," Will argues, or tries to. Heat begins to bloom under the curl of Nico's palm, and Will's voice as gone reedy and thin. "I'm -- they're just blue, darlin', what have you --"

"They're not." Nico stops himself from becoming vehement, barely, but can't slow the firm shake of his head, the whip of his rapidly warming hair. "They're -- they're sky blue Will, gods." He tilts Will's head, slightly, and he goes, swallowing heavy. "This is the kind of thing artists dream about."

That makes Will blush, heavy and hard from the tips of his forehead to below the collar of his shirt. Nico smiles, fond, something heated along the bridge of his own nose, but he cannot help but notice that Will's eyes are still shifting, even as he narrows them, even as he cringes away from Nico's words; the golden along the bottoms spreads, now, past half his irises, like sunlight on shoreline.

"You're -- full'a somethin, di Angelo," he accuses, only his pretty voice cracks. "I dunno what's got you smoother than a polished river stone, but cut that right out, y'hear me?"

Or what, Nico wants to challenge. He is emboldened, now, by Will's embarrassment; as much as he squirms he does not move away. But as the sun crests higher and higher the gold begins to fade, irises smoothing bright and blue and reflective of the sky, still. Robin-egg pale at this exact moment. But familiar enough that Nico exhales, obedient, and drops his hands, scoots way.

"You got possessed," Will mumbles, still curled in on himself. But he smiles slightly to himself and Nico mirrors it, drinking in his shy, shocked pleasure. When he looks over and huffed there is a brazenness in his teeth, a sudden realization of what Nico has been seeing this whole time: he is pretty, and quite obviously so. Even in the neon of his Head Medic shirt. "Oddball."

Nico says nothing, knocking him gently across the shoulders. He settles back in the cushion right next to him, and together they rock, on the creaky old swing, watching lights flick on, shadows move across curtained windows.

Nico looks up into the brightening sky and finds it familiar.

she's so pocket sized..

Oh my god

🤏🏻🤏🏻🤏🏻

cecil markowitz can trip out and he chases will around while he does it.

lou ellen can also trip out. she does the same.

for context this is what tripping out is

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

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

middle of the summer after the giant war.

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

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

they miss thankfully! but it splats on the stone

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

freezes.

and starts to walk very slowly to the watermelon.

and tries to.

piece it back together.

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

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

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

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

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

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

but a handful of them.

know will is not seeing a watermelon right then.

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

crying himself

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