Will: If It’s Any Consolation, Nico Got Me There Under A Very Misleading Text Message.

POV: two types of people realizing that they are in fact, fucked.

(*whispers* they're both me)

To be honest the only reason I started reading Percy Jackson was because of solangelo and now I'm like addicted to Percy Jackson and I can't stop thinking about all the books

I joined for the Gays but now I can't leave I feel like I joined a really cool Cult

CB theories/thoughts part 5 (Did Prunella's mom actually buy the second key from the flea market?)

After overthinking a bit a thought occurred to me.

Was Goldie indeed the key that we saw at the flea market with Bronze? Was Prunella's mom the one who actually bought the other key? Where am I trying to get at, you may ask. Well, if we take a look at the second key and the key in the craft box of prunella's mom, doesn't the colour seem a bit different? (Or it is just me,I could have sworn they looked a bit different for a second, but it could be the lighting) The second key in the market looks greenish while Goldie looks light brownish when covered in dirt (if you look hard enough? lmao😭)

Also when we take a look at the back of Goldie we see that the dirt is not in the same places as in the key in the market. But what is more is that their keyrings also seem to have a different colour. The keyrings of the keys in the market are dark while the keyring of Goldie is of a lighter colour.

What is weird is that the seller says he doesn't remember who he sold it to, but Prunella's mom has a very unique style. You would think that a woman who dresses as if she came out of a fairy tale would be memorable enough. 

you're telling me he would not remember this woman?

Then when Chase wonders who bought the key we see a bunch of Shadow of people, you could think that it is not important and they are just shadows meant to depict unimportant characters that we will never see again, unless not really. Next to Chase's bubble of asking who bought the other key there is a shadow who kinda looks like one of Chase's friends. 

(It is more believable that the seller forgot who bought they key if it was this dude lol)

Maybe the answer to who bought the key was all along right in front of Chase (or well, behind him at that moment cause his back was turned lol). 

If Goldie and the key in the market are not the one and the same,how did Agatha acquire Goldie? Why is he in her possession? Well the same goes for the market guy, why did he have two keys? In previous parts I theorized about people being connected to Ex Libris but having no memory of it due to someone's involvement. They both seem to be unaware of what is the keys' true worth. Going back to my theory in part 4 where I mention that the old man is missing 4 keys, if we accept the theory of the market key not being Goldie for the sake of theorising, then market key is the fourth missing key. 

If that's true then here are the possible missing keys and their (possible) keyholders:

1) missing key: Bronze ,keyholder : Deacon 

2) missing key : Goldie, keyholder: Prunella

3) missing key: villain key,keyholder: Simon?

4) missing key: unknown identity but since it looks so much like Goldie the metal could be brass, and if we look at the paper with all the key symbols there's a crown near the sun and opposite of the apple which is Bronze’s symbol and he was found in the market with some other key, mind you.

 Deacon also mentioned some key roles when they were trying to figure out what key prunella had and he mentioned the ruler key. 

So if I had to guess which symbol the ruler key has I would say the crown because a crown defines rulers and the role has similarities to the hero whose symbol is close to it. And if I had to guess the keyholder, I would say Chase's friend whose name I am not sure is mentioned.

So to summarize, the missing keys are the following:

Bronze, the helper key

Goldie, the hero key

The villain Key

The ruler key

Bonus detail: in my previous post I said that Simon might have put up the reward poster but it could have been the other friend too since the posters started appearing a few days later after the flea market day. Besides, birds of the feather flock together and either of Chase’s friends could have the same idea as him and put up posters.

Honestly, out of all the theories I have come up with, this is the most insane one, but the keys at the market were turned around so we could not see their symbols and this could have been on purpose, so who knows? 

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

Headcanon that Will Solace knows his routine so well he's found little breaks in between to be able to have a short ass breakdown before going back to out himself together and be his happy self again.

(Ya'll I can write.😃)

"See you!" Will waves as he steps down on the grassy floor of camp. He feet pushing against the wooden panels of stairs as he rushes to talk to Chiron about the lack of supplies arriving in time for the infirmary.

The infirmary to Big House wasn't exactly a five minute walk. Camp was supposed to fit at least a hundred campers in estimation. The acres of camp had to be doubled for that many ADHD demigods to have enough ground to cover.

Will Solace was no exception. And yet he still ran across the field, dodging campers barreling through groups. (And maybe him.) If he wasn't careful, he'd hit the ground faster than you could say— eat dirt!

Routines like these weren't common. But they were often enough that — Will found loopholes to take a break, allow a little slip-up from the perfect smile he had practiced over and over in the mirror.

He still ran across the field. Like a coward running away from his problems and misery. With a goal in set. So different yet so similar.

He found himself somewhere secluded, somewhere people haven't made it into their spot by now. Will hid it well after all, he made sure no one was looking or following his direction.

No one approaching or noticing his existence behind the thick trees.

It was perfect. A perfect place to rest just for a few minutes before going to his mission. He had left earlier than normal. The sudden arrival of news about a day with the supplies of Nectar and Ambrosia had been delayed, and Will had sauntered off to hide between a small area surrounded by bushes.

They were thick enough to gain some time alone even for a short moment. And yet Will knew it so well, he didn't have to glance to know. Arriving at the same place for years has done things that came in handy later.

His feet hits the ground sending vibrations through the earth floor. He takes a moment to catch his breath. To make sense of the smile he had shown to everyone earlier.

A twitch appears. Corners of his mouth droop and it doesn't take long before Will slowly sucks in a breath that seems a little burdening to hold. It doesn't take long before a rush comes out crashing like a quiet sob.

The noises die out. Chattering fades into white noise. Heart pounding as his breath grows uneven just like the ground he stands, his chest swallows him whole. Like the pressure that had been building under that lock and key.

Only he threw the key out and was shoving his emotions in a cage as they grow twice in size. Doubling till the cage breaks.

Just a few moments. He said to himself, slowly dropping down to curl up in his own form of tried that still undoubtedly troubled him. Maybe for good.

He pulled his knees to his chest, as close as it can be. Even if uncomfortable from the way his back stretches. His arms wrap around the scraped knees and counted.

One. Two.

Breathe in.

Three. Four.

Breathe out.

A routine he's been familiar with all these years. Count two — hold it in. Count two again — let it go.

Five.

It was repetitive but it kept Will grounded for all these years since the Battle of Manhattan. A routine he had so carefully pieced together to relearn how to piece himself back as well.

Six.

He needed to be strong for his siblings, for camp. The children that knew nothing but only that camp was safe for them. It was supposed to be safe. He was supposed to be perceived as safe.

If he breaks down in the middle of nowhere how the hell is he going to live that image up? Children would realize the person that they depended their lives can easily break as them— will they perceive him as strong? Or just a fraud?

Seven.

Tears filled his eyes but never out to other's. Just a few moments. A few moments to collect himself, let him break, just a small slip-up he'll allow this time. And then—

He cracked.

Eight.

Slowly his breath grew uneven. Not frantic. No. Even in his worst times, even if he's not able to grasp himself. He still tried to take control. He was greedy of it. Even in death he wouldn't let go of it.

Because if he had control he wouldn't be so miserable. If he had control no one would've died, no one would suffer. If he had control no one would mourn their loss like he did over and over again.

But he couldn't.

Nine.

In his own spiraling state. He let just a bit of desperate control slip. Hot tears streamed, his body shook and it was only a matter of time before he needed get back up again.

His sobs were like distance screams of an animal. If you were close you would hear it more clearly. The agony, the distress. Everything that had all been piled into life's cruel hands. Because everything had a place and time. And it never went out of schedule or stepped out of line. So did he.

Ten.

He gripped his arms, forcing himself to stop his shaking. He stiffled his breathing, counting backwards. Eyes closed, he looked up. Trying to breathe again. It was enough time for his self-loathing. He decided.

Opening his eyes, wiping his tears, pinched his cheeks to gain back it's rosy color. Fixed his composure and smiled.

Then with a steady stature. He willed himself to get up. His legs wobbled but never fell. Taking off with his goal in hand. He prompted himself to forget his vulnerability until another time came where he could allow himself to crack again.

He ran across the field to talk to Chiron about the lack of arrival of the supplies he had requested, just like a routine;

Will Solace never stepped out of line as everything always had time and place.

Headcanon

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

This fic was so good and I love the art so much

4 the pookie @ripeindecember

One of the best Solangelo fics i've ever read i LOVE THIS FIC please read this. it's amazingggg!!

Bronco

The first thing Will ever destroys is a songbird. He is four, and screaming, and his mother is twenty-three and exhausted and screaming back, and he wants to tear the world to shreds with his bare hands. And the little feathered thing out the window chirps at the wrong volume at the wrong time, tilting his little head, and Will just thinks deathdeathdeathdeath. And it keels over, and it dies.

The second thing Will ever destroys is immediately after and it is a little thing in the centre of his belly. And it is gone. Others have it, he’s sure, and it is what tethers them to the place between Hades and Heaven and what will float them gently to Elysium when their string withers, but his died with the bird. He felt it drop like a stone echoing deathdeathdeathdeath.

Every other thing he destroys wraps its twisted tethered tendrils around his throat.

———

He learns how to use it. Eventually. There is a moment in Cabin Seven in the dead middle of the night, after a nightmare, when Lee blinks green smoke out of his wide eyes and says, when he recovers: “Never speak of this again.”

And Will, eight, destroyer of so many things Abraham and his sands could not count them, nods. And Lee takes his hands and presses a gentle, squeezing kiss to his knuckles and in two years’ time Will destroys that, too. He holds the fragments of Lee’s skull in his hands and green smoke pools from his palms, from his eyes, from his mouth and his nose, and the grinning Cyclops cannot hold his breath in time and Will thinks deathdeathdeathdeath.

And the songbird was quick and the hole in Will’s belly gets bigger and Lee was slow, slow, slow. And for ever second his brother suffered Will extols it tenforth upon his enemy, and he collapses to his knees, tongue blackening, eye shrinking in its massive socket, throat screaming around sounds Will drags from his lungs. Boils pepper his skin and his bones crack and splinter into his muscle and blood seeps from his pores. And Will watches, and Lee’s blood pools in his hands, and the smoke thickens. And thickens. And thickens. And the Cyclops does not turn to dust when he dies, but a shrivelled, slimy corpse of a bird, a crow, and bile crawls its way up Will’s throat. He turns his head just in time and vomits all over the disintegrated grass and watches it smoke and bubble, devouring everything it touches. Lee’s stained skin smoulders under his palms. He drops him.

Michael watches, wide-eyed, and says: “Oh, my gods.”

And later when they are fitting the fragments of Lee’s skull together and tucking a coin in the spaces between his broken fingers, because the plates forming the roof of his mouth have been torn apart, Michael holds his shoulder. And he breathes, and he says.

“Never speak of this again.”

And Will feels around for that empty spot in his belly, and he rubs his hand over his burned, bruised throat. He imagines Lee’s big hands joining the fray, squeezing.

And he nods.

———

When he destroys Michael and follows Percy off the ruined bridge and then watches as each one of his older siblings is dragged into the broken hotel infirmary and drags sheets over their heads. When he closes their eyes and commits their blame to memory. When he saves Annabeth’s life and comes back to find his youngest older sister dead.

He squeezes his eyes shut and he thinks deathdeathdeathdeath. And the smoke is thin and cooling and scaly, and it slithers through the cracks of the ruined Manhattan pavement and wraps around exposed heels. And it bites, sinking into flesh, and demigods die, shrivelled, diseased, screaming. And they join the chain of souls wrapped around Will’s neck and whisper their echoes into his ears: deathdeathdeathdeath. And when he is the last and only son to walk through the only gilded doors he will ever see there is an electric fan still humming. There is floral wallpaper still up on the walls. There are unmade bunks. There is the smell of sweet hyacinth and the gentle curve of bowstrings.

He squeezes his eyes, sinks to the floor, and thinks deathdeathdeathdeath. And the hyacinth spots and dies, and the dandelions turn to ash. The wallpaper yellows and yellows and crumples in on itself and the wood of guitars rot. And when he wakes up on the creaking floorboards in the morning there is nothing but broken metal frames and a thin layer of soil, of grave dirt, where there were once painted hydrangeas. And he sweeps it out the steps and tells Chiron his cabin was burned to ash by Greek fire. His throat itches and aches, a fraction as much as his palms.

It is renovated by the end of the week.

The walls are sterile-white.

———

When a straw-haired suffering boy stretches into his face and screams I am the son of Apollo, Will squeezes his eyes shut. And he thinks: death.

And Death wraps a hand around his elbow, squeezing, stalling, and says: “Octavian, think of what you’re doing.”

The praetor-elect snarls, and does not. His robes catch on the twisted end of the onager, and his string of Fate is cut. He is launched into the air, screaming, and when his ghost floats back down, it does not join the thousands on Will’s back. Instead it sits on Nico’s shoulders, and Nico takes the weight, breathing through his mouth, and soldiers on. Will watches him with wide eyes.

———

“Never speak of this again,” his brothers warned him.

———

His father told him: you are marked.

———

He hears, endlessly, echoed: deathdeathdeathdeath.

———

“I could use a friend,” he says, and swallows. The dead on his back echo their laughter: friend. Friend. Friend.

“Friend,” Nico echoes.

Will nods. He tries for a smile. It’s thin, but Nico does not comment on it. “Or a friendly face, if that’s easier to swallow.”

“You don’t want a harbinger in your infirmary, Solace.”

And Will cannot help but laugh out loud. And Nico scowls, offended, but Will holds up a hand, palm open.

“I know something about harbingers,” he promises. “You are not by far the worst thing to happen to this camp.”

Nico’s eyes widen. Will snatched his hand back, and there must be something in his face. Because Nico nods, slowly, big eyes blinking.

“Okay.” he says, and swallows. “I have to do something, but I’ll be — back.”

And he is.

———

Nico controls the dead. He cares for them. Like his father he is commanding, but he is fair. He gives the dying the chance to fight, the space to plead; when it is time to collect souls he will take them, gently, and guide them, weeping, on. Death is compassionate. Nico moreso.

Will curls his blackened rotting fists to his sides. The snake wraps up his leg, tongue resting on his scraped knees. It hisses, gently.

Nico places a soft, caring hand on his shoulder.

“It’s not your fault,” he says, gently. “Some deaths are not preventable. You know that.” He squeezes. “You are a light on this Earth, Solace. She was suffering. She will be granted Elysium, as all the heroes who died here will be.”

Heroes.

Nico searches for his eyes, and smiles. The snake around Will’s ankles hisses, moving close. Will holds his breath.

“Remember all your hands have done, Will.”

Will swallows, and tucks his palms into his pockets.

Death.

Death.

Death.

Death.

“Believe me. I will.”

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.)

my baby my love my life

i must make him feel pain

just some experimental doodles i’m testing out some different brushes. my least favorite part of being a digital artist is trying to figure out which settings DONT make me want to rip my skin off and crunch on my wrist bones like smarties.