Description: A throwaway joke about 'one of my friends humped me yesterday to get out some pent up energy' becomes reality when you get a little too close and a very whipped Steve can't hold back his feelings anymore ;)
Pairing: Steve Harrington x GN!Reader
Warnings: 18+ Explicit themes, sexual tension, physical intimacy, mentions of consensual workplace grinding and physical release (wink wink), mutual pining finally explodes, lovesick Steve Harrington.
Word Count: 2.4k ish :D
A/N: This twitter post inspired all these words, good ol’ Heart Eyes Harrington you are everything to me. Listened to Rasputin while typing this out in its funk, not proofread but it is the stuff of my dreams, enjoy! <3
It starts with Steve hovering.
Hovering too close.
Hovering like he’s built an orbit around you and lost the ability to step out of it.
You’re shelving returns and he keeps almost touching your back as he reaches for tapes on the same shelf.
Finally you blurt out, “Steve. You’re acting weird.”
He freezes. Hands mid-air. Face turning an impossible shade of guilty pink.
“Weird? No. No, I mean. Kind of? Maybe. Yes.”
He swallows.
“I am a little weird around you today.”
“Why?”
He runs a shaky hand through his hair, pacing in a tight circle before stopping in front of you, looking like a guy about to confess to arson.
“Okay, just. Hear me out. Just listen,” he blurts.
“If you ever….have a lot of pent-up energy or whatever....”
He winces.
“You can just.…um. Use me.”
You blink. “Pent up energy? What do you mean—Wait, use you?”
Steve’s face goes crimson.
“Not in a—well, I mean—yes? Also no?”
He groans into his palms.
“I’m screwing this up. Let me restart.”
He takes a breath, meets your eyes with the softest, most hopelessly in-love expression you’ve ever seen on a person.
“Me and Robin were talking about this joke we heard at Scoops, a long time ago from one of the customers where the person.…”
He looks away.
“....humped her friend because they had pent-up energy.
He swallows.
“And I just.” His voice drops to a pathetic whisper.
“I thought, God, I wish she’d do that to me.’”
"Who, Robin?" You giggled at the absurdity of his sentence, not realising what was about to come. (spoiler alert: him)
"....you."
Your brain short-circuits.
“Steve.”
He keeps talking. He can’t stop.
He’s spiralling and it’s adorable.
“I mean, not like humping-humping, unless you want to, oh my God why am I talking–”
His hands flap around uselessly.
“I’m just saying, if you ever need….y’know….physical–relief? Release? Not like that release, unless–the stress is like….okay, shutting up.”
“Steve,” you repeat, stepping closer.
He stands there, shoulders hunched, staring at the floor like it might swallow him just to end his embarrassment.
“…I like you,” he admits softly.
“Way more than I should. Enough that if you said ‘hey Steve I need to grind on you because I’m restless,’ I’d say yes so fast I’d probably dislocate something.”
Your breath catches.
He looks up through his lashes: big brown eyes, anxious, hopeful. Absolutely whipped.
“Please don’t make fun of me,” he whispers.
“I just. God, I’d do anything you asked.”
You step closer to him until your bodies brush, being close enough to able to smell his cologne and wait– is that hairspray– and his breathing stutters.
“Anything?” you murmur.
His nod is instant. Desperate. Pathetic in the sweetest way.
“Anything,” he repeats, voice gone rough. Eyes gone dark.
“Tell me what you need and I’ll….just—tell me.”
Your hand slips into his hair, tugging gently and he inhales like he's taking his first breath.
“Steve,” you whisper, leaning closer.
“Do you perhaps....want me to take out my pent-up energy on you?”
His answer isn’t verbal. It’s a broken, helpless sound deep in his throat.
He leans in slowly, worshipful, begging without words and when his forehead presses to yours, his voice is barely a breath, “Please.”
You don’t even kiss him at first. You just keep your hand in his hair, tugging gently, barely enough to move him, but enough to make his lips part on instinct.
The sound he makes is soft, strangled, reverent. Like he can’t believe this is happening.
“This okay?” you murmur.
He nods too fast. Too eager.
His breath shakes.
“I’m–yeah. Yes. Just….you’re touching me.”
His answer is so simple. So honest. And it makes your chest melt into literal warmth.
You slide your other hand to his jaw, feeling the stubble under your thumb, feeling how he leans into it like your touch is gravity itself.
“Steve,” you whisper, “look at me.”
He does. Instantly.
And oh heavens, he’s ruined. Completely, helplessly ruined for you.
Brown eyes blown wide, lips flushed and glistening, breathing shallow like he’s trying not to make a mess of this moment.
You tilt his face up.
Slow. Gentle. Deliberate.
His hands hover in the air like he doesn’t know where he’s allowed to touch.
“Here,” you say softly, taking his wrists and guiding them to your waist. His fingers curl into you hesitantly at first and then on purpose, like he wants to remember every inch of you starting from the waist.
“God,” he breathes, almost a prayer, “you feel so warm.”
You move closer: chest pressing into his, hips touching lightly and he melts. There’s no other word for it.
His shoulders drop. His breath stutters. His whole body sinks against yours like he’s finally allowed to rest.
“Steve,” you whisper against the corner of his mouth, “you can kiss me.”
His lungs empty in one shaky rush.
Then he kisses you.
Slow at first. Careful, aching, like he’s learning the shape of your mouth by touch alone. His lips move with this soft, desperate honesty that goes straight to your knees.
He’s not trying to overwhelm you.
He’s trying to savour you.
And every time you deepen it, even a little, he makes these quiet, helpless noises in the back of his throat that tell you exactly how long he’s wanted this.
Your hands slide down his chest, fingers brushing the hem of his shirt, and Steve breaks the kiss with a trembling gasp, forehead falling to your shoulder.
“Wait—wait—”
He’s not pulling away. He’s grounding himself.
“If you touch me like that I’m gonna…I’m not gonna last long.”
The confession is whispered into your skin, soft and humiliating and devastatingly sincere.
You smile and run your fingers lightly under the fabric anyway.
He whimpers.
Actually whimpers.
“Oh my–please don’t tease. Please—”
You kiss the shell of his ear. He shivers violently.
“Steve,” you murmur, “tell me what you want.”
He lifts his head, flushed, panting, eyes dark and glossy.
“I want….”
He swallows hard. “....I want to feel you. However you want me. Anything you give me, I’ll take.”
He presses his hips forward just enough for you to feel the heat, the need– his need, his trembling restraint.
“Just—just let me hold you while you use me,”, he whispers, voice shaking.
“I’ll be so good for you.”
His hands slide up and down your waist, palms warm, fingers trembling as they grip your hips, pulling you gently, slowly, into the kind of closeness that makes your breath stutter.
You move against him: soft, warm, intentional...and Steve breaks.
His head drops to your shoulder again, mouth open against your skin, breath ragged, hands tightening on you like he’s trying not to fall apart entirely.
“Oh God—”
His voice is cracking.
“I can’t.…I can’t believe you want me—”
You whisper into his hair: “I want you so much, Steve.”
He shudders like you touched his spine directly.
“Say it again,” he begs quietly.
“Please—just—say you want me.”
You take his face in your hands and kiss him slow, deep, with intention. When you pull back, your lips brush his as you whisper, “Steve Harrington, I want you. So bad.”
He lets out a sound, half breath, half moan, and melts completely, body pressing to yours, hands sliding up your back, holding you like you’re something he’s been praying for.
And when you guide his hips just slightly, just enough.
Steve gasps, eyes shut, jaw slack, utterly undone.
“Tell me what to do,” he whispers, breaking, “and I’ll do it.” His hands are already trembling on your hips when you guide him backward, slow, patient, until his back hits the video shelf.
The impact is gentle, but it knocks a breath out of him anyway, more from nerves than force.
He looks up at you with this helpless, lovesick expression that makes your stomach flip.
“You sure?” he whispers, voice rough with wanting.
“’Cause if we do this, I’m gonna—”
This time, you kiss him before he can finish.
He melts into it instantly, soft lips, warm breath, the kind of kiss that feels like someone giving you every secret they’ve been hiding.
Your hands slide down his chest, slow and steady, until you reach his hips. The moment your fingers rest there, Steve gasps into your mouth, the sound small and needy, like he wasn’t prepared for how good that alone would feel.
“Oh…God,”, he breathes, forehead falling against yours, “okay—yeah, yeah, I’m done for.”
You take one step closer. Your thigh brushes his. He makes a broken noise.
And then you move.
Just the slightest roll of your hips: slow, soft, deliberate.
Steve’s breath catches on the inhale and never quite comes back out. His hands clamp onto your waist, not guiding you, not holding you in place, just holding on because he feels like he might fall.
“Oh—fuck.”
He chokes on the word.
“You’re, god, you’re actually—”
You do it again. This time your body presses fully against his, hips aligned, chest touching, your thigh sliding perfectly between his. Steve’s head thuds back against the shelf.
“Okay—okay—baby—wait—”
His fingers dig into your hips.
Not to stop you. To steady himself.
His voice trembles. “You’re gonna kill me.”
You kiss down his jaw, slow and warm, and roll your hips again, gentle, intimate, the kind of motion that isn’t rushed or frantic. Just two bodies fitting together in a private rhythm, heat building quietly, beautifully.
Steve whimpers again.
“I can’t—”
His hand slides up your spine, holding you closer, pulling you flush against him.
“You feel so good—please don’t stop—please.”
You grind against him again, slow and deep, and he shudders so hard you feel it through your whole body. You whimper into his neck.
“Steve….please look at me.”
He forces his eyes open (barely) and the expression is devastating.
Soft. Overwhelmed. Desperate.
Completely yours.
You guide his hips just a little with your hands, syncing your movements, letting your bodies line up in an easy, natural rhythm. He follows instantly, helplessly, like he’s been waiting for years for someone to lead him like this.
“Oh my god—”
His voice breaks. “I’m–baby, I’m so close already.”
You kiss him, slow and warm, your hips rolling into his with a delicious, steady pressure. The heat between you grows, building carefully, tenderly, pleasure rising like a tide instead of crashing like a wave.
Steve clings. Not gripping, not dragging: clinging like he needs to hold you to stay upright.
His breath turns into these soft, uneven gasps against your mouth.
“Please—please—don’t stop—just like that—”
You whisper, lips brushing his: “Let go for me, Steve.”
He chokes on a sound that’s half-moan, half-sob, pulling you impossibly closer as his hips stutter against yours. Soft, sloppy, helpless motions that tell you he can’t control anything anymore.
“I’m—honey—oh god—”
His forehead drops to your shoulder, breath hot, body shaking.
“I’m right there—please—”
You grind into him one more time—slow, deep, perfect.
Steve breaks. Completely, beautifully breaks in your arms.
A soft, strangled moan escapes him, muffled against your neck as he clings to you, whole body trembling through his climax, riding the pleasure gently, sweetly, pressed tight against you.
When it passes, he stays there, breathing you in, warm and shaking, arms wrapped around your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go too fast.
“….holy shit,” he whispers, voice raw.
“I love you.”
He freezes.
You freeze.
His face goes bright red as he slowly pulls back, eyes wide, horrified.
“I—I mean—I didn’t—shit—ignore that—”
You take his face in your hands and guide his gaze back to you.
“Steve,” you whisper, smiling softly but not saying it back entirely, “I kinda–sorta– really like you too.”
He melts again. But this time it’s not from desire.
It’s from relief. And he kisses you like he finally knows he’s allowed to. He holds you, he has been all this while but now he’s still doing so.
Still breathing into your shoulder, warm and shaky, lips brushing your skin like he’s not even aware he’s doing it.
Then, slowly, Steve pulls back.
His cheeks are so pink it’s almost comical. His hair is a mess. His chest rises and falls in uneven little breaths.
And he won’t look at you at first.
“I, uh.…” He rubs the back of his neck hard. “I have….some questions.”
You bite back a smile. “Questions?”
His eyes dart up to yours, wide, nervous, too sincere to be anything but real.
“Yeah, but if they’re dumb just—just pretend they’re not from me.”
“They won’t be dumb.”
He inhales sharply, gathering every molecule of courage he has.
“Did….did you like it?”
You soften instantly. “Steve, yes.”
He looks relieved and then panicked all over again.
“Like….really liked it? Or were you just being nice because I made noises that probably have never been made by a fully grown man before?”
You laugh softly and step closer, cupping his jaw. His eyes flutter shut like he’s short-circuiting.
“I liked it. A lot.” you repeat, slow and deliberate.
“Every part.”
He swallows hard.
“Which part?”
You raise an eyebrow. “You want specifics?”
His face goes tomato-red.
“…yeah.”
You lean in and kiss the corner of his mouth.
“Your hands on my hips.”
He audibly whimpers.
Then he clears his throat like he’s trying to pretend he didn’t:
“O-okay—yeah—cool—hands good—got it.”
You continue, “And the way you followed my movement without me saying anything?”
His jaw literally drops.
“I did that?”
“Yeah.”
He looks dazed, like you just told him he unlocked a new superpower.
Then, quietly, “Did you….like hearing me?”
He’s so flustered he can’t even say what exactly you might’ve heard.
You step closer until you can whisper into his jawline: “I loved hearing you.”
He inhales sharply.
“Even the—like—the sounds that were… not very… masculine?”
You smile into his skin. "Steve, the sounds you made were perfect.”
He groans, an embarrassed, overwhelmed groan as he hides his face in your neck.
His voice comes out muffled: “Jesus Christ, I’m in love with you.”
“You already said that,” you tease softly.
He clings tighter, mumbling: “Well, sorry but you’re being very sweet and very close and I’m having a moment. It is really you–right? This is happening?”
You stroke his back, slow and comforting, slightly smirking, “Yes it is me Harrington, I’m right here, don’t cream your pants. Oh wait…”.
He pulls back again, just enough to look at you, cheeks still pink, eyes still blown.
Then he whispers, almost shyly. “If we…do this again, is there something you want me to do? Something you liked that I should keep doing? Or something you want me to try?”
You kiss the tip of his nose. “I’ll tell you everything, don’t you worry pretty boy.” you whisper.
He shivers. “….you saying things like that is gonna get us to Round Two really fast.”
"In that case–I can't wait." you smile, giddiness lingering all around.
Summary: After leaving special forces, Wade finds himself as a Mercenary, always going to a specific bar for his jobs. However instead of giving his friend a dickwad greeting, he’s meets the new pretty bartender, and he’s instantly awestruck.
- Drabble, Deadpool M.List, Navigation — other works!
Warnings: Dirty Talk.
Taglist: Just ask to be added.
Wade sighed as he placed the gold card onto the bar, or more accurately slammed. He could feel the bruise on his side start to form. His target had slammed a chair into him, it made Wade shooting him all more rewarding.
Speaking of rewards, he better get the actual amount of money he was promised — if not then he needed to talk to HR. Did they have a HR?
“Give me a glass of whiskey, on the rocks.”
A glass of ice was placed in front of him, and he saw a stream of liquor pour into it.
“You look good in a tie.” Either Weasels voice got a lot more feminine, or that was a chick. Both choices heavily viable.
Once the stream stopped, he looked up to the bar tender. He felt his breath hitch at the sight of you, you wore a very thin tank top, and he could see the lace on your bra under it.
You had beautiful eyes, and he engraved every single detail of your face into his head. Now that’s a pretty lady.
Wade swallowed, hard and hoped no one noticed how sweaty his hands got. He looked down, to his shirt that he had the sleeves rolled up, and his very loose tie. Both of the had blood all over.
He looked back up at you, his drink forgotten, and he promised to win you over. “Wanna marry me?”
What the fuck? Is all Wade could think of. Yes he was trying to make an impression — but this?!
“Excuse me?” You were very concerned for the mercenary. The man definitely had made his mark, and it wasn’t every day you were proposed to — especially without a ring. So concern didn’t even cover it.
Fuck it, and roll. Is what Wade repeated in his head as he opened his mouth again.
“I mean, is that not the most romantic thing you’ve ever heard?” Okay he was actually rolling with this, but as he continued to stare at the girl he couldn’t help but think maybe getting married to her wouldn’t be so bad. Clearly his subconscious and dick agreed.
“A guy proposing to a stranger? It might’ve been better if you were some stalker and already had a ring prepared for me.” You couldn’t help but be amused at this situation, confused but amused.
“Oh well I can come back in a week after I’ve followed you home, and jerked off to you in the shower.” He took a sip of his drink, thinking to himself he really needed to learn when to shut up.
You laughed as you cleaned one of the drinks glass. The bar was significantly empty, and weasel could manage on his own for a bit. Just enough for you to run down to the court house with this handsome stranger.
You couldn’t believe you were actually considering this. You really couldn’t, but here you were wanting to do it. To take a risk — and everything in you screamed to go with this man.
“Look, I didn’t mean to come off so strong.” Before he could continue you cut him off.
“Okay.” You placed the glass down and looked at him. “Okay?” He couldn’t believe this was actually happening.
“Let do it — just one thing.” He stood out of his stool, and even though it was stained in blood, he was thankful he was at least wearing a suit.
“That is?” Please don’t change your mind, he silently pleaded. Everything in him wanted this. “I should probably know your name, and I should stop a get a dress from a store.”
Wade smiled at you, he didn’t believe in any of that stupid destiny mushy stuff, but maybe it was fate. Maybe that’s why he was feeling like this.
“Wade Wilson.”
You walked around the bar, and grabbed his hand, shaking it.
“Y/N.” Wilson.
A/N: This is really short, but it was just a small idea I had.
requested by anon: Hey Lottie, congrats on your achievements!! Could I request number 23 with Colin and maybe something about arranged marriage? Thank you and all the best for you!!!! 💗
a/n this ain't a song for the broken hearted *bam bam*
summary: Colin Bridgerton has watched from afar at every ball and soiree as Y/N danced with many a suitor, never having the confidence to make a move himself. But when Y/N ends up in an arranged marriage at the hands of her father, Colin decides to finally make his feelings known. And whilst many marriages in London high society were business deals between husbands and fathers, Y/N is determined hers will not follow the same route. It's her life, after all.
"Oh, look at you."
Y/N tried not grimace as her mother cooed over her, fluffing the train of her wedding dress - not that it was finished - and admiring the detail.
"Madame Delacroix, you are a magician," her mother exclaimed, turning to face the woman.
"It is nothing, Lady Y/L/N," Madame Delacroix said, pinning the hem up. "It is an honour to make this for your daughter."
"Now, I was wondering if we could talk about the veil," Lady Y/L/N said, ushering Madame Delacroix over to a wall of fabrics.
Y/N sighed sadly, running a hand down the silk gown, staring at herself in the mirror. It wasn't what she had dreamed of as a child - or in the last few weeks, to be honest. But she was making her mother happy and securing her future and that was the main thing.
The bell over the front door jingled and Y/N turned, wanting to see who had entered. She felt her heart almost drop at the sight of Colin Bridgerton, along with his two sisters and mother, standing awkwardly in the doorway.
It'd been three years since she'd first met the third eldest Bridgerton. Three years of longing gazes, stolen moments and nothing else. Colin had left for his tour not long after and Y/N had waited for him to return - to grow up and come back for her.
And, to his credit, he did. He did come back for her. He just came back a few weeks too late. So, Y/N was resigned to her fate - to marry a man she hardly knew - and to watch the man she loved walk away with someone else. Colin wanted her - she knew that. He had made it clear not long after he had returned. But there was nothing Y/N could do. She was a woman after all.
"Miss Y/L/N!" Lady Bridgerton exclaimed, her face lighting up at the sight of Y/N.
"Forgive me, Miss Y/L/N," Daphne said, looking at her gown inquistvely. "But is this a wedding dress?"
Y/N felt her face heat up and ducked her head, fiddling with the skirt. "Yes, yes it is, your grace. We have not announced it to the ton yet but I am to be married in a few weeks time. To Mr Barrow."
"Mr Barrow?!" Eloise exclaimed, unable to hide her squawk of surprise. Daphne elbowed her in the side and Eloise grunted slightly. "Sorry."
"No, it is fine - I was surprised myself, I shall admit," Y/N said, smiling slightly. "The invites are being sent out today and I know for certain there is one with your family's name on it, Lady Bridgerton."
"Oh, thank you, Miss Y/L/N," Lady Bridgerton replied. "Eloise, stop that, for heaven's sake."
As Lady Bridgerton darted off to stop her errant daughter from escaping the modiste, Y/N turned her head, finding Colin looking at her.
"Engaged?"
Y/N sighed softly. "Arranged," she corrected.
She took a step forward, aiming to step of the podium she was standing on. Colin came forward and held out both his hands in assistance. Y/N placed hers in his - trying to ignore the warmth of his skin against hers.
"Arranged? Y/N, what -"
"Colin, I don't have a choice," Y/N said, cutting him off. "My parents arranged it and I cannot dishonour them and risk ruining our reputation by pulling out now. We met with the queen, yesterday, Colin. She is insisting on a big wedding at the cathedral - the entire ton is going to be there."
"Surely, there is something," Colin said, almost begging. "Y/N, you barely know this man."
"It is a better offer than most of the weddings that happen, Colin," Y/N told him. She squeezed his hands tightly. "Please, Colin. For my sake, do not interfere. Just let me go."
Colin looked at her, his eyes begging her, his voice silent. Y/N ran her thumb along his knuckles, attempting to reassure him.
"Colin, dearest, come along," Lady Bridgerton called.
Colin cleared his throat and let go of Y/N's hands, walking away without a glance back. Y/N felt her eyes burning as she watched him leave. She turned back to look at herself in the mirror, sadness digging deep into her soul as she stared at the dress.
"Right, shall we try this veil on, ma cherie?" Madame Delacroix asked, appearing with a length of veil material draped over her arm.
Y/N sniffed, raising her head. She forced a smile onto her face. "Yes, let's do it."
Her house had never been so busy. The ballroom was full of the wealthiest members of the ton - all dressed in their finest outfits with their jewels sparkling. Y/N was wearing a brand new, all-white dress, with a set of jewels lent to her from the queen around her neck and in her pinned up hair.
Despite it being a ball to celebrate her engagement - an engagement that had taken the entire ton by storm due to its suddeness - Y/N had found herself feeling a bit of a wallflower. She'd been standing by the wall, next to Lady Danbury, for the better part of twenty minutes, her husband to be nowhere to be seen.
"Where is your fiancee, Miss Y/L/N?" Lady Danbury said, looking around the room.
"I do not know, Lady Danbury," Y/N muttered quietly.
"You do not seem overly concerned."
Y/N sighed, not irritatedly, just resigned at Lady Danbury and her observation.
"Could that be because it is arranged and not a love match?"
"Lady Danbury, please, never stop being so blunt."
"Why would I stop? It is one of my charms." Lady Danbury whacked Y/N in the leg with her cane. "You never answered my question."
"I have spoken to the man approximately three times since we announced our engagement," Y/N admitted softly. "I believe he is in the smoking room with his friends."
"Ah. Mr Bridgerton! What brings you to our dark corner of the room?" Lady Danbury asked as Colin approached, hands behind his back.
"I was wondering if I could have a few moments alone with Miss Y/L/N, Lady Danbury?"
Lady Danbury gave Colin a side-eyed glare but walked away with a hmmph to stand near the drinks table - which was less than two metres away.
Colin stood next to her, facing the dancing mass. "Miss Y/L/N -"
"Mr Bridgerton, you cannot be here. People will talk," Y/N said quietly, looking straight ahead.
Colin gently reached out and took her gloved hand in his. "Y/N, please."
"There isn't anything I can do about it, Colin."
"You deserve more -"
"I am content, Mr Bridgerton. That is all that matters," Y/N replied. "I do not have the privilege to back out now."
Colin stared at her, his eyes betraying his hurt. "Y/N, I can help. We can think of something, anything -"
"There is nothing, Colin," Y/N said sadly. She turned her head to look at him. "We can't... we can't be seen together."
"Y/N -"
Colin trailed off as Y/N walked away from him, moving on to talk to her other guests. He watched her leave, staring at her back, wishing he could run after her.
"You took too long, I fear," Lady Danbury said, appearing again.
Colin barely acknowledged her. "She doesn't want this."
"No, she does not. But there is nothing she, nor you, can do about it, Mr Bridgerton," Lady Danbury replied quietly. She put a hand on his arm and Colin turned his head to look at her. "So, let her go. If not for your sake, for hers. Don't make this any harder than it already is for her."
She was beginning to panic. The tiara, the veil, the dress - the sheer weight of it all - was beginning to overwhelm her. Her hands were sweating inside her white satin gloves and her head was itchy where the pins scraped her scalp.
Her mother, however, was oblivious to it all. She was in her own world.
"Oh, look at you," she cooed, wiping her eyes with a frilly handkerchief. "My girl, all grown up. Now, let me just sort this out."
She began tugging on the veil, which sat behind the diamond and pearl tiara, and then fluffed it out, showing the full length and detail of the material. Roses and carnations decorated the edge of the veil - which were also what her bouquet was made out of.
"I still can't believe the queen is hosting this wedding," her mother said, sighing happily. "The cathedral looks beautiful, as do you, dearest. Now," she turned to the door, "are we all set?"
The maid hovering by the door bopped a curtsey. "Yes ma'am. Whenever you are."
"Right, shall we begin, then?" Y/N's mother asked, ushering the maid over.
As the maid picked the train of her dress and veil up, Y/N turned around to face the door, holding the front of her dress up so she could walk.
Her mother led the way down the corridor, her heels clicking loudly on the tiled floor as they headed down the stairs and to the walkway from their rooms to the cathedral.
Her father was waiting in the door way and he extended his arm to Y/N, walking her out the door and down the stone walkway. Y/N was lost to her own thoughts as the walked, wondering how she had gotten here. Dressed in white for a wedding she didn't even want.
In a daze, Y/N into the cathedral, her arm tucked into her father's. Her mother arranged her train and her veil, untangling the material and smoothly lying it on the ground.
"I'm very glad you decided to go through with this, dearest," Y/N's father said, patting her gloved hand. "It is for the best."
"I know," Y/N whispered, swallowing her fear.
Music began and Y/N felt the knot in her stomach tighten until it was almost unbearable. It was just one foot in front of the other, now. One foot in front of the other to her inevitable doom.
The curtain swished back and she began walking through, keeping her eyes set on the man who was to be her husband. But on the left of the room, a few rows back, sat Colin Bridgerton. And he was watching her with eyes full of happiness, pain and sadness. Y/N couldn't bear it. She tried not to look at him but it was like they were drawn to one another.
Y/N looked at Colin until she couldn't be subtle about it anymore. Her eyes moved to her husband to be and suddenly, so suddenly, she realised that she couldn't do it. She couldn't marry him just because her parents told her to.
"Please be seated," the Archbishop said, his voice gentle and calm. "Dearly beloved, we are gathered here together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this Congregation, to join together this man and this woman in Holy Matrimony..."
The Archbishop's voice became a buzzing noise in Y/N's ears as she stared at her husband to be. Her heart was pounding, the room was beginning to tilt and she just wanted to leave.
She didn't want to get married. Not now. Not to this man. She clenched her hands around the stems of her bouquet, feeling the roses prick through her gloves slightly. As subtly as she could, Y/N glanced over at Colin. He was watching her intently - her, and no one else. It was if he could knew - as if he could read her mind.
"Miss Y/L/N."
Y/N looked back at her future husband, startled. "Pardon?"
Mr Barrow frowned at her, his eyes narrowing. "The Archbishop... wants you to repeat after him."
"Oh."
"Miss Y/L/N, is everything alright?" He asked, watching her.
"I..."
Y/N trailed off, staring back at him. She was going to regret doing this later but, as of right now, short of sprinting out the room, she had no other option. And, if she was entirely honest, she did feel like it was going to happen anyway.
So, she swooned.
Colin felt as if his entire world was going to crumble as he watched Y/N stand there, dressed all in white. She looked stunning. But she didn't look happy. If anything, she looked like she might pass out. Y/N turned slightly and Colin felt her eyes on him. He found her gaze and looked back at her, trying to appear happy (and failing).
Y/N turned back as her husband to be called her name, bringing her attention back to the wedding. But then she stuttered and hesitated. Colin was on the edge of his seat - literally, he was squeezed in between Benedict and Daphne on a pew smaller than his arse - as he watched Y/N. And it was only because he was watching Y/N so intently, that he caught the exact moment her intended fake swoon turned to a genuine faint.
A gasp went up around the room as she hit the floor with a thud - the bouquet falling from her hands. Her husband to be didn't move, he just stared as Y/N lay there in a pool of white silk. Her parents stared too - no one seemed to be doing anything other than staring.
Colin did, though. He squeezed past Daphne and ran over to Y/N, his mother hot on his heels. The sudden movement of two Bridgertons seemed to shock the rest of the ton out of their stupor and suddenly there were people yelling and standing up, all trying to see what was happening. Y/N's mother was... wailing for some reason and the Queen had stood up, mainly to move out the way, Colin suspected.
"Someone call for a doctor!" Colin yelled as he knelt at Y/N's side, raising his voice above the clamour and chaos that had erupted in the cathedral.
"We should take her out of here," Violet said, looking over her shoulder. "Why is her mother wailing? Dear lord, this poor girl. Take her back to her rooms, Colin. No one else is offering to help."
Colin nodded. He lifted Y/N's arm up and put it over his shoulder and then slid an arm under Y/N's knees and under her shoulders and gently lifted her up into his arms. The fabric of her dress and veil hung down, trailing along the floor, picking up the flower petals scattered along the floor, as he carried her through the mass of people.
Colin just held Y/N against him as he carried her, willing her to be alright. This was the closest he'd gotten to her in weeks and his skin was tingling. A maid held open the door to Y/N's rooms for the day and Colin walked in, reluctantly laying her down on the chaise lounge in the corner, untangling the fabric of her dress and veil and laying them out neatly, not wanting them to be ruined.
He stood up and looked down at her, suddenly aware of how... perfect she looked. Colin stepped back as a doctor and numerous maids bustled in, not wanting to intrude.
"Miss Y/L/N?" The doctor asked, shaking Y/N and tapping her cheeks. "Can you hear me?"
Colin jumped as a hand landed on his shoulder. He turned and looked at Anthony, a feeling of order settling inside him at the presence of his eldest brother.
"She'll be fine, Col," Anthony said softly, squeezing his shoulder. "I doubt the poor girl has eaten all day."
"Where are her parents?" Colin asked, suddenly realising they weren't in the room.
"Begging with the queen and the groom," Anthony answered, his tone clearly showing how he wasn't impressed. "The queen is more worried about her than her parents are."
"You sound surprised," Colin muttered. He looked back at Y/N, his eyes burning slightly as he watched the doctor fuss with her. "I can't..."
"I know," Anthony said quietly. "I know, brother." He looked up as the doctor stepped back. "Well?"
"Exhaustion, dehydration, lack of food - typical wedding stress," he answered, shrugging. "If she doesn't wake up in half an hour call for me."
"But she will be alright?" Colin asked, his tone a little harsher than intended.
"She will be fine, sir. It happens to almost every young woman on their wedding days - they don't eat to fit into their dresses, the summer heat makes them dehydrate and the stress means their bodies decide to quit for a moment. Excuse me, please."
Colin took a step back, relief crashing over him. He looked over at Y/N, his very own sleeping beauty.
"I'll be outside," Anthony said, patting Colin on the back.
As his brother left, Colin grabbed a chair nearby and brought it to Y/N's side, sitting down in it. He looked down at her, reaching forward and brushing the veil from her face.
"I know you're awake."
"For a man who is so often oblivious, you are really observant at times," Y/N muttered, opening her eyes and looking up at him.
"As someone who has passed out before, far too many times count, might I add, I knew you were awake the moment I carried you in here," he replied, leaning back in his chair. He looked at her. "What happened?"
"I panicked," Y/N replied, sitting up, pulling her veil up so she wasn't sitting on it.
"So you decided to swoon?"
"Well, it started off as a swoon but then apparently turned into a genuine faint since I don't remember how I got in here. Besides, it was either that or sprint out of the cathedral and leave him at the altar," Y/N answered. "I thought this the lesser of two evils."
"You scared the crap out of me."
Y/N didn't even blink at his coarse language. "I apologise, Mr Bridgerton. I just..."
"Couldn't go through with it?" Colin finished.
Y/N nodded weakly. She slumped back against the chaise lounge, a cloud of silk, tulle and diamonds. "I cannot do this. I cannot marry him." She frowned, looking around. "Where are my parents?"
"Anthony said they were begging the queen and your husband to be," Colin replied. "They did not seem to really -"
"They don't," Y/N retorted. "This only happened because of money, Colin." She sighed sadly, picking at her dress. "It is always money."
Colin watched her pick at the silk material. He leant forward. "Why did you change your mind?"
"Pardon?"
"Before, at the engagement ball, you were adamant there was nothing to be done. That you had no say. What made you change your mind?"
"You, honestly. You and the fact I realised that, despite what society says, this is my life. I am not going to live forever, I know that. So, I just want to live, and I mean properly live, whilst I can. And I want to do it my way. On my terms." She smiled at him. "It's my life, Colin. I want to live it my way."
Colin nodded, a smile pulling at his lips. "So, what do you want to do?"
"Leave. Run far away from here for a bit then face the chaos."
"Then we'll do that."
Y/N's head shot up. "Colin. We cannot."
"Why? You have just given me a whole speech about how it's your life -"
"I know but -"
"No regrets. No buts." Colin stood up and held his hand out to Y/N. "It is now or never, Miss Y/L/N. We are not going to live forever." He paused. "I know you don't trust me, which is fine, I understand. But we can do this. I am not going to go anywhere, Y/N. I am a changed man."
Y/N looked at Colin and then at his hand. She placed hers in his and he pulled her to her feet. "Alright. But.. we cannot steal a carriage."
"Isn't it a good job I rode here, then," Colin replied, winking at her.
Hand in hand, the two of them snuck out of the room and out to the front of the building where the horses were waiting. Colin tossed some money at a footman, whispering instructions to him as he passed.
"We are going to cause a scandal by doing this, you do realise that," Y/N said, looking at Colin as he sorted his saddle out.
"I know. I have had my fair share of scandal, though. I am almost used to it," he quipped, smiling. He turned to her and tucked an invisible strand of hair behind her ear. "We can turn back. We can go back inside and resume this wedding. We can find your parents. Or, we can run away for a moment, organise our minds, and do it our way."
"I do not want anyone forcing me to do anything anymore," Y/N said firmly. "It's my life."
He smiled. "So you keep saying." Colin put a foot in the stirrup and hoisted himself up onto the horse. He extended a hand down to Y/N and she took it, letting him pull her up onto his horse.
She didn't care about her dress or her hair or how she was inevitably going to ruin it all. The mirage and game of pretend had to end.
"Take me away, Mr Bridgerton," Y/N said quietly, wrapping her arms around Colin's waist.
Colin smiled. "Of course, Miss Y/L/N."
He urged his horse on and they rode away from the cathedral, Y/N's veil flying in the wind behind them. There would be chaos when they returned, that was inevitable. But for now, in this single moment of time, it was just them - doing it their own way.
The incessant ringing of loneliness (or three weeks part two).
Pairing: Luke Castellan x Apollo!Reader
Summary: Luke is back, officially. But you can’t find it in yourself to be happy about it.
Content: angst, loser!luke makes an appearance, a lil fluff, this one is probably happier than part one
Word Count: 4k
Notes: i can’t thank you guys enough for the love on three weeks :( it really means the world, and i hope you enjoy this one too! i don’t think there’s gonna be a part 3 just because i want the rest of luke and r’s story to be up to your own interpretation - especially since his path to healing is such an important factor and it could go in any way. hope that’s ok with you guys :)
꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷
You weren’t very popular at camp.
Despite the fact that you’d been there for longer than most of its occupants, and that you’d bandaged up some of their gnarlier injuries, you just didn’t have what it took to have people know your name upon first glance.
Clarisse had her unbridled aggression — she scared people into knowing who she was. Charles Beckendorf was the guy you went to when you broke a sword and didn’t want Chiron finding out about it, plus he was six foot six and kinda hard to miss. The Stoll Twins were behind pretty much every crazy scheme that ended up in Hermes losing desert privileges. Luke was…well, he was Luke. Need I say more?
Point is, while everyone knew everyone, not everyone really knew you. They knew your face, your parentage, and your overall skill set. But they didn’t know your name, or what made you tick.
Which was fine, really. You liked the alone time you got in the infirmary when your sister would run out to gossip with her friends in Aphrodite whenever she saw them walk by. You didn’t mind that, when your cabin got their hour of free time each day, your siblings would rush off to their friends and you would simply settle down with a good book.
It’s not as if you were entirely lonely — you had your fellow Apollo kids. You, Alina and Lee bonded especially, being the older kids of the group. So you had them — the only difference was that they had other people, too.
Which, again, was fine.
Except when you started to take care of Luke, you finally felt like you had a person. You looked forward to seeing him after meals each day, and you found excuses to linger in his room whenever possible. Call it odd, but you grew to enjoy the fact that nobody else knew he was back. Because that way, you had him, he had you, and that was that.
But then Luke got better.
You didn’t even have time to worry about it — one minute you were scarfing down your breakfast, eager to bring that second plate up to the Big House, and ignoring the strange looks your siblings sent you. Then in a split moment, everyone was cheering, people were standing and suddenly you didn’t feel so crowded anymore.
You heard murmurs of excitement, but people were practically standing on the table around you — unhygienic, much? People are eating here — and you couldn’t see what they were looking at. You tugged on your brother’s leg and he glanced down at your raised brow, then he said, “Luke’s back!”
It was like you were sucked back in time. No — it was like you were sitting in a waiting room, shivering from the cold breeze that whisked in through the automatic doors. And then the doors closed, and you could release the tension in your body because the warmth was already reaching your fingers — only for someone to walk past and make the doors open again, sending the sharp sting of the cold right back to where it was before.
Yes. That’s what it was — the warmth Luke’s eyes on you had provided was suddenly ripped completely from you the second your brother's words reached your ears. Replaced with the blistering cold of nobody ever knowing your name.
So it was back to normal for you. The normal you had grown accustomed to — the normal you liked. The normal you thought you liked, anyway.
You didn’t even catch a glimpse of Luke’s face as you stood and left the Pavilion, focusing on the floor beneath your feet rather than the crowd forming around him. Oh, but you couldn’t forget that he was back, it was all anybody could talk about. Once they’d done the math and realised he was the patient you’d been taking care of for three weeks, you locked yourself in your cabin to avoid all the questions, and didn’t see him until the very next day.
The chatter of Luke’s return had died down when you woke up the next morning — a little later than you usually did, Lee having to shake you so you wouldn’t miss breakfast. You rubbed the sleep out of your eyes and pulled a clean camp shirt over your head, stumbling a little due to the fact that you hadn’t fully woken up yet.
When you were ready, Lee was waiting by the door. A few of your siblings were still getting themselves into a line after his loud Fall in! had woken them up, so you had time to stretch your arms and let out a sigh once you had taken your place beside him. You and Alina always walked with him to mealtimes, even though neither of you were counsellors, and you greeted her with a smile.
The air was stuffy again — so much so that even Lee let out a wince when the shining glow of the front door hit his eyes. Then he stepped out of the cabin — his usual routine of checking the garden and cabin for pranks before letting them out coming into play. But he stopped.
“What?”
He swung his head back at you, brows raised and smile growing, “Luke’s back.”
Out of instinct, you rolled your eyes, “Pretty sure we all know that, already.”
“Yeah, but —“ He turned fully then, hands on the doorframe and grin shining, “He’s back, which means the Hermes kids are finally under control again, which means we don’t have to worry about being pranked first thing in the morning!”
“Holy crap.” Alina was grinning now, both of your siblings looking at you and each-other with this excited expression that made you sort of angry – why are they perceiving Luke? They’re not allowed.
You huffed a sigh as Lee started to lead the line outside, “He got back yesterday, there’s no way he’s already –”
But he was. As you stepped into the sun, the skin on your thighs already forming an uncomfortable layer of sweat, you looked to where the Hermes cabin was filing out of their door, led by the one and only Luke Castellan. You paused.
He’d been back a day. Sure, his scar had healed nicely, but it was only three days ago that he was struggling to hold his own in a sword fight – if he was back to his counsellor duties, was he going back to teaching sword fighting? You were unsure he should even be in charge of all those Hermes and unclaimed kids so soon, but going back to teaching only days after coming back to camp? There was no way he was ready for that.
Should you say something? Or would he dismiss you, now that he was done with you?
You watched as he walked with Chris, chatting idly as if nothing was wrong. But you saw Chris glance occasionally at the jagged line through his brother’s eye, and you saw Luke attempt to ignore it.
Should you say something?
You tripped. You were so busy staring creepily at Luke that you tripped over your own feet and tumbled into Lee’s back. He stumbled slightly but righted himself with a huff and a chuckle, turning and asking if you were alright.
But you had looked straight back in Luke’s direction – he was still talking to Chris. He wasn’t looking at you.
He wasn’t your person anymore.
Luke was unsure.
Which didn’t happen often — as one of the oldest campers, and the one everyone else looked to in times of peril, it was sort of essential for him to be sure. He needed to know what to do, to have a solution for every situation, and to be completely calm about it. Otherwise, camp would go to shit.
That much was obvious — he didn’t know why you hadn’t told him this in the three weeks you spent together, but camp had turned itself upside down in his absence. Apparently nobody was prepared for him to be gone for so long, and they kind of all lost their shit.
He was happy to be back, don’t get him wrong. He lit up when he saw his brother’s faces again, when he felt their arms wrap around him. He laughed when Travis joked about thinking he was dead, and when Connor quipped that the camp was seconds away from starting a revolution. He nodded at Chiron, smiled amusedly when Mr D rolled his eyes, he scooped Annabeth into his arms, whispered to her that yes, he was alive, and he let himself be whisked to his table, the crowd following like moths to a flame.
It was slightly overwhelming, but he was well-equipped to deal with it. He liked the feeling — if he ignored the throbbing on the side of his face, it could be like he’d never even left. The quest never happened, the dragon never happened, and people are just happy to see him because he’s their counsellor. Of course they would be. Everything was fine.
Everything was fine — so he ignored the urge to scan his eyes across the crowd in search of a familiar head of hair. He stopped himself from glancing at the Apollo table, from looking in Lee’s direction, just in case he wasn’t standing alone.
Because he didn’t need you anymore. Not that he didn’t appreciate all you did for him, but the healing was done. He was better, he was back at camp — he was Luke Castellan again. If he looked for you, if he met those eyes and returned that smile, it would be admitting defeat. Admitting that he wasn’t better, that he still needed his doctor.
But he didn’t. Because he was back, baby! And he didn’t need to think about that stupid quest, his stupid dad, or his stupid scar ever again.
He had a short chat with Chiron, who looked a little uneasy when he expressed his readiness to get back to camp duties. He told him that it was fine if he needed time to settle in, but Luke was firm. He didn’t need to settle, he didn’t need to wait. So Chiron sighed, and told him to escort his cabin to the climbing walls for their morning session.
And that’s how the rest of the day went — climbing wall, arts and crafts cabin, strawberry fields, archery practice. Luke did it all, just like he used to before he left. If people would just stop looking at his damn scar, maybe he could pretend he never left at all. If they stopped murmuring about him being the secret camper, hidden from them this whole time, he could avoid thinking about you and the sweet touch of your fingers on his face.
The fact that he hadn’t seen you at all since his return helped him on that front — you weren’t around at breakfast, lunch or dinner. You weren’t in the infirmary whenever he peeked through the windows. You weren’t with the rest of your cabin when they were paired with Hermes for hand-to-hand defence practice.
Not that he was looking for you, or anything.
“Hey, man.” Chris clapped him on the shoulder as they walked up to breakfast. It had officially been twenty-four hours since Luke’s return, and the chatter had died down significantly. That was good for him, helped him ignore the fact that he was ever not there.
All he had to do was keep his eyes off you — who had magically reappeared in camp — as you also walked up to breakfast, the Apollo kids trailing behind you, Lee and Alina.
“Listen, you did great yesterday.” His brother was saying, and he zoned in on it. “It was like you never left.”
Cool, that was the plan.
“But it’s sword fighting today.”
Luke raised a brow, “So?”
“So…” Chris sang, awkwardly waving a hand, “You don’t have to jump right back into training us, is what I’m saying.”
He scoffed, running a hand through us curls, “Nah, bro, I’m good.”
“Are you sure? Because —“
“Y’know, Chris,” Luke sent his brother a cheeky look as they took their seats around the Hermes table, “if you’re scared to get back to my gruelling training sessions, just say that.”
Chris’ face fell, appalled, and he put a hand on his chest, “Scared? Dude, you’re the one who should be scared. I’ve gotten good since you’ve been gone.”
And there it was — a reminder that it wasn’t the same. That he couldn’t pretend he had never left, because nobody else was. Whatever, it’d be fine. A couple of weeks and this would all blow over and he would never have to think about it again.
The Amphitheatre, unlike the rest of the camp amenities, was familiar to him. He didn’t need to stand and take it all in like he did with everywhere else, because he’d been here not even a week ago with —
No. Stop. You aren’t in his life anymore. He never went on his quest. Everything is how it should be.
The kids gathered around him were letting off a range of emotions as Luke stood before them, sword in hand. The younger ones were giddy, eager to get back to training with their favourite teacher. Some of the older ones, however, were only slightly confused that he’d bounced back so quickly. If he had to spend three weeks in the Big House before even going outside, was he ready to jump right back into sword training? Maybe he’d go easier on them today, take it slow.
“Alright — if there’s anything I've learnt over the years, it’s that sword fighting is all about reflexes. So, today, we will be working on y’all’s dodging skills. Oliver, get up here!”
Luke was back on Mount Tamalpais. The fiery breath Ladon was shooting at him seared his skin and burnt holes into his shirt. He was ducking out of the way, but there was no room to breathe when another one of his hundred heads came at him with a fierce snarl. His sword felt useless in his hands, every swing being deflected and every jab proving useless compared to the dragon's swift movements.
He blinked, and he was back at camp. Sparring with an unclaimed kid who’s name was lost on him. Sweat dripped down his brows but he wiped it away with shaky fingers. He gave an off-handed comment on the kids form before calling a water break.
“Yo— woah, man!”
Chris looked wide-eyed at Luke. He had tapped him gently on the shoulder and he had responded with an aggressive swing towards him. He stepped out of the arc just in time, but Luke still dropped the sword like it had burnt him. He stepped back, hands shaking, and stared at the ground.
It was odd — being at Archery in the mornings. You’d spent three weeks skipping the hour in favour of taking food to Luke and ensuring his dressings were changed. Which for most cabins, was what? Three classes a week?
Not for the Apollo kids — who have always and will always have their first hour spent on the Archery fields. Mainly because it’s when the sun is rising, shining on them in the early mornings and giving them their power to hit the bullseye. You included, even if healing was more your purview.
So you’d missed probably around twenty classes, give or take a few. Your form was, well, subpar at best. Lee had to spend the entire hour making sure you didn’t accidentally hit one of your siblings — and that was after he had to re-teach you the basics.
You probably would’ve been better had you not been so distracted — your mind whirring with thoughts of Luke. You wished your brain would just leave it alone, but apparently you weren’t done mulling over the situation. You wanted to slap yourself across the face and say hey, idiot. The three weeks is up, he’s healed. It’s over. But your siblings would probably look at you weird, so you decided against it.
Instead, you threw yourself into your duties. Archery was a bump in the road, but now you were smooth sailing. You didn’t focus on anything else but what you had to do that day — not taking a moment to breathe because if you did that, you’d start thinking about Castellan again. You didn’t want that, you really didn’t want that.
It was going really well, too. But then Chiron just had to interrupt your canoeing session, asking you to clear out any medical supplies you left over in the spare room of the Big House since nobody was staying there anymore.
Oh, great. You were thinking about him again.
And then all the thoughts you’d been suppressing since ten in the morning were overflowing your head, and you thought you might have had to ask Mr D if you were going mad because when you cracked open the door and peeked your head in, Luke was sitting on the edge of the bed like usual and you had to blink to make the hallucination go away.
Except it didn’t go away. Instead it looked at you and smiled, “Hi.”
Your lips parted, and you stepped in. Your eyebrows curved in on themselves, “Uh, hey. What are you…”
You were still about seventy percent sure that he wasn’t real, but nobody was there to listen to you talk to air, so you replied anyway. Luke clicked his tongue, let out a chuckle, then sighed, “I don’t think I can do it.”
Okay, fifty percent sure.
“Do what?”
“Go back out there.” He gestured a hand to the window that pointed outside, although it was still covered with the curtain. “I thought…I dunno, I guess I got too excited yesterday. Thought I was ready to jump back into it.”
You stepped fully through the threshold, and he followed you with his eyes as you walked over to the desk. Nothing but a few spare bandages that you scooped into your arms before looking back at him. You tilted your head, “Healing isn’t linear. It’s perfectly normal to feel like you’re on top of the world one day and then like it’s crumbling around you the next.”
He stood, walked over to you. Thirty percent.
“I don’t want to disappoint them.”
“You won't.” You shook your head, “You made a big step, coming back to camp. That's it for now, you don’t need to take any more big steps for a while.”
He nodded, “No more big steps.”
“Not until you’re ready.”
Luke’s hands reached out, taking the bandages from where you cradled them to your chest. He put them back onto the desk behind you. Ten percent.
His eyes bore into yours, “I don’t think I’m done healing.”
You shook your head surely, “I don’t think you are, either. And that’s okay.”
He nodded, lips clicking when he parted them, “Which means you’re not allowed to leave me yet. You have to stay with me until I’m fully better.”
You shook your head then, stammering, “It’s — that’s not how it works. What you went through, it — you might not ever be fully better.”
But Luke just nodded like he knew that already, taking a step closer, “I think I’m okay with that.”
“Oh.” You didn’t know what else to say. What the hell do you say to that? “Okay.”
He nodded, pressing his lips together, “So you’re not gonna leave me.”
Five percent.
A shake of your head, “Not until you ask me to.”
“Good.”
He wrapped his arms around you, and you froze. Okay, he was real. He was really there. You were sure. You hugged him back — he buried his face into your neck and whispered something about you never leaving him again and you whispered something in return about how you wouldn’t dream of it.
So, apparently, you severely underestimated what it was like to be friends with Luke.
You’d thought about it — of course you had. You would imagine what perfect golden boy Luke Castellan was like when he didn’t have to be a perfect golden boy. When he could just be a boy, hanging out with his friends like a normal person would. What jokes did he tell? Did he still keep up that Luke Castellan Grin or did he relax into an easy smirk? Did he make his friends follow the rules even when they were alone? Did he follow the rules when he was alone?
You wondered, although you never thought you’d actually find out. But he’d made it clear you were never leaving his side so long as he still needed you — and he was sticking to that. Firmly.
The summer sun was hot on your back — only this time your dad seemed to be going easy on you, as you weren’t completely uncomfortable under the warm cotton of your camp shirt. You still wafted it every now and then, proving some cool air to your chest, but overall you were feeling good.
You walked into the Amphitheatre with the rest of your siblings — who were less than amused that, despite Luke’s return to camp, Tyler P from the Hephaestus cabin was still running sword fighting practice. They heaved themselves onto the tiered seats with dramatic groans, but he simply grinned at them.
You paused from where you were about to sit down next to Alina when a waving hand caught your peripheral. It was Luke, tucked into the very top corner of the steps, smiling at you from the shadows.
“What the hell are you doing?” You asked when you reached him, raising your brow in amusement. He patted the spot next to him and you sat down, just as Tyler began to talk. Luke leaned in.
“I’m watching.” He muttered into your ear, then he smirked at you, “You can’t stop me from doing that.”
“I wasn’t going to.” You murmured, leaning back on your elbows and watching as your siblings paired up reluctantly. “Thanks for pulling me away, though. Gives me an excuse not to take part.”
Luke huffed a laugh, “He can’t be that bad, right?”
“Just you wait.” You smirked.
Turns out, Tyler was that bad. Every ‘new skill’ he tried to teach them either (a) they already knew, something Luke liked to whisper at you with a shake of his head, or (b) he couldn’t even do it himself, let alone teach others how to. Another thing Luke commented on from where he sat beside you, hands aching to get in there and show him what was what.
“Just one tip, and then I’ll go.” He begged under his breath as Tyler dropped his sword for the umpteenth time. “Please.”
“No.” You didn’t even look at him, “Because one tip turns into a demonstration. And a —“
“— a demonstration turns into a class, yeah yeah.” He rolled his eyes, but you just grinned at him. He smiled, “You’re mean.”
“I know.” You said in a faux-sympathetic tone. You pouted at him, “I’m just so cruel, aren’t I?”
His eyes narrowed, and his mouth stretched into a disbelieving grin, “Damn, doc. What happened to you?”
You scoffed amusedly, “You did.”
His mouth dropped open and you smiled, looking away. He poked your side and you shuffled away with a giggle, attempting to ignore his riled up smile. He didn’t relent, for every inch you moved away from him, he scooted right back towards you. You looked at him with a narrowed gaze, “I miss when you were too miserable to talk to me.”
“No you don’t.” He shook his head. He was right, you didn’t.
He let out a slow breath through his nose, and you felt it on your face. That was when you realised how close your faces were — mere centimetres apart. You swallowed thickly, but you didn’t move away. Luke’s smile stretched, and his hand began to inch up your arm.
You squinted, “What are you doing?”
It was his turn to feign confusion, pulling his lips into the same pout you did only moments earlier, “What are you talking about?”
His hand was at your elbow now, sliding higher. You shook your head, a minute movement, “Doctor Patient Fraternising isn’t allowed.”
He gasped, pulling his hand back in favour of placing it dramatically against his chest, “It’s not?”
“Nope.” You grinned amusedly, “Sorry.”
“Damn.” He leaned back, glancing at you for a second before looking back towards Tyler’s shitshow of a sword lesson, “Guess I’ll have to get another doctor.”
You snorted, “You’re a loser.”
You stood up and went to rejoin your siblings, and Luke shouted after you, “I’m your loser!”
“What was that?” Lee asked when you stopped beside him.
“What? Oh,” You glanced back at where Luke was sat, and he averted his gaze from where he had been looking at you. You looked up at your brother, “He’s just happy to be back, is all.”
He chuckled, “Sure.”
Whatever. He was your person again and Lee could suck your dick if he had anything to say about it.
The three weeks it took for Luke Castellan’s wounds to heal.
Pairing: Luke Castellan x Apollo!Reader
Summary: Luke comes back from his quest defeated and angry, and refuses to let anyone see him. But he still needs tending to. You are the lucky sucker who gets to do so.
Content: post-quest angsty luke, reader is awkward, i use the word under’t at one point because i think im shakespeare or some shit
Word Count: 7.6k
Notes: Pushing the agenda that lukes scar is gnarrly like it’s nasty !! not just some faint lil line. the boy was attacked by an actual dragon, like pls. also this hasn’t been proofread so sorry if it doesn’t make sense
꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷
The spring that Luke Castellan spent on his quest was a strange one for the residents of Camp Half-Blood.
For years, campers knew who to go to whenever they needed advice. When they needed help. They knew who to direct the new campers to when they stumbled over the boundary line — and knew they were in good hands. Luke’s hands. He was the big brother the whole camp needed, and not just because he was older than most of them. He just had that aura — and he was undoubtedly kind to everyone he came across. Not to mention the guy was insane with a sword, and had this boyish charm that anyone would fall for. Most campers, if not all of them, looked up to Luke Castellan.
So when he left, nobody knew what to do.
It was pretty tame at first, mostly just awkward. Especially in the Hermes cabin, with Chris Rodriguez in charge in his brother's absence. A Hephaestus kid had taken over the sword fighting classes Luke usually ran, which proved to do more harm than good because he wasn’t all that great at using a sword than he was at forging them, and most of Luke’s students were already better than him.
But nothing went wrong — at least for the first week.
But after the initial awkwardness wore off, chaos ensued.
Chris couldn’t keep the Hermes kids in check — once they realised he wasn’t as authoritative as Luke, they began to use it to their advantage. Everyone got pranked, the camp store was raided three times before Chiron decided to close it down for the meantime and dishwashing duty every night was not slowing them down.
You hadn’t realised just how much the camp relied on Luke until he wasn’t there to keep things under control. Fights broke out with nobody to step in between them, and more and more kids were showing up to the infirmary with injuries that they could take care of themselves — something Luke would’ve told them to do instead of bothering you and your siblings. It was actually unbelievable how much a group of about a hundred half-gods relied on the steady hand of one seventeen year old boy.
You couldn’t wait until he got back so you could finally get some peace and quiet.
Luke didn’t return to camp for two and a half weeks, and as the days went by, campers began to get uneasy. Nobody knew what his quest had entailed, or where he had to go, so the longer they went without news the more antsy people got. You didn’t speak to Luke much — maybe a few shared sentences to be polite — but you knew what he was capable of. You tried your best to reassure the campers, as did your brother Lee and the rest of the Cabin Counsellors.
You knew Luke would come back. You knew he would stumble down that hill with his head held high and meet the group of campers waiting for him at the bottom. You knew there would be a celebration, a party, and a lot of kids out past curfew. But you knew Chiron would let it off, because Luke Castellan was back.
Except that’s not what happened. At all.
It was a warm day, and you were helping some of your younger siblings make friendship bracelets by the lake. Your camp shirt clung to the sweat on your back and you peeled it off with a grimace whenever you stood, straightening out your shorts and checking on the next kid. They seemed happy enough to be in the sun — really, you should’ve been too. Child of Apollo and all. But apparently your father wasn’t feeling the love for you today, because while the rest of your siblings were thriving, you were seconds away from jumping into the lake just to cool down — even if it pissed off the Naiads.
Thankfully, when you stood up once more and looked over the horizon, you saw your brother Aden jogging towards you. You took the opportunity to hide under the shade of the trees by meeting him halfway, and greeted him with a breathless, “Hey.”
He spoke your name with a nod and a smile, throwing a thumb over his shoulder, “Chiron needs you in the Big House. Looked serious. I’ll take over here.”
“Oh, Okay.” You nodded, turning to the kids and telling them you’d be back as soon as you could, before marching your worn converse through the grass and up to where the house sat on the edge of the hill.
Chiron was in the doorway when you reached the porch, sat in wheelchair form and wearing a grim look. You paused, worried. He nodded at you, “Thank you for coming on such short notice. Usually I wouldn’t do this, but…desperate times. Follow me.”
You followed as he led you down the hall, brows furrowing, “What's going on? Is everything okay?”
He looked at you with a serious expression, saying your name lowly, “I need you to ensure that what I am about to tell you will never leave the walls of this house. Nobody needs to know about this until we have deemed it appropriate.”
“Of course.” You said immediately, folding your arms. You weren’t so warm anymore. “What happened?”
He straightened up, and stared, “Luke Castellan is back from his quest.”
That was not what you expected him to say. Dropping your arms to your side and stepping forward slightly, “What? Since when?”
“Ten minutes ago, give or take.” He replied, brows in a concerned furrow, “Mr D has taken him upstairs. He is injured.”
“Right.” You nodded, “I’ll go and—“
“Wait, child.” You stopped, one foot on the bottom step of the stairs, looking back at him, “You must know something.”
Chiron took in a deep breath, eyes glossed over like whatever he was about to say weighed heavily on him, “He is…not in good condition. On top of his injuries, Luke is unfortunately…not in a good state of mind. His quest has affected him, and he requested quite adamantly that nobody should see him until he is ready to see them. I will respect his wishes, of course, but he will still need someone to tend to his wounds. That will be you.”
“Me?” You’d never shared a full conversation with the guy. Maybe some small talk, a polite smile here and there, but you were hardly acquainted, let alone friendly. You told him this.
“Exactly my point.” Was his reply, head held high, “Luke does not want to talk to anyone at the moment, and I’m sure if any of his friends were to be up there, they would simply coddle him. You, on the other hand…”
“I’m a stranger.” You nodded, “Of course. Right. I get that. So, you just want me to patch him up, act like it never happened? I can do that.”
“Not exactly, my child.”
You raised a brow.
“Luke’s injuries are quite extensive. He will need around the clock care until he is healed enough. He will also need someone to bring him food, clean clothes.”
“Oh, so you want me to nanny him.”
He chuckled, but it faded just as quickly as it came, “Unfortunately, he needs it.”
You pursed your lips. It didn’t seem all that hard — it was just like having any other camper in the infirmary. Only this one, everyone was on the edge of their seats waiting for, and you weren’t allowed to tell anyone he was a mere fifty feet away from them, curled up in a bed in the Big House.
No biggie.
i. WEEK ONE
Chiron had ushered you up the steps as soon as your conversation was over, and given you directions to the room Luke was in. Your steps were slow and unsure — you’d never been this far into the Big House before, but Mr D stood idly outside one of the doors lining the second floor hallway, arms crossed and face taut. The floorboards creaked under the weight of your foot when you reached the landing, and he looked up at you.
“He’s in there.” He pointed to the door in front of him, “Careful, he’s a short fuse right now. All the medical thingamabobs you need are in there already. Keep your mouth shut about this.”
Then he slid past you and down the stairs without another word, and you were left alone in the empty hall. Blinking hard to clear your head, you stood a few measly steps toward the door, stopping just outside of it and leaning your ear against the wood.
Nothing tangible. Mostly just the scraping of wood against the skin of your ear, and once you had stopped moving, there was nothing. No mutters, no bed creaks, not even a sniffle. It unnerves you, but you wrapped a hand around the cold metal of the handle and turned it anyway.
Maybe it was because he had been gone for a while, or maybe it was because you never saw him that much when he was around, but you had to blink away the shock at Luke’s appearance. Minus the obvious injuries, he just looked different. His skin was tanned and rough, his jaw taut and his hair hanging messily over his forehead, longer bits curling around his ears after going uncut for so long.
He was sitting on the edge of a bed that had been tucked into the corner of the room. There was a window just above it, but a thin curtain had been pulled over it and blocked out the sunlight that was begging to shine on you. The room was dark, but light enough that you could see what you were doing when you walked over to the desk in the other corner and started shuffling through the medical supplies Chiron had left there for you. Not much, but enough for now. You could always get more later.
Turning, you finally made your way over to where Luke was hunched over, staring at nothing. When you entered his line of vision, his dark eyes slid up to yours, and he blinked. Then he sighed, straightened his back and gave you a look that said do what you have to do and then get out.
But you didn’t move, not for at least ten seconds. Because while Chiron had told you he was injured extensively, he didn’t mention the five inch long scar that ran down the side of his face, cutting through his eye. It was jagged and gnarly, sharp edges carving a path through his skin. It was red all around, and just from looking at it you could tell it needed work. It was fairly new, but he had left it long enough for it to heal over — a thin layer of skin stopping it from bleeding.
He raised his eyebrows at you impatiently, and you nodded, scooting back to the desk and grabbing what you needed before going back to where he sat.
“I, uh…I need to get closer.” You were afraid to speak, to break the silence of the room, but you did need to get closer to his face. You waited for him to turn slightly to his left, hitch a leg up on the mattress and face his scar in your direction. Instead, he just slid his legs apart, inviting you to step between them.
And so you did, albeit a little shakily. You didn’t know Luke well enough to consider him a friend, but you’d seen enough of him to know that he never acted like this. He was never this quiet — all eyes, slow movements. He was charming, always grinning, always offering a hand. His battle instincts and ADHD made him fidgety like the rest of them, but from where you stood between his thighs, he was as still as a picture. It unnerved you more than the scar on his face did. You’d seen nasty injuries before, you’d never seen this.
You picked up a gauze, doused it in rubbing alcohol, and started wiping the area. You started on the outskirts, but when you pressed over the edge of the injury, his brows twitched and you let out a weak apology before lessening the grip. You kept your breaths thin and your eyes on your hand, but he wasn’t looking at you anyway. He had drifted off again, staring at nothing, and you were scared to break him out of his stupor again.
“He’s a short fuse.” Mr D had said. But he didn’t seem that way right now, sitting back silently and letting you do your work on his face. He wasn’t much of anything, if you had to make an assessment. You really wanted to know what happened on his quest, and why he was gone for so long, but you also didn’t want to test Mr D’s words by asking.
“What happened?” He didn’t say anything, again. You pressed on, “I sort of need to know before I reopen it…just in case something—“
“A dragon.” He murmured at once. His voice was rough, like he’d just been screaming. Maybe he had been, and that’s why Mr D had warned you. But it seemed all his anger had dissipated in the time it took for Chiron to get you and explain the situation. Maybe. “Ladon. Poisonous bites.”
So he had been to the Garden of the Hesperides. Presumably to collect some Golden Apples. What for, you didn’t know. You weren’t going to ask. You just grabbed a scalpel, muttered a quiet, “This is going to hurt.”, and started cutting down the scar, following its path across his cheek.
Luke hissed hard, not expecting you to dive in so suddenly, and his hand reached out for something to grab. That ended up being your camp shirt, bunching at your waist from where he gripped it between his knuckles. You didn’t mind it, but when you put the scalpel down and started to clean the inside of his wound, he adjusted his hand so he was holding the side of your waist instead, eyes clamped shut and feet tapping the wooden floor. You paused momentarily, but you couldn’t let him breathe or else it would just hurt more when you went back to work, so you brushed it off and continued your rampage down his face until the whole wound was free of the dirt and grime he had let accumulate inside it while he travelled back to Long Island.
“Sorry.” You finally built up the courage to say.
“S’Okay.” He breathed, “My fault.”
You wiped it over one last time before taping a bandage over the top. You cut it into two bits so he could still see out of his left eye, before stepping back from between his legs and assessing your work. Once you had deemed it good enough, you picked up your supplies and headed back to the desk, feeling Luke’s hand fall from your side.
“Uh—“ You really wanted to leave the room now, “I know you probably don’t want to talk about it, but how long did you leave—“
“Three days.” He answered quickly. Chiron had probably already asked him that, and you felt stupid for making him repeat it.
You turned to leave, but then remembered what Chiron had said to you before sending you up to Luke’s room. You looked at him.
“Do you need anything from your cabin?” You asked, “It’s, uh, kind of my job to get that, if you do.” You turned to face him fully, “Oh, and are you hungry? Because I have to—“
“Just some clean clothes, thanks.” He quipped. It wasn’t looking like he wanted you around for much longer.
You were quick to leave.
It was hard coming up with an excuse as to why you were stealing clothes from Luke Castellan’s bunk, but you just told them there was a new camper in the Big House and Chiron had run out of spares that morning. They brushed it off, and you ran back up to Luke with the clothes bunched in your arms, and were breathless by the time you dropped them on the bed beside him.
“Did anyone see you?” He asked just as you were about to give him the privacy he needed to change.
You were facing the door when he asked, and turned to answer, but he was already pulling off the marred camp shirt he’d arrived in, revealing his very toned torso. You paused, eyes drifting, but quickly snapped them back up to his awaiting gaze. He didn’t seem to care that he was shirtless in front of you, but neither did most boys.
“No.” You weren’t sure how he would react if you’d told him the truth, even though it was harmless. He nodded and started to unbutton his cargos, and you were quick to turn back to the door and yank it open, “Okay, I’ll…uh, probably be back at…later. Bye.”
The rest of your week was rough to say the least. You had a lot on your plate, and it didn’t help when your siblings kept wondering why you were at the Big House three times a day and why you always made a second plate of food at mealtimes. Eventually, it got around that a new camper had arrived, and you were taking care of them. That's when the rumour mill started running.
“I heard they were older, like twenty or something. Apparently they’re super embarrassed.”
“Well, I heard they were injured super badly on their way into camp, and that’s why nobody’s seen them yet.”
“I heard they got violent when Chiron explained the demigod thing and now they have him locked away in the basement!”
So yeah, lots on your plate. You did little to dispel the rumours, not wanting to allude to the truth accidentally, but when you were the only one who knew the truth, it was difficult to hide from those who wanted it too.
But after a few days, you had developed a routine. Wake up, get breakfast, take food to Luke. Check his dressings while he ate and restock your med supplies if needed. Go to whatever task you were running that day, ignore anyone who asked about the new camper, go for lunch. Take lunch to Luke. Check his dressings. Dismiss curious campers. Go to dinner. Take dinner to Luke. Check his dressings. Dismiss curious campers. Lead the campfire sing-along. Check on Luke one more time. Go to bed.
It was a lot, to say the least. But you didn’t complain — if you did this top secret doctor work right, Chiron might make you cabin counsellor when your older sister Alina leaves after this summer.
And just as you had, Luke eased into the routine too. Every time you entered his room, with a polite knock, he would be perched on the side of his bed, legs open and inviting.
You wondered if he actually did this for you, or if he just never moved from that position.
Sunday morning was slightly different — as camp activities were more relaxed and you had more time on your hands. You strolled slowly to the Big House after breakfast — rather than your usual sprint so you weren’t late to Archery — and knocked politely on the door before cracking it open and heading for the desk. With a plate of food in one hand and a fresh bandage in the other, you made your way over to where Luke sat, readying yourself for another quiet twenty minutes of work. It was quite peaceful, now that you’d gotten used to it. More comfortable, less awkward.
“Hi.”
You blinked, almost dropping what you held, but Luke was there to grab the bandage from your hand as your grip loosened in your shock. He attempted a smile, but winced when it pulled at his scar, and chose to nod at you instead.
“Uh…” You put the plate down into the bedside table, straightening your shirt, “Hi.”
He’d never said hi before.
He didn’t say anything else after that, just let you do what you did, but your mind remained a whirlwind. He said hi. That’s a completely normal thing for him to do, and yet you were reeling from it.
Once you had changed his dressings, you headed for the door and allowed him to eat his breakfast. Your hand wrapped around the metal of the handle and turned it, pulling open the wooden door and stepping one foot into the hall before the voice sounded again.
“Bye.”
You chuckled this time, not looking back, “Bye.”
ii. WEEK TWO
It was an average morning, the blistering sun from last week finally fading and allowing you to walk comfortably outside. You never knew what your dad’s problem with you was last week, but you suspected that it had something to do with the cabin counsellor who slept on the second floor of the Big House with a bandage across his eye.
Like usual, you were heading up the stairs, breakfast plate in hand, ready to give your first checkup of the day. If Luke was healing like he should’ve been, you wouldn’t have to change his dressing at lunch, and you were crossing your fingers that he was.
Pushing the door open with your back, you walked in slowly and headed towards the desk like usual. You grabbed the bandage, made your way over to Luke and put the plate down next to his small lamp. Then you straightened up and put the new bandage under your arm, holding it in place while you moved to unwrap his eye.
Before you could, however, Luke was pulling the bandage from where it was trapped against your ribcage and held it in his own hands. You looked at him, and he gave you a weak smile, “Thought it’d be easier if I held it for you.”
You murmured out a thanks and smiled at him, keeping it there even as you peeled back the old dressings and revealed his still healing scar. Usually, it wouldn’t take this long for a demigod wound to heal itself, but because Luke had gone so long without nectar or ambrosia — or any form of medical help, that is — it was in worse condition. You had to scrape out the infected skin from it a few days back, and it left Luke blinking hard to try and hide the tears.
Nowadays he seemed to be better — not as broody as he seemed last week. But you always caught him drifting off, staring at nothing. You wondered if he was reliving it, asking himself what would’ve changed had he done it differently. Your guess? Not much — you’d read up on Ladon the dragon after finding out it was he who caused Luke’s pain, just in case there was something you needed to know before starting the healing process. He was vicious, not even Hercules could get past him. And while Luke was the best swordsman camp had seen in three centuries, even he would struggle going at Ladon alone.
Once you had redressed his face, you stepped back like you always did, your footfalls sounding out the same metronome as they did three times a day. You wondered if you would wear a mark into the floor from your constant repeating path — door to the desk, desk to the bed, bed to the door. You briefly thought that wouldn’t be possible, something like that would take years to indent, but then you looked back at Luke — his forlorn expression, the bandage across his eye and the bags under’t — and wondered how long it would be before he could build the courage to stand up from the bed, return to a camp that relied so heavily on his skill set, and take the weight of his failure with him.
He pulled the plate onto his lap and you don’t think you’ve ever seen someone look so sad while stuffing their face with bacon.
“Hey, uh —“ You started, hand on the doorframe in an attempt to look casual. You couldn’t just leave him like that, right? “Do you…know — uh, know where the spare practising swords are kept?” A measly excuse, but it had him looking at you again.
He swallowed his food before speaking, “The wooden ones are in these old boxes in the back of weapon storage, but I think the celestial bronze ones are kept in the Hephaestus cabin now.”
You nodded, tapping your hand against the wood. That didn’t work in the way you wanted it to, but you weren’t going to force it. So you turned, went to open the door and leave —
“Why?”
Nevermind!
You whirled around — not too eagerly! You didn’t want to scare him off, now — “Oh! Uh, some Ares kid snapped one in half the other day, we needed a replacement.”
Luke nodded. Shit, say something else. Get him talking!
“Odd weather we’ve been having.”
What?
His lips parted, and he had the gall to look amused, “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”
“Oh, yeah.” You breathed, humiliated. You pressed your lips together, ready to give up, until a thought came to you, “Hey, you haven’t been outside in, like, a week.”
Luke nodded, shadows falling across his face like the mere mention of the fact that he hadn’t been outside was a painful reminder of his circumstances, “Yeah, I, uh, don’t think I want anyone to know that I’m back yet. Not until I’m healed, y’know?”
You knew. You also knew that probably wasn’t the only reason he refused to let anyone know he was safe in the Big House, but you didn’t say that.
“Right, but —“ A breathy chuckle, “You need, like, sunlight. Fresh air.”
“I don’t wanna risk it.”
“Ok.” And that was that. You said goodbye, left him to his own devices, and didn’t mention the sun thing again for two days.
It was on Wednesday that you finally gave in. Now that you’d put the thought in your own head, you kept noticing the effects that being cooped indoors was having on Luke. His skin, once tanned and glistening under the sun, was paling by the hour. He winced whenever he had to straighten his back, and even though his scar was healing nicely, he seemed to be more sensitive to the pain of it than he was a week earlier.
So on Tuesday night you formed a plan, and on Wednesday morning at breakfast you put it into action. It started with asking Lee — ever so casually, of course — what the activities schedule was looking like. He started yapping about their cabin, and you waited patiently for him to bring up the Amphitheatre. Then, when he said the Apollo kids were training at two, you said —
“I thought we trained at twelve on Wednesdays?”
“No, that’s Ares and Hephaestus.”
“Oh, but don’t they train at four?”
“No, Hermes and Athena train at four.”
“Then who trains at ten?”
“Nobody.”
Bingo.
Luke was halfway through pulling on a pair of shorts when you burst into the room. He jumped, yanking them up the rest of the way before turning to look at you — his face was a mix of shock and unbridled anger until he realised it was you, then it softened into something calmer. But you saw him, even for just a split second, and the animosity in his gaze made you take a quiet step back. It was fearful almost — you’d seen him annoyed, irritated. You’d even bore witness to the Carden Cross Hot Cross Bun Incident of 2002,
(Carden Cross was this fifteen year old Ares kid. He threw one too many hot cross buns at the Aphrodite table and a then-sixteen-year-old Luke had wrung him out in front of everyone.
Nobody had ever heard Luke raise his voice like that, and Carden avoided everyone for a week straight).
but you had never seen such indignation in his gaze. It was gone in a flash, and you could’ve told yourself it was never there, but it was. You were hit with the humbling realisation that whatever Luke had gone through on his quest was more damaging than you could ever imagine, and no amount of fresh air would change him back to who he was before.
That saddened you, but then you realised he was shirtless again and all morbid thoughts went straight out the window. You grinned at him, “Sorry. But we don’t have a lot of time.”
He stared at you, then at your hands that were empty of breakfast food or bandages, and asked, “Time for what?”
“For some fresh air!” You sang, throwing in some jazz hands as if they would wipe the hesitant frown that had graced his features, “Put some shoes on, let’s go!”
He said your name softly, “I can’t go outside.”
You straightened up from where you had leaned dramatically into the room and sent him a blank look, eyes still sparkling, “You can. I checked the schedule, the Amphitheatre is free from ten till twelve and it is currently…nine forty-five. If we hurry, we’ll miss the post-breakfast rush.”
Luke looked a little more at ease now, but he made no move to put his shoes on. His body twitched like he was thinking about it, but when he couldn’t come up with a valid excuse to get out of it, he sighed and nodded, “Alright. Doctors orders, I guess.”
“Awesome.” You smiled, “I’ll let you get ready.”
It took some convincing, even after you’d gotten him to follow you down the stairs, to get him out the door. But a few firm words (and a couple of threats) and he was basking in the morning sunlight just as you’d planned.
Well — more like squinting painfully. Turns out, after a week and a half in a dark room, it takes a minute to get used to the sunlight again. You ensured nobody was around and took the long way to the Ampitheatre, letting out a content sigh when you knew you were away from prying eyes. Luke seemed more relaxed already, and you could practically see his muscles getting looser.
“Damn.” He muttered, hand over his eyes, “I needed this.”
“Yeah.” You spoke over an unattractive snort, “I’m an Apollo kid, I know a Vitamin D deficiency when I’m looking at one.”
“Alright.” He rolled his eyes at you, amused, and moved towards the steps. He climbed up two before turning and sitting, leaning back on his elbows and blinking at the sky, “Think your dad made it extra sunny just for me?”
“Probably.” You smiled, standing in front of him — but still making sure you weren’t blocking the sun from his face. “After some convincing from your dad.”
Luke’s smile faded. His eyes remained closed but his hands tightened into loose fists, “I don’t think so.”
Now you were desperate to change the subject. Your eyes darted to the wall, and the rack of swords sitting in its usual spot, “Hey, wanna swing some bronze?”
“Gods.” He let out a rough laugh, and you grinned in satisfaction, “Swinging Bronze. Haven’t heard that in a while.”
You nodded, glad he was back to being somewhat happy, “We thought we were so cool.”
“We thought it’d catch on.”
You shared a laugh, and Luke peeked an eye open, looking at you, “How come we were never friends back then?”
A meek shrug, “We weren’t really friends until a couple of days ago. That's if you even count us as that now.”
He just kept looking at you, and his gaze burned into your skin. You stepped back, closer to the middle of the arena space, “We never really spoke.”
He looked at you as if he was thinking hard about what you said, and what he was gonna say next. Apparently he came up short, because seconds later he was clicking his tongue and pushing himself up, joining you in the middle of the arena, “Alright. Let’s swing some bronze.”
You let out a shaky breath, nodding. This was going well. He was outside, he was laughing, he was about to pick up a sword for the first time since he’d angrily thrown his own at the porch of the Big House when he got back a week and a half ago.
He handed you a wooden practice sword, and you raised a brow. Usually the wooden ones were for first-timers, or younger kids. He shrugged, you let it go.
Despite the fact that you and Luke had been at camp together for five years, you’d never actually gone one-on-one in a sword fight with him. It was rare that Apollo and Hermes were paired together for activities, since they were the two highest populated cabins, but even when Luke was running the practice he always picked the people he knew the best for demonstrations. You lingered at the back, watching.
So you were slightly nervous, but you also didn’t want to show it. Sure, on any normal day Luke would reassure you with kind eyes and that Luke Castellan Smile, but he wasn’t exactly himself right now. You swallowed down your nerves, matched his stance, and swung.
Best Sword Fighter in Three Hundred Years — not an exaggeration. His moves were swift, calculated, and he stayed calm the entire time. It was as if he knew everything you were going to do before you did it, and had three counterattacks on the back burner for when you would strike. Your swords clashed every time you made a move and suddenly you realised why he wanted you to use wooden swords — the clang of wood was a lot quieter than the clang of bronze, it was less likely anyone would hear you fighting. It made sense, but you couldn’t focus on that when he was practically parrying your thoughts with sweat dripping down his temple.
You held your own, though. You were quite impressed with yourself when you blocked his swipes and sidestepped his jabs. It was making him groan in frustration, and the edges of your mouth perked up. You didn’t realise how good you were at this.
Then Luke stumbled. He grunted, righted himself, and swung again. You blocked it, and he steadied his shoulders. You slowed, focusing on the way he heaved for breath, taking in gulps of air, while you were hardly breaking a sweat. The way he kept readjusting his grip on the hilt of his sword, and how his fingers shook on his free hand. He went for you again and you sidestepped him, making him trip up. He didn’t fall, but he did let out a long angry groan at his mistake, throwing the sword to the ground in frustration.
You flinched, “Luke.”
“This was a bad idea.” He snapped. He wasn’t looking at you, pacing up and down with his hands in his hair. “What the fuck is wrong with me?”
“You’re still recovering —“ You tried to reason, but he wasn’t listening to you.
“I’m the best damn swordsman this camp has ever seen. What the fuck is wrong with me? Why can’t I do this? Why —“
“Luke.” You stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. He looked at you, “It’s okay.”
“No it’s not.” He gritted through his teeth, “I fail one quest and suddenly I can’t do anything anymore? Yeah, that’s typical.”
You shook your head, “You just need time to get better.”
“I was better! Better than everyone else here, I —“ He paused, a faraway look in his eyes that unnerved you for a second before he was looking at you again, “I can hear people.”
You perked your ears up. He was right, you could hear the chatter of camp if you listened carefully enough — but it wasn’t anything to worry about. They were all doing their own tasks, far away from where they were. If someone was coming, it would be more clear. You told him that, but he shook his head.
“I need to go back. This was a bad idea.”
“Hey, it’s okay, we can go —“
“No, not we. Me.” He said firmly, a hard look in his gaze that he didn’t have before, “I’m going back. You’re staying here. And I’m never going anywhere with you again.”
iii. WEEK THREE
You hadn’t seen him in five days.
Chiron had pulled you out of Archery to ask about Luke — and why he had seen him storm angrily back into his room and lock the door. You just told him you thought it was best for him to find someone else to take care of him for the time being. You didn’t think Luke would want to see you again, ever.
All you wanted was for him to be his old self again. The guy you always saw helping out someone else with a smile on his face, the one who made others laugh and laughed with them. The one who waved at anyone who waved at him. The one who was completely oblivious to the flirting and just thought they were being friendly. The Luke Castellan who everyone gushed about, who everyone loved.
That man up there, with the scar on his face and the look in his eye, wasn't Luke Castellan. And maybe he never would be again, not completely. But he could come close — he could still smile, he could still laugh.
But you’d fucked all that up just by bringing him outside.
You didn’t know who Chiron had asked to replace you, because you never saw anyone else get up after breakfast with an extra plate. You didn’t see anyone sneaking out of the Hermes cabin with a pile of clothes. You stood in the fields for hours a day, watching those thin curtains stand stiff at the window, never to open. You thought you’d seen a shadow, but maybe it was your mind playing tricks on you.
The weekend came and went, and you spent the whole time worrying about Luke. Did this new person know that he preferred fatty bacon? Did they know that he liked keeping the curtains closed? Or would they just bring him a plate of pancakes? Ask him too many questions about his quest? Your mind whirred — would they make him worse?
No. That’s not what you were scared of.
Would they make him better?
Would they understand him more than you did? Would they coerce more words out of him? Would they even need to coerce him, or would he be comfortable holding a conversation with them no problem? What if he was better now than he ever had been with you?
You flinched when your name was called. Looking up from the bracelet you were crafting with some younger kids and meeting the eyes of Dionysus, “Sir.”
“Our, uh, special guest is requesting your presence.” He said with a stupid look on his face, “So get off your ass and get up there, I can’t stand his whining any longer.”
You did as asked with a slight roll of your eyes that made the six year old who was next to you giggle into their hands. It brought a grin to your otherwise down expression, unsure of what Luke wanted to say to you.
The room was dark when you cracked the door open — there was no response after you knocked, but you could hear him shuffling inside, so you went ahead and opened it an inch. It was a lot darker than it used to be — or maybe you too had gotten used to the shade after spending so much time there.
You pushed it open more, and there he was, in his usual spot on the edge of the bed. Head down, hands fiddling with something by his eye. He was muttering in frustration, and you stepped into the room in concern. The floor creaked, he looked up, and you gasped.
The side of his face where his scar sat was red with blood — you almost missed the bandage he was attempting to tie around it because it had been stained pink. His fingers were shaking and he pursed his trembling lips at you, “I can’t do it.”
You surged forward, immediately taking the fabric from his hands. He let them drop into his lap as you peeled it back and looked at the damage. You winced — not as bad as the blood had made it seem, but bad enough. The wound had reopened at the top, and the blood was dripping into his eye and along the curve of his jaw.
It took a few panicky minutes, but eventually the bleeding had stopped, Luke’s face was clean of blood, and you were staring at him in shock, your own fingers still red from the damage. He was avoiding your eyes, the only other thing he’d said to you being a strained thank you when you had stepped back.
“What —“ You were at a loss.
“I tried to change them myself.” He shrugged, picking at his fingernails, still not looking at you. “I’d watched you do it so many times, I figured I had it handled. Apparently I didn’t, because I woke up and it was freakin’ bleeding everywhere.”
“Oh, Luke.” You breathed, “Why didn’t you wait for someone to help you?”
“You never came back.” He said like it was obvious.
“What — so you’ve been doing this yourself for five days?” You asked, a shocked exclamation, “Chiron never sent someone else to help you?”
“He asked me who I wanted,” He shrugged, “I said you. You weren’t an option, so I did it myself.”
“You said —“
“I know what I said, alright?” He stressed, head in his hands now, “It was stupid. I was angry, hurt, whatever. It was at myself, but I took it out on you. I’m sorry. I don’t — “ His voice cracked, “I don’t know what’s happening to me.”
“Luke.” You murmured. You took a step closer, kneeled before him, and gently pried his hands away from his eyes so he would look at you. His expression was so…sad. So distraught. “What happened on your quest?”
And he told you everything.
iv. THE AFTER
Luke was ashamed to admit it — but he had no idea what your name was when you started looking after him.
Sure, he’d seen you around. You were one of the Apollo kids who spent more time in the infirmary than on the archery fields, but he was too good at his job to get injured. Hence why he didn’t know your name. He knew your face, he smiled at you and you would smile back. He was friendly with your brother, Lee. But that was about it.
That’s what made it so perfect.
You wouldn’t ask him about his quest. You wouldn’t try your hardest to get him to open up. You would do your job, and leave him to mope. That was all he wanted.
Until he learned your name.
And just from glancing at your smile — all awkward and nervous as you introduced yourself — he knew he wanted to be near you. He knew you were the type of person he could sit in silence with and walk away from it with a happy memory.
He thought he knew enough about you to determine who you were to him (a stranger). But he didn’t know your name, your voice, he didn’t know your touch or your smile — the real one you give when someone truly makes you laugh. Not the one he thought he knew.
He stood stiffly on the porch of the Big House — three weeks was all it took before Mr D was kicking him out, telling him to get a grip and face the music. Luke was ready; physically. His scar was nothing but that — a memory, faded into his skin forever. There was no other reason for him to keep himself hidden other than the fact that he wanted to. If it was up to him, nobody would ever bear the burden of seeing him ever again.
For weeks he told himself that his quest was pointless. He screamed it at the gods, at Chiron, at you. He cursed his dad every night for sending him on a path to failure and not even acknowledging it. He cursed himself for ruining the first chance he had at gaining his fathers pride in seventeen years — he sat in the dark, fists clenched, and asked himself what it was all for.
The five years on the run, the endless monster attacks, the relentless training, the offerings, the prayers. Would his life be any better had he just let that first monster kill him?
No. Because he wouldn’t have met Thalia, or Annabeth. He wouldn’t have seen the brighter side of being a halfblood — he wouldn’t have met his siblings, he wouldn’t have found his calling. He wouldn’t have experienced the joy of helping a new camper, of being the guiding hand he never got to hold.
But what of his quest? His mission for his father brought nothing but pain — a pointless trip, a humiliating failure, a deep jagged scar. For weeks he asked himself why he was given the quest in the first place, and for years to come he will question himself each and every day.
But each and every day he asks himself what the gods had ever given him, he would be reminded of the day he learnt your name. And he would tell himself had he not taken that trip, had he not fallen to Ladon, he never would have felt the searing touch of your fingertips on his skin.
Based on Moth to a Flame by the Weeknd & Swedish House Mafia
Post-tlt!Luke x Apollo!fem!reader
Angst - 3.1k
warnings: making out, Steve is a warning 💀, reader is cheating with Luke, SPOILERS FOR THE LIGHTNING THIEF AND A TINY BIT OF SEA OF MONSTERS.
It wasn’t him.
That was all you could think about as your boyfriend kissed you passionately in front of the whole camp. Sure, he was an excellent kisser, but it wasn’t as nice as it could’ve been.
If it was him, he would’ve known to leave the breathtaking kisses for private. Known that you hated to make a scene. Would’ve put your comfort before his lusty need to kiss you-
You couldn’t think that. He was evil. And he had hurt your terribly. You refused to say his name even now, six months after his departure. He had left you and betrayed the whole camp and was conspiring with Titans, trying to start a war.
Steve…. Wasn’t like that.
You liked him. He was nice and treated you like you should be treated. He was a spectacle to be around.
You still remembered all the drama from when he’d first asked you out. It was a story, all right, just like Steve liked.
You hadn’t been in a great place then. You cried every night over him - you still did - you avoided the Hermes cabin like it was a plague, and you just felt numb and empty every day.
And then he’d asked you out. Steve was from the Ares cabin, and after he had left, the red team had been having a lot of luck with winning Capture the Flag.
It had been another one of Steve’s victories, and he’d been triumphantly waving the flag around before he passed it to his teammate, and drew the camp’s attention.
“So, thanks to me, we get the best chores, best privileges. Thanks Chiron.” And Ares cabin roared as Chiron nodded awkwardly. “Still, I want one more thing. I have to have one more prize. Her. I’d like to ask y/n l/n to be my girlfriend.”
And your friends had talked about this for a while before, how they seemed to just know Steve had a crush on you - even though you couldn’t see it - and how they thought you guys would be perfect together. And how it would help you get over him.
You said yes.
And it was a fairytale from there.
Every time he won Capture the Flag, (which was every week just about) he’d pick you up and spin you round, kissing you. It became a tradition, a victory kiss. And they were long, burning, breathless kisses, and he would continue even when you tired and stopped. He was passionate that way, all about making your pulse quicken. But not as much as did when he-
At dinners in the pavilion, you would share a peck before every meal while you queued. He was always next to you, and although it was kinda dull having him dismiss your friends so he could talk to you privately, at least you had the company right? And you always shared your extra food with him when he was hungry, and sometimes he would try to feed you sandwiches teasingly, which everyone cooed at. You wished they wouldn’t-
On weekend nights, you’d come back with him to Ares cabin secretly, and he’d make out with you in his bed, telling you he deserved his girlfriend after a long and hard week. And you would kiss and kiss and kiss and your lips would be swollen, your head would be spinning and people would roll their eyes and talk about how stupidly in love the pair of you were.
Like a fairytale.
Except, it had a bit of a twist. When he finally tired of your body and lips, and let out a few gentle snores, then you would escape.
You started the habit the first time you couldn’t sleep after one of your make out sessions.
It was idiotic, but you couldn’t fight the way you were still loyal to the traitor you had called your lover, how you felt sick to the stomach each time you felt Steve’s arms around you, tighter and more cage-like than his had ever been. You couldn’t fight the way your mind flitted between the two boys, comparing and contrasting between them to the detail, draining you of your sanity as the night stretched on. Hypnos didn’t bless you with rest, and you cursed the god that had ever created overthinking.
You’d walked out, your arms huddled around you like his should be, and you stumbled in the cool darkness all the way to the beach.
And in the obscurity of the night, you would let your heart break properly, as completely as it needed to. You would sin, become the villain of your own fairytale.
You would whisper his name, over and over and over, as you would tell him everything that had happened to you. Every event that had transpired since he left. Eventually, you’d bring old Polaroids of the pair of you you’d hidden away, and an old flickering torch to view them with. A lot of the time you simply sobbed your heart out, whispering his name again and again into the sands, this beach the only place you could ever continue to love him.
Usually, you were out for a while, bathing in your midnight misery, sometimes until Apollo deigned to let the Sun give light to the sky.
It wouldn’t make you happier.
Once everything was visible, occasionally
you stared at the ocean, spotting the distant specks that were ships. You wondered if any of them were his, stupid Princess Andromeda, with all the horrifying monsters aboard you’d heard about.
It was torture, thinking like that. That he was one call away, that you might scream across the waves and he would hear, and yet you were worlds apart.
Once the sunshine heated your skin, you would drown your love in the daylight, and head back to Steve, your… lover.
It was an awful, unhealthy routine. You knew that, and felt so many tremendous ways about it.
But it was also beautiful in a painful way you’d grown to love.
It was much the same tonight.
Relief like a tsunami washing over you, as you began to feel the sleepy inhales and exhales of your boyfriend. The fifteen minutes it took you to softly slip out of his embrace unnoticed, and how they dribbled by slowly. A quick check for harpies, a speedy walk to the beach down the faint path your careful steps had created.
Than the silence.
Agonising, serene silence.
The stars would hear his name again, as you spoke, the only witnesses to your traitorous actions.
You’d only said his name once, listening as it faded into the sounds of the night, the chirping of insects and breeze in the trees.
Crunching footsteps disturbed the peaceful aura.
Instantly, you were on your guard, cursing yourself for lacking in a weapon. No matter how heavy the clunky torch was, it would be no match for fangs or talons. You held it up regardless, circling around on your feet as you searched for the source of the sound.
“Is that a torch? Man, I’m outta here.”
You might’ve died. Your heart stopped. Your breath caught. Everything inside you froze.
It was him.
Him.
Your torch lowered as he approached, the moon casting a holy glow on his face and distinct scar.
He looked exactly as you remembered.
Tall, lean, eyes deep, dark and entrancing, curls the rich colour of cocoa.
Handsome as Adonis-
No. You raised your torch again, as you reminded yourself who this boy was, what he had done to you. No, you did not trust him, even if you missed him.
“It’s me. I’m not here to hurt you,” he reassured, approaching you softly as if you were the dangerous one, “you don’t have to be on guard.”
Being you isn’t enough anymore, you wanted to scream.
“What are you here for then? Are you planning some attack at camp?” You asked instead, horrified.
“What are you out here for? Are you planning to join me?” He whispered back, smirking.
“I- no, no. I could never do what you’ve done- what you do, no-“
“Yeah, yeah, I’m horrendous, I get it,” he interrupted, impatient, “but you’re still out here. And you were saying my name.”
The last sentence was almost… sensitive and hopeful. You didn’t like the way that vulnerability made you feel.
“I did not. I have not said your name since the day you left, the day you betrayed us.” You denied, shaking your head and backing away from him. He followed you, even as you feet moved left and right.
“Please, stop,” you begged, scared now as he continued to step where you stepped.
“No, I came back for you,” his expression and voice changed, no longer smug and smirky. He was desperate, genuine. “There hasn’t been a day I haven’t thought of you. I still love you, y/n, and the biggest mistake of my life was leaving you here.”
Your eyes welled at his words. This was all you’d ever wanted to hear.
“You can’t just say that, you- you-“ your voice broke, and you finally stopped your retreat as your back hit a tree. “You left me for six months. You can’t just come back randomly, if you loved me you wouldn’t have left and-“
There was only a foot between the two of you. And it was rapidly closing, each steady footstep bringing you nose to nose. You couldn’t stop it, and you didn’t want to.
“I-I- what are you doing, I can’t do this, whatever this is- I have a boyfriend and um, what-“
Your foreheads were almost touching. He was frowning, your guess was at the mention of Steve. Your eyes met, and you glanced away, knowing if you met his gaze once more you would give into anything he requested.
“If you loved your boyfriend,” he breathed, each word becoming hotter and breathier as it neared your lips, ”you wouldn’t be out here crying and saying my name like a prayer.”
It was impossible to resist. Your eyes met again, and it felt as if you didn’t have a choice as he leaned down to kiss you. Your body was just following what it yearned to do.
It was just as fantastic as you remembered.
Blazing, spectacular, thrilling fireworks all through your body. On both of your lips burning and tingling with electric attraction, as they moved at a seamless speed. On your shoulders, as he massaged the bones, his hands brushing the length of them. In your blood as every particle of you seemed to hum in joy and satisfaction. It was an eager, sweet kiss, and it was precisely what you’d been missing.
Why had you been trying to be a princess in a fairytale?
It was one of the only things you and he agreed on. You hated fairytales.
You preferred thrillers.
In sync you drew apart for breath, panting hard and grinning. After a short pause, you couldn’t hold it in anymore,.
“Luke,” you said.
It was like saying a dirty cuss word that held powerful meaning. A secret no one wanted revealed. This was the loudest you’d ever said it in months, and you felt glad at the release of his name from your heart.
It was the magic word for Luke.
Immediately his lips were on yours, and there was no restraint this time. If that kiss had been hungry before, these were starved.
Every ounce of anything either of you had felt was developed into that kiss. It was a myriad of different emotions, conflict and similar feelings rebelling and intertwining as your lips and tongues danced. I love you. I hate you. All I want is you. I’ve missed you. All I think about is you. I’ll never love someone how I love you-
“Come with me,” he begged, breaking apart as you shuddered for breath, and how could you refuse if he looked at you like that?
Luke beamed at you, seeing as you weren’t rejecting him and eagerly took your hand in his. The familiar warmth almost caused you to faint.
And then he was leading you swiftly away from the beach, into the woods, and towards another part of the shoreline.
You were almost giggly, as he pulled you along, over logs and past dense patches of lush shrubbery. It was like you were sixteen again, sneaking away from harpies and head counsellors so you could stargaze and kiss.
You made it to his ship soon enough, the Princess Andromeda.
It was certainly fit for royalty.
The style and size of the boat caused you to stop a moment, your jaw dropping.
Luke continued to tug at your hand, pulling you along and towards the deck before you could reconsider. You figured you were too far gone to turn back now. But you didn’t want to either.
“C’mon,” he urged, as you rapidly ascended the steps onto the ship. He led you inside, and down a few corridors, before he opened a door to what looked to be his room.
It was grand, stylish. A double bed stood in the centre, a desk and ensuite to the left, and a wardrobe and bedside table to the right. You knew then that this was probably bigger and better than anything he’d ever had in his life. You wondered if he ever got lonely in the large space, or simply always felt like a king.
Your thoughts were removed almost violently out of your head as Luke kissed you abruptly, pushing against you and using your back to close the door behind you.
“I missed you,” he muttered against your lips, his arms twisting around you and hoisting you up, as if you were a bride.
You laughed then, giddy, and said it back to him.
He placed you on the bed softly, grinning and giving you time to shift about and be comfortable before he climbed over you, hovering above.
The romantic assault ensued soon after. He tasted and smelled the same, and even though you were in new surroundings, it was like coming home.
“Your boyfriend,” he panted, laying heated kisses like freckles down your neck, “does he kiss you like this?”
“No.” The answer was breathy but definite.
You could feel his smirk on your collarbone. “He doesn’t know, does he? About what you do out there. Try and talk to me, look at photos of us, cry. I’m your secret.”
And he was exhilarated to be your secret it seemed, because the kiss he gave you then was heart-stopping and sped up, like all the love scenes in thrillers.
And then the kissing stopped, because you both stupidly needed to breathe, and he lowered his head to your neck, his nose brushing the hollow of it as he regained oxygen.
You sat up yourself, and while he continued panting, reached for the hem of his shirt. He froze, his eyes meeting yours in shock. He nodded insistently.
It wasn’t the worn edge of his camp t-shirt you were used to, but the smooth fold of a new, better-fitting, more expensive one.
You pulled it off, slowly, your fingers scraping against his sides in ways that made him shiver. It finally travelled over his head, and you tossed it somewhere on the floor, before cupping his face in your hands.
“I’ll never get over you. I never have. Steve is just Steve and you’re you.” You whispered, lovestruck.
You were sure he would’ve answered back something just as personal and romantic, but your fingers had found their way to his scar, the ridged line he’d loathed and you’d come to adore. All the words seemed to have evaporated from his mouth. You traced the length of the scar softly, before kissing every centimetre of it. His eyes had fluttered closed, and he was still. It was one of the only times his face looked so delicate.
He sank down into the mountain of pillows, yanking your shirt off and tossing it, and you hovered over him, tracing and smoothing your hands over the tense planes and valleys of his chest and shoulders. He inhaled and exhaled sharply, and you knew how much your care and adoration of him and his body meant to him.
He was even more muscly than before, somehow, and you marvelled at the strength and might of your beloved boy, as you began leaving a burning line of kisses from the hollow of his neck to his navel.
He shuddered, making little noises at each touch of your lips to his chest.
Once your lips had finished that journey, up and back, you settled into his side, tucking your head under his chin and on his chest.
His heart was racing, and as was yours, and the close, intimate feeling of it all was enough to make you beam. He turned his head to face you. His eyes were earnest, shining with clarity and joy.
“You’re the only good thing in this world. I love you.”
And the world seemed to stop once your lips met again, because everything was perfect.
Your heart, mind and body, all in the right place, cradled in his arms.
The sunshine that streamed in through the porthole was like a warning from your father, a reminder that your actions were against everything you loved. Everything you believed him.
A reminder that while you loved Luke, you loved Camp Half-Blood more.
You left your heart there, tucked between his sheets, nestled in his warm embrace. The loss of it tore your chest, as you tiptoed through the corridors, gasping at the monsters you could now see and swearing at yourself as tears flooded your vision.
Maybe you should’ve woken him, you thought, given him one final kiss.
wc; 2.2k | content; lowkey orpheus/reincarnation au, more poetic than romantic, bittersweet ending
🎧 | unknown/nth ー hozier
notes; sorry fellas i am not at my best with this fic, esp the ending 😭😭
♫ — so i thought you were like an angel (to me)
“I’m—not the Grim Reaper,” are the first words you say to him, spat in an attitude. “I’m a psychopomp.”
You’re standing in a golden field, grains weighing the grass down heavy, gilded with Midas’ touch. They bob along with a breeze that has no source, panicles rustling softly against each other like cricket’s wings composing a symphony.
The sun hangs halfway on the horizon at a perpetual golden hour, resting its equator against the farthest reach of your vision like how a person would fold their elbows along the edge of a pool when swimming.
He’s wearing an old orange shirt, pegasus printed in a dull bronze vinyl on the fabric; his jeans were probably once a deep blue, but they’ve been worn to the point where the knees have been washed white and thin. A leather cord hangs from his neck, clay beads weighing the string down to rest on his collarbone.
“They’re basically the same thing,” he tells you, miffed, a bit confused as to where you had come from. His voice is deep, rough and pleasant like an itch finally scratched. “Sorry, who are you anyway?”
You grin lightly, a customer service smile, “I’m supposed to guide Fielders who want to reincarnate to…well, reincarnation.”
“Field…ers?” drawls the boy flatly, brow raising incredulously in disbelief. He tilts his head, the golden light playing across his face to reveal a long scar. Something unravels in your chest, the loosening of a great knot that pulls you towards him.
You nod, hum in confirmation, and you resist the urge to step closer, “Elysian Fields. You expressed before your death that you wanted to be reborn, although I don’t understand why. Elysium is pretty cushy.”
“This kind of paradise isn’t my thing,” he says dryly, plucking at a panicle and rolling the grain between the pads of his fingers, inspecting the shape it makes when his nails pinch it.
“Right,” you say, curt, and you glance down at the tablet cradled in your elbow, read the scribbled papyrus profile that’s pinned on the surface. “Oh.”
You bite the inner lining of your cheek, tears welling sharp at your waterline. You take a shaky breath, sniffle and feel how the papyrus fibers rub against the lyre calluses on your fingers.
“Eur—Luke Castellan, son of Hermes, and I quote: ‘Think…rebirth. Try for three times. Isles of the Blest.’”
Castellan wrinkles his sharp nose, skin rumpling at the space between his eyes. He looks like he can’t be older than his early twenties. “Verbatim,” he mumbles, near exasperation with the way he shakes his head knowingly. “Fine. Eternal paradise does sound nice, can you blame me for wanting more, though?”
You hum. “No, I can’t,” you tell him, enthusiasm dimming like a candle’s flickering flame, and the curl etched at the corners of your lips droops. You try, awkwardly, to lighten the mood, “You can choose when to be reborn, there’s no deadline for when you leave. And there’s a grace period of six months if you die too early.”
Castellan looks on like he can see right through you, the unsourced breeze rippling through the golden field, sifting through the gilded panicles of grain and ruffling his dark curls. You get the feeling that you’ve been somewhere like here before.
He must think so too, because he blurts, “How long have you been here?”
You smile, the bitter rind of a melon’s curved shell, “Time works strangely. A day of skinny-dipping in the Isles for Achilles could be centuries up there for all we know.
“But,” and there’s a faraway look clouding your irises, nostos, “I’ve been a guide for tens, if not a hundred souls already. My memory’s already getting fuzzy.”
“Cool,” he says, passing off as casual. Castellan flicks the grain he had been rolling between his fingers away into the dirt and tucks his hands into the pockets of his jeans. To your surprise, he says, “I might wait a bit. What’s next?”
The tablet in your hand disappears when you wave it away. Hammer-space, Thanatos had drawled when he’d first taken you under his wing, it’ll fit most things you don’t want to carry.
You take a step closer to Castellan, hold your hand out in offering. The breeze calms to a standstill, swirls in an eddy around your forms in the plain. He considers you, soil-rich eyes shining amber in the light; he takes your palm in his, skin warm and rough-hewn.
You fit together like two pieces of shattered pottery, kintsugi. You get the feeling, again, that you’ve been here before with someone else, familiar but foreign.
“Come on, I’ll walk you around.”
♫ — (to take) the injury of finally knowing you
“That’s Acheron over there,” you point with your free hand, “and Styx,” Castellan’s grip tightens by a fraction at that, “Lethe. You’ll bathe there when you’re ready.”
“What if I never do?”
You grin teasingly, “Changed your mind already? That was quick.”
You feel him shrug from where he’s standing close to your arm, nearly pressed into your side. “Like you said, time works strangely. Maybe it’s been centuries already.”
A light laugh finds its way spilling from your lips. “That’s a good one, Castellan.”
He looks down at his shoes, the toes of thin-worn and dusty with battle debris. He tells you, the words swimming vague in your ears, to call him by his first name, and he steps a bit closer, a breath untangling in your lungs. “Is this my second time here?”
You ponder, turn to face him, but you’re also gazing down at the dirt. Your heads lean against each other, an almost magnetic attraction. You inhale, bask in the rhythm of his breaths, remember a lyre’s weight and the flow of a song.
“Yea,” you tell him in a breath, the word coming slow like the viscous drip of honey.
“Who was I?” he asks, the question delving into the pulsing beat of your heart, an arrow that digs into your flesh.
It threads through you, holds your bones together as tendon, keeps you whole when you drag your temple to sit against his, like a slide of clay splinters fitting together and melding with the golden rays of a false star, the ichor hue of it seeping in the cracks between your bodies.
Your hand, the one not tucked into his palm, tilts up to brush at his scar. You get a quick glimpse—a flash like one you’d see at the death’s edge—of a woman, hair a dark sneer of curls and a mark that only made her more beautiful to you.
“It really is you,” the words escape you, soft like the flutter of doves, and a part of your soul that you didn’t even know existed is so fulfilled, trembling to the brim, “oh, Eurydice.”
And Luke’s eyes warble with fresh tears, irises blown wide in shock; he turns your palm over, feels the rough parts of your skin, lyre calluses and bowstring scars and a millennia of untold stories.
“Are you him?” he whispers, gentle and forgiving as the clouds’ shift in a summer wind, a reprieve for Icarus. “Are you Orpheus?”
You smile, sadly, the bitter rind of a melon. “Not really. When he died, he came here but you—Eurydice was already gone. Orpheus chose rebirth and hoped to follow her into the next life.
“But the thing about rebirth,” you continue, the dim flicker of a flame in the way the false sun lays shadows over your face, “is that you lose part of yourself in the Lethe. You keep your soul but the things that makes it yours are gone.”
“Memories,” he breathes, and rests his forehead on yours. You nod, soft and silent, because it’s all you really need.
“Yes. Your soul gets rearranged in a way, same material with a different outcome. I have a piece of Orpheus, but I’m not him, and you aren’t Eurydice.”
Luke goes lax into your frame, dips his head into the cradle between your neck and shoulder. “Oh,” he breathes, warm air fanning over your clavicle. “So we aren’t…”
“No,” you tell him, soft, balm against a bruise, the kiss of spring’s promise on a camellia, “and we don’t have to be.”
He nods against your shoulder, slowly untangles his lanky frame from yours. Luke sniffles, eyes threaded with red, and looks to the Lethe, then back to you.
“I barely know you,” he croaks, throat a grit-gravel rasp, patched with something you can only identify as an emptied grief.
( You must have died at his age. Early twenties, although you can’t quite recall the specific year. It must have been during the mid-forties, at tail-end of the second Great War. You pull the details from a haze; a child of Apollo, a combat medic, racing around the broken battlefield with a flask of nectar in hand, easing soldiers out of their shell-shocked reveries.
You remember being pulled from Charon’s boat by a pale, almost bone-white man with soot-smeared wings. He tells you that his name is Thanatos, that you’re a reincarnation of Orpheus.
“You’re supposed to be in Elysium because you died in battle but,” and he extends his bony hand in offering, “if you guide a hundred souls to rebirth, I can guarantee that you will reunite with Eurydice in the Isles.”
The god of death’s palm is warm to the touch considering that he’s a personification of death. It reminds you of how your father had risen the sun on your shuttering eyes just before you had succumbed to your injuries. How funny, that in death you could still bring life to others. )
“It’s not like I have anywhere to go,” you tell Luke, and the half-sun sitting perpetually, eternally on the infinite horizon gleams just a bit brighter. “I can afford to wait a bit longer. We can learn each other then, yea?”
♫ — there are some people (love) who are better unknown
It’s a silent trek to the river’s surf. You emerge from the golden field, gilded panicles chiming as you wade out of them, parting stalks of the tall grass aside to reveal the dreary grey banks of the Lethe.
Luke’s palm is a grounding vice around your wrist, warm and rough-hewn with countless battles. His fingers tighten just a bit when the waves come up to kiss the shore, lapping at the toes of his tight-laced sneakers. He laces your knuckles between his own, catches the little bumps of bone for comfort.
“I’ll go in with you,” you tell him, and he shuffles in the grey sand. “Whenever you’re ready.”
“I’ll forget you,” he says between breaths, cheek pinched between his molars. He moves forward all the same. “I don’t want to.” And then a hesitant pause. “I’m scared.”
You smile, soft and sad and fond all at once, place the palm that isn’t in his hold against the soft mess of curls on his head. You try to commit the feel of it to memory, just in case.
“Hold fast,” are the words that bubble from your lips, as if funneled from a conch’s mouth, an echo of a eons-old story told time and time again. “Don’t look back.”
Luke’s eyes are glassy, the brown of them watery at the edges but gleaming gold under the perpetual sunset nonetheless. He lets go momentarily, loosens the knot of his beaded cord and presses the necklace into your palm.
A shaky breath threads through you, and you can feel yourself unraveling to the quick. He turns his back, gazes down at the surf and how the murky water washes up, kisses his shoes. You place your hands between the blades of his shoulders, a grounding touch.
“Don’t look back,” you whisper again, and think of a light at the end of a tunnel, the darkness at your turned back and a fading cry. “Trust in me.”
Luke walks forward slowly, the river’s current eddying around his ankles, then his knees. He sinks into the water, kneeling in the silt, and you go down with him despite the bone-chilling coldness that settles in your stomach.
You press your forehead against the knob at the base of his neck, feel the jut of bone against your skull and hope for an eternity like this. He starts to glow from behind your shut eyelids, and you can feel his soul disappearing from under your palms.
“Don’t look back.”
He doesn’t. The light behind your eyes brightens before petering out, and it’s all you need to know that Orpheus has finally lead Eurydice out of the Underworld.
ps; guys is it really a luke fic by klineinie if i do not include some kinda variation of sally jackson's 'hold fast'...
feedback (comments/reblogs) is very welcome and appreciated!! 🩵
luke tags (open); @melllinaa @amortencjja @niktwazny303 @arsonnaire @mischiefmoons @m00ng4z3r
pairing : luke castellan x reader (no parent mentioned)
summary — being the partner of luke castellan was a blessing and a curse, mostly a blessing— you had the best swordsman at camp and he was extremely loyal. a blessing really, but everyone always wanted him too. sometimes you forget that he could feel insecure too.
warnings : insecurities (relationship + scar) , petnames (baby, sweetheart, love) , hurt/comfort , luke is standoffish and implied to be mentally ill but reader loves him anyways , mentions of other ppl flirting w luke !!
aﾉn — i want to smother this man in the biggest kisses ever ... he didn't deserve anything that happened to him & he's innocent !!!! it's never said who readers parent is but they don't reside in hermes cabin :) ,,, also i made the scar worse !!!! i wish it was bigger & more gnarly everyday . enjoy !!!!
you felt burned by the sun everytime he was around, even with his stoic nature and go with the flow personality— he always seemed to burn so bright when you're around. his palms melted you everytime he pulled you into a kiss, his lips hot and slick with spit from his chewing.
his constant even tone (he'll deny when the sass slips through) never bothered you, in fact you quite enjoyed it whenever he spoke. his raspy voice telling you briefly about his day, or talking about a race him and chris had that day, even when he told you not to worry about him.
other people sure seemed to enjoy him too, boys and girls gathered around him like a moth to a flame. his glow always too bright for others not to be drawn, you always saw it— the way girls would giggle and fawn over him, whenever boys lingered around him during activities.
you never told him how it bothered you, because it wasn't really his fault— he was just too perfect.
which is why it shocked you when you began noticing the way he liked keeping the helmet on even after capture the flag, hiding his face until it was deemed inappropriate. the way he favored resting his scarred side in your neck compared to his other, even though he complained of neck pains the day before.
you can't recall when he began doing these little habits, maybe ever since he got the scar, maybe when a younger camper said it made him look scary. you didn't know, but you knew that it wasn't good for him— the way he allowed himself to ache just to hide it.
luke is a great boyfriend, he recognizes when people want something more from him— he's not afraid to distance himself from others when he notices the flirting. it doesn't make him feel good to have that spotlight when you were so much better than him, in every sense of the word.
he never knew how to tell you that he knew. how he knew that the obnoxious flirting hurt you, or how you always backed away when his friends came over.
he would always come in the morning to pick you up from your cabin, hoping that his searing kisses and warm arms could show you that he's yours— even with a disgusting face.
the scar taking up the side of his face made him curl away in disgust whenever he saw it, he completely avoided bathroom mirrors because of it. he hid away from your soft eyes at any chance he could, fearing that you'd realize just how scary it is to date something like him.
the praises eased in slowly, but surely, he almost felt winded the first time he heard it ("baby get your pretty face over here!" you had said, trying to wave him over to your table. he felt lightheaded and nauseous when he walked over.) he didn't know how to handle it.
whenever he tried to ask why you began getting so verbally affectionate, he was waved off with a small wave and shrug. "can't i compliment my boyfriend?" you had asked him with a teasing tone, he hid away under your shirt the rest of the night while he got teased.
you knew that he was confused, but you didn't really care to explain— he'd just shut down and ignore the problem if you did. and you liked complimenting him, especially when he gets flustered like he does.
calling him pretty made his cheeks go red, and he always seemed more spacey after. calling him handsome always got him smiling and hiding his face. cute? he was looking away and blushing. adorable? he scoffed and smiled. gorgeous, he rolled his eyes and flicked you with red ears.
you hadn't called him beautiful yet, waiting for the perfect moment— you'd think you were planning on proposing with how calculated you were with this.
luke hadn't been sleeping well for a while, mumbling in his sleep about nonsense you couldn't understand. stress had clearly taken its toll, and he's chewing again— his lips raw and almost always bloody from his teeth snagging at the skin.
you snuck into hermes' cabin during the night, hoping that he would be up to sneaking out or even finally getting a full night's rest. your boots made him shoot up, sweaty and eyes wide before he realizes its you.
"what're you doing here, love?" he asks in a hushed tone, not yet a whisper but close. you move closer, gently lacing your hand together with his sweaty one. "wanna sneak out?"
the question was whispered, barely audible even. but it made him stand up all the same, sweatpants and cream colored long-sleeved shirt bunched up at the arms, making him look ethereal.
"are you that needy, sweetheart?" he asks as a joke when you've successfully escaped the cabin without waking people. his eyebrows wiggling slightly, his usual stoic facade melting off him like you were a candle and he was wax.
you rolled your eyes, shaking your head as you told him no. tugging him along the camp grounds until you found the picnic blanket, the basket of food right next to it all neatly set up— it took you a whole week to convince people to help you find this stuff, a demeter kid had to weave the basket.
"ta-da!" you said, doing jazz hands as you showed him the comfortable blanket. he didn't say anything, only smiling wide as he laid down on it— he patiently waited for you to get the food out, not feeling any sort of rush as he allowed himself to relax.
you hand fed him strawberries, flicking his nose every time he tried to stick your fingers in his mouth. you admired him in the moonlight, he always looked the best at night. his radiating self was enough light for you anyways.
your fingertips gently brushed his face while he was eating, chewing a piece of cake when he felt them. your fingers making their way to his big scar, tracing the jagged edges of it along with the smooth, raised middle.
"what're you doing?" he says, his voice tight in his throat as he tried to ignore the building pit of fear in his stomach.
you hummed, caressing his face as you looked at him. his eyes focused on your nose to avoid eye contact, "you're beautiful," you whisper.
"extremely beautiful." and his face goes red, his eyes watery as his chest rises up and down in deep breaths. his hands are shaky and pulling you closer, desperate for you and your touch.
it makes you really wonder, how could he ever feel insecure when you're convinced he could be cursed by aphrodite herself, and you'd still see his face when camp visits the gods?
a change of heart - luke castellan x child of iris!reader
warnings: betrayal scene, heartbreak, injuries, sword-fighting, uncontrollable angst the reader should be gender neutral and this is proofread, but i might’ve made some mistakes! please let me know if there is and i’ll fix it asap
word count: 2k
DISCLAIMER: some of the dialogue from this story is from episode 8 of the Percy Jackson and the Olympians series on Disney+. this is because i wanted the reader to feel as if they were experiencing the scene first hand. since i fear the disney conglomerate, this dialogue is highlighted in orange
you stood in between percy and annabeth in the doorway of cabin 14, listening to luke’s explanation of what was going on. as far as you knew, clarisse had stolen the master bolt, percy was accused of it, and poseidon had just surrendered to zeus and called off the war. you had stayed at camp the entire summer to you had learned quickly to not question things that happened in the demigod world, accepting each new piece of information nearly immediately as it came. as a friend and a dedicated helper, you took to offering your help any time luke needed to release stress, whether verbally or physically. over time, your friendship started to evolve into a situationship. instead of quiet nights whispering about your parents’ involvement in your trauma and sparring in the arena until bruises formed across your limbs, it became quiet nights kissing in the empty cabins during the bonfires and pulling each other behind the trees by the wrist. it seemed as if your lips were the only thing that could soothe the permanent wrinkle in between luke’s eyebrows. you could tell something serious was going on, but it was easier to let him brood and offer comfort than to force it out of him. he was the most stubborn man you’d ever met, after all. he began the clarisse slander after the first call with the demigods. you had been distant since then. it was easier to be around him when he was pushed up against a tree with his pretty lips doing something other than talking.
in terms of the quest, it only seemed right to keep the communication flowing smoothly between the young demigods and camp. as head counselor of the iris cabin, it was also your job to give luke access to your mother’s fountain. he took over the role of mentor, probably because of his need to protect annabeth. you didn’t believe that clarisse had stolen the master bolt: in fact, you vehemently denied it. she was one of your closest friends at camp, and you had spent more of the summer with her than any of the others. other than luke, that was.
“an accusation against clarisse-“ luke began, before being promptly interrupted.
“without proof,” annabeth injected, putting a little extra emphasis on each word.
“exactly,” he smiled at his little sister. “without proof, it would have lit this whole place on fire. but now you’re back. i want to tell chiron, but i need it to be private so that we can speak without any of clarisse’s friends noticing.”
“one is present, castellan,”you retorted, nearly hissing at him.
“i’ll keep an eye on clarisse while you’re gone. make sure she isn’t going anywhere.” annabeth gave you a knowing glance, watching your glare soften when you turned to her.
“great. And we’ll meet back here,”luke decided. he leaned over to press a chaste kiss to your cheek, completely ignoring everyone’s look of shock (including your own). then he and percy were gone, and you and annabeth were standing alone.
“reckon that cap might be of use?” you winked at her to fend off the inevitable questioning coming your way.
nestled in the trees, you listened carefully to percy and luke below you. it was hard to hear them over the whipping of the wind: a sign that the nature surrounding you had detected a strange energy. something was off. you concentrated on the space around you, waiting for the wind to quiet. and it did, softening to a lull humming until eventually it faded out. you heard the boys beneath you.
“talk about a celebration. they really pulled out all the stops for you. come on, you’ve said, like, two words since we left the cabins,”you hear luke say as they settle in the clearing. you notice a hint of disdain in his tone, likely jealousy. he’s always wanted the glory, the celebration.
“just… thinking about what the oracle said. that I’ll fail to save what matters most in the end.”
poor percy didn’t ask for any of this. he was so worried about his mom. despite being at camp since you were a toddler, you understood how important family could be. that’s why you hung on so hard when the other iris campers arrived. you couldn’t imagine losing a sibling, let alone knowing a parent well enough to lose them.
“you're thinking about your mom. i get that. believe me, i do. but prophecies? those things are so vague.“
you glanced over to where annabeth stood invisible: you knew she was forming the same conclusions you were. luke fidgeted in a more frantic way than normal, which only happened when he was nervous. luke was almost never nervous and everyone knew it. percy seemed none the wiser to his cracking facade, though.
“the quest is over, and everything the oracle said has either come true or makes sense.”
‘or it was about to,’ you thought. you weren’t surprised, or hurt, to be completely honest. you had noticed things were off since the solstice, but never felt close enough to luke to pass it off like it was reasonable to ask. he had a reasonable cause, too.
“has it?” luke questioned percy.
“you shall go west and face the god who has turned,” he says slowly, as if luke was being unreasonable for asking him to confirm.
“ares. okay.”
“find what was stolen and see it returned."
“clearly the bolt.”
"and you shall be betrayed... by one who calls you a friend!” it hits him. “well, the reason clarisse is still here is because…”
“you never said anything to chiron about her. did you?” luke begins to explain himself; percy interrupts him.
“you couldn't... because you knew clarisse didn't steal the bolt. you did.”
water began to pool in the eyes of the boy you had trusted with your body, with your heart. you doubted he really wanted to do it. he must have been forced.
“you worked with ares to plant it on me so when the shoes you gave me pulled me down into tartarus, the bolt would be delivered right to kronos.”
the shoes. he wanted to kill percy? percy, the innocent little boy you met at the beginning of the summer. after he arrived you held his hand in the infirmary so he wouldn’t have to be alone. he was only 12, and forced to go on a quest as soon as he figured out his heritage. a child, forced to traumatize himself for the sake of the “greater good”. you sent him with a handful of drachmas for your mother’s fountain, a small pack of ambrosia, a kiss on the forehead, and a remember that his safety was most important. grover got a small tube of ointment for his horns, just because you knew he scratched them. he got a hug - he technically was older than you after all. you refused to let annabeth go, pretending to cry dramatically as you slipped a small pouch into the palm of her hand. you closed her fist around it as percy pulled you away from her hug. you were beyond relieved when they returned. you had kissed luke the second you found out, thrilled that your family was safe. the two of you had never kissed for the purpose of anything but frustration or stress relief. he had seemed so happy. luke had seemed to love percy as much as you did, but maybe he loved with less of his heart.
“i didn't think you'd give 'em to grover to wear.”
the crack of his voice told you everything you needed to know.
“i am your friend. percy, none of this was meant to betray you. the gods are my enemy. you... i'm here to recruit.”
“recruit?” percy tilted his head, confused.
you flinched as luke unsheathed his sword, the metal making a noise as it hit the air. percy reached for the pen in his pocket, pushing the button. it configured itself into his sword. luke took a step back.
“easy. i don't wanna fight. this is what I wanted to show you . this... is our way out.”
“way out of what?”
“camp.” luke slices through the air and it ripples like satin, the forest peeling back for a second before returning to its original state. there sat a long, glowing neon gash.
“and their control. backbiter can open secret doors. we can stay on the run as long as it takes.” he was planning to leave you here? he had told you earlier in the summer that he would do anything to keep you safe. he had a similar look in his eyes back then.
“stop saying ‘we.’” percy chokes a little, and you knew he felt conflicted.
“it’s the word zeus fears the most. the gods want us to fight for them, worship them, fear them. and they couldn't care less what we want. they're bad parents, percy. and they've gotten away with it for far too long.”
he wasn’t wrong. you had never seen the gods care for their children at more than base need. some campers stayed in the hermes cabin permanently unclaimed. the relationship you all had with the gods was less than sufficient.
“no. this isn't you. this is kronos. he got to you.”
“no, he opened my eyes to the truth. a golden age. that's what they called it when he ruled. we're gonna help kronos bring the golden age back.” he cuts an identical length gash next to the first. “stealing the bolt and the helm was easy. for what comes next... we're gonna need all the help we can get,” he admitted.
for the first time since luke arrived at camp three years after you, you saw genuine childlike whimsy in his eyes. he was hopeful for a future of fairly treated demigods. he was incredible. he seemed to glow with the fireworks and the cuts in the air, illuminated by his newfound mission.
percy wasn’t having any of it. as luke raised his sword to connect his previous work, percy lunged to stop him. luke parried easily, turning to face the young boy. they pointed their swords at each other.
“our parents aren't perfect, but they're trying their best.”
luke lowers his arm slightly, curious.
“i met your dad.”
wrong move.
“but he…” luke dived back into the fight, celestial bronze clanging on - steel? why was luke using a weapon that could hurt mortals? for a second they stood still. luke’s sword pinned percy’s.
“you did get better,” he mentioned as riptide’s blade scraped against backbiter’s. luke started to advance more aggressively, pushing percy back against one of the trees. “last chance.”
this was starting to get a little too dangerous.
percy shoved him out of the way with his hands, using luke’s lack of balance to land a hit on his stomach. as soon as he realized his mistake, he froze.
“i’m sorry. I didn't mean to...” luke bounced up immediately, using the momentum to make a long cut on percy’s forearm. with percy on the ground, luke approaches his figure. backbiter is raised into the air, poised to swing. you hear the dagger before you see it, jumping from the tree.
“luke!” you hit the ground as annabeth whipped off her hat. the noise of the forest quieted to a lull hum as luke looked at annabeth first. when he turned to you, the tears started to roll from his deep eyes. you were already at percy’s side, pulling ambrosia from your backpack.
“annabeth? y/n?”
“we heard everything.” annabeth admits, heartbroken. years of having a friend, having a brother - gone.
you get a really good look at him in that moment. his eye bags drop lower than they ever have before, scooping up into the hollowness of his cheekbones from the times you missed him at the dining pavilion. his face was red and agitated from the tears. what a beautiful tragedy. in that moment you loved him. he needed to be loved. he was a broken, abandoned child. just like you. just like every other kid at this camp forced to give away their lives to a cause they didn’t ask to support.
“wait - luke.” percy and annabeth turned toward you with shock. you squeezed percy’s hand one more time, mouthing ‘i love you’ to the both of them before standing up and facing your fate.
“i want to go with you.”
you could only hope that annabeth would open that pouch when she needed it.
summary — in which two teenagers are constantly butting heads, both popular and striving for validation from their peers. what happens if one of them begins getting love letters as a "prank"?
warnings : no explicit lore for pjo is talked abt but luke still has issues , allusions to eventual smut , rivals to friends to ?? to lovers !!
IN WHICH… the half-blood campers live in a world where everybody is granted a soulmate. Everybody but the favoured child of Aphrodite, who was always destined to live a life without true love.
“My love is mine, all mine. I love mine, mine, mine. Nothing in the world belongs to me.”
( inaccurate details )
Warnings : Slight angst, not proofread (grammar mistakes)
A/N : late Valentines special… oops
—
Depending on what type of person you were, the concept of soulmates were either a blessing or a curse. To Y/N L/N, it was neither because she was never given a partner. The unseeable red string tied around her left ring finger never led to anybody else. Her skin never replicated the wounds of another person. Her world was always a scope covered in bright colours instead of depressing grey hues.
To others, her lack of a soulmate was great. She was free to love whomever she wanted without having to worry about a so-called soulmate. To her, it was hell. While it was true that she could like any person she chose, she would never be their first option. She was smart and beautiful and charming but their ideal pick would always be their soulmate.
It was sad, honestly. Especially when she knew boys would like her if soulmates didn’t exist.
Even when Y/N arrived at Camp Half-Blood, she was an exception. No soulmate meant no love life in other people’s eyes so it shocked everyone when Y/N was claimed by the very person who created the idea of fated partners. Aphrodite.
Y/N was awoken by loud giggles. She cracked an eye open, staring at her siblings across from her. “Why are you all up so early?” She almost groaned. It was seven in the morning and she knew her siblings always valued their beauty sleep. “Is Elvis Presley here or something?”
“No.” Silena grinned at Y/N, her cheeks flushing a pale pink colour, “Even better. A new boy just arrived last night and rumour has it that he’s cute. Cuter than Malcom.”
Malcom was an Ares kid. Ares and Aphrodite children always got along for some reason and because their parents had a complicated love relationship, so did they.
“Malcom isn’t that good-looking. What about Ben?” Y/N retorted, kicking her blankets off.
“I think Nigel is better.” Another sibling piped up, causing the whole cabin to burst into muffled laughter.
“That’s because you’re gay, Andrew!” They all exclaimed in unison, trying not to wake the other cabins.
Y/N leaned her head against her fluffed up pillow, gazing at Silena. “So, what’s this cutie’s name?”
“Luke.” Silena immediately answered, proud of herself for remembering the new camper’s name. “He came with Grover and a little girl.”
“Annabeth.” Andrew added. Y/N quietly hummed.
“Don’t be too loud.” She muttered, “I still want to sleep.”
As the commotion amongst her siblings died down, they too went back to bed. Y/N watched as Silena traced her soulmate tattoo before lying down, gently smiling. Y/N glanced at her own wrist, imagining her own mark inked onto her skin. What was it like knowing you were destined to love someone and they were destined to love you?
It must be reassuring.
Y/N didn’t remember when she drifted off, but she did and when she opened her eyes again, the sun was seeping through the light pink curtains.
Y/N lightly sighed as she sat up, running a hand through her perfect hair. That was a peek of having Aphrodite as her mother.
“Oh, you’re finally up. We thought you were sad. Too bad you aren’t.” Drew Tanaka was as cruel as ever. She was sitting at the vanity, applying a layer of pressed powder onto her face.
“Even if I did die, Drew, Silena would be the next cabin counsellor.” Y/N nonchalantly uttered as she stood up, stretching. Drew quietly scoffed and rolled her eyes.
“At least I have a soulmate.” She grumbled.
When Drew Tanaka hit hard, Y/N L/N always made sure to hit back harder.
“Yeah? Well, at least my ‘soulmate’ doesn’t hate me because of a rumour about me sleeping with his best friend. Which, by the way, was true.” Y/N quickly snapped back, leaving Drew speechless. Y/N was never one to act out but when someone asked for it, she delivered a killing blow.
Like any normal Aphrodite daughter, Y/N took her sweet time in doing her makeup. She could feel Drew’s glare on her as she swiped a red tint across her lips.
Y/N arrived at breakfast a little late, just in time to see the new kids stumble into the pavilion. Girls turned to whisper to each other, subtly pointing at the boy and blushing.
“That’s Luke and Annabeth, right?” Y/N questioned as she took a big gulp from her golden chalice. Silena quickly nodded, glancing at Luke.
“See, I told you he was cute.”
Y/N shrugged but Silena did have a point. Luke, with his perfect side profile, sharp jawline, and pretty curled hair, was a pleasant sight for sore eyes.
Y/N was caught off-guard when Luke sat down at the Hermes table and immediately lifted his head, his gaze settling on her without hesitation. Y/N quickly looked away, glancing at her wrist like she always did in hopes a tattoo would appear by some miracle.
Drew saw her moment of weakness and instantly commented on it. “Still no soulmate, Y/N?” Silena sent her half-sister a disapproving stare.
“Yeah. I’ll just fuck yours, I guess.”
Drew’s face sank for the second time. “Stay away from Sulan.” She hissed, glancing at the Demeter boy who wanted nothing to do with Drew.
Fate always drew people together so it was no surprise that everybody in Camp Half-Blood had their soulmates in the same place. There were multiple ways you could find your soulmate, depending on your mark.
Silena had her matching tattoo. Drew had that damned red string that only she could see. And Andrew could only sed the world in black and gray until his soulmate arrived, which they hadn’t yet.
Across the pavilion, Luke lightly nudged a teen named Chris. “Who’s that?” He asked, pointing at the H/C-hIred girl who was sitting with a group of unnaturally attractive kids.
Chris laughed for a short moment. “Y/N L/N. She will eat you alive, boy.”
“Has she found her soulmate yet?”
Demigods weren’t much better than their parents. They played around until they found their soulmate and that’s when they settled down. At least, for most. Some still had flings here and there, proving that they were just like the gods.
Luke’s question causes Chris to pause. He lightly chewed the inside of his mouth before stabbing his fork into a piece of bacon. “She doesn’t have a soulmate.” He murmured.
“How come?”
“We don’t know. She’s wondering the exact same question.” Chris shrugged before going back to his breakfast, “You can talk to her if you want but she’s a little mean so be careful of that.”
Luke quietly hummed, circling his finger around the rim of his cup.
The first time Luke talked to Y/N was when he and Annabeth were separated to go on different tours. Luke ended up with Y/N, who beamed at him and crinkled her eyes.
“Hi.” She effortlessly greeted him, waving.
“Sup.” Luke choked out, his voice accidentally going up a pitch higher. He cleared his throat. “I’m Luke.”
“So I’ve heard. Y/N.”
They walked side by side in a comfortable silence until Y/N spoke again. “Where’s your third person?” She questioned. “And I’m not talking about Grover.”
Chiron had tried to keep Thalia a secret but the gossip still managed to reach Y/N’s ears.
Slowly, Luke pointed at the tree that had mysteriously appeared this morning. It guarded the barrier between the camp and the mortal world.
“He turned her into a tree.” Luke grumbled, clearly displeased.
Y/N didn’t have to question who he was. Zeus, the king of the gods and ruler of the sky, had decided to turn his only daughter into a tree.
“Yes. The gods have always been a little… questionable. Shall we continue with the tour?” Y/N guided Luke forward. She did most of the talking while he listened, or at least tried to. It was hard when an absolutely stunning girl was standing in front of him.
“And last but not least, the strawberry field. Pretty, isn’t it?” Y/N smiled as she stared at the fresh strawberries. Luke let out a small ‘yeah’ but he was still staring at her. Y/N clapped her hands together, finally bringing Luke back to reality. “That marks the end of our tour. Any questions?”
Luke shook his head.
“Great. Oh, and if you’re worried about your soulmate, they’ll show up at some point. All the new kids freak out over it. If you’re a demigod, it’s almost guaranteed that so is your soulmate.” Y/N smiled again, making Luke’s knees weak.
Where was a matching tattoo when he needed one?
“So, uh… your soulmate… what are they like?” Luke knew he was most likely overstepping a boundary when he asked that. But Y/N, used to the shame and embarrassment of not having one, merely shrugged.
“I wouldn’t know. For some reason, my mother wants me to spend my life alone.” Y/N laughed but Luke could see the pain that flashed through her eyes. The same exact agony that Luke had been experiencing after all his peers found their soulmates expect him.
“If it makes you feel better, I don’t have one either.” Luke piped up. “I guess we can be lonely together.”
Y/N carefully gazed up at him. She felt a glimmer of hope spark inside her chest but she shoved it down. She refused to get her hopes up. “Everybody has one, Luke. You do too. Maybe my mom just wanted me to play the role of Cupid.”
Y/N walked off before Luke could say anything else. Annabeth instantly replaced her. “What did you say to make her leave?” For a young kid, she sure had a sharp tongue.
“Don’t even, Annabeth.” Luke’s cheeks heated up in embarrassment. He never had a problem with getting girls to like him because of his good looks, but they never stayed. And Annabeth took every chance she could to remind him of their awkward moments.
“What did you say, though? Did you mention your pet crocodile again?”
“First of all,” Luke retorted, “It was a spider. It was not a crocodile. And someone set him free! I really liked him too. And, I only asked her about her soulmate.”
“You’re an idiot.” Annabeth deadpanned, “Why would you ask that? Can’t you see that it’s a sore topic for her?”
“Not everybody is blessed with your wits, kid.” Luke playfully ruffled Annabeth’s hair while she huffed in frustration.
She quickly swatted his hands away. “What’s if she’s your soulmate?” Annabeth blurted out. “She doesn’t have a soulmate. You don’t have one. At least, you don’t have the common signs. What if that’s your soulmate bond?”
Luke chuckled. “I don’t think it works that way.”
“Maybe not… but either way, she’s still staring at you.”
Luke had never turned his head so fast. Y/N was perched on her cabin porch, leaning against the pretty wooden railing. And just as Annabeth had said, she was looking at him.
“Soulmate bond.” Annabeth repeated in that annoying singsong voice of hers.
Even as Luke walked back to the Hermes building, he couldn’t shake Annabeth’s words. Was Y/N really his soulmate? The person he had spent his entire life searching for?
Maybe. Standing next to her just felt so… right. He knew the moment he saw Y/N step out of her cabin that she’d have his unwavering attention.
Months passed by like seconds and years passed like days. Luke found himself becoming an expert at wielding a sword and not even Clarisse could disarm him. Y/N never bothered to try, always wanting to keep her appearance pristine under the hot sun.
“Do you ever get bored just lying around?” Luke questioned as he stood in front of Y/N. She was lying down under a large tree, enjoying the cool shade.
“No.” Y/N answered, closing her eyes. “I just don’t find it fun swinging around a sword in the hot sun.” The heat from the large star was unbearable during summer. Y/N hated the feeling of her clothes sticking to her skin so she was commonly found under trees during the hottest season.
“Why not try swinging around a sword at night? It’s cooler at that time.”
“I’m good.” Y/N truely was a daughter of Aphrodite, caring about her appearance above all else.
“I heard Silena found her soulmate.” Luke uttered as he sat down, keeping his distance in case Y/N didn’t appreciate his company. But she said nothing so he assumed it was fine.
“Yeah. At least he’s nice. I’d hate for her to have an annoying soulmate.” Y/N laughed yet that familiar look of envy and sadness flashed across her eyes. Y/N did well in concealing her facial expressions but her gaze never lied.
Luke and Y/N were seventeen now, almost eighteen. They had known each other for years and Luke had managed to notice some of Y/N’s subtle habits.
He also knew her opinion on soulmates. She craved for one and found the courage to despise her mother for her lack love. She prayed for one when offering a sacrifice. She dreamed of finding her other half and every time she woke up, she was disappointed that it wasn’t a reality.
Y/N knew there was more to life than relationships but why didn’t she have a soulmate? That was a query only Aphrodite herself could answer.
“Still no soulmate for you I suppose?” Y/N asked, glancing at Luke who shook his head.
“The main reason I was looking for you was because I had some sort of… theory.”
Y/N raised her eyebrows, suddenly curious. She gestured for Luke to continue.
“I don’t have a soulmate mark. You don’t have one either. What if, in a way, our lack of soulmate marks is our bond? If that makes sense.” Luke almost stumbled over his own words, suddenly feeling far too nervous.
“You think… I’m your soulmate?” Those words felt foreign as they slipped past Y/N’s lips. She was staring at Luke in slightly disbelief. “I don’t know, Luke. Maybe we just don’t have soulmates.” Y/N chuckled at the end of her sentence.
Luke’s breath nervously shuddered. “Okay… so if we don’t have soulmates then I can like anybody I want?”
“Technically, yeah.” Y/N aimlessly shrugged.
“Then I chose you.”
Y/N stared at him with her eyebrows furrowed. “What? Why me?”
“Because why not? I’m not taking pity on you, Y/N. I genuinely like you. As more than just a friend. The moment I saw you, I knew that if I had a soulmate, I would want it to be you. We can take it slow if you want. I don’t care as long as I’m with you.”
Y/N could only muster up a nod, still in shock.
She didn’t know what she was expecting to happen after her indirect acceptation to his confession but finding a small bouquet of roses on her bed was not what she had in mind.
“Oh, those are pretty. Who are those from?” Silena was at Y/N’s side in an instance, curious to see the flowers.
“Luke.” Y/N muttered as she flipped over the card, staring at the messy handwriting that was undeniably Luke’s.
“So my manifestation did work!” Silena exclaimed, happily clapping her hands together. “I’ve been shipping you guys since, like, forever! And I knew you wouldn’t make a move so I manifested Luke to.” Silena proudly beamed as she rocked back in forth on her heels, “I’m so happy for you two!”
Drew, on the other hand, was not.
“Cute pity bouquet, Y/N.” The ravenette said as she waltzed into the cabin.
“I will slap you with the thorns.” Y/N fired back.
At dinner, Y/N ended up sandwiched between Silena and Drew. For two girls who seemingly hated each other, Y/N and Drew sure spent a lot of time together.
“Here comes your lover boy.” Silena teased as she watched Luke guide a new camper towards the Hermes table. Y/N wasn’t sure if she should stare or look away but Luke was already locking eyes with her, smiling so widely that you’d think his deepest wish just came true.
“He’s not your soulmate.” Drew uttered.
“I know. We don’t all have to follow the rules of soulmates, do we? You should know that better than anyone else.”
Drew scoffed, angrily stabbing her fork into a piece of meat.
Y/N didn’t eat much. Her stomach felt too queasy whenever Luke so much as glanced at her. Was she nervous? Her leg was continuously bouncing up and down so she must be.
She left the pavilion early, expecting Luke to follow after her and feeling proud of her guess when he did. “Did you like the flowers?” He asked, tilting his head to the side.
“Of course.” Y/N answered.
“I really like you, Y/N. Please, just give me a chance. Who cares about soulmates? You may as well be mine.” Luke engulfed Y/N into a tight hug, his hands resting at her waist and refusing to let go.
“I don’t know, Luke.” She whispered. She had spent so much time alone in the dark that she forgot what love even felt like. Was it the butterflies in her stomach? Or perhaps the loud pounding of her heart? Or maybe her cheeks that were flushed a bright pink hue under the moonlight?
All her worries seemed to effortlessly melt away as Luke suddenly kissed her. He stepped back just as quickly but Y/N wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him towards her again.
She wasn’t sure what was happening but she could feel small beads of tears roll down her cheeks.
“Why are you crying, pretty?” Luke asked, furrowing his eyebrows in concern. Y/N swiftly wiped her tears away. As stupid and it sounded, that was her first kiss. And it was the first time someone showed a genuine interest in her, someone without a soulmate.
“If we do this, Luke… you have to promise not to leave me too quickly.” Y/N whispered so that only he could hear her voice.
“I don’t want my soulmate, if they even exist, Y/N. I want you.”
Those words echoed in Y/N’s head. I want you. Those three simple words set off fireworks in Y/N’s stomach. She felt her heart skip a beat.
She really shouldn’t have indulged in her own feelings when Luke might have a soulmate of his own but she couldn’t resist him when he was looking at her with those puppy dog eyes.
After that fated night, Luke rarely left Y/N’s side. He seemed to be attached at her hip and even when Clarisse laughed at him, he ignored her. Y/N was happy for a while.
It was the new girl that caused her fragile relationship with Luke to shatter into pieces. She really should have seen all this coming. She always noticed the bruises that lingered on Luke’s skin. Bruises that weren’t his but ones he simply brushed off as small injuries from all his hard training.
Y/N was the first to walk out of her cabin and, by default, that meant she would be showing the new camper around.
She had arrived early in the morning and while she was supposed to be resting in the infirmary, Y/N found her under the tree she usually sat at.
“You should be resting.” Y/N uttered. She could only see one side of the girl’s face but nevertheless, she was still pretty. Dyed blonde hair with heavy bangs framing her delicate and pale face and light grey eyes that nervously shifted from the ground to Y/N.
“They kept pestering me about my scar.” She mumbled, refusing to show Y/N her full face. “It’s my soulmate mark but they kept saying it wasn’t. Apparently… my soulmate has already found someone.”
She finally turned her head to reveal the scar. It was a jagged line, perfectly mimicking Luke’s. Y/N stiffened as the dread began to set in. She felt like she was going to collapse. Luke always preached about choosing Y/N over fate but would he do so now that his soulmate was here?
“Right.” Y/N choked out. “Well, let me show you around first.” It took all her energy to hide her true feelings. She didn’t want this girl to know that she was slowly but surely cracking under the pressure.
“I’m Lila, by the way.” The blonde muttered, fidgeting with her fingers.
“Y/N.”
As usual, she saved the strawberry fields for last. Lila seemed impressed by the big, red berries that the Demeter kids had grown. “One last stop.” Y/N said as she led Lila to a certain cabin. She knew she would come to regret this but the matching scars weren’t exactly subtle.
Y/N knocked on the door and just as she hoped, yet dreaded, Luke answered. “Hey.” He grinned widely at her as he leaned against the door frame.
“Someone’s here for you.” Y/N stepped aside to reveal Lila. Luke paused before he chuckled.
“This is a joke, right? Y/N?”
But she was already walking, more like jogging, away.
Y/N watched from afar as Luke conversed with the girl who had the identical scar to his. It trailed over the same eye too and it wouldn’t take a genius to realize what that meant. Luke had finally met his soulmate.
And Y/N was alone. Again.
The favourite child of Aphrodite. The golden star. The beautiful role model.
She was always destined to spend her life alone and perhaps she should have fully accepted that instead of falling in love with Luke, someone she couldn’t have no matter how hard she tried.
She ended up skipping breakfast and merely sitting in front of the vanity mirror, soullessly staring at her reflection. She wanted nothing more than for an ugly scar to taint her pretty face just so she could claim Luke as her soulmate.
She traced a faint line over her eye with light brown eyebrow and imagined that it matched with Luke’s. That, in another life, she could finally call someone hers.
The cabin door opened. Y/N didn’t have enough time to wipe the eyeshadow scar off before Drew walked in. The black-haired girl made an immediate beeline for her half-sister. Y/N thought Drew was going to taunt her as usual but she was shocked when the cruel girl hugged her instead.
“Soulmate or not,” Drew whispered, “He should choose you.”
⤷ jubilee, a celebration of the passage of time ( and how all this, the good and bad, brings luke back to you) / luke castellan x (gn + child of aristaeus) reader
⤷ friends to lovers relationship study, whump moments, first love (twice), luke lives but with amnesia au + all titles referenced from the jubilee album by japanese breakfast
⤷ notes; pheww first fic of 2024 and it's long, the lockwood to pjo pipeline got me bad... please note that while i did read the books (in third grade), i chose to selectively ignore canon and aspects of luke's character, so things might be ooc asf
♫ — posing for cars (woke from a dream in which you left me)
There are words first— muffled, swimming through his eardrums in the way that conch shells catch a tidal song in the waves, or how the sand grains that pass through the fingertips of children are just ten million quarter-fragments of unrealized history.
It feels like a veil laid over his senses, being submerged in water for too long, the pull of sleep waiting at the abyss between dreams and memory.
A voice says, quiet and dark, the gathering clouds on a horizon, a promise of a storm, “Luke Castellan will carry on a hero, but his crimes must be acknowledged.”
Another, low like the pulling tide, “Indeed. My son was quite adamant about his fate— we gods owe a debt, and I know you well enough to understand that you are eager to settle things quickly, brother.”
A pause in conversation, like a break in script for the characters to ponder. The veil of silence scratches against his damaged ears, crackles in the empty space like collisions between hydrogen atoms at the beginnings of a star’s birth.
“I’ve reached a decision. Luke Castellan, son of Hermes, will have his memories and dreams revoked until this council no longer deems him a threat. It is a far less cruel fate compared to others over the eons.”
Not a single protest, no curves or bumps in an otherwise linear road. Sound lies dead in the still air.
“Very well then,” says the thundercloud voice contentedly, “let him return.”
( He won’t remember much when he wakes up, only the voices and dulling pain and light— pre-dawn rays that play over his lax face, shine through the flesh of his eyelids so that his sight can be granted the small mercy to have something to fade to black from. )
♫ — paprika (lucidity came slowly)
It’s really like a dream about falling, in a way. The fact, fleeting when he grasps it, tells him that his body is shutting down faster than his mind can keep up with, so it must fire an abrupt signal through his neurons in order to jerk him awake.
Luke Castellan lands, back bouncing upon the springs of a mattress as he’s jerked to consciousness.
Eight billion people on the planet and the first thing etched onto the blank slate of his mind is the rise of your brow and the scent of medicinal honey.
The dawn brings with it rays of light that slip over the curve of your face and refract through your irises golden, Midas-touched.
Eight billion people.
You.
( Seconds can feel like lifetimes. He only needs two to commit all of you to memory, the curve of your nose and the slant of your lips and the shape of your eyes, how the sun tilts shadows and highlights over the geometry of your features. )
“You…” He searches for the words, sifting through the little information left in his mind to try to compare this situation to something similar. He comes back with nothing.
“You’re awake,” you finish for him, and your voice makes his eyes flutter, a viscous substance sinking him deeper into a space removed from lucidity. Your face draws in on itself. “It’s too early, go back to sleep.”
He finds two of your knuckles lightly tapping the space between his eyes before they roll back as he falls once again into the dark abyss of sleep.
-✦✦✦-
“Chiron,” you whisper once Luke’s breaths deepen, gazing into the dawn through a windowpane, fingers sticky with the gold honey you’ve been smearing onto gauze, “what are we going to do with him?”
The centaur only shakes his head mournfully. “Even I myself am not sure. The gods have their own reasons for this.”
“They’re terrible at reasoning, then.”
Chiron’s mouth is a steady gash beneath his beard. “I can’t say that I disagree, child.”
Your hum of acknowledgment is curt, short in the way a dagger’s blade is sharpened and shaped. Chiron’s reflection in the pane nods in a silent goodbye before his shadow fades away to check on the other campers.
The room is silent now, save for the occasional stirring breaths from Luke. He shifts ever-so-slightly, sheets rippling around the familiar curve of his body.
You stop momentarily to gaze at the way his lengthy limbs splay crescent amongst the honey-soaked bandages that grace his skin, knowing that when he wakes again, he won’t find familiar comfort in anything, a discordant note standing out in an otherwise harmonious symphony.
You let him sleep, a stutter in routine wrapped with mercy and forgiveness. Shadows flit past the pane once again, the Apollo cabin by the singsong way they talk amongst each other.
They’re here for the bandages slathered in antibacterial honey, the smell hanging tangy and sharp in the air; a few linger in the doorway to glance at you in pity, Luke in wariness. You expect everyone to know now about what their parents decided to do to him.
Will Solace’s eyes meets yours momentarily, the blue of them shining crystalline in the dawn like the shallows of a sun-soaked beach. They glitter when he blinks, once at Luke, twice at you, thrice in understanding as he offers a small smile of thanks; a wish of good luck is tucked into the secret fold of his lips.
( You’ll probably need it. )
Luke makes a strangled little noise in the back of his throat when he wakes. It’s a struggle for him to open his eyes— you know this because you’d administered to him a small amount of honey infused with a sedative when Chiron had first carried his limp and broken body through the door.
“You’re awake,” you repeat, a ghost of words, voice dipping low as to not startle him. Luke slowly claws his way out of the sheets, blinking dazed in the afternoon light. His eyes focus on yours in a haze.
“Who…”
“Am I, who are you, where are you?” you finish for him again, an old habit that never found its way to dying hard. He offers out his arm instinctively, trusting, when yours reaches out to pick at the corner of a peeling bandage.
Your fingertips, deft, are still wet with honey when you peel back the dressing wrapped around his underarm. The dagger wound there is nasty, but the draining ooze and pinkening skin means that it’s healing, and that the ambrosia worked.
“Yea,” he says around a cardboard tongue, reaching stiffly with his free hand to grasp shakily at a cup of water on the nightstand. He swallows it in a single backwards knock of his head and dabs at the corner of his lips with his wrist. “Everything you just said.”
Your mouth turns up, a beckoning lamp to his moth of curiosity. “Your name,” you start, “is Luke Castellan, child of Hermes.”
“Like the herald?”
“You remember your mythology. That’s good, it means you’ll have a better time adjusting.” Luke averts his eyes at the comment, ears shining pink. You continue. “I’m a child of Aristaeus, a minor god— he’s the patron of rustic stuff like beekeeping and home crafts, basically Demeter if she was a male who loved the cottage life.”
He snorts, childish, and it feels like you’re twelve all over again, rolling in the fields, mouths smeared pink with juice and strawberry seeds embedded in your tongues. The taste of your first summer with Luke still lingers unsoured at the back of your mouth.
“So,” he says while you pull off his old wound wrappings, “let me get this straight. You and I—” he gestures with a finger “—are like demigods or something, as in Perseus and Heracles?”
You nod. “Except Perseus and Heracles are—”
“Zeus’ kids, and we have different parents, yea.”
“I expected you to be calm, but not this calm.”
Luke’s face blooms into a tight grin, cracked and curled with a wilt at the edges, and it’s noticeable, the way his eye twitches. “I’m processing. Sorry, it’s just going so fast and I don’t know what to ask first, I…”
He sighs, frustration bleeding into his voice.
“‘How do I start’, you mean?”
Luke hums, a little sound that vibrates through the air, hangs like the first notes to a hymn. “Did we…know each other?”
“Everyone here knew you.”
“That’s not what I’m asking,” and then again, “did we know each other?”
You turn to the window, silent, mind lingering on that grove a little ways from the strawberry fields, where the persimmons hang ripe during cold season and little camellias unfurl, an assurance of the coming spring.
“Yea,” you breath, a little puff of air that fogs the glass pane, like mist settling superimposed over the meadow outside, “you could say it like that.”
♫ — tactics (memories of peaches, the sun on my neck)
You’d just turned twelve when you first set eyes on him, all downy black waves of hair and dirt-smeared cheeks. He’s holding back tears, a glittering film of saline that obscures the deep brown of his irises; a little girl is tucked shivering into his side, wise eyes peering through dark curls— she can’t be more than six or seven. One of the newer satyrs, Grover, stands behind them, head tilted downward in shame.
Luke Castellan, Hermes, and Annabeth Chase, Athena, their names escape his mouth trembling like broken-winged birds trying and failing to flutter off south in the winter, but Thalia, she—
( There’s a new tree on the hill, looming tall amidst the gathering clouds that promise rain. Power radiates from it in waves, blanketing the camp in a humidity reminiscent of late Long Island summers. Ah, how uninspired of Olympus’ king. )
You follow in the wake of Chiron’s tail as he escorts them to the Big House infirmary, giving time to the Hermes and Athena cabins to prepare. Some of the Apollo kids are there already, restocking supplies; one with flaxen hair hands off two orange shirts and leather strings to the newcomers, and another with honeyed eyes dabs alcohol-drenched cotton over their lacerations.
“Do you want tea?” you ask when the old centaur’s tail flicks against your back, a signal to break the web of silence. “I have, uh…well, I only have chamomile right now.”
Annabeth nods quickly, lips pressed together as a chill passes through the infirmary window. Luke gives you a sidelong glance, wary. The curtains ripple in the night air, allowing the moon to lay soft on the curves of Luke’s face.
It gives him a somber look with the way the cold light paints his burnished edges, like clothes hung too long on a line, colors bleached away by the sun.
“What about you?” you ask, a murmur carried slow in the eddies of air left by the medics’ departing wake. “Honey, sugar, milk?”
“Whatever you want,” he responds curtly, mouth set in a line as hard as marble, bearing resemblance to the statues carved stoic in museums.
You huff lightly, already retreating to the kitchen. “Alright.”
Chiron clears his throat, steps forward and leans down kindly to meet Luke’s gaze halfway. They talk in quiet tones, secrets sewn into a memory only they will know.
Annabeth shuffles close behind you— she’s taller than you had been at seven, the top of her head just inches from your shoulder.
“Luke likes sweet things,” she admits, arms crossed in a loose defense, guarded when she glances at the dark windows. “I saw him eat three chocolate bars in a row before.”
“Really?” you laugh, soft in the way snow falls on Half-Blood Hill in the winter. “I never would’ve guessed.” She nods, lets down her arms. You step aside, making room for her to watch the kettle come to a boil, fascinated with how the dried leaves unfurl under the pouring braid of water. “First time having tea?”
“I had coffee before, it wasn’t that good,” she says. “Can I try it plain first, then add things until I like it?”
“Sure,” it’s a quickfire response. You’ve never met another kid so engaged in the art of tea making, whether they were acting or not. It’s a nice change of pace. “I think Chiron’ll live if we have a little sugar. Careful, don’t burn your tongue.”
Annabeth blows gingerly at the amber liquid, smiling at how the steam parts to make way for her slipstream breaths. She takes a small lap and you laugh at the face she makes.
“Wanna try some honey I made?”
She nods, eager to experiment. You grab a spoon, dipping it into the jar Chiron keeps at the counter, a gift from you to celebrate your claiming. Annabeth’s eyes glitter when the taste diffuses across her mouth.
“Hypothesis,” she offers, a true gem of intelligence, “I’ll like tea with honey only.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I think milk tastes gross, ‘specially whole milk. Chamomile is meant to be calming, so sugar would probably do the opposite.”
You grin, brows raised, when she hops to the cutlery drawer, pulling out a clean utensil to scoop more honey into her drink. She uses the spoon she’d already licked to stir, taking sips between additions to get a hang of the flavor.
Four spoons later, Annabeth nods in satisfaction. She studies the detailing on the utensil's handle, memorizing each cut in the silverware, curls bobbing along to each tilt of her head. “I’m remembering which spoon I used so I can get the same combination next time,” she says when you glance at her curiously.
“I’m happy you like it.”
She peers at you again, dark eyes flashing with a flame you’d find in someone older than their years. “I like you and your tea and your honey. You’re nice, a lot nicer than other older kids. Just like Luke.”
You smile at the compliment, warmth blooming in your chest, seeping past that ribbed cage of bone and spreading to the tips of your fingers. “Thanks.”
“We just met, but I think we’ll be really close, like siblings.”
Straight to a point, six steps ahead; that’s what you glean from Annabeth Chase. You can tell she’ll fit right in with the other Athena campers, maybe even make it to counselor; you know that the day she surpasses you is inevitable.
“I’d love that.”
-✦✦✦-
Luke can hear everything. It’s a thing he’s trained himself to do, a hunter’s skill honed, practiced, and perfected. Chiron only speaks a few words to him, condolences and basic camp rules. Says that his half-siblings will always be there for him, extend a guiding hand when the tunnel loses light.
( He doesn’t believe the centaur. )
He slides out from the doorway he’s been lurking behind, the shadows clinging to his shoulders, leaving their little imaginary claws in the fabric of his camp shirt.
Luke takes in the sight of Annabeth’s little form swathed in orange, perched on a chair with the toes of her shoes dangling a breadth above the floor. She’s sleeping, cheek pressed against the oaken table surface, cornerfolds of her lips sticky with content by the way they curl upwards.
The chamomile and honey combination must have done wonders for the demigod child. He’s glad, a joy that unfurls like tea leaves in his chest, that she’ll be able to sleep full nights at camp.
“Your tea’s starting to chill.”
Luke meets your gaze, irises overlaid with the warm tone of the ceiling lights, the dual beads wrapped around the leather of your necklace glimmering and gold-spun; Midas-touched in the way the sun shines through the veins of dappled leaves.
He threads his hand under the mug’s handle, cradling the warm glass in his cold palm. The tea is amber, the color of dried ichor, spilt godsblood, hazy with the addition of honey and sugar.
“Thanks,” he says, staring at how the liquid eddies with every tilt of his hand. “Chamomile, right?”
You nod, a light hum escaping the column of your throat as you slide into the seat beside Annabeth. You join her in resting your head against the table, watching her at peace, wood lacquer gleaming under your skin in a haze.
“It’s good for sleep. The Demeter kids let me pick some from their gardens,” you say, an offer for him to walk right into your life. “And I made the honey myself.”
“Who’s your parent?” he asks, curiosity an overwhelming tide that flows over him.
“A minor god,” you share, words pungent at the seams, a bite of rind. “Aristaeus. He does beekeeping and handy stuff— Chiron says that it’s close to something called smallholding.”
“You don’t have a cabin, then.” Your expression blooms into a bitter one; Luke didn’t mean for it to come out almost cruel. “Sorry,” he apologizes, stitching a tear before it gets too big.
“It’s okay, I’m used to it. I don’t really wish I had one to be honest, because I’d be alone in there. At least in the Hermes cabin, it’s warm at night ‘cause of everyone’s body heat. You’re a Hermes kid, aren’t you?”
“Yea.” The silence is a break in script so that Luke can finish his cold tea. The glass makes no sound when it’s placed back onto the table, beads of amber liquid distorted at the bottom. “It’s good. Sweet.”
“Annabeth told me that you had a sweet tooth,” you admit, tilting your head up to meet his gaze. His eyes are brown, the shade of toiled, nutrient-rich earth— the kind of soil that’d give year-round growth without tiring.
Luke chuckles under his breath, looking at the aforementioned girl with a swirl of fondness in his irises. “Snitch.”
-✦✦✦-
Two summers pass in a blur. You and Luke are fourteen, Annabeth, nine. She grows in height and prowess, climbing the ranks of the Athena cabin. You hear that they’re planning an election for the next counselor as the current one prepares to leave the nest for college.
“Don’t tell me you grew another two inches overnight,” Luke grumbles when Annabeth bounds up to the two of you. She’s fitted in a bronze chest-plate, blue paint smeared over it, and she grins when the boy tugs at the leather straps. “Wow, I wish I had this for the last game.”
Chiron strolls by, pats Annabeth warmly on the shoulder. “This is a good piece of armor. I can see it serving you well.”
When the centaur is far enough, Luke leans in between you and Annabeth, hand shielding his mouth. “I heard Clarisse’s new spear is electric. Travis got too close last Friday, said it hurt like a—” he looks past your shoulder to make sure Chiron is out of earshot; by the face he makes, wide-eyed and meek, he’s been caught “—ahem, he was out for the rest of the game.”
Annabeth makes a face. “I thought Hermes was Team Red last time. We beat and picked you for the next game, remember?”
“Yea, you did.” You cringe at the reminder, the unhealed bruise on your lower back throbbing purple and dark, a sore reminder of being pushed to the ground by a Dionysus kid. Luke thumbs his brow, the beginnings of a faint white scar carving its way into his skin. He says that he tripped over and cut himself on a prank wire that Travis and his newly-arrived brother had set up, in the middle of friendly territory.
The younger girl says, brows furrowing and lip curled in bewilderment, “Did Clarisse at least get punished? It’s against the rules to attack an ally.”
Luke scoffs lightheartedly, rubbing slim fingers over his knuckles. They’re bruised from hand-to-hand practice, little blushing peaks of tendon and bone. “Travis was just making a big deal out of it, you know how he is.”
You hum a note of agreement. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he knocked himself out on purpose every time Hermes had to play with Ares.”
“I think he’s been out— or at least let himself get captured— three of the last five times we’ve played Red.”
“No way. He should’ve been on dishwashing duty instead of me! I say ‘fuck’ once and I’m arms deep in lava, he cheats out of Flag and gets pampered in the infirmary?”
“That’s because Chiron caught you saying it in front of a six-year-old,” Luke laughs, jostling your shoulder with his, warmth pressing into your side. His lips are peeled all the way back in a grin, eyes crescent slivers of joy and lashes brushing soft against his sun-drunk freckles. Like shimmering crow’s feathers.
You manage to wrap an arm loosely around his neck, holding him in a headlock that you know he can easily worm his way out of, knuckles finding home against his scalp. Annabeth looks towards the sky in exasperation, rolling her leather cord in her fingers, the two beads clacking against her father’s ring. “And who was it that swept my feet out, huh?”
“Oh please, you knew you were going to lose, champ.”
“‘Champ’ this, ‘champ’ that— just wait ‘til my bees get their stingers in you, Castellan, just you wait.”
-✦✦✦-
“Did you…” Luke trails off, like the wispy end of twine after being pulled too tight, stretched too wide. A clear snap in the middle, two limp pieces of string; one for before the war, one for the aftermath.
He shifts a little in the bed, sheets crinkling paper-like, wound dressing gone save for the little sticky spots of honey and medical-grade adhesive. His mouth clicks damp when he opens it again. “Was I loved?”
“Very.”
-✦✦✦-
A quarter-mile off from the Big House is the Big Shed (real funny name, hilarious, in fact), smack-dab in the middle of the verdant strawberry fields. The wood panels are painted robin’s egg, the same shade as the house, blue in the way the sky passes over camp during high noon.
It’s spacious, interior lacquered dark, cobwebs in the corners gleaming like star-spun gold when you creak the door open on a midwinter dawn. Luke yawns from behind you.
“Don't know why it’s called the ‘Big Shed’ when it’s more like a ‘Mid-Sized Cottage,’” he says, voice already creaking at the edges with puberty. He’s already gained a few inches too. “If you packed them like sardines, you could fit all the unclaimed and minor gods’ kids in here.”
“You mention this to anyone and I’ll be the one attacking allies next flag day. Chiron’s letting me use the shed for beekeeping and stuff, I don’t need a would-be Ares wrecking it up.”
“You have an unusual animosity towards the Ares cabin,” Luke tells you, swaying around in the wide space.
The dust suspended in the air shines white, luminated by the sunlight streaming in through the two windows built into the shed-slash-cottage; it coats him in a sharp and angelic glow, like exposure and brightness turned too high on a developing photo.
“Annabeth taught you that word, didn’t she?” you sigh, flipping an old lance in the corner, using the butt-end of it to take down the spun-gold webs. “I only dislike Ares’ kids because they go for your ankles with the blade’s flat side. Makes them bruise, and then you can’t run very fast the next game.”
“Aw, poor you. Need me to kiss it better, champ?” he says with sarcasm dripping off the honeycomb of his voice, holding the sheathed end of his sword to bat at the ceiling corners.
“If you’re fine with licking the blood-n-sweat-soaked heel of my sock, then feel free to go wild, Castellan.”
It’s easy to be with Luke; oftentimes, you find that your breaths fall into perfect step with his. Even if one or the other of you goes a little faster, your beats still match, syncopation; a musician could keep a time signature or compose a romantic waltz to it, whichever of the two.
Luke breaks the silence first, cracks it in the middle like spiderwebbed ice under the quicksilver blades of a skater. “I’m…going on a quest. I’ll be gone by the time spring ends and come back in the summer.”
“Oh.” You wish you could say more, but suddenly you’ve become Sisyphus, punished by the divine with the boulder lodged in your throat that is too heavy to push through. All you can manage without the weight crashing down is a stupid, “You’re leaving?”
“Only for a couple months. I thought against it at first, but my dad offered me the quest and I couldn’t refuse,” he shares, sheepishly palming the back of his neck. “I can take care of myself, you know. You don’t need to worry.”
Now that you’re looking at him, somber in the pale morning rays, you can see every second of the fourteen years and ten months eroded onto his face. He looks older than he should be, burdened with the stress of being a demigod.
The light shifts over his features as the sun reaches greater heights, bruised shadows spilling out from the sharp angles that all of Hermes’ children have.
“No,” you stammer, “no, why would I be worried? I know you’re good, better than me, even.”
“Don’t say that. You’re amazing too.” Luke gazes up through his fan of crow’s feather lashes. You don’t miss the way they shine dimly, wet with unshed tears. He laughs through it, blinking quickly as to not let the saline film burst. “You’ll make sure no one steals my bunk though, right? And you’ll burn offerings in my place?”
“Yea,” you breathe, the word condensed into a puff of icy air. It billows white, clouds your vision momentarily in a blizzard-like haze. When you come back from it, Luke is still there in front of you, eyes red, Adam’s apple bobbing in a muddle of emotion. “Course I will. You’d do the same.”
“Thanks,” he whispers. A spot of water falls at his feet, washing away a small dot of the dust that coats the floor. “I’ll bring enough drachmas so that I can Iris Message you whenever I’m safe.”
“You better. When you’re back, we can hang out in here. I’ll have a proper beehive outside by then, and I’ll borrow a loom and a spinner from the Athena cabin so I can teach you how to make yarn. We can weave a blanket together for Annabeth in time for fall,” you muse, to which Luke smiles at the thought, soft like the snow that blankets Thalia’s evergreen needles.
“Threatening me with a good time, champ? I might just want to come back in one piece.”
You breeze past the joke, taking a gliding step towards him, closing the gap, bridging the abyss. You both crumple to the floor entangled in each other’s arms, your head pressed underneath the jut of his chin.
The three painted beads of his necklace tickle your lashes. From here, with your forehead against the column of his neck, you can feel how his jugular pulses faster with the pump of blood that keeps him alive. The wandering point of your nose, a compass, finds its true north in the hollow between his collarbones; Luke curls closer, words unspoken, the tracing shapes of his fingers against your back a promise in a language only the two of you understand.
-✦✦✦-
“I have this feeling,” he confesses suddenly, years into the future, soil-rich irises soaked in hope. “That we’re like opposite poles of the same magnet. Like I’ve seen you in a dream that I can’t really remember or you’re a face that I’ll always look for in a crowd. You know what I mean?”
-✦✦✦-
Silence in a hazy dawn, lit by the midwinter sun, dust angels dancing around your melded frames on the floor. Then—
“I’ll wait for you.”
It’s all he needs to cup your face, place his lips on your temple. Luke lets himself be selfish just this once, the bitterness in his chest simmering down as if you’re the dying flame controlling its boil. You leave a kiss on the corner of his jaw, just underneath the thin lobe of his ear where the sun shines through it and paints his neck a blushing red.
( To Luke, it’s a blessing from you, worth far more than his father’s. )
He doesn’t need to say I love you, nor do you. You both know it already, like a forgotten dream resurfacing at the right time, déjà rêvé.
-✦✦✦-
“Yea,” you breathe, the words diffusing through the still air of the Mid-Sized Cottage. The beehive outside buzzes excitedly, a light breeze from an open window twanging at the wool fibers hung taunt on the spinning wheel, brushing over the empty loom, its return to the Athena cabin long overdue. “I know the feeling.”
♫ — kokomo (though it may not last, just know that i’ll be here longing)
Luke keeps his promise, comes back the next summer now fifteen years old with a dragon’s claw in his fist. A scar runs from his eye like a tear track, splits his cheek, a single bolt of lightning.
He wades through the whispers and rumors, swims through the crowd in a straight shot to the cabin so that he can flop onto the bunk you saved for him and drift off in a dream about weaving looms and wool blankets.
You jump up when the entire cabin cheers as he walks through the doors, silhouetted by the midsummer rays. Luke sees that you’ve changed too, a little wiser, spine a bit longer, eyebags deeper and new scars littering your fingers like a healing constellation.
Later you open your palm, a bead resting in the bed of your flesh like a pearl in an oyster— he pulls you close by the waist into a corner and kisses you in earnest thanks, for getting an extra bead for him and for saving his bunk, the offerings, the messages, your love.
“I took in a new hive,” you whisper to him that night, cradled under the feather-soft down of his duvet. His knuckles brush over your scars, like five little Halfblood Hills blushed pink with dusk scraping at a star-freckled sky. “They make a habit of stinging. And then it gets itchy after.”
( You’d told him sheepishly during an Iris Message that you’d given up your own bunk to a little kid no older than four; he had just smiled sweetly, knowing you could never resist a child’s puppy eyes.
You can sleep in my bunk, Luke had told you, shimmering crystalline in the rainbow’s refraction, prismatic. It’s one way to make sure no one steals it. And when I get back, it won’t be so cold at night.
Didn’t realize you were such a flirt, Castellan.
You remember that he had winked, cheeky, like he was the male lead of some Hallmark romcom. It’s the natural Hermes charm, champ. )
-✦✦✦-
You’re tracing the soft pink outline of his scar when it hits you like a freight train. You realize then that he’s changed, gone through some kind of metamorphosis during his quest; it had been so subtle and overarching that it’d completely washed over you for a good couple of weeks; the occurrences had become so common, unremarkable and predictable like a flock of geese flying south for the winter that you hadn’t thought anything of it.
It’s not like you don’t understand that people change as time ticks on.
You know that your skin has started to prickle with cactus needles as your abilities grew with the increase in risk; Annabeth’s behavior is trending on the moody side with every new camper, waiting still for the day she can prove herself— she likes coffee now too; hell, even Clarisse calms down, temper dimming down to a low, simmering boil.
And Luke…. Call it intuition, hypothesis, whatever— you only know, a fact engraved so deep in your dermis that it punctures muscle and scrapes bone, that something’s wrong. But you trust, still, that you both will hang on, hold fast, brave the storm like all the heroes that came before you.
But the thing is, heroes don’t live happy. Perseus will turn himself to stone with the very weapon that bestowed upon him glory; Heracles will die deceived, betrayed by the unwitting hand of his lover; Achilles will perish in a ruined city, the indestructible man shattered by something so little and insignificant as a spear-pointed arrowhead.
Heroes don’t live happy, but Luke isn’t a hero.
You know this, a memory from the night he came back, woven in the dark warmness of the Hermes cabin, a tapestry of sleep-mussed mumbles.
You remember how he woke with a bare, rattling gasp, the raw and sandpaper-dry tremble of it reminding you of the sound that people make when they’re close to death.
“I failed,” he whispers into your skin when the rush of it ebbs, a sanctuary of truth. Luke swallows gasps between his words. “I wasn’t ready, wasn’t strong enough. He sent me to Hesperides, y’know? Told me about the apples, said that if I could get one for him, he’d share it with me.”
You hum in sympathy— a comforting hymn, balm against a bruise, kissing it better— thread your fingers through his hair and watch how the moonlight shines on the black strands. White and black, a sneer of ink on parchment by a careless hand.
“You wanted immortality from it?”
“No,” he says, quieter, a little wet sound wrenching from his throat, and you know, in a reminiscent daze, that this’ll be the last you see of him like this, vulnerable. “I just wanted to see if he’d still be proud of me.”
Luke isn’t a hero, and the whole of camp knows this, locks it away in their Pandora’s box of open secrets. But Luke isn’t happy either, so the habit you’ve grown of burning extra offerings never dies.
You think of it as a cumulative toast, of sorts, to the gods that never cared, hopes mixed into the divine ash like poison in wine.
-✦✦✦-
Luke disappears midway through the field trip to Olympus. Your fingertips are left cold in your coat pockets despite the crackling energy generated by Zeus’ domain, and it’s not until later in the elevator ride down do they warm up again.
He slips through the gaps to fill the one beside you, slides his hand into your pocket and twines your fingers together; you don’t miss how his sword-calloused palm pops with static at the contact with your skin. You ignore it and try not to flinch at the quick, needle-like pierce of pain.
“Sorry, I had to use the bathroom. Ate something bad at breakfast,” he murmurs, leaning into your side to kiss your cheek, curls brushing against your temple. Luke rests an arm along the horizon of your shoulders, slim fingers toying with your leather cord, watching how the seven beads— two more than his own— slide back and forth on the string.
“Do they even have toilets up there?” you whisper, amusement bleeding into the corners of your voice. “Ambrosia and nectar don’t really get digested normally, so I just assumed that gods never really needed to poop unless they did it on purpose.”
“You’re right,” he says between breathy laughs, wispy with the winded heaves of his chest, “Zeus probably wouldn’t look so high and mighty if everyone saw him hunched over in the middle of a shit. And to answer your question, the seats are solid gold.”
“Absolute insanity.”
-✦✦✦-
Percy Jackson is a sprightly boy of twelve, everything about him cool-toned in the way the sun shines and refracts under the sea’s waves. When Grover stumbles into camp dragging the demigod by the armpits, shouting of Minotaur horns and flipped cars and moms dissolving into clouds of ichor-hued dust, people obviously take interest. Especially Annabeth. And on a sourer note, Clarisse too.
Even Luke, who’d been in a deeply sullen mood, had turned his face up to the angle where the light played over his eyes just right, irises shining a liquid gold, amber and gilded, Midas-touched with something you’d only learned to identify as a revelation.
What kind, you weren’t sure, but it stung as badly as taking in a new hive, to know that your efforts to cheer him up were undermined by something as commonplace as a new arrival.
Though, you swear to yourself then that you don’t hate Percy for that. You get where he’s coming from, the sinking feeling of neglection because he’s unclaimed, the anger that comes with it; you know, too well, how it feels to think you’re unwanted. You’ve been in his shoes for your first year and a half at camp.
But then he gets claimed by Poseidon, and that summer, Luke leaves for good. It’s a flash of events, like a too-fast slideshow that you can’t take notes on or a seconds-long flipbook that took months to complete; you recognize the familiarity of an out-of-body experience when reminiscing about a memory you can’t really remember, the alien tang of it bitter on your tongue.
They talk of his betrayal for months, about how he had tried to kill Percy and his siding with the Titans; the gathering clouds draw close to Thalia’s tree, a promise of a storm and the coming war, a warning to the lightning thief.
You’ve accepted, another fact carved deep enough to shatter bone, pierce your heart, that Luke made a choice, the wrong one; you convince yourself that you made the right one by not blaming Percy for the stares and the whispers, the shoulder-checking and glares that scream about your suspiciousness.
Still, you keep his bed in Cabin 11, burn extra offerings in his place, check the Big House’s fountain for missed Iris Messages. Hope is a bitter thing, like poison in wine. You had swallowed it down anyways.
♫ — be sweet (make it up to me and know it’s better)
“Where do you go at night?” Luke asks, swathed in his red knit sweater. The weather’s gotten colder still, a far cry from the humidity that had rolled a suffocating blanket over Manhattan on the eighteenth of August— the day he came back to you. His fingers tap a song on the glass in his hands.
“What d’you mean by that?” you deflect, spine shaped gentle in a curve as you sit at the spinning wheel, wool slipstreaming between your deft fingers.
The device makes a soft sound, a shh shh that comes with each press of your foot on the pedal, like a mother hushing a child to sleep. It’s a calming song that he’s used to hearing in the in-betweens of the cottage.
( He doesn’t dream, hasn’t been able to since he woke up that day, but sometimes he thinks he can hear it in his sleep, the hush of wool, like the blades of a rippling meadow rubbing together under a blanket of sun or the friction of a cricket song in the quiet summer.
He thinks that once, you told him that you’d teach him how to spin and use a loom, that you’d weave a blanket together for someone special; as far as he knows, it’s only a figment of his imagination used to fill the blank spaces. )
His thumb strokes the glass arch of his mug’s handle, amber liquid trembling with every movement. “You come at sunrise to take care of your bees or spin yarn and tell me stories, bring me meals and sometimes Chiron comes, and then you leave. If this is meant to be your space, then where do you sleep when I use the bed? Are you being forced to sacrifice your time, caring for me?”
“No one’s forcing me to do anything,” you say quickly with no room for insinuation. Luke realizes the absence of the wheel’s shush, you having stopped to fully lend him attention. You sigh, and it’s heavy, a weight that pulls your chest downward with the exhale; he’s reminded of rain catching leaves and how they sink with each drop. “I sleep in Cabin Eleven. There’s someone I’m waiting on to return, and I’m saving a bunk for him.”
“Who?” he gathers the courage to ask. His chest pangs— is this how monsters feel when their physical essence is ripped apart by Celestial Bronze?
You smile, set down the unspun rove of wool, soft like the waking of dawn, bitter grief sewn into the gentle curl of your lip.
“You. I’m waiting for you, and I always have been.” And the pain ebbs away, assuaging the muscle in his ribbed cage of bone.
“You know,” he starts, staring down into the eddy of tea, swirling with sugar and the honey he had helped you make. The words waterfall from his lips, spilling, escaping like fluttering doves, and you listen patiently— that’s what he loves most about you, among other things. “That on the day I went with you to the cabins, I wandered off while you talked to the Apollo kids. There was this girl, tall with curly hair— she pushed me. And then a guy, he had blue eyes and four beads, helped me up.
“He told me that he forgave me, even though I made the wrong choice. He was with another girl, she had black and blonde braids, one was white— she said that I was a good brother, and to stay out of the inner camp until they get everything sorted out.”
“Clarisse, Percy, Annabeth,” you name them in an exhale, pulling your stool over. He thinks, briefly, of cradling you on the floor in the haze of a midwinter dawn. A dance of dust angels to a silent, harmonizing symphony. “That tracks.”
“What did I do to deserve this?” he mumbles, bringing the mug close to his eyeline. Stares from the glass lip into his warbled reflection, studies the scar he can’t remember getting, watches it twist with each watery ripple. Monstrous. “I can’t remember things for a reason— the gods took that away. I angered them, killed people or something, and they let me live at a cost.”
Your chin dips down in something he can only identify as a mix of shame, reluctance, and grief.
“You can’t dream because it’s how—” and then you fade for a moment like a rove spun so thin that the fibers starts to separate “—you were exploited for vulnerabilities. Your memories, the dreams, they’ve been sealed until Olympus stops seeing you as a threat.”
And then Luke looks down at himself; the pills of wool on his red sweater, how the knit cuffs of his sleeves peel away from each other; the thinned knees of his jeans, washed white with use; the striped socks that clad his feet and the scuffed, extremely creased house-shoes he’s shoved them in.
“I don’t see how I’m a threat.”
It makes you laugh in a huff. He nurses the mug, laps at the last residuals as you continue, maintaining sidelong eye contact.
“To start, Kronos visited your dreams and manipulated you into starting the Second Titan War.”
( You don’t even blink twice when Luke sputters into the glass. )
It’s not even the worst of it, because then you tell him, “You were also blackmailed into taking a bath in the River Styx, then you got possessed, almost revived the Titan King, and at the very end you stabbed yourself in the armpit and exorcised him and somehow, you didn’t die instantly so—” you pause to take a deep breath, winded “—they chose to save you and here we are.”
“You’re lying. There’s no way they’d lift a finger to help the same guy who tried to overthrow them.”
“I didn’t believe it either, but Percy was being serious. He vouched for you.”
“No way.”
You clamp your jaw, seal your mouth and give him a pointed look. It’s all raised brows and pursed lips, bunched shoulders and splayed, shrugging hands. And though he’s dyslexic, he can still read body language to know that your expression is telling him, it is what it is.
Luke makes a face regardless, cards a hand through his black hair, fingers catching on the singular white curl he has, like a smear of correction fluid. “Come on, champ, you really believe that the Olympians would bow down to some demigod?”
“I mean,” you manage, and there’s a faraway haze clouding your irises, reminiscent, scar freckled palms scraping his when you pull the empty mug away, “they did to Percy.”
You trace the lip of the glass absently as Luke folds his hands together, twines his fingers so that the pinkened Halfblood Hills of his knuckles form a pale little valley.
“Okay, okay. Say he did,” he sighs, cupping his face in his palms, the pads of his fingers pressing white into his eyes in the way he always does when he has headaches. “But if the ‘me’ before Kronos saw how much better camp is doing, I’d be less inclined to revenge.”
And then the beats click together, syncopation.
“You think, Castellan?”
“I don’t think, champ, I know.”
You smile, genuine this time, and he takes a moment to engrain that into his mind too, the way your mouth curls upward like the peel of an orange, how your eyes crinkle half-mast into little crescent moons, the lines that are drawn onto your face.
He thinks, that in a past life, you must’ve been a mortal that gods and poets and rulers fell for. His Penelope, Hyacinthus, Psyche, Adonis; your Odysseus, Apollo, Eros, lover.
And Luke says, a whisper that fills the space, gold seeping into the cracked clay of your soul, ichor from the veins of a sun, healing in a spiderweb of scars— kintsugi, “I think I loved you in a life before this.”
You hum, the note of it hanging in the air like a maestro’s hand before a symphony. The small faucet in the Mid-Sized Cottage rushes with life when you turn it on, spilling water into the empty glass, a riptide of bubbles like seafoam. You come back, flicking droplets from your hands, and he swears that he sees you reach into your pocket for something.
“You did— but Luke, you aren’t the same without your memories,” you tell him, voice low, and it feels like dying. “You might have loved me then, but do you now?”
He sinks into a moment of the in-betweens, thinks about honey and ichor-hued tea, the cottage, the loom and spinning wheel, how the hush of it quells the ugliness that rears its head on the bad days.
Remembers how his first seconds felt like eternities, how he’s already spent a lifetime and a half with you; he likes it, and the scar on his face burns with secret greed and shame for wanting.
It all echoes around him, some jubilee of the things he knows, remembers, daydreams about. The half-moon crinkle of your eyes, the strawberry fields at dawn, the cricket song on that late summer night when you stayed in the cottage for once, the silence of your foot lifting off the pedal to listen, and how he wishes to pour all this and more into a flask, get drunk on it every night and feel the high of your kisses.
You extend your hand to him, scars and old sting-marks freckling your skin like a constellation, an untold story that he wants to dive into and never leave.
Cradled in the bed of your palm are two leather cords. One with five beads, the paint flecking off at the edges, and the other blank like a piece of notebook paper ready to be scribbled on, a tale waiting to be written.
Luke folds the first around his wrist and loops the second over his head. He gets the feeling that he’s been here before.
“May I?” You nod and he reaches the pads of his fingers hesitantly to graze the cord that’s wrapped around the column of your neck, studies how the autumn rays overlay the eight beads warm and gilded. “I’m sorry for making you wait three years.”
“That’s alright, I’ve forgiven you already.”
He hates himself for the way your voice cracks easily, hooks the red sleeve of his sweater over his thumb to dab at the tears that gather in your eyes, pale flesh peeking through the soft wool stitches.
Luke promises to himself that though the action is just a smear of antibacterial honey on a gaping dagger-wound, he’ll spend his days patching it up if it meant your happiness.
His hands splays out, the fit of his rough palm against the side of your face like laser-cut puzzle pieces that compliment each other perfectly; he pulls you in gently, the guiding rope to a docking boat swathed in river mist, and presses a soft kiss to your temple.
Luke’s lips part, tongue clicking damp when he whispers into the sanctuary of truth that is your skin, “I think I’ll love you in this life too.”
“Yea,” you say, little more than a murmur carried slow in the eddy of air that surrounds the two of you, and you tuck yourself under the jut of his chin, letting the wandering point of your nose find true north again in the hollow of his collarbone. “I know the feeling.”
⤷ post-script; 8.5k words holy… i hope you enjoyed reading this as much as i enjoyed writing it!! if i do write more luke, i'm considering a collection (not series) that just focuses on these two and the in-betweens/before and afters, drawing inspo from jubilee ofc.... as always, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated, i give you permission to respectfully scream at me :)
⤷ taglist (open, pls send an ask to join); @novelizt
pairing: luke castellan x aphrodite!daughter reader
summary: in a universe where soulmates are interlinked by shared pain (senses) and emotions, luke castellan refuses to have anything to do with his soulmate because of what it did to his mother, but he can't ignore fate.
—or: luke castellan and the soulmate he never wanted.
word count: 4.03k
warnings: suppperrr angsty, luke castellan pov, long reading time, descriptive injuries, blood, pre-tlt, luke is a dick, annabeth carries her 5 seconds of screen time, there's no happy thoughts in this whatsoever, slight reader pov during capture the flag, i lowkey messed up but whatever!!
a/n: i wanted to make a cute lil fic for valentines day but uh... that didn't happen. this will definitely be a two (maybe 3) part fic so pls bear with me guys. this is based on this request! (sorry i babe this probably isn't what you expected). i'm working on a tag list! lmk if you wanna be added! make sure your tags are on
Luke Castellan had always known of soulmates, a covenant bestowed by the goddess Aphrodite after Zeus' condemnation. In this tapestry of fate, each person had a counterpart, a soulmate crossing the expanse of the world in search of their other half. Aphrodite offered the assurance as an unspoken promise that no soul would tread the journey of life alone.
It was undeniably a blessing, an ethereal gift from the divine.
However, within the enchanting threads of destiny lay the knots of a curse, a double-edged sword cutting through the hearts of those entangled in its mystic web.
If caught in a love affair with the gods themselves, to have a soulmate is to be cursed.
It is a curse.
To be bound by an unseen force to another being carried the weight of uncertainty. The love meant to be shared might be misplaced, bestowed upon one undeserving of such devotion. The anticipation of finding one's missing half, the yearning for completion, came with the haunting possibility of realizing your soulmate is a terrible person (or a god).
Luke Castellan, haunted by the thought of his own mother's despair, struggled with the contradictory idea of soulmates.
He had witnessed the agony of misplaced trust, the shattered promises of an everlasting bond that crumbled into abandonment. The bitter taste of reality lingered in his memories, and he found solace in mistrust. The once-a-believer had been wounded by the fickleness of fate, and the shards of shattered hopes had left him jaded.
For Luke, the concept of soulmates had become a distant echo, a melody drowned in the clamour of broken vows. The elaborate dance of destiny, with its promises of eternal love, had left him disillusioned and wary.
The mere thought sends shivers down his spine. There was a time when the uncertainty of meeting his soulmate fueled his excitement, the prospect of finding the one who could empathize with his scars and decipher the intricate labyrinth of his thoughts. But it all crumbled under the weight of bitter revelations. It was all from a time before he understood the depths of his father's betrayal of his once hopeful mother.
May Castellan, who, like her son, had yearned for the embrace of a soulmate, had fallen victim to the callous actions of the gods, of Hermes. The invisible bond that tethered her to a true soulmate, forever elusive, disintegrated into ash as Hermes, with deceitful promises, claimed her love, gave her a child, and then abandoned her.
Hermes, in the eyes of Luke, was never deserving of the love May once held for him. The curse woven by him and Aphrodite condemned not only May but every parent of Half-Bloods, forcing them to lose their soulmates the moment they fell for a god unbeknownst to them. A life of loneliness, unless deemed worthy of a second chance.
The wicked curse that hangs like a shadow. Luke harbours a desire to curse each deity responsible, yearning to reverse the relentless march of time and rescue his mother from the clutches of an ill-fated love. His gut turns to spare himself from the knowledge that his soulmate is burdened with every ache in his bones, every cut against his skin, every burn etched into his soul, and all the hatred festering within his heart.
A bound linkage to someone unseen, someone he wishes never to encounter, so he can evade the piercing gaze that would reflect the damage he unwittingly wrought upon their shared destiny. The very thought of this entwined fate, tinged with regret and resentment, casts a dark pall over Luke's existence.
He had never desired to cross paths with you, and he dreaded the thought of it, actually. And now, in the cruel twist of fate, he is intimately acquainted with every nuance of your existence. The touch of your hands lingers on his skin, your smile etches itself into his mind, and he has meticulously memorized every curl and detail of your hair.
Luke hates himself because of it.
Even before he met you, he sensed the gentleness that resonated within your heart during the quiet hours of the night. In the shadows of darkness, he felt the healing energy from you, mending his wounds with an invisible touch. The cuts on Luke's skin were yours as much as they were his. The unspoken link between your souls allowed him to witness the subtle acts of kindness, and Luke grapples with the conflict between the soft purity he perceives in your heart and the darkness he knows resides within his own.
Luke reluctantly admits that meeting you has broken down the barriers he built against the concept of soulmates. He sought refuge in the hectic pace of camp life, immersing himself in caring for the needs of others and teaching classes nonstop. The hope was to drown out the impending meeting, to avoid the inevitable collision with the person he believes is destined for a lifetime of torment, told to love a fractured soul like his own.
He battles against the current of fate, fearing that he, like his father, will ruin someone deserving of far more than what he is willing to give. Luke Castellan, with his decaying and rotten heart, grapples with the impossibility of being loved the way a soulmate should be.
Luke used to avoid the infirmary as if it were a contagious plague. He observed other campers entering with the innocent thoughts of treating their injuries, only for some (most) to depart, hands entwined with another camper bearing matching scars.
At Camp Half-Blood, discovering your soulmate was a rare alignment of stars and celestial threads. However, if one dared to tread the delicate line of hope the best place to look in was the sanctuary where most children of Apollo thrived—the infirmary, a haven where wounds were healed, and the whispers of shared pain lingered in the air.
Knowing himself, Luke carried the confidence that his soulmate must be among the group who spent hours of the day in the infirmary. The persistent pain in his body, a result of late-night training sessions when the cloak of darkness allowed him to unleash a more violent, heartless side with his sword, left an indelible mark on his consciousness.
If he aches, you ache with him.
And as you used to pass your days with the intent of healing, he embarked on a self-destructive journey. Rest remained elusive, sleep a forgotten companion, all of it was a relentless chase of distraction from you before even meeting you. It was excessive, and he knew it.
The awareness that he shared hurting wounds and silent pain with a soulmate haunted him long before he set foot in camp. But the realization of you being so close scared him, and it came swiftly when the first breath of the air in the camp seemed to carry a lighter touch than anywhere else, his bruises throbbed less, and the sting of cuts transformed into a light buzz, resonating with the rhythmic pound of his heart. He was fourteen years old when he realized his soulmate wasn't as far away as he thought.
Yet, despite this, Luke avoided any acknowledgment of you. He dismissed the whispers from those who bore similar bloody knuckles or heard rumours of others awakening with jabs on their arms, reminiscent of his own accidental self-inflicted cuts while sharpening his sword. The passage of time at camp became a delicate dance of evasion, each day spent in a fervent hope to remain blissfully unaware of the person who mirrored his wounds and pain.
Driven by guilt and fear, Luke deliberately sidestepped any potential encounters with his soulmate. His days were crafted meticulously to maintain this distance.
And it worked.
At least for a while.
Until the fatal return to camp after a failed quest, a burden placed on him by his father. Hopes and ambitions lay crushed and battered, and Luke's spirit shrunk from the pitiful gazes of other campers and the wallowing anger toward his father grew.
Annabeth ushered him to the infirmary the moment she laid eyes on him.
And for once, Luke never fought her against it.
There, in the quiet confines of the healing haven, Luke sat in a vulnerable silence. His head hung low as an older Apollo child skillfully stitched up the wound on the side of his face, wrapping it to keep it from infections as it healed. By then, tears had become a rarity for Luke, but that night was an exception. When the son of Apollo left the cabin, he could feel them stream down his cheeks, the ache in his chest returning as he sobbed into his hands.
At that moment, he felt like a child again, hiding in his bedroom, hiding anywhere he could; under his bed, in his closet, locked in the bathroom. He only ever wanted his mom. He was scared, fear gripped him, in his heart, and he wanted his mom to hold him and reassure him that everything was okay and that the monsters were only from the stories. That they'd never hurt him. But May Castellan was the one who-
"You're Luke, right?"
He was snapped back to the present as he heard the soft voice, a gentle interruption to the echoes of his past. A pair of old shoes appeared at the foot of his bed, their white socks and lace trim capturing his attention.
Initially, he assumed it might be a random camper stuck on bed rest offering words of encouragement or recognition for his efforts on the quest. Maybe even a pat on the back. However, the soothing tone and genuine concern prompted his clenched fists to uncoil.
Luke looked up with rosy cheeks and glossy eyes, unable to hide the traces of his tears. There you stood, the toe of your right shoe tracing patterns on the floor.
Despite the weariness, a glimmer of hope shone in your eyes as you tilted your head and softly spoke his name again.
The world seemed to... stop. Luke felt himself sinking into the soft mattress, softer than the one on his bed in Hermes' cabin. Tunnel vision enveloped him, rendering him oblivious to the lingering ache on the side of his face, the lingering humiliation, and even his festering hatred toward his father. For that fleeting second, he was acutely aware of nothing but you and the rhythm of his heart, pounding against his ribcage.
He tried to stop staring, but it was difficult. Your eyes, filled with curiosity, roamed across his face, and his figure, before finally settling on his gaze. Luke felt the pull, a silent exchange. You raised your chin ever so slightly, an uncertain smile etched on your lips as if grappling with the urge to ease his pain without knowing how.
Luke couldn't help but think that you were the most beautiful person he had ever seen.
"Hi." You say, voice quiet. It felt familiar, and Luke found himself sitting up, his body finally coaxed back to life. A soft wave accompanied your introduction, and you shared your name.
He repeated it, savouring the sound of it. Luke nodded, clearing his throat before finally acknowledging, "Yeah, I'm Luke." As you looked at him, a sense of familiarity lingered in your gaze, prompting him to question, "Have we met before?"
Considering the number of Half-Bloods at camp, he might have seen you in passing and might have heard your name in others' conversations. He wasn't surprised when you shook your head. "No, I don't think so. Not officially at least."
Gratitude flooded him as you refrained from prying into his well-being or questioning the details of his quest. It was as if you inherently knew not to press him. Yet, there was an undeniable shift in your demeanour.
It only took a few more seconds for it to click.
Alarms started to ring in Luke's head as you tucked strands of hair behind your ears, revealing your full face. A jolt of realization struck him like a punch to the stomach. His gaze fixated not on you but on the healing stitches adorning the right side of your face — eerily similar to the ones he had recently received, wrapped and hidden to ward off infections.
His stare shifted from you to the delicate ridges of your skin, where the cut appeared in far better condition than his own. A pang of bitterness surfaced as he realized you had tended to your injury promptly, unlike him, a failure who had journeyed back to camp shrouded in defeat, covered in grime, sweat, blood, and tears.
Your cut would heal nicely, leaving behind a faint scar visible only under the summer sun's ray in the camp. Meanwhile, Luke knew his own would bear the mark of an ugly scar, a haunting reminder of his losses, of his anger, of how he hated pieces of himself and every piece of the gods. But in between, Luke liked to think of how in the summer months, your matching scars would serve as a silent testament to your contrasting yet interlinked connection as...
Oh.
Oh, no.
You seemed on the verge of saying something, brows creased, a nervous laugh bubbling within you, but Luke avoided meeting your eyes. The unspoken sentiment hung in the air, clear as day, and he didn't need you to say it.
He could almost picture you then, collapsing, your skin tearing as Ladon dug his claws into Luke's face. The echoes of your screams intertwined with his own, and the lingering pain painted a vivid tapestry of shared suffering. It struck him — you never deserved the consequences of his failed quest.
The weight of having Luke as a soulmate felt like an inescapable curse, a burden you never asked for. It was a curse he never wanted to bestow upon anyone, especially you. In the sheer minutes of meeting you, he already felt that you deserved better.
The day had already unravelled into a series of unfortunate events — a failed quest, pitiful glances, and now, an encounter with a soulmate. While others might interpret this moment of fate as the gods offering forgiveness for his quest's failure, Luke perceived it as a cruel mockery. The gods, it seemed, were determined to make him hate them.
When his eyes finally met yours, he was taken aback by the kindness reflected in them. There was no trace of hatred, despite the bodily harm he had indirectly inflicted upon you. A part of him hoped that, in time, you would come to despise him enough for Aphrodite to redirect the course of your fate, steering you toward a soulmate other than Luke.
But she didn't.
And he refused to talk to you since.
When he woke up the next morning, you were there, sitting by the bed nearby, reading a book quietly. When you saw him awake, already looking your way, you seemed to brighten in a way that he could think the sun looked like until he met you. Before you could say anything, he turned the other way.
You got the hint and let Luke settle with the newfound information placed upon the two of you. You gave him time. Surely, he'd come around eventually.
But hours turned to days, and days turned to weeks and you were sure he could feel the way your heart sank every time he'd leave the room the moment you entered. He never gave you a chance.
Luke was being an asshole and he knew it. But it was complicated and the root of it all made his head spin. You started to cloud his judgement and change his beliefs, and he'd only spoken three words to you at most. What kind of sick and twisted fate was this?
Before, glimpses of you were brief and fleeting, mere blurs in the edge of Luke's attention. He could have sworn he spotted you in the company of Silena Beauregard and Piper McLean, and that led him to assume that you were, ironically, a daughter of Aphrodite.
But now, you seemed to be everywhere, appearing in every corner of camp.
You were there by the strawberry fields when he searched for solace. At the lake, you were teaching the youngest campers how to swim, a nurturing figure amidst the laughter and splashes. Even at the Dining Pavilion, he couldn't escape the proximity of you and your friends, sitting so close to his own table.
Luke pretended not to notice the soft smile you sent his way, a silent plea for acknowledgment. Instead, he rose abruptly. Luke retreated to the ritual of burning offerings without uttering a word and left, ignoring the way your eyes followed.
The ache in his chest intensified with each passing moment, and it made him wonder if he could die from the heartache of avoiding his soulmate. Surely, it wouldn't kill him, Luke told himself, his mother was still alive, wasn't she?
Throughout late spring and into the swelting days of summer, you saved time to break through Luke's walls, to get him to talk to you. You couldn't fathom the idea of having a soulmate so near, let alone hate for reasons unknown to you.
One day, you cornered him admits the chaos of Capture the Flag, the end of your sword at his chest. Up close, he noticed the subtle differences in your demeanour - the determination hidden beneath your helmet, the armour wrapped tightly around you, the clinking of metal as you moved.
Instinctively, Luke reached for his sword.
But to his surprise, you made no move to attack. You only wanted to talk.
"There's nothing to say," Luke shrugged, his tone guarded. "Unless you want to surrender your flag."
"That's not what I want to talk about," you countered, your voice firm yet tinged with an edge of annoyance. It was a change from the shy and nervous tone you had shown in the infirmary months ago, or during your previous attempts to confront him.
He shifted uncomfortably, his grip tightening on the handle of his sword. You removed your helmet and placed it by your feet, the vibrant red feathers stark against the lush green grass, and you rose to your full height and met Luke's gaze.
"Luke," You started.
"No," he interjected, defensive as if the mere sound of your voice threatened to unravel him completely.
"I didn't even say anything."
"I know what you're going to say."
You tilted your head in a gesture of inquiry. "I thought you said there was nothing to talk about?"
Your words seemed to fall on deaf ears as Luke withdrew his sword, taking a step back to maintain distance between you. With a firm grip on his weapon, he pointed it in your direction, it clashed against the blade of your own, a warning to keep your distance.
Undeterred, you persisted, unwilling to let him slip away without a fight. "You're my soulmate, Luke."
He shook his head dismissively. "You don't know that."
In response, you scoffed, pointing to the thin line that mirrored the scar he hid beneath his helmet. "I don't?" you countered, your tone laced with incredulity.
Your scar had indeed healed beautifully over the summer, unaffected even by the harsh rays of the sun. It adorned your face like a badge of resilience, a mark of strength that Luke couldn't help but envy. To him, it only served as a reminder of his own perceived flaws - a source of insecurity and self-doubt.
"You can't keep ignoring me," you persisted, taking a step closer to him, your determination unwavering. "At least tell me why. I don't blame you for the pain you've caused, Luke. So, stop looking so guilty when you see me."
Luke remained stubborn, his resolve unyielding. Without warning, he lunged at you, his sword poised to strike.
Startled, you stumbled back, your own sword drawn instinctively in defence. While your prowess with a sword may not have been the greatest, you held your own, maintaining a defensive stance against his relentless onslaught.
"Why are you so against it?" you pressed, your voice tinged with frustration. "Do you not believe in soulmates? What are you so afraid of?"
Luke grunted in response, pulling back when you pushed him away, his expression unreadable as he turned his back to you.
Left standing there, feeling utterly hopeless, you tightened your grip on your sword, its weight heavy in your hand. "Is it me?" you questioned softly, the weight of rejection bearing down on you.
To be rejected by a soulmate was a rare occurrence, one usually shrouded in untold reasons and unspoken pain. Yet, as Luke kicked your sword away and forced you to surrender for the remainder of the game, compelling you to raise a white flag in defeat, you couldn't shake the nagging doubt that perhaps Aphrodite had been mistaken.
Luke had seen it reflected in your eyes – that deep-seated fear of being unwanted. It was a fear he knew all too well, one that had haunted him every time he caught his own reflection in the mirror. However, you never brought yourself to believe in a mistaken fate, clinging to the hope instilled in you by your mother's unwavering faith.
You signed up for counsellor activities you don't usually take on, hoping for a chance to engage with Luke, but time and again, it was Chris who appeared in his place, offering apologetic smiles and half-assed excuses for Luke's disappearances. As a last resort, you left a note attached to the sheath of his sword.
He had found it hours after sword practice, long after the clang of blades had ceased and the eager shouts of campers had faded into the twilight. The training grounds lay deserted, bathed in the soft hues of the setting sun as its golden rays cast long shadows across the empty expanse. He looked for you in his surroundings, but you were nowhere to be found.
In the note, you'd asked him to meet you by the lake the next full moon. You pleaded for an opportunity to talk, no snarky comments, no sarcastic jabs, no running away. You only wanted to understand why he had been avoiding you. You told him you'd wait for him by the dock.
And you did.
The moon cast its light upon the waters, and you waited patiently, the soft ripples of the lake lapping gently at the shore. The night air was cool and crisp, carrying with it a hint of anticipation that mingled with the rustle of leaves in the nearby trees. You hugged yourself tightly, a futile attempt to ward off the chill that crept beneath your skin.
Hours passed in silence, the passage of time marked only by the soft murmur of the water and the distant call of nocturnal creatures. Yet, despite the solitude that enveloped you, you remained steadfast in your guard, your determination (or perhaps stubbornness) unwavering.
Luke stood by the shadows of the treeline, clutching the note you had left tightly between his fingers. From there, he watched you sitting alone by the docks, a lone silhouette against the moonlit expanse of the lake. He felt a pang of guilt tug at his heart as he watched you shiver in the night breeze, the weight of your unspoken words hanging heavy in the air.
For a fleeting moment, he contemplated approaching you, the urge to bridge the growing chasm between you almost overwhelming. Yet, as uncertainty clouded his thoughts, he hesitated, paralyzed by his own insecurities and fears.
In the end, Luke made his choice. With a heavy heart, he tossed the note, watching as it fluttered to the ground. With a sigh, he turned and retreated into the darkness, seeking solace in the shelter of Hermes's cabin, leaving you by the water's edge.
He knew then that he'd been right: to have a soulmate is to be cursed, and you eventually were to realize that you cannot love a fractured soul like his own, even if it was what the Fates had in store for you, it only led to despair.
summary: after a rough turnout of the quest assigned to you, you began to see your ex-boyfriend as the poison slowly kills you.
warnings: angst, post luke betrayal, poisoning, mentions of effects of poison
a/n: so sorry, was taking a slight break on requests for this fic and the fic series that is in the works. I promise i will answer the requests at some point.
—– ٠ ✤ ٠ —–· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • · —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —–
“Medic!” The door to the medical cabin slammed open. The door knob made a hole in wooden walls at Demeter’s strength. “Will…”
She rasped out, carrying your dead weight. Your breath coming in short bursts as if your lungs couldn’t hold any more air. Veins darkened to the color of night, crawling up your flesh like a parasite itching to take over the host.
“Oh my gods…” Will Solace, head counselor of Apollo Cabin, gasped and helped you onto one of the uncomfortable cots.
You were mumbling nonsense as black liquid dribbled out of your mouth. Will called out your name, desperately trying to grab your attention. Annabeth was standing over you, concerned.
“Oh gods! Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods!” The other Apollo kid on duty piped up, scrambling to find the ambrosia. It was scary how you looked.
It was like something from the Underworld took hold of your body. There was a puncture wound on your abdomen, which was the probable entrance for the poison.
“Hey, hey—stay conscious for me, okay?” Will spoke as your vision began to get cloudy. He can see you withering away and demanded for information.
“Will…” You managed to croak out. Your friend looked at you with worry, to see the brightest camper succumb to an unknown illness was…bone-chilling.
“Don’t sleep—just don’t black out.” Will muttered as you tasted your favorite fruits as ambrosia slid down your throat easily. “Please…I don’t know if you’ll wake up—”
You were out like a light. The ambrosia combating the poison overwhelmed your body. It was too much for your mind to even find a sliver of energy to try and stay conscious.
Your name was shouted, but sleep pulled you away from the medical cabin and throwing you into a different scene.
It was dark, like you were walking in an empty void. “Judgement.”, you think. You must’ve died and was waiting to get judged on whether you can enter Elysium or not.
What a shitty death. Dying from poison, it wasn’t hero worthy nor significant to a war. Just death to some ghastly poison that you were careless to figuring out what it was.
But…it’s not Judgement. It’s not because you see him. He’s walking around in clothes you last remember him in. Orange Camp Half-Blood shirt, khaki pants and sneakers. The beads on his necklace moving each time he walked.
You know he isn’t dead. He Iris-messaged you yesterday to apologize for his betrayal. He can’t be dead. You wouldn’t have it.
“Luke!” You tried to call out, but no sound is made from your mouth. It terrified you. You tried to scream your lover’s (ex-lover’s) name again as you saw claws wrap around Luke from the ground and drag him in.
You tried to scream his name again, running to him, but your legs felt like sludge. He stared at you indifferently, accepting his reality—maybe…maybe just maybe you could save him if you run fast enough.
He slipped between your fingers. His chocolate curls disappearing into the floor of whatever abyss you’re in. You let out a silent, dry sob. If…if you had just noticed sooner…you could’ve saved him.
The same hands wrap around your limbs, tugging you down into the floor. Crying out for help, your heart tightened as if someone had a grip on it—squeezing ever last bit of life out. A sharp pull engulfed you into the void.
You gasped deeply. Body launching forward as you grabbed at your chest. You expected the familiar wood floors of the medical cabin or even Will’s warm smile, but…you were on Half-Blood Hill.
Soft, calloused hands were gently placed in your spine. It doesn’t take an Athena kid to figure out who it was.
“You alright?” His deep warm tone filled your head making yourself dizzy. For moment…you allowed yourself to believe he was here, truly.
“Yeah.” You spoke, surprised to hear your voice again. What happened before becoming less and less memorable as you turned to look at Luke.
“You can tell me, y’know? What’s bothering you.” Luke reassured and tucked a piece of hair behind your ear.
A familiar smile graces your lips, allowing yourself to relax, you lean up against his chest. “I know.” You mumbled as his toned arms wrap around you. “I just…miss you.”
“Miss me? I’m hardly ever away from you.” Luke playfully teased.
The breeze blew against the two of you causing Luke to squeeze you a little tighter. You always claimed he was a human body heater.
Everything dropped. Faded in an all too quick manner before you could even scream for Luke. He was ripped away from you—but you were supposed to be in his arms.
“Hey! She’s up!” Someone called out.
You mind felt fuzzy. Mumbles, moans and groans tumbled out of your lips. You felt like you were outta your own skin—you jerked. Uncomfortable with this sudden irritation.
Annabeth yelped. The sudden reaction from you almost hit her in the face. Another groan of discomfort and pain escaped. Accompanied by it was another struggle to get whatever was out of your body.
To you, it felt like you were shifting a little to get comfortable. In reality, your body was violently twitching and reacting you hit a few Apollo kids. The veins darker than before, your skin paler than usual. What did this poison do?
“Get her—restrain…I—” Will demanded, worried you’d end up hurting yourself.
You screamed as something grabbed you, someone grabbed you. Your brain could only register it as danger and hurt and agony and—
“Stop it—!” You begged. Your voice sounded demented, as if it was the poison talking.
Black liquid oozed out of your mouth as you begged for whatever to stop. Ambrosia was forced down your throat. Lights were too bright. The panic was defeating.
You fell.
But you felt no pain.
It was “Judgement” again. The endless void surrounding the distinct figure, you. “There you are…” Luke grinned once he spotted you. Your legs carrying you to the Hermes’ counselor before you could think of the action.
The void morphed into the familiar forest used to play Capture the Flag. Luke laced his hand with yours. “S’just up ahead.” He tugged you along.
Once more, you let yourself relax like this was the reality that fate has set and not one where Luke betrayed Camp, betrayed Percy, betrayed Annabeth, betrayed…you.
“Where are you taking me?” You laughed. A bright smile on your face as you maneuvered through the forest.
Slipping through the trees and branches, Luke brings you to the dock. The water washing up on the small beach.
A small cliche red and white checkered blanket laid out across the wooden dock, masking the potential splinters. There was chips and two soda cans on the blanket and six roses bunched up to make it look like a bouquet.
“Oh Luke…” Any confusion or anger evaporated when you saw the scene.
He smiled, smiled that charming grin and pulled you to sit down on the blanket. “Used up the rest of my money for the snacks and to bargain with a Demeter kid for these.”
He held up the six roses. The petals a delicate red, soft as a baby’s bum. They smelled nice. He went through all this effort for you?
“Luke…” You repeat in the same tone and took the roses from his hand. You noticed the thorns were cut off and a couple of band aids were around his fingers.
A show of his effort to rid the thorns so you didn’t prick your fingers.
“This…this is all wonderful.” You said, albeit a bit breathless. The roses, the snacks, the blanket—all the thought put into this date. It made you forget you were dreaming. You should’ve known…this was too good to be true.
But you stayed oblivious and in denial, tackling your (ex) boyfriend in a grateful hug. Luke laughed and wrapped your arm around your waist.
Yet, your subconscious pulled you from the happy moment. An uncomfortable feeling itching to tear your guts and organs to shreds. It was as if your own organs and nerves did not belong there—like they were in the wrong body. A warbled scream left your throat. Hands desperate to claw at your flesh.
You wanted it to stop—you would do anything to get this feeling to stop. Your heart breaking. To be ripped away from Luke again and again. In both subconscious and reality was cruel.
Your veins now tendrils crawling up your face, stopping just a little above your eyebrows.
“Hey, hey—breathe!” Someone comforted. You couldn’t recognize their face. It was like as if your sense of familiarity disappeared, triggering your fight or flight (mostly fight) response.
“Will—the antidote?!” A girl called out. Her voice somewhat familiar.
You struggled against binds. You wanted to run far, far away and stop this pain. The pain in your body, the pain in your mind…the agonizing ache in your heart.
“Luke—” The name left your lips desperate for any sort of answer to what was happening.
A small pinch.
Fire. White hot pain sprouting in your body. Burning your insides out. Another cry for help. Another scream of desperation. His name leaving your mouth. It hurt—it hurt all too much. Both the burning in your body and the reality of him being gone. Truly, gone.
“Luke! Please…please—help!”
Overwhelmed, you were sucked back into the dream. This time on a cabin bed. It was unclear on whose cabin you two were in. Luke had his arms around your waist, head on your stomach. The pain fleeting, but lingering.
The stars shined brights whilst the moonlight blessed you two. It was peaceful, almost…dare you say—normal. No gods, no goddesses, no prophecies, no quests, no betrayal, no hurt. Nothing.
You found yourself humming, running your fingers through his curls, and feeling your eyes close with fatigue.
“Falling asleep there, sweetheart?” You could feel his smile against your skin. He pressed a kiss to the flesh nearest to his lips.
“Mhm…” Your body flared up due to a burn—but there was no fire in the cabin. You stayed put. “I—I could spend all of eternity with you.”
“I could spend all of my time in Elysium with you.” Luke mumbled and turned his head to look up at you.
He pushed himself up onto his elbows, then his hands, so he was close to you. Lips connected like hands clasping for prayer. It was soft, yet it spoke a lot of words that he could not get out.
“I love you. Never forget that, okay?” Luke whispered against your lips.
His beaded necklace hovering over you. You placed your arms around his neck slowly and kissed him again. Never wanting the moment to stop.
Even then, you never had the courage to say those three simple words to Luke. Realizing this might be the last time you see him, dream or not. It made you sad he never heard it from you.
Maybe this will make up for it?
“I love you—I love you. I love you.” You repeated. Your voice shaky, holding back tears. This wasn’t real and you know it’s not real—but…you missed Luke. You missed him so much that it hurts. You didn’t believe he would betray Camp Half-Blood and you without Kronos’ manipulation.
“Hey…” Luke cupped your face and kissed your forehead. He grabbed your arms to sit up. It wasn’t good to cry laying down. “Don’t tear up. Everything will be okay, okay? I’m sorry.”
“Sorry? What are you—?”
“I’m sorry, but you have the wake up.” Luke sighed and pressed his forehead with yours.
“Wait—“
“You have to wake up.” Luke grasped your hands. He held you as if this was the last time.
“What?”
“I love you very much and—and I’m so sorry for leaving you there—“
“Luke—wait!”
Your eyes shot up to be met with wooden walls of the medical cabin. Will and Annabeth shot up, ready to take necessary precautions. A dry sob left your mouth.
“Hey…” Will spoke softly.
You sat up, tears cascading down your face. You started to helplessly wipe them. You could feel his touch lingering. His hands grasping yours. Will pulled you into a soft hug when he deducted the poison was out of your system.
The mind is cruel, the poison was cruel. Fate was cruel, life was cruel.
You missed him.
You buried into Will as if it was him. Will and Annabeth thought you were crying because of the overwhelming feelings of what happened when you were poisoned.
Summary: Percy meets the bandaid dealer who has his friend so smitten
Warning: Absolutely non, teeth rotting stuff really, no use of y/n
author note: English is not my first language so I am sorry for any mistakes beforehand. I read the books long ago and I'm currently in the process of re-reading them, so some lore might be wrong. Also using what I remember from the show! Proofread by me and me only :(
word count: 1347
Percy has been in at this camp stuff for a week now and he was just not loving it. From the overcrowded cabin 11 to Clarisse's relentless bugging, he just wanted to go home. This was his home now, yes, but that does not mean he can't yearn for better. And on top of all that, it seems like he's good at absolutely nothing. If there was a competition at being bad at everything he would still somehow end up in second place.
Today was no better. Luke, Counselor of the Hermes cabin, has decided that maybe Percy could take on a sword fight. He couldn't. Not like he could go against the best swordsman in the last 300 years anyway. After what felt like hours, Luke finally gave the boy a break and Percy felt like he could breathe. Only for a second that is, because his friend decided to take him to a new area of the camp.
Walking to a small building only lightly connected to the infirmary was rather ominous. While everywhere in the camp where people, this shack could be abandoned and he would not be surprised. His friend. however, walked faster than normally, seemingly excited to show him what's inside.
They stopped by the open door and Percy could finally see that it was not abandoned and the little two-story house was, indeed, occupied. Looking at his friend with suspicion, who now sports a wide grin on his face, Percy could not help but think there was more to it than Luke said.
Walking in, Luke chimes the bell that sits on the top of the door frame. The girl who, until now, was checking out the shelves of what seems to be medicine and chemicals turns around with a confused look. She wore the same ‘ camp uniform ‘ as everyone else, confirming to Percy that she was one of them as well. Although her shirt seemed to have switched color schemes and was black with an orange print of the camp name.
“ Hello Sweetheart, how's the inventory going?” Luke asks and pushes Percy slightly in front of him, not something he appreciates. The girl, unamused, does not answer his question. Instead, she answers him with her own. “ What brings you here, Castellan? Last time I checked you did not need allergy medication.” Chuckle could be heard from his friend. Percy, not interested in their bickering, looks around the room. Small table by the door with a stack of paper, a black mysterious jar, and what Percy recognizes as an old land-line phone. One wall of the room was just a shelf with what he now knows for sure is medicine with a door at the end. By the window, there was an old medical bed, and next to it, stood, by Percy's standards, an unstable chair.
A hand on his shoulder snaps him out and he turns his head back to the girl. “ So what's wrong with you?” She asks and motions him to sit on what seems to be a more sturdy version of the same chair he just saw. “ Other than that I suck at everything and my father not bothering to claim me? nothing much really.” Laugher was heard from the two older campers.
“ No, I meant like, why are you here guys? If you were training with Lu here, you might have some scratches.” She points to Luke, who seems to be proud just of the fact that she acknowledges him. Before he can answer she continues, “Although if you're seriously hurt, maybe you should visit the Apollo kids, I ain’t no nurse, really.”
“ No need for that, we just need some band-aids.” Luke proclaims and pats his chest where his heart is. “ You have bandaids in your cabin, and I know for sure, I saw your siblings steal some. “ she snapped back softly at his friend.’ It's in their nature’ Luke says under his nose and takes a few steps to the girl putting his arm around her shoulders. “ Sweetheart here is a terrible nurse-”
“Hey! I am an excellent necromancer!”
“Too bad that your patient is still alive, Sweets,” Luke argues back at the girl. She just shakes her head and walks behind her desk. Luke follows closely behind her like a magnet was pulling him over. Percy watches as she opens a drawer and pulls out the biggest box of band-aids he has ever seen. “ What kind do you want, em…” She looks at him kinda awkwardly.
“Percy.” “ Right, Percy, do you want Spiderman band-aid? It's a big hit with the younger campers.” She smiles and pulls out an impressive collection of Spiderman band-aids. “ Ah, no, normal ones are fine.” I watch as a pout appears on her face as she puts them back and starts to look through the box as if looking for something.
“I want the Spiderman one.” Chimes in Luke who is now leaning over this girl. “ You can get the boring ones, Castellan, I don't care.” It was now Luke's turn to pout. “ What cabin are you from?” Percy asks, wanting to learn some more about the girl that has his friend so smitten. Her eyes look up at him before going back to her box.
“ I don't have a cabin, I sleep on the second floor. There is a staircase in the back.” She says as it is the most normal thing ever. Which it was, just not in camp half-blood. That confuses Percy, from what he learned at the camp so far, everyone that has been claimed either has a cabin or just sleeps in Hermeses one. So that is exactly why he asks. “ Why don't you sleep in Hermes cabin?” The girl straightens her posture, seeming in thought. His friend hugged her from behind around her shoulders. They remind him of an old married couple.
“Well, there are cabins for the twelve Olympians. My dad has no throne on Olympus. He kinda does his own thing down under.” “ Australia?” “No Percy, the underworld.” She says though giggles and wiggles herself from the hug. She makes her way forward to Percy and stands in front of him carefully peeling parts of the band-aid.
“ Your dad is Hades?” Hum leaves her as an answer. Focusing on placing the band-aid right above his eyebrow where he scratched himself earlier during training with Luke. When she's done, she turns to a black jar on her table and opens it. To Percy's surprise, she pulls out a lollipop and gives it to him. “You're good to go fighter, Don't stay here longer than you need to!” She sings and ushers the boy out of the chair and to the door. Percy turns to his friend,
“ Luke, are you not coming?” he asks waiting for him to answer. Luke gives him a look of fake thought, Percy knows it's fake because he, himself used it many times back at the academy. Luke shakes his head and smiles.
“No, I haven't been treated by my nurse yet.” The girl groans and snaps her head to the sky. Percy just shrugs and walks out of the building. As he opens his lollipop, he turns his head back to look at his friends.
He can see Luke being peppered with kisses on his face. When the girl moves he can see a band-aid with hearts that now decorates the scar on his face. Percy just chuckles and moves on, determined to find Grover or Annabeth to tell them what he witnessed. He failed to notice his bright blue bandaid with bubbles on it.
