#percy jackson au

[to00fu]

purely self indulgent

[overpassart]

percy jackson on the brain ….

[freedomanddisorder]

Another Athenide fanpiece. Poor Apollo trying to literally piece together memories of her but still not being able to remember her face.

[verlierer-is-lost]

More of the Heated Rivalry X Percy Jackson AU

Shane is the son of Nike and Ilya is the son of Mercury

I think Ilya is 100% a praetor, but lowkey hates his job. He’s a natural leader tho. Also I’m definitely sticking with the idea that Shane has Nike’s wings, but not all the time. Maybe only in moments of extreme emotions.

If I didn’t have a million other things to do I’d write a oneshot, maybe in a few months when I have the time 😔

[helpallthenamesaretaken]

au where everything is the same except percy gets new relatives on paul's side

a little old grandma who feeds him and gives him money to buy everything he never could when he was poor growing up

everytime she sees him, she babies him and tells him how tall he's gotten and complains about how skinny he is (she is also #1 percabeth shipper)

a grandpa who fought in the army and trades war stories with percy

who also ADORES annabeth and loves having intellectually challenging conversations with her about architecture, philosophy, mathematics, literally everything

an aunt who helped sally throughout her pregnancy with estelle which makes sally cry because she didn't have anyone when she was carrying percy

sally crying again because she's never had a parent figure since her uncle died and now paul's parents are all over her with their affection and acceptance (especially once they find out about the greek world)

a cool older cousin who ruffles percy's hair, teams up with annabeth to make fun of him, plays video games with him (annabeth teases percy that despite saving the world multiple times, he still wants to impress said cousin but still finds it cute how percy is adjusting to being the little brother for once)

when percy goes missing, all of them team up and consider marching up to olympus to kill the gods for kidnapping their new little baby boy

then after the events of hoo they adopt all of the seven

and they literally have to buy a bigger table because of the big family dinners they all have

and percy's just like 🥲 maybe relatives don't need to be out to ruin your life and traumatise you 24/7?

[antiquitina]

apollo had never really thought about percy jackson like that. he was nothing more than the child savior turned camp leader; important, impressive, but not worth the hassle. sure, maybe their demigod children revered him and he was funny, smart, pretty. but have you met poseidon? he looked at his mortal son with stars in his eyes. that was not a can of worms any olympian was willing to open.

unfortunately, little bits of percy kept sneaking into his brain. first, it was hermes and his new spotify playlist. apollo turned it on one morning while pulling the son, it had SO many bangers. he loves his little brother but he's not exactly known for his taste in music. bugging him one evening about where he found so many new underground artists and to his incredulous surprise - the answer was percy jackson.

then one his of sons was opening for a fairly large band in the city and who did he find in the front row of the crowd? who else but percy jackson! and he brought along all of his closest friends - and then some. all in order to make sure his son's band felt the love as people were still trickling in for the main set. he knew every word of their songs, enthusiastically singing them at the top of his lungs. safe to say he didn't inherit any siren abilities from his father but apollo was charmed none the less.

the final nail in the coffin was on a random saturday in late april when he was visiting his year around kids at camp half blood. he knew it was almost finals week at NRU (mostly because athena wouldn't shut up about her future valedictorian daughter) and yet there was percy, sitting at a picnic table with a gaggle of middle schoolers, pre-algebra books open in front of them all as the demigod gave a lesson to help on their homework.

apollo stared. the man laughed at some silly joke a twelve year old made - all the kids looked up at him, the older brother of their dreams. the man himself glanced up from their tutoring session, connecting eyes with the god briefly. he smiled, waved and turned his attention back on his students.

apollo had never really thought about percy jackson like that. until now. and once his heart latched on, he knew it could only be an act of fate that forced him to stop. poseidon is going to kill me.

[yourfavtangerine]

We burn together

Pairing: son of Hephaestus!Mingyu x daughter of Aphrodite!reader

Percy Jackson AU, sex buddies to lovers, fluff, smut

Wc:~10.1k

Part of the Cabin Hearts series ! Masterlist

Summary: He thinks he’s awkward and unworthy, covered in soot and calluses. She sees brilliance in every invention. Together, they build something more enduring than steel.

Warnings: sex buddies, multiple smut, unprotected sex, oral, fingering, self-esteem issues, scars, burns (basicaly only smut warnings)

The forge never truly slept. Even when the last camper had stumbled back to their bunks and Chiron began his patrols, the coals in Hephaestus’ hearth glowed like a dragon’s heart, pulsing low and steady. Mingyu liked it that here. No one expected him to talk. No one expected him to smile for capture-the-flag photos or flex for the Aphrodite kids who giggled behind their manicured hands. Here, the only thing that judged him was the metal, and metal could be persuaded.

He struck the celestial bronze again. Clang. The shield boss rang like a temple bell, sending a tremor up his forearms. Sweat slid down the groove of his spine and soaked the waistband of his cargo pants. His black tank had given up hours ago, clinging to his chest in damp patches that outlined every ridge of muscle he’d earned the hard way. Soot streaked his cheekbones; a curl of dark hair stuck to his forehead. He looked like something that had crawled out of the volcano itself.

And he felt like it, too.

Across the camp, the Aphrodite cabin glittered like a jewelry box under the moon. You were supposed to be there, trading skincare secrets and painting each other’s nails with liquid starlight. Instead, you were storming across the green with your bow slung over your shoulder, quiver bouncing against your hip. The straw targets at the archery range had mocked you all evening, arrows wide, form sloppy.

You wanted noise. You wanted heat. You wanted something that didn’t pretend to be perfect, something raw and real to change your mind.

The double doors of Cabin 9's workshop stood ajar. You slipped through without knocking.

Inside, the air shimmered. Chains hung from the rafters like jungle vines, clinking softly. Half-finished automata twitched on workbenches, mechanical owls, bronze serpents, a tiny Pegasus no bigger than a sparrow that kept trying to flap its one good wing. Every surface was covered in scorch marks and love notes from grateful campers: "Thanks for fixing my dagger, Mingyu!!" scrawled in purple gel pen, "You’re a legend" in red Sharpie. The place smelled like hot iron, ozone, and something faintly sweet, like brown sugar left too close to the fire.

Mingyu didn’t notice you at first. He was bent over the anvil, one massive hand steadying the shield while the other swung the hammer in a slow, hypnotic arc. The muscles in his back moved like cables under bronze skin. His dark hair fell into his eyes, and when he blew it away, the motion revealed a thin scar that cut through his left eyebrow, a souvenir from the time a piece of metal burst out of nowhere.

You leaned against a pillar and let yourself look. Really look. Not the way people stared at him in the dining pavilion, half-scared, half-curious, like he was a tame bear. You looked at the way his fingers: thick, scarred, impossibly gentle, curled around the hammer’s handle. At the tiny frown between his brows when the metal didn’t behave. At the soot smudged across his collarbone like war paint.

He finally sensed you. The hammer paused mid-air.

"Hey" you said, soft enough that it could have been the wind.

Mingyu startled anyway. The hammer slipped, clanged against the anvil, and sent up a shower of orange sparks. He straightened too fast, shoulders hunching like he’d been caught doing something embarrassing.

"Oh...uh...hi." His voice was low, rough from disuse. He wiped his hands on a rag that had once been gray and was now mostly black. "The Cabin’s technically closed after curfew. Not that anyone listens" he added, almost smiling. Almost.

You stepped closer. The heat rolled off the forge in waves, curling the ends of your hair. "I got kicked out of archery for 'excessive sulking.' Figured I’d sulk somewhere prettier."

His eyes flicked to you, then away, then back again, like he couldn’t decide where to put them. You were wearing the camp T-shirt knotted high above your navel and a pair of denim shorts that had seen better days. A streak of dirt from the range still clung to your calf. You looked nothing like the polished dolls in Cabin 10, and you knew it.

Mingyu cleared his throat. "You’re… not hurt, are you?"

"Just my pride." You tilted your head. "You fix things, right? Got anything for a bruised ego?"

He laughed, short, surprised, like the sound had escaped without permission. "I’m better with swords."

"Shame." You wandered deeper into the workshop, trailing your fingers over a half-assembled chariot wheel. "I break hearts, not blades."

His ears went pink beneath the soot. He busied himself quenching the shield in a barrel of oil that hissed like a cat. You watched the muscles in his forearms flex as he lifted the glowing metal. When he set it on the rack to cool, the silence stretched, thick and humming.You broke it. "What are you making?"

"A shield for Ares kids. One of them cracked theirs during a training last week." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Trying to reinforce the rim so it doesn’t happen again."

"Those kids are terrifying" you said cheerfully. "One called me ‘Barbie’ once and threatened to use my bow as kindling."

Mingyu’s mouth twitched. "They calls me ‘Forge Boy.’ I think it’s affectionate."

You moved closer, close enough to see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes, like embers trapped under glass. "You don’t look like a boy."

His breath hitched. Just once.

You reached out, slow enough that he could have stepped back. He didn’t. Your fingertips brushed the soot on his cheekbone, tracing the sharp line of it down to the corner of his mouth. His skin was fever-hot.

"You’re filthy" you whispered.

"Sorry" he rasped.

"Don’t be." You smeared the soot across his lower lip with your thumb. "It’s honest. You're a real worker"

Mingyu’s hands hovered at his sides, fists clenching and unclenching like he didn’t trust them. You took one of those hands, calluses like tree bark, fingers that could snap your wrist without trying, and pressed it to the bare strip of skin above your shorts. His palm spanned your waist entirely.

"Tell me if I’m too much" you said.

He shook his head once, jerky. "You’re-" His voice cracked. "You’re the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen."

The words punched the air out of you. Not because they were smooth, they weren’t. Because they were clumsy and raw and true, the way only Hephaestus kids ever said anything.

You kissed him. It wasn’t soft. It was teeth and soot and the taste of smoke on his tongue. Mingyu made a helpless noise low in his throat and kissed you back like he’d been starving for it. His hands, those careful, terrifying hands, slid up your back, lifting you clean off the floor. You wrapped your legs around his waist without thinking, and he staggered back against the workbench. Tools clattered to the floor. A jar of screws exploded like shrapnel.

You laughed into his mouth. He groaned when your hips rolled against his.

"Careful" he panted "the forge-"

"Don't mind. Let it burn."

He set you on the edge of the bench, hands shaking as they fumbled with the knot in your T-shirt. You helped him, yanking it over your head and tossing it somewhere near the quenching barrel. His tank followed, peeled off with a sound like ripping canvas. The scars across his chest were silver in the firelight: burns, blade cuts, a jagged line over his ribs that looked like lightning.

You traced them with your mouth. He shuddered so hard the bench creaked.

Your bra was pink lace, ridiculous against his soot-streaked skin. He stared like he’d never seen one before, then figured out the clasp with the same concentration he gave to celestial bronze. When it fell away, he exhaled your name like a prayer.

The shorts went next. His cargo pants were trickier: belt buckle, button, zipper, but you managed between kisses that left both of you breathless and laughing and desperate. Somewhere in the haze, his boxers disappeared. Yours followed, snagging on the spur of a gear that had rolled under the bench.

Skin on skin. Heat on heat.

Mingyu lifted you again, turning so your back met the one clear spot on the wall, cool wood paneling between two racks of swords. He braced one arm beside your head, the other sliding under your thigh to hitch your leg higher. You felt him, hard, blazing hot, pressed against your hip.

"Look at me" you whispered.

His eyes met yours, wild and dark and impossibly young. You reached between you, guided him, and watched his face go slack with wonder as he sank into you inch by inch. The stretch burned beautifully. You both stilled, foreheads touching, breathing each other’s air.

Then he moved.

Slow at first, like he was afraid you’d break. You bit his shoulder, hard, and he snapped his hips forward with a groan that rattled the chains overhead. The rhythm turned hungry, frantic. Every thrust rocked the workbench behind him; an owl sculpture toppled off and hooted indignantly on the floor.

You came first, clenching around him with a cry that echoed off the rafters. Mingyu followed seconds later, burying his face in your neck as he spilled inside you, shaking so hard you had to hold him together.

For a long moment, the only sound was the forge’s low growl and the soft clink of cooling metal.

He didn’t let go. Not yet. His arms stayed locked around you, nose pressed to your temple, breathing you in like oxygen after drowning.

Eventually, he carried you to the battered leather couch in the corner, the one where he napped between projects. You curled against his chest, tracing idle hearts in the soot on his skin, basking in his manly scent.

The leather couch smelled like oil and old campfire smoke. Fifteen minutes later, you were still half-draped across Mingyu’s chest, legs tangled, heartbeats slowing into something almost peaceful. His fingers traced lazy circles on your bare shoulder, like he was memorizing the shape of you. The forge had settled into a low, satisfied growl, the coals glowing the color of a dying sunset.

You lifted your head just enough to see his face. His eyes were closed, lashes fanned against soot-smudged cheeks, lips parted like he’d forgotten how to breathe through his nose. He looked wrecked. Beautifully wrecked.

You pressed your mouth to the hollow beneath his ear and whispered "This stays between us."

His arms tightened reflexively, pulling you closer. You felt the wordless question in the way his fingers dug into your hip.

You answered it before he could ask. "No strings, Mingyu. Just release. You want that?"

He swallowed hard. Nodded once, slow, like the motion cost him something.

"Good." You nipped his earlobe, felt him shiver. "Because I’m not looking for a boyfriend. I’m looking for someone who can make me forget my own name for an hour."

His laugh was shaky. "I can… try."

You kissed him again, softer this time, tasting salt and smoke. Then you slid off the couch, hunting for your clothes among the chaos of scattered screws and bronze pieces. Your bra had landed on a half-finished helm; one strap was melted. You laughed under your breath and left it there. The pink lace looked good against the dull metal, like a dare.

Mingyu watched you dress with the same concentration he gave to tempering steel. When you tugged your shorts up, he finally found his voice.

"You’re really just… leaving?"

"Curfew’s in twenty minutes" you said, knotting your T-shirt under your ribs. "And I still have to sneak past Chiron."

He sat up, magnificent and ridiculous with his cargo pants barely zipped and a streak of your lip gloss on his collarbone. "When-" He stopped, cleared his throat. "When can I…?"

You grinned over your shoulder. "When I need you, Forge Boy. You’ll know."

You slipped out the side door, barefoot, the grass cool and wet under your soles. Behind you, the forge door clicked shut like a secret.

You stepped away, found your sneakers, and slipped out the side door without looking back.

The night air hit you like cold water. You shivered, hugged your arms, and jogged across the grass with the biggest, stupidest grin on your face.

Behind you, the forge door creaked shut. You didn’t hear it. You were already halfway to Cabin 10, replaying the way he’d groaned your name like it was the only word he knew.

Mingyu stood in the sudden quiet, staring at the closed door. His heart was trying to hammer its way out of his ribcage. Eventually he found his boxers, snagged on a ceiling hook, because of course they were, and pulled them on with shaking hands.

He sank onto the couch again, dropped his head into his palms, and laughed. A low, incredulous sound that echoed off the rafters.

He was so screwed. But gods, he couldn’t wait to be screwed again.

Weeks slipped by like molten metal cooling into something stronger than anyone expected.

The first few nights were pure wildfire. You’d ghost into Cabin 9 long after curfew, hair still damp from the showers, wearing nothing but an oversized Camp Half-Blood hoodie and mischief. Mingyu would be elbow-deep in a project (hammer paused mid-swing, goggles fogged, biceps flexing under a fresh layer of sweat). You’d lock the door with a soft click that sounded louder than any gong, and thirty seconds later he’d have you bent over the nearest flat surface, your palms squeaking across celestial bronze still warm from the forge, his low growls drowning out the hiss of quenching steel.

But somewhere between the seventh and the twelfth stolen night, the rhythm changed.

It started small. One evening you arrived to find him wrestling with a tangle of silver wire and tiny gears no bigger than sesame seeds. His tongue was poking out the corner of his mouth in concentration, ridiculous and adorable. You didn’t pounce. Instead you hopped onto the workbench, legs swinging, and asked, "What poor monster is that going to murder?"

He startled, nearly dropped a cog the size of a pinhead, then flushed the color of fresh lava. "It’s… not for murder. It’s a music box. For the Hera cabin. They keep saying the hearth feels lonely at night."

You blinked. "You’re building a music box. Out of celestial bronze. For the children of the goddess who literally never gets gifts."

He shrugged, ears scarlet. "It’s stupid."

"It’s perfect" you said, and meant it so hard your voice cracked.

That was the first night you didn’t have sex.

You sat cross-legged on the floor while he worked, passing him tools when he grunted for them, asking questions that grew more and more technical. You learned the difference between tempering and annealing, why he preferred oil quenching for dagger blades but water for shields, how he could tell the temperature of steel by the color of its glow alone. His voice, usually so quiet people had to lean in to hear him, filled the workshop, low and steady and alive. When he got excited, his hands sketched shapes in the air: spirals for spring tension, figure-eights for cam timing. You watched the way his eyes caught fire brighter than the forge itself.

At some point you ended up on the battered leather couch, your head on his shoulder, his big arm draped around you like it had always belonged there. He smelled like charcoal and cedar and something indefinably Mingyu. You traced idle circles on his forearm, following the raised white lines of old burns.

"Tell me about this one" you murmured, tapping a crescent-shaped scar near his wrist.

"Exploding automaton, summer I was twelve. Thought I could make a spider that shot webs. Turns out Greek fire doesn’t care about your intentions."

You laughed into his neck. He shivered.

Another night, you brought strawberries stolen from the dining pavilion. He fed you one, hesitant, juice running down your chin. You licked it off his thumb without breaking eye contact. He forgot how to breathe for a solid ten seconds.

Some nights you still fucked: hard, fast, filthy, against the wall, on the floor, once bent over the anvil itself while the forge roared approval. But more and more, the sex became punctuation marks in a different kind of conversation.

You learned he kept a tin of brown-sugar oatmeal cookies under the workbench because he got low blood sugar when he worked too long. You started bringing him water bottles laced with nectar so his hands would stop shaking at 3 am. He learned you hated the way Drew’s clique talked about "fixing" people’s faces with charmspeak, how you’d once spent an entire week refusing to speak because you were terrified your voice could hurt someone. He started leaving the forge door unlocked on purpose, even when he knew you had early-morning archery drills.

One Thursday, rain hammered the tin roof like a thousand angry fists. You arrived soaked, hoodie plastered to your skin, shivering despite the heat rolling off the coals. Mingyu took one look at you and panicked.

"You’re going to get sick" he scolded, voice pitching high the way it did when he was flustered. He towed you to the back corner where he kept spare clothes, all miles too big for you and wrapped you in his hoodie like a burrito. It smelled like him, warm and smoky and safe.

You burrowed into it, nose pressed to the collar. "I like when you worry about me."

He muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "someone has to" then spent twenty minutes trying to dry your hair with a clean shop towel while you sat on his lap and pretended not to notice how carefully he avoided your breasts.

Later, when the rain eased to a whisper, he showed you the shield he’d been working on for weeks. It was for you, though he’d die before admitting it. The outer rim was etched with tiny doves in flight; the boss was a rose blooming from hammered bronze petals. When you touched it, the petals unfurled with a soft mechanical sigh, revealing a hidden compartment just big enough for a dagger or a love note.

"I thought…" He rubbed the back of his neck. "If you ever had to fight, you’d want something beautiful. Not just functional."

Your throat closed. You kissed him so gently he swayed.

That night you didn’t have sex at all. You fell asleep on the couch with your head in his lap, his fingers combing through your hair in slow, hypnotic strokes. He stayed awake until dawn, afraid to move, afraid the moment would end if he so much as breathed wrong.

The next morning you left before the conch horn for breakfast, pressing a strawberry-flavored kiss to the corner of his mouth and whispering "See you tonight, Forge Boy."

He watched you go, hoodie sleeves swallowing your hands, bare feet leaving damp prints across the floor. The forge felt too big without you in it.

That afternoon, during sword practice, you caught yourself smiling at nothing while Leah tried to explain why she’d replaced all the Ares cabin’s spears with pool noodles. She noticed. She always noticed.

"Someone’s glowing" she sang, flipping her hair. "Spill."

You twirled your dagger and lied through your teeth. "New highlighter. You should try it."

She bought it, barely. You exhaled.

But the secret was getting harder to keep. Mingyu started leaving the forge’s side window cracked open so the smell of your perfume wouldn’t linger. You started wearing his hoodies over your camp T-shirts and telling everyone they were "vintage." Once, one of your sisters caught you sneaking back at 5 am with soot in your hair and a hickey the size of a drachma on your collarbone. She took one look, squealed, and promised silence in exchange for full details later. You paid up in strawberry lip gloss and sworn secrecy.

Still, the camp gossiped. Someone saw Mingyu carrying a girl’s pink flip-flops across the green at dawn. Someone else noticed the Aphrodite table was one strawberry bowl short every morning.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. Casual. No strings. Just release.

But every time you left the forge, you took a little piece of him with you: soot under your nails, the ache between your thighs, the echo of his laugh when you asked if he could make a vibrating automaton "for science". And every time you came back, he was waiting with that shy, stunned smile, like he still couldn’t believe you chose his grimy workshop over the entire world.

The horn for capture-the-flag sounded like a war-cry across the valley, and every camper sprinted toward the woods with the kind of reckless joy that only comes when you’re seventeen and half-immortal. Mingyu had spent three sleepless nights perfecting his masterpiece: an automated net launcher built into the roots of a tree. Pressure plates, counterweights, celestial-bronze cables thinner than spider silk. It was supposed to drop from the canopy, ensnaring the entire red team in one glorious, non-lethal swoop.

He stood at the edge of the blue team’s territory, goggles pushed up into his sweat-damp hair, heart hammering louder than any forge. You were on the opposite side, red plumes in your hair, war paint streaking your cheekbones like a goddess of beautiful violence. You blew him a kiss across the creek. He almost forgot how to breathe.

Chiron’s whistle shrieked. War began.

It took exactly four minutes and thirty-two seconds for everything to go nuts. The first trigger fired perfectly, net blooming open like a deadly flower, scooping three Hermes kids mid-sprint. Cheers erupted from the blue side. Mingyu allowed himself one fist-pump.

Then the second plate misfired. The third jammed. The fourth decided to drop its entire payload on the blue team instead.

Twenty yards of netting collapsed in a glittering avalanche. And Mingyu, sweet, mortified Mingyu, stood frozen as his own teammates flailed like fish in a trap he’d built.

Laughter exploded across the forest, sharp, merciless, unstoppable. Someone started a chant: "Forge rat! Forge rat!" It echoed off the trees and lodged straight into his ribcage.

By the time Chiron called time, Mingyu was gone. Vanished into the dusk before anyone could slap his back or offer pity. The red team won by default. You collected the flag with a smile that didn’t reach your eyes, because you knew exactly where he’d run.

The forge door was barred, actually barred, a two-by-four jammed across the handles like he thought the entire camp might storm in to mock him. You slipped through the side window instead, landing cat-quiet among the shadows.

He was at the anvil, hammering the same piece of bronze over and over until it glowed cherry-red and hissed. Each blow was punishment. Sparks showered his bare forearms; he didn’t flinch. His shoulders were curved inward, spine a tight bow of humiliation.

You waited until the hammer paused mid-swing.

"Hey, genius" you said softly.

The hammer clattered to the floor. He didn’t turn. "Not tonight." His voice was raw. "Please. Just… go."

You stepped closer anyway, boots silent on the packed dirt. "Mingyu."

"I said go." He spun, eyes wild, soot streaking down one cheek. "I’m not...I can’t..." He gestured helplessly at himself: sweat-soaked tank, grease to his elbows, hair plastered to his skull. "Look at me. I’m a joke. The whole camp saw it."

You moved before he could bolt, sliding between him and the anvil, close enough that the heat of his body rivaled the forge. "They saw a net malfunction. They did not see you."

He laughed, a broken sound. "Same difference."

"No." You caught his wrists, forced his trembling hands still. "They didn’t see the boy who stayed up seventy-two hours straight because he wanted his team to be safe. They didn’t see the blueprints you drew with a stub of charcoal because you ran out of paper. They didn’t see you test every cable yourself so no one would get hurt." Your thumbs swept over the pulse points in his wrists, frantic as trapped birds. "I saw. I always see."

His knees buckled. You went down with him, sinking to the floor amid curls of copper shavings and scattered gears. He tried to pull away; you climbed into his lap instead, knees bracketing his hips, palms framing his face.

"Why me?" The question tore out of him. "You could have anyone. Apollo kids who write songs about your eyes. Ares brutes who’d kill dracaenae just to watch you smile. I’m...I’m the forge rat. I smell like oil and failure and-"

You kissed him to shut him up. Hard. Teeth clicking, tongues warring, a kiss that tasted like salt and fury and desperation. When you pulled back, his lips were swollen and trembling.

"Because you’re real" you said against his mouth. "Because your mind builds things that save lives while the rest of us are busy posing. Because when you look at me, you don’t see a daughter of Aphrodite, you see me. And I’m selfish enough to want that forever."

Something in him snapped, not broke, snapped clean, like a blade finally tempered right.

He surged up, lifting you with him, spinning until your back hit the floor and his weight pinned you there. The impact drove the air from your lungs in a delighted gasp. His hands were everywhere: rough, calloused, perfect, ripping your red-plumed T-shirt over your head, yanking your bra down instead of off because he couldn’t wait. Your shorts met the same fate, shoved to your knees along with your panties.

You arched up to help him, nails raking down his back hard enough to leave welts. He growled, actually growled and bit the curve where your neck met shoulder, marking you in a way that would purple by morning. You wanted it to. You wanted everyone to see.

His tank top was gone in one violent tug. You scored your nails over his chest, tracing the ridges of muscle and scar tissue until he shuddered. When you reached the waistband of his cargos, he was already straining against the fabric, hard and hot and huge.

"Off" you demanded, voice shredded.

He obeyed, kicking free of pants and boxers in one motion. Then he was back, spreading your thighs wide, settling between them like he belonged there. You were slick and ready, had been since the moment you saw him breaking himself on that anvil. He slid two thick fingers into you without warning, curling, scissoring, stretching you open with rough efficiency. You cried out, hips bucking.

"Need you now" he rasped. "Can’t...can’t be gentle tonight."

"Just do it the way you want. It's all about you" you panted.

He lined up and thrust in to the hilt in one brutal stroke.

The world whited out. He was huge, always was, but tonight he felt catastrophic. Every inch of him dragged against your walls, filling you so completely you forgot how to breathe. He didn’t pause, didn’t give you time to adjust , just pulled back and slammed home again, setting a punishing rhythm that rattled your teeth and made your toes curl.

The floor was unforgiving beneath your shoulder blades, but you didn’t care. You hooked your heels over his ass, urging him deeper, harder, faster. He obliged, hips snapping with weeks of pent-up frustration, humiliation, longing. Each thrust drove a broken sound from your throat; his name, curses, pleas in ancient Greek you didn’t know you knew.

He shifted angles, grinding against that spot inside you that turned your spine to lightning. Your nails carved red trails down his back; he hissed and fucked you harder, sweat dripping from his brow onto your breasts. You felt the orgasm building low and vicious, coiling tighter with every slap of skin on skin.

"Look at me" he snarled.

You forced your eyes open. His face was inches away, fierce and beautiful and wrecked. Tears streaked the soot on his cheeks, rage or relief, you couldn’t tell. You cupped his jaw, thumb smearing the wetness.

"Never a joke" you whispered. "Never to me."

The words shattered him.

He crushed his mouth to yours, swallowing your scream as you came apart around him, clenching so hard he groaned like he was dying. He followed seconds later, burying himself deep and pulsing hot inside you, hips jerking with every spurt until he had nothing left to give.

Afterward, the forge was silent except for your mingled breathing and the distant drip of water in the quenching barrel.

He didn’t roll away. Couldn’t. He stayed inside you, forehead pressed to yours, arms trembling as they held his weight off your chest. You traced the fresh scratches on his shoulder blades, gentle now, soothing.

"I’m sorry" he mumbled into your neck. "Was too rough-"

"You were perfect." You kissed the hinge of his jaw. "Exactly what you needed."

He exhaled shakily and finally slipped free, but only to gather you against his chest and roll so you were draped over him instead of the hard floor. You curled there, ear over his heart, listening to it slow from sprint to gallop to something almost peaceful.

His fingers drew idle patterns on your spine : circles, then hearts, then tiny automatons marching in formation. You felt the shift before he spoke.

"This isn’t just physical anymore" he said quietly. "Not for me."

You lifted your head. His eyes were steady, no trace of the earlier shame. Just raw, terrifying honesty.

"I know" you whispered. "Me neither."

Outside, the victory bonfire crackled, and somewhere across the green, campers were still laughing about the net that caught the wrong team. Inside Cabin 9, two demigods clung to each other on a soot-streaked floor, hearts hammering in the same rhythm for the first time.

The net had worked after all. It just caught the only two people who mattered.

The rumor mill at Camp Half-Blood ran on jet fuel and spite.

It started with Connor, because of course it did. He’d been sneaking back from a midnight raid on the camp pantry when he spotted you slipping out the forge’s side door at 5:17 am, hair a bird’s nest, hoodie inside-out, lips swollen, and a constellation of hickeys blooming across your throat like purple galaxies. Connor took one look, grinned like a jackal, and sprinted straight to the Hermes table at breakfast.

By lunch, the entire camp knew.

Your siblings were merciless. One cornered you outside the dining pavilion, arms crossed, glossy lips curled in a smirk sharp enough to slice bread. "Really, Y/N? The grease monkey? I thought you had standards." Another giggled behind her manicured hand. "Is he at least good with his hands, or is it just the tools that do the work?" A third tried to shush them, but even she looked curious.

You flipped your hair, forced a laugh that tasted like rust. "Jealousy’s a bad look. Orange isn’t your color."

But the words followed you everywhere.

'Slumming it.' 'Beauty and the Beast, but make it tragic.' 'Bet he smells like motor oil and regret.'

Across the green, Mingyu heard every single one.

He was repairing a chariot wheel when an Hermes kid sauntered past, whistling. "Yo, Forge Boy! Heard you’ve been keeping Aphrodite’s princess real warm at night. Didn’t know you had it in you."

Mingyu’s hammer slipped, denting the rim. He didn’t answer.

Later, during archery, one of the Apollo kids mimed wiping grease off his hands and called out "Hey Mingyu, when you’re done playing mechanic with Y/N, maybe fix my bow? Or is your schedule full of… other projects?"

Laughter rippled. Mingyu’s ears burned crimson. He packed up his tools and left without a word.

That night, you found him in the forge long after Chiron had started his rounds. The place was dim, only the banked coals glowing like dying stars. He sat on the floor amid a battlefield of scattered gears, bronze shavings glittering around him like fallen constellations. His knees were drawn up, arms wrapped around them, shoulders curved inward like he was trying to fold himself into nothing.

You closed the door softly. "Hey."

He didn’t look up. "We should stop."

The words hit you like a slap. You stood frozen in the doorway, heart suddenly too big for your ribcage. "Is that what you want?"

He shrugged, still staring at the floor. "It’s getting messy. Everyone knows. They’re laughing at you. Because of me." His voice cracked on the last word. "You shouldn’t have to deal with that."

You crossed the room in three strides and dropped to your knees in front of him, close enough that your legs bracketed his. "Mingyu. Look at me."

He shook his head, curls falling over his eyes. "I’m not...I’m not worth the gossip, Y/N. I’m the guy who builds things that explode in his own team’s face. The guy who smells like charcoal and can’t even talk to people without tripping over his tongue. You’re-" He gestured vaguely, helplessly. "You’re sunlight. And I’m the shadow that keeps dragging you into the dirt."

Your chest ached so sharply you had to press a hand there to keep your heart from spilling out.

You reached out, slow enough that he could pull away. He didn’t. Your fingers curled around his wrist, thumb finding the frantic flutter of his pulse. "Come here."

He let you tug him forward until his forehead rested against yours. His breath trembled across your lips.

"Talk to me" you whispered. "All of it."

He laughed, a wet, broken sound. "Where do I even start?"

"Start with the first thing they ever said that stuck."

Mingyu swallowed. His hands found your waist, gripping like you were the only solid thing in the world. "When I was nine, I built a bird out of scrap metal. It actually flew. Three whole minutes. Everyone clapped. Then it crashed into the Big House and set Chiron’s tail on fire." He huffed a humorless laugh. "They called me 'Firehazard Kim' for two years. Every time something went wrong: a broken sword, a jammed automaton, even when the strawberry fields flooded, they looked at me like I was the reason the gods invented bad luck."

You brushed a curl from his eyes. "Keep going."

"Freshman year here, I liked this girl from Demeter. Asked her to the solstice dance. She laughed in my face. Said, 'Why would I go with the kid who smells like a gas station?'" His voice dropped to a whisper. "I still check my reflection every morning to see if I missed a spot of grease. I shower three times a day. I use that stupid lavender soap Lacy sells because I’m terrified someone will smell the forge on me and remember I don’t belong anywhere but here."

Your throat closed. You pressed your lips to the corner of his mouth, soft, steady. "More."

He exhaled shakily. "Every time someone calls you ‘out of my league,’ it feels true. Because you are. You’re beautiful and brilliant and everyone wants you. And I’m just-" He gestured at the forge, the soot, the scars. "This."

You pulled back just enough to cup his face in both hands. His cheeks were wet. You hadn’t realized you were crying too.

"Now you listen to me, Kim Mingyu." Your voice shook, but you didn’t care. "I spent my entire life being told my worth was in how many hearts I could break before breakfast. That my greatest power was making people fall in love with me whether they wanted to or not. Do you know what that does to a person?"

He shook his head, eyes wide.

"It makes you terrified to be seen. Because if they see past the smile and the hair and the charm, they’ll realize there’s nothing underneath. Just a girl who’s good at pretending." You laughed, bitter and watery. "I’ve had Apollo boys write sonnets about my eyelashes. Ares kids offer to kill monsters just to watch me smile. And none of them ever asked what I wanted. Not once."

Mingyu’s hands tightened on your waist.

"You asked" you said simply. "That first night, when I was shaking from archery and you handed me a wrench like it was the most natural thing in the world. You asked if I was cold when I fell asleep on your couch. You ask every single time if I’m sure, if I want this, if I’m okay."

You leaned in until your foreheads touched again. "You see me, Mingyu. Not the daughter of Aphrodite. Not the pretty face. Me. And that scares the hell out of me, because what if you stop?"

He made a wounded sound and crushed you to his chest, arms banding around you so tightly you could feel his heartbeat through both your shirts. "Never" he rasped into your hair. "Gods, never."

You clung to him just as desperately, fingers twisted in the back of his shirt. "I don’t care what they say. I don’t care if they call me names or laugh behind my back. I care about this." You pulled back, pressing your palm over his heart. "I care about the boy who built a music box for the Hera cabin because her hearth felt lonely. Who stayed up seventy-two hours to keep his team safe. Who looks at me like I hung the moon even when I’m covered in your soot and screaming your name."

His eyes searched yours, wide and wondering. "You’re not ashamed? Of… us?"

You kissed him then, slow, deliberate, pouring every ounce of truth into it. When you pulled back, his lips chased yours involuntarily.

"I’m proud" you whispered against his mouth. "Proud to walk out of here with your marks on my skin. Proud to wear your hoodie like a flag. Proud to tell every single one of them that yes, I chose the forge rat. And I’d choose him a thousand times over."

Mingyu’s breath hitched. He rested his forehead against yours, eyes closed, lashes dark against his cheeks. "I don’t know how to do this" he admitted. "The… being together thing. In public. Where people can see."

"We’ll figure it out" you promised. "Together."

For a long moment, you just breathed each other in, sweat and smoke and strawberry shampoo and the faint metallic tang of tears. The forge glowed softly around you, casting long shadows that danced like they were celebrating.

Eventually, he shifted, tugging you down until you were both lying on the floor amid the scattered tools. You pillowed your head on his bicep; he curled around you like a question mark, nose buried in your hair.

"We’re a mess" he murmured.

"Yeah" you agreed, tracing the newest scratch on his forearm: a thin line from where you’d dragged him down earlier. "But we’re our mess."

And for the first time in weeks, neither of you moved to leave when the sky outside began to pale.

The invention showcase was Chiron’s attempt at peace-brokering.

After three straight weeks of cabin rivalries exploding into glitter bombs, stolen mascots, and one unfortunate incident involving the Aphrodite cabin’s mascara wands and the Ares cabin’s entire underwear drawer, Chiron declared a mandatory camp-wide festival of "constructive creativity." Translation: everyone had to show off something that didn’t maim, humiliate, or permanently dye another camper purple.

The amphitheater had been transformed. Banners in every cabin color snapped in the breeze. Tables groaned under the weight of projects: Hermes’ lock-picking drone, Athena’s self-assembling battle strategy board, Demeter’s carnivorous tomatoes (still under review).

Mingyu almost didn’t enter.

You found him three nights before the showcase, hunched over a half-finished automaton in the forge, eyes bloodshot, muttering about pressure plates and ignition sequences. "It’s stupid" he kept saying. "They’ll laugh." You sat on his workbench, stole his goggles, and refused to give them back until he agreed to finish the damn thing.

The automaton was a wolf. Not a cute direwolf plushie. A life-size, celestial-bronze-plated beast with articulated joints, glowing ruby eyes, and a spine that housed a pressurized Greek-fire reservoir. Mingyu had spent weeks perfecting the flamethrower mechanism (safe, controlled, and terrifyingly beautiful). He called it Lupus Ignis. You called it "the most Mingyu thing ever created."

Showcase day dawned bright and merciless. You wore the sundress he liked (the pale yellow one that made your legs look endless) and stood front row center, heart hammering louder than the drums Hephaestus cabin had rigged to announce their turn. When Mingyu walked out, he was in his least-sooty work clothes: dark jeans, a black T-shirt stretched across his shoulders, and the leather apron he only wore for special occasions. His hands shook as he set the wolf on the demonstration platform.

The crowd quieted. Chiron gave the nod. Mingyu’s voice cracked on the first sentence. "Lupus Ignis is… uh… a multi-terrain guardian. It can patrol borders, detect monsters by heat signature, and-' He swallowed. "And provide controlled fire support without risk of friendly casualties."

A ripple of murmurs. Someone whispered, "Forge rat’s gonna blow us all up."

You flipped them off without looking. Mingyu pressed a rune on the wolf’s flank. The automaton’s eyes flared crimson. Its head lowered, ears flattening. A low growl rumbled from its chest, mechanical, but so realistic three Apollo kids actually stepped back. Then it moved.

Fluid, silent, lethal. It prowled the edge of the stage, tail lashing. When it reached center, it reared up on hind legs, jaws opening to reveal a lattice of bronze nozzles. Mingyu snapped his fingers.

A perfect spiral of blue-white flame roared out: ten feet high, tightly controlled, shaped like a blooming rose. The crowd gasped. The fire twisted mid-air, forming a soaring dove before winking out without a single spark escaping the containment field. Silence. Then the amphitheater erupted. Cheers, whistles, actual screams of delight. Someone started chanting "Forge Boy! Forge Boy!" and for once, it wasn’t mockery.

Mingyu stood frozen, eyes wide, like he couldn’t compute the sound. His gaze found you in the front row. You were on your feet, clapping until your palms stung, tears streaming down your face because you’d never been prouder of anyone in your life.

When the noise finally died down, Chiron awarded Lupus Ignis the Golden Drachma for "Most Innovative Defense System." Mingyu accepted the medal with shaking hands, mumbled a thank-you that was barely audible, and practically sprinted offstage.

You found him twenty minutes later behind the amphitheater, packing the wolf into its protective crate with the kind of frantic energy that meant he was two seconds from bolting to Canada.

"You idiot" you said, launching yourself at him.

He caught you on reflex, arms banding around your waist as you wrapped legs and arms around him like a koala. "That was brilliant" you whispered fiercely into his neck. "You were brilliant."

He laughed, shaky, disbelieving. "Yeah? Not too awkward up there?"

"You made a fire wolf shoot a flaming dove, Mingyu. Awkward is not the word."

He set you down gently, but didn’t let go. His hands stayed on your hips, thumbs sweeping nervous arcs. "They clapped. They actually clapped."

"They did more than clap. Chiron’s talking about patenting it for the camp borders." You cupped his face, forcing him to meet your eyes. "You deserve every second of this."

His eyes searched yours, still stunned. "I kept thinking they’d laugh. Like the net. Like always."

"They didn’t." You rose on tiptoes and kissed him.

It was different from every kiss that came before. No urgency. No teeth-clashing desperation. Just soft, slow, deliberate, like you had all the time in the world. His lips trembled against yours; you steadied them with your own. When you pulled back, his lashes were wet.

"Hi" you whispered.

"Hi" he whispered back, voice wrecked.

You laced your fingers through his and tugged. "Come on. Your adoring public can wait." He followed you like a man in a dream.

Back in the forge, evening had settled into that perfect golden hour where the light slanted through the windows and turned every speck of dust into glitter. The space still smelled like scorched metal and victory. Lupus Ignis stood proudly on its display pedestal, medal dangling from one ear like a dog tag.

You locked the door. Turned the sign to CLOSED. Then you hopped onto the workbench, the same one that had seen so many frantic nights and patted the spot beside you.

Mingyu obeyed, movements careful, like he was afraid the moment would shatter. You sat side by side, legs dangling, shoulders touching. For a long time neither of you spoke. The quiet wasn’t empty; it was full of everything you hadn’t said yet.

He reached for your hand first. His fingers, callused, scarred, impossibly gentle, traced the lines of your palm like he was reading a map only he could see. He followed the curve of your lifeline, the swell of your thumb, the delicate ridge of each knuckle. When he reached the tiny burn scar on your wrist from the night you’d tried to help him quench a blade and learned why he always said "stand back", he pressed his lips to it.

You shivered.

"I used to think" he said quietly "that if I built something perfect, people would finally see me. Not the explosions or the grease or the kid who can’t look anyone in the eye. Just… me." His thumb swept over your pulse point. "Turns out I didn’t need perfect. I just needed you in the front row, crying because you were proud."

Your throat closed. "I will always be in the front row, Mingyu. Always."

He turned to face you fully, knees bumping. The golden light caught the sharp line of his cheekbones, the soot still smudged at his temple, the raw, open hope in his eyes.

"I practiced this" he admitted, cheeks flushing. "In the mirror. Like an idiot. About a hundred times." He laughed at himself, soft and self-deprecating. "None of them sounded right."

You waited. Heart in your throat.

He took both your hands in his, cradling them like something precious. "I think…" His voice cracked. He cleared his throat, tried again. "I think I love you."

The words hung in the air, fragile and perfect and terrifying.

You felt them land in your chest like sparks on dry tinder, instant, consuming, beautiful.

"About time you caught up" you whispered, tears spilling over.

His face crumpled: relief, joy, everything at once. He pulled you into his lap, arms wrapping around you so tightly you could feel his heartbeat thundering against your ribs. You buried your face in his neck, breathing him in: smoke and cedar and just Mingyu.

"I love you" he said again, stronger this time, like he’d been holding the words behind his teeth for months and finally set them free. "I love the way you steal my hoodies and leave strawberry lip-gloss on my tools. I love how you ask questions about tempering steel like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. I love that you cried today because a fire wolf made a dove. I love every single piece of you, even the ones you think are broken."

You pulled back just enough to kiss him, slow, reverent, tasting salt and truth. When you broke apart, you rested your forehead against his.

"I see you, Mingyu" you whispered. "All of you. The boy who built a music box for a lonely hearth. The one who stayed up seventy-two hours so his friends wouldn’t get hurt. The one who’s holding me right now like I’m the thing worth protecting." You brushed your thumb over his lower lip. "I love every single piece of you, too."

He made a sound, half-laugh, half-sob and kissed you again, deeper this time, like he was trying to pour three months of almosts and maybe-laters into one perfect moment. You melted into it, hands sliding up his chest to tangle in his hair.

When you finally parted, the sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving only the forge’s glow to light the two of you. You stayed on the workbench, legs tangled, trading kisses that tasted like forever.

Outside, the camp celebrated late into the night: bonfires, music, Lupus Ignis demonstrations that drew cheers every time the flames shaped a new wonder. Inside Cabin 9's forge, two demigods discovered that sometimes the greatest invention isn’t a weapon or a guardian or a fire that roars.

Sometimes it’s the quiet, steady burn of choosing someone, every day, every flaw, every triumph and being chosen back.

Mingyu tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, eyes soft. "So… girlfriend?"

You grinned, bright enough to rival the forge. "Boyfriend."

Outside Cabin 9, the world was silvered with ice, the forge’s chimney puffing lazy spirals into a sky so clear the stars looked close enough to snag on the roof. Inside, the heat was a living thing: banked coals glowing like a dragon’s heart, oil lamps flickering gold across scarred workbenches, the air thick with cedar shavings and the faint sweetness of the honey candles you’d stolen from the Big House.

You’d been official for four months, three weeks, and two days. Mingyu still counted.

He was at the anvil when you slipped in, hammering a final curve into a steel cuff, your winter-solstice gift, though he thought you didn’t know. Shirtless despite the cold, because the forge never let him feel it. Sweat traced the deep lines of his back, caught the lamplight, turned every muscle into molten sculpture. His curls were tied up with a strip of leather; loose strands stuck to the sweat at his temples.

You locked the door. Turned the sign to CLOSED. Leaned back against the wood and just watched.

He sensed you the way he always did, like a tuning fork struck in his chest. The hammer slowed, then stilled.

"Hey, stranger" you said, voice low enough to curl around his spine.

Mingyu set the hammer down carefully, wiped his hands on a rag that had long since given up being clean, and turned. The look he gave you: half-shy, half-hungry, still made your knees weak after all this time.

"Hey, beautiful." His eyes flicked to the clock above the door. "It’s past midnight. You’ll freeze walking back."

You pushed off the door, letting your coat slide from your shoulders to pool on the floor. Underneath: one of his old black tank tops, hem hacked short so it barely skimmed your ribs, and a pair of his boxer briefs you’d stolen weeks ago. Nothing else.

"I’m not going back tonight" you said.

His breath hitched. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." You crossed the room slowly, bare feet silent on the packed dirt, until you stood between him and the anvil. The heat rolling off his skin kissed yours. You reached up, untied the leather cord, let his curls spill loose. Ran your fingers through them, nails scraping gently at his scalp the way you knew unraveled him.

Mingyu’s hands found your waist on instinct, thumbs slipping under the ragged hem to stroke bare skin. "Missed you today" he murmured. "You were at archery all afternoon."

"You watched the last hour from the ridge" you teased. "I felt you."

He flushed (adorable, always). "Couldn’t help it. You look lethal with a bow."

You rose on tiptoes, brushed your lips over his, once, twice, soft as moth wings. "Take me to bed, Mingyu."

His bed was in the back corner: a narrow cot he’d widened with scrap oak and reinforced with bronze brackets, piled with quilts your siblings had charmed to stay warm. He’d added fairy lights after you mentioned liking them: tiny glass orbs that glowed soft gold, strung along the rafters like captured stars.

He lifted you easily, hands under your thighs, and carried you there. Laid you down like you were something sacred. You pulled him with you, unwilling to lose the heat of him for even a second.

The first kiss was still slow, learning, worshiping. You tasted the corner of his mouth, the faint salt of sweat at his jaw, the tiny scar on his lower lip he’d gotten from a misfired gear. He sighed into you, a sound of pure relief, like coming home.

Clothes peeled away in degrees. He tugged the tank over your head, breath catching when he saw you wore nothing beneath. You traced the waistband of his jeans, popped the button, eased the zipper down with deliberate care. He toed off boots, shoved denim and boxers down together, stepped free. The lamplight painted every inch of him gold and shadow: broad shoulders, tapered waist, the heavy curve of him already hard and leaking at the tip.

You reached for him; he caught your wrists, kissed the inside of each palm, laid them gently above your head.

"Tonight’s mine" he said, voice rough velvet. "Let me take care of you."

You nodded, throat tight. He started at your throat: open-mouthed kisses, the gentle scrape of teeth, tongue soothing every mark. Worked his way down, slow enough that anticipation coiled low in your belly. When he reached your breasts, he paused, eyes flicking up to check. You arched into him, and he smiled, small, reverent, before taking one nipple into the wet heat of his mouth.

You moaned, loud enough that the sound echoed off the rafters. He hummed approval, switched to the other, rolling the first peak gently between calloused fingers until you were writhing.

Lower.

He mapped your ribs with his lips, traced the curve of your waist, dipped his tongue into your navel just to hear you gasp. When he settled between your thighs, he didn’t dive in, he worshipped. Kissed the soft skin of your inner thigh, nipped gently, soothed with his tongue. By the time he finally licked a slow stripe up your center, you were trembling, fingers twisted in the quilt.

"Mingyu..."

"I’ve got you" he whispered against your clit, and then he devoured.

Slow, then faster, then slow again. Long, flat licks followed by tight circles that made your hips chase his mouth. He slid two thick fingers inside you, curled them just right, crooking in time with the flick of his tongue until your thighs clamped around his head and you came with a broken cry, back bowing off the cot.

He didn’t stop. Kept licking gently through the aftershocks until you were boneless, tugging weakly at his hair.

"Need you inside me" you panted. "Now."

He rose up over you, forearms braced beside your head, eyes searching yours. "Tell me again."

"I love you" you said, clear and steady. "I want you. All of you."

He groaned like the words undid him, lined up, and pushed in with one slow, relentless glide.

The stretch was perfect: full, overwhelming, home. You wrapped legs around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back to urge him deeper. He bottomed out, held still, buried his face in your neck.

"Gods, you feel-" His voice cracked. "Like you were made for me."

You clenched deliberately; he shuddered, hips jerking. Then he moved. Not the frantic, desperate rhythm of earlier months. This was deliberate, long, deep strokes that dragged over every sensitive spot inside you, withdrawal almost to the tip before sinking back in until you felt him in your throat. His hand slid between you, thumb circling your clit in lazy figure-eights that matched the roll of his hips.

You met him thrust for thrust, nails raking down his back, leaving fresh marks over old ones. The cot creaked beneath you; the fairy lights flickered with every shared gasp.

"Look at me" he whispered.

You did. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, but the love in them was brighter than any forge. You cupped hiss face, thumb sweeping over the sweat at his temple.

"I’m yours" you said. "Always."

He kissed you through the next thrust, swallowing your moan. The pace quickened , still controlled, still reverent, but urgent now. You felt the second orgasm building, slower this time, deeper, a wave instead of a crash.

"Come with me" he rasped against your lips.

You shattered first,clenching around him, crying out his name into his mouth. He followed moments later, hips stuttering, spilling hot inside you with a groan that sounded like your name and prayer combined. He kept moving through it, drawing out every aftershock until you were both trembling, oversensitive, clinging.

When he finally stilled, he didn’t pull out. Just shifted to the side, keeping you tucked against his chest, still joined, legs tangled. You felt him soften slowly inside you, the warmth of him leaking out, marking the sheets and your thighs and every inch of skin that touched.

His hand found yours, laced your fingers, brought them to his lips. He kissed each knuckle, then the tiny burn scar on your wrist again.

"I still can’t believe you’re real" he murmured into your skin.

You smiled against his collarbone. "I’m here. Not going anywhere."

Outside, snow started to fall: fat, lazy flakes drifting past the window, melting the moment they touched the forge’s warmth. Inside, the fire settled into a steady glow, and two demigods stayed wrapped around each other until the lamps burned low.

Later (much later), he carried you to the wide leather couch, laid you down, cleaned you both with a warm cloth and steady hands. You fell asleep to the sound of him humming under his breath, some half-remembered lullaby from a childhood spent in workshops, his fingers tracing infinite patterns on your back.

Just before dawn, you stirred. He was already awake, watching you with that soft, stunned expression he wore whenever he thought you weren’t looking.

"What?" you mumbled, voice sleep-rough.

"Just memorizing" he whispered. "In case I wake up and this was all a dream."

You reached up, tugged him down until his head rested over your heart. "Not a dream, Forge Boy. Real. And staying."

He pressed a kiss between your breasts, right above where your heart beat for him.

"Good" he said, voice thick. "Because I’m never letting go."

Outside, the first light of winter painted the forge rose-gold. Inside, you slept tangled together, sweat-cooled skin, shared breath, the quiet certainty that some fires don’t need taming. They just need someone brave enough to hold them close and never let the cold win.

The taglist for the next parts is still open!

Taglist: @choit-cherry @cheolcolatechip @ateez-atiny380 @reiofsuns2001 @wooahoe @bumblebreex @ms-indifferwnt @doorsandfloors @itsdevinjones @curlie-frys @ladeldiminutivo @scoupsonlycherry @atashiboba @peachytokki @amisuh @atashiboba @itsmooniebaby @asyre @imhereonlytoreadxoxo @blaycke @deluluzy @xuaiyinsworld @codeinebelle @fairwanda @luumiinaa @mxnhoeuwu

[lovenike]

𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐄 ⵑ 02. marvins room

FEATURING. clarisse la rue, luke castellan, thalia grace, silena beauregard, chris rodrigues, travis stoll & charles beckendorf

⋮ ⌗ ┆pairing ⸝⸝⸝ luke castellan x fem!reader 𓂃 𓈒𓏸

─── smau. luke is such a fawkin loser for yall 🤣 note : light mode for reader & dark mode for luke's pov

prev 𖹭 next

💌 : this was basically js the gyurrrllss against luke (as they should btw!)

as always , lmk what yall think by reblogging or commenting !!!

© nikesdiaries on tumblr