#and make him both Castor and Pollux | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

snexy-the-snail · 6 months ago

Text

Well That's New

Losing Castor had left a hole in his entire being that Dionysus could not ignore. Losing children always felt like divine energy being wretched from his being, like a knife being twisted and dragged into his skin. It hadn't been Percy's fault, he knew that, but the loss still ached. It had been seconds for him, a flash in his life, and it didn't hurt any less. He taps his fingers on the chair he had been sitting in before standing. He still had Pollux. The boy was still safe within the camp, most likely practicing his swordsmanship with the sea brat right now. The stupid, self-sacrificing boy who managed to drag himself into trouble every single summer felt like it. Younger than his own son. Whispered into his mind, causing his chest to clench.

With each year, he swore the boy aged his father by centuries. Then again, the boy did that to any god fond of him. He sighs heavily as he starts making his way through camp towards the training area, and just as he expected, there Percy was, clashing swords with his son. Both focus intently on the sound of metal filling the air. The bitter feeling that had been bubbling all morning twisted in his chest with each slash and falter, whether it was his son or Percy. Now, that was a new development. For the past few weeks, he focused a tad more on the little whirlpool. Maybe it was because Percy had the same carefree tendencies as Castor, the same playful attitude.

He watches each of them carefully, wincing when Pollux lands a good hit, blood oozing from the cut. Percy throws his son back after blocking another strike, sword pointed at his throat once the boy hits the ground, a forced surrender. The tense moment didn't last long, Percy capping the bronze sword and offering a hand, hauling Pollux off the ground. "Good hit." "Come on, you let me have that. Don't even pretend it was good." Pollux laughs, brushing his hand back. Neither of them had noticed him, and it was strangely satisfying seeing them interact. Percy had a way of just flawlessly integrating himself into other cabins, nearly acting like another sibling. "It was pretty good. I barely had to block it." Dionysus couldn't help but crack a smile. After the wars, seeing such a carefree attitude was a breath of fresh air. He watched as Pollux stretched, sticking the sword in the dirt to adjust his breastplate. "Mmhm sure, which is why two seconds later, I was on my ass, kid." "Ugh, don't call me kid; I'm only like two years younger than you." "Still younger," Pollux says with a shit-eating grin, nudging Percy. They acted so at ease with each other, so painfully similar to how the twins had been. Castor and Percy would've gotten along together even better. Pollux seemed to have noticed him; however, his smile was brightening. That warmed his ichor when the boy grabbed his sword and made his way over, Percy following shortly after, already undoing his armor. Dionysus's fingers itched to do it himself rather than seeing the teen struggle.

"Have fun; I'm gonna, I don't know, offend the Hephaestus kids trying to make another metal abomination," Percy says with a smirk, giving Pollux a mock salute, the other boy groaning. "You suck," he grumbles, crossing as Dionysus ruffles his hair. The curls do not settle one bit.

"Actually, Jackson, you'll be joining him." The silence settles over the three before Pollux starts to cackle, a wide grin on his face nearly doubled over. Percy's face slackened as he stared at the god as if he were trying to figure out whether it was a joke. "What? You- I mean...what?" He trips over his words, taking a step back.

Dionysus scoffs, raising a brow. The idea did seem...slightly ridiculous, though he didn't think it too odd. "Are your ears not working?" He prompts. The bitter feeling eased as Pollux stepped closer to him. As much as he tried not to get attached to any camper, he couldn't help but feel a fondness for them all, yes, even Percy. "Nope, heard you loud and clear, I think; how about no." The boy says, clasping his hands together, turning, and going to no doubt walk back towards the cabins. "I'm sorry. Did that sound like a choice? Pollux, did I offer it as a choice?" He asks, glancing at his son before approaching the sea child, resting a hand on his shoulder. He didn't miss how the boy flinched at his touch before relaxing. "No sir, not at all." his boy answers in a sweet tone. Sarcasm is a beautiful thing humans use.

"Yeah, well, I'm not doing that, thank you." Percy shoots back with no hesitation, though he doesn't shove his hand away. Everyone knew about the Apollo incident as well, and he had a good laugh about the sun god being bitten. Either way, if Percy was against it, he would know.

"Telling a god No never goes well for it, does it Jackson?" He muses, adjusting his height. The larger he grew, the lighter he made his touch on the boy's shoulder. With practice ease, he loosens the straps of the breastplate, allowing the armor to hit the ground with a dull thud. "I've made it this far, haven't I?" Percy shoots back with a grumble, turning so his gaze settles on Dionysus. "To be fair, half the time ends up with them cursing you." Pollux points out. The idea didn't sit well with Dionysus either, a sense of bitterness settling more in his chest. Ugh, he truly had gotten attached to the little sea brat, hadn't he? "Shut it, Pollux." However, there was no heat really behind the boy's grumble. Dionysus chuckles, wrapping his hand around Percy's waist. The boy was still skinny, no doubt from his trip..there. That protective feeling flared up again, demanding that he shield the boy from the suffering. "Be polite." He scolds, lifting the boy.

"Or what? You're already eating me."

"Do not call it that. I am not eating you." The idea was laughable, honestly. Yes, there was a similar process, but the thought of harming any demigod in such a manner made his stomach revolt. "It's holding."

"Gods, you and Dad. Get off your high horse. It's totally- hey! Hey, easy!" Percy shrieks, wriggling in his grasp when he lifts the boy, slipping him in face first into his waiting jaws. Pollux cackled as he saw kicking legs. Even with all the movement, not once did he allow any of his teeth to graze the boy. He wasn't sure he could handle an accident harming a demigod when doing something meant to keep them safe. "Hey! Hey, come on- Really head first?" the boy continues to complain, Dionysus chuckling as the complaints continue. Saltwater taffy came to mind as the boy's taste seeped into his tongue. A stark contrast to the soft grape taste he was used to with his own son. "Not his fault, you're being a brat, is it!" Pollux calls out, waiting a few feet away. Dionysus hums in agreement, easing Percy in, not even giving him a chance to answer before swallowing. The feeling was familiar, comforting almost as he followed the movements, slipping the boy's shoes off as his legs were pulled into his mouth. He brings his other hand to his throat, tracing the descent as he swallows again, following the progress down until the demigod's body slips past his collarbone.

Percy scrunches his face up as he meets open air, then unceremoniously slips face-first into the organ. "You ass!" He calls out, scowling when he just gets a chuckle in response. The warm scent of grapes curled around him. He squirms around, gritting his teeth as he tries to right himself, finding it hard against the rippling surface. "oh, come on-" He hisses out. His cheeks go red when he feels Mr.D pressing in from the outside, helping him into a more seated position. "Need some help there?" the smug voice rumbled around him. "You suck." He mumbles, shifting a bit more. "It's funny you think I care." Percy rolls his eyes, jabbing the muscle. There was swaying, causing him to press against the front of the stomach..so was the god bending over? Why would he be doing that? "Are you ready, Pollux?" Oh Oh, absolutely not!

"There's no way you're going to eat him too!" He says, very much not squealing. Thank you. "There's no room- come on, you can't be serious!" His pleas went unanswered. Instead, a swallow sounded from above him. It was weird hearing swallowing and feeling the stomach churn around him as Pollux obviously was making his way to him. "This is so freaky," Percy murmurs, trying to get used to the dim lighting surrounding him. He had to admit it was a tad odd seeing hands splay out from the top of the stomach, followed by Pollux's head, the elder boy grinning widely. "Hey, Perc, how's it going." The boy grins, laughing as another swallow had him intruding more on Percy's space. "This is literally so weird." He grumbles, awkwardly reaching up to help avoid being crushed by the older boy; it worked sorta, a bunch of wriggling from both parties until Percy ended up pressed against Pollux's side."Really? I think it's weird when it's just me- like there's too much space." Sharing the space sounded atrocious, actually. There was no way to have any room to yourself, practically being tucked against the other boy's side. Pollux moved a bit before sneaking his arm across Percy's shoulder.

"You know I'm supposed to teach the Hermes cabin after this, right?" Percy points out, jabbing a stomach wall. The scent of grapes was nearly dizzying and comforting at the same time. A scoff was his reply, accompanied by a slight jostling as the god started to move. Probably back to the big house. "There are other capable trainers, available brat." came the reply, a soft touch accompanying, letting Percy know the god was more than fine with subbing out sword training for the day. "It's nap time either way."

"Do you seriously have mandated nap times?" He looks to Pollux, the boy shrugging. "What can I say? It's a perfect excuse to skip out on lame activities," he says before stretching out, pressing Percy more into his side, an arm still around his shoulder. "Plus, it's time with dad." Right. It was easy to forget that Mr.D was a parent. "You're like an adult." Percy points out with a huff, closing his eyes still. It wasn't like he could see much anyway. It always weirded him out when the stomach didn't glow. He was so used to Triton and his dad's soft blueish glow, hell, even Apollo's weird golden sun-like glow. He guessed Hermes was dark, too. "Yeah? Still a demigod, so I'm basically just a toddler in Dad's eyes." Pollux answers without hesitation. Huh, he never really thought about it that way. Would they always be considered young to their godly parents? "are you going to keep yapping, or will I get to enjoy my magazines?"

Percy cracked his eye open just long enough to see Pollux roll his eyes, a fond smile on the boy's face. "That's code for taking a nap already." He stage whispers. A grumbling rumbling all around them. Maybe Mr. D wasn't as grumpy as he first thought. Then again, half the time he met with the gods, some crisis had been happening. The prophecy, various other incidents, and a lot, really. Granted, he did help on some quests, even if it didn't seem like it at the time. "I can keep yapping; some people say it's my specialty." He shoots back with a light grin. A soft pressure from the outside ghosts against his back. The touches were always weird, but Percy couldn't help but find them comforting. No matter how close the gods were able to get them, there were always touches. Always. Hermes did it, and so did Apollo, his brother, and his dad. He had a feeling the others would, too, but he didn't exactly want to test that theory out. "Hush or I can make you." Mr.D grumbles though the fondness in his tone took the danger out of the threat. Percy rolls his eyes before closing them, resting a bit more against Pollux, the elder boy patting his shoulder. The organ gurgles around them, and the soft flesh presses into them rhythmically. It wasn't much longer under Percy found himself slipping into sleep.

#soft vore #safe vore #pjo vore #protective vore #extreme cuddling #endosoma #comfort vore #pjo soft vore #vore mentioned #g/t vore

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coldbronzemoon · 3 months ago

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And Now We're Back to Get Some More

A fic for @aroace-get-out-of-my-face 's fic "A Good Day to Die (Again)".

I just want these sadsacks to have a good time on their mini-road trip. This can be found on Ao3 too.

There was a lull in conversation in the car. It was not the first, and probably won’t be the last. Ford was grateful to have Stanley here in the car with him—so, so grateful, if whatever being that caused the time loop, should they exist, ever revealed itself to him he’d do whatever it demanded with no questions—but filling silence for multiple hours straight was still a tall task.

Both their voices were a bit raspy five hours in. Stan was still driving; Ford tried to persuade his brother to let him take the wheel on account of the bad bruise on Stan’s arm from being tackled to the ground during their reunion, but Stan stalwartly refused.

So Ford was in the passenger’s seat with the map, watching the cusps of trees on the side of the highway grow into woods and forests the further north they traveled. It was a pretty sight, most of the drive. He didn’t have the chance to admire it while he was driving down south dozens of times.

His heart jolted in his chest, thinking of the last week. The many last weeks. He looked at Stanley, for a second utterly convinced that the loop would reset and Ford would wake up and scream himself hoarse for a minute because dammit, he did it, he did it, don’t fucking take this from him and steal a car and drive and drive and drive and make it to the casino just to see Stan get shot through the head—

But Stanley was there, one hand on the wheel and the other arm braced on the rolled-down window like a trucker. There wasn’t any blood or bone fragments or brain splatter. He was just sitting there, squinting out at the road. He probably shouldn't be squinting, they weren’t facing the sun at the moment.

He opened his mouth, intending to ask about that. But he happened to look out the window at the sky, and it was the time of the year that the moon was visible in the sky in the day, and his brain leapt from the moon, to the stars, to the smoggy, dark canopy of sky over Glass Shard Beach, to them as children giving up on the real sky and looking at star charts instead.

“Tell me about Castor and Pollux,” he said.

It had been an old… not game, exactly, but an old pastime. The two of them had both liked Greek mythology when they were younger—for Stan it had mostly been an interest in the wars and magical powers and warriors with swords, but he suffered Ford’s interest in other parts of the mythology too. Ford would tell him all about a god, and Stanley would remember it.

Then he’d tell the tales he learned back to Ford. He was much better at making them proper stories than Ford, who always talked about things like a series of facts. Stanley made them fun.

When had their last round of myths been told? Ford thought it might’ve been around thirteen. Stan had braces then, and Ford hadn’t gotten his yet. He thought that his last recollection of Stanley telling Greek myths involved the lisp he gained for that period of time.

Pollux had been Polluc’shhh. Because it had been Castor and Pollux then, too. That had been their favorite constellation myth.

Twins, boxers, sailors. It was like they were cast in the image of those two gods. Back then, they would jokingly plot to change their names to Castor and Pollux after they sailed away, because anything was better than Stan and Stan, and get into scuffles over who had to be Castor and who got to be Pollux.

After all, Pollux was the immortal one. Ford would insist on Stan being Pollux if they were to fight over it again. Maybe Stan was already Pollux, in a way. What was a time loop if not a form of immortality?

Stanley blinked out of his harsh squint and glanced at him for a moment. Only a moment; Ford had already given him hell for keeping his eyes off the road because he was not dying in a car crash after everything.

“When the hell did you turn into resin, you sap,” Stan said.

“Are you going to tell me about them or not?” Ford said, ignoring the question entirely. The answer would be the moment I realized you could really die, and for now they were ignoring the amount of death that had happened for their collective sanity.

Stan sighed, a grand production, and said, “Alright, lessee if I remember anything...”

“Keep your eyes on the road while you remember,” Ford said.

He unfolded the map in his lap even though they had miles before any exits as Stan sighed and hummed and clicked his tongue just to be annoying. Ford was annoyed, which was annoying in of itself, but fondness overtook everything else.

“Right, stop me if I get it wrong, but Castor and Pollux, they were these twin brothers. Real hotshots, handsome as hell, as all twins are—”

Ford laughed. He had forgotten that Stan always started the myth like that. He wouldn’t have remembered it without Stan doing it again, and the thought unsettled him for a second.

But it was alright that Ford had forgotten. It was alright, because Stan was here, and telling the story again, and he’d always be here to do everything Ford had forgotten he did because nothing like what happened in that casino parking lot was ever allowed to happen again.

He settled into the seat of the El Diablo and let Stanley’s guff voice wash over him.

-----------------------------

At some point into Stan’s recollection of the lives of Castor and Pollux, which had slid into a recollection of a group of bikers Stan had run with in his early twenties, Stan abruptly stopped talking and pointed out a billboard.

Ford blinked awake from what wasn’t exactly a nap—he was still listening to Stanley—but nearly counted as one. He almost missed the billboard, and for a second was sure he misread it as it passed by.

The billboard declared that on an upcoming exit there was a “TRAIN OF TAXIDERMY”, featuring a picture of a rundown-looking set of boxcars that presumably held the taxidermy.

“That looks shitty as hell,” Stan said gleefully. “We should go see it.”

“They’re going to charge us twenty dollars each to look at stuffed rabbits,” Ford said.

“Sure are. We should go anyway. I’ve always seen signs for these stupid things and never gone.”

Ford considered Stanley from the corner of his eye. His brother could pay for his own fee with his casino winnings, so that wasn’t a problem… Ford remembered Stanley always having a fascination with this sort of thing. He’d happily point out any dead animals they saw in the area and listen on as Ford poked them with sticks and tried to determine the cause of death.

It wasn’t like Ford hadn’t also enjoyed himself. Hell, maybe the place would have some genuinely decent taxidermy, which would be interesting to look at. Maybe it’d even have something cursed!

“Why not?” he said. “Let’s go see it. It’ll add, what, an hour getting back?”

Stanley whooped with delight as Ford bent over the map and marked the exit for the Train of Taxidermy with a red marker Stan kept in the glove compartment.

The tourist trap was easy to find on account of the multiple signs pointing out where to go and clarifying how many miles more to get to it. The sight of the wooden pointing arms and faded white letters claiming to “shock” and “amaze” filled Ford with a rush of nostalgia for the boardwalk carnival of their childhood.

Coming up on the train itself—a bold claim, really, it was three boxcars set on an abandoned track, all of them painted lurid colors—was a slightly disappointing sight after all the fanfare. Stan and Ford got out of the car and made their way to the wooden stall near the parking lot for the site anyway. The pair were still riding the wave of getting out of an endless prison of death and were determined to enjoy themselves.

They engaged with the tourist trap’s cashier with a level of enthusiasm and ecstasy that had the bored teenage employee scrutinizing them with narrowed eyes, probably looking for signs of a different kind of ecstasy.

Still, they were directed to enter any boxcar they chose despite the wary look. Ford had no doubt that it had less to do with the girl being sure they were drug-free and more to do with the fact she wasn’t paid enough to care either way.

The hot pink boxcar was the closest one, and boasted “HUGE RACKS AND IMPRESSIVE BODIES”. Stan marched ahead to that one without Ford’s input, and Ford was forced to follow after.

He supposed he could’ve chosen to take one of the cars not emblazoned with a suggestive slogan, but that would require letting Stanley out of his sight. And that simply wasn’t going to happen.

It turned out that the car was mostly filled with deer, and dear Moses, they were awful. Stan was already cackling at the utterly hideous buck’s head that was mounted on the far wall, whose expression in death could only be described as ‘perturbed’. There were multiple doe in the car as well, posed in what was probably supposed to be frolicing motions, but looked more like seizures. The fur and skin were obviously stitched together from several deer, and yet it seemed far too tight over the false bone and muscle inside.

“I could do better,” Stan said, prodding at the buck’s antlers. There was no one around to stop him from doing it. “These things were obviously glued on—if you’re gonna do that, go big! Give it twenty antlers! Put up a plaque saying it grew a new set every year, ‘cept the last set never fell off.”

“Deer live ten years at best,” Ford pointed out, studying the buck as well. The glass eyes had an almost hypnotic quality despite being set into the eye sockets like the maker had just thrown them haphazardly and hoped they’d stick.

Stan shrugged, grinning. “So it was a half-immortal deer on top of the antler thing. Double the fun.”

Ford laughed in spite of himself.

The other two cars were similarly terrible. The second one, painted a suspect green, was filled with birds upon birds upon birds. Half of them were obviously pigeons painted to be other birds, the rest a collection of haggard birds of exotic nationalities that were surely the result of illegal animal smuggling. One of them was a charbroiled chicken carcass in a glass case that claimed to be the remains of a phoenix, a notion Ford spent a good long while ranting about as Stan came up with increasingly absurd ways for it to be a real phoenix corpse despite the fake nature of everything else.

The yellow-coated third car was the best in that it fully descended into the realm of absurdity. Animals had been butchered into pieces and sown back together into complete mishmashes of chimeras that strained the imagination and one’s sense of good taste. There was a wolf with hawk wings, a squirrel with a scorpion’s tail, a snake with what looked disturbingly like human teeth.

“I can’t believe this place hasn’t been shut down,” Ford said, wishing he could study those teeth in more detail. Were they human?

Unfortunately, even he had enough awareness to know you couldn’t go asking to please have the taxidermy snake in an exhibit to test its teeth. That might invite questions like, ‘how are you going to test if they’re human?’

“Shit, I can,” Stan said, examining a set of mice with insect wings stapled to their backs on a small table. “Pigs suck at their jobs, what do they care about some weirdo making monsters in the woods?”

“I suppose.”

It took them another twenty minutes of making fun of the stitching and poor attempts at musculature before they wandered back out, having thoroughly enjoyed themselves. They passed the teenage employee as they went, who made no attempt to hide the joint she was smoking. Ford suspected Stan was right on the money; no local authorities of any kind cared about this place.

Back in the car, Stan paused a moment in starting the car, pulling something out of his coat pockets. Ford let out a shout of surprise as Stan dumped a handful of the taxidermy fairy mice into his lap.

“Be quiet or she’s gonna get on our asses,” Stan said. “Anyway, here’s some mementos. Don’t thank me too hard, now.”

The grin on his face could only be described as shit-eating.

Ford burst into peals of laughter, trying not to let the mice fall into the foot-space of the passenger seat without actually touching them with his bare hands. “Stanley, I can’t believe you. These things are going to give me rabies.”

Stan snorted. “Y’can’t get rabies like that.” Doubt flickered on his face. “Can you?”

“No,” Ford admitted, unwilling to be wrong even for the bit. “But if anything could manage it, it’d be these awful things.”

The mice peered up at him with glassy, beady eyes. They seemed to beg for death despite being dead.

“You love ‘em. They’re exactly your type’a shit,” Stan said.

“They are not!”

Stanley started the car and peeled out of the parking lot before Ford could even think of returning the horrible mice to their resting place. He laughed at all of Ford’s furious spluttering, not in the least bit afraid or concerned about Ford’s ire.

And maybe there was a reason Ford relented so easily. He already knew where to put the awful things in his cabin.

-----------------------------

Adjusting to being in Ford’s house was… odd.

Part of it was that when Stan ever managed to picture where Ford was living, it was usually off in the city, doing important science stuff in important science places. Somewhere big and blocky and white, science-y and all. He had known that Ford was here from calls from his mom, but the reality never really settled in his mind as the truth.

The big cabin in woods a drive out from a small lumber town was not that. It didn’t fit the eager seventeen year old Stan remembered, so ready to be part of something huge and bustling. Something more than the slow, boring crawl of a tiny beach town.

But then, he couldn’t have imagined that twiggy version of his brother getting the shoulders and arms to successfully tackle him to the ground or the speed to sprint after him without getting winded. Couldn’t have imagined that Ford gleefully stealing a car.

He couldn’t have imagined that version of Ford looking so crushed at the thought of him being dead, either, so maybe it was a good thing he found Ford had changed from what he was. Besides, he was still completely Ford in all the ways that mattered, in the madcap enthusiasm and the grammarian ways and the rambling and the tapping of his fingers, which eased the sting of finding his twin had changed in his absence.

Actually being in the house also helped. It looked like a movie prop department for every mad scientist thriller ever made had exploded in the place, aka exactly what Stan would’ve imagined for Ford. After chasing the gnomes—the gnomes, what the fuck —out of the cabin and falling asleep on the floor for the first night, Ford had vaguely apologized for not cleaning up and then immediately got distracted trying to arrange jars filled with something on some shelving.

Stan wasn’t allowed to help on account of Ford having a specific organizational method in mind, which Stan had never been able to parse even after seventeen years of living with the guy. Mostly he ended up prodding at the anatomical skeleton Ford had in the house for some reason. Weren’t these things real bones?

It was here in this house that both was and wasn’t everything Stan imagined for Ford that a lot of things Stan had tried to avoid thinking about swam to the forefront.

“How many times did we repeat the week?” Stan found himself asking.

Ford stopped in place, staring off into the distance. It was the sort of concentrated look that Stan vaguely remembered, one that meant Ford was doing a lot of math in his head. Or that he felt nauseous and was trying not to upchuck onto his own shoes. It was a toss-up when they were kids; Ford’s stomach had been pretty weak.

“I believe it was at least several months worth,” he said. “Maybe even close to half a year.”

“No,” Stan said, on principle. It couldn’t have been half a year.

“There are only fifty-two weeks in a year. You found a lot of ways to kill yourself.”

There was a momentary silence. Stan regretted bringing it up; they’d been doing pretty damn good at leaving the fact that Stan had wanted to kill himself pretty badly to the one conversation in the Stanleymobile. He guessed that was on him for thinking he could get away with never talking about it again.

Abruptly, Ford said, “Ma was the one to tell me.”

“Oh, shit,” Stan said. “I thought you were lying about Ma calling you about me.”

Ford frowned. “Well, I was—she never called me to warn me you were suicidal, she called to tell me you were dead.”

“Shit,” Stan said again, with great feeling.

The look Ford gave him was half-way between confused and incredulous, and he supposed he deserved it. Ford had mentioned that before, hadn't he? That Stan's deaths kept getting to him in the end.

It wouldn’t be right to say Stan hadn’t thought his family would learn about his death; he had, especially in the beginning. He’d gone for a drifter’s death out where no one could find him until identification would be a waste.

At some point, though, that aspect had just… faded away. The impact of what he was doing didn’t feel real. It didn’t matter that he was dying, that others were learn that he had died. Hell, a couple times he’d gone for deaths that would make a scene, would maybe end up on the news if the news cycle had ever been allowed to get past Friday. Those would’ve certainly made it back to the rest of the Pines.

Stan had forgotten the fact that by leaving a body to be identified, his mom would learn that he had died. How he had died. That she’d have to ring up Ford and probably Shermie too to break the news.

He wanted to ask what their mom had sounded like relaying his death. He didn’t actually want to know.

Too bad, Ford was already speaking again. “It was her every time. Well, every time there was a phone call to receive; sometimes I’d go the whole week without one and I always wondered… oh, and our dad called once.”

“Pa?” Stan repeated. “Pa called?”

If what his mom had sounded like was something Stan didn’t want to imagine, what his dad had sounded like was something he couldn’t imagine. The concept of his father taking the time to call Ford and give the news just didn’t make sense.

Ford’s jaw tightened and he rearranged a few jars with unnecessary force. “Yes. It was when you—when you were murdered.”

“By old Gas Bag?”

His twin let out a sharp laugh, looking quite surprised at having done so. “Gas Bag?”

“He had a stupid last name!” Stanley said, gesturing defensively. “And he was a gas bag. Full of hot air.”

The fledgling smile on Ford’s face faded as he continued to survey his shelves. “Yes, the first time with him, I believe. Pa called, as he had been the one to confirm who you were. He usually was.”

Stanley didn’t know how to feel about that little tidbit. Wincingly, his mind flipped through some of his deaths like a receptionist flipping through her rolodex of phone numbers. Shot himself in the head, in the mouth, jumped, poisoned himself with cleaning supplies, lit himself on fire…

Very few of them ever left his body looking very…palatable. And while Stan’s relationship and opinion of his dad could be described as ‘complicated’ on the best of days, he wasn’t sure he wanted the old man to have to see him like that.

He stared at the anatomical skeleton some more. At least it ke[t Ma from seeing what was left of him. That was something.

Ford broke him out of his morbid reverie. “I’m going to punch him the next time I see him.”

“Who, Gas Bag?” Stan said, baffled. He was pretty sure they’d never meet again.

“No, Pa,” Ford said. “When he called, he—he had the gall to blame you for it, you know. That you were dead, that you were living the kind of life where someone might murder you. I remembered thinking for a second that he might regret it, you know, that he’d understand what he’d done, by the way he was acting—but it was your fault. Of course. It had to be your fault, not his. Not even your dead body could shake him of that.”

Ford’s voice was filled with a cold venom Stan had never heard before.

He tried to muster up much of a reaction to what Ford actually said, but he found himself oddly distant to it. Of course Pa made it all his fault again. That was an old pattern Stan had taken way too long to notice.

Maybe his dad did regret it. Maybe he didn’t. That version of his dad was as dead as Stan tried to make himself. He never really existed.

“Sounds like Pa,” Stan muttered, flicking the arm of the skeleton and watching it swing in response.

Ford’s expression contorted. He marched away, and left Stan wondering what was happening. His brother returned with several things: the mice Stan had purloined for him in a plastic bag they had mustered up at some point, a stack of post-it notes, and a marker. Ford wrote “CURSE PA NEXT OPPORTUNITY” and stuck it right on the doorframe to the storage room. Then he set about aggressively arranging the fairy-mice in the space on his shelves.

Stan did not find the post-it note weirdly heart-warming. He didn’t.

-----------------------------

Stan woke up with a start. For a long second, he didn’t recognize the ceiling above him, and his heart seized in his chest—where was the water-damage pattern of the motel room he spent months getting used to?

The fact that it was dark wood above him threw him even more. Most places he ended up in while sleeping didn’t involve homey cabin interiors. More bare concrete and plaster and maybe some dried blood or vomit no one bothered to clean up.

His gaze swung around the room. Then he really almost had a heart-attack, because Moses, there was someone standing in the frame of the doorway, the light shining behind them blocking out all detail until they were a shadowy silhouette.

Stanley nearly got his hands on the lamp on the bedside table before his brain caught up to everything and his eyes adjusted to the light to make out the other person’s face. The motel, yes, the loops and the many deaths of Stanley Pines, and then, suddenly and miraculously, his last death and Ford dragging him back to his house in Backwater, Oregon.

It was just Ford. Just Ford, standing in his— his! That was novel—bedroom’s doorway in the perfect way to look like he was about to murder the hell out of Stan. Classic Sixer. His knack for menacing would be applaudable if he could actually do it on purpose.

As Ford stood there in the dark like a creep, he looked steadily at Stan and said: “Stanley, I want you to know that if you ever change your mind and actually manage to kill yourself, I’m going to kill myself right after. Just so you’re aware.”

A hysterical bark of laughter burst out of Stan before he could help it. Whatever he’d expected Ford to say, it wasn’t that. The laughter was swiftly followed by a, “Stanford, holy shit.”

“I’m being completely sincere,” Ford clarified. “Ideally, I’d just resurrect you somehow, but if that doesn’t work I’m coming after you.”

The worst thing was that Stan believed him without a doubt. Man, they were fucked up.

“Fuck’s sake, Pollux,” he infused the nickname with as much sarcasm as he could manage, “I’m not killing myself. Not today, not tomorrow, not in the next eighty years. Please get out of my room.”

Ford sighed like Stan was being the weird one here. But he did leave, departing with an unnecessary flourish of the bathrobe he was wearing for some reason.

“I would do it!” Ford called one more time as he shut the door.

Stan sighed and looked up at the dark wood of the ceiling, the house creaking slightly with Ford’s movements back to his own room..

He was the happiest he’d ever been in his life.

#gravity falls #fanfic #my writing #stan pines #ford pines #idk what else to tag. enjoy!

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ssparksflyy · 1 year ago

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i cannot remember if i already sent in a request, my apologies if i did. but could i get a percy x daughter of dionysus boyfriend headcanons

ask and thou shall receive ༉‧₊˚.

percy jackson dating hcs! ๋࣭ ⭑⚝

pairing: percy jackson x daughter of dionysus!reader warning(s): alcohol, teensy bit of underage drinking a/n: hellooo! dw pooks u didnt send it already <33 sorry this took me a sec to get out, school SUCKS

WE WERE IN THE BACKSEAT DRUNK ON SOMETHING STRONGER THAN THE DRINKS IN THE BAR

im not kidding though. percy's literally so in love with you that he feels drunk

he gets super smiley and giggly when he talks about you

im talking actually twirling his hair and kicking his feet goodnight

and the poor new camper he's supposed to be showing around literally just wants to learn where the restroom is

he seizes up any opportunity to talk about you methinks

someone could be like

" look at that (f/c) flower! its so pretty!!"

and percy, who's like 12 feet away would run up like

"DID YOU KNOW (F/C) IS (NAMES)'S FAVORITE COLO-"

at this point half the camp knows your entire life story

honestly. pollux loves percy.

he sees how happy he makes you and how well he treats you and is just like 'awwww'

DEFINITELY TEASES YOU THOUGHHH

he also definitely doesn't see percy sneak into your cabin. no siree he doesnt. hes sleeping. goodnight.

( castor also loved him. ILY KING. 😭 )

mr d on the other hand...

literally surprised he hasn't turned him into a dolphin yet

one day he will

but like say you guys are just happily walking around camp, holding hands, being cute , the usual.

when like suddenly you turn to the big house and see your PISSED dad DEATHSTARING you guys. oh hell no.

AND PERCY DOES NOT HELPPPP.

he'll literally look mr d straight in the eye. then turn to you and give you a long kiss. right in front of him.

chiron has had to hold him back countless times

like there was one time when you walked out of cabin 12 together and mr.d saw

he was FUMING

he's seen you walk out of cabin 3 before, BUT CABIN 12?? HIS CABIN????

percy's ass was grass.

literally.

you two were sitting together on the grass, just chatting, and percy could not get uppp

there were vines literally tying him to the ground

you were laughing so hard and he was PANICKING. RIPTIDE WOULD NOT CUT THEMMM.

eventually when you stopped laughing you were able to get the vines to retreat, but percy is still scared to sit in the grass, so all picnic dates have been moved to the lake ♡

whenever youre practicing making wine and like have to taste test it, percy always takes a sip with you

cause obviously you gotta taste it and make sure your actually improving, so you both take a little sip together

it's his own way of saying that he trusts you and your talents

he absolutely adores picking strawberries with you

sometimes you'll help out the demeter kids and bring percy along

and hes just like speed running it i swear

you dont even know why. like he's just laser-focused

apparently, he doesn't know either, it just happens 🤷‍♀️

at the end of the day, when youre done picking strawberries, you'll sneak a few in your pocket and share them with percy ♡

he doesn't care if he's developing back problems from being hunched over in the fields all day, your strawberry kisses are worth it ♡

#percy jackson #pjo #percy jackson x reader #heroes of olympus #pjo x reader #heroes of olympus x reader #hoo x reader #percy jackon and the olympians #child of dionysus #percy jackson x you #by bells ♡⋆ ࣪.#seaweed brain ⋅˚₊‧𓇼

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nabi-unveiled · 1 month ago

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Ring Theory Continued: Episode 5

Ep 3 Ep 4

The rings continued to be a source of amusement for me this episode.

We finally got a clear shot of blue shark clan's ring and both hands this episode.

As I had thought -> he wears his ring on the left hand, third finger.

So far we've said that means a personal game that's either neutral or good. So was this proposal truly made out of goodwill?

And truly just personal because he has no heir in this game?

Or are we really just seeing his hands clearly for the first time, because he's finally beginning to make his game known. Only time will tell. I still don't trust him. The rings are less reliable as a symbol than the stars, and the stars indicate a crocodile king (villain) hiding in his flag.

In other ring theory news...

Many of our key players - the King and the other three clan leaders kept their rings in place and didn't change their game this episode.

But it took all of about two seconds for our choir boy to go from ringless...

To sporting a ring on his second finger (love/protection game) as he starts taking care of our hidden prince who hides his hands. We got multiple close up shots of the choir boy's hands this episode. Which is a bit confusing, because ring theory would suggest this ring should've been on his left hand unless this is a power game of some kind. But what kind of power can a choir boy truly wield? And why would he need to wield it to protect his prince? I'll be thinking (and making crap up).

Our token female has her hands covered again as she wasn't really allowed to speak or show much of herself this episode.

Khanin's ring finger in the throne room changed as I HAD PREDICTED IT WOULD (yes, I'm feeling a bit smug on this score). It's now on his left hand, second finger. Ring theory would suggest he's now up to a personal game that's all about his romance and loved ones.

And that's VERY much what we saw this episode. He's going to use his power to get his man by hook or crook.

The ring was back to his third finger while he was getting schooled about his title and choosing his coach. He was still focused on the personal rather than the true power game. After all, his main reason for staying in Emmaly has been to find out about his dad.

He had no rings at all when he went out of the palace. He might have been playing games at that moment, but Charan wasn't responding.

But interestingly, he's ringless most of the time that it's just him and Charan together. He's sincere in his desires, and he really wishes he could stop playing the games. I'm still predicting that like our Castor/Pollux stars, he chooses to give up his title.

Charan stays ringless typically. He's been doing his best to stay OUT of the game, but Khanin isn't letting him.

When Paytai is in the throne room, he wears a ring on his right hand, second finger. When he's serving in an official capacity, he's still focusing on protecting his person.

But when he's doing things for his own sake and contemplating the stormy waters of his relationship, he's ringless.

Because in his dreams (yes, I think it's a dream/desire), Ramil isn't wearing any rings either.

Paytai might be wishing things could be simpler for them both and that Ramil would fully belong to him too, but that's forbidden fruit at the moment.

In reality, they have a lot of rules they have to obey. All Paytai can do for now is reassure Ramil that he chooses to belong to Ramil and wants to stay by his side. He's not there just because he was ordered.

(Note: There's a whole essay in why collaring himself is important in terms of personal agency. But I actually expect power dynamics to shift to some degree for both Khanin/Charan AND Ramil/Paytai as we move forward. There was no reason for the forbidden fruit dialogue between Charan and Paytai if that doesn't happen. I do hope they let Ramil/Paytai stay kinky.)

Ramil is the most complicated of all. His throne room appearance hasn't changed.

He's playing a power game, but it's really for personal motivation. After all he needs to protect his person.

Which means that when dealing with personal matters (left hand), even though the love is there (second finger) sometimes his feelings manifest is less than pleasant ways (fourth finger). The ring on the second finger is bigger.

But power games (right hand) are required to protect that love (second finger)...

And he will play dirty if he needs to in order to make that happen (fourth finger).

Yes, Ramil was wearing FOUR rings at one time. Feel free to hate him if you want, but the man is in a difficult and complex spot.

In a probably unpopular opinion, I'm much more annoyed and disheartened by Khanin's use of power than Ramil's. But that's a post for a different day.

#do the rings mean anything?#probably not #am i going to MAKE them mean something #yes I will #it's keeping me entertained #and that's MY personal game #the next prince #rings #ring theory

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notokbutthriving · 1 year ago

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Castor isn't an Astral

So we know that Gemini controls duality, and is an entity of duality. The are made of two, one male, one female, one calm, one excited, two opposites but one together. But they are both made of star power.

Castor has mentioned that he gets headaches when people use star power, similar to Lunar getting nauseous in reaction to negative star power. It also seems odd because, from what we can see, Castor, and by extension Gemini, is one of the most disliked among the Zodiac council. Castor is the one assigned to warn people of the consequences of using star power, despite the fact that most of the people who use it have a moral compass that is not unwilling to kill anything in their way. Additionally, Castor has been weirdly insistent that he can die. It is not as though the other Astrals are all immortal, Gemini has mentioned that the Astrals reincarnate when they die, but not only is Castor insistent that he can die, Pollux has also expressed concern for his life. Now this is normal, what with them being siblings and their apparent life-link, but we do find it odd that it has been pointed out multiple times. From what is seen it can be assumed that Castor is at least the weakest of the Astrals. But we think there's something more-

Lunar has mentioned that negative star power makes him feel nauseous but Castor has never mentioned feeling anything about negative energy, but has mentioned that the use of star power gives him a headache. So what would that lead us to?

Castor is a being of negative star power.

It explains why he is generally disliked by the Astrals, being what they are trying to stop. It explains why it is so implied he can die to a mortal being using star power, the method for getting rid of negative energy being to overpower it with positive energy. It explains the poor reaction to star power. AND it makes sense for the concept of duality Gemini represents!

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littlemissayu · 2 years ago

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TWST Boys as ✨ PARENTS✨(Part 3)

ft:Pomefiore, Ignihyde | pt.1 ; Heartsabyul & Savanaclaw | pt.2 ; Octavinelle & Scarabia | pt. 4; ft.Diasomnia

TW: kids, pregnancy, reader is depicted as female, domestic, fluff

Vil Schoenheit-

1 kid, he originally didn't desire kids because of his career but he changed his mind seeing how you seemed to really want children and he remembered that if his father was able to give him such amazing childhood memories with his career then he could too. Your child is extremely smart like their father. They are very beautiful but unlike their father they're not afraid to get dirty. Eventually they developed a love for gardening; it might not have been their only hobby but it's their favorite. Vil may not be a fan of getting dirty if it makes his kid happy he's happy! Just don't think he'll join the 2 of you. I heavily believe he could father either gender but I'm thinking a gorgeous little girl.

Rook Hunt-

12 kids, he's raising an entire football(soccer) team. He just can't help it, your pregnant image makes him feel aroused. So you pop out your own little team. You kids are super sneaky, even as babies they were able to sneak up on you. They all are suburb archers and could hit anyone in a 9 mile radius. The football(soccer) reference I made is ironic because I heavily believe your first and last kids both play football. Rook is such a proud dad, his kids could do anything and he's give them the ultimate praise, he never let's them forget how amazing they are. He is a parent that can find any excuse for his prefect children, because they can do no wrong. Except disrespect you, bc as their mother you gave birth to them, gave them life, and do your best to take care of them; so respecting you is no debate. You guys also have a family tradition of archery tag to start off the summer every year.

Epel Felmier-

6 kids, your kids have the most beautiful looks, just absolutely gorgeous. They are also extremely competitive, on the farm when it comes to chores they always try to finish first, and once you and Epel figure it out did you tell them they don't need to rush just to beat someone? Nah you two just decided whoever finishes first gets the most allowance, it may sound bad but it gets work done and those kids now can finish any work in record time!! Your kids are very adventurous and lucky for them dear old dad is always willing to support their curiosity. He never lets his kids doubt themselves, he teaches them to be proud but not prideful. He is the best father to his kids. I also have a feeling the whole family has a competition around apple picking season, whoever gets the most wins, the prize changes every year.

Idia Shroud-

2 kids, who are absolutely extroverts, loving talking and hanging out with people, everyone loves them. Idia doesn't know how they became such extroverts but he loves them anyway. He may not like human interaction much but he loves spending time with his kids. If there is something him and his kids share is their love for video games, every Friday they have tournaments to see who wins. You join in as well; your little family loves these games because you get to be together. In terms of girl or boy dad, the 2 of you have 2 boys!(Bonus: If you don't want to name them Castor and Pollux he probably nicknames them that <3!!)

Poméfiore Masterlist

Ignihyde Masterlist

Twst Masterlist

#twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #twst #twst x reader #fluff #vil schoenheit x reader #vil schoenheit #rook hunt #rook hunt x reader #epel felmier x reader #epel felmier #idia shroud #idia shroud X reader #domestic #tw babies #babies

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lookingthroughmirrors · 9 months ago

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Do you think there are insanely few couples with Percy in this fandom? Characters that are well thought out and have a backstory. For example, Rachel and Percy are an interesting dynamic and a repetition of the Theseus myth with a different end to the story. Or Percy and Michael Yu (Apollo's son who fell off the bridge) It would be interesting if he survived: Percy feeling guilty for the fall, and Michael comforting him. Or Will and Percy, where both feel the guilt of the survivor (Will is the doctor, and Percy is the commander and leader), or the same Percy and Nico with their story and attempts to talk. Percy and Ethan would be a real pain in the ass with a story and explanations. But they don't nominate them as a couple? Like Pernico, they can be found, but everything else? Will's only fanfiction/The Percy I found was the one where he cheated on Apollo with Will, and Will cheated on Nico with Percy. And I really can't stand cheating.

I think it’s a shame how little other shops there are. Personally I love Percy and Ethan, because I think that dynamic is really interesting, particularly when you highlight the fact that Percy didn’t like the gods, and that Percy ends up thinking that Luke wasn’t necessarily wrong. I might be biased tho bc I am currently a Percy and Ethan oneshot bc I couldn’t find more than one good Fic about that ship.

I also, hot take, think Percy and Leo are a possibly very interesting match. I’m also currently writing a oneshot about them too. But I think they both have powers that related closer to each others than anyone else. They both at some point fear their own powers (at least as far as I’m aware, I’ve not finished HOO so my Leo knowledge is a bit small) and I think they could have a very cool dynamic. Missed opportunity to for Percy to see someone struggling and not super confident with their powers, like he was all those years ago and not have him help! (I like this even better if I think about my HC that Luke taught Percy to control his powers, as Percy canonically points out that Luke is the only person who will train with him after he’s claimed)

I also think you make a really good point about Percy and Michael. Especially because Percy is so prone to guilt, and already has a lot of survivors guilt. It would be an interesting dynamic both ways, if Michael survived and if he died just like he did in canon. If I can think of a good concept for a Fic I’m going to look at writing one for them.

I’ve always been a fan of rare ships too, so I’m pretty used to struggling to find fanfics written about them (Harry Potter/Theo Nott, Percy Jackson/Leo Valdez, Percy Jackson/Ethan Nakamura, etc.)

I feel like I have read a few fics that are Percy/Will, and I like it because it almost feels like it’ll never last. Both feel guilty, and both struggled to survive through the war. I also HC that Will does resent Percy for Lee Fletchers death, and maybe even Michael, because he was there on the bridge and saw it happen. Even if he doesn’t necessarily resent Percy for it, I think it still creates an interesting dynamic. If I can find the fics I liked for them, I’ll leave them in the comments.

Honorable mention to Percy/Pollux and Percy/Castor, because the inherent sadness and depth of guilt that would play into either relationship is amazing. There are criminally little fics with this pairing, so if anyone has any good recs pls send them my way. I’m hoping to get something in the works about one of these ships, but no promises.

Also we do need to mention the Percy/Rachel and Percy/Nico of it all. I wholeheartedly believe that both of these ship options are so much better than what we get in canon. I think Percy with Rachel would be so much healthier than what he had with Annabeth in canon, and that maybe even having someone removed would help him to cope with everything that happened. Allow him to grieve and mourn and be angry. I also think Nico is still a very good choice, paticularly because I don’t like his canon pairing with Will. Especially the limiting use of his powers. In contrast I think Percy would help Nico, would teach him how to use his powers in a way that makes them stronger and doesn’t drain him, because Nico taught himself and never had someone who could teach him how to train his powers up to be stronger and longer lasting. I think Nico also used quite strong powers immediately, in the sense that it’s like if Percy was running around causing earthquakes every where, it drains him and never learnt how to properly manage that. Percy used to get drained with his powers, but he built them up into what they are now, something that didn’t happen with Nico. I have a lot of love for Pernico, because it’s so angsty but has the poetenial to be so good, and again it goes back to guilt.

I think I’ve just realised that a running theme in Percy and his pairing is his guilt. His guilt factors into every relationship in his life, and shapes it. His guilt impacts his relationship with Annabeth, and arguably has a hand in what makes it toxic. Percy is synonymous with his guilt, and I think no matter what pairing you put him with, the guilt has to be acknowledged in some shape or form.

Woahhhhh ok didn’t realise I had so many thoughts about this, please don’t mind my ramblings. If any ohe has any good fic recs or wants some Fic recs, pls let me know :)

#percy has trauma #anti percabeth #percy jackon and the olympians #percy pjo #perleo #anti annabeth chase #anti solangelo #pernico #perachel #Percy Jackson/castor #Percy Jackson/Pollux #Percy and Ethan Nakamura #Percy/ethan #Percy/michael yew #Percy/will solace #basically Percy has so many options #canon is not relevant here #except when it is #which is when I choose it is

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ma1dita · 5 months ago

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don't blame the kids

a 'partners in crime' installment - luke castellan x dionysus!reader prev -> not your goddess | next -> trouble's coming for you words: 7.6k summary: (established relationship (kinda lol)) The one where you both chaperone a trip to Mount Olympus. The Olympians are bigger gossips than you thought they'd be. (Luke Castellan x fem!Dionysus!reader) a/n: the Chapter—set during the winter solstice; tldr: your dads are besties + hera is a good judge of character.... more d & trouble as requested, enjoy! eh ill edit this once i get back from class later tonight, taglist & ao3 update to be posted then as well

—

Your head falls against the metal of the school bus with an audible thunk. The sound of discordant cackles wakes you up from a dreamless sleep, making you jam your mouth shut and feel your spit go stale on this chilly winter morning.

“Rough night?”

Keeping your cool despite the pounding headache, you mumble out an incoherent reply to your younger brother, whichever one he was. The old leather seat sighs as one of them sits down, the added weight jostling your legs as you groan and open your eyes to see two blond heads staring at your tired form. One of them peers from over the seat in front while the other leans over your lap, rifling through your backpack for snacks—there’s no such thing as personal space with these two for siblings.

You blink slowly as your vision clears, the cold grayscale interior of the bus still too bright on your eyes.

It’s too early for this shit.

“You’re talking to yourself again,” Pollux grins, noticing briefly that you’ve made an internal thought external. He hands his twin a granola bar from your backpack and leans back against your shoulder.

“Need this weekend to be over already,” you mumble, “just wanna sleep a bit longer and forget all of this. You two helping me later or are you gonna do that juggling bit again with the bottles of ambrosia?”

“Too bad it’s just begun,” Castor chuckles, before flopping back into his seat, then calling out, “and we’re playing the water glasses, thought it would make dad laugh—HEY!“ You tossed your water bottle at him and missed only because he conjured it into his hand and not your intended target of his skull.

“We’ll be around if you need an extra hand up there,” Pollux murmurs over a hot chip, the crunch reverberating into your ear, “Are we gonna talk about why your boyfriend is on the opposite end of the bus?” Or why he didn’t come to cabin 12 last night… The stealth of sons of Hermes aside, the twins always know when he drops by— Luke usually leaves bags of stolen candy and tiny trinkets tied to their doorknobs when they lose teeth. To be honest, they’ve known the tooth fairy hasn’t existed since they were ten, but Pollux has one last molar he was looking forward to cashing in for a Push-pop.

“Nope.”

“Good talk,” he nods, before belching so loudly you shove him into the aisle, “Ow!”

The rest of the bus is filled with quiet chatter and excitement as you decide to take the chance and get up to survey the handful of campers who join you for the winter solstice. Some of the younger ones are crammed like sardines with bobbing heads as the bumps and turns of the Long Island Expressway rock them in and out of sleep, which is a privilege you were just robbed of. The others that are still excited to see their godrents move animatedly as they clamber over each other and practice their performances for later, a dissonant symphony of prose and instruments out of tune, vines growing from the Demeters’ row, and multiple charcoal pencils rolling along the floor towards the driver sitting up front.

There’s only so much you can hide on a bus, and now that you’re awake…

“Beck!” you hiss as the smell of burning hair wafts through the enclosed space, “No fire on the bus!” The dark-skinned boy looks at you sheepishly, fanning his younger sibling’s singed eyebrows and cracking open a window. Ironically (no pun intended, but while we’re here, ha!) Hephaestus will love his kids even if all of Olympus goes up in smoke. You wish you could say the same for the rest of your campers. The ones left to consider—like those of Hermes, watch the blur of the road whizz past their peripherals, lacking their usual sense of merriment and mischief in knowing their father will be a no-show even on the one day a year they’re allowed to visit. Though a worthless trip off the island is way better than cleaning wine glasses with the nymphs—to them, kitchen duty ends when one’s fingers are about to fall off the bone.

Making a mental tally of your kids in case any of them have decided to fall out of the vehicle during your much needed break (demigods can get into twice the amount of trouble mortals can in half the time after all), you notice Annie’s waving you over towards her and her seatmate who is coincidentally the only person you wish would drop into the East River.

You make your way over feeling like you’re walking to your death, with your knees buckling with the movements of the bus, momentarily stumbling to a stop in front of their row and conjuring a juice box for Annie with a small smile. Your boyfriend(? — could you still call him that? You remember falling asleep in the storage room counting the sleeping bags, waking up in your bed alone and not much else) looks up at you expectantly as if you’re the one who should have something to say now. You avert your eyes quickly.

Even on the shortest day of the year, being under his gaze makes time pass slowly like being dipped in molasses. The feeling sits at your throat uncomfortably, and your resolve makes your stomach feel like an endless pit.

“Yeah, Annie?” you say simply. You don’t mean to, but the smile on your face fades ever so slightly. They both notice and don’t say anything—one in contemplation and the other in disappointment.

“You look awful.”

Okay, what the fuck. Between the thousand-yard stare you gave your wall this morning and the amount of time you spent slathering makeup on at the crack-ass of dawn, you would think that at least your eyebags were concealed enough.

But Annabeth Chase is nothing if not honest, and even if you were the best actress she’s ever met (which you are), there is no way of hiding heartbreak.

Can you call this that?

Heartbreak.

You’re still unsure of if it’s really over—can you say that Luke broke your heart if there’s no way of being certain? What is a break, anyway? Are there terms and conditions you should follow? Is this the part where you two just never talk again and it’ll always feel like this?

But if the boy sitting across from you broke your heart, you think you’d be able to tell—so let the evidence show (or lack thereof) that you’re pretty sure he took it with him, wordlessly and selfishly like a son of Hermes would. With no remorse.

Let’s not call this heartbreak then. Perhaps the more accurate word to describe your expression is despondence—he chips away at you further with how he looks at you now. Luke catches himself admiring the way you’ve done your hair and the glitter on your eyelids and then honey meets amethyst as your eyes lock. In between an obvious sigh and the way you bite your tongue, he realizes that despite your beauty always rivaling that of Aphrodite (at least in his honest opinion), there’s something hollow in the way you look back at him this morning. He doesn’t know how to feel about that either.

You both didn’t end off on a good note yesterday—and that much, plus the rare occasion of sleeping alone in the months you two have been together was disconcerting, to say the least.

“Thanks for that. If that’s all, I’m gonna go back to my seat,” you deadpan, turning back towards the front of the bus.

You can’t even look at him, you realize. In the almost five years you’ve known Luke Castellan, your favorite thing to do was just look at him, from the way his nose scrunches when he laughs, to the fluttering of his eyelashes when he gets tired, because one of the easiest parts of loving him was by just watching him to see if he was looking right back at you.

And you can’t even do that, because it comes with a whole bunch of feelings you have no time to unpack right now. You decide to focus on the scar that spreads across his cheek instead when Luke calls your attention back towards them. He says your name so softly you almost miss it, gentle, like how someone talks to a child. It’s infuriating.

“I thought you were driving the bus today?”

Somehow a simple interaction like this feels like the hardest performance of your life. Breakups never came easy, but dear gods, why right before the winter solstice of all days— you mumble a reply so quietly even Annabeth leans a bit closer to hear, “Didn’t sleep well. Big day today.” You brace against the seatback in front of them, tightening your core as the bus whips around a bend.

“Thought it’d be safer if I got one of the satyrs. Had to promise him unlimited access to the kitchens for a month though.”

Almost slamming into a full stop, your eyes widen as your body hits leather, properly leaning over the both of them as the daughter of Athena holds onto your leg and one of Luke’s hands grabs your arm.

“Gods. Look how that’s going,” the younger girl jokes, before looking up again to see her brother and you staring at each other motionlessly. Everything goes quiet—you don’t hear screaming campers or see Clarisse shaking one of her younger siblings upside down for a candy bar. Your knees shake slightly under the weight you figuratively carry on your shoulders. How will you show face to the gods when you can’t even keep a smile steady?

Time stops for a moment, and if it’s only been 12 hours, you’ve already lost count— but its felt like a lifetime since he held you like he might still care. It’s hard to tell, the both of you are too stubborn and it reminds you of a time when all of your conversations went like this—vitriol and annoyance leaking from each word, but at least when you were fourteen it felt like the build up to something great.

But what happens after great is exhausted? The comedown is a terse conversation that almost flies over Annabeth’s head—said in a way that adults do when everything is veiled and heavy, not meant to be seen by prying eyes and younger hearts.

“I didn’t mean for it to turn out this way,” Luke mutters from beside her. You retract your arm like you’ve been burned and shake your head, “Well, it did.”

The wise girl starts to put the dots together, face scrunching as she deciphers the hidden meaning behind your exchange. She should’ve known Luke didn’t actually want to sit with her and talk about her latest chess match—the son of Hermes loves a good game but has no interest if he’s not the one winning. They both watch you rush back to your seat, the swaying of the bus pushing you farther and faster until you fall away out of sight.

When she gathers her thoughts, the words lay heavy on her tongue like a hot iron until she spits it out at her older brother. Annabeth Chase sparingly cusses, you see, mostly under her breath and really only when she’s stumped by a situation, especially since she’s only just turned eleven a few months ago—but she looks at him like a foreign object she doesn’t know how to dissect.

“You’ve got nerve, Luke. How do you always fuck up this bad?” Her dark braids drag over her shoulder as she turns to look the other way, away from him.

Luke swallows dryly, biting down on the flesh of his cheek. Between his plan for today and his impeccable timing of monumentally screwing up his relationship with you?

It’s like Annabeth hit the nail on the head, and he couldn’t agree more.

—

“Alright, places everyone,” you drone, tapping your pen against your clipboard like a gavel before a session in court. The Hall of Gods is just as unruly as your campers when you don’t water down the juice boxes, you realize—Olympians are mulling about the throne room, chattering and making it known that they’d rather be doing who knows what on the only day of the year that it’s mandatory for them to be parents. You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose as you silently agree—there are much better uses of your time that you can think of right now, like making sure to hand Michael his epi-pen before lunch and hoping Connor and Travis aren’t scamming every seller blind at the street-markets of Olympus.

Everyone else is enjoying their free time and you’re…here, watching Apollo, god of music and truth, annoy his twin by sending birds to fly circles around her head.

Cacophonous laughter startles you, turning to see Hades watching the chaos with his arms crossed over his chest. Draped in black, his chill expression looms over the papers in your hand as he peers at the schedule.

“Siblings, am I right? Sorry you have to deal with mine.”

“Divine Hades,” you bow your head slightly, “they’re erecting your pedestal for the solstice as we speak, I apologize in behalf of—”

He waves a hand dismissively, “No need, child. I know you’re just doing your job. I can wait.”

“Well, I can’t if they’re all acting like children,” you mutter, the both of you watching Zeus bicker with Hera with increasing volume before she storms out, not before addressing the god of the Underworld with a nod.

And he smirks, letting out another laugh that the sound of it quiets the Olympians and sends them towards their seats like obedient students in a classroom. The nymphs are finished pushing the newly-fashioned slab of a throne into position, twelve turning into thirteen and Hades makes his way over as well, gesturing back at you, “Remind me of your name again?”

You say it calmly, clicking your pen. Your dad is sprawled out on his throne, legs over the side as he stares at the ceiling, “Alright princess—let’s get this show on the road.”

“Will we be waiting for…” your voice trails off, briefly looking towards the door.

“Nonsense. I’m sure you can brief her afterwards,” Zeus booms, and you swallow. There goes your lunch break.

“Of course. And Hermes?” You ask, eyes flickering to the only empty seat.

“Working.”

Clearing your throat, you stand tall to address the deities in the room and though you can’t look any of them in the eye, (besides your father that’s already guzzling his fourth cup of ambrosia at eleven in the morning, but you're not any better---you're on your third can of Redbull) it does not deter you from what you came here to accomplish. Might as well do the job well if there’s nothing else to look forward to for today.

You go over the schedule of events like an automated system, not stopping even when Ares starts sighing at the end of your sentences and Demeter sends daggers toward Hades with her eyes. It’s enough to wonder why those without children present today even stay. Formalities, you presume.

“Any questions? Good, I’ll see you all in here at four o’clock,” you quickly say, not giving them a chance to interject—spinning on your heel to walk out of there with even a shrivel left of your patience.

You find yourself running through your list again by the time you reach the end of the hall: you need to grab the tapestry that cabin 6 wove for their mother’s shrine from the bus, Lee needs help bringing in the harp after lunch, and your brothers need enough wine glasses to fill with water for their performance since they haven’t mastered the conjuring trick so well yet.

Her presence imposes itself upon you before you spot her perched next to the windowsill—the queen of the gods is not meant to be a decorative wallflower, after all.

“D-divine Hera,” you stutter and stop short, “Would you have a moment to go over the schedule?”

“I know the schedule, child. I’ve been here longer than you. What is it, your fourth year running this thing?” She’s expressionless, maybe even a bit bored with the topic as she looks down at you. You stare at the peacock feather shawl that hangs off her shoulders.

“Third, ma’am.”

Hera smiles (or at least it sounds like she is, talking to her has always felt like twirling on a minefield), “It doesn’t surprise me that all of this falls on a woman. Where’s your husband?”

“My what?”

You don’t mean to, but your knee-jerk reaction is to look her in the eye and the both of you are surprised by that. Hera’s perfectly arched brows are sky high now, but you haven’t been incinerated yet, so you can deduce that she might like you (or is still contemplating the matter), “The one with the pretty face, such a shame about that scar. You two were inseparable last year, I just assumed…”

With a face on fire, you clear your throat, “Oh. Luke and I aren’t…” Your eyes press closed, hot-red embarrassment brimming into tears you don’t expect to surface. Another reminder that he’s not your…anything right now.

“Mm,” she hums thoughtfully, “Sometimes I forget what year it is. Human societal norms and all that.”

A soft wind billows through the open air, and you hug the clipboard to your chest. You are not about to trauma dump on Hera. Though in a way, she might understand you more than you think.

“I sent him away, I guess. Sometimes it’s much easier to do things alone,” but even you don’t sound convinced. The side of Hera’s lip quirk upwards and she looks at you knowingly, “I agree. Though I guess there are worse things in life than sharing the hard parts with someone you love.”

Looking down at your shoes, you’re not sure of what else to say. It reminds Hera of her and her husband, before time complicated everything. In the early years, every obstacle feels world-ending until it passes and all you can do is laugh with the person who was by your side.

“I don’t have to be there later, don’t I?” the queen of the gods mutters. You shrug. Your opinion doesn’t matter, clearly, because she continues, “I don’t have any children in the show that are performing but…I want to be there.”

“I get that,” you say awkwardly, shaking your head to not fumble this conversation further, but she smiles, patting your shoulder as she walks past—it almost feels like a blessing.

Or maybe she wasn’t even listening to you at all.

She stops at the end of the hall.

“Trust is a fickle thing, child. It has more value once it’s been broken, and rebuilding it takes two sets of hands. Catch and fall, push and pull, go and follow.” Hera looks back at you again, her white dress swishing at her hips, “Do you agree?”

“I guess.”

The queen of the gods looks at you thoughtfully, a girl humbly offering her heart out to her divine presence and wanting her partner, a son of Hermes at that— over any glory Olympus can provide.

Oh, to be young and in love—it makes one invincible.

“Then I hope he makes it worth your while.”

She leaves you to your thoughts and they echo to meet her like a bittersweet greeting. Hera smiles, seeing them run through your head like a video on loop—replacing bloodied bandages in a dark train car, glitter and giggles in a locked room, burnt chocolate chip cookies, and face masks in the dim light of a bathroom.

The ritual of marriage has definitely changed over the millennia the goddess has lived through, but what you and Luke share is what she considers to be its truest form—that of two souls choosing one another over and over.

—

There’s not a lot of things that can make the herald of Olympus stop in his tracks. He holds as many titles as the letters that fly through his fingertips—though Hermes delivers mail with gratifying ease. The job has always been second nature; being a father…not so much.

But all the power in the world cannot compensate for the fact that you cannot save your children from themselves.

So when he sees you leaning against one of the ornate marble doors outside the Hall of Gods that afternoon, he wills himself to join you in real time. Infinite versions of himself scatter across the Earth with every second that passes. But you look familiar, and well, the trickster loves solving a good puzzle.

“I know you,” he says matter of factly, yet he can’t put his finger on it. His voice is deep, like a howling wind; it blows your hair back even when he stands still in front of you. Your gaze lifts from your clipboard to travel across his face briefly, but you don’t look him in the eye. You can’t even if you wanted to—incineration by divine form and all, so you weren’t about to test your luck with him. Tempting though—you’ve heard enough about Luke’s father to want to burn holes through the god’s head like he could yours.

“Shouldn’t you be inside with the other campers for the rest of the show?” Hermes prompts again, despite your silence. He is the god of communication after all. But there’s not a single thing you could think of telling him besides, “Shouldn’t you? Your kids have been waiting all year to see you.” Mortal lifetimes pass in the blink of an immortal’s eye—but he can’t spare a few minutes to see his kids? Hermes shrugs, like it’s nothing of the sort. Nothing he can do about it. Olympus takes priority.

“The work never stops. You would know that.”

There’s a startling shriek that escapes from the seam of the doorway as little Will Solace shuffles through the doorway shyly. He tugs at your sleeve, keeping his head bowed and mumbles your name, “Where’s the bathroom?” The god replies to the kid instead, looking at the tiny fractals of light that reflect off the boy’s hair, “Uhhh…down the stairs and to the left, fourth door.”

“Need me to go with you buddy?”

He squeezes your hand and shakes his head, undeterred by the fact he interrupted your conversation with an Olympian, instead going to hop down the stairs without looking at either of you, “Miranda tried to sing again. She should really just stick to plants.”

Perhaps the presence of gods isn't as impressive to a mortal when their godrent regularly visits them.

“So why exactly did you want to speak with me?”

You cross your arms and lean against the cool wall and wonder why Luke’s dad is still in front of you. After all, he has to have better things to do than make conversation with a moping girl with a workload stacked to the heavens.

Hermes repeats your name slowly as if he’s memorizing the way it sounds coming off his lips, “You look a little lost. So much so that it made me take a moment here with you.”

“I’m right where I need to be unfortunately, so…thanks but no thanks.” He’s the god of many domains—finding lost things being one of them, good luck being another, among the others. He can feel—actually, he knows that you’re searching for something even if you yourself don’t know what it is. The force that summons him to you feels thick, like quicksand that pulls him in planting his winged feet to the ground. Hermes observes your standoffish attitude and wonders if he’s offended you somehow.

Pushing down the yearning you feel for his son who sits inside the marble doors, you wonder if it would’ve hurt less had Hermes not made your want known to you, an ugly, embarrassing thing that feels like a lump in your throat. His caduceus vibrates loudly in his pocket and with a sleight of hand it appears in front of him, clacking buttons. It’s annoying to be treated like an inconvenience, especially in a time of need. Like father, like son, you suppose.

But unfortunately he’s right. You’re a lost little thing, mind scrambled from this hellish week and where you left off with Luke. You want him with you in all senses of the term, both right now as you glare at his father and in the way one breathes air through their lungs—autonomic, because you simply can't help it. Hermes looks at you again, scratching at his ear as if everything about standing in front of you is making his ears ring, “Who do you belong to again?” He’s trying to remember where he’s seen you before. The sound of trumpets pierce your ears when the door opens again, this time Castor catching his breath as he calls your name, “Hey. Where’s the little pipsqueak? 7’s going on soon.” Everyone seems to know you except him.

How intriguing.

Rolling your eyes, you grumble, “Bathroom. Go back inside Cas.”

“See that’s the problem, Luke asked me where you are, should I tell him you’re…” The blond looks at who you’re speaking to and swallows, “busy?”

“That’s it. You’re Luke’s girl—” the frown that deepens on your face makes him pause, “I thought your name was Trouble?” The god looks even more confused, scratching his goatee—his son, through his nightly devotions, has asked for a lot of things from him in his short lifetime. The realization comes to the forefront of Hermes’ mind like a thumbtack pierced through a map as you respond.

“Sometimes.”

In the past year, Luke’s narrowed it down to two things: to guide him onto the right path in life and to make sure you live well enough to be on it with him. That’s what was sacred to him—but Hermes could only see himself fulfilling one of them, if we’re being honest here: an unfortunate trick of the trade.

You grimace—maybe being in there and facing Luke would be better than having this conversation with his deadbeat dad.

“Only with him,” Castor smirks, and you shove your brother towards the stairs to go find Will.

“How did you know that, anyway?”

Hermes chuckles, looking you up and down as if seeing you clearly for the first time, “His thoughts are even louder than yours. Even though he probably has nothing nice to say about me, he thinks about you all the time, that son of mine.”

“And what do you do then? Let it fall on deaf ears?”

“Listen, I’m not allowed to meddle,” he murmurs, a twitching hand ghosting over your shoulder. He wonders if can offer comfort —you know Luke better than the idea he has of him in his head, the glimpses of his son’s life that he’s allowed himself to see. You’ve been there these past few years to live it with him. Hermes swallows, retracting his arm to put it back against his side. The door swings open again—and it’s your father this time, cradling a wine glass that fills with ambrosia when he swirls it in his grasp.

“Kid, what’s the holdup—where’s the little sunspot and Thing 2?” Mr. D raises his glass with a grin, clapping his best friend on the back— “Hermes, my friend. Making a pit stop?”

This just got even weirder—your head starts to spin a bit.

Talk about a nightmare blunt rotation.

Between their lighthearted banter, Will and Castor skipping up the stairs towards you, and Pollux popping his head out of the doorway to yank the glass out of your dad’s hand (“SISSY! He’s drinking my musical instrument!”), you shut your eyes to center yourself. This might be the worst day of your life. Chaos becomes you and your blood is boiling at being surrounded by too many men when the only one you care about won’t even lo—

“Kid, you okay?”

Breathing heavily, you don’t realize you’ve clenched your hands into tight fists, and your dad doesn't know what to do. There's a thought that passes his mind as swiftly as his friend can scale the world that Luke would know what to do. Mr. D doesn't mean to, but he scoffs under his breath, shaking hand extending to reach out to an equally trembling shoulder and you flinch before it makes contact.

"M'fine, I just need a second to think."

Pressing your palms into the pits of your eyes, your father watches you inhale a breath that seems to calm the storm brewing in your core, even for a moment, “Cas, take Will inside for his cabin’s performance. D, next time, don’t touch things that aren’t yours,” you say calmly as you conjure another glass of water and hand it to Pollux, not before taking a few sips to steady your resolve and perfect the tone of the vibrations.

Sip.

Too sharp.

Sip.

Perfect.

Putting the now fully functional instrument of water in your brother’s hand, he happily walks back through the door and now you’re just left with two gods that look at you somewhat impressed.

“Can I help you with anything else, or are you both just going to waste my time?” Tapping your foot, your face is expressionless again, any previous traces of emotion wiped clean.

“Princess, you know you could talk—”

“Nope,” you protest, “Nothing’s wrong at all. Just ready to get this day over with.” It’s rude and to the point, but you have no patience left, “ and all offense D, I’m not gonna talk about my boy problems with you, and especially not you,” you grit pointing at Hermes, “neither of you would get it and I don’t even fully get it, and partially you two are the reason why we’re like this!”

“What did Luke do?” your dad says incredulously, eyebrows furrowing. He’s sobering up from the buckets of ambrosia he’s consumed—itching to find out about what the golden boy could ever do to agitate you like this.

The gods will never know what it feels like to love someone like this—every fiber of your mortal being constantly anticipating an end without knowing when that is. You sigh helplessly, “I don’t even know where to begin.”

“I don’t know who I am without you, and he only knows who he is because of you,” spitting the words out like acid, you seethe, “we’re not exactly normal teenagers, you know, so thanks for that. I can handle it from here.”

And you push past the both of them and walk through the marble doors like nothing even happened.

"Makes sense he'd fall for her," Hermes mumbles, “your girl is a force to be reckoned with.” If not a bit insane like his best friend.

"Yeah. Just remember I can tear your boy limb from limb. Just because she can handle it doesn't mean she should. Pray your kid fixes it or fucks off. " It’s the truth—poor Penthus was just an example of Dionysus’ contradictory behavior. Ruthless punishments were like a walk in the park for your father. A jilted noise escapes Hermes's throat as if his own truth was trying to claw its way up his esophagus. The future of humanity rests on the shoulders of his favorite son, and for once, the messenger god is still---in fear? Guilt?

His thoughts are still trying to catch up with the rest of his body, but as he watches the door shut softly behind you, his winged shoes start to flap to signal his imminent departure.

“He's a good boy. He knows the worth of being loved by the right person at the right time. If he’s anything like me, he’ll cherish it while it lasts,” Hermes smiles as he fades from view, “and if he’s not like me at all—he’ll make sure it’s forever. But it looks like we’ll be in-laws, bestie!”

Mr. D groans, waving him off and conjuring another glass of ambrosia—when he walks in to rejoin everyone for the show, his boys are killing it on the musical glasses. He surveys the crowd, watching Luke Castellan only have eyes for you even in this dark crowded room.

“Shit.”

—

Nights on Olympus are prettier than what you’re used to. The stars are much closer than they would be if you were still on Earth, and they act as a natural nightlamp hanging over the enchanted ceiling of the ballroom you and your kids occupy for your one night stay. Yawning into your fist, you spot Charlie Beckendorf who’s already fallen asleep directly on top of his sleeping bag, sweatshirt on backwards and tennis shoes still on. Offering to take the last thirty minutes of his shift after watching him nod off earlier against a marble column while doing everything in your power to try to fall asleep was a no-brainer. But now that you were actually wanting to stay awake yourself, your eyelids didn’t seem to want to cooperate.

Figures. Nothing you ever wanted has ever happened the way you wished for.

Sleep pricks at the corner of your eyes like dust from a sandstorm—presumably Hypnos forcing a hand on you getting rest. Here on Olympus he’s only a few doors away, after all.You rub your knuckles into the sockets of your eyes quite unkindly, hoping it’ll do the job. Even blinking is taking an added effort.

Patting your own cheek lightly to stimulate your senses, you cross your arms and decide to take another lap around the room. The rubber of your boots clomp louder with every shaky step and—

Tap-tap. Tap. T-tap.

D is rapping his knuckles against one of the glass doors on the perimeter like he’s playing the drums.

“Shhhh!”

Arms outstretched, you slip past rows of sleeping children, narrowly missing stretched out arms and fallen backpacks as you glare at him, “Are you trying to wake up all of Olympus?”

He looks at you with amusement, rumpled clothing and looking like a tiny, angry raccoon. You must’ve forgotten to take off your eyeliner, but he doesn’t mention it.

He brandishes two cigarettes in his hand and nods toward a door he left ajar leading onto the sprawling, wrap-around patio. And you swear you start floating towards him like an enticed cartoon character—surely you’re dreaming.

Is there even a designated smoking area on Olympus?

“How long have you known?”

The words almost slur out of your mouth as you swipe at his fist like a man starved—Mr.D can’t tell what exactly you’re asking. He’s known you’ve smoked since he found ash in the windowsill of his office. He’d known you and Luke have been having problems since you both started to sit at the opposite sides of the room during counselor meetings. Some things about you are harder to catch onto than others, and Mr. D is known for always being a little late to the party.

Dionysus, the god, was a late arrival to the Pantheon. Him as a father, he’s often late to discerning the happenings in his daughter’s life. But he’s also known that boy has loved you long before he drunkenly stumbled onto his porch. Could smell it off of him— love makes people do crazy things after all. Out of all of your partners, he always thought the golden boy was just as bad—if not worse than you, gods willing. But you two were good kids, and the thought makes him chuckle, “I’ve always been able to read you, kiddo. I get there eventually.”

“Besides when I first showed up at your doorstep.”

“Shock of my life, actually. And that says a lot. You should be honored,” there’s a stupid smile on your father’s face now as he looks out onto the darkened horizon, glittering city lights on the floating mountain top. Olympus has changed in the years he’s been gone from it without him noticing. He looks over to you and realizes you have too—no longer fourteen with your hair sticky from Kool-aid, or multiple sun-tan tattoos. You always liked making a project out of your boredom.

Laughing gruffly—the base of your throat itches and you surface for air sounding like something being strangled. Blame it on the lack of sleep or teenage angst as he so aptly calls your temper tantrums, but he pulls you in to rub your back, leading you further down the walkway with a shushing, soothing coo as you whine, “What if this is the best I can be?”

“You’re nineteen, princess. A hell of a long way to go. To be honest, it gets worse as the years pass.”

“Fuuuuuuuuuuuck,” you groan, smacking your head against the cool marble. “That's like a blink for you. For me it feels like I’m constantly getting off on the wrong foot. How do you do it?”

He sighs and looks at you—and all of a sudden you see your father’s age in the way he grimaces. Left to do the dirty work, the things the gods don’t want to talk about, meant to endure because every ion of his existence has reeked of resilience.

Because it’s what’s expected of him.

You see the resemblance now.

His wrinkles are prominent and eyebags are heavy when he doesn’t fortify the image of a silly asinine man as he lets it all melt away in front of you.

You light a cigarette and puff life into the lit end to burn the other one, breathing out and handing it over. Smoke billows around the two of you as you lean against the marble railing—-but nothing has ever been so clear. It rolls through your lungs, warming you inside and out. You lean your head against his shoulder.

“I think you could shake this whole place up if you wanted to. Never met a more stubborn kid in my life,” your dad mutters, jostling when you elbow him, “I mean it. For a lack of better words, you’re a once in a lifetime kind of girl.” He’s not looking at you, but the sentiment wavers in the air and settles slowly until you learn to appreciate it.

“You mean that?”

D has had a share of his own struggles, from being ejected from his mother and birthed from Zeus’ thigh, to being curb stomped by Hera herself, and of course the occasional trip to the Underworld. Suddenly your life pales in comparison.

“Get that look off your face and stop thinking so badly of yourself. Life is not a dress rehearsal—just give it your best. I'll be in the wings for as long as you need me,” he swallows, “If you want that. I’m the only one dealing with this prison sentence, anyway.”

“I would like that.”

The god scratches his neck before dragging his Birkenstocks toward the door, swiveling to point at you, “Get to bed. You've got an early morning tomorrow.”

“I know. Is that an order?”

“Yeah, twerp,” he mutters, lingering by the glass, “Quitting cold turkey is never fun. Things we lose have a way of coming back to us in the end. I've always been more of the type to go and get it myself though.”

“Cold turkey,” you repeat, nodding distantly.

Letting go means to accept that you let it in. And if you’re not ready to let it go, fight for it.

For a bunch of wordweavers, you both suck at talking to each other. It must be an Olympus thing to talk in riddles, but you’ve never been deterred by a challenge. Your fragmented conversation means a lot more than he’ll ever know. With a newfound appreciation for your dad, you smile and take a few puffs of the cigarette, taking a seat against the wall to let everything sink in. The comfortable weight of nicotine in your lungs lulls you to sleep, a momentary reprieve from everything.

You swear you shut your eyes for just a second. Just a moment—to rest them a tiny bit.

And Luke slips out the glass doors in the other direction towards the throne room without you noticing.

When you wake up, it’ll all be over.

—

It’s snowing by the time Luke comes back. Biggest day of his life—something he’s been waiting for for months now, and it was just too goddamn easy.

And yeah, Luke understood that it is so irrevocably wrong to steal from the gods.

But then why was it so easy?

Of course, it was all thanks to you. You don’t know it, but you helped the pieces fall into their perfect places. Keeping you up last night with the fight and leaving you to your own devices all day kept you indifferent enough about him to not notice the smaller details—him switching the night shift schedule around to his liking and making you the only obstacle between him and the Master Bolt and the Helm of Darkness (well, Ares was too, but onto more important things).

Everything happens for a reason, right?

Getting on your last nerve has always been easy, and though he hates seeing you cry—it almost makes him feel guilty that there’s a certain thrill that soars through him when you two fight. You love him like how you argue, with an unbridled passion he loves to sink his teeth into.

And he loves you. It’s as simple and as complicated as that. So despite the tear in his side that makes him clench his teeth, his first objective after his completed mission is to sidle over to your slumped form with a smile. Luke slings his jacket over your body and wraps his arm to bring your head against his shoulder. The grounds are weather-protected like at camp, yet a few stray snowflakes still catch onto your hair. You stir, “Lu?”

“I’m here. Not leaving you.”

If salvation could manifest itself into something akin to human form, perhaps it would still look like a god. Being saved is a feeling unfamiliar to Luke—the only person he was always sure could save your ass was himself. But he wants this, you nestled against him for as long as you want, until his arms ache and pins and needles ravage his body. Luke knows he would crawl to the ends of this earth and the next if it means he’ll be with you.

Gambling with fate will be worth it if he can find a way to make this love last forever.

This has to work. You did what you had to do, he thinks.

Sniffing, he kisses your forehead and his jacket faintly smells of smoke. Snowflakes dot his eyelashes and he rubs your arms to make sure you’re warm, “Let you sleep longer. Looks like you needed it.”

“How long have I been asleep?” you say groggily. His thumbs wipe at your eyelids gently with the hem of a fresh shirt, “Don’t worry. I took care of everything.”

It makes him grimace, emotional manipulation and a quick escape—hello Hermes!

“I’m tired, Luke.”

He sighs, and you turn to him, the both of you knee to knee, slowly being illuminated by a blanket of cool toned hues from the rising sun, “I know. Let me make it better, baby.”

Wistfully, you tangle your fingers with his in the space between you as if sealing a vow.

”Every future I envision includes you with me. I need you to know that.”

Overwhelmed by the events of the night, hell, these past few months—Luke starts to cry. A single rivulet cascading on the cheek adjacent to his scar and you catch it by pressing your lips to his jaw.

“Could you still love me?”

Inching closer, he feels as if you’re not close enough even when you’re breathing against the nape of his neck like this and you mumble, “You’re saying that like I ever stopped, angel.” The line blurs with each breath he takes—to earn a spot to walk amongst the gods, to live a completely ordinary life, or to be stuck in the strawberry fields of Delphini Farms forever. Luke was never awarded the privilege to want for himself before he met you, the absolution to all his wrongdoings. He can feel the quaking of your jaw under his fingertips as he slowly turns you to face him and all you have left to give him is a shattered breath.

“No matter what?”

Pressing his lips to yours as an apology feels like being saved. Lightly, until he pours himself into it and you relent, until the only thing that matters to you is that he’s with you now. Luke would merge your souls right now if he could—a tangled mess of eight limbs and head to head and everything is as it should be.

“Even if you don’t sit with me on the bus,” you smirk. He scoffs, kissing you harder and locking his lips with yours feverishly before resting much gentler ones against your tired eyes, “Oh don’t worry. Can’t get rid of me that easily, Trouble.”

A new day breaks on the horizon the longer you stay out there. But he takes these last final moments and keeps them under lock and key for safekeeping. You leave Olympus in a few hours, and by then there’ll be no time for regrets—his perfect crime with his perfect partner.

—

"I weep because you cannot save people. You can only love them." -Hanya Yanagihara

#made by ma1dita ♥︎#luke castellan x reader #trouble!verse #luke castellan fanfic #luke castellan x dionysus!reader #pjo x reader #percy jackon and the olympians

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