#anyways. another side quest!! good on him

[rabotimagines]

Okay, this is my first request.

You can look at the reaction of the Autobots and Decepticons to the battle between the Reader and their sworn enemy. I'll explain now: once upon a time, this bot did something very unforgivable to the Reader, and when the Reader met them again, they stopped being playful and became more serious and with a face that expresses quiet rage and fierce hatred.

Sure, playful flirty reader deserves to go a little apeshit as a treat 😌 went with Autobot reader for both since you didn't specify.

"Hellbent" GN BOT Reader + Sideswipe, Thundercracker, Megatron, Ironhide,

Summary: They're used to you being playful even on the battlefield, so when a neutral bot you seem to recognize stops by earth. They're caught completely off guard by your sudden personality shift when they enter the battlefield.

G1 characters: Sideswipe, Thundercracker, Megatron, Ironhide

Genre/Theme: Platonic for the most part, but Thundercracker realizes he thinks it's hot

Warnings: Violence, Reader locking the fuck in and trying to kill some un named neutral they've got on the top of their slag list.

Pronouns: You, Your, Yours

Notes: Autobot reader, Reader attacks both physically and with their blaster. It's vague on the physical strikes so you can imagine brawling or whatever weapon you'd like really.

He sees seeker wings on the ground and Sideswipes burning rubber to not miss the opportunity to make himself a problem. He ends up slamming right into Thundercracker in his alt mode- transforming mid fall. To not waste even a klick in getting his servos on the other. Seekers were tough in a physical fight- and you either needed a lot to tango with one or a good starting shot in a physical grapple. Sideswipes opening shot was frankly perfect, so the fact Thundercracker still manages to get a harsh hold of his arm is a bit embarrassing-! Thundercrackers not even paying full attention to him-!

Blaster fire just barely singed the back of Sideswipes neck, and he jerks at the sharp heated edge of pain. Thundercracker uses the opportunity to throw Sideswipe off of him. Sideswipe scrambles to recover and stops when he catches your frame, slamming into another. Sideswipe watches stunned as you move to strike that neutral that had been mucking around the fight. Your hit barely misses them- the plating you nicked on them spitting a spark or two from the force of the near blow.

You don't let them recover- another strike, another blast, another attempt to take them down. You weren't giving them half a pede to get themselves back together. You were practically chasing them with the little distance of your sudden heated back and forth! Well, more you obviously trying to take them out and them blocking and dodging as fast as they can. Sideswipes stuck watching you utterly tear into the neutral- and he doesn't know what the frag to think!

Sideswipes seen you fight tons of times- frag! He's fought you loads of times! You were never like- like this! Sure, you were a good fighter, but you were- down right vicious with this neutral! No playing, no questing, no games. Full all sides assault and tearing into them anyway you can. Sideswipe manages to catch a glimpse of the look in your optics- and he just knows he's about to see you grey them out.

The neutral is lucky, though, but definitely not lucky enough to test you, and they run for it. Sideswipe almost wants to taunt them and tell them "yeah, they better run! You'd make 'em regret it-" but then you follow after them! Dodging and not even bothering with the other Cons you pass by-! Sideswipe sees Ironhide almost follow you, but Ironhide just curses and dives back into the fight. Maybe Ironhide can't afford to abandon the fight, but Sideswipe could be your back up for that neutral!

Sideswipe barely makes it a few quick pedes, and before he can transform- And his frame seizes and locks up. He hits the ground, and the buzzing numb hum combined with his systems going non responsive tells him a null ray hit him right in the back. Sideswipes dragging his twitching frame back up when he hears Skywarp curse and the loud crunch of metal on metal. Then Thundercracker telling Skywarp to get it together. When the fight finally ends Sideswipe ends up seeing Ironhide rushing off late in the direction you'd went off in. Sunstreaker is next to him and Sideswipe just gives him his own look before asking if he saw you act like- that. Sideswipe didn't even know you could get that mad-!

Honestly, Sideswipe can't even let himself want to think about fighting you like that. Especially when he could only imagine what the neutral had done to have you act like... that on the battlefield. (But maybe they'd see more of you like that when they speed up to catch up to Ironhide.)

-

Thundercracker ends up suddenly grounded when he has to avoid slamming into Skywarp, who had Sunstreaker tearing off bits of his plating. Skywarp still clipped his side even though they avoided a direct collision. Thundercracker barely has time to make sure the damage isn't anything he should worry about before he's hit by a fragging car! Not just any car- it's the other sparkdamn jet judo twin-!

Thundercracker grits his denta and makes sure not to panic preemptively- Those two took advantage of it to get a better hold of them! Not this time! Thundercracker stops their tumbling and latches onto one of Sideswipes' gauntlets, trying to fight for control back-! And then the sound of a blasters safety clicking off makes Thundercrackers' optics snap left. That sparkdamn neutral was a few pedes away, and they had their blaster aimed right at the both of them-!

Another bot clips them with a strike and the neutrals shot clips Sideswipe. Thundercracker doesn't waste the opportunity to throw his opponent off of him and get his pedes back under himself. He's fully ready to raise his null rays at his opponent when he recognizes the paint of the bot currently battling the neutral. But it's less battling- more like a near one sided crusade- From you. Thundercracker can't help gawking at the state of you. Your jaw set tight, a scowl on your face, and your optics- the utter contempt in them was something that he didn't know what to think of. You're pushing the neutral back with strikes hard enough sparks fly when one of them grazes their armor.

You un subspace your blaster so quickly Thundercracker almost didn't realize what happened before you pull the trigger and blast the neutral right through the pauldron. Energon spills and your optics sharpen somehow further at the sight. ...And Thundercracker knew he had his problems about having the occasional inappropriate thought of you- and seeing you like this in a fight... definitely wasn't going to help Thundercracker with those wandering thoughts. (War frame coding-!)

Thundercracker has to block a stray blaster shot that comes his way and then the neutral retreats. Thundercracker expects you to turn towards your ally- But no, you give chase. Thundercracker had assumed it was the protectiveness of your personality that jumped forward here. Instead, he watches you run after your opponent like neither him nor Thundercracker mattered.

Sideswipe shouting in pain and dropping makes Thundercracker snap towards Skywarp, who was standing nearby with a smoking nullray. Only for Thundercracker to watch him get run into by a yellow Lamborghini. Skywarp curses and hits the ground hard, and Sunstreaker doesn't hesitate to latch back onto him. Thundercracker then has to save Skywarp from losing more plating- and the battle just continues. All until Megatron calls for retreat anyway.

Thundercracker finds himself lingering in the sky in root mode- staring in the direction you'd disappeared in, chasing your opponent. He's wondering if he'd ever see you like that again when you were across him on a battlefield.

-

Megatron's optics find your frame while he's ranking a quick glance over the field, only he stops to stare when he comprehends it. You aren't smiling- but even more significant than that, you're visibly irate. A scowl curled at your jaw with denta gritted tense, eyes heated into a sharp glare. And your optics were locked directly onto that sparkdamn neutral that had landed on earth, not even a cycle ago. Curious- Megatron doesn't have the time to dissect the very interesting development of your turning mood.

Because when the blasted neutral turns their own blaster on Thundercracker and the Autobot he's in gauged with- you practically lunged. You're in between the neutral and both his mech and your own so quick that you draw attention from anyone around the scene. So, of course, you have multiple optics on you when you pull your own weapon and try to strike the neutral so hard the attack clipping them makes them stumble.

Your hits and attacks are relentless, and you don't let up after just one. Yes, you were dangerous on the battlefield, it was how you'd survived this long in the first place. But the swipes and the intent behind your strikes were so obvious... it would be foolish for Megatron to acknowledge it as anything less than the intent to slaughter. Your attacks are not for winning but to utterly eviscerate the one standing in opposition to you on the battlefield.

Megatrons.... faced by the fact he's never managed to bring out this side of you in your many, many battles. Where you- never taking any of your previous battles seriously?! Yes, to a degree, Megatron had known that. Your flirtatious names, your playful smiles, and your sparkdamn infuriating perverse em field-! But to be faced directly by the fact you'd played with him to just such a degree-?

That you somehow didn't believe he, Megatron, leader of the Decepticons, needed to be handled with the same severity as one un named neutral?! It's laughable and near incomprehensible. But the ferocity of the attacks you continue to engage the neutral with, says otherwise. Megatrons own interest in your heightened state makes focusing on his fight with prime nearly impossible- (after the fact Megatrons now assuming the only reason prime hadn't knocked him flat instantly was because Prime was also just as distracted.)

The neutral flees with you hot on their trail, and Megatron pulls back after a few now focused blows shared with prime. Megatron then calls for a retreat, his attention still stolen by you even when you were long gone off the field. His gaze lingers in the direction you'd taken off in pursuit of your prey.

Perhaps Megatron can use your obvious loathing for this mech to his advantage. After all, you'd be more than well inclined to him if Megatron managed to bring you this neutral's grayed out frame as a... show of goodwill.

-

Your em field up and pulling back like he was a scraplet catches Ironhides attention almost instantly. The overly friendly touch had gone utterly mute. He glances at you quickly, only to double take when he catches the expression on your face. You were mad- no, not just mad- ya were proper fragging furious. Jaw tight, derma frowned, optics narrowed- your plating was clamped down. Your em field bleeding a worrying amount of heat told him you were rightfully slagged off.

Ironhide knew you'd mellowed out significantly to the point genuine rage wasn't exactly somethin' you'd be puttin' out now a days. Even when you did get mad, you'd usually either have a neutral look or sometimes smile a sharper way. Ironhide follows your gaze and finds that neutral that was stalking around the edges of the battlefield. And Ironhide watches them pull their blaster and aim it right at Sideswipe, who's busy tangling with Thundercracker on the ground-!

Ironhide grits his jaw, and he can't shout or start running when the dirt kicks up next to him. And before Ironhide realizes it, you're crossing the distance on the battlefield in nanoklicks. And you're heading right for that neutral-! With a curse, Ironhide rushes after you as backup. The neutral snaps their helm your way as you barrel right for them and barely manages to dodge the hit you take at them. And you just focus all your attention on them-!

Ironhide catches up and stops to take some cover when a stray shot nearly hits him. Ironhides brandishing his own blaster as he's watching ya rip into this neutral with the type of aggression that reminds him of sharkticon in a swarm. Not letting up for a moment to even miss the opportunity to take yet another strike at their frame. You're after them with an insatiable mission to take them down, and you weren't going to stop for nothing.

The neutral books it- And with how ferocious you were in the fight with them Ironhide can't exactly blame 'em. But he is baffled when you don't stay when they go- No! You do exactly what a sharticon on the hunt would do, and you chase after them without a nanoklick to waste. Abandoning your position in the fight against the cons-! Ironhides attention turns back towards the very much still active battle with the Decepticons, and he grits his denta and curses the air blue.

He pivots from where he was considering following you and turns back to the battle here. Ironhide couldn't just abandon his post when Optimus and the rest of them were fighting for their lives! After a few klicks that end up feeling like vorns, Ironhide ends up slamming the side of his blaster into Dirges helm- and Megatron calls for retreat. As soon as the cons start taking off Ironhide transforms and drives off after you in the direction you'd gone off in.

Ironhide wasn't sure what they'd done to ya to get that type of reaction outta ya! But Ironhide was sure he wasn't about to leave you alone to do something stupid!

[calumsash]

also luke x halsey makeup collab 2014 tumblr is shaking in their doc martens

[solxamber]

Stake Through the Heart || Rook Hunt

You’re absolutely convinced your neighbor is a vampire. No evidence yet, but your gut—and your deeply flawed instincts—say yes. The investigation is underway. Nothing will stop you. Not even common sense.

You were already suspicious of the building when you signed the lease. The hallway lights had a flicker that could only be described as "threatening," the elevator creaked like it had regrets, and your sink coughed before turning on. But hey—rent was cheap, and you had resigned yourself to coexisting with at least one minor ghost. Maybe two if they were a couple.

What you didn't expect was your upstairs neighbor dragging a human-sized trunk up five flights of stairs at exactly midnight like it was a perfectly normal time to engage in cardio and/or hide a body.

You were brushing your teeth—half-dressed and fully irritated—when you heard the unmistakable sound of wood scraping aggressively against tile. It was the kind of noise that said, "I am absolutely not supposed to be here, but I will make it everyone's problem anyway." You paused, toothbrush in hand, and listened. Another thump. Another scrape. A strained grunt, followed by—

"Ah! The climb is arduous, but so is the ascent of the soul!"

You spit your toothpaste directly into the sink and stared at yourself in the mirror like, Did I just hear a villain monologue in the hallway?

Curiosity won. You opened your front door just enough to peek out—and there he was.

Wide-brimmed hat. Floor-length coat. Boots that definitely cost more than your microwave. And a trunk. A massive trunk. The kind usually reserved for pirates or magicians or suspicious aristocrats who "don't go out during the day."

You watched, transfixed, as he slowly dragged the thing up another step, muttering something about "fate's heavy burden" and "destiny's ever-turning wheel."

Your brain, overworked and overcaffeinated, came to a single, definitive conclusion:

Vampire. 100%. No notes.

No human being talks like that. No one wears a coat that dramatic without drinking blood recreationally. The man radiated "I sleep in a silk-lined coffin and I know all the moons of Jupiter by name."

Still, you tried to play it cool. "Hey, uh… need help?"

He turned. Slowly. He reminded you of an NPC about to issue a side quest.

"Ah," he said, bowing slightly. "A kind spirit in the veil of night. May the stars illuminate your path, trésor."

You blinked.

He smiled. Too many teeth.

"…Right," you said. "I'm gonna go back inside now and pretend this conversation didn't happen."

You shut the door. Locked it. Double locked it. Briefly considered salting the threshold but remembered you were out of salt.

You pressed your back to the door and exhaled. That was fine. Everything was fine. You didn't need to know what was in the trunk. You weren't the main character. You had a day job and seasonal allergies and no time for undead drama. You were going to mind your business.

Until the next morning, when he knocked on your door holding a fruit basket, a poetry book, and a glass bottle that may or may not have been full of suspiciously thick, red liquid.

"Good morrow," he said with the confidence of a man who still used words like morrow. "I have brought tokens of neighborly goodwill."

You stared at him.

He stared back. Smiling.

"I, Rook Hunt, am most pleased to meet you."

You took the basket. You nodded. You said thank you like a hostage in a movie.

And in your heart, you knew.

You were absolutely going to get involved in whatever this man's dramatic, possibly blood-soaked nonsense was. Whether you liked it or not.

You did not, for the record.

You didn't want to be that person. The kind who built conspiracy boards out of half-baked assumptions and circumstantial evidence. The kind who said things like "I just think it's weird that…" before launching into a theory involving aliens, lizard people, secret societies, or in this case, your neighbor being a vampire with a flair for the theatrical.

But then came The Curtain Incident.

It was the next evening. You had gone to the store for boring mortal things—dish soap, batteries, a very specific type of screwdriver that only existed in legend and IKEA manuals. You were minding your own business. You were trying to pick out lightbulbs that didn't hum when you tried turning them on.

And then, out of the corner of your eye, you saw it: the hat.

Wide-brimmed. Looming. Definitely not weather-appropriate.

You whipped around so fast you almost knocked over a display of lawn flamingos. And there he was, in all his nocturnal glory: Rook Hunt, your neighbor, standing in the middle of aisle seven like it was a catwalk at fashion week. Long coat. Gloves. That same calm, vaguely predatory smile. And in his cart?

Blackout curtains. Three sets. Jet black. Extra thick.

You stared. He made eye contact like a man who knew. Knew he was being watched. Knew he was being suspected. Knew that this was not how humans typically purchase home decor unless they were trying to turn their living space into a vampire's safehouse slash crime scene.

You tried to act casual. Failed immediately.

"Heyyy," you said, voice cracking like a out of tune violin. "Doing a little… home improvement?"

He inclined his head. "Mais oui. The sun—ah, how she burns with such cruel passion, non? I find her embrace a touch too… insistent." He lifted a curtain panel with one gloved hand. "To cocoon oneself in shadow, to drift in velvety darkness… c'est magnifique."

You nodded, as if that explained literally anything.

"That's cool," you said, backing toward the paint swatches like they could protect you. "Totally normal. Curtains. Love that for you."

His smile widened.

You were spiraling.

Because listen: you're not completely irrational. You know some people are just weird. You know blackout curtains are a thing. Maybe he works nights. Maybe he's just allergic to joy. But also?? His shopping cart contained no other regular item. No food. No tools. Just three sets of blackout curtains, a single red candle, and—swear to God—a hand mirror.

Why would a vampire buy a mirror?! Was it a decoy? A flex? A prop for when he practiced brooding dramatically at an empty reflection?!

You left the store in a daze, carrying a pack of AA batteries and a sense of unease. As you walked home under the streetlights, you made a mental list:

Never seen him in daylight.

Talks like he's auditioning for a Shakespeare reboot no one asked for, but with more French vowels.

Dragged a suspiciously heavy trunk into his apartment at midnight.

Blackout curtains.

Keeps bringing you gifts that feel like offerings before a blood pact.

Smiles like he knows how you die.

By the time you got home, you were pacing your kitchen whispering, "He's definitely a vampire," like it was going to summon help from the garlic gods.

You considered texting a friend, but how do you even phrase that?

hey quick question if ur neighbor owns a cape and possibly a coffin do u call the cops or the local priest or like, what's the protocol here

Instead, you sat on your couch, stared at the wall, and decided you had two choices: move out, or commit to this bit like your life depended on it.

Because if your neighbor was a vampire, then you were either going to die horribly or end up in some kind of ancient blood soulmate contract by accident—and if it was going to be the second one, you were at least going to get a dramatic entrance line out of it.

You were having what could generously be described as a trainwreck of a day.

Your boss had decided to hold a mandatory team-building exercise that involved trust falls and absolutely no regard for personal space. Your lunch had been mysteriously replaced by someone else's aggressively spicy quinoa salad (you were not emotionally prepared for that level of chilli oil). And your phone had spent the entire afternoon at 3% like a drama queen begging for a charger and attention.

All you wanted—all you wanted—was to drag your exhausted corpse up five flights of stairs, collapse into your lumpy couch, and watch garbage reality TV until your brain leaked out of your ears.

But fate—unrelenting, nosy fate—had other plans.

You hit the third floor landing. Your eyes were on your phone, trying to Google "can you die from inhaling someone else's quinoa," when you looked up—and there he was.

Rook. Your neighbor. The cryptid. The probable vampire.

He was just casually coming down the stairs, like he wasn't the most suspicious person in a ten-mile radius. Still wearing a long coat, still dressed like a brooding poet about to duel someone over honor and a baguette. But this time…

This time he had a sunburn.

Just a little one. Right on the tip of his nose. Faint. Pink. But real. You squinted to make sure it wasn't some kind of trick of the hallway light—but no. It was there. Angry and tender.

Your brain slammed the panic button.

OH MY GOD.

IT BURNS HIM PHYSICALLY.

I KNEW IT.

The conspiracy board in your head lit up. Thumbtacks connected by red string. Newspaper clippings. Grainy surveillance footage of your neighbor dramatically pulling blackout curtains shut while whispering about "la nuit éternelle." It all fit. The signs. The trunk. The curtains. The sunburn. The French.

He caught you staring and—like a man who had just stepped into a spotlight and loved it—tilted his head, utterly unbothered.

"Ah! Bonsoir, my dear neighbor. I fear I was… overzealous in my ambitions today." He gestured vaguely toward the window at the end of the hall, where the last rays of the sun were beginning to fade. "Even the mightiest hunter is humbled by the cruelty of Sól."

Sól. He named dropped the sun like it personally betrayed him. You were one step away from calling the Vatican.

You cleared your throat. "So… you got burned? By the sun?"

"Indeed," he said gravely, touching the red spot like it was a war wound. "A careless moment. I was enthralled by a flock of birds and lost track of time." He smiled. "Still, I find the sting to be a reminder—ah, how fragile the flesh, how divine the dusk."

You nodded slowly. "Yup. Happens to the best of us. Just, you know. Skin melting in the light of day. Totally normal."

He laughed. Laughed. A rich, delighted sound like he'd just watched someone walk into a trap he set.

"Your wit is ever sharp," he said, and then—because of course he did—he pulled a tiny glass vial from his coat pocket and dabbed something that might have been cream onto the burn.

You turned and bolted upstairs before he could hand you an invite to a midnight blood tasting.

In your apartment, you slammed the door, leaned against it, and let your bag slide to the floor.

It was real.

He was burned by the sun.

This was no longer a hunch. This was evidence. This was Exhibit A in your vampire trial. You didn't know what you were going to do yet—alert the supernatural authorities? Start a blog? Join him in eternal night as his dramatic, overly caffeinated familiar?—but you did know one thing:

Your neighbor was a vampire.

And that burn was your smoking gun.

The plan was simple.

Invite him over. Offer pasta. Load said pasta with enough garlic to stun a horse. Smile innocently. Observe. Wait for spontaneous combustion, bat transformation, or dramatic gasping followed by a monologue about curses, betrayal, and forbidden cravings.

It was a flawless trap. A garlic-scented bear trap of domestic hospitality.

You set the table. You dimmed the lights to a level you assumed would make him comfortable. You even lit a candle—not romantic, just for ambience. Everything smelled like garlic. The sauce, the bread, the air. You yourself smelled like you had crawled out of a room full of garlic-scented incense.

When he knocked on your door at eight o'clock sharp, you opened it with your most casual expression.

"Bonsoir, mon ami," Rook greeted, bowing slightly, because of course he did. "The moonlight suits you so exquisitely tonight."

You smiled like someone who absolutely was not trying to expose their possibly immortal neighbor through the power of garlic. "Thanks. I guess."

He stepped inside, gave a pleased hum at your lighting choices, and then—froze.

His eyes, usually sparkling with strange poetic menace, locked onto the garlic bread.

You watched in silence as his entire body tensed ever so slightly, like the baguette had just challenged him to a duel. Slowly, reverently, he walked up to the plate and looked down at it like it had personally wronged him in a past life.

"A classic," he murmured. "So bold. So… persistent."

"It's garlic bread," you said flatly.

He gave a tight smile, like a man at war with his own immune system. "Indeed. It is… not to my taste. The scent tends to cling, comme un souvenir unwelcome. It is difficult to hunt the wind when one's coat reeks of crushed cloves."

You blinked. "You don't like garlic?"

"I find it… overwhelming." He sniffed delicately. "Like a song sung off-key, but shouted."

Oh. OH.

He hates garlic.

He fears garlic.

He is one garlic knot away from bursting into flames and ascending to the underworld.

You knew it.

You were a genius. Sherlock Holmes WISHES.

But then—

He sat down.

And without flinching—he ate the garlic bread.

The entire world went silent.

You watched, slack-jawed, as he took a bite, chewed like a man contemplating the duality of pain and pleasure, and swallowed without so much as a grimace. Then he sipped the wine he'd brought—red for the record—and turned to you with a serene expression.

"Your cooking is divine," he said. "The flavor lingers like a haunting melody."

You stared at him, heart racing, mind screaming.

HE ATE IT

HE. ATE. THE. GARLIC.

WHAT DOES IT MEAN????

Was he lying? Was he in pain but hiding it because his honor wouldn't allow him to show weakness in front of a mortal? Was he so ancient, so powerful, so unknowable, that garlic simply didn't affect him anymore? Had he built up a resistance? Were you dealing with some next-level Nosferatu Final Boss?

Or.

Oh no.

What if he's a half-vampire?

What if he was born of both worlds? Doomed to walk the line between the night and the garlic aisle? Too vampire to bask in the sun, too human to fully reject pasta?

You looked at his elegant profile, the way he sipped his drink, the slight wrinkle in his nose that said he still hated the garlic but was choosing not to comment on it. The duality. The mystery. The drama. The tragedy.

You were spiraling again.

You tried to speak, but what came out was, "So… you're definitely not allergic?"

He tilted his head, smiling. "Non. I simply dislike being followed by the scent of someone's kitchen for a week."

You nodded. Sure. Totally. Not suspicious at all. Definitely something a normal human person would say. The whole garlic-aversion-due-to-personal-aesthetic thing was definitely not code for "I will turn into mist if I touch raw cloves."

He took another bite of garlic bread and made a soft noise of appreciation.

You were absolutely losing it.

Because you had no idea if you were in the presence of a man… a monster… or a fashion-forward night creature of immeasurable strength who had conquered his natural aversions through sheer will and seasoning tolerance.

And you still weren't ruling out the bat thing.

You chewed your pasta slowly, cautiously. He was either about to compliment your sauce again or turn into a cloud of smoke and vanish into the air vent.

Frankly, at this point, you weren't sure which option was more terrifying.

You'd been holding it together for weeks. Weeks of tiptoeing around your extremely suspicious, extremely courteous neighbor who may or may not be a vampire, a demon, a historical reenactor, or some kind of poetry professor. You were normal about it. Chill. Totally fine. You only Googled "can vampires enroll in rent-controlled housing" once.

But today? Today broke you.

Because today, Rook complimented your socks.

"Exquisite pattern," he had said, eyes lingering on the tiny frogs doing ballet across your ankles. "Such expression upon so small a canvas. You are, as always, a delight of aesthetic paradoxes."

You blacked out for at least four seconds trying to interpret that.

And then, without waiting, he took your grocery bags. Both of them. Including the one you packed with canned goods like an idiot. Just carried them effortlessly up the stairs, whistling some baroque little tune under his breath like he wasn't actively enabling your spiral into conspiracy madness.

And so now here you are, pacing a cracked sidewalk outside the convenience store, holding an emergency slushy and waving your arms like you're about to summon lightning bolts. Ace and Deuce are sitting on a bench watching you with the exact expressions of two people who have absolutely heard this before and regret returning your texts.

"He complimented my socks," you repeat, wild-eyed. "Who even sees socks? Who notices frogs doing ballet unless they're training themselves to observe every detail of their next victim?"

Ace slurps obnoxiously from his ice cream cone. "Dunno, sounds like you just have a weird crush."

You point at him like you're about to smite him. "I will take that cone out of your hands and launch it into traffic. Try me."

He raises both hands. "Okay, okay, chill! Just saying. You're the one who keeps inviting him to pasta night and analyzing his cutlery use like it's a crime scene."

Deuce, bless his concerned little heart, tries to play diplomat. "Maybe he's just… a polite guy? Some people are like that. Maybe he was raised well."

You whirl on him. "No, Deuce. He's not just nice. That's vampire hospitality. They're known for being strangely polite before draining your life force."

"…Is that a thing?" Deuce asks, already regretting it.

"YES," you shout. "It's part of the psychological warfare. They lure you in with compliments and help carrying your bulk baked bean purchases, and then bam—next thing you know, you're waking up with two holes in your neck and an allergy to garlic."

Ace is now straight up cackling. "Oh my God. You think he's grooming you. For blood reasons."

"I'm not saying he's gonna drain me tomorrow," you mutter, offended but also a little flattered at the thought. "But I am saying I've been watched like a fine wine and I feel it. He called me a 'treasure of contradictions.' Who says that? No one normal. That's Dracula-core."

Ace, still wheezing, gestures with his cone. "You're insane. I love it. I'm not helping, but I'm definitely watching you go down in flames."

Deuce pats your shoulder gently. "I mean… if he tries anything weird, I'll beat him up?"

"That's sweet, Deuce. But he'll probably just evaporate into mist before you can land a punch."

At the end of the emergency meeting, which concludes with you scribbling "suspiciously aware of frog socks" under Rook's name in your increasingly unhinged spiral notebook, you realize something tragic.

You are no closer to solving the mystery.

Rook remains an enigma. A poetic, shadow-wearing, door-holding enigma.

He may be a vampire. He may just be French.

He may, horrifyingly, be both.

And so, you slurp your slushy. You stare into the distance. You prepare yourself for another sleepless night of Googling "can half-vampires enter your apartment without an invite if you leave the door cracked."

This was for research. Pure. Intellectual. Unbiased. Definitely not emotionally compromised in any way. You had a theory to prove and a public duty to fulfill. You were a lone academic on the brink of a supernatural breakthrough.

This had nothing—nothing—to do with the fact that Rook Hunt had the kind of smile that made your lungs forget how to function, or that he said things like "Ah, your laughter—it rings like wind chimes in spring rain," and then meant it.

You were a serious investigator. You were hunting the hunter.

That's why, when he asked if you'd accompany him to an "exhibition of twilight-themed oil paintings" this Friday, you agreed.

Not because he looked like he belonged in an oil painting.

Not because he bowed slightly when he said "It would be my honor."

But because, scientifically, museums are great places to see if a person casts a reflection in glass.

"Consider this a field study," you muttered to yourself in the bathroom mirror, fixing your hair for the fourth time. "Not a date. A field study."

The "not-dates" kept stacking up after that.

A sunset walk through the botanical gardens ("Ah, the dying light brings out the golden undertones of your soul," he said, and you nearly tripped into a decorative pond).

A late-night jazz café, where he sipped his wine and you absolutely did not spend the entire evening imagining what he'd look like with his hair down and a dagger in his teeth.

A poetry reading. Where the poet stopped mid-verse because Rook was clapping too emotionally.

He always paid. He always pulled your chair out. He always smelled like cedarwood and wind.

He called them dates.

You called it recon.

You brought a tiny hand mirror to dinner once. "Oh this? I just… use it for checking my eyeliner. And your reflection. No reason."

He didn't even blink. "Ah, how clever. But perhaps you'd see more clearly if you looked into my eyes instead?"

You choked on your breadstick.

Every time you tried to interrogate him—"So, what's your opinion on eternal life?" or "Ever wake up craving plasma?"—he'd laugh, then dodge the question with something outrageous like, "Only a fool seeks eternity when each moment with you is already infinite," and you'd have to physically reboot your brain like a crashed laptop.

You were flailing.

You kept trying to stay professional. Collected. Objective.

But it was hard when he looked at you like he was composing a sonnet in real time.

When he held your hand like you were made of porcelain.

When he picked a flower off a tree and tucked it behind your ear without asking and whispered, "Even the moon must envy you, mon chèr."

You were on high alert. Not because you liked him. No.

You were vampire watching.

That's why you kept a notebook titled "Behavioral Observations of Suspected Night Creature." Not because you were doodling little hearts around his name. That was for decoration. To, um, throw off suspicion.

And yes, you did Google "can you date a vampire if it's for science," and yes, you did find three different Reddit threads about people claiming their immortal lovers left bite marks shaped like the Eiffel Tower.

But that was research.

Totally. Entirely. Academic.

And if your heart skipped a little when he kissed the back of your hand and called you his "bravest flame in this dim world"—that was probably just heartburn.

You were on a mission.

You were not falling for him.

You were simply… emotionally compromised by how obscenely attractive his collarbones looked in candlelight.

It could happen to anyone.

Dinner had been amazing. Which was kind of the problem.

You weren't supposed to be this charmed. You were supposed to be investigating. Your whole deal—the entire point of this increasingly suspicious series of encounters—was that you were gathering evidence. You were the lone voice of reason in a world of garlic apologists. You were the slayer. You were—

"You have a beautiful way of smiling when you're trying not to laugh," Rook had said tonight, eyes soft, head tilted like he was trying to memorize the way you looked with your mouth half-full of food and trying to hide it behind your napkin.

And you had smiled wider. Like an idiot. Like a fool. Like someone who was no longer on the hunt but absolutely being hunted.

He had pulled out your chair. Tipped the waiter. Paid the bill while you were in the bathroom. Walked you home under the glow of warm street lamps and murmured poetry under his breath when he thought you couldn't hear. He held your hand when you almost tripped on the curb like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You let him. 

You had, in fact, squeezed his hand back.

What the hell was happening to you.

When you finally got back home and closed the door behind you, still glowing with post-date buzz and clutching the flower he'd picked out of someone's garden "because it matched your joy," you stood in your dark living room and had a single, terrifying realization.

You hadn't looked for a single vampire sign tonight.

You hadn't tried to check his reflection in the restaurant windows.

You hadn't counted how many times he blinked per minute.

You hadn't casually brought up crosses or holy water in conversation.

You hadn't even offered him garlic bread as a passive-aggressive test.

In fact—

Oh god.

You had leaned in. You had laughed. You had flirted back. You had let him compliment your soul's timbre and hadn't even made a joke about bloodlust once.

You had been on a normal date. Like a normal person. With a man you liked. Who may or may not have been literally undead.

You slowly sat down on your couch, holding the flower like it was damning evidence and also maybe your new favorite thing. You stared blankly at the wall for a full minute before whispering, with great horror:

"Oh no. I'm into it."

You, the world's most paranoid supernatural truther, had let your guard down. You weren't even wearing your emergency clove of garlic necklace. You had become everything you swore to destroy.

Worse—you hadn't even noticed.

And now you were spiraling.

Because he was so weird. And so poetic. And so suspiciously strong when lifting heavy objects with no visible strain. And he knew so many historical references and always seemed to know when the moon was full and probably didn't even own a full length mirror, and yet—

He made you feel like you were the center of the universe.

You buried your face in a pillow and screamed for three seconds.

Then you picked up your notebook of vampire observations, stared at it, and quietly flipped it closed.

For now.

Not forever. You were still reasonable. You were still observant.

But maybe… maybe you could let yourself enjoy this.

Maybe, just for tonight, you didn't need to know if he slept in a coffin.

Maybe he was a vampire.

Maybe he wasn't.

But tonight he kissed your knuckles like you were made of starlight and promised to write you a poem, and honestly?

That felt a lot more dangerous.

It started with a cough. A sniffle. A minor ache in your bones that you absolutely ignored, because you were a functioning adult with deadlines and a very real fear of your boss showing up in your nightmares wielding a spreadsheet.

You told yourself it was fine. You were fine. You could survive on four hours of sleep, three cups of coffee, and the sheer force of spite.

By day three, you were half-delirious, wearing two mismatched socks, and attempting to microwave a cold compress while muttering "this'll fix it" like some kind of cursed wizard. You were not, in fact, fine.

And that was when Rook showed up at your door.

Unannounced.

With soup.

"You did not reply to my messages," he said, like that explained how he somehow knew you were dying. "I feared you had succumbed to some terrible affliction of the soul. Or perhaps a particularly villainous flu strain."

You tried to smile and failed. It came out looking like a grimace. "It's not that bad," you croaked, clutching the doorframe for stability like gravity had become an optional setting that you'd accidentally toggled off.

He gave you a look. One of those devastatingly fond ones. The kind that made your insides do cartwheels despite the fever.

"Mon pauvre cœur," he murmured, brushing hair off your forehead with all the delicacy of a man who absolutely did not know what personal space was, "even your aura looks congested."

You were too weak to argue. Too feverish to care. You let him in.

He floated around your apartment like a very helpful, very beautiful hallucination. He made tea. He changed your blanket. He hummed something suspiciously like an 18th century lullaby while rearranging your cluttered living room into a sickbed worthy of a fever-ridden noble, which you had definitely not asked for, but you were too busy dying and blushing to stop him.

And then he brought the soup.

It was… soup. Probably. You couldn't taste it. You could've been drinking warm mop water for all you knew. But he was feeding it to you with this maddening look of gentle amusement, like he was taking care of a wounded dove he'd found by a pond and had already named and written a sonnet about.

He knelt next to you on the couch, one hand holding the bowl, the other carefully tilting the spoon toward your mouth. His voice was low and tender.

"You must eat. Even if only to give your immune system the dramatic support it deserves."

And you—

You just looked at him.

Hair pulled back, those ridiculously green eyes crinkled with worry, coat sleeves rolled and he was feeding you soup and calling you mon cœur and—

Oh.

Oh no.

You were in love with him.

It hit you like a falling anvil. Right in the heart. The full Looney Tunes experience.

You were in love with Rook Hunt.

Weird, dramatic, possibly-a-vampire Rook Hunt.

Who once described your laugh as "a forest waking in spring."

Who carried around obscure herbal tinctures and had once given you a bouquet that included a flower used to curse kings in the 1400s.

And you did not care.

You were flushed from fever and feelings, you looked like a raccoon that had been hit by a truck, you hadn't washed your hair in a shameful number of days, and yet this man was looking at you like you were the embodiment of a love ballad—and for once, you believed it.

Garlic, sunlight, potential bat transformation—none of it mattered anymore.

You'd fallen. Hard. Unrecoverably. Irreparably. Ridiculously.

You swallowed the next spoonful of soup with the gravity of someone accepting their fate, and Rook smiled so warmly it was unfair.

"…Can I ask something?" you mumbled, voice a little hoarse.

"But of course," he said, setting the bowl down gently.

You looked into his eyes. "If I die from this fever… will you write me an epic poem and read it dramatically at my funeral?"

He blinked. And then laughed. Soft and breathless, it felt like sunlight through curtains.

"Mon amour," he said, like that was a thing you both had agreed on, "I would do so even if you were merely five minutes late to brunch."

You sighed. Leaned back. Let yourself fall fully into the pillows and into this moment. Feverish, exhausted, helplessly enamored.

Vampire or not.

You were doomed.

You woke up to warmth. You shifted under your blanket, eyes squinting against the morning light filtering through your curtains, and that was when you noticed it:

Rook was sitting beside you.

Still holding your hand.

You blinked at him, groggy and confused and still crusted in the aftermath of a full immune system breakdown, and the first thing your brain offered up was:

He was warm.

Which, scientifically speaking, meant he wasn't technically a full vampire.

You lay there, fever-free but still dumbstruck, staring at his hand in yours. He wasn't wearing gloves. His palm was pressed to yours like it belonged there, fingers curled so gently it was like he was afraid you'd vanish. And his hand was warm.

Your inner conspiracy theorist made a brief, tired attempt at logic:

"He's warm. That means he probably has a functioning circulatory system. Which means he probably doesn't sleep in a crypt or consume Type O-Negative on toast. Probably. Probably."

But the part of you that still had soup breath and eye gunk and emotions just went, Shut up. He stayed.

Because he did. He had stayed. All night. Sat by your couch with his coat thrown over the chair and a book he never got around to reading and a cup of tea that went cold. And he was still there now, sleep-rumpled and beautiful, watching you like you were more fascinating than the rise and fall of empires.

When he noticed you were awake, he smiled, slow and soft.

"Ah, bonjour, petit trésor," he murmured. "You look slightly less haunted. A triumph."

You made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a dying toad. "How long…?"

"All night," he said, like it wasn't a big deal. "I could not leave while you burned like that. It would be a crime against romance."

You tried to sit up.

Your body politely declined the request.

Rook tsked like a disapproving aunt and pressed you back down with one hand—still gentle, still infuriatingly poetic about everything.

Then he placed the back of his other hand against your forehead, checking your temperature.

"Much improved," he said, beaming. "Your internal sun begins to rise again."

And in that exact moment, with his hand on your face and his eyes glowing like the sunset in a prose-heavy novella, you realized something extremely stupid.

If he leaned down right then, bared fangs, and whispered "May I bite thee, my precious bloom?"—you would have said yes.

You would have said yes so fast.

You would've thrown your neck back and exposed the vulnerable curve of your throat like you were in a Twilight reboot. You absolutely would have gone down in history as the idiot who looked at their maybe-vampire crush and thought, Take a nibble, king, I trust you.

He wasn't even doing anything. Just sitting there. Holding your gross, clammy hand and looking at you like you hung the stars.

And somehow, that was worse. That was so much worse.

You'd completely lost. He could be a vampire. He could be a wizard. He could be a really enthusiastic barista. You did not care.

Because last night, you had been miserable and messy and borderline incoherent, and he had stayed. He made soup. He hummed lullabies. He called you his heart's ember and meant it.

You were in love.

Utterly, helplessly, stupidly in love.

And as Rook gently brushed your hair off your face and offered you a glass of water with all the reverence of a man presenting the Holy Grail, you decided you'd deal with the vampire thing later.

Preferably after he kissed you.

Or after you asked if he was free for dinner again next week.

You know.

For research.

You ended up taking another nap. 

You were floating somewhere between sleep and soup-induced delirium, the kind of half-conscious state where time didn't exist and the laws of physics didn't exist either. Vaguely, you were aware of warmth—sunlight, probably, or maybe just the lingering fever turning your body into a baked potato. But then movement caught your eye. A silhouette crossed your blurry vision, elegant, composed, and way too vertical for this hour.

Rook. He'd stayed again.

Then he did the unthinkable.

He walked to the window.

He reached for the curtain.

You blinked. Once. Twice.

He said, casually, as if it were normal behavior, "You must receive a little sun, mon trésor. Even a flower must bloom."

You made a sound. It was supposed to be words. It came out more like a blender choking on gravel.

Because no.

NO.

You watched his fingers brush the curtain, and something in your barely-functioning brain screamed, "HE'S GOING TO COMBUST."

You didn't even think.

You launched.

With the coordination of a squirrel on Nyquil, you hurled yourself across the couch, staggered upright, and threw your full weight into him just as the sunlight began to stream in. "NO—YOU'LL BURN," you shouted, with the certainty of someone who'd done zero research but had watched two vampire movies once in high school.

The two of you hit the floor in a pile of limbs, your fevered body sprawled dramatically across his chest like you were shielding him from a grenade.

There was a pause.

A long one.

Rook blinked up at you.

Then—like you'd just told him the funniest knock-knock joke in history—he started laughing.

Loudly. Joyfully. Like a man who had just been tackled by his crush and decided it was the best day of his life.

You were still clinging to him like a paranoid marsupial, blinking in confusion. "What? Why are you—? You were in the sun!"

He wheezed. "You thought—mon dieu—you thought the sunlight would incinerate me?"

"Yes???" you said, still on top of him, still wildly unsure about the rules of nature. "You—midnight moving, blackout curtain buying, garlic bread dodging—you showed so many signs!"

He laughed harder. "Oh, mon trésor, I gave you those signs. You were so adorably suspicious."

You froze. "You what."

"I knew from the first moment you side-eyed my coat like it was made of coffin lining," he said, beaming. "You were so serious. So intense. So endearing. I could not help myself—I wanted to see how far you'd go."

You stared down at him, horrified. "You knew I thought you were a vampire and you played into it?!"

"Mais oui," he said cheerfully. "You were like a curious little owl—staring, theorizing, leaving garlic on your balcony. I was enchanted."

You felt your soul attempt to leave your body via cringe teleportation. "Oh my god. I'm an idiot. I'm an idiot raccoon caught with both hands in the garbage bag."

"You're delightful," he corrected. "And very creative."

You groaned and flopped forward until your face was smushed into the side of his neck, which, to your horror, was warm and pulse-having and distinctly not vampire in nature. You could feel your dignity dissolve molecule by molecule.

"So you're human," you muttered.

"Yes," he said, "Entirely human."

You made another noise of despair. It sounded like a dying fax machine. "I tackled you."

"You did. With great passion."

"I thought I was saving your life."

He tried very hard not to laugh again. "You were magnificent."

You sighed into his neck. "This is the worst thing that's ever happened to me."

"It's one of the best things that's ever happened to me," he said brightly. "I got tackled by someone who cares. How very romantic."

You lifted your head just enough to glare at him. "You're enjoying this way too much."

"And yet," he said, cupping your cheek with a hand full of laughter, "I did stay all night with you. Even made you soup."

"…You did do that."

"And if I had been a vampire," he added,  "I assure you, you'd be one by now."

You groaned again. And then stayed where you were, because honestly? You were still kind of in love. Vampire or not.

Even if he was the most dramatic man you'd ever accidentally tackled.

You told them over milkshakes.

Because if you were going to admit to wildly misdiagnosing a man as a nocturnal bloodsucker and then also falling stupidly in love with him, it needed to be over something cold and full of sugar. Preferably in public, so they wouldn't scream.

Ace was halfway through slurping his chocolate shake like it owed him money when you said, in your best casual voice, "So… turns out Rook's not a vampire. He's just French."

Deuce blinked slowly. "What?"

"Yes," you sighed. "Like baguette and poetry and politely opens doors French. Not sleeps-in-a-coffin French."

There was a beat of silence.

Then Ace let out the longest, most dramatic groan known to man, dragging his hands down his face like you personally had caused his suffering. "Oh my god, DUDE."

Deuce, meanwhile, turned to Ace and, with the unshakable calm of someone who had been waiting for this moment, said, "Pay up."

"What," You snapped, "you bet on this?!"

"Yeah," Deuce said, deadpan. "I bet you'd fall in love with him. Ace thought you'd just spiral into full conspiracy and get arrested trying to break into his basement."

You squinted. "Rook doesn't have a basement."

Ace gestured wildly. "AND YET YOU WOULD HAVE FOUND ONE."

You groaned and covered your face. "This is the worst."

"No," Ace said. "The worst was you texting us at two in the morning like 'what if he's half vampire and garlic only makes him stronger.'"

"I was being thorough!" you cried.

Deuce helpfully added, "You also asked if vampire sunscreen exists."

"I WAS SICK," you yelled. "ON MEDICATION. MY BRAIN WAS BARELY FUNCTIONING."

"And yet," Ace said, sipping his drink loudly, "you tackled him. You physically tackled a man because he tried to open a curtain."

You made a noise that could only be described as internal combustion.

"Oh," Deuce said suddenly, "by the way—I almost called an actual mold inspector? Like, to check your house? Because your vampire theory was so intense I thought you might be hallucinating from spores."

You gawked at him. "You thought I had mold poisoning and your solution was not telling me and just… calling a guy?!"

Deuce shrugged. "I was trying to help."

Ace pointed at your milkshake. "You don't deserve that."

You flipped him off.

"Anyway," you grumbled, "I love him."

Ace choked on his drink.

Deuce blinked. "Wait. You what?"

You sank lower in your chair, hands over your face. "I said I love him. Okay? Because he took care of me when I was dying and he's warm and nice and has cheekbones like a fantasy novel villain and I'd let him bite me even though I know now he has a working circulatory system."

They both stared.

Then Ace said, "You are so weird."

And Deuce, bless his heart, just patted your shoulder and said, "That's kind of romantic. In a fever-dream, garlic-bread, public-health-incident kind of way."

You sighed into your straw.

Ace, of course, was already texting someone. "I'm telling Rook he better marry you before you accuse him of being a merman next."

You scowled. "That was one time and he was very wet."

"You were following him around with a seashell, bro."

You groaned and started googling "how to fake your own death with dignity."

Somehow, they still paid for your milkshake.

Rook had taken you out to some quaint little garden bistro.

He'd spent the entire evening being charming in that completely effortless way he had—holding the door open like it was an art form, ordering in lilting French, complimenting your laugh like it was a rare wine, and absolutely ruining your ability to think straight.

And you—foolish, once-misguided, now-fully-delirious you—had melted for all of it.

You'd laughed, and blushed, and kicked his foot under the table like someone who hadn't once sincerely believed he was going to transform into a bat mid-conversation.

Now, you stood outside your apartment under the stars, the night cool and still. Rook faced you, hands behind his back like he was either about to recite a sonnet or present you with a rare bird. You were prepared for either. What you were not prepared for was what came next.

"Mon cœur," he said, gently, "would you allow me the honour of calling you my partner?"

Your brain static'd. Just—flatlined.

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Stared at him like he'd asked you to solve a riddle in a collapsing building. And then you did the only logical thing your brain could come up with.

You kissed him.

You kissed him like your life depended on it, like you'd never get another chance to make up for all the garlic bread and wild accusations and crime-scene-level suspicion. He made a quiet noise of surprise—pleased, delighted—and kissed you back, one hand moving to cradle your cheek like he was holding something deeply precious.

When he pulled away, he was smiling.

The smile was resplendent. The kind of smile people wrote poems about. The kind of smile that had absolutely no business being that sweet or that bright or that heart-wrenchingly warm.

It didn't matter that he wasn't a vampire.

Because with that smile?

He drove a stake through your heart anyway.

You stood there, dizzy, in love, fully emotionally slain.

He tilted his head, as if waiting for you to say something, but all you could manage was a breathless, "Yeah. Yes. I'd—yeah."

"Ah," he said, eyes twinkling. "Alors, it is official."

He twirled you like a ballroom dancer in the middle of the sidewalk.

You let it happen.

Because honestly? Your first impression may have been unhinged. You may have staged an entire fake investigation and tackled him in broad daylight. But this?

This was it.

He was your person.

Not a vampire. Just tragically French. And unfortunately perfect.

Masterlist

[kamaluhkhan]

LONG HOT SUMMER NIGHT

pairing: luke castellan x fem!poseidon!reader word count: 8.4k chapter summary: it's the summer solstice and olympus is throwing a party! thalia notices the tension between you and luke, poseidon gives you some relationship advice and you punch the god of desire in the face. warnings: angst! jealous reader. lots of drinking. complicated relationships. reader dealing with ptsd + survivor's guilt (post-titan war). mention of injuries + blood. creepy guy pushing reader to hook up. ending is a bit steamy but no actual smut. spoilers for the entire pjo (book) series. no betrayal (au where chris was the one who sided w kronos and led the titan army) so slightly ooc luke <3 also reader is in a band called the midnight sirens and is born on the summer solstice! author's note: thank you so much for all the love for part 1!! summer is almost over and this is very much a summer series BUT summer's not over yet !!! hope y'all enjoy this one too and thanks 4 reading 💙

part 1 | series masterlist

♪: long hot summer night by jimi hendrix

mail to: 

Luke Castellan Camp Half-Blood, Half-Blood Hill 3.141 Farm Road Long Island, New York 11954

LUKE! 

I’m sitting in my kitchen right now, watching Percy make us blue blueberry pancakes and hoping he doesn’t burn down my kitchen while doing so. I caved and agreed to take him to Disneyland while he’s here and breakfast was part of the deal, but I think I might regret it later. 

We went surfing yesterday. It was Percy’s first time, but he was (unsurprisingly) amazing at it. I still can’t get over how beautiful the beaches are and the waves — gods, the waves are unreal. You’d seriously love it here. It’s like every day is summer. You have to come visit. PLEASE come visit!!!!

- [your initial]

P.S. The band and I are working on some new music, which means I won’t make it to camp again this summer. I’m sorry ;( Fingers crossed I’ll make it next year. 

P.P.S. hi luke! happy to report that i did not burn down my sister’s kitchen. anyways, can’t wait to kick your ass in sword-fighting this summer. xoxo, percy

THREE YEARS LATER 

the first time you visited olympus, you had been sent on a quest to retrieve zeus’ stolen lightning bolt, bringing luke and charles beckendorf along with you. you had missed the summer solstice deadline, but still tried to reason with the king of the gods when presenting the symbol of power, maybe calling him out once or twice along the way. before zeus could strike you down for your boldness, poseidon stepped in. the war between them was averted in fear of a much larger, looming threat; an ominous introduction for what was to come in the next chapter of your life.

another time, the gods debated whether or not they should kill you, some seeing you as a threat to their future. that was the day you accepted your destiny, not wanting your brother percy or your cousin nico to deal with the weight of the great prophecy. 

your last visit to olympus was on your 18th birthday, after helping to defeat kronos and his army. you made the gods swear to stop neglecting their kids and to allow all demigods, regardless of whether their parent was an olympian or not, to have a home at camp half-blood; to treat their children as children rather than heroes as pawns in their twisted games.

needless to say, it’s quite strange, being back here under very, very different circumstances, where the gods invited camp half-blood’s senior counsellors and staff to join in their summer solstice festivities.

it’s not every day you’ll be invited to a party on olympus; you’re determined to have a good time, to have fun. there’s already an abundance of music, dancing, food, or alcohol, and the night is just getting started.

you’re happy to be there with new and old friends, but you’re ecstatic when you see that thalia grace is there, too. 

“immortality looks good on you, t!” you compliment, raising your voice slightly over the music.

thalia preens, and you bask in her silver glow. 

“bet you wish you took the gods up on their offer, huh,” she teases. then, her eyes widen. “oh - shit! it’s your birthday! happy birthday!” 

thalia tackles you with another hug; even after all these years, she still smells like pine trees. she grabs two goblets of honeyed wine and hands one to you as you catch up. you eagerly gulp the sweet drink, until you’re reaching for another while listening to her stories about adventures she’d been on with the hunters of artemis. 

about halfway through her story about fighting off a manticore during a snow storm, a nymph appears with a platter of the ripest of fruit – sweet plums and fresh figs, tantalising pomegranates, succulent grapes and crisp apples. 

“oh my gods, this is the best apple i’ve had in my entire life!” thalia exclaims after indulging in a taste, herself giddy from a few goblets of wine. “where’s luke? he’s gotta try this — he’s always reminding us to eat more fruit. luke!” 

you hadn’t kept track of luke, at least not on purpose. you assumed he’d been off partying with van or his siblings, and, probably, avoiding you. wherever he was, thalia calls his name twice more and, like a ghost, luke appears. 

“i’m here, t.” luke’s voice is a deep, steady rumble floating above the music. his cheeks are slightly flushed, either from the heat or the drinks. likely both. “what’s up?”

“you need to try this.” thalia shoves the apple in his mouth before luke can respond. 

luke takes a bite, and some juice drips down his chin. you, in a honey-soaked haze, think about running your tongue over to catch it, but he beats you to it, wiping it away with the back of his hand. 

probably for the best.

“holy shit. yeah, it’s good.”

thalia, a sparkle in her eyes, urges you to try it as well. from across the makeshift triangle the three of you had formed, luke tosses the apple your way. you catch it effortlessly, and sink your teeth into it. 

you’ve almost overwhelmed by the burst of flavor. the fruit is just the right amount of tart to balance out the sweetness, and it’s damn near the best crunch you’ve ever experienced.

“good is an understatement,” you say after another bite. a distant memory crosses your mind. “i wonder if these are the same ones we almost got killed by a hellhound for.” 

thalia shakes her head, laughing in disbelief. “all because luke said we needed more vitamin c.”

“i was just looking out for us!” luke guffaws. “how was i supposed to know that persephone owned an apple orchard in connecticut?”

you pat his shoulder, the three of you smiling at the memory. “let’s call it an honest mistake.”

“well if annabeth had been with us by then, i’m sure that she wouldn’t have made that same honest mistake.” 

“okay, but she’s the daughter of athena —”

you let luke and thalia slip back into their playful bickering as if no time has passed. you listen and continue eating that glorious apple, enjoying how the golden glow of your shared past fills whatever distance might have grown between the three of you. 

somewhere down memory lane, luke’s amber eyes flick towards you.

“hey, you’ve got some….” without another word, luke suddenly reaches over to brush away a trail of juice with his thumb before sticking the finger in his mouth to savour the taste. he holds your gaze as he does so, and you feel a familiar kind of heat rush through your body — not from alcohol or summer sun, but from luke. 

it’s such an intimate gesture that you almost forget that you’re at some extravagant party on mount olympus, where gods and half-bloods and a whole bunch of other mythological creatures are celebrating the start of summer by essentially getting drunk together, until thalia clears her throat. 

“okay, well, seems like the two of you might want some alone time.”

luke’s cheeks grow more flushed than before, and his eyes widen as if realizing what he’d done.

“oh, we don’t need —”

“we’re not —”

you and luke both stumble over your words; thalia just smiles knowingly. 

“i’m gonna go flirt with that nymph,” she announces, pointing across the grand marble pavilion.

“i thought — doesn’t artemis sort of frown upon that sort of thing?” you ask.

“she makes exceptions on holidays. besides, i’m her favourite. you guys have fun.” thalia winks at you and walks away.

you glance at luke and, gods, there’s so much history between you. 

the time you jumped into an ocean full of sirens to save luke from drowning? you have a scar running down your forearm where one of them scratched you as you struggled to get luke towards the surface. 

or when you took turns holding up the sky while on a quest to save lady artemis and defeat the titan atlas? it’s evident in the matching streaks of grey that you each have running through your hair. whenever you see your reflection in the mirror, you remember how you couldn’t save your cousin bianca di angelo earlier that day, and how nico has had to grow up without a sister because of a promise you broke.

how about when you, luke, and one of your best friends were sent on a mission to destroy the princess andromeda, the headquarters of kronos’ army? only the two of you survived, and sometimes you can still feel luke squeezing your hand pike he did during charles beckendorf’s burial shroud ceremony while you both cried.

or when luke took a sword between the ribs for you because he, somehow, knew the one spot the curse of achilles left you vulnerable? he can only slouch for so long before the bones there start to ache.

so, yeah. there’s way too much history, and so many tangled threads, and now really isn’t an ideal time to unravel it all. 

“i’m gonna go find my dad,” you blurt out and disappear into the crowd with no real intention of finding your father. 

the once sweet apple now tastes rotten on your tongue; you rid yourself of it in exchange for some more wine. you’re determined to have fun — no pain or heartache or grief. 

you’ve all had enough of that for three lifetimes. 

summer — age 14

“sorry your birthday was ruined.” 

luke exhaled sharply when you pressed a disinfectant-soaked cloth to the wound on his leg.

“hold still,” was all you mumbled in response, brows knitted together as you wrapped the cut in gauze. 

once you were done with his leg, you moved on to luke’s hands, burned by poisonous acid. the four of you had run into a hydra earlier that night. you managed to wound it enough so you could all get away, but not before a few injuries were sustained. 

you were uncharacteristically quiet as you worked. you only met luke’s gaze to warn him before pouring some nectar on his wounds. you let luke hold your hand, tightly, as the liquid dripped through his fingers and down to yours, first right, then left. the pain was instant, seering almost as much as the hydra acid, but it was over quickly. the last thing you did was bandage each hand before getting up. 

“i’m…i’m gonna check on thalia and annabeth. i’ll take first watch.”

luke caught your hand before you got away.

“wait. you’re bleeding.” he pointed to the cut on your brow. you had been so preoccupied in making sure everyone else was safe that you let crimson liquid drip down your face. it probably stung, too, based on your grimace.

luke wiped away the blood with his sleeve, used nectar to disinfect the wound, and dressed it with a fresh bandage, working silently as you did.

“it’s still your birthday,” luke finally said once he was done. “you get some rest; i’ll take first watch.”

you gave him a small, strained smile before checking on the others. 

later that night, you stayed up with luke anyways. 

seemingly out of nowhere, you handed him your portable cassette player. luke stared at it for a moment, unwilling to comprehend just what you were offering and, more importantly, why. 

you and luke had grown accustomed to sharing things: flannels, socks, makeshift beds and scavenged food. but this —

it was your aunt’s. 

you never met your mother, who’d left you as a baby, and of course, poseidon was too busy tending to his underwater kingdom to step in as a parent. your aunt raised you as her own. and then you lost her, too. 

you kept her cassette player buried deep in your bag with some mixtapes she had made and ones you’d stolen throughout the years. when it wasn’t your turn to keep watch, luke would sometimes catch you with headphones on, looking up at the stars. 

luke liked to think he knew you well; all those subtle elements that made you — the crack of your knuckles, the cadence of your voice, the slope of your nose, the dreams of your childhood. engraved in his own personhood. bones and all. 

and, still: he didn’t know you, not entirely. 

you’d only allowed luke to listen with you once, maybe twice. he’d never forget what it was like: knees pressed together and heads just as close to keep the wires from stretching too far; you gushing about the magic of jimi hendrix, recounting memories that echoed through gentle guitar riffs; luke yearning for one more song to play, for another a wistful smile of yours to appear. luke, wishing to linger in your private oasis a beat longer before you pushed him out again and closed the door behind him. 

the one lock luke couldn’t crack: your grief, and how you carried on so buoyantly despite its weight.

well, there you were, presenting the key to luke as an offering. a sacrifice for something luke would never ask of you. 

“this….” luke swallowed the lump in his throat, refusing to look at you. he turned the device over in his bandaged hands, the metal smooth, though well-worn. “you can’t just —”

leave. you can’t just leave. you can’t just —

“hey.” 

your hand over his, forcing him to stop spiralling and look at you. 

right away, luke regretted it. a small sliver of him, however delusional, had hoped that you were joking. 

you weren’t. behind you, there was an empty space where you had previously wedged your sleeping bag. your backpack was already strapped around your shoulders, fully packed. 

“i need to leave, luke. we can’t stay together. it’s too dangerous.”

“you don’t need to —”

“there’s more of us, now,” you interrupted, pulling your hand away to rest on your thigh. “four demigods together isn’t ideal. we’ve been attracting more monsters. more deadly monsters.”

“that would happen, anyways. it always has whether it’s the four of us, the two of us, or….” 

luke stopped his sentence short, not even wanting to give you the idea to go out on your own, even though you’d probably been thinking about leaving for some time. 

you made reckless decisions sometimes, but this didn’t seem to be one of them.

“well, it’s happening more.” your voice was steady, too steady. luke imagined you rehearsing just what to say to counter the inevitable backlash. 

luke shook his head. “i’d be dead if it weren’t for you.”

“you almost died because of me,” you clipped. you lifted a hand to touch the bruise on luke’s jaw, but let it drop just as quickly. “you know that children of the big three cause more trouble. maybe we managed it when it was the two of us, but now, there’s more to consider. a child of poseidon and a child of zeus, travelling together. it’s like we’re asking to be killed. it’s too dangerous.”

“that’s our life,” luke snapped. “you can’t just run from it.” from us.

you faltered, looking back to where annabeth and thalia were sleeping peacefully. 

oh. he must have said that last part out loud, too. 

“you know i’m right,” is all you said.

luke could only shake his head again. because, fine, you weren’t entirely wrong. it was more dangerous — but it was danger luke hoped you’d all face, together. 

“i’ve made up my mind,” you added, an anchor in the sand.

“don’t leave.” luke’s words came out as a prayer. if he offered something, maybe you’d stay.

you paused to take a shaky breath. “this isn’t goodbye, luke. i swear to poseidon…fuck, i swear to all the gods that this isn’t goodbye.”

luke couldn’t speak. there were tears bubbling in his throat, threatening to spill. 

“so, keep this for me,” you whispered, once again placing your hand on top of luke’s. his fingers gripped your cassette player tightly, like it was the only piece of driftwood leftover from a shipwreck, keeping him from sinking into the cold, dark nothing. “you’ll give it back when we see each other again.”

a promise. 

“fine,” luke conceded, though he wanted to scream at you. he wanted to argue like little kids — petty, loud, meaningless, back and forth until tears streamed down cheeks and throats were raw. 

but, you were leaving, one way or another. luke didn’t want this shared memory to be tainted if it might be your last.

“you have to take this, then. give it back when we see each other again.”

luke removed the chain from around his neck, the one that held the key to his childhood home. he placed it around yours, instead.

he didn’t need the key now, but his mother had given it to him when he was six. before he knew what it meant to be the son of hermes, god of thieves. 

call him sentimental, but luke had kept it. just in case he ever got lost. 

“if you’re ever back in connecticut, you have a home.”

“yeah, okay.” you smiled softly. 

it fell just as quickly. 

“take care of them,” you told him. “of yourself, too. i’ll see you again when it’s safe.”

luke didn’t ask when it would be safe, because the truth is that it might never be.

“because you want your cassette player back?” luke joked, instead trying to lighten the mood, to capture one last moment of brightness.

you laughed softly to not wake the others. 

“yeah. that too.”

you pressed your forehead to his, something you hadn’t done since you were kids. 

“i’ll see you again,” you repeated.

without another word, you got up and jogged away. luke shut his eyes, refusing to see you become nothing but a shadow. 

(you looked back several times, but he couldn’t see through the darkness.)

now

call the gods out on their bullshit (you encourage it), but if they have one thing going for them, it’s that the olympians know how to throw a party. 

the night grows darker, yet somehow becomes more lively. demeter and persephone had supplied a generous amount of fresh, decadent fruit, and dionysus an even more generous amount of wine. apollo starts a karaoke corner and you’re just tipsy enough to agree to sing a duet with him in order to break the ice. apparently, he’s a big midnight sirens fan and had seen your band when you headlined at glastonbury festival. you smile to yourself, imagining your bandmates’ faces if you told them that the god of music had watched you perform.

as you hand the microphone to a giggling dryad, the sound of your name washes over like gentle waves on a shore.

“if it isn’t my sweet, summer child!” your father brings you in for a hug and an ocean breeze engulfs you — salt and sand and sun. 

“hi dad,” you exhale as you pull away. 

you hadn’t seen each other in a while, but poseidon looks the same. he’s dressed in a turquoise hawaiian shirt and birkenstocks with a crown of seashells on his head. there’s a cocktail umbrella in his glass, a slice of pineapple wedged onto the rim. you’re about to ask him how he managed to secure a pina colada and where you might find one, too.

“that was quite the performance!” poseidon takes an eager sip of his drink, green eyes sparkling like sea glass in the sun. “i must tell you: your newest album is all the rage in atlantis. the nereids and merpeople can’t seem to get enough of it and, truthfully, i find myself playing it on repeat as well. you’re quite talented.” 

you try not to let your shock slip through, instead smiling and asking how things are in his underwater kingdom, but you’re….touched at your father’s unexpected praise.

the gods aren’t perfect, and your father is no exception. they’re divine beings who have time to conceive children, but not to raise them. there’s a long history of them abandoning, mistreating, and manipulating their own offspring. of course, being the prophecy child, it became practically impossible for your father to ignore you; you’re sure that being dubbed the saviour of olympus gives him bragging rights with his immortal family. even with their sworn promise to change, it’s impossible not to resent the gods in some ways. 

still, you feel comforted by your father's presence at times — when you catch the perfect wave on your surfboard, for example, or when you sit on your fire escape during a storm after a bad day. it’s been like that pretty much all your life: poseidon there in spirit, not in practice. despite everything, he’s watched over you, and percy, throughout the years.

and here poseidon is now, grinning at you like you’re his pride and joy. 

“enough about aquatic politics.” he pats your shoulder enthusiastically after telling you about the struggles of keeping humans from overfishing. “i came over to wish you a happy birthday. and to give you this.” 

poseidon reaches into the pocket of his shirt and hands you something you’d long thought gone: a leather cord with several clay beads and a silver key.

“i found it off the california coast,” he explains. “i kept meaning to get it to you, but i suppose time has a way of getting away from us, immortal or not.”

a warmth grows in your chest as you run your thumb over your old camp necklace, bright and full. it had fallen off one day when you’d gone surfing, and you assumed it was lost to the ocean. you'd been given a fresh leather cord when you arrived at camp earlier this summer, but it felt empty. hollow.

“thanks, dad.” 

you smile at him as you put on the necklace; it feels like coming home. your father then asks you about your summer so far.

you tell him all about your life as of late, until you catch a glimpse of luke with van on a marble bench at the other end of the pavilion. van is sitting in luke’s lap, and they lean over to whisper something in his ear before kissing his cheek. 

you freeze mid-way through your sentence.

sensing the shift in mood, poseidon frowns. he turns his head to follow your gaze.

“ah.” poseidon turns back to you and clears his throat. “now, i don’t mean to pry, but i saw you earlier with the castellan boy.”

you flush at the fact that your moment with luke was witnessed by your own father. “dad —”

“did you know in ancient greece, throwing someone an apple and having them catch it is considered a marriage proposal?”

“i’m pretty sure that was disproven,” you scoff.

poseidon raises an eyebrow at you, clearly amused. “which one of us was actually there, hm?” and though you roll your eyes, you can’t argue with that. “i just wanted to know if there was a wedding happening in the near future.”

you almost choke on the last remnants of your wine. “dad.”

“i’m kidding. i’m kidding! mr. castellan seems otherwise occupied.” 

“yeah, it does seem that way,” you grumble.

poseidon puts a hand on your shoulder, firm but reassuring. “regardless: if you find someone who would go to tartarus and back with you, someone who would fight alongside you every step of the way, you hold on to them. there’s only so much time you mortals have on this earth.”

you sigh — easier said than done — but your father is trying, so you manage a nod.

“i’ll keep that in mind.”

“now, i better go — ” poseidon looks over your shoulder, where the air behind you starts to feel staticky. “it seems a disagreement is brewing between zeus and hades. they always get into it whenever dionysus makes the wine a bit too strong. brother, put away the lightning bolt —” and he rushes away to prevent another divine conflict from arising.

left to your own devices, you venture over to the food table, finding an array of fresh and dried fruit, breads, cured meat, fresh oysters and, of course, more wine. you grab a goblet and a few dried figs.

“careful, i heard dionysus made the wine extra strong tonight,” someone warns, creeping up beside you. the voice is soft and alluring, and you feel something tug at your heart. 

you do a double take when you turn to them; the person is devilishly handsome, a golden aura paired with a golden smile. 

(you will soon find out that the god flirting with you is the son of ares and aphrodite, the latter of which takes the appearance of whoever the onlooker loves. as it turns out, her son appears in the same way. 

all this to say: it doesn’t mean anything that this god looks like luke castellan to you. 

it doesn’t mean anything at all.)

“i’m eros.”

“hey. i’m —”

“i know who you are, savior of olympus.” eros winks at you. “i just never realized you were so beautiful.”

your cheeks heat up as you take a sip of your drink.

oh, shit. 

okay. the literal god of desire and pleasure is flirting with you. 

you’re flattered, really, and maybe the wine has gotten to your head, but you’re not eager to turn him away.

“well, i’ve definitely heard about you, and the rumors do not do you justice,” you quip, painting on a flirtatious smile.

eros puffs out his chest, clearly pleased. 

over the next few minutes, you decide that eros can hold a decent conversation, asking you the classic first date questions about your likes and dislikes, and he’s cute enough that you wouldn’t mind things going further. 

(he might be a god, but he’s no luke. you push that thought away, and force yourself to flirt with helios. eros. right, eros.)

eros leans in close, pretends to listen to you, lets his gaze drop every so often to the deep v-neck of your shirt.  

“no way! 13 going on 30 is a classic,” you argue. you nudge your shoulder into eros’s playfully, and let the contact between you linger. eros, the inspiration for cupid himself, has angel wings, and you feel them brush softly against your burning skin. 

“it’s totally overrated!” eros exclaims. “also, the childhood friends to lovers trope gives people false hope.”

“it’s not false hope. it’s about the buildup to their happily ever after,” you reason, swallowing some wine to dislodge the lump in your throat.

eros shakes his head. “trust me, baby, it’s all about the instant attraction. that’s where the excitement is.” 

he’s so close now, you can smell the sharp alcohol on his breath. not wine, but something stronger.

“oh? what do you mean by that?” you lean impossibly closer, trailing a finger down his chest.

eros smirks, placing a hand on your thigh. “want me to demonstrate?” 

not even a second after you whisper a yes, eros crashes his lips onto yours, and you will yourself to kiss back. he slides his tongue in your mouth, runs his hands over your body. 

you’re making out with the god of desire and passion, so, objectively, it’s a good first kiss: soft around the edges and firm where it needs to be.

sure — you feel nothing, no real spark, but it’s almost enough to fill the hole in your heart in the shape of a certain son of hermes. 

the son of hermes who has moved on and is in a loving relationship with a perfect emotionally available partner. 

so, it’s fine. 

this, this thing with eros, is fine. 

you’re fine.

eros pulls away first, but keeps a hand on your cheek.

“let's get out of here.” 

he grabs your wrist before you have a chance to answer. you stand up, let him weave you through the crowd towards the stairs of the pavilion. apparently, his room is just through the garden. 

as he tugs you along, he looks back at you, smiling. under the glow of the stars, eros looks just like luke, except it’s becoming harder to ignore that he isn’t luke and that makes you feel all sorts of nauseous. your camp necklace weighs on your chest and, in particular, the silver key that you’d kept for all those years burns through your skin. 

lightheaded, you pull away from eros’ grip just as you reach the top of the stairs and place a hand on the column next to you to steady yourself.

eros turns around sharply. “what is it?”

“i changed my mind, actually. let’s just…keep talking here.”

eros grabs your wrist again, his grip tighter than before. “don’t be a tease.” his tone is ever-so-gentle, but there’s an edge behind his words. 

this time, your voice comes out more assertive. “i just changed my mind. that doesn’t make me a tease.”

“come on, baby, don’t you wanna experience what real passion is? this is a once in a lifetime opportunity that a million girls would kill for. you’d be an idiot to pass it up.” he brags, and you’re this close to breaking this guy’s nose, god or not. 

“i don’t care,” you snap, struggling to break free from his grip. “and i’m not your baby.”

“okay, whatever,” eros rolls his eyes, but quickly plasters on an arrogant grin. “we’ll go somewhere private and i’ll call you whatever you want.”

he manages to drag you down two steps as you strain against his iron grip, now almost cutting off your circulation. your heartbeat quickens and you feel dizzy. finally, you grab onto the railing for leverage and use your strength to rip out of his grip, forcing eros to stop in his tracks.

“what is it now?” he snaps, whipping his head around once more. 

he looks nothing like luke, now.

“just stop, eros.”

“listen,” he starts, speaking to you almost mockingly, like you’re a naive little kid. so much for being the savior of olympus. “trust me, i know what people want, so you don’t have to be shy. i promise to be the best you’ve ever had —”

“eros, is it?” the rest of the party is in full motion, but here’s percy, giving eros one of the most intense death stares you’ve ever seen. percy, your little brother who talks to lonely fish at the aquarium; who, if you cut open, would bleed blue m&m’s; who would never let anyone, god or otherwise, hurt someone he loves. “i’m gonna have to ask you to let go of my sister.”

“mind your own business, kid,” eros hisses. “we’re kinda in the middle of something.” he tries to move you down another step, but you stand your ground.

annabeth, no longer the scared little seven year old you, luke, and thalia found behind a dumpster, is also glaring at liam from the top of the stairs. one of her hands rests firmly on her belt, where she keeps her dagger. 

“i’d back off, if i were you,” she warns. “wouldn’t want to cause a scene.”

“just mind your own business,” eros snarls.

“they said leave her alone,” thalia asserts, walking over once she sees what’s happening. “and you don’t wanna mess with us, trust me.” she clenches her hand into a fist.

“who the fuck are you? her bodyguards?” 

“just let her go,” percy orders. “my sister can do a lot better than a minor god with a major god complex.” 

eros growls, baring his teeth at percy. “you impertinent little shit.”

as soon as eros lunges for your brother, you tug one of his wings towards you, hard. he whips around and you take the opportunity to punch him in the face. he doubles over, golden ichor gushing from his nose.

“i’d be careful if i were you, baby,” you seethe. “you wouldn’t want to go up against the demigods who led an army against kronos and won. unless, of course, humiliation is a kink of yours.” you laugh humorlessly at the way eros scowls at your words. “to each their own,” you continue. “but i’m not in the mood to fuck an entitled creep with angel wings to compensate for his tiny dick. you better fucking respect that, and leave us alone while you’re at it.”

eros’ flirtatious smile is long gone, replaced with the kind of anger only entitled, self-important jerks have when they don’t get what they want and they’ve taken a few blows to their ego. 

call it stupidity or arrogance, but his only response is a punch delivered right back to your face. 

you hear a crack upon impact, and pain radiates from your nose. you stumble, but percy manages to reach out and catch you before you fall down the stairs. he holds you as thalia and annabeth create a barrier between you and eros. you hear them shouting at eros over the music, but their exact words don’t register.

you lick your lips, tasting blood. your ears are ringing, and everything is suddenly all fuzzy. percy tries his best, but you slump your body weight into his and he almost topples over.

“i’ve got her.” luke’s calm and measured voice cuts through the chaos. you feel a strong, familiar arm wrap around your waist to steady you. “from what i remember, you were too much of a coward to even step foot on the battlefield, so i’d listen to her if you know what’s good for you.” in a haze, you guess that luke is directing his sharp words towards eros, before turning to the others and instructing: “you guys take care of this — find clarisse if you need back up.”

somehow, you find yourself over in a small secluded temple, sitting on a window bench overlooking the clouds as luke sits next to you.

like most of olympus, the building is made of marble with gold accents; this one has roses engraved on the walls, and the space smells like flowery perfume. it’s much quieter than the pavilion, though you can hear laughter and music in the distance. it’s cooler, too, but not by much; even without all the body heat, you're left with sticky summer air, and luke’s breath on yours, sweet with wine and ripe fruit, as he carefully examines your injury.

you feel your head spinning all over again. maybe it’s the alcohol, or the adrenaline, or the fact that the two of you haven’t been this close in a while — probably a dangerous mix of all three. 

you know (from trying not to but ultimately not being able to pull your attention away from him after all) that he’s had a few drinks as well; it seems like the two of you ignore each other best when you’re sober.

“thought the curse of achilles would protect you from nosebleeds.”

“guess it doesn’t protect against —” what did percy call eros? “ — minor gods who have major god complexes,” you recite.

luke looks slightly amused. “that’s a shame,” he hums. “would have been nice to get one birthday without being injured.”

a smile creeps onto your face, despite the dull ache from your nose.

“you remembered.”

“of course i remember,” luke almost scoffs like the mere suggestion of forgetting what day you were born is an insult to his very character. he meets your gaze, and you could melt when he offers you that lopsided smile of his, painfully familiar. “happy birthday, aquagirl,” and it’s the softest he’s spoken to you in a while. just like old times.

he remembers. 

somewhere within him, luke holds on to fragments of you.

he wipes the blood off your face, the sleeve of his silk white button-down now stained crimson. “how’s your hand?” he asks. 

you flex your fingers. “it’s been better,” you answer, your knuckles slightly aching. “totally worth it.”

“i guess all those years away didn’t change anything. still willing to put a god in their place, huh?”

all those years away. 

the reminder feels like a stab to the heart, and you’re worried that it might burst the comfortable bubble you and luke had drunkenly stumbled into. 

thankfully, luke continues:

“the kids really take after you.”

he says as a joke, mostly, but there’s a sincerity in those deep brown eyes of his, too. something you also hadn’t seen from him in a while. 

the kids, who you’d in some ways raised together when monsters were trying to kill you and the gods didn’t care enough to stop it. 

the family you and luke had built together despite being born into the world of greek tragedies. 

“as if annabeth wasn’t threatening to pull the dagger you gave her, skywalker,” the nickname rolling off your tongue with ease. “besides, they’re not kids anymore.”

“yeah.” he pauses. “neither are we.” 

luke’s fingers trace your camp necklace, brush against your collarbone. the breath hitches in your throat.

here you are again, at the edge of something real and very scary, and you fear luke is going to push the two of you over. 

but he doesn’t. instead, luke suggests, jokingly: “maybe we should start a fight club at camp.” 

you take that as a good sign: like you, he’s hoping to preserve the playfulness between you before everything else seeps in and ruins it. before you’re brought back to the present, where you’re practically ignoring each other.

where you’re fine, but really. 

you snort. “chiron and mr. d would love that.”

“like they’d ever find out!” luke explains. “you know the first rule of fight club —”

“don’t talk about fight club,” you finish together. 

luke laughs, even though it’s not that funny. you laugh, too. 

and that’s the thing that really, truly gets you. 

try as you might to ignore it, some days it’s hard to forget the pain and heartache and grief. 

you still feel like your life is a battlefield; you still see the ghosts of everyone you couldn’t save even though people call you a savior; you still have those scars, inside and out, that seemed healed but ache every once and a while. 

but that isn’t all. 

sometimes it hurts more thinking back to the good times and knowing, deep down, you can never go back.

summer — age 13

“ugh — you think with all their power, the gods could help stop global warming,” you groaned, swatting away a mosquito that tried to land on you. “do you think they have air conditioning on olympus?”

“oh, for sure,” luke quipped. he gave you a lopsided smile, his curls sticking to his forehead, drenched in sweat. 

it was the summer solstice, the longest and the hottest day of the year so far. the two of you had found a perfectly good hideout, but luke insisted that this place would be worth the move. 

he’d been leading you down side streets for what felt like forever. the sun had already set, and you were very close to passing out from the heat, until luke finally stopped at a door behind an alley, with a sign reading CLOSED FOR RENOVATIONS. 

luke knelt down to do whatever son-of-hermes lock magic he had to do to get the door open. he flipped a switch, and you winced at the sudden overwhelming brightness. 

the destination was different than the hideouts you usually sprung for: those small, hole-in-the-wall type places. instead, this space was big and bright, filled with arcade games and fun posters and neon colours. the type of place a kid might have a party or where a group of normal teenagers might spend their friday night. 

“what…what is this?”

“you thought i forgot, didn’t you?” luke smirked at you. he sat down on the colourful carpet, taking out some snacks, a small plastic bag with coins, a wrapped box, and a plastic blue crown, and gestured for you to join.

you did, in fact, think that luke had forgotten your birthday. 

birthdays were bittersweet for children of gods, who were constantly reminded that any year could be their last, their youth cut short by monsters or prophecies or a fatal flaw. all the two of you usually did on either birthday was split any sweet treat you could get your hands on. 

it wasn’t a big deal, really, to skip that tradition of yours. there were much more urgent things to worry about, like finding food and water and shelter, and not being devoured by monsters. 

you did think it was strange that luke hadn’t so much as said happy birthday to you all day, but you knew that he loved you.

(like a friend loves a friend. nothing else, no matter how much your stomach fluttered at the thought of him.) 

“i wanted to surprise you,” luke explained once you claimed your spot next to him. he reached over to place the crown on your head. “i found this place a few days ago during a food run. it reminds me of where we had your —”

“eighth birthday party, yeah.�� you smiled at the memory of running around and feeding quarters to every machine and trying every game, of your classmates singing happy birthday to you off-key before you all stuffed your faces with sickly sweet confetti cake. 

truthfully, you never thought about having another celebration like that again.

but, it was five years from that faded childhood memory, and luke was presenting you with something you didn’t even realize you had needed: the chance to be a kid again.

“so,” luke got up, a wide smile on his face. he held the plastic bag in one hand, extending the other to you. “which do you wanna play first?”

you started with space invaders, then moved on to dragon’s lair and pac-man. you took a break before street fighter ii so that luke could ceremoniously light a candle and present a cupcake that had been tossed around in his bag (but you were still very, very grateful for), along with fresh batteries for your portable cassette player. he had made you a mixtape too, though you couldn’t figure out how. 

your last stop was a photobooth. you vowed to keep those pictures — a collection of you and luke together, smiling bright and colourful, goofing off and laughing — for the rest of your life.

now

those moments from past summers are like popsicles melting in the sun: tangible for a limited time before leaving you with a sickly sweet mess of what once was. 

you think about what happened earlier, how percy, annabeth, and thalia stepped in to protect you, still the brave kids you had once known so well. how luke is here with you now, taking care of you so tenderly even after you’ve silently agreed to give each other the cold shoulder. 

maybe luke is right. maybe all those years away didn’t change anything. 

except — once you leave this temple and the alcohol leaves your system, it won’t be the same. 

none of you are kids anymore, if you ever even were. 

“why’d you go for eros, anyway?” luke asks, breaking you away from your thoughts. he removes his sleeve from your nose since the bleeding seems to have finally stopped.

“you really wanna know?”

“yeah. most gods are assholes. and you’re…” luke places a hand close to your leg, pinky finger brushing your thigh. “you.”

“i went for eros because….well, honestly, i don’t think i cared who it was, as long as they made me forget you,” you admit, because what did you have to lose. you probably have a broken nose, you definitely have blood on your shirt, and your time with luke is running out. 

luke’s eyes darken. his fingers start to play with the hem of your shorts. 

“did it work?” his voice is a whisper, but he’s close enough that he’s crystal clear.

“no.”

it’s hard to determine who leans in first, but soon enough your lips are on luke’s — messy and urgent. noses bumping together, teeth clacking against each other. he cradles your face in his hands, and you move to straddle his waist. you taste wine on his tongue, and maybe a hint of sweet pears, but it’s overwhelmed by the salty, metallic taste of blood stained on your lips. when you run out of air, you pull away. it’s clearer now: you’re not dizzy from the alcohol or adrenaline, but dizzy from him. luke’s gaze is heavy on yours as he traces your top lip with his thumb.

“luke,” you whimper, itching to kiss him again. 

“you’re still bleeding.”

luke wipes away the blood with his thumb. before either of you can do or say anything more, there’s an echo of footsteps on the marble floor. a flower nymph, there to leave an offering and let you know that, while aphrodite encourages acts of love, she prefers it doesn’t happen in her place of worship. 

you realize that aphrodite also might not look so fondly at you kissing someone else in her place of worship after publicly rebuking her own son.

luke untangles himself from you, and you know that he’s been jolted back to reality, too. 

and, just like that, another moment has melted away.

your father was right. time has a way of slipping away for us, immortal or not.

summer — age 18

“hey, you awake?”  

“yeah,” you replied softly. sleep hadn’t been easy, in the days and weeks and months leading up to that final battle with kronos and his army. 

and once it was all over? 

you rested your head on luke’s shoulder, sword discarded at your feet and armour half-removed, as argus, the hundred-eyed security guard of olympus, drove a school bus with a dozen or so demigods back to camp.

“why’d you turn down their offer?” luke whispered.

oh.

"why...why do you ask?"

"i don't know." luke paused. "just curious, i guess."

you closed your eyes and replayed that moment on olympus when you refused the gift of immortality. the look of shock written on the gods’ faces. and on luke’s.

“i don’t care about living forever,” you told him bluntly.

forever seemed too long, especially for someone who was prophesied to die at 18.

you tilted your head up to meet luke’s gaze, and his messy curls brushed against your forehead. evidence of the battle was clear on his face: caked-on dirt and blossoming bruises and dried blood. 

behind him, outside the bus window, the world was flying by. a child who had fallen off their bike being comforted by a friend. two people sharing an mp3 player and a pair of earbuds. an elderly couple walking their dog.

“you once told me that this was our life,” you continued, gesturing towards the weapons and battle-worn kids, some quiet, others crying, many injured. “what if it didn’t have to be?” 

luke furrowed his brow. “do you mean….are you talking about leaving?”

you shrugged. running from monsters for your entire childhood then being the child of the great prophecy was a lot.

a break might be nice.

there was so much about the world, the one you’d fought and bled to protect, that you wanted to experience. 

maybe something closer to a normal life.

“would you ever leave camp?” you wondered, not really answering luke's question. 

“no,” luke replied instantly. his fingers started fiddling with the beads on his necklace. “i can’t just walk away, not after everything.”

“yeah, i get that.” and you did; you really, truly, did. the guilt of wanting to leave camp curled in your stomach like a venomous snake. you took a shaky breath. “let’s talk about this later, yeah? i’m tired, and we have the rest of — ”

the rest of the summer slipped away in the blink of an eye. gone, before you even had a real chance to say goodbye.

you closed your eyes and held on to luke, as if gripping his arm would anchor you to something you weren't ready to let go of, but in some ways needed to move on from.

it was no use, though. 

by the end of august, you’d be gone too. 

now 

you learned early on that the curse of achilles doesn’t protect you from hangovers.

you wake up the morning after the celebration on olympus with a deep, throbbing pain lodged in your temple and an uncomfortable swirling in your gut. parties and late nights at bars are common on tour, which means migraines are, too, so you have a routine to make sure you’re not out of commission for too long.

except this time, the aspirin and blue gatorade and dry toast don’t work. the sting in your brain and uneasiness in your stomach doesn’t go away, even after a few days. you haven’t been able to sleep, either.

desperate for a cure, you consult lou ellen, head counsellor of the hecate cabin, who you’d unexpectedly grown close to in the past few weeks. she mixes something for you, while asking if there’s something that’s been weighing on you.

you couldn't keep it in anymore; you tell her about the summer solstice and luke.  

later, with nothing but your thoughts and percy’s snoring occupying your time post-curfew, you grab your phone and flip it open, deciding to finally reach out to luke, when you get a text from him.

luke is already on the beach when you arrive, looking out onto the water. 

“hey,” you greet as you sit next to him on the sand, but not too close. “i was actually about to text you —”

“did you tell anyone that we kissed?” he interrupts. you can’t quite read his expression as he waits for you to answer.

“no, i didn’t,” you lie. “would it matter if i did?”

“well, i mean, word travels fast around camp, and i don’t want van finding out. it’s not like it meant anything.”

the throbbing in your brain becomes a sharper sting, the uneasiness in your stomach a tidal wave of nausea.

“it didn’t?” you hate how fragile your voice sounds, compared to luke’s stoic demeanor.

luke shrugs. “i mean, we were both drunk and the thing with eros happened…we just got caught up in the heat of the moment.” 

“you’re saying there’s nothing between us, then? nothing?” the word tastes bitter in your mouth.

luke turns away before he answers. “no. nothing.”

“then what about last summer?” you demand. you force yourself to keep it together, your tone firmer than before. “i guess that didn’t mean anything, either.”

“y/n…” he sighs. “i don’t know what you want me to say. we’re barely even friends anymore. you come back here, after all this time, after so much shit happened, and expect us all to drop everything to fit you back into our lives. but, you don't. whatever you came here for, it's not here for you. there's nothing to go back to. we moved on. i moved on, and i can’t deal with you —" 

“got it,” you snap, already turning to walk away. “loud and fucking clear, luke.” 

it’s not like it meant anything. we’re barely even friends anymore.

you replay luke’s words as you crawl into bed, holding back tears so as to not disturb percy. finally, you swallow a generous amount of whatever concoction lou ellen had brewed up for you.

drifting off into your own sleep, you decide that you don’t love luke anymore. not as a friend, not as a.....

nope. 

according to luke, there's not even anything to go back to.

nothing.

nothing.

[a-driftamongopenstars]

alright, i finally finished Dragon Age the Veilguard.

tldr; 3/10. I didn't like it.

If you enjoyed the game and would rather keep enjoying it, please don't click the read more section as what follows is rather critical.

I can finally sit down with my thoughts and put them together in a more cohesive structured review, touching on most things that I wanted to address. I'll start with positives and then focus on the negatives.

Warning, this is VERY long.

Overall, I had a neutral to negative impression of DatV, which got worse by the end of the game. It had some good moments, but they were entirely unexplored and underutilized, suffering from bad writing. While the game itself is rather pretty, it didn't outweigh the dialogues, the stories and the lore butchering that took place.

1. Environment and visuals. 8/10.

I think Veilguard is a very beautiful game. I enjoyed exploring the corners of this new world, the little bits of environment design and storytelling that it had. It felt magical, certain locations were mesmerizing! I couldn't stop staring at the valley where you go to with Harding, the carcass of a titan.

2. Combat. 9/10.

I love flashy combat, I enjoy hack and slash, so until the very end of the game I was having most fun in combat. Yes there was repetitiveness but I tried to combat (hehe) it with changing my abilities and weapons every now and then. I liked combos and I liked timed parries. Enemy tactics got a bit boring by the end, but a few enemies still surprised me and challenged me.

.... That's where positives end. Now on to the negatives.

1. Characters. 2/10.

I don't understand what happened. Almost all the characters in this game were tuned down to a two-dimensional personality, "good" and "bad" - and absolutely no nuance. This happened not only to the villains, but to the different NPCs and even our companions. Their interests got narrowed down to single points of interest (Lucanis and coffee being a prime example to me), their motivations got watered down.

This is not what I expect from a Bioware game. I want to be challenged, I want to dislike characters or approve of their choices. I like characters who are messy and complex and don't always have their shit together.

I like villains who may have other reasons for their choices, other than "ba ha ha, I am so evil and I will do evil things". Where is Alexius who sold himself to the Elder one, just so he could save his beloved son? Where is Samson, forsaken by the Chantry and turned to red lyrium with his addiction? Where is Calpernia, misguided in her choices, just to free the slaves of Tevinter?

Where are the slaves of Tevinter anyway?? That's another topic.

2. Rook. 4/10.

On one hand, I liked playing Rook. They were stoic but with a humorous side, ready to get the job done, compassionate to other people.

The problem is that it's the only Rook you can really play. The protagonist is set in their ways and their dialogues and there is very little to roleplay. Rook really does feel like a gentle manager, trying to get everyone to play along nicely, while providing therapy every now and then, and is excluded from the majority of friendly interactions with other people. That awkward glance everyone gives you after their banter is embarrassing. The way you can third wheel people, the way the game actively offers you to leave a couple of animated conversations between other people - why even include those? Why not make Rook a part of the 'team'?

I did like Rook's dynamic with Solas. They got to see a different side of him, one that's not presented heavily in Inquisition. But like everything else, it felt surface level and underexplored.

3. Story arc. 2/10.

I am left unsatisfied with the story. The pacing threw me off so much nearly every quest, it was hard to stay on track. From "we need to solve this NOW" to "actually, let's all slow down and deal with our problems", the plot's priorities were all over the place. We kept hearing about the gods and their destructive oppression, but we saw surprisingly little of it. Yes, there was the Blight, yes there were Venatori and the Antaam, but they felt more like a video game fodder and dressing rather than a part of the story.

Not to mention that all of those things made little sense to me. Why would the gods align with aforementioned factions? Why would the aforementioned factions align with the elven gods? In-game explanation was not enough for me, it did not make sense. Not with the established lore in the previous games.

I also did not enjoy the ending. While the idea of Solas binding himself to the Veil is good and does make sense, what was suggested as the good ending (inviting Mythal to deal with Solas essentially) actually left me feeling awful. I sent a man, full of regrets and self-loathing, on a lonely journey to figure himself out. That... did not sit right with me at all. Neither did the fact that Northern Thedas, supposedly the point of the gods' attack, gets to live and flourish, while Southern Thedas is dying of starvation and blight. That is UNHINGED to me.

4. Music. 1/10.

There was no music. I remember one track. It was not memorable whatsoever and I can't believe they hired Hans Zimmer to do exactly nothing. Just wow.

5. Lore. ???/10.

And here is the worst offender. What was done with Dragon Age lore is unacceptable. I was doing a head-in-hands every five minutes. This was a slap in the face of so many fans who enjoyed the three prior games and delved into deep, interesting lore of various races, countries, cultures and religions. Veilguard showed a big middle finger to all that.

Everyone has already touched upon the sanitization of different factions. From the suddenly slaveless Tevinter to found family Antivan Crows, everything has been scrubbed clean and made sweet and palatable and "good".

The Dalish clans have been removed from existence as we know them. The Antaam left the Qun? Don't even get me started on that. The Chantry has no influence in this game? Really? The Chantry? The biggest religion in Thedas? The one that we know has heavy presence in the Anderfels, the Black Divine in Tevinter? That Chantry?

I think it really hit me how disrespectful the game is during the quest of saving the Dalish elves, where apparently Elgar'nan's Venatori, uplifted to be his servants and chosen people, were trying to sacrifice them. It's a gross and oddly telling idea that the ancient Elven god turned to a faction of racist mages to sacrifice elven people. I actually can't believe I'm writing this. Just how much are you going to shaft these people? Mindboggling.

There is a lot more I have to say on this specific topic, and I probably will later, but the idea is this.

6. Romances. 2/10.

Whoever said this is a game with romance lied so hard. So hard. The romance was atrocious. From the badly written flirting to the lack of romantic scenes (I romanced Davrin), to the poorly timed and awkward 'final' romance moment... It was atrocious. I felt no connection between Rook and Davrin beyond what game was telling me. My actual companions got more screen time with their romances than me and my LI.

Damn, even Evka and Antoine, my single most beloved NPCs in this game, had more romance going on that my Rook.

---

All in all, Veilguard was a massive let down. After having enjoyed the first 3 games many times over, with multiple playthroughs, I was so excited to see how the story of the Inquisition, of the elves, would end. When I saw the first trailer for VG, I knew I would never get to see it. When I played the game, I was left with disappointment and disdain.

I'm glad there are people who enjoyed this game, genuinely. I'm sure there's something to find for anyone, but it was not for me. Nor was it for many other people. It was a let down. I feel like I'll never get the conclusion I wanted - so I'll have to write my own I guess.

I have more thoughts on this game that I might be sharing, but for now this is the review I wanted to write. Thanks for reading!

[lambkincry]

Fantasy traveler whump part 1 - Bandits

The journey is long and dangerous, but necessary. And only whumpee is willing to make it.

The road is filled with bandits, who after ambushing whumpee and beating him up don't mind leaving them unconscious on the side of the road

Bonus point if they wake up in the dark and don't know which way to go anymore

Or whumpee is tied up and gagged as bait/distraction for other people/animals that might go this way. If the road turns out empty, bandits can just leave them. Whumpee is not going anywhere anyway...

If whumpee is wearing expensive clothes or equipment there is a good chance muggers would rip it off them (or make them strip to not damage the loot)

Muggers turn out to be slavers, looking for their next victim, especially if the traveler is different race than assailants - rare find surely is worth more than others...

Whumpee is not alone in their journey, but when the team realize they have no chance to avoid the fight, they run away. Whumpee is the only one that didn't manage to escape, crying out to their companions for help

The journeyer finds the bandits during the act of beating up some poor soul. The attackers are too focused on their victim to see them. They know that engaging in the fight is pointless and would just become another prey. They have a choice: wait for bandits to finish their act and hope whumpee is left alive, so they can help, or move along, leaving the one in need to their fate

After the attack whumpee doesn't even consider turning back. They might not even have anything to go back to, so they press on. Hurting, swaying with each step, their supplies taken or destroyed.

The bandits leave the whumpee in decent state, but they take the key possesion from them, rendering the whumpee unable to complete their quest. Wracked with guilt they try to follow the muggers to retrieve the object.

[celeste-clearwater-06]

heartbeat (thorin oakenshield x female!modern! reader)

gif by me!!

desc. - reader puts her CPR lessons to good use when thorin's on the brink of death. (inspired by an imagine by @imaginexhobbit but make it sad🫶 also i listened to "farewell to dobby" while reading this, it adds so muchhh)

warnings - angst 💔

word count - 2.7k

For most of the time you’d been traveling with Thorin and his merry band of warriors, you could only account a few times you provided yourself useful to the group. Bofur was a whittler and toy maker, Oin a healer, Ori a scribe. Thorin and his sister-sons, the rightful heir to a kingdom. Even Bilbo had squeezed his way into a position of burglary, though he was hardly fit, and was still fighting to prove himself.

You?

A few stories around the campfire. Some questions answered about where you’d appeared from out of nowhere in particular. Mouth watering modern food recipes you babbled on about, over rabbit stew Bombur happily served on the cold nights on the road. And sure, you were getting good with a sword, but not nearly as skillful as the fearless fighter Dwalin.

You could see the malevolence and distaste in Thorin’s eyes when Gandalf decided for himself that you would make a fine addition to the group. After all, some otherworldly stranger happening upon them just as their fateful quest began was no coincidence. To him it meant something. But to the leader of the group? Danger? Deadweight? You couldn’t tell. Whatever it was, it settled behind his cold, steel-blue eyes and swelled whenever he watched you fail miserably at every task given.

You simply weren’t built for a world like this.

Thorin didn’t hate you. He wasn’t necessarily fond of you either. And how you longed to fit in, impress him maybe. Break past whatever tough exterior that he used to keep a distance between the two of you. Pushing too much would surely annoy him, so you opted to keep to yourself, sitting back and placing yourself near Gandalf and the witty Bilbo Baggins, who seemed to have walked a few miles in your own shoes. If he could wear them, that is. Hoping maybe one day the King under the mountain would come around. Maybe.

But now, soaring over the horizon of a morning sun and above the towering mountains, on the feathered back of a massive bird, Bilbo had proven himself in his bravery, and you were alone and useless in your skills.

You were seated atop the same eagle as the halfling, right behind another that carried Thorin’s limp body in its talons, wind and the worried cries of his nephews rushing through your hair and past your ears. Azog’s fight was not an easy one. Not that you could do much anyways, dangling uselessly from a blazing pine tree and fingers slipping from its scorching branches. But Thorin, ever the brave, was taken down quickly.

Thank the lord for Gandalf’s endless alliances.

Now, the eagles circled a plateau, oddly sticking out from above high treetops like a sore thumb, and began to descend to its slanted surface where each member of the company jumped off. Some destination this was, hundreds of feet off the ground. You’d think they might find a safer spot to land this band of underground dwelling travelers but beggars can’t be choosers. At least you were out of harm's way for the time being. The eagle you and Bilbo rode flew low enough for you to hop off and land safely on the cliff’s surface, then turn and see Thorin, unconscious and unmoving, set down gently in front of the rest of the group.

They all crowded around him, shouting and shaking his body vigorously, but to no avail. Your stomach dropped when you heard one of them mutter a word that sounded like “dead”.

You rushed over, just getting a few glimpses of his face from behind the heads of thick hair and heavy fur coats circling him like vultures, Bilbo at your heels and following in curiosity.

“He’s not breathing!”

“Thorin! Thorin, wake up!” A hand tapped on the side of his face.

You immediately began shouting to clear some room. The sea of worried dwarves parted for you, just enough room to sling your haversack off your shoulders and lean down on your knees, bringing an ear to his mouth. They were right. Not a breath to be heard. Nor a pulse, you discovered, after placing your fingers to the side of his cold neck.

“No…no no, no.”

The company shared confused mutters and looks, worry lines still etched like canyons in their faces as they watched you clamor to unclasp his thick cloak and pull away as much clothing as you could from his chest.

Now, you were no doctor. Not even a medical student for that matter. Just barely scraping by with an art degree and two, low paying part-time jobs back home. Wherever that was. But, thankfully, those required CPR lessons back in junior high suddenly came rushing back to you, and you were gonna put to the best use you could.

You locked your elbows, flattened your palms, and then hastily pressed against the brute of his firm chest. Mahal, it was stubborn, and the armored shirt between your hands and his heart was no help, but acting quickly spared no time for shedding any more of his clothes. Again and again you pressed, one, two, just how the instructor taught you with her quick tongue and loud voice.

“An even pace! You’re going to lose him!”

The recall made your head spin, especially considering it might have been a bit comedic at the time, trying to revive an armless mannequin on the tile floor of your classroom. But under the steady pressure of your palms was a real person, teetering on the edge of life and death.

Gandalf landed somewhere behind you, being the last to touch ground, but he was forgotten in the sea of deep voices asking what you could possibly be doing.

By the 16th compression, you were beginning to break a sweat. Twenty, twenty one…

“Lass… what are ya’ doing?” Bofur's voice, usually friendly and jovial, was a low and cowering one. His question left the rest of the group quiet. You heard, but you didn’t answer. That would be for later when this was over. Preferably with a happy ending.

Thirty.

You moved to pinch Thorin's nose shut, tilting his head just slightly off the ground with the other hand tangled in his hair and breathed into his open mouth.

Any and all bewildered muttering was lost on the focus you had, to watch for any movement in his relaxed face.

You breathed again, and then bent over to listen. Nothing.

Now things began to get more grave than you’d taken them before.

You moved back to begin compressions again, this time pressing harder and deeper against his heart. You lifted a forearm to wipe the sweat gathering on your brow.

In your class, you were supposed to take turns, and rotate when one got tired so they could properly compress. But this wasn’t class.

Thorin was beneath the weight of your hands and his face was losing color.

“Come on… come on Thorin.”

You lost count after the 19th shove downwards, adrenaline kicking in and tears blurring the corners of your eyes as Thorin convulsed.

A warm hand settled on your shoulder above.

“Lass… he-” you smacked it away, anger bubbling in the pit of your stomach like fire that you spat out.

“No! No he’s not, n-not yet.”

Again, you breathed into his airway, heavy and even, like you were supposed to. You were doing everything right. So why wasn’t it working? Why wasn’t he breathing?

This was the quietest you had ever heard the company. Only birds and the sound of your exhausted, heaving breaths and choking sobs floating in the cool morning air.

You moved back to compressions, starting again, one, two, three. You were begging him, hysterically pleading his unresponsive body to kick start back up.

“Please Thorin. Come on.”

Now tears rolled down the apple of your cheeks, warm and bothersome and blinding, falling over your hands and his clothes. Your arms ached at the now desperate shoving against his heart. You looked pathetic, like a widow begging for scraps of Thorin’s lifeline, something to get him through. The ground dug harshly into your knees, bruising and irritating them through the pants as they dully scraped with each movement.

Twenty two.

You were slowing down, growing weary and tired from the work. But it wasn’t good enough. At this point, with the silent stares, you knew that even the ever stubborn dwarves had lost hope for their leader some time ago. And you had too, but now you were already getting past the twenty-fifth press down. Curse the lot of them, just staring down at you with pity as you sniffed and wiped the snot and tears from your face. And curse the beauty of the morning sun peaking over the mountains, so regal and beautiful, and staring down at the morose show of a sad little human weeping to herself.

“Please… please, God you idiot. Running down there like that.”

A cry frogged its way out of the back of your throat, raspy and gurgling. You lift his head for the third time, sniffed in and then pushed your shaking breath as hard as you could manage, pulled away, then back down to press your quivering lips upon his cold ones and-

A breath. Soft and faint, just barely there, and it slightly cooled the tears on your face.

You froze, staring down at Thorin to see his eyes twitch just slightly underneath their lids. Another exhale fled him, his time much more apparent, and his brows furrowed as he stirred awake. The gasps and shouts from the company, scrambling over and circling him like they did before to help him up as he came to.

“He’s alive!”

“A miracle! Bless the Valor!”

You lifted yourself from the ground, onto your feet, but the shock of your attempts actually working, and exhaustion, just left you to stumble backwards onto your butt, crying harder than before, in relief and joy, nonetheless sobbing like your life depended on it. You gave into the fatigue of your muscles, the tiredness from the adrenaline, and exhaustion from your sobs, and fell onto your back, covering your eyes with a forearm with the other limply laying on the ground next to you. Bilbo kneeled next to you and laid his small hand over yours, watching as the king was pulled to his feet and grimacing at the noises of his jovial party celebrating with shouting and laughing.

“You did it,” The burglar said quietly, just enough for you to hear. It wasn’t just amazement in his voice, but reassurance. Something to ground you, like the warm squeeze of his hand.

You trembled, breaths coming in and out with a shiver.

Thorin’s dazed when you slowly sit up off the ground to look at him, swaying about and being jostled as each excited dwarf embraced and jumped around him, and an arm shouldered over Kìli’s to keep his balance.

“You were dead.” Dwalin’s normally stony, hard-set face, was graced with the most horrified look you’d ever seen in your life, eyes widened and brows twisted upwards in awe. That seemed to settle everyone down enough, and shake Thorin from the rest of his stupor. Once again, the world around you was blessed with silence that you hadn’t gotten a taste of since you arrived. It was short lived.

“Dead?” Thorin asked, incredulous and confused.

“Ye’ weren’t breathing lad!” Gloin chimed in, “we thought you were gone!”

The king’s eyes narrow, and shift between the members of his party, blinking away a head rush.

“How is that possible?” The second set of words he’d spoken since he screamed Azog’s name. Thorin’s voice was low and rasping. He slowly turned, following the astounded, wide-eyed stares from the surrounding dwarves, boring into you like you were some God.

You sniffled, wiping at your reddened, runny nose with the sleeve of your shirt.

He lifted a jeweled hand to graze over his heart, where you were reviving him, just staring at the sad sight of your tearful eyes.

“She saved ya’, Thorin,” Balin’s voice is serious and somber, breaking the silence, “Brough’ ya’ back from near death. Mahal knows how.”

Thorin’s eyes grew sharp, brows furrowing and piercing into you, where you pulled yourself to sit on your knees. His fingers tightened around the cloth where his hand laid, clutching at his chest.

“You,” he gruffed, “You did this?”

“I-I… I didn’t know if it was gonna work.” Your throat tightened and squeezed. Great, even more tears flowed down your face. Thorin’s eyes held the same glint that made your stomach twist with embarrassment and shame. The least he could do is offer a nod of gratitude towards you. Instead, he tore free from the group, ripping his arm away off his nephew’s shoulder and stumbling towards you like a drunken fool, with thudding footsteps.

Dwalin calls after him uselessly, just hanging back and letting the scene play out.

When he stops in front of you, eyes firey and broad chest heaving breaths in and out, standing a few inches over where you’re knelt, all you can do is try not to look away. You’re glad you hadn’t.

A boa-tight grip took hold of your heart and tightened when you saw his features soften, worry lines and crow's feet disappearing in the appearance of a small, incredulous smile. His softened eyes lined themselves with the hint of tears catching like jewels in the morning sun. Thorin dropped down to his knees to meet your height in a hug that you could never have prepared yourself for. You freeze for a moment, completely dumbfounded. Thorin, fearless, merciless, King Under the Mountain was hugging, no, embracing you, with the force of a thousand winds and strength of ten thousand men, because he was alive, thanks to you. And you hugged him back, pulling closer than you already were, and grasping at the back of his shirt and cried into his shoulder. The dwarves cheered in excitement behind Thorin. Through the yelling and praise, you can hear Thorin’s low voice next to your ear.

“I cannot repay this deed. Thank you.”

You pull away to see the kindest, warmest smile your eyes had ever been blessed to lay upon. It knocked the breath from your lungs. The corners of his eyes and the arch of his nose wrinkled upwards. It suited his face much more than the cold and stoic stares he was prone to.

“I wasn’t sure you were gonna make it.” Was all you could huff out.

“Yet I did. I misunderstood you greatly.” Thorin wiped a tear from the side of your face, “You make a member of this group. My life is indebted to you. And you,”

He peered over your shoulder at a wide-eyed Bilbo Baggins, standing just past your shoulder. You helped him stand from the ground, arm linked in his to meet the hobbit.

“You nearly got yourself killed,” he slipped free from your arm, and started toward Bilbo, just as he did you. “Did I not say you would be a burden? That you would not survive in the wild?”

Your face fell, akin to Bilbo’s solemn look. He stood there, taking the string of insults like a punching bag.

“That you had no place amongst us?”

And then he pulled the hobbit in just as he did you.

“I have never been so wrong, in all my life.”

Your heart reeled, and this time you smiled along with the rest of the company’s rejoices, watching the surprised grin spread across Bilbo’s face. Thorin pulled away.

“I am sorry I doubted you.”

“No, no. I would have doubted me, too.”

A hand planted itself on your shoulder, and you turned to look at Gandalf and his sagely smile.

“You’ve made yourself quite the home in these dwarves' hearts, young lady,” he said. It was comedic, the way his silvery hair and beard dramatically blew in the wind, “Perhaps once this has settled, you stay with them. I think you’d find yourself more than welcome in Erebor’s Halls.”

You hummed in thought. The band of travelers were gathered on the edge of the plateau, looking out in the distance towards the peak of the Lonely Mountain, calling their name through the mist.

Thorin turned back to look at you over his shoulder with a gentle smile, and nodded his head to you in a silent thanks. The ghost of a blush spread across his face.

“I just might.”

(aaaaaah! what did you guys think??? :3 it feels wonderful to get a full fic out after so long, ive had this idea in my head for dayyys ugh 💔 please send me some requests loves, i'm in desperate need of some comfort fics! don't forget to reblog and like!! love yas! 🩷🌺🌸🌷💝💞)

tag list : @kumqu4t @tolkien-fantasy @blueberryrock @to-be-frank-i-dont-care @luna-xial @legolaslovely @fizzyxcustard @pistachiozombie @imaginexhobbit @beenovel

[eradore]

More for @acorn-and-oakleaves 's Shire Summer Festival. Gonna keep combining two prompts each time cause it means I have to write less hahaha

prompts: "Are we both seeing that?" & "No, wait!"

Festival Masterlist

Dwalin finds his brother on a little crest of hill overlooking the camp one night, about two months into their quest. This isn't unusual, Balin has always sought peace and quiet in which to gather his thoughts. It's one of few, yet crucial similarities the brothers have always shared, even when they were young, their temperaments and tempers mixing like oil and water, they'd always shared a mutual understanding that sometimes - often, when Dwalin was still a tempestuous little Dwarfling - the best way to forgive one another, was to get the hell away from each other.

Which is why it's odd now, grown and come around the bend on their youthful misalignment, to know he's welcome in his brother's quiet reverie. Odder still to know he's not the cause.

Balin doesn't greet him as he sinks into place beside him, but he does scooch ever so slightly to the side to give him some more room and that's good enough for Dwalin. He doesn't smoke much anymore, but he takes a minute to watch Balin's pipe glow in the dark, a cherry little coal kept alive by the Dwarf's angry puffing.

He's not entirely certain what's transpired, but knows that look well enough by now.

"He'll come around," Dwalin says eventually, and contents himself to receive no answer. There's no need for one anyway, not when they both know who he means; not when they both know the truth of it, their king's temper growing shorter the closer they came to achieving - or missing - their goal, his forgiveness following just as quickly. It's made for a real ball buster of a quest, but it is heartening to know Thorin can accept criticism, even if it takes him a few days and many surly looks to do so.

Which is why he's surprised when Balin bothers to acknowledge his words at all, his lips curling in a wry smile around the stem of his pipe. "Believe he already has," he says, nodding at the circle of their encampment below, and Dwalin's gaze follows.

"By my beard," he mutters, eyes locked on the figure of their stoic young king. "Are both seeing this?"

"If what you're seeing is a lovesick fool of a Dwarf trying his damndest to braid a courting lock into a Hobbit's sleek little mop of hair, then aye, we see the same thing."

Silence stretches for long moments, so deep that Dwalin can hear the popping of the fire below, and it takes him a moment to recognize that the whole camp has fallen quiet, even the droning of Fili and Kili's inane chattering now ceased. Indeed, the only one fool enough to break it is the Hobbit himself, Bilbo's high, squeaking voice calling across the space easily enough. Dwalin catches something about a rabbit and a head of lettuce and needs hear no more to know it's not what commands such stillness.

"Do ye think he knows?"

Balin scoffs. "That timid creature? If he knew he'd be no more than a boiling puddle right now. Can't imagine this is exactly proper by his standards."

"It's barely proper by ours," Dwalin amends, and Balin hups in agreement. "I hadn't even realized Thorin had figured it out himself, yet."

"Aye, the stubborn lad. Thought he'd be burying our burglar in the royal tombs before he realized the epitaph should maybe read consort,'" Balin muses.

Dwalin takes a moment to picture it, the sadfuture that may have been, and the king who would have found no joy in the home which he had fought to reclaim. And yet, ass he watches, Thorin ties off his pitiful little braid and inspects it, no doubt resigning himself to a new daily schedule judging by the way he frowns at Bilbo's fine hair. Dwalin smiles ruefully. "Well, let's hope our Hobbit realizes sooner than that as well."

"Oh, I should think so," Balin assures, tamping out his bowl. Though his eyes remain glued to the pair below, assessing. "Bilbo is not nearly so stubbornly blinded as his other half."

Except just then, as if specifically meant to contradict the old Dwarf, Bilbo's clever fingers itch over his scalp, seeking out the thong that holds the braid in place, dithering all the while. "You know actually, now that it's in, I rather don't like how it pulls. Think I'll just manage with my hair in my face, thank you."

The eruption of movement that follows is impressive in it's coordination, all thirteen members of Thorin's original company all springing to attention as they beg him no wait! stop!

Divider by @/animatedglittergraphics-n-more

[chaussetteblanche]

Okay I’m obsessed with your Luke castellan stuff! Is there anyway I could request one where Luke and reader are a couple but get into a huge fight right before a quest? Something goes seriously wrong on the quest but they make back in in the end? Sorry if that makes no sense 😭

omg thank you !! and thanks so much for requesting ! this turned out a little dark, I hope you don't mind !

deception

pairing : luke castellan x fem!reader summary : you and luke have a fight before leaving on a quest, but after something goes very wrong, you make up word count : 3.5k warnings : a little dark, violence, fighting (verbal and physical), swear words, killing of another camper, depiction of death

"Where were you?" The words were out of your mouth as soon as you saw the dark figure walking towards you. You needed no light to recognise him. You knew him by his walk, the way his shoulders swayed slightly and the unrecognisable limp in his left leg from an old injury. You knew the shape of his shoulders, for you had cried on them many times. You knew the swing of his hands, for they had held yours for countless hours. You knew the way he hung his head meant he was tired. But so were you. So, so tired. "We leave tomorrow, Luke. For a quest that could change all of our lives. Do you truly care so little?" You stood up from where you had been sitting down for the better part of an hour in front of your cabin. "Baby, I really don't want to do this now," he all but pleaded. You could hear it in his voice. The fatigue, the worry, the sadness. He stepped closer to you and took your hand in his, lovingly brushing your knuckles with his thumb.

You pulled your hand out of his grip, even though it physically hurt you to do so. You felt him flinch. "No, Luke, you do this every time! It's always the same with you!" You knew your voice was starting to rise but you couldn't help it. "You go out, won't tell me where you're going, won't let me come with you, come back hours later, looking like you've been holding up the sky for seventeen hours, still won't tell me where you've been, and ask me to-" "Baby, can you please drop it?" His voice was incredibly quiet in the dead of the night. You could see his brows furrow in the faint glow of the torch on the side of your cabin. "-drop it," you finish with a sigh, dropping your hands by your sides.

"Look, I'm sorry, alright?" He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "I just- I'm sorry." You could see his chest deflate like a balloon and felt tears well up in your eyes. You shook your head. You couldn't keep up with his lies. "No." His head snapped up and you felt his intense gaze on your face within seconds. "No, don't apologise for shit you're just going to keep doing. Apologise when you're actually going to change something, because I can't keep doing this." You willed your voice not to shake too much. You ran a hand over your face, sighing shakily.

"What do you mean you 'can't keep doing this'?" he asked softly, stepping closer to you and taking both your hands in his. You tucked your chin, not wanting him to see the tears slowly running down your cheeks. He lowered his head to look at you. "I mean I can't keep," your voice broke, "doing this. Us, Luke. It's not healthy." "No, no, no, what do you mean it's 'not healthy'? Baby, we're okay. You're okay, alright? Nothing has to change, we're good!" The urge in his voice broke your heart. He leaned down to look into your eyes as he cupped your face and wiped your tears away with his thumbs. "It's okay, baby, we're okay, I promise. I- I can change, we can work through this. Together."

You bit your lip to keep it from wobbling too much. You shook your head. "No, Luke. We- we can't. I can't keep doing this to myself, it hurts too much. And I can't change that I worry and get worked up, but you can't change whatever it is you won't tell me. So this needs to stop." Luke shook his head franticly and started pulling you towards his cabin by the hands. "No, baby, all you need is a good night's sleep, okay? In the morning, when you'll have a clear head, we'll talk about it again, okay? I promise we'll work it out, all-" "No, Luke!" You pulled your hands out of his, tightly crossing your arms over your chest. You didn't know when you'd started being cold, but you suddenly realised you were shivering violently. "I have a clear head right now! We don't need to talk about it in the morning! The situation will still be the same! And neither of us will have changed a thing! We're just pushing this back to later!" Your voice rang out into the night and it angered you even more to know that many campers were probably listening in on your exchange with Luke at the very moment.

"Wow. I can't believe this." Luke shook his head. You felt a few raindrops land on your face and arms before it started raining. "I can't believe you're willing to just give up on our relationship like this, Y/N." "I'm not giving up on anything! There just isn't anything left to-" "Maybe if you minded your own business more, and stopped worrying and fretting so much-" You scoffed loudly. "That's who I am, Luke! That's my personality! And I love you! So, excuse me for caring and worrying about you when you disappear for literal hours and won't tell me where you've been!" "Well maybe if you-" He cut himself off and raised a hand, shaking his head. Through the raindrops, you could see tears running down his cheeks. It shredded your heart to pieces knowing you were the cause of his pain. "Look, Y/N, I care about you, I admire you and I love you. So do this, go ahead, but remember that, and remember that it will have been your fault."

You had what was probably the worst night in the history of all worst nights. You hadn't slept a wink, had cried out all the water in your body and had second-doubted every choice you'd ever made in your entire life that had led you up to this moment. When you looked at yourself in the mirror the next morning at the crack of dawn, you grimaced. One good thing came out of having to meet so early, you wouldn't have to face the other campers who you knew were listening in on you and Luke last night. You would have to answer no questions and would have to ignore no strange looks.

Everything was still damp from the storm during the night. You hated the feeling of the cold humidity making its way through your clothes and sticking to your skin. You met with Chiron, Luke and the third member of your quest, a girl named Natasha, at sun rise near the border. You didn't meet Luke's eye as Chiron spoke before sending you off. You didn't even speak until Natasha brought up the tense silence.

"Look, I don't mean to pry," she spoke as she pushed her way through tall grass with you and Luke in tow, "but I'm not digging the vibe you both have going on right now." Luke inhaled before speaking, but he was interrupted by Natasha. "Just to be clear, I don't care what happened, just don't let it get in the way of the quest." "It won't." You answered without even glancing at Luke. You heard him exhale sharply. Natasha nodded curtly.

Even though the tension had been palpable since the start, within seven days you had managed to retrieve the artefact you had been sent to fetch and had started making your way home. Natasha most certainly had a concussion, but other than that, none of you bore any serious injuries. Still, you felt restless and anxious. The Oracle, though you could not remember her exact words, had mentioned deception. At first, you had thought it would be the monster from whom you had stolen the artefact who would be responsible of this deception, but that had not been the case. So you had been on edge for days. You'd barely slept, as Luke had pointed out many times.

"Do you not trust me anymore? Is that it? Is that why you won't sleep?" He'd asked you one night while he was on watch. You had tried to sleep, you really had, but thoughts of betrayal and deception clouded your mind and kept sleep far away. You shook your head. "That's not it." You couldn't bring yourself to tell the boy you loved that you feared he would turn on you. You leaned your head back against the humid trunk of the tree you were sitting against. A few raindrops landed on your face. You couldn't wait to be back at camp. You couldn't wait for all of this to be over.

"Then what is it? Why won't you sleep?" You shrugged. You wouldn't tell him about the nightmares you kept having. When you did manage to close your eyes for a few minutes, your mind was swarmed with dark sights and horrible fears. You would see Luke drowning, yourself burning, the artefact getting lost. "I guess I'm too nervous. We need to get it back to camp as soon as possible. I'll rest when we get there." "But-" "Please, Luke. Don't."

Despite your nerves, your fatigue finally got the better of you and you fell asleep. You awoke to strange, muffled sounds. Slowly opening your eyes, you squinted and tried to get used to the dim light of the flickering fire. After a second, you saw Natasha digging around in your bag a few meters away from you, one hand tangled in Luke's hair. You frowned. "Shut up," she snapped at Luke. You realised the muffled sounds must have been coming from him. You couldn't see much, as Natasha's body hid most of Luke and your bags. Quietly, you sat up and grabbed your bow and quiver. You slowly stood up, hiding your weapon behind your back.

"What are you doing?" you asked. Natasha whipped around, a scowl on her face. You'd never seen her look like that before. With her body more to the side, you were able to get a better look at Luke. What you saw made your skin crawl. He had a large black eye and a cut on his forehead. A dirty rag tied tightly around the bottom of his face kept him from making too much noise. You guessed from his position on the ground that both his hands and feet were tied up. And judging by the state of his shirt, which was torn and dirty, he'd put up quite the fight. Your blood ran cold but you couldn't help but feel relieved at the same time. Luke had not deceived you. Natasha had.

"Something I should have done a long time ago," she snarled, putting her boot against Luke's face and pushing it hard. He fell to the side with a muffled grunt. You felt your blood boil at the thought of her hurting him even more than she already had. You notched an arrow immediately and aimed it at Natasha's heart. "Natasha," you called icily, "I think you should think twice about this." "No need. I've got someone who will pay me a fortune for this," she held up the artefact in her hand, "and for the knowledge of two half-bloods roaming in the forest near a big town in New Jersey." "You wouldn't." Your blood ran cold. You knew you wouldn't let her get away without a fight, but judging by Luke's state, he had thought the same thing. You cursed yourself for choosing the strongest fighter in camp to accompany you on the quest. "You don't know me well enough, Y/N. I couldn't care less about that shit hole you want to go back to, there's nothing for me back there. So, if you're smart, you'll let me be on my way now."

You set your jaw. "I'm afraid I can't just let you go." She smirked. "I thought you might say that." She reached to the side and grabbed Luke by the hair, violently pulling him to his feet. He winced and you saw his jaw twitch. "Luckily, I have some leverage right here." Your stomach churned at the sight. Luke shook his head at you, but you ignored him. She may have beat him, but she wouldn't get through you. You'd die before you let anything happen to him or the artefact.

You raised your bow, aiming for her leg. You didn't want to kill her because she was a camper. That would be the equivalent of killing a cousin and you wouldn't be able to live with yourself if you did. Suddenly, you felt your bow get white hot beneath your hands. You shrieked and let go of it nanoseconds before it turned to flames. You heard Luke cry out your name and watched as Natasha kicked him to the ground. You grit your teeth, the fire in your stomach growing bigger by the second. "Mother taught me well." She twirled her fingers and flames danced between them. You cursed under your breath. You'd forgotten she was one of Hestia's children. Not giving yourself the time to mourn your bow, you darted forward, narrowly missing the flames of the fire which followed you closely.

Deciding to let go of dignity and humility, you tackled her to the ground. Surprised, she yelped and let the small turquoise artefact slip through her fingers. You both hit the floor with a thud. Frantically looking around for the artefact, you were relieved to find that Luke had managed to get ahold of it despite his bound hands. He locked eyes with you and started crawling away. Natasha grunted as she tried to push you off her. You resisted and managed to hit her in the face with your elbow. "Fuck you," she growled before punching you in the stomach. She harshly pushed you off her ribcage as you coughed, tears welling in your eyes at the pain.

You realised she was going after Luke when she pulled a knife out of her boot before running off. Terrified, you scrambled to your feet and took off after her. You tripped on vines and stones as you caught up with her. You had no idea how she could see so well in the near darkness of the forest. You abruptly spotted Luke near a tree, rubbing his bindings against the harsh bark. "Fuck, Natasha- Stop!" you yelled. She ignored you. Before she could get to Luke, you threw yourself forward, landing a hard kick to both her knees. She cried out in pain and collapsed in a head to the ground. You scrambled to get on top of her and pressed your knee against the side of her head. "Stop it!" you pleaded. "You don't want to do this! Money won't solve your problems!" "Yes, I do want to do this," she grunted as she struggled against you. She kicked out, knocking you off her. You got to your feet as quickly as you could, standing in between her and Luke. You spared Luke a glance before raising your fists in front of your face. He was frantically trying to get rid of his bindings, desperately tugging at them.

"Just get out of the way, Y/N!" she screamed angrily, spit flying out of her mouth. "Make this easier for all of us, will you?!" "You know I can't do that, Natasha." She let out a frustrated yell before charging at you with her knife. You ducked and hit her in the ribs before catching her by the hair. You pulled her away from Luke with a grunt. She cursed loudly and sliced at you with her knife. You hissed in pain as she nicked your side, letting go of her for a second. You stumbled backwards as you looked down at your right side, where blood was rapidly staining your shirt. Distantly, you heard Luke's muffled yell of your name and a string of curses. You looked back up just in time to see Natasha's face coming at your full speed. She hit you in the cheekbone and you collapsed to your knees, dull pain making your face uncomfortably hot. You were dazed for a second before you shakily got to your feet.

Natasha was trying to pry the artefact out of Luke's hands, her knife much too close to his skin for your liking. Growling, you bolted forward and wrapped your arm around her neck from behind. Choking her with your elbow, you pulled her off Luke with all the strength you could muster. She thrashed wildly against you before reaching back and grabbing on to your upped arm. Before you could comprehend what was happening, she had flung you over her shoulder. You landed on the ground with a thud and your breath knocked out of you. You coughed. Despite the haziness of your vision, you still registered the knife lying on the ground next to you. You reached for it but Natasha was quicker. She kneeled over you, the knife dangling from her fingers.

"I was really hoping I wouldn't have to kill you, you know?" She wiped from blood from her bottom lip. "But I have a feeling I'm not going to be able to get anything done with you in the way, so..." Slowly, she started bringing the blade of her knife down into your abdomen. You pushed at her forearms, trying to stop her, struggling and kicking but it was no use. She was too strong. With horror, you realised that you were going to die. You were going to die. In the middle of a forest, alone-

"Y/N!" Your head snapped to the side at Luke's voice. He was running towards you at full speed, having gotten rid of his bindings. He threw something at you, which you barely caught. A knife. His knife. Without thinking, you drove the knife deep into Natasha's stomach. She cried out in pain and her legs went out, her whole weight now resting on your ribcage. She looked shocked as she looked down at her wound, which was covering both your bodies in blood. You paled at the sight. She tried to speak, but only blood bubbled past her lips. She looked up at the sky before entirely collapsing on top of you.

"LUKE!" you shrieked and kicked her off you, scrambling to get as far away from her as possible. You'd just killed her. Natasha. Another camper. And you'd just killed her. What had you done? Luke threw himself down next to you, immediately gathering you in his arms. You sobbed loudly as you held on to him, surely leaving fingerprints. "I killed her! I killed her, Luke, and she's dead!" you screamed hysterically, your eyes stuck onto her lifeless form, lying just meters away from you. "Baby, are you hurt?" he asked, concerned, as he checked you over. He tilted your head to both sides, his heart breaking at the tears flowing down your face. He was horrified to see your side and immediately put pressure onto it. You hissed in pain. "It doesn't matter if I'm hurt! She's dead!" Your voice broke as you hit Luke's shoulder, sobbing.

"It was you or her, baby. You or her. You did what you had to do," he spoke softly into your ear. He held you closer to him, as if he wanted to squeeze the traumatic event out of you. "She's dead," you sobbed loudly, turning around to bury your face in his chest. "I know, baby. It's okay. You did what you had to do, you had no choice. She turned on us." He soothingly rubbed your back as he spoke. "But- but-" "You saved the quest, darling. You saved your life. And mine." He stroked your hair, trying to calm you down. "There was nothing else you could do." You cried for what felt like hours. He held you the whole time, whispering words of assurance and comfort. By the time you felt ready to go, the sun was almost up.

The trip back to camp was mostly a blur. Luke took care of everything while you followed him around like a phantom. He stitched you up and disinfected your wounds before you got to camp. When you finally reached the border, you were greeted by Chiron, who was chocked to see only two of you come back. He was even more chocked by what had happened when Luke explained everything to him once you'd been taken in by the infirmary.

When you awoke a day later, you had a long talk with Chiron, who reassured you on just about everything that had happened. You would be granted a recovery of undetermined time. You could taker as long as you needed to get over the quest. Feeling a lot better, you'd thanked him and immediately went to find Luke.

You found him near the lake, staring thoughtfully out onto the water. "Hey." He turned around as soon as he heard your voice. "Hey," he spoke softly. He opened his arms once you were closer to him and you didn't think twice before engulfing him in a tight hug. He buried his face in your hair and inhaled deeply. It felt good to feel the familiar weight of his arms around your shoulders again. "I'm so sorry." He sighed into your hair. "For everything." "I know. Me too." "I love you, baby." "I love you too."

[faeiseavv]

what's it like going shopping with deskmate!Satoru after getting paired up for a class project ?

a/n : seal plush reference photo, here! 〔 prev ! 〕

“Hey, this looks like you.”

“Are you saying that because of my hair?”

This wasn't part of the plan. Who would have thought that you'd end up in a situation like this?

All you wanted was to go to the department store, buy the necessary materials needed to make your project, and then go home. But that wasn't happening at all. Not when Gojo Satoru was assigned to be your project partner —unfortunately.

The fluorescent lights at the toy section gleamed in a blinding haze, just as Gojo was waving a small plastic doll to your face. His rounded black glasses sat perfectly on the bridge of his nose, obscuring the warm glint in his eyes.

“Gojo, we really need to get going-”

“Satoru.” he corrected you, again, for the fifth time this day.

You sighed, glancing at the crumpled paper in your hands.

“Okay Satoru, sorry.” you apologized, earning a satisfied nod from him, his head held high with pride. Guess he still gave you another chance to address him properly as he preferred.

“As I was saying, we need to complete all of the materials here on the list if we want to pass this class.” you paused, giving Gojo a disapproving look as he reached for another toy. “So no more side quests and playing around with silly stuff Satoru, or else I'll have to kick you out and do it all by myself.”

He huffed, his shoulders drooping down like a child being told off by his mother. Was he actually sulking? Definitely was.

You fought back a laugh, attempting to hide it with a smile.

“Come on Satoru, let's go.”

You walked through the aisle with Gojo trailing a few steps behind. Clearly he wasn't that pleased into getting down to business with that obvious pout on his face. He was just wasting time anyway, you thought. Then, you see it, the epitome of cuteness, nestled on top of the shelf.

Gojo notices too, the way you're staring at a plushie of a chubby white seal covered in tiny fluffy fur. By now, his suddenly non-existent pout was replaced with a smug smirk.

“Why'd you stop? I thought we shouldn't be dilly dallying partner.”

You turned to him, then back at the plush, as if comparing them both. Your index pointing back-and-forth, perpetually amused  “That seal looks just like you, he's got the eyes too.”

“Huh. What?” He's a little bit confused but he's got the spirit.

One step closer. And another one. His hand reached out to inspect the cuddly creature—a set of blue beady eyes staring back at his. His long lost twin in a different form. Him in another universe.

“Oh yeah. Damn...” was all Gojo could muster. His hand swifly stuffing the animal into the basket, ignoring the way your giggles had him smiling from ear to ear.

Safe to say that you went home feeling a little bit too happy for your own good. The materials? Bought them with a few extras just to bag that good grade for sure. Your wallet? Still full after Gojo insisted to pay for everything including the food you ate on your way home.

And the very-gojo-looking-seal? The man proudly took it home like it was his flesh and blood. He even bought you another one with a glittery pink bow so both of you could match (and the seals would be husband and wife).

[ann-whispers]

I will say, while I do enjoy enough of Percy Jackson books… I think I prefer the fanfictions that take that world and lean into the darker parts of it.

I really enjoy fanfics I find that have the gods be more… godly I guess. The gods in PJO just feel too much like regular people. Like just annoying people. Also they just suck in general… Luke was an asshole but I kinda get why he was doing it you know? They are fucking gods. They can’t like make sure they’re kids don’t have to struggle and fight just to fucking exist??

I will say, I live for fanfiction where Percy ascends even if he didn’t choose to. Beautiful and tragic and honestly with the shit Percy does thats all I can see happening.

Another thing i enjoy in PJO fanfiction is when it becomes critical of certain characters (if you like Annabeth Chase and Percabeth please leave) and of camp half-blood and camp Jupiter. I cannot stress this enough, those camps are cults making child soldiers. They are not a safe space. They are cults training children to willingly sacrifice themselves for their parents who don’t give a flying shit about them. Chiron literally looked over the fact Percy could have died in that capture the flag game. Camp Halfblood sent out a kid with the like 0 training to go on a death quest just because his father got accused of a damn crime, and they sent him with the girl who nearly gor him fucking killed (Im so sorry I don’t like Annabeth). Camp Jupiter is so much worse because Im sorry??? There are adults??? Why are the children the military??? Thats not even mentioning the fact that so many of these kids are year rounders. They don’t have an actual home to go back to. Thats terrifying, they are stuck in these fucking death camps. Once again, no wonder there are kids who joined Kronos’ army. Not a good thing but I kinda fucking get it.

Also oh my god Percabeth. I love Annabeth bashing fics. Those feed my soul. I don’t care much for Annabeth Chase. She’s interesting but she’s also fucking shit. She beats Percy everytime she gets and is praised for every shitty thing she does and I hate that so fucking much. Im actually so scared for Leah because when people start putting together how shit Annabeth is as PJO get adapted into shows Im so scared she’ll get the brunt of all the problems when it was just how her character was horribly written. Fandom made Percabeth cuter and healthier then they actually are in canon (she didn’t know his Achilles curse was gone yet judo flipped him. Percy. Could. Have. Died.)

Anyway… anyone have recommendations for any fics that lean into the more fucked up side of these books? I’d love to hear it

[doodles-bi-tea]

radio ga ga

Mickey’s a bit of a fanboy. Paparazzi is too.

pairing: lt. mickey “fanboy” garcia x fellow wso reader [second person, no y/n – callsign: paparazzi]

warnings: probably inaccurate pilot/in-sky jargon, profanity, alcohol consumption, no beta / real editing, ambiguous ending…

word count: 1,974

a/n: I thought my overly-top-gun-obsessed days were long behind me (in the days of 2022/2023) but one of my two film classes said “NO! go back to hyperfixating on lewis pullman and danny ramirez in the midst of your james mcavoy obsession.” and here we are, folks.

[good god I went through a whole tizzy trying to figure out what exactly I wanted the reader’s callsign to be. “paparazzi?” no, that’s plural! “paparazzo?” grammatically correct, but solely masculine. “paparazza?” feminine-aligning in the native language but not everyone is solely feminine (myself included). I gave up and just went with the grammatically incorrect “paparazzi” because then it doesn’t have to be a gender thing – I already have enough trouble figuring out what gender I am, I don’t need this to send me down another rabbit hole. ... ANYWAY that was my little rant about the callsign. I have a whole list, because, let’s face it: are you really a top gun fan if you’ve never thought about what your own callsign might be?]

4/14/25 update: UM as of posting this, this was actually started a really long time ago and I kinda gave up on the ending so either it’s bittersweet and ends here or I can write a part two if anyone really wants it lmao… but i’m back to obsessing over romance games and mythic quest again so that’s a thing! I literally just finished my s1-s3 rewatch and started s4 right before I saw jessie ennis' story about how it got cancelled bro 💔💔

˚⋆࿔༄ᯓ ✈︎

ᯓ ✈︎｡༘⭒

“Comms check. This is Paparazzi, filling in for Harvard, behind Yale. Yale, Fanboy, Payback, do you copy? Over.”

“Payback here, I can hear you loud and clear. Over.”

“Yale reporting for duty. Over.”

There’s a pause.

[paparazzi] “Fanboy, do you copy?”

[fanboy] “No, Paparazzi, I do not copy.”

[paparazzi] “Payback, tell Fanboy to check his comms.”

[fanboy] “Checking ‘em right now.”

[payback] “Fanboy, you can’t hear us?”

[fanboy] “Nope.”

Another pause.

[paparazzi] “He’s fucking with us, isn’t he?”

[payback] “...Yeah.”

You turn your head to the left to look at Payback and Fanboy’s F/A-18, flying parallel to your and Yale’s own aircraft. He’s already looking back at you.

“Sorry, Paparazzi. The opportunity was too good to pass up.” Fanboy’s laugh crackles over the radio as you flip him the bird.

˚⋆࿔༄ᯓ ✈︎

ᯓ ✈︎｡༘⭒

“What a gentleman.” You scoff, knocking your knuckles on the back of Mickey’s blue-streaked helmet.

He clearly wasn’t expecting it from the way his neck gives way at the contact. You two walk side by side on the tarmac after the exercise with Reuben [Payback] and Logan [Yale].

“I hadn’t realized this conversation was suddenly about Bob.” He chuckles, before trying to knock your own helmet out of your hands by smacking it.

Your grip falters slightly but instead moves the helmet to rest against the side of your stomach furthest from Mickey.

“My tone would be different if it were actually about Bob. Not that I expect you to know the difference between jokes and seriousness.”

“I do, too! You play too much.” He says dismissively, as if actually offended at your comment.

˚⋆࿔༄ᯓ ✈︎

ᯓ ✈︎｡༘⭒

“I play too much? Are you hearing yourself right now?” You laugh incredulously into your mask.

Fanboy’s F-35 flies somewhere slightly behind yours. You, Bob, Halo, and he are engaged in a pretty routine individual speed drill. Being WSO’s, you don’t get as much flying time as your respective partners, but still need the practice just as much.

“No, actually, I can’t. It’s pretty hard, since, we’re, you know, in planes right now?”

You roll your eyes behind your tinted visor – not like he can see it anyway.

“Break right!” Bob’s voice rings clear over the radio.

You see him, at the front of the line, start to turn, soon followed by Halo, who flies directly in front of you. Your gloved hands move along the plane’s controls to follow the two of them.

“Leaving me on heard? Real cool of you, Pap.”

Beneath your mask, your lips press themselves into a thin line. You bite your tongue for the time being, knowing you all need to finish the drill on time or Mav (and Hangman) would be on your asses about it. Fanboy’s taunts can wait.

“Break left!” Bob instructs. “We need to speed up a little, guys. Increase after the turn.”

All four of you follow suit. Turning left, then pushing the thrusters. Pulling G’s makes your body ache a little, your head feel like it’s under a weighted blanket (not in a good way!), and your stomach turn ever-so-slightly. Your mind goes blank, thoughts drowned out by the engines’ rumbling.

“Mark!” Halo calls, breaking you out of your trance. “We got two minutes, forty-seven seconds. Better than last time.”

The four of you slow and align into a horizontal line rather than a vertical one, now flying side by side.

“Good run, guys.” Bob says into the radio.

You can’t see his face, but you can tell he’s smiling when he says it.

˚⋆࿔༄ᯓ ✈︎

ᯓ ✈︎｡༘⭒

You’re packing up your duffel bag in the common room, waving goodbye to Cassie [Halo] as she leaves, when Mickey exits the mens’ lockers and enters the room. You try ignoring him at first, but he initiates conversation regardless.

“What happened up there, Pap? Did pulling G’s fog your brain up so much you couldn’t come up with a decent response?” He sets his own bag down on the pool table as he folds one of his shirts.

“Stop saying ‘Pap’ like it’s a good nickname.”

“Doesn’t mean anything bad.”

“It sounds like a… fuckin’ pap smear or something.”

“That…” He tucks the shirt into his bag. “Oh.”

You roll your eyes for the “who-knows-how-many”-th time of the day and harshly zip your bag closed. The heels of your shoes resounded muffled clicks on the carpet as you went to leave.

“Hey, wait, I, uh, I know I’ve been particularly annoying today,” Mickey stutters over his words as he throws his bag over his shoulder and runs to catch up. “But do you wanna go to The Hard Deck?”

“So you’re aware of it?” You scoff, continuing to walk towards the door – click clack, click clack.

He chuckles sheepishly, now walking at your side. “Maybe a little. But really, you wanna come with me?”

“And why should I?”

“Because… Uh…”

You hum hesitantly. He hums eagerly back. There’s a moment of silence before he breaks.

“I’ll pay?”

The footfalls finally stop as you both reach the door.

˚⋆࿔༄ᯓ ✈︎

ᯓ ✈︎｡༘⭒

And that’s how you end up four beers deep at The Hard Deck, sitting across from Mickey at a small table on the outside patio overlooking the beach. The sun’s gone down a long time ago, the brisk, salty air is chilling the tips of your nose and fingertips, and your beer bottles are empty. You and Mickey sit in a quiet, slightly-drunk stupor together. Looking at the ocean together only furthers the warm feeling that pools in your stomach from all the alcohol.

“I’m gonna go pay now, be right back,” Mickey’s words slur together slightly as he stands up and takes his wallet out of his pocket.

You hum in acknowledgement and slump down, arms folded over the table and head resting on top. The door opens, then shuts, as you hear Mickey go inside. The cold air prompts you to close your eyes – for just a second. Or, at least, what feels like a second.

When you open them, you’re met with Mickey’s curious and playful gaze. His face is still relatively far away from yours but you make eye contact because he’s leaned down to look at you. It’s almost as if you’ve grazed hands or held onto an embrace for too long. He smiles, in a surprisingly meek fashion, before gently nudging your arm.

“Wake up, soñolienta.” [“Wake up, sleepy.”]

You hum, before sitting up. The beer bottles are all cleared from the table and the bar is mostly empty, like the patio had always been. Penny stands behind the bar, wiping the counter. Jimmy sits across from a young man at a table on the side, talking while drying now-clean glasses. A few random customers are dispersed around the edges of the room but whatever party had been in the room earlier was clearly over.

“Thanks, Mick.”

“No problem,” he responds softly before going back to sit down in his chair on the opposite side of the table.

There’s a comfortable pause.

You rest your chin on your hands. “You’re actually kinda nice when you choose to stop being so damn annoying.”

“You too.”

You both laugh, another bout of warm silence – contrasting the chill of the sea air – following soon after. Your eyes lazily trace the surroundings. Where the sky meets the sea; Where the sea meets the sand; Where the sand meets the patio. The sand bleeds onto the sun-bleached wood. The patio meets the rest of the building, its sliding-glass doors, and the warm-toned LED globe lights that are suspended on the overhang (you and Bob had gotten into a pretty interesting conversation about lights with Penny, the two of you eventually convincing her to buy LEDs instead of using the old incandescent bulbs she previously used). The few speakers that are attached to the underside of the roof’s overhang play some random radio station. The tune doesn’t sound familiar, until the first song ends and a new one starts.

“Hey, I like this song,” You mumble absentmindedly.

Mickey perks up upon your mention of the music – he pauses to listen with you.

“Is this Djo?”

A surprised smile sneaks its way onto your lips.

“You know Djo?”

“Duh,” He teases. “Who doesn’t?”

“I’m just surprised. I don’t know what kind of music you listen to, besides the stuff you post on your Instagram stories,” You chuckle. “Which is mostly rap or really random hype music.” [shoutout to the danny ramirez instagram follower gang, his stories make me giggle bc he’s just such a boy and always posting about the miami canes and random selfies and stuff – I feel like a lot of danny’s personality bleeds into his characters (joaquin torres especially) so I tied this in with mickey…]

“I gotta keep up appearances, you know? Can’t be posting random pop and alt when people want the manly…” He motions around aimlessly with his hands while he looks for the words. “Hype stuff. I don’t know.”

“Sounds to me like you just don’t want to admit you have any semblance of decent music taste.”

“That is not true.”

“You’re a dork.”

“Says you, dork.”

“I can tell a lot of thought went into that. Great comeback.”

“Too bad you couldn’t come up with one when we were in the air.” He raises his eyebrows and cocks his head slightly in your direction with a toothy grin.

“Whatever. Just let me enjoy the radio in peace.”

Another eye roll added to the count. And yet, you can’t help the slight upturn of your lips as you look away in an attempt to seem aloof – key word being ‘attempt;’ it doesn’t work.

“I actually really like ‘Go for It,’” Mickey suddenly says.

His admission is another pleasant surprise.

“Damn, maybe you are a real fan.”

“It’s all in the name, sweetheart.”

You try to ignore the way your heart leaps into your throat at the nickname, a slightly flustered scoff working its way past your lips. The beer still sits in your stomach, but instead of providing warmth, it now feels stagnant. You glance over at Mickey as he checks his phone for a moment.

Was he always this cute? Or is it just the way he stands out against the night sky under the yellowing light? The way the outer edges of his eyes are threatening to press together as a content smile sits on his closed lips? It could just be the fact that his mouth is closed, for all you know. You don’t know, but it’s making you rethink everything. It’s… not a great feeling.

He must notice your smile drop as you space out, staring blankly in his direction, because he turns his phone off and looks back at you.

“You okay, Pap?”

Shaken from your daze, your jaw goes slack for a moment before you press your lips together and turn away. Your ears barely register the nickname.

“Oh, yeah, sorry, just… thinking.”

Mickey quirks an eyebrow. “About what?”

“You.” Is what you want to say.

The name of the song he mentioned seems to mock you. ‘Go for It?’ Yeah, right. You’d settle for biting your tongue instead of dying of embarrassment right here on the beach.

“Just work stuff,” You shrug it off – it’s technically not a lie if you’re thinking about your co-worker.

Mickey hums in understanding. “I get that. I feel like work follows me off-base, home, more often than I’d like.”

You glance back at him now. His face is to the ocean, so you only see his side profile, similar to when he was on his phone. Any semblance of the smile he usually wears is completely gone. His sobriety is… sobering, to say the least. It’s not often he drops the jokester persona. It almost tugs at your heartstrings a little bit.

“You wanna talk about it?” You tread lightly.

Mickey pauses. “Nah, it’s okay. Just tired right now, I think. Just… ‘work stuff.’”

You both chuckle halfheartedly at that. The sea air grows stale as the silence grows.

“I should, uh, get home,” He suddenly clears his throat and throws his hoodie on.

A sense of panic arises in you as he finishes tugging the grey material down his torso. Say something or let him leave.

Say something? Or let him leave?

[kamaluhkhan]

I BET ON LOSING DOGS

ENVY — part ii of we'll write sins not tragedies

pairing: luke castellan x nemesis!reader (she/her pronouns) word count: 1.6k summary: luke is getting tired of keeping your relationship a secret, you get a new sparring partner, and silena beauregard wins a bet. warnings/disclaimers: jealous!luke, suggestive but no smut, biting + some blood bc of course author's note: i had to include some friend group shenanigans and silena x clarisse moments ♡ i'm imagining that this takes place during tlt/season 1 of pjo when the kids are on their quest, and the characters are slightly aged up to 20/21 years old....anyways, enjoy and feel free to reblog + comment :)

♪ "i bet on losing dogs" by mitski

"rumor has it that lee wants to ask her out." 

silena tilts her head towards the other end of the ping pong table, where you sit next to lee fletcher, a pair of wired earbuds and an mp3 player shared between you as everyone waits for the senior counselor meeting to start. 

luke clears his throat. “why would he want to do that?”

in theory, it shouldn’t bother luke: how you and lee nod along to music only the two of you can hear, how your shoulder presses against his ever so slightly, how he seems to lean into you even further. 

you and lee had always been friendly, but since when did you become such close friends?

“hm. let’s see. she’s strong, gorgeous, the right amount of dangerous, and perfectly single.” 

again, luke pretends that he doesn’t feel something ignite in the pit of his stomach. 

as far as everyone is concerned, you and luke are friends, too. 

the rush you both got from the whole secret relationship thing was fun, but, gods, sometimes luke wanted nothing more than to show everyone you were his and he was yours. 

“sounds like you’re the one who wants to ask her out.”

silena rolls her eyes. “please. i’m a happily taken woman.” clarisse turns to them as if she knew she’s been referenced. silena blows her a kiss before adding: “can’t really say the same for y/n, can we? i think her and lee would make a cute couple.”

chiron finally enters the room before luke has a chance to respond. he sits through the whole meeting, jaw clenched, hands curled into fists. 

throughout the day, luke reminds himself that he’s the one you’re with. and silena’s theory that you and lee would make a good couple?

ridiculous. laughable. unimaginable. 

later, during swordfighting, you and lee practice together. any time luke is leading a session, you usually pair up with silena, but she seems to have twisted her ankle. not enough to warrant a trip to the infirmary, just a seat on the sidelines. 

luke has no doubt that she’s trying to work her daughter of aphrodite, matchmaker magic. 

between teaching the younger campers, luke glances at the two of you, yours swords colliding and limbs occasionally intersecting. luke demonstrates a new technique, eyes sliding over to you, positioning yourself behind lee and correcting his form by gently adjusting his hips. something bubbles in the pit of his stomach.

gods, if he could switch places with lee fletcher.

you square up for another round, but the fight is over relatively quickly. even with the advice you seemed to have given lee, you manage to get him on the ground, straddling his waist while you point your sword at his chin. you smile down at lee, canines sparkling in the afternoon sun. 

luke remembers what silena had said earlier, about you — the right amount of dangerous.

out the corner of his eye, luke can see silena gazing dreamily at the pair of you, no doubt overjoyed that a new romance seems to be blossoming. 

overjoyed is certainly not a word luke would use for himself now, as you lift your shirt to wipe the sweat from your brow. for a split second, your entire torso is visible to everyone. including lee, whose eyes seem to linger on the tattoo on your ribs for a little too long.  

luke tells the kids to pair up and practice before walking over to your side of the arena. 

“hey,” you exhale, dropping your shirt and smiling at him.

luke doesn’t waste any more time, though, and crashes his lips onto yours. 

he thinks you start to melt into the kiss, but then you bite down on his bottom lip — hard. 

“ow!” he turns away to spit out some blood. “why did you —”

“you just landed me two weeks of extra laundry!” 

“i…what?”

 if silena looked overjoyed before, she’s ecstatic now, practically skipping over to where you stood, her ankle miraculously healed. 

“aha! i win — again! that’ll teach you to question a daughter of aphrodite, especially when it comes to matters of the heart.”

luke, slightly lightheaded, has no clue what is happening. things don’t get any clearer as chris, clarisse, and beckdorf join you. 

chris shoves luke’s shoulder. “bro, you just cost me 30 drachmas!”

“seriously, dude,” beckendorf shakes his head. “you couldn’t have kept it in your pants for, like, a few more days?” 

“okay, but lena totally cheated,” clarisse huffs, stabbing her spear into the ground. 

“what! how?”

“you used lee to make him jealous!” the boy in question waves at you awkwardly before walking off to the archery range. 

“i did not cheat. i had a strategy, and just needed to add some drama to move things in my favor,” silena reasons. “besides, all’s fair in love and war. i’m sorry you had to find out this way, baby. ” 

she plants a kiss on clarisse’s cheek, which does make clarisse’s lips turn up ever so slightly, despite the accompanying eye roll.  

“okay, is someone going to tell me what’s going?”

you sigh and swipe your thumb over luke’s bottom lip, wiping away more crimson liquid that had emerged thanks to your bite. 

“i found out a few days ago that our lovely friends placed bets on when we were going to tell them about our relationship.”

“wait….” luke looks around at everyone. “you all knew? since when?”

“the whole time.” you grin sheepishly. “apparently, we weren’t as subtle as we thought we were.”

“you weren’t subtle at all,” beckendorf corrects, hands fiddling with some spare bolts he kept in his pocket. 

“love is difficult to hide,” silena defends, like you’re her favorite couple on a reality dating show. “the amount of times you’d both show up late to the dining pavilion together, with your clothes and hair messed up was enough to give you away. not to mention, the way you look at each other.” 

“yeah, like two idiots in love,” clarisse mockingly agrees with silena, who jabs her in the ribs playfully. clarisse gestures to her orange camp shirt. “by the way, these aren’t designed to hide hickeys. there are children here to think of.”

“be thankful you don’t have to hear them on the roof of the hermes cabin every night. it’s a wonder any of us get to sleep.”

"oh, and then there’s the showering at weird times and then smelling like the same body wash —” 

“moving on,” you interrupt, much to luke’s appreciation. “when i figured out what they had going on, i wanted a piece of the action.”

luke looks at you, teetering the line between frustration and awe. “so, instead of telling me about this bet and finally having everything out in the open, you got in on it and kept me in the dark, just to get someone else to do your laundry?”

“you know how much i hate laundry,” you shrug. “besides, like you wouldn’t do the same if you had been in my position.”

“well….” you raise an eyebrow. “yeah. i would,” luke admits. 

despite everything, luke is a son of hermes. he’s pretty sure that’s part of why you love him: for his mischievous grins and vices that were woven into his dna, imposed by the fates themselves. the urge to gamble, steal, sneak around, all the lying — everything you couldn’t help but indulge in, as well. clearly. 

you smile, and pull the front of his shirt towards you, kissing him like you’re proving a point. if luke wasn’t so preoccupied, he could have heard silena squealing in delight. 

“ow!” you groan as luke bites your lip.

luke smirks. “karma,” he teases, relishing in how you pout for him.

“get a room,” clarisse grumbles. 

“preferably not in the hermes cabin, please,” chris cringes, and this time luke is the one to shove his shoulder. 

it’s a little too silent in the arena, and luke realizes it’s because you’d all just given them quite a show. a few campers were watching eagerly, while others didn’t seem to be phased in the slightest, only taking advantage of the lack of supervision to goof off. luke tells the campers to keep practicing; you tell your friends to give you and luke some privacy. 

“40 drachmas that they’ll break up at the end of summer,” chris offers, and luke really wishes that he’d shut up. 

“nah, i think it’ll be sooner,” clarisse adds. “maybe right after the solstice.”

“i don’t know, guys. i have a good feeling about this one,” beckendorf says. “i think they’re gonna last.”

“thank you, charlie. i think they’re soulmates,” silena muses.

luke watches as the corners of your mouth turn up slightly, listening to your friends as they walk away. 

“so.” he hooks a finger through one of your belt loops to get your attention again. “everyone knows.”

“everyone knows.” you smile at him. “so, what do you think, tiger? are beck and lena right — that we’re gonna last?”

he can sense that there’s something more behind your teasing inflection. you’re gnawing on the inside of your lip, discreetly picking at your nail polish. 

even with the front you put up, sarcastic and cutthroat and sharp as your celestial bronze knife, you still had a heart. and here you were, looking at luke like he had already stolen it, and you didn’t care. 

you were just waiting to know if he would break it. 

but, luke doesn’t have the heart to tell you how this is going to end. 

how could he? he’d given up his to you, years ago.

he can keep pretending, for now, so he will. 

“i’d bet my life on it.”

[angelwishess]

Please Notice Me Prince!!♡

AU by @alli-ily!! I thought it seemed pretty fun and decided it would be good for warm up sketches teehee

Princess Kyra ████

Sir Dudeman Guy (Manly-Male Lad III)

An eccentric knight who appeared out of thin air. As strange as he is, he is undeniably an oustanding knight of great skill and talent. Though, he could stand to have more respect.

His disregard for differing social standings and blatant disrespect for the nobles and other such persons of high status has made him a controversial figure in high society— but because of his outstanding skills and competancy as a knight, he faces little reprocussions for his offensive behavior. Well, other than getting plenty of dirty looks and constant gossip behind his back.

Yeah no this is just Kyra pretending to be male knight just because I thought it’d be really really funny

Lore / Backstory !!

Once upon a time, Kyra lived in a kingdom far, far away as the youngest princess and crown jewel of said kingdom. While she was sought after by many for her status and beauty, she was eventually promised to a duke.

On the day of her wedding, she ran away, leaving the duke at the altar. (Lmfaoo L😂)

During her travels (or her “grand adventures”, as she likes to call it), she took up a lot of odd jobs. Assisting travelling merchants, fishing, carpentry— she was even a bard at some point! (Well, thats only because she started a fight at a tavern and had no money to compensate the damages done that was totally her fault)

And that isn’t all of them. Honestly, she just keeps trying her hand at every job there is whether its on purpose or not 💔

(Side-quest master final boss)

So, it was kind of no surprise that she’d turn to taking on knighthood at some point. Though, when she did try to sign up she did get turned away at first. (Assuming women weren’t allowed to be knights in this AU … sobs …)

She did sneak in anyways, she never did have a good reason why she wanted to be a knight so badly other than “it looked cool”, but luckily for her she was really good at it and got away with sneaking in some how💔

Present Time !

Now that she— or shall I say, Sir Dudeman, officially became a knight, he was pretty happy with himself!! Part of her didn’t expect to get away with it.

Buut, she didn’t expect knighthood to be so… Boring. Atleast, boring most of the time. Dont get her wrong she ADORES her new job!! Its super fun, but lately all they do is patrol around, stuff like that. So, she got bored, naturally.

When she overheard a certain noble being accused of embezzlement, and a knight being dispatched to keep an eye on said noble— she decided she wanted in on it too. And kind of just. Dispatched herself and came along.

Welcoming herself into House Ashengrotto under the guise that she was sent there under official orders, Sir Dudeman has found amusement in hanging around Azul, the head butler Jade, head chef Floyd, and Sir Siyun.

Shes well aware that Azul does NOT like her. She frankly does not care, and while she is there for her own amusement she does still keep an eye on him regardless. After all, she is still a knight!

She kind of treated it as another new adventure, thinking she could investigate and all that !! (And she totally does behind their backs, just when shes bored with babysitting Azul)

—

I like to think that no one can tell shes a woman. She forces her voice and her helmet muffles it enough to sound somewhat believable, plus she never takes off her helmet or armor no matter what time of day it is— so, theres a lot of curiosity surrounding Sir Dudeman being so mysterious despite being so weird HAHA

Yeah her name is really really obvious but at the same time its so absolutely ridiculous that it could never be an actual cover name… Except it is. And it works only because of how absurd it is.

She has had to deal with Jade and Floyd specifically since they’re both menaces and want to cause her problems 💗 but so far, they have yet to succeed in stealing her helmet or catching a peek of her underneath it. She kinda thinks its funny, but she isn’t risking her new job as a knight to be taken from her.

(Notable) Relationships !

Lady Ariya

Kyra knows very well how harsh and selfish the world of nobility can be. And it is because of that, that she can feel a great amount of sympathy towards Lady Ariya and her predicament. Though she does believe with her drive she can clear her family’s name and it is an incredibly noble cause— she also knows that it takes a lot of courage, patience and tact when it comes to traversing politics such as this.

She does wish she can be more open with her and lend a word of advice from her own experiences, but she knows that would mean risking her own job as a knight.

From time to time she does sometimes lend her advice, though its pretty subtle and sudden. And she never gets into full detail on what she means. So it all sounds pretty nonsensical a lot of the time 😭

Prince Shin (@liyuviq)

Honestly? She pities them...

While she cannot relate to this sudden change they must have experienced - she does know how brutal royal life is. From the long, tedious lectures and learnings one must partake to even begin to be a "decent royal figure", to the searing gazes of the nobility, Kyra knows very well how tiring it all is. And so, she pities Prince Shin a great amount.

Though she does not know for sure if Shin truly feels that way... She does know the pressures that come with being royalty.

She has considered suggesting to them to run away like she did, but that feels like overstepping and while she does mean well— she’ll leave it all up to their highness. She only hopes that they’ll handle it all well, and she’ll be silently rooting them on from the sidelines.

After all, perhaps they are stronger than she ever was. And for that, they have her utmost respect.

Sir (Dame?) Siyun (@lumdays)

Co-workers!! And now partners apparently, with their … “shared” job to watch over Azul. She trusts Siyun a great amount, and has let her guard around them more times than she realizes 😭 which is also why …

…Siyun is the only one (currently) to have seen her without her helmet. LMFAOO 😭😭😭 (she literally got on her knees and BEGGED for them to not say anything bcs she rlly likes her new job 💔 bro does not want to go back to fishing save her)

Azul’s biggest headache in every universe. Someone FREE HIM 💔 he will never be rid of Siyun and Kyra like ever they haunt him in every timeline

Floyd Leech (💗)

The head chef of the Ashengrotto House has found an interest in the knight. Though at first, he didnt really care much and only thought it was funny Azul was getting monitored and basically babysat— then he heard his name.

Sir Dudeman Guy Manly-Male III???

Theres no way. Thats actually hilarious. Floyd does NOT stop making fun of Sir Dudeman’s name💔 and continues to always bother him after slowly realizing he never takes off his helmet.

Both curious and incredibly amused with him. A weirdo knight with an even weirder name??? Oh this is hilarious and hes having the time of his LIFE messing w him …

Slowly they do become more of a pair, Sir Dudeman finding herself becoming more and more fond of him because she thinks Floyd is rlly silly and unlike anyone shes ever met before. Lowkey begins to forget her (self assigned) mission with Azul but oh well!

Floyra in every universe NOTHING CAN STOP ME!!1!!!💥💥💥💥

This was honestly so fun to do, my favorite AU of Kyra now solely because of her stupid name HAHAHAHA

THIS WAS SOO FUN TO DOODLE WITH THO!! Even funnier thinking abt it😭

[asumi2020202]

Things I never felt before

Pairing: Legolas Thranduilion x reader

Summary: You are Legolas' lover, he courted you before you both left to destroy the one ring. You are a healer who is needed almost all the times and a motherly figure to the hobbits.

A/n: My Lotr/Hobbit obsession has again started after I saw my husband, Legolas, in a youtube video. Anyways, Thank you for reading!

______________ฅ⁠^⁠•⁠ﻌ⁠•⁠^⁠ฅ___________________

The Fellowship had been assembled. Tens companions in total. Aragorn, the son of Arathorn. Legolas, son of Thranduil. Gimli, son of Gloin. The four hobbits- Frodo, the ring bearer, Sam, Merry and Pippin. Gandalf the Grey. Boromir, son of the Steward of Gondor.

And..Y/n, daughter of Lord Elrond. The only female.. Lover of Legolas Thranduilion....

Her father didn't want her to join, thinking she would get hurt. But her abilities, knowledge and skill is something that the Fellowship required.

The elves of Rivendell were sailing off to the Undying lands. Yet she told her father she would not. She would stay with Legolas.

The Fellowship left Rivendell after bidding goodbye. Arwen almost did cry to see her little sister go on a dangerous quest, she felt a bit of peace as she knew her sister had someone to protect her.

And so...their journey began....

_________________________________________

The fellowship were aiming for the gap of Rohan. After a while of walking the mountains they had stopped near a pile of giant rocks, some of which even looked as if they are stacked.

You handed a plate of food to Sam to give to Frodo. The others had already eaten. After doing so you blew out the fire and sat next to Frodo and watched Merry and Pippin train while Legolas was looking out for any enemies.

"One. Two. Good!" Boromir said, sword clanging against another.

"You got good Pippin" Merry said to Pippin.

"Thanks"

"Move your feet" Aragorn said.

Frodo looked at you and smiled.

"Ah!" Pippin squealed

"Sorry!" Boromir said. The two young hobbits tackled him on the ground as the three of you watched.

"hold him!" "For the shire!"

You gently laughed as you saw the two hobbits tackle Aragorn who tried to help Boromir. Aragorn groaned as fell on the ground as well.

Pippin got up and ran to you.

"Y/n I've got a cut on my finger. It hurts." He looked at you with his adorable little Hobbit eyes which melted your heart.

"Ah.. come with me, I will put some medicine." You led the little Hobbit to where the fire once was.

You were putting a healing balm on his hand. You turned your head and saw Legolas jump from one rock to another and stand on a giant boulder.

You finished applying the medicine and smile at Pippin as he runs to Merry. You got up from the ground and stand near Legolas.

Him standing on a boulder gave him better view whilst you stood on the ground, adjusting you satchel. You were shorter than Legolas too which gives him the tall height advantage.

"What's that?" One of the members asked.

"Oh nothing it's just a wisp of clouds." Came Gimli's reply.

"It's moving fast.. against the wind.." Boromir said, getting up from the ground with Merry and Pippin.

"Crebain from Dunland!" Legolas shouted.

"Hide!" Aragorn shouted.

"Hurry. Frodo.." you said as you guided Sam and Frodo to cover.

As crebains flew away, everyone got out from their hideout.

"Spies of ... Saruman! The passage south is being watched. We must take the path of caradhras." Said Gandalf.

You looked at Legolas as he gently held your hand.

_________________________________________

The path of Caradhras was difficult. Thick snow, extreme cold, heavy snowfall. Elves do not mind cold very much but the others do. So you and Legolas walked in the front.

You, Legolas and the others got stuck in the snow when a huge chunk of snow fell from above.

You helped Sam out of the snow and then got out yourself. Sam went to Boromir's side.

"There is fell voice on the air" said Legolas.

"It's Saruman!" Shouted Gandalf.

"He's trying to bring down the mountains" Aragorn said as well.

Gandalf started to chant a spell in Imladris to try and stop. But alas it did not work.

It was decided that the fellowship would go through the Mines of Moria. It was chosen by Frodo.

_________________________________________

Gimli sat down a bit away from the door. The Door of Moria was yet to open. Gandalf had tried all the password that he could come up with but it didn't work.

You and Legolas sat on a log. The two of you braided each other's hair. You saw Gandalf sigh of defeat. Legolas got up and walked around to see any incoming danger.

You went to Gandalf and stood in front of the door before looking at Gandalf. He looked at you.

"It is riddle......" You said.

"A riddle you say?" He replied.

"Mellōn" you said as the doors opened the Hobbits running towards you at once.

The events that occurred after that...were too cruel for all of you...

_________________________________________

The hobbits were shedding tears. Gimli was trying to get back in the mine but Boromir didn't let him. You sat on a boulder, unable to accept the reality like Legolas.

"Get them up Legolas, Y/n." Aragorn spoke to you and Legolas. Legolas came up to you and placed his hand on your back. You looked up from the ground to his eyes. He could see the pain in your eyes, for he too feels it.

"Give them a moment for pity's sake!" Boromir shouted.

"By nightfall these hills will be swarming with orcs. We must make for the woods of Lothlorien." Reasoned Aragorn.

"Come, Boromir, Legolas, Gimli, Y/n get them up." Aragorn said as walked up to Sam and held him up.

You got up from the boulder and gave Legolas a nod, after which you went to the hobbits, asking if anyone got injured.

_________________________________________

You and Legolas were close to eachother. Fingers intertwined as you walked through the woods. Aragorn was leading the way.

"I have the eyes of a hawk and the ears of a fox." Said Gimli as he almost got himself pierced by an arrow of a Lothlorian guard.

"A dwarve breathes so loud, we would've shot him in the dark" Said Haldir, an old acquaintance.

_________________________________________

"Mae g'ovannen Legolas Thranduilion, Y/n Elerondiel." Said Haldir. Welcome Legolas, son of Thranduilion, Y/n, daughter of Elrond.

"Ah, Aragorn in Dunedain. Istannen le ammen." Oh, Aragorn of Dúnedain. You are known to us. Haldir spoke, turning to Aragorn.

"Haldir." Aragorn greeted him.

"So much for the legendary courtesy of elves! Speak words we can all understand!" Spoke Gimli, annoyed because he couldn't understand what was being spoken.

Haldir simply turned to Gimli and spoke.

"We have not had dealings with the dwarves since the dark days."

"And you know what this dwarves says to that? Ishkhaqwi ai durugnul!" I spit on your grave.

"That was not so courteous" Aragorn intervened.

Haldir looked at Fellowship and then to Frodo.

"You bring great evil here.... You can go no further."

_________________________________________

You sat like the rest of the Fellowship while Legolas stood. Aragorn trying to convince Haldir to let you all stay the night.

Frodo saw Legolas look at him as the others looked at him too. He felt guilty. As if they are blaming him.

Frodo got up and went to you. He came to you and sat beside you as you opened your arms. He came in and laid his head on your chest as you hummed. He looked up in the sky and then closed his eyes.

Legolas saw you two cuddled up. He felt warm at the scene. Many would feel jealous at the sight of their lover with someone else but Legolas felt love for you grow further.

You and Frodo looked like mother and son. You ran you fingers through his head and held him close like a mother would.

Legolas smiled a little seeing you both. He imagined how it would be when the two of you would have children together.

_________________________________________

Night had fallen. Most of the Fellowship had gotten fallen asleep. Aragorn was with Boromir.

You and Legolas were in your sleeping place. He had re-braided your hair and you were currently doing his.

You ran your fingers through his hair, trying to untangle any knots.

"Melēth nin, what would do after all of this is over?" You asked him.

"Ah..... The first thing I would do is to marry you. I would still need to think of what to do next." He replied.

His reply made you blush a bit. The sad atmosphere lifting up a bit.

"I would have a big family with you, nin melēth. I imagine it every time I see you with the little hobbits. You would make an excellent mother to our little elflings." He continued.

Your ears had turned pink. You laughed gently as you finished braiding his hair. He got up from the ground and went to your side.

He sat down beside you and kissed you passionately. It was slow but filled with deep love.

Elves love once. They love slow but when they do, they love hard.

After a minute, his lips seperated yours. Your lungs felt empty before you inhaled air.

He laid down and patted the place beside him. You went to his side and laid your head on his chest.

Soon after you drifted off to sleep. Soft snores made Legolas smile. The world was harsh... But you both had each other and that was enough.

He ran his hand over your head, soothing you. He drifted off to sleep after sometime. He fell asleep admiring your beauty. He had said something before doing so.

It was what he felt since he met you the first time.

"You make me feel.. Things I never felt before..."

[ruegarding]

for context, @rosabell14 is referring to tags on this post.

ok we're going off-road w this one

generally speaking, i like the concept of "some things aren't meant to be controlled," which annabeth says to percy after he controls the poison. this is said and then immediately forgotten abt, however, this could be another angle of change, a reoccurring theme in hoo, as well as a continued theme from pjo.

obviously, from pjo, the change is addressed w the myths, the theme of yielding, and w the conclusion of the story:

hoo continues this concept of change w the percy-jason switch, the greek-roman conflict, the idea of what an identity is and how to change it, etc. there's a lot of individual character work w this idea, but there's less of a mythological concept attached to it. gaea is a static and flatly written antagonist, octavian becomes incredibly flat as a character and his development into this sort of fanatical antagonist that is never explored, there's a lot of teeth-gritting abt how the gods are gods and they never change and everyone just has to accept it, the myths aren't challenged in the same way they were in pjo, etc. there's a few major exceptions, i'll get to that.

this is a glaring issue i have w hoo. it wouldn't be as bad as a standalone, but hoo makes the entirety of the previous series meaningless. in tlo, percy asks for kids to get claimed and be trained so when (or if) they have to go on dangerous quests/fight monsters/etc they're both older and more experienced. this is the conclusion to the war and how the status quo is changed (disability accommodations expanded to reach more ppl and work more effectively).

hoo, however, does not do this. camp jupiter infamously has a child army while the adults are retired, all of the new characters are younger than percy (who is still 16), and only two of them have spent a long period of time training, although hazel's isn't formal/in a camp (and piper doesn't even learn how to fight until book four ffs). this sort of immediately bastardizes pjo in a way that is never acknowledge by the series and makes it, and anything after it, a failure as a continuation of pjo.

and that's where this theme could've come in. when bob is remembering who he is, him and percy have this back-and-forth abt identity. percy relates to bob bc he, too, just had his memory erased and that vulnerability exploited (annabeth's perspective in this conversation is very different bc she doesn't have this same experience nor does she understand percy's feelings abt it. a good way to build tension using different povs, but, once again, doesn't get fully utilized). in the conclusion that conversation, there's an interesting moment:

this is that idea again, "some things aren't meant to be controlled," like fate, like identity. titans are meant to "be the same...forever." and here percy is, not only as the catalyst for change by throwing bob into the river lethe, but also by encouraging him to commit to this change once bob should know better. this was percy's role in the previous series, as well, where he constantly challenges the perspective of other characters to be more quote human unquote.

afterwards, annabeth has a similar moment w damasen:

i also think these are very funny to have side-by-side, just as character analysis, bc percy is very much both insecure and empathetic like u can choose ur future, it's up to u, etc, whereas annabeth is like i am right, listen to me.

anyway, both of these moments repeat the idea from pjo/tlo: immortals can't change. but they are changing. and they will change. the rules of the world are malleable (i also think hazel's monologue abt seeing the minotaur as a victim would be another aspect of this to explore). what abt traditions? what abt camp jupiter's child army? how should these change? going back to the og thought, tho, what shouldn't change? what are the "some things" that aren't meant to be controlled? how do you balance traditions and reform (great opportunity to use octavian btw!)? why can't a god be human, act human? why are the ancient rules important? that's an important discussion to have if we're growing this universe.

i don't particularly like that hoo immediately reverts back w the premise of the story, like i was talking abt earlier, nor do i think these characters were introduced or used well in canon, but using these characters, these moments, these conversations, rick could've salvaged this mess by embracing change isn't a static thing. he doesn't, tho, so it's all lost potential.

separately, something i've always liked abt the akhlys fight is that percy wins the literal, physical fight against her, but loses the metaphorical fight. he gets to walk away, but he walks away miserable. and this is bc the gods aren't ppl, they're physical representations of concepts. and percy has this thought abt tartarus and gaea while in tartarus, and i believe it's brought up in boo, but it's barely relevant. it's something i wish was explored more.

now onto specific characters. i talk abt my general idea here, ie this moment in tartarus is forcing percy and annabeth to confront their worst-case scenarios.

for annabeth, i've repeatedly gone on record to say i hate the way annabeth is written in hoo, here is an example, ie her fatal flaw does not come thru in her character (i also think she and percy switched characterizations from pjo to hoo, but...). separate issue is that annabeth's character revolves around percy a lot. so there are two issues i would focus on, largely bc she's not written well and doesn't have established unique conflicts. like,

this is a big revelation at the end of hoh, that she has to "step back" and she can't "protect everyone she love[s]." except it doesn't make any sense. tlo ended w annabeth telling percy to give luke her knife which luke uses to kill himself. not to mention, thalia's sacrifice on hbh. ALSO. percy accepting the prophecy and "taking the brunt of the danger"! and finally. annabeth has been at camp for 7-8 years. 1) she should have relationships w these ppl and 2) she should care that some of the ogs died in the previous war (which would also require rick to figure out who died lol). but the point is, this isn't a new conflict for annabeth!

the thought she had in moa abt having to accept she's not always the best person for the job:

this is not built up nor is it delivered on, but would be interesting, given that she demanded to be on the quest and if there was an actual power struggle instead of writing her as the de facto leader. this would be a better conflict than accepting that "she couldn't protect everyone she loved" when she has historically not been able to protect everyone she loved.

anyway, back on topic.

first, this moment exists to challenge her perception of percy, which is important to challenge bc she quite frankly has an unhealthy attachment to him. other ppl have said this better than i, so here's a post abt codependency and p*rcabeth and here's another one i rbed a while ago.

tldr; rick treats annabeth's abandonment issues/possessiveness/codependency as like. cute, peak romance. and he's been doing this since pjo, right, like annabeth's abandonment issues and possessiveness didn't matter when it was thalia joining the hunters,—bc there's no romance trope here w thalia—but gods forbid percy speak to rachel.

and this doesn't change in hoo. in fact, it's worse. like,

i'm going to [statement redacted] rick for this. what part of this is cute??? i'm killing it with fire.

so anyway, i want to treat annabeth's possessiveness/etc as an actual, consistent, character flaw, that she can grow out of, even. maybe even connect it to her hubris or her rsd. explore her feelings abt luke now that we have her pov to do it in. the fallout from this moment w akhlys is a great way to begin delving into that bc it's a shocking moment for her.

second, and going back to the theme of change, annabeth is different from percy in the sense that she has a different relationship to the gods than him (which i'm comparing bc i think rick (and fandom) has a hard time giving these two consistent and separate personalities/beliefs post pjo). the two times she has rebelled against the gods directly were bc of percy's influence (again, this is percy's role in pjo), 1) in the zoo truck, a scene that only takes place bc percy challenged her view of the poseidon-athena rivalry and their place in it, and 2) w hera where the first words out of annabeth's mouth are literally "percy is right."

i find this interesting especially bc her fatal flaw is hubris, which is common in mythology and frequently ends up fatal bc ppl challenge the gods. so, annabeth using the gods and these stories to keep her hubris in check makes complete sense.

and it seems like this is the same approach she's using w percy:

percy is directly challenging a god for power, and more than that, he's challenging a domain he's not supposed to have control of at all.

very interesting! does not get explored. such is common for hoo.

for percy, this scene is part of a long-running conversation of his powers (which is a huge part of his disability coding!!!!!). and it doesn't go anywhere.

percy has established anger issues and implied emotional dysregulation. this has been a thing since the beginning, literally chapter one of tlt! punishing percy for this when he's clearly not getting the support he needs is. a choice. also there's the issue that hoo kinda. erases this aspect of percy's character until the confrontation w akhlys, which is a separate but related issue.

there really should've been more buildup to this outburst (eg: in son percy punches a shelf in the library and immediately feels guilty bc he scares frank and hazel. percy is in an incredibly stressful situation; this should've happened more), but that would mean rick would treat it and the disability conversation seriously (which falls flat after son) and do less teeth-gritting abt the whole gods thing.

so, to go back on my "using the different povs to build tension was wildly underutilized" train, a featured part of almost everyone's pov is that percy is very kind, and gentle, and forgiving. i discuss a moment w frank being impressed w percy's selflessness here and he also says that he would follow percy anywhere, jason says percy is "a nice guy" after like 2 days, nico has his whole thing, hazel says "percy was a child of poseidon’s better nature," going on to describe him as gentle, etc.

and all of this praise goes nowhere and kinda just becomes percy is so awesome...and then turns into everything is percy's fault in boo...it's bad writing.

but it's an interesting opportunity to play w perspective. percy in pjo is dehumanized in that he is both villainized and idolized, and obviously hoo is continuing the trend w idolization. rick sets up a great plotline w this in moa:

and this doesn't go anywhere bc apparently percy's problem is that he needs to learn to step back. which. part of this is bc rick recycled plotlines from percy and gave them to other characters, which means that percy cannot be in character anymore without making themlook bad (the recycled plotlines i'm talking abt are the idolization, imposter syndrome, wanting to step back but constantly pushed into the spotlight, being seen as different/elevated status bc of ur parentage, struggling to connect to who your parent is, even the dehumanization as a weapon is straight out of percy's writing in pjo). this is a big problem w hoo in general ie characters becoming ooc by necessity (see: bad writing). the other part to blame is that rick is literally trying to redo tlo what w the whole "you are not the hero." it's all the same from pjo except written worse. it's a running theme of hoo (and a bonus). bad writing all the way down!

ANYWAY. so pjo ends w percy at an elevated status bc he 1) survived an unsurvivable prophecy, 2) was offered godhood, and 3) turned down godhood to improve the lives of the demigods while all the demigods watched. and he has the curse of achilles but. we all know how that went. the point is, all of this puts percy on a pedestal. i like to think it's the biggest reason hera kidnapped percy: if he said no, if he refused, she would've lost the support of almost all the demigods at chb (also the metaphor for the audience lol). i think making percy go on the quest, or at least to new rome, is the only good bit of world building rick did between books.

the problem is, rick is kinda all over the place w how percy is perceived and misses both the point of percy's character (callback to what i said abt his disability) and the world building of the previous series (what happened to power-scaling, narrative consequence, etc fr). that's what creates the flip-flopping "percy is perfect" and "everything is percy's fault," and neither are particularly good reads.

going back to annabeth, i don't think she's an exception in idolizing percy. she has no reason to see percy's vindictive side bc he works hard to hide it. even w crusty, annabeth is preoccupied. annabeth is smart, she's not omniscient. instead, there's the famous "percy is too nice" from som. i also like to think this is why she keeps trying to talk to percy abt luke as if luke is a good person who didn't try to kill percy. she doesn't understand that percy would hate luke for betraying him bc why would he? percy is a good person.

(for the record, i think the exceptions are: 1) grover, who chooses not to bring it up w the exception of his nemesis comment in tlt, 2) rachel, who made a painting where percy's "expression in the picture was fierce—disturbing, even—so it was hard to tell if I was the good guy or the bad guy" and simply said that's how he looked, and 3) arguably nico—considering percy has attacked him before—but i do think "very [dangerous]. to his enemies." does a good job of capturing that, it just doesn't go anywhere).

so, to condense all of this, ppl are idolizing percy in terms of both strength and morals and percy feels stifled by this knowing that he is not as strong or good as ppl think (and also by the fault that he was demonized prior and has corresponding low self-esteem bc of that lol). keep this in mind, i'm changing the topic.

in botl, percy's torture scene is used primarily to set up how powerful he is. he can cause an eruption that necessitates the evacuation of thousands of ppl and wake the biggest threat in greek mythos, but he would never know that if he wasn't back into a corner. bc that's not who he is. he shies away from power and titles. he wins his fights w strategy and very rarely relies on his powers to overpower his opponents.

just to clarify, i categorize percy's powers in two sorts of ways: involuntary and voluntary. involuntary is like speaking to sea creatures, healing in water, things that don't require a lot of energy/effort/focus. he's not scared of this. he's wary of the voluntary, powerful explosions, the things that set him apart from his peers. that's what i'm referring to in this section.

so, percy has to come to terms w the fact that he 1) blew up a mountain, 2) survived blowing up a mountain, and 3) woke typhon. and what does he say immediately after that?

he immediately deflects! he wasn't in control, it wasn't him that's powerful, it was an accident, and besides, he can't do it again bc he almost died. and what's even more interesting is the only time he uses his powers after this (in botl) is when grover asks him to stop the fire in the woods.

so, what lesson did percy actually take from mt saint helens? that he's dangerous. very interesting to use this teaching moment and have the protagonist come to the quote wrong unquote conclusion.

in hoh, we don't have a purpose for the torture scene. there's no significance to confronting how powerful percy is. percy is not addressing his self-sacrificing tendencies nor his propensity for bottling his emotions up. there's no questioning of p*rcabeth's relationship. there's no questioning of the gods. it's a cool scene w no narrative purpose.

so, take two. what is percy supposed to be learning from akhlys? how do we relate this to percy taking the wrong lesson from mt st helens?

at the end of botl, nico comes up w the river styx plan and percy takes almost a full year to agree to it. how much further ahead in the war would they have been if percy had accepted the curse sooner? how many fights could percy have won faster if he used his powers? if he trained his powers? if he trusted his powers?

there's a really interesting comparison w phorcys and akhyls where percy doesn't attempt to fight phorcys bc he assumes he won't be able to overpower him,

but w akhyls he tries anyway,

bc he's backed against a corner. and he succeeds.

percy is a character who very much embodies duality. i've talked abt this before wrt his loyalty being both his greatest strength and greatest weakness and how it clashes w his desire for freedom, but it's true for almost every trait. he's honest and manipulative. he's ruthless and merciful. he's kind and violent. he's looked up to and looked down upon. he's the saint and the scapegoat. etc etc. and percy responds to this by frequently trying to deny his quote worse unquote traits until they eventually bubble up and explode out of him. this is part of why juno calls him a loose-canon (which btw, i love. everyone has been treating him as a loose canon and no one on this side has the balls to say it until then, seven books in).

all this to say, *ethan voice* it's abt balance! this moment should've been abt percy confronting his unfair treatment! the idolization from his peers! the demonization of his flaws/disability!

thanks for coming to my tedtalk.