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matt-murdockk · 28 days ago

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Atonement

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader words: 4.2k summary: Spencer battles his addiction and self-loathing, only to find the possibility of redemption in the unwavering care of someone who refuses to leave. warnings: oh boy, ok so we've got a LOT OF ANGST!!!, Spencer's addiction (!!!), suicidal thoughts, a lot of self-loathing, Spencer is spiralling (rip), mildly descriptive withdrawal process, possibly incorrect etymology facts, a dead fish, the self-loathing really is heavy on this one, I'm serious. a/n: i am holding your hand, i scared myself with this one, BUT the ending is pretty optimistic so it's not all pain :')

Heracles atoned. His crimes were a result of madness— divine madness, not his own. It can be argued that they weren’t even his actions at all. And still, he atoned.

The Oracle of Delphi instructed him to give twelve years of service to the king of Mycenae, and even though Heracles believed Eurystheus to be beneath him in stature, he accepted the 12 labours. Heracles completed the 12 momentous tasks as atonement for the crime of killing Megara and their children, even though it was Hera's vengeance that drove him mad and tricked him into committing the crime in the first place.

If Heracles sought redemption for something that wasn’t truly his fault in the first place, what about the rest of us? What about atonement for crimes not born of divine madness, but of choice? What about the consequences that stem not from insanity inflicted by gods, but from choices made— cold, human, and deliberate? Is that something one can atone for?

Apophenia. A common human tendency to see patterns where there are none. It makes you believe in coincidences. It’s why people find meaning in lottery numbers, in shuffled tarot cards, in the sequence of a roulette wheel. It's what makes Spencer draw parallels between himself and perhaps the mightiest of Greek heroes, only he doesn't see them as equals, but one as a sorry excuse, an imitation, a failed attempt at living up to the other. He sees one as a myth, and the other as a mockery. A hollow echo. A failure.

I feel like a kid again. That's a nice thing, right? Feeling like a kid? Innocent. Loved. Nurtured. Pure. Scared. Wait, scared? Scared. Alone. Vulnerable. Guilty. Crying to sleep every night. Curled up into a ball on the playground, busted eyebrow and broken glasses with stains of blood and dried-up tears. I gotta tell Mom I need new glasses. Again.

Oh. He feels like a kid again.

Do they know? They might know. They must know. They know. He pretends they don't. They pretend they don't. Everybody knows. Was it kindness that kept them quiet? Decency? Look the other way so he wouldn't be ashamed? Not exactly helping, then. Or was it so they could have deniability? We had no idea. Spencer Reid? Our Spencer? They gasp. He wouldn't.

They've definitely noticed. That much he knows. All eyes are on him when he's in a room. Not in the usual Spencer is being his brilliant self again way. In a Spencer is a disgrace to himself, look at his pathetic face way, except no one would look him in the face anymore. Like if they looked at him, it would be painfully obvious in their faces what they really thought of him. Like there was no way to look at him the way you would look at a normal person.

Every day, he comes in to work screaming: Look at me. Do you see me? Do you see what I'm doing to myself? Do you see it? Do you see me? Look at me. Don't look at me. Stop looking at me. Stop. Don't look at me. Please. Stop. Stop. No. Stop. STOP. "Morning," is all they hear.

You look at him. Oh no. Not you. Please. You're... not disgusted? You're not looking at him as if one would an insect. Huh.

Great. You are so pathetic, you're pretending people like you. Do you realize how pathetic that is? Do you realize how pathetic you are, Spencer? You're so deep in delusion that you think someone cares. No one cares. Nobody cares.

His thoughts are loud today. Louder than usual. Not ideal. You're still looking. You're crying. You're crying?

Amazing job! You've made the one person who probably cares about you cry just by existing. Hey, do you know what you should do? Do you know what you should do, Spencer? Kill y—

"Hey, are you okay?" It's his own voice. An act of rebellion against himself. A lifeline.

"Spencer, are you?" you ask, sniffling. That's the first time someone has stopped to ask him that question. He didn't know what to say.

At the depth of my delirium, I think of you. I think we're in love. I think of being in your arms. I think of you holding my hand and telling me you love me. I think of you telling me I'll be fine. I think of you telling me I'll be okay. I'm not fine. I'm not okay. I need you. I'm sorry. Tell me you love me. I'm sorry.

He just stares. You look at him just a second longer than he wants you to, give his hand a little squeeze, and then you're gone.

See? She's gone. You know why she's gone? You know why she didn't stay, Spencer? Wait, actually, think of a reason why someone would stay. Go on, try. That'll be much harder, yeah. Pathetic.

Mirrors don't work anymore. Whenever he looked in one, he used to see himself. He just sees a silhouette now. A hollow void that only moves seconds after he does. Somebody he knows but cannot quite recognize.

You see that? Even your fucking reflection thinks you're pathetic.

They're mocking him. They are taunting him. They don't even have the decency to look back at him. Pretty shitty for a mirror, he thinks.

Hey. Idiot. Yeah, you. What are you looking at? You're feeling sorry for yourself? You're sorry, buddy? You're guilty? You wanna go back? Back to mommy? Back to before all this? Back to how it used to be? Back to... what, exactly? Back to being brilliant and broken and hiding it better? Back to when you still had the energy to fake being whole? Weak.

Spencer doesn't remember what home feels like. It used to be Vegas until he had to leave. It used to his job until he had to hide. It used to be his apartment until he couldn't trust himself to be alone anymore. Sometimes when you look at him, talk to him, touch him, he thinks this could be home. But it's never enough. The more of you he had, the more of you he wanted.

Boy, you never stood a chance, did you?

The first time, he promised himself it would be just this once. It's wrong, yes, but it's for recovery. It's just this once. He can stop whenever he wants to.

Second time, the last time. It's not like he can't stop if he wants to. He's in control. It's fine.

Third, the final time, for sure. It's only for a while. It's not permanent.

He can stop whenever he wants to. He can stop whenever he wants. He doesn't want to stop. He can't stop. The more he had, the more he wanted.

The pull, the calling, the addiction, it's far too evil. It's a siren. It's a mimic. It fools you into thinking it's taking you somewhere beautiful. Some place you need to get to. And every time, it promises you that you're getting closer. That you'll get there soon enough. Just a few more steps. Just a couple more times. Just another leap. But all it does is lie to you and make you feel like you're close. Like you're getting there. Like you will be home in no time. When in reality, you've regressed. You're worse off than you were when you started. Only then do you notice you're all alone.

What a wonderous, massive, cosmic joke. Doctor Spencer Reid. Child Prodigy. Genius. Criminal Profiler. Special Agent with the FBI. Drug Addict. Liar. A threat to himself and the people around him.

The walls are too close tonight.

Everything is itchy. His clothes. His skin. The thoughts under his skin. The thrum in his veins that won’t quiet down.

You don't know who you are when you're not in pain. That's why you keep coming back, Spencer. Not for the high. For the silence. The certainty. God, what a burden it must be. Having to pretend they're not afraid of you. Like they don't flinch whenever you open your mouth.

"Shut up. Just shut up," he yells to his empty apartment.

He rubs his face hard enough to leave marks. Paces the length of the living room five times. Seven. Twelve. He forgets what number he’s on.

He wonders, not for the first time, if this is the moment he finally fractures beyond repair. If this is where the brilliant, broken, bullet-dodging Spencer Reid finally snaps and nobody notices. Maybe they already did notice. Maybe they’re just waiting to see if he self-destructs before they have to say something.

This is pathetic. You are pathetic.

He sits. Then stands. Then sits again. The couch is too soft. The floor is too cold. The apartment smells like nothing and everything. Bleach. Dust. Failure.

You don’t even get to be tragic. You’re just exhausting.

His hands are shaking again. Not just the twitchy, ignorable kind— full tremors, rattling like change in his pockets. He tries to hold them still. Fails.

You’re not going to get better.

He closes his eyes.

You're alone, Spencer.

He opens them.

Nobody's coming for you.

No one cares.

You are all alo—

Three knocks. Someone's here. You're here. You're here? What are you doing here?

"What are you doing here?"

"Hello to you, too, Spencer. Care to let me in?"

You're leaning against his counter. He's stood on the other side, facing you, but not quite meeting your eyes.

Can't even look her in the face. Loser.

"Spencer?" He responds with a hum that sounds like it is meant for him as much as it is meant for you.

"I've been here for fifteen minutes and you haven't said a word."

"Right. Ah, there you go. That's a word. That good enough for you?"

That's right. Push her away. Antagonize her. Make her hate you. That'll show her for caring about you.

"Spencer, don't be like that, come on."

"Don't be like what? Like a junkie? Like an addict? Is that what you mean? Jesus, you can't even say it." I am not trying to push you away. I cannot help it. I am so sorry. Please still like me.

"I meant, don't be distant with me. I meant, don't be a jerk, you jerk," you say, your voice more reprimanding than angry. That shuts him up.

"Spencer, I am not going to walk around eggshells with you. I don't want to. You have a problem. You need help. You know that. I cannot sit still at work, pretend everything's fine, nod my head and hope you'll be okay and forget everything when I go home. I cannot be like that."

Spencer looks at you like you're hanging stars in his sky. You continue.

"I am so sorry that it took me this long to figure it out and come help you. I had to be sure we're doing it right."

"Doing what right? What are you talking about?"

"Getting you sobered up. I don't really know much about it, and I didn't want to go somewhere that would leave a paper trail. You could lose your job. I did some research, pulled some strings, and well, I was able to get some supplies and over-the-counter meds and worst case scenario, if something does go wrong, which I'm really not counting on, I know some people who would be willing to help off the record."

He stares at you like you're some kind of hallucination. Some fever dream conjured by withdrawal and regret and too many sleepless nights. For him? Why would you do this?

“Why would you do this?” he says aloud, voice flat. Hollow. “What is wrong with you? You could get fired for this. Do you understand that?”

Please don’t stop. Please don’t take it back. Please don't leave me alone. Please don’t say this was a mistake.

You cross your arms, unfazed. “Yeah, I know. Thanks for the concern, by the way.” You look at him and see his face contort in confusion.

"Honey, no offence, I say this with lots of love in my heart," you put your hand over his and continue, "but you're a self sabotaging moron who thinks he doesn't deserve good things. You are very wrong, for the record, and I deeply care about you in spite of that."

Exactly. Why?

“Exactly. Why?” he says. The words are louder this time. Angrier. Desperate. “You don’t owe me anything. I’ve treated you like crap. I’ve lied to you. Pushed you away. I'm a mess. A tragic self-fulfilling prophecy. I’m not— I’m not someone you should still give a damn about.”

And there it is. That trembling, cracked little part of him. The kid who got beat up on playgrounds and cried about it alone. The man who thought he had to earn affection with perfection.

You take a breath. You move your hand, which was on top of his, to hold it now.

“I don’t need reasons or incentive to care about you, Spencer. You don't have to deserve or earn anything from me. Or anyone, for that matter. You are a good person. You deserve to have joy in life. You were not this self-loathing, withdrawn, quiet person, not when we first met. I love listening to you. I love when you get excited about something. I know you're still in there. You’re still my friend. A huge part of my life, whether you like it or not. I love you.”

I love you too. Oh god, I love you too.

"I miss you when you’re not around,” you continue. “And I’m done missing you even when you are. So pony up. We’re getting you sober.”

"Did you know that the word sober originates from Latin? Yeah, se meaning without, and ebrius meaning drunk. The word sobrius which is where sobriety is believed to have come from, literally means without wine."

"There he is."

"Alright, so it's nothing you don't already know, but I'm telling you anyway so you know the drill. It's going to be painful. You'll have cold fevers, nausea, you'll sweat a lot, your body will hurt, you may have episodes, and you will feel awful. And that's all before it gets to the hard part."

"You know, you don't have to do this. You don't need to— I don't—"

"Spencer, Spence, hey," you hold both his hands in yours and continue, "Look at me. It's okay. I know what I'm getting into. We can do this. I'm not going anywhere, okay?"

I hope I hold on long enough for you to see me when I'm not like this. When I'm okay. Like I used to be. Like I was when I first saw you. But God forbid, if I let go, I hope it's in your arms.

"Okay."

It comes in waves. The chills start first— sharp, stabbing needles running down his spine, crawling beneath his skin like he’s being flayed alive from the inside out. Then the nausea, rising like a tide, acidic and angry. His body betrays him over and over again. Sweat clings to him, drenching the sheets, pooling under his neck. Every movement feels like a punishment. Every breath feels borrowed.

And she’s still here. Still here. God.

He can’t look at her when it’s bad. When he’s shaking so hard his teeth chatter. When his limbs lock up and his sobs catch in his throat like barbed wire. He hates that she sees him like this. Hates that he can’t hide the worst parts of himself.

Why are you still here? Leave.

Every time he opens his eyes and finds her still at his side— cool rag in hand, whispering his name, smoothing the hair back from his forehead, holding his head up when he vomits— it shatters something in him. A tenderness he’s not strong enough to hold.

You shouldn’t have to see this. You don’t deserve to.

He tries to apologize. For the sweating. For the smell. For the vomiting. For the crying. For the memories he’ll never let himself say aloud. For existing like this in front of her.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, voice hoarse and cracking.

“You don’t have to be, you have nothing to be sorry for,” she says every time.

But he is. So, so sorry.

You could’ve loved a hundred better men. Men who would’ve taken care of you, who wouldn’t need saving, who would know how to say thank you instead of I’m sorry.

And still, she stays.

Maybe I’m being made new. Maybe this is what it means to be reborn, to be stripped down to nothing, to be known in every terrible inch, and still not be sent away.

He doesn't believe in God. Never really has. But if he did, if he ever were to believe in something divine, it would be this. Her. Here. Now. In all her human mess and radiant grace, holding the pieces of him steady like they're sacred.

If I make it out of this… If I make it to the other side… it’ll be because she walked with me through the fire and didn't once let go.

And if he doesn’t—

Let it be here. Let it be now. Let it be in her arms.

He shakes his head, eyes glassy and wild, muscles locking in protest. “I don’t think I can do this. I don’t— I can’t—”

His voice is barely human anymore. It's all pain and fear and shame twisted into syllables that sound like defeat.

You kneel beside him, one hand on his shoulder, the other brushing damp curls from his forehead. “Yes, you can. You’re doing great. You’re doing so good, Spencer. We’re almost there. You’re so close. You’re doing great.”

He wants to believe you. God, he wants to. But everything hurts. Everything burns. His bones feel like they’re breaking and reforming all at once. His mind is louder than ever, telling him he’s weak, that he’s wasting your time, that you’ll hate him after this.

But your voice cuts through the noise like light through smoke.

You’re still here.

When the worst of it passes, you're both tired. Him, more so than you, of course, but you're exhausted regardless. His world is still spinning, but not violently anymore. Just slow, dizzy loops. You're sitting beside him on the floor, hair messily tied back, sleeves rolled up, skin warm where it brushes his.

“Hey,” you say gently, pushing a water bottle toward him. “When was the last time you ate?”

He blinks. “I… don’t remember.”

You nod like that’s what you expected. “Okay. No worries. I’ll look around your kitchen, see what I can make work.”

God, you’re so… gentle. It’s devastating.

You're holding a knife in your hand, looking at his fridge, hoping to find some vegetables, fruits, anything. You don't. You absentmindedly hold the knife as you ransack his kitchen as politely as possible.

He watches you shuffle toward the cabinets. He should offer to help. He should stand. He should do something. But all he can do is sit there on the counter, hunched, wrapped in the too-big hoodie you made him change into, staring at the way you move around his space like it’s your own. Like you're allowed to be here.

And if you could just twist that knife into my heart, stab me lightly, yeah, that would be great.

You start opening drawers and cabinets and make a little sound of horror. “Spencer, honey. You live like a caveman. Where’s all the food? Have you been eating at all?”

He shrugs. Tries to play it off. “I’ve… had protein bars. Mostly.”

“Mmm.” The noncommittal hum you make isn’t exactly believing. But you don’t push. “That’s okay. We’ll do takeout tonight. Figure out the rest tomorrow.”

He nods, too tired to argue. Too in awe of you to try.

“Go relax, okay?” you say as you pick up your phone. “I’ll order something. Just rest until it gets here.”

You wait until he’s curled under a blanket on the couch— he didn’t want the bed— and that’s when you really look around.

It’s chaos. The kind that builds slowly, quietly, until it drowns a person.

Books are scattered everywhere. His meticulously labeled files are out of order. His fish tank light is flickering and dim. The automatic feeder has maybe a day’s worth of food left. And worst of all, one of the tiny fish is floating belly-up, pale and still.

You cover your mouth and breathe through your nose. He hadn’t noticed. He didn’t even see it. That’s what breaks your heart. You step into the hallway and call Garcia.

“Penelope. I need you to do me a favor. No questions asked. I’ll owe you forever.”

You hear the shift in her tone instantly. “Tell me what you need.”

“I’m sending you a picture. I need a fish. Exactly like the one in the photo. Same kind, same size. I need it tonight. As soon as you can.”

There’s a beat. “On it.”

By the time the takeout arrives, you’ve got the new fish hidden in a thermos packed with water, and you’re swapping it into the tank just as Spencer wanders into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes and asking if he should grab plates.

“Yeah,” you say, forcing a smile. “Grab whatever you’ve got.”

He disappears into a cabinet, and you finish the switch in record time, flushing the old one without blinking. He doesn’t notice.

He just sits down beside you a minute later and says, “Thanks for staying.”

You hand him his plate.

“Always.”

He smiles at that— tired, but genuine. You both eat in silence for a few minutes, the clinking of forks against ceramic the only sound between you. You keep glancing over, watching for signs of nausea, ready to intervene. But he seems okay. Exhausted, but okay.

After a while, he leans back, running a hand through his hair.

“I think I need to lie down.”

“You shouldn’t lie down just yet,” you say gently as he settles onto the couch.

Spencer looks up at you, eyebrows furrowed. “Why not?”

“If you end up throwing up again while you’re asleep, you could choke on it. Just for tonight— until it’s fully out of your system— it’s safer to stay upright. By morning, it should pass.”

“Oh,” he says quietly, like he hadn’t thought of that. Of course, he hadn’t. He’s not used to someone else worrying about the aftermath. He's not so used to someone else worrying about him, period.

I love you.

You sit down beside him, not too close, but close enough that he could lean if he wanted to. “You can rest here. Sit with me. Like you do on the jet.”

He turns to you slowly. “You’re… not going home?”

You shake your head once. “I’m not going anywhere until I know you’re okay.”

There’s a sharp sting in his throat, and for once it has nothing to do with withdrawal. Have I mentioned that I love you? In case I haven't, I love you. I'm sorry. I love you.

You open your arms a little, wordlessly offering, and after a moment’s hesitation, he lowers his head to your shoulder. He doesn’t even realize how tightly he’s holding onto you until your fingers slide through his hair.

"You're fine. You're going to be okay."

The next morning, he wakes up before you do.

The light’s different today. The early sun filters through the blinds in soft, dappled gold. For the first time in what feels like ages, it doesn’t feel too harsh or blinding. For the first time in longer than he can remember, the sun doesn’t scream. It just… glows. Gentle. Warm. Alive.

You’re still asleep, head tilted, mouth barely parted. Your brow’s furrowed even now— worried in your dreams, probably about him. Always about him.

He watches you in silence. Not like a man haunted. Not like someone waiting for the sky to fall. Just grateful. Reverent.

You saved my life.

If there's anything the BA in Philosophy has helped him understand, it's this. Existentialists argue that life has no inherent meaning, and individuals must create their own meaning through their choices and actions. By that logic, his choices and actions, having subconsciously led him to you, must mean that you are the true meaning of life. Not an existentialist? Not a problem.

Plato believed that the meaning of life lies in attaining the highest form of knowledge, which is the Idea of the Good, from which all good and just things derive utility and value. Considering how Spencer's pursuit of this exact idea is what led him to you in the first place, this must prove beyond a reasonable doubt that you were the true meaning of life. At least to him.

Nihilism suggests that life is ultimately meaningless and that there is no objective value or purpose. Nihilists must have never encountered you, he concludes.

This could be home. You could be home. It could be enough.

a/n: it could count as fluff towards the end but like only if you're mildly fucked in the head like I am

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fleurspun · 3 months ago

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Questbound

Summary: A kiss locks the victory of your quest, it's only unfortunate that your quest companion is Luke Castellan—the bane of your existence and ex-lover. Note: I'm back hello hi this time with PJO! I do have Grishaverse drafts to release (someday) but that's for another time!! This is also cross-posted on Ao3 Word Count: 6.9k

In your many years at camp, the best advice you could probably give somebody is not to date another camper.

Not if they’re a fellow counselor.

Especially not if it’s Luke Castellan.

You learned that lesson the hard way years ago, when you were both a lot younger, with spunkier attitudes and clouded minds. It was a relationship wrenched raw with gritted teeth and hushed arguments, emotions clawing at throats and frustration gnawing at the mind. It was nothing short of tiring, and the only remark worth saying was that it wasn't worth it.

(Sort of. You’re a little too proud to admit that you had your fun during the relationship, and that you really did love Luke, or at least loved him to the extent that adolescent teens could. It was carefree and stupid and full of shared, sappy love-sick grins—and that wasn't so bad.

But you were both childish and angry, nonetheless. And that tipped the balance more often than you would have liked.)

Your breakup was a nasty, bitter fallout that screamed and thrashed all the way back down into the depths of forgotten pasts. After that, you and Luke fell into an explosive and rough dynamic of being at each other’s neck at every passing second, which seemed to have attracted attention from the gods above—and because the gods have such a unique sense of humour, one in particular has decided to grant you and Luke a quest.

And quests meant a trip to the attic of the Big House, and a meeting with the hippie-tie-dye Oracle of Delphi.

“Piss off the aunt lately?” Luke sucks at his teeth, ducking under the beams of the ceiling. You can feel his shadow melt into yours when the attic forcibly squeezes the two of you into the walkway cluttered wall-to-wall with quest paraphernalia.

“I didn't. You might have.” you scoff, suddenly a lot more conscious that your back was pressing into his chest, “You did break that poor girl’s heart from Aphrodite’s cabin a week ago. It’s sad, she was sobbing over her barbecue at dinner.”

“Keeping tabs on me, now?” he snickers, “That’s a new low, even for you.”

“I’m going to smack the shit out of you if you don't shut up, Castellan.”

You see Luke at the corner of your eye step ahead of you, giving a theatrical display of zipping his lips shut before snapping into a sleazy grin when you roll your eyes at him.

The Oracle of Delphi finally comes into sight at the edge of the attic, and Luke has to settle a hand across the base of your spine to keep you moving along when you freeze upon seeing the figure. Visiting the Oracle always left an uneasy feeling that settled like sediment at the bottom of your stomach, and Luke knows exactly, despite the low lights of the attic, that you would be picking at the skin beneath your nail.

He taps his finger on your spine to grab your attention, teasing spelled on his face, “Scared, smart girl?”

You swallow thickly before breaking away from his hand, “In your dreams, crook.”

Luke offers you a small chuckle as he anchors his palms on the beams near your head to keep you from bumping into them when you stalk along the attic, wary of the menacing figure right in front of you.

The skeleton is perched near the stained glass window, and silence simmers in the air so thick it almost shrouds your heartbeat in a muffled vacuum. After a few heavy seconds, the Oracle of Delphi slowly creaks into animation. There’s this odd pull of energy surrounding the flimsy skeleton, perfuming a spine-chilling and nerve-wracking pulse into the air, and into whatever summer clothing she had draped over her bones.

“Oracle of Delphi, we’ve come to seek your guidance.” Luke utters, and you cross your arms behind him, observing the decrepit and stop-motion-like movement of the figure. The skeleton encapsulates the feel of the Oracle in a snap of a finger, her arms creaking into animation and her skull snapping to your direction.

There are no eyes in the vessel as of the Oracle, but you can't mistake the sharp stare she gives you as she utters out the prophecy guided by the goddess of love, Aphrodite. And when she does, you feel a burdening weight forming on your shoulders and a thousand prickling needles at your spine.

Oh, you’ve got to be kidding.

Because to find a “second wind” and bring life and victory to your affairs, the quest from Aphrodite meant that you would have to share a kiss with the Hermes head counselor, your spiteful ex-lover, and the absolute bane of your existence, Luke Castellan.

What a funny joke this was.

—

“Well?” you’re cross-legged atop the ping-pong table, staring accusingly at Luke.

Luke rolls his eyes at you, sharpening his dagger against the wall of the dimly-lit Rec Room, “Well, what?”

The two of you ended up in the counselors’ meeting room just below the attic of the Big House after the prophecy sinked in enough for you and Luke to move down somewhere to confer.

“We’re contesting this with Chiron, aren't we?”

You observe Luke from the table, watching intently as he sighs in frustration, returning the dagger to its leather holster, giving you his full attention now.

“We aren't and we won’t.” he asserts, “And get off the ping-pong table, you’ll break it.”

There’s considerable pressure to his words, but you were never one to back down from his intimidation, so you stand your ground, “I’m going to contest this, Castellan. Whether you like it or not.”

“Under what possible circumstance?” He reasons with slight exasperation, “You know they won't let you contest a prophecy—from Aphrodite—off all gods.”

“It’s a clear case of conflict of interest.” the table creaks, and you heed Luke’s advice to hop off.

“That conflict of interest is a deliberate choice from the goddess. Besides, it’s a kiss. One kiss.” he sighs—you’ve been conferring about the prophecy for a while now, and every second is one wasted on argument instead of preparation, “Do I affect you so much that having me kissing you is such a huge deal? What, afraid you’ll come crawling back for more?”

You squint your eyes at the insinuation.

“The kiss isn’t a big deal for me. I don't care about that, you, and whatever relationship we had in the past.” your voice loses its venomous edge when you see Luke watching you intently through lidded eyes. His gaze is a pressuring expression, as if prompting you to speak more, and your mouth slips beyond grasp when you scoff, “You could kiss me right now and I wouldn't bat an eye.”

Oh shit.

The realization of your statement sinks in the second it leaves your lips. A gasp is stuck in your mouth, and you keenly watch Luke for a reaction.

Luke doesn't shoot his usual retort, taking his sweet time before getting off the wall with a grunt. He walks toward you with a heavy gait, one that echoes in the room as if in mockery of your position.

He finds himself almost between your legs, standing a breath’s width away. Luke chases your gaze when you snap your head the other way.

“Huh,” he smiles, and you feel the sinister intent behind it in your stomach, “Do you wanna repeat that for me?”

There’s a stern look on your face, refusing to budge out of self-preservation and dignity, and he tuts in response, “Look at you. You never change, do you? Pouring out emotion but never committing to it. You’re still all bark and no bite—” he whispers with a rough edge, “Like you’ve always been.”

Luke’s words are an obvious, honest-to-gods ploy. It’s nothing more than plain bait, and he’s waving it in your face to see if he can get you off your high horse and into the ground where he wanted you, and he knows if he pushes this narrative a little further, he can get you to bite down.

You blink, and feel the irritation bubbling, choked into the back of your throat. He didn't have the right to tell you about emotions when he was the one that left after the slightest bit of actual reciprocation.

A second passes and you try to give him a chance to take it back, but he only gives you a cocked eyebrow and a look as if impatiently waiting for your verdict.

He persists, and you huff before staring at him straight in the eye with a burning defiance.

Luke thinks, oh,

He’s fucking got you.

A sharp finger jabs itself into his chest, and Luke finds it exhilarating to have you on your toes, “I said,” the tone of your voice is as tense as a rope pulled taut, “You could kiss me right now, and I wouldn't do so much as bat an eye.”

Your pride is deadly as it is precarious—this is affirmed when Luke plants his palm on either side of your figure on the table, stepping an inch closer to where he has to crane his neck down to keep you in his sight in response to your dispute.

Luke leans his head forward, the mocking grin etched right in his mouth, “You’re sure?”

You aren't, but you’ve gone so far now that retracting your sentiments is equivalent to admitting complete defeat.

And defeat to Luke Castellan was a defeat you could never stomach.

So you persist.

“Try me.” you lift your chin as if to push him further to do what he’s been threatening to. You decide there was a large chance of Luke bluffing, so you prompt, “You don't have the balls to do it, Castellan.”

The heartbeat in your ribs thrums and pounds at your bones, a clear display of your body knowing that you should run before anything untoward happens, but your burning pride keeps your feet planted on the ground.

Luke is the closest he’s ever been since you broke up, head slanted into place with his mouth just above yours. The position is familiar, and you hate that you feel it in the pit of your stomach; Luke was so terribly close. He studies your most miniscule of movements, eyes wandering and lingering on your jaw, your neck, and your lips.

The action is an arrogant, self-assured display of power, fueled by the slight, unwanted flush on your face ignited by the suffocating proximity and the sandalwood perfume on his neck—and when he tips closer, it hits you that maybe Luke wasn't bluffing at all.

So, you do the next best thing after realizing you backed yourself into a corner: you close your eyes and wait for Luke’s mouth on yours.

…

Except, it never comes.

You peek your eyes open with a slow wind, Luke has a smug satisfaction written all over his face. He slips his mouth just above your ear, breath hot and searing when he whispers, “Liar.”

You swallow your dignity into your stomach at the realization that he just humiliated you to your face, and you whisper back at him with a hardened gaze, “I’m gonna make you wish you were dead, you damn crook.”

“Do your best, sweets.” the endearment is an offensive spit in your face. Luke takes a step back before stretching his limbs with a faux yawn as he walks to the door, “Good luck with the contention. Let me know how it goes.”

—

Luke knows you like the back of his hand.

He knows you inside out, from your oddly niche allergies, to the callouses you have on your fingers because you used to compete in unauthorized, handwritten poetry competitions with the campers from Apollo, Demeter, and Aphrodite before Chiron shut it down.

(The poetry competitions somehow turned into betting games, which were also unsanctioned.)

He knows you’re just about the most brilliant strategist at camp, as proven by the quest paraphernalia displayed in the attic that you’ve managed to snag along the way, but you let the younger campers like Annabeth hone their skills and take center stage during camp games.

He knows you have marks on your neck that map out the shape of the Lyra constellation, traced from your neck down to the bottom of your collarbone, and he knows, by heart, how long it takes to kiss the stars, one by one, before you give out on your knees.

Most of all, Luke knows that when you despise somebody, you despise them with a burning hatred that singes and ignites everything around you with charring smoke and flame.

And that’s what he exactly gets for being the ex from a relationship felled by a spiteful fallout: your loud hatred, concentrated resentment, and your sweet, sweet unbridled attention in the quest.

Frankly, Luke supposes having your attention is worth it, despite being rooted in bad faith and distrust in his actions.

“My feet are killing me.” you suck at your teeth, eyes glued to the thickets, “This route’s going to wear us down faster than Aphrodite could ever do.”

You’ve done nothing but go and complain about Luke’s decisions for the past couple of days, and it’s a deliberate call on your end—being annoying and insubordinate just enough to piss him off, but never too much as to jeopardize the quest and its goal.

To be fair, you were the daughter of a war goddess. Your words held weight, and not to mention considerable influence and accuracy on your calls on strategy and quest location planning.

It was just that you were using your mother’s gifts to piss the hell off Hermes’ kid.

It’s a lure dangled just above his face, just out of reach to push Luke to his very limit. You’re convinced it’s an art form in itself, the act of patience and persistence in getting somebody to break.

But you haven't had much luck, because as the world would have it, Luke knew what you were doing, and decided he wasn't going to give you the slightest bit of satisfaction by displaying irritation.

He’ll do just about anything to keep your eye on him.

“Are they, now?” Luke answers, a few steps away from you. He keeps walking, and when he doesn't hear your feet shuffling behind him, he turns around, “Sore?”

“Deadly.” you groan, rolling your ankles off the ground. In your defense, the trail ahead was rigorous, bumpy, and slippery from the recent rainfall. Not to mention the elevation gain throughout. You had more than enough of a right to complain, “We should’ve just cut through the highway instead of playing hiker.”

There was some truth to your assertion—it really would wear you down, but not so exaggeratedly.

Luke crosses his arms, a usual telltale hint of irritation, but none of it is present in his voice, “And be picked off the asphalt by a rogue Fury?”

“At least a Fury would take the pressure off my feet.” you grumble, and continue walking forward when you realize Luke just wasn't biting down. You look to the sky in an attempt to clear your head.

In your reflections, you fail to notice that Luke’s gone quiet with mischief, and you see your clear fault of letting your guard down when you get picked off the ground and hauled over his shoulder like cattle.

“Castellan—” you gasp, your vision in a whiplash, “What the hell! Put me down!”

Luke secures an arm over the back of your knees, the other one supporting your hip on his shoulder. He speaks to you with no hint of a struggle, “You wanted to put the pressure off your feet, right?”

“And the first solution that came to mind was to carry me on your shoulder?” you say in disbelief, propping yourself up with your arms on his back, “That's not how things work, you freak!”

“You’d rather I carry you in my arms?”

“I’d rather you put me down on the ground!”

“And let you hurt your small princess feet?” Luke coos in a voice so sickeningly sweet, it makes you feel as if nauseous from a sugar rush, “You know I’d never let you do that.”

“Gods, I hate you.” you grumble with a voice hinting resignation. You go limp on top of his shoulder when you realize there’s no point in arguing with him, “You’re the worst.”

“Get used to it.” Luke says, starting to walk the trail into the forest, “The worst hasn't even happened yet.”

“And that’s supposed to be what?”

He taps you thrice on the back of your knee, “I’ll let you figure that out on your own.”

—

It’s hard to forget that you and Luke are exes by the way you two fall quickly into a routine when left alone. Despite the rough start to your quest that resulted in petty arguments, derailments, and relentless teasing, your disgruntlement with Luke has sort of fizzled out into something a little more tameable, something malleable under shared snickers and a few will-they-won’t-they situations.

It starts off in treks where he takes your pack without a second thought when your breathing lags a little more than usual because you weren't as physically inclined as you'd like, in moments where you catch him forking away at the raisins in your bread so you wouldn't recoil at the sight, and during slow days when the journey is oddly peaceful, and the two of you wordlessly take detours to see pretty trails that Luke gets a little too excited over.

It ends with Luke falling from a spiraling tree root sprawled on the soil, and with flowering wounds on his hands and face.

“You’re a mess.”

You frown over the soft orange spires of the campfire, watching Luke with a pitiful red bruise birthed from his own actions. He’s fussing over his own wounds, and he tries, really, to the best of his abilities, but Luke hasn't attended a first aid class from Apollo’s cabin in years—and it’s showing in the way he tries to treat the bloody marks on his face.

“You’re pitiful.” You comment, looking down at his hunched figure over the sprawled kit. It doesn't help that it’s nighttime and he struggles more and more with adequate light without burning himself on the bonfire, “A disgrace. Pathetic.”

“I’m hurt.” He says, going back to applying an ointment that comes out way too watery because he doesn't know you have to shake it, “I’m hurt and you’re being mean to me.”

You can hear the obvious dramatisation in his voice, evident in the way he draws out his vowels. He’s pitiful and pathetic—just like you said—but for some reason, you find yourself slumped on a log next to him, stealing the balm from his hands.

“Give it to me.” You grit through your teeth, like you’ve been forced to help him by some unknown force, “Best swordsman in 300 years, and he cannot apply healing ointment on himself.”

It’s a comment made under your breath, and when you shake the tube and apply the cream on his arm, you miss the small smile Luke gives you.

The air is so cold with the night air and ripe with tenderness, and the two of you don't miss its hint when you touch Luke’s chin to move his head to the side, applying ointment on the gash lining his cheekbone.

“I’m shocked you’re not even recoiling at this.” You mutter, lathering out a pea-sized amount on his face, “You must hate it so much.”

It’s rare that you strike up a conversation first, but it seems like the intimacy of the moment has gotten to you, so Luke entertains you, “At what?”

“This.” You sign to the two of you, “I’ve done this to you a lot before, but it embarrasses you every time, doesn't it?”

It always started with you having to fuss over him, and with Luke being pissed off—and ended with an fiery argument without fail.

It was a stupid thing to argue about; but when you’ve just passed the honeymoon threshold of a young relationship, everything felt far too intense far too early.

Luke cannot find it in himself to answer immediately, a little embarrassed by the idea of his past actions, so you pacify the situation by talking, “I get it, you know.” You hum, “I was overbearing, and young, and overexcited.”

“And I was stupid, and angry, and cowardly.” Luke answers, an airy chuckle coming out of his lips, “I think we’re just fair. Actually, I might've been worse.”

You shrug, keeping your concentration on the gash. Luke’s eyes are peeking at the side, taking a look at you through feathered eyelashes.

“Hey, smart girl?”

A hum of acknowledgment lets him know you’re listening despite the utter focus on his cheek.

“I really was stupid back then for a lot of things, wasn't I?”

You stop momentarily. It’s wordless knowledge, knowing what he’s referring to, but you aren't sure you want to mull it over right now. The moment is too dangerously intimate to dabble in something so sensitive, so you decide to respond by whispering out an “Mhm.” before continuing on.

Luke watches you and your concentrated look, your lips jutted out and your nose in a slight scrunch. He feels like he’ll physically melt at the feeling of your hands cradling his face.

You’re finished with fussing over his wounds, and in a state of effortless muscle memory from all the times you had to do this to him before, your grip on his chin unconsciously angles him to face you, and you move to give him a peck on the side of his lip.

You’re so precariously near when you catch yourself and jolt into freezing. There’s only a breath’s width between you and him. It leaves you with Luke’s eyes gazing right into yours, eyes as wide as deer in headlights.

You can hear nothing but the crickets of the forest, the crackling of the firepit, and the ring of your slowly accelerating heartbeat. The time stills into a simmering tick.

Luke’s eyes flicker somewhere down in a split-second, and he squints at you, “Were you going to give me a kiss?”

You’re taken out of the trance, and in a flash of panic, quickly push Luke’s face away from yours, “You look horrible up close, Castellan.”

It’s an offhand comment, but Luke doesn't seem to mind when he scoffs out a comment of his own, “Oh please, we’ve made out a lot closer before.”

A red flush comes out of your face, shocked that he would bring up something so old, “And I hated every second of it every single time.”

You didn't—but his ego doesn't deserve to know that.

“If you hated it so much, you’re about to seethe at the next act of our quest,” Luke shrugs, stretching his arms into the ground behind him.

“And that's what, now?”

“Prophecy says you owe me a kiss, remember?”

—

Oh, shit. You forgot about the kiss.

Completely blinded by your deliberate attempts to usurp Luke’s decisions as primary of the quest, you seem to have forgotten the damning condition of your victory—to share a kiss with your past lover.

Simply put, Aphrodite was bored and decided it was time to pair together people who hated each other to death and make them kiss like dolls.

Was it to rekindle buried feelings? Maybe. Was it to drive the offsprings of gods into insanity? Oh, absolutely.

But whatever Aphrodite wanted to achieve by having you and Luke venture out into the world, it still doesn't do so much as change the thoughts plaguing your head for the last few days.

When was this kiss going to happen?

Since leaving the camp, and after that shred of intimacy that night, every passing moment became ripe with untouched tension, thick enough to cut through with a knife and a saw. You felt your heartbeat pound into your ear at the times when Luke would pull you close when he knew a creature was watching a little too intently, or when he would sit between your legs and let you fuss over his shoulder to have his minor wounds treated.

Normal occurrences at a quest, but with the prophecy looming over your head like an unrelenting shadow of misfortune, you were always distracted at the thought of: is this it?

Your agitation with the prophecy and your fear at the thought that Luke would smoothen you into kindness put you on edge, and soon enough your composure unraveled like loose threads and your formerly safe antics almost cost you and Luke your lives.

But it wasn't always you making the trip a hassle.

Your heavy, dragging breaths fill the tight brick alleyway just on the outskirts of the city you cut through to make a “harmless” shortcut Luke hounded you into taking, where you caught the attention of a rogue minotaur hungry for demigod dessert. Now, you have burnt soles and a creature hot on your tail.

It was a shortcut no different from the one you had insisted on taking, but Luke reason that the alternative trail was the same amount of time, with less elevation, and with more places to get food and water—but before you could leave, you realized why the town felt a lot more deserted than usual.

Luke pulled you inside the slim space by the arm, clutching you close into his body and angling you away from the mouth of the alleyway. He has one hand clamped over your mouth and the other on the base of your spine, pulling you so intensely near that you can smell his perfume and feel the ridges on his chest.

You hear the minotaur’s guttural growls and heavy gait echoing with a sharp thud, slowly and slowly until it disappears out of earshot. It’s only then that you feel the heartbeat pounding into your bones once the adrenaline runs out of your bloodstream.

You seem to realize the minotaur’s disappearance a lot faster than Luke does, with his hand remaining over your mouth and his body still pressed close to yours.

Oh, he was so incredibly close.

The flush on your face deepens at every single passing moment, your fingers picking at the skin beneath your nails, with your body becoming hypersensitive to every point that touches his, fueled by the force of the two brick walls squeezing the two of you together. His body feels warm from the constant running that led you to this moment, excreting bodily heat that seeps into yours the longer he holds you close.

When Luke gazes down after ensuring that the minotaur was out of the immediate area, he finds you studying him with a wide set of eyes. He doesn't say anything, mostly because his ego is enjoying the show, watching you stare at his chest, and his arms, his neck, before ending up on his eyes.

You retain eye contact, and Luke cranes his head to your side to check on you. Luke liked getting in close for things he only wanted you to hear, so when he tipped his head down to ask if you were alright, you stalled—like deer in headlights—and panicked at the feeling of his face so close to yours. You break out of Luke’s hold when the panic seeps into your bones, and you stumble onto the open streets.

You crane your gaze to the left—and meet eyes with the minotaur.

—

The hotel off the highway is dingy and obviously seen better (and more graceful) days, with peeling wall paint, dusty carpets, and a receptionist with a mean streak who barely cares for the customers arriving. The ringer on the desk barely makes a sound over her nail file.

She files her nail with a vigorous back-and-forth, the scratching of the material screeching into your ear like nails on a chalkboard. The bright purple of her hair is mirrored by the bubblegum in her mouth, deflating in a scandalous pop when she decides to entertain you.

Well, not you exactly, but the view of the tall, handsome man standing just behind you. Who was, believe it or not, clutching his injured shoulder.

(Minotaur’s fault; not yours, directly)

You can see the instant attraction in her eyes when it lands on Luke’s figure, and you feel a dull sensation in your ribs.

“Well,” she smacks her lip, looking as if she wanted to undress Luke with her eyes, “Two separate rooms, I hope.”

“Excuse me?” you say, stopping halfway from digging into your bag for the money.

“Two rooms, right?” the receptionist rolls her eyes at you, dragging her words along the floor. She fetches two keys on the counter but keeps them beneath her palm, batting her eyelashes at Luke, “Hey, you—pretty boy. I’m a pretty good masseuse, you know.”

You press your lips together, holding back the incredulous expression your face is dying to spit out.

Two customers annoyed and frustrated at each other, looking for a room; one with a bad shoulder, and the other a sleeve catching on a doorknob away from crashing out into misery.

And the damn receptionist decides it's time to snag a quick hookup?

She continues her little show of seduction, leaning over the counter in her slightly-undone button down. There’s venom and honey dripping on her voice, and a bony finger catches itself on her lip, “I can heal that shoulder of yours real good if you let me come up to your floor.”

It’s unbelievable at this point, you decide. You could tolerate this a lot better if you were having a better day, but today was not that, at all.

Your anger, burning hot and bright, slowly becomes slightly clouded by a churning feeling at the bottom of your stomach when you realize you haven't heard Luke answer—nor did you know how he was reacting to the woman at all.

Was he enjoying the attention? Was he considering blowing off steam with her? Did he like it?

Why do you care?

You don't. That’s what you put your resolve on—and there are more serious things to think about, like how you’re on the verge of failure in your quest. He could fool around with anyone, and that wouldn't be your business. It shouldn't be your business.

Whatever turns him productive enough to lead you to completion of Aphrodite’s favor.

Your thoughts are on the verge of collapse, but as if by some wicked timing, the receptionist shakes you out of your trance and pushes you into irritability tenfold when she slips over to you one key.

“Here’s ‘ya room. Leave your boy to me, hm?”

You feel like a kettle, slowly boiling until it’s time to explode and spill over scalding hot insults and lectures about the lack of decency being given. You’re about to start when you feel a chin nuzzled into your shoulder and a hand at your waist.

Luke whispers in your ear, “She’s not worth it.”, staring at the receptionist dead in the eye before exchanging the one key for money.

“Just one room. We’ll be fine, alone.”

The elevator ride is dragging, and you’re standing on opposite sides as if Luke wasn't just clinging on you from the last minute as a response to the flirty receptionist. He looks at the floor with a restrained expression, and you have a flat frown on your mouth. It takes what feels like decades before the carriage reaches your floor.

The doors open into a narrow hall, dimly lit with matching dull carpets from the lobby. Your room isn't in any better shape than the rest of the building. It might be worse when the door shuts and another misunderstanding erupts.

“What happened back there?” Luke asks, his voice pulled taut by tension, but held back by the need to not escalate the situation, “Why did you freak out on me?”

Luke knows you’re keeping something secret, you’ve had a shift in behaviour that he doesn't exactly recognize, but feels familiar all the same.

You keep his gaze leveled to yours, “I’m not the one at fault here, Castellan. We wouldn't have been there if we took the original route.”

“Fine,” he groans, “It was my fault we ended up in that stupid alley in the city outskirts. I didn't factor in why the map wouldn't mark it as a route in the first place. But that’s not what I’m asking, isn't it?”

“What are you asking then?”

“Why’d you freak out on me in that alley?”

“And that’s such a big deal?”

“It’s a big deal because that meltdown of yours cost us an injury, supplies, and now transport money that we have to use on this hotel.” he stalks closer, tone suspiciously clear of malice, “You’re smart. You know we don't have enough time or resources for the quest, no?”

“I know that.” you snarl. You don't even know when you stood up, “Shit happens, Castellan. I can't control when and where I panic.”

“But you can.” he shrugs. You have no idea when he got so close, “I may not know what happened, but I do know you—you’re calm, collected; you hate being driven by emotion and you are Athena’s favourite child for a reason.”

You look away to the side, refusing to make eye contact, “What are you trying to say?”

“I’m saying,” Luke drawls, as if the answer is staring at you, “Either your skills have downgraded for absolutely no reason at all, and you’ve become a shame of a daughter of a war goddess—or, something else has shook you to your core entirely. Something, or someone. That’s my guess.”

It was true—you were shaken by the prophecy and let the panic from it settle far too deep into your bones, but you were a lot more pissed by the way Luke was speaking to you. As if he knew you from the inside out, and to hell with him thinking that way.

He didn't have the right.

“You wanna know the reason, crook?” Your finger jabs into his shoulder, and you have to look up to his towering height to meet his gaze and get your point across. You were at such a close proximity now, it's as if you could taste the smugness in his voice.

He rolls his eyes, and shrugs mockingly, “Well, don't keep me waiting.”

You let out a good exhale before you postulate.

“The prophecy got under my skin.” Luke senses the tinge of nervousness in your voice, the end of your sentence faltering into a low mutter, “As much as I want to be the perfect quest companion you need so bad, the prophecy that we would have to eventually kiss crawled into my head and won't leave my consciousness since.” your voice tries to remain steadfast, “Every time you’re near, I think about the kiss, and I panic because I wouldn't know what to do with myself and I wouldn't know what to do with you. Happy now?”

You pull out a sharp exhale, “You make me nervous, Castellan. You still make me nervous.”

Luke stares at you like gears are turning in his head, his eyes flickering between your gaze and your lips. The realization of what you just said hits you in the ribs, and you feel as if the oxygen in the room is too little to keep you alive and breathing. You swallow your pride and your embarrassment, wide-eyed and on your toes.

You almost move to ask Luke to say something, anything really, but he cuts you off wordlessly when his hand weaves its way into your hair and his mouth finds its slot against yours.

Time grinds into a halt, and you realize that in all the times you imagined the prophesized kiss in shameful fever dreams and trances, you never expected for it to be this: Luke kisses you like he’s been starving for months. He’s deprived and angry and desperate and moves as if there wasn't anything else he’d rather be doing than to dishevel you in the middle of the room and leave your knees weak and trembling like he used to.

Oh, gods. The kiss is like water, like a delirious thirst in your bones finally quenched and an itch you’ve been dying to scratch. You’re stunned at first, but find yourself kissing him back just as quick and just as desperate.

“I waited far too long for this.” he rasps into your mouth, tongue swiping on your bottom lip to open your mouth, “Couldn't get my mind off you even when we broke up.”

“Shut up, Castellan, for once.” you breathe out, and Luke can’t help to restrain himself when he smiles against your lips.

“I tried everything to get close again.” He says in between kisses, “Who knew we only needed a damn quest?”

The two of you are sprawled on the creaking twin-bed mattress, and Luke, despite his bad shoulder, hauls you into his lap with a burning intention to keep you there. His lips trace from pecking at your lips, to nibbling at the skin behind your ear, to tracing down searing hot, open-mouthed kisses on the bottom of your jaw.

“Castellan, I—” you gasp, melting between his mouth and the hand that’s running lines over your hips.

“That’s not my name.” he mutters between kisses, turning you over with your back to the mattress, “Say my name, smart girl.”

If you were in any sort of proper thought, you’d be flushed red and annoyed at Luke for speaking to you this way—but all rationality is thrown through the window when his lips are on your neck.

You swallow your pride, your dignity, and everything in between, “Luke.” it’s a whimper when it comes out, and he pulls you in impossibly closer.

He hums in satisfaction, dropping his head over one of the moles on your neck. Luke gives it a small lick before smoothing it over with a kiss, “Vega.”

To your collarbone, “Sheliak.”

Down to the mole just above your chest, “Sulafat.”

He’s naming the stars in the Lyra constellation, and your mouth lets out a choked moan, “Luke, shit—”

Luke pulls away after one more quick peck, and he doesn't waste time admiring your figure from head to toe. You’re resting against the white pillows, breathing heavily with a disheveled look when he asks, “You good?”

The moment finally sinks into your mind in a panicked, cascading waterfall of information—that you’ve just shamelessly made out with your ex after a frustrating run, and that you were basically pinned against him on a bed.

It’s a wash of fresh, hot shame. Before you can help it, words spill out your mouth in an attempt to save face.

“That,” you blink, still a little hazy from having Luke’s mouth on yours.

“Go on,” He says, patiently, “Take your time.”

“Well, that’s—uhm” you inhale, “—don’t take that personally, Castellan.” you rasp out, trying to hide the weakness in your voice, “That was just for the quest.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” you nod cautiously, “We’ve got the prophecy out the way now, haven't we?”

You doubt you were convincing him any more than you were convincing yourself when Luke gives you a sickeningly sweet grin. He’s still pinned over you, like he refuses to be anywhere else.

“Mhm,” he coos, “Sure it was.”

“That didn't mean anything to me.” you repeat, to yourself more than anyone, “And that didn't mean anything to you.”

“Speak for yourself,” Luke shrugs, now falling into the pillows next to you. He closes his eyes, sinking into the bed, “That meant the world to me.

There’s a mixture of confidence and lack of hesitation in his voice, and when you prop yourself on your elbows to look at him, he was disheveled with smeared lip gloss all over his mouth, and he looked the happiest he’s been in days.

“Hear that?” he goads with a lilt that sounds suspiciously like bait, like he’s prompting you to retaliate, “I said the kiss meant the world to me.”

You find it unimaginable to believe him, but when Luke gathers your hands in his and places them against his lips with a soft exhale, you feel your stern resolve melting at every passing second.

“You don't mean that.” Your voice sounds even weaker now, like you’re hanging on by a thread.

“I do. I mean every single word.” Luke kisses your knuckles, softly whispering, “I can prove it to you, if you’ll let me.”

It’s scary.

It’s a scary realization to know what Luke’s asking for, and an even scarier realization was the fact that you were willing to give him another shot.

A second wind. Like what the prophecy asked for.

“You’re lucky I tolerate you, you crook.”

In your many years at camp, still, the best advice you could probably give somebody is not to date another camper.

But when you’re tasked to go on a journey with them promising a kiss at the end, maybe it wouldn't hurt to give it a chance.

Especially if it’s somebody like Luke Castellan.

“The luckiest alive, smart girl.”

—

“That’s my victory, then, forehead-spawn.”

A sultry voice echoes in Olympus. Aphrodite leisurely fans her face with a smug look, satisfied by the outcome of the prophecy.

Athena gives her nothing but a disgruntled expression.

#luke castellan x reader #luke castellan x you #luke castellan #pjo #percy jackon and the olympians #riordanverse

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