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rennorthernlights · 2 years ago

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Breaking You In

Ghost X Reader/OC——————————————————————————————

Brief Summary: Hiding your identity as an Omega is nothing new but hiding it in an Elite Taskforce is harder than you thought.

Your callsign is Mustang due to your stubbornness and the “Fuck You” attitude that you tend to embody. You take your heat-blocking pills religiously until they don’t come in anymore.

Just what you need… The beginning of Pre-heat is starting to show and your losing your mind with how annoying the Lieutenant is being.

(There’s no description of what Mustang looks like. I just wanted to name her that.)

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MINORS DNI+18 AND UP ONLY Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Non-Con to Dub-Con, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Sex, Aggressive Behavior, Aggressive Sex, Spanking, Dom/Sub, Forced Submission, Overstimulation, Ghost Ain’t A Good Guy In This But He’s Hot, Forced Bonding, Forced Mating, Semi-Public Sex, Semi-Clothed Sex, Breeding Kink, Ghost Tryna Be A Dad And Daddy, Choking, Hands On Throat, Tell Me If I Missed Any

MINORS DNI+18 AND UP ONLY

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The world has a love for Alphas in the military, they’re stronger and aggressive, good for the firefights and the bullets. Dominant and steelier compared to the Betas. Many of the Alphas tend to hold the higher positions in the military just due to their second nature alone. Leading most of the military fields save for the Betas that manage to keep up with them. Even the elite Taskforces are no different due to them being chalk full of Alphas and a handful of Betas. Only the best of the best is needed after all.

Omegas on the other hand… now that’s a different story. Most Omegas that choose to work have more of the “Less-Stressful” jobs. At least that’s what the unspoken rule is supposed to be. Some old-fashioned Alphas and even Betas would say that a good Omega is an Omega with their legs spread for a knot and filled with pups. Made to only raise the young and be good for their better mates. Depending on who you talk to it’s practically looked down upon if an Omega has a job.

Docile. Sweet. Easy.

That is what the world expects of Omegas. At least that’s what THEIR world expects. When you first presented as an Omega at the young age at 12 years old you refused to stay seated. Not surprising since your moms an Alpha and your dads a Beta, if anything they were more surprised that their daughter turned out to be an Omega.

“Just keep your head down.” Is what your mother would say to you over and over again. Snapping at you when you started doing things an Alpha or Beta would do. Their own views on how to train up an Omega became demeaning and suffocating. Even going so far that when you turned 18 years old your mother set you up with an old Alpha suitor.

With no foreseeable way out and your future hanging by tiny threads you did the only thing you could think of. Something drastic and life changing that could take you far away from your parents and that would-be suitor.

You signed up for the military.

18 years old and you dived headfirst into it. Inhaling nearly every heat-blocking pill on the market to hide what you are. Going against the rules and forging your documents. It’s amazing that you haven’t been caught but as long as you keep taking the pills there’s not much to worry about. Besides your CO’s would’ve blamed you if you caused the alphas to go into a rut if you chose to keep your heats. So what if you have to take some experimental pills? It keeps you safe and keeps you far away from your parents and the old Alpha your parents wanted you to mate.

Now, that was 5 years ago. 5 years of putting blood, sweat and tears into your military career. 23 years old and you gained the nickname “Mustang” for being far too stubborn and forward for your own good. Having an argumentative streak with your CO’s and calling them out for shitty plays on the battlefield. It’s no wonder that when the Captain of the 141 read over your file that he immediately requested for you to join. Seeing the potential in you and fire in your eyes reminded him of his Beta, Gaz.

At first you thought it was a joke, a jest that he’d want someone with only 5 years of experience, at least until you realized that he was dead serious in his inquiry. The Alpha Captain became deadset on taking you under his wing to help mold you into something better.

Upon meeting the team, you got along like dry leaves in a fire when you met Gaz, a kind and ever-patient Beta Sergeant. Nearly had your minds meld together when meeting Soap, the demolition Sergeant, and in time he told you with complete trust that he’s an Omega. The 141 treat him normally and as if he’s not just his nature was very eye opening to say the least, to see a fellow Omega be treated so well nearly made you come clean. But you digress, you trust them with your life but not something like this.

You got along well, building up lifelong bonds all except for the Lieutenant… he’s as Soap likes to call him. “A spooky bastard.” Hard and tough around the edges, as prickly as a cactus and even more of a hardass when it comes to drills.

Though it’s to be expected especially from the way he’s always in a corner, brooding with hardly a tell of an emotion with that skull mask of his on. Doesn’t help that he’s always quick to spot your mistakes. Every single mistake. Quicker to growl a sneer when you butt heads. Though you hate to begrudgingly admit that you’ve learned more under his watchful eyes. Amber brown eyes that always seem to be on you the second you’re in sight.

Though it’s been like that for months; you’ve had an easy rhythm with the Sergeants and you fall right into step with the Alpha Captain but for some reason. You and the Lieutenant? It’s like the two of you can’t see eye to eye. Doesn’t help that he’s been constantly hovering over you, being an unwanted guardian as he wards off the other Betas and Alphas. His scent always around you and sometimes on you much much to the increasingly teasing Sergeants. An almost knowing look in Soaps eyes when he smelled Ghost on you… again.

Your clothes somehow carry his scent like as if he’s rolling around in it. You swear that if it wasn’t for the pills you take you would’ve gone into heat a couple months ago. It’s annoying that the Lieutenant, the bane of your existence, gets his scent on you. Wards off the guys and ladies that you used to have one-night stands with. The soldiers fearing the wrath from a man who isn’t even your mate and you hate that he’s fucking with your ability to get laid these past couple months.

It reaches a boiling point when the Captain is put on a month-long bedrest, no longer able to play mediator between the two of you. Hell, even the Sergeants have a hard time breaking up the yelling matches you both have.

“Have some fucking respect.”

“Maybe try earning it.” You growl back, postering at him like an Alpha would. The other soldiers already leaving the breakroom to not have to deal with whatevers going on between the two of you.

The latest argument you’re having is over something useless that you can’t be bothered to remember. All you know is that he said something that’s pissing you off. Doesn’t help that the latest request for your heat-blocking pills haven’t been cleared just yet. You told Price in confidence a couple months back about what your second nature is, course you got an earful, but he swore he’d keep it to his grave. Normally he’s is quick to have them sent in but since he’s been on bedrest the paperwork has just been sitting in his office desk drawer collecting dust. You’ve already been off it for a week, swallowing your immense pride, you had sent in the request to a higher up that Price trusts but for some reason they never come in.

Your body is going through the drawbacks. That scent of yours has been jumping from sour to sweet throughout the days making your hormones shoot up dangerously. Hindbrain starting to encourage your pre-heat to flush out the remaining toxins of the pills. Any other team and you’d be scared but due to how well Soap is treated, you’re not too worried. So far no one has called you an Omega or even tried to imply what you are, and you would prefer to keep it like that.

The Lieutenant scoffs at your audacity pulling you from your thoughts as you shake your head of them. “I think I’ve earned plenty of your respect since I’ve saved your hide more times than I can count,” dark amber eyes narrowed as he stares down at you. “Omega.” Smelling out your second nature and it makes you freeze up. Your hands balling into tight fists as you fight the instinct of running away. A whisper in your ear that you should just stop antagonizing him but no. No, you press on.

Standing up straighter and if your glare could deepen any more then it would. “Don’t call me that, Ghost.” Distain towards him as your scent spikes up in a sweetening anger. Pre-heat befuddling your mind as you nearly bared your throat when he called you by your nature.

“What should I call you then, Mustang?” Taking a large whiff of the room. His eyes darkening, “You smell like an Omega.” Taking a step forward and you feel more acutely aware of how it’s really just you and him in the breakroom. “Smell just like one in pre-heat too.”

He lunges forward. “Hey! What are you—?!” An alarm goes off in your head to get away as he moves far too quickly for you to scramble and evade him, large hands grabbing and shoving you against the wall. “Let go!” You yell and throw your fist forward that he easily catches. Gripping hard and snatching your other hand to force them over your head. His thigh sliding hard between your legs as you breath in sharply. “You fucking basta-“ thick fingers shove into your mouth, you gag and cough at the sudden intrusion. Eyes watering in response and you see the blatant amusement in his eyes. Anger riling up so you bite down on the fingers forcing him to yank them out.

Guess he didn’t like that as grabs your neck with the same bitten fingers. “Feisty little Omega.” Squeezing your throat causing you to gasp as his grip hardens until you start to see spots. “No wonder you’ve been acting the way you’ve been. Heat coming up now that you ain’t downing those pills. Just need an Alpha to put you in your place, yeah?” The muscles in his thigh tense as grinds it against your core. Releasing just enough pressure from your neck that makes you gasp and gulp for air. If your brain worked faster you would’ve caught on to the fact that he knows you take pills.

“F-Fuck you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” brown eyes rolling, “Always such a mouth on you.” Moving his hand down your throat, ghosting over the mounds of your breast till he cups one through your shirt and squeezes. “Maybe a knot will make you easier to work with. Make you nice and pliant. When’s the last time you’ve been fucked anyways?” A grin under his mask as he knows exactly how long it’s been for you.

Your heart beating wildly as your teeth nearly stab into your lip to bite back a moan. His thumb pressing on the nub of your nipple through your bra and shirt. “No smart mouth, no snippy remark? Guess I finally shut you up.” Smirking under his mask as he spots the table in the breakroom before looking back at you like as if he’s been given the most amazing idea. His hand moving to the back of your neck and forcing you to move.

Jerking around and fighting uselessly as he bends you over the table stomach down. Hiking your ass up to present even as you try an squirm away. Almost successful in your attempt until a hard smack resounds in the room. Eyes bulging wide as he pulls his hand back and does it again. “Ah!” Screaming out as he smacks your ass with purpose. His hand on the base of your neck keeping you face down as you squeal and pant.

A meek, defiant growl from you as he responds with another harsh smack. “Behave, Mustang. Be glad I’m not making you count them.” Tears pricking your eyes as they shut tight, having mentally lost count of it ten slaps ago.

Tears falling down your face wetting the table as you half expect another smack and yet he cups your burning ass, your pants have done nothing to shelter your cheeks as you felt every sting of the assault. “There we go.” Gasping quietly when his large fingers grasp and fondle to soothe the ache, “Already bein sweet for me.” Taking a lungful of your enticingly sweet smell, “Can smell your slick,” he states downright devilishly as you tense. Your ass stiffening while your thighs shift tightly together, your body betraying you as you hate how right he is.

Tutting disapprovingly and reaching his hand around and dipping inside your pants right when you start to protest weakly. Sliding a gloved finger harshly against your soaked panties. “Soakin my glove.” Cupping your soaked cunt as it seeps into his glove. “Naughty, naughty Omega.” Purring against your ear making you wail louder. You’d try to escape if he wasn’t pressing his whole weight down on you. Kicking your feet apart with his boot and thrusting forward, canting his strong hips against the flush of your clothed ass. Something impossibly hard pressing and rubbing against your bottom that makes your eyes roll back as his fingers graze harder on your panties in time with his thrust.

“S-Shit.. ah s-stop! Please,” you beg as it’s too much, you haven’t been sexual with anyone in a while. Especially with your hormones out of whack, his scent smells stronger, dominating and thickening in the room. Invading your nostrils, intoxicating and encouraging more wetness out of your disloyal cunt. The sensitive walls clench when he presses a finger inside, your hole clenching around the cotton, the fabric of your panties rubs against your throbbing clit. You can’t stop the moans that fall from your lips even if you wanted to.

A coil starting to curl within you. “No, no, no, ah!” Your pleas fall on deaf ears as he continues humping more aggressively. Grinding and circling his hips against yours, the table creaking under you as his strong body keeps you under him. Trapped and forced to just take it as the pleasure he’s giving you is mixing up the signals in your brain.

You don’t even realize his hand on your neck has left in favor of shucking his mask up, latching his hot mouth against the glands on your neck. Teeth grazing on the sensitive gland as the heat of his mouth sends shocks through your body. “This what you needed, pretty girl?” Whining in response when he removes his hand from inside your pants. His glove soaked with your juices. “S’why you’ve been such a brat. Had to keep pushin and pushin me till I had to do somethin about your problem.”

“N-no I-“ breath hitching as he bites on your throat, sucking harshly as you can’t find the words to speak coherently. Small mercy that he didn’t bite down too hard on the mating gland, merely sucking bruises on it. A grin etching into the skin of your sensitive throat. His tongue lapping and circling as he feels you shake and mewl under him. Having a harder time to not give into your baser needs. Body betraying you as you buck back in time with his canting hips as your hands move and fist near your face.

Finally letting up as he leans back, you breathe so hard as you look behind you through half-lidded eyes. Sweat beading around your forehead causing your hair to stick to your skin. His hands working fast to unbuckle his belt and pants. Pulling them down past his thighs and his boxers following suit. Eyes widening as you see his large thick cock already leaking pre. The flare of his knot making him seem much thicker. Cock slapping against his stomach and you know that a knot like his won’t fit. Blood pumping faster as you fear you can’t take that size in you.

Watchful molten eyes noticing how you try to shift away from him. A thick hand landing forcibly on your back to keep you still as he works on undoing your pants. Pulling them down as you stutter and beg for him not to. “No, no, no, darling. Gotta give you my knot.” Panties falling down, the ever increasing shame burns on your face as your slick slides down. “See? You want it. Need it from the looks of it.” Arms shaking and you try to hit behind you as he just laughs cruelly. Grabbing both of the flailing arms and pinning them against your back with one hand.

Your thighs instinctively try to close but he’s having none of it. Forcing your legs apart with another kick of his boot. A firm grip on your hip before sliding it under a bit to make you lift your reddened ass up. Slotting the meat of his cock through your glistening, fluttering folds. Sliding in between over and over, slowly teasing your engorged clit with the head of his thick tip.

“So fuckin wet for me. Haven’t even fucked you yet and you're pouring on my cock.” Moaning embarrassing louder as he inches the tip into your tightening hole.

A forceful push, heading deeper inside as you plead for him to pull out, to stop what he’s doing but he doesn’t hear you. Too lost in the feeling of your warm, tight cunt squeezing so nicely around him. Even with the gush of your wetness easing a bit of the stretch, it still burns. Ghost is by far the thickest you’ve ever taken. He doesn’t stop until he’s buried all the way to the hilt. “Fuck!” He murmurs lowly while his eyes shut just as yours do from the feeling of being so full.

Pussy gripping him hard, “Relax for me.” Grunting hard as he circles his hips. The hand under your hip lifts you a bit more as your mouth parts to suck in air. “You can take it. That’s a good girl.”

Hardly giving you the time to adjust as he pulls back, his tip not escaping your heat before slamming back in. Whimpering due to the electrifying shot of pain and pleasure, “P-Please, it.. it ah hurts!” Ghost murmurs something rough as tears begin to prick your eyes. His hand moves from your hip and instead of stopping his thrusts, he circles a finger around your wanting clit. Your eyes opening wide as more slick starts coming out more. Easing his large cock in you as your body starts to take him better.

“That’s it, that’s a good little slut,” slamming his hips fast as his fingers work a slow torturous pace on your bundle of nerves. “Doin so good for me Omega. Clench ‘round me baby.” Heavy balls slapping with each harsh thrust. His mouth latching against your glands, muddling your brain further as your Omega nature preens in response of being taken by this strong alpha. “Knew you’d be perfect for me. Just had to stop the pills from coming in.” His damning words not heard as he keeps up his brutal pleasuring pace. The smell of the heady sex permeate the breakroom, filthy sounds of wet slaps of thigh against thigh only enthralls your Omega nature more.

Becoming pliant as you moan and keen high in pleasure, mouth hanging open as the tip of his cock bullies into your tight cunt, making a home inside your gummy walls. His grunts and dirty words sinning against your ear as he growls about how you’re his now. That you’ll never escape him. A possessiveness scent seeping into the room as you babble useless words. His fingers, nearly forgotten due to the mind-numbing pace of his burrowing cock, start to move faster and press harder against your clit. Sliding his finger side to side just as fast as the hard smack of his balls intensifies the pleasure tenfold. “Cum for me, Omega. Wanna— agh,” grunting deeply behind you, “Wanna feel it.”

Your traitorous body gives in when he angles his hips and slams against that spot that makes you scream. Stars blurring your vision as you cum, squeezing and milking his cock as he pounds into you with renewed vigor. The tightening walls suck him back into your greedy pussy. “Gonna breed you good.” A heavy-laden promise as his eyes darkens with dangerous lust. His upper body hunching over as he presses his forehead against the side of yours as you plead for more. His hand moving from your pinned arms, placing his elbow beside your head to give himself more leverage as pistons his hips faster.

Hammering into your pussy as the wood of the table screams from the exertion and scraps against the floor. Your words bouncing against the walls, “Pl-Please, please, please!” Begging for it now. Begging for more, for his cum and his knot. Too lost in the pleasure to really understand what you’re saying. “Alpha, Alpha please!” Crying out as it’s too much and yet not enough. Overwhelming animal instinct to be bred by your strong Alpha. Arching your hips in time to feel him growl loudly, the vibrations tingling up and down your spine.

“I’m going to, Omega, I’m going to.” pulling back suddenly before slamming back into you full force with his damning vow. “I’m gonna breed you till you can’t take it.”

Pulling back out and forcibly turning you around, back now on the hard surface of the table. He looks downright predatory as he licks his lips. Yanking the rest of your pants and panties off, ripping them off even with you wearing your boots in wanton abandon, discarding them out of sight and out of mind.

His hands grabbing your ankles and placing them over his shoulders. Your boots scraping the skin of his flesh be he could give less of a fuck right now. Maneuvering your knees against your chest to fuck you deeper, feeling deliciously constricted since his body is blocking out everything from your sight. Everything but him.

“Gonna give you my knot. Make you mine in every way.” The newer position makes him feel even larger inside you. Pounding into you as your moans sound heavenly to his ears. Pressing more of his weight into you, caging you in as if his only thought is to fuck into your fertile womb. An animalistic need in his eyes as he gives into his own nature to claim the Omega under him. “You want it? Want my knot? Beg for it.”

“Want it! Want it s-so bad! Please, Alpha!” Wasting no time as you work hard to form the words. Jumbling and spilling over it but you don’t stop in your mindless pleading. Your pleading flipping a switch in him as he no longer cares about the consequences. He’ll deal with them later because right now all he wants to do is fill your pretty pussy till it overflows.

Surging forward, his teeth bites down harshly against your mating gland. Mine. Mine. Mine! Eyes rolling back to your skull as you cum faster and harder. The build up of the dam inside the both of you breaking as the swell of his knot starts to catch. Teeth digging into your neck as he intends to make the binding claim as deep as he can. Tears springing out your eyes as your legs shake in the tidal wave of pain and pleasure.

“Mine.” Growling aggressively in affirmation as he moves away from your throat and kisses you roughly, “Mine.” Mouthing the word against your swelling lips that can’t keep up with him. His hips stuttering as his muscles clench, the need for him to cum approaching faster. Balls tightening up as he forces home his thick knot inside your sensitive walls. “Mine!” His forehead falls against yours as he roars out that soul-claiming word. Hot spurts of cum filling your greedy and welcoming womb. His knot expanding wide and locking you to him for now.

“G-Gho— mph!“ his lips dominating against yours, shutting you up as he grinds his knot while his balls empties the rest of his thick seed in you. Moans being swallowed by the other in response. Tongues wrestlings as he takes hold of your boot and eases it off his shoulder. The other following suit as he wraps them loosely around his waist. Your mewls being swallowed by the hungry kiss that he gives you, possessive and devouring as he doesn’t let up. Moving his mouth down, trailing kisses and nips gently against your chin and then to your throat where the mating mark is on your neck. His permanent mark on you.

Chest against chest as you both pant heavily. The clothes worn sticking almost uncomfortably due to the sweatiness of each other. His warm tongue lapping lovingly against the mark he made before he finally leans back. His knot still keeping the both of you connected as it won’t deflate for a bit longer. The smell of the intense coupling is sure to deter anyone from even getting within 30 feet of the breakroom. Not that he’d ever let anyone see you like this. Not his pretty little mate. No, no, no, this sight is for him and him only.

Drinking in the vision of you, mellowed out and soft on the hard table. Hair spread around you like a halo, tired eyes shutting to a close, mouth open and panting. The bulge in your stomach scratches at the delicious size difference between the two of you. His cock twitches from inside you as he wonders how you’ll take him if he took your plump ass. Though an animalistic instinct demands that he not waste his seed, preferring to keep his Omega filled with his warm seed. Snug and protected safely in your precious womb.

“Ghost,” your words softer than he’s ever heard it, eyes opening as you shiver from the shift in his touching, his scent smells more welcoming. More warmth, like firewood on a cold night and the bourbon that he likes. The rare gentleness throwing you off a bit as he rocks his hips forward. A low hiss from your mouth as you’re far too sensitive and yet a slow build of pleasure starts to grow as your overstimulated pussy clenches in response. Your head turning up with a needy whine.

His lips pull back into a wolfish smile. Needy Omega he muses to himself. His Omega. “Simon.” Stating his name and he places a large warm hand over the bulge of your stomach. A primal instinct lighting up at the thought of the seed catching on the first try. Imagining you round with his pups is a black hole that he’ll gladly fall into. He didn’t mean to bite you, didn’t mean to claim you but what’s done is done.

He just wanted to fuck and get rid of his obsession over you but if he did this all over again he wouldn’t stop himself. He’d gladly bite you over and over again.

“Call me Simon.” Your breath hitching as he says his name firmly, commanding you to him by a name he rarely gives out. “Want you to say my name from now on.” His knot starting to deflate. “After all,” He may not have meant to bite you but that doesn’t mean he won’t uphold it. You’re his now. He won’t let go of you no matter how much you’ll kick and scream once your senses finally come to and the high of pleasure fades. Slowly pulling out as his potent cum spills out. Your head scrunches up, sighing pathetically from the loss of his cock.

“You’re mine now.”

His hand sliding between your shaking legs that still wrap loosely around his waist. Scooping up the cum that tries to escape, to go where it shouldn’t. A rumble in his chest, his second nature demanding to keep his Omega filled and sated. His fingers push it back in eliciting a sharp gasp. He can’t help but grin at how sensitive you are.

He leans close and as he uses his fingers as a plug. “Now be a good little mate and keep’em safe. Gotta make do on my promise to breed you after all.” His cock already starting to harden, his stamina has always been the best and he’s never broken a promise.

Ever.

#simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #alpha simon riley #Possessive Simon Ghost Riley #cod smut #alpha/beta/omega dynamics #alpha/beta/omega verse #Alpha/Omega #Your smart mouth lands you in trouble #non con #non con to dub con #READ THE TAGS #minors dni #breeding k1nk #kn0tting

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ma1dita · 1 year ago

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said he likes crazy

a ‘partners in crime’ installment - luke castellan x dionysus!reader prev -> anything you want | next -> play pretend words: 2.1k summary: (pre-established relationship) The one where only he can help you with a bad day, even if he's been avoiding you since your first kiss. Luke Castellan x fem!Dionysus!reader a/n: SAID HE LIKES CRAZY GIRLS, BUT HE HATES WHEN I ACT CRAZY guys i didnt sleep for this pls tell me its ok (posted 1/29/24, beta’d by the lovely ellie @lixzey )

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He’s been avoiding you.

To be specific, Luke’s been running away from you. Typical son of Hermes, and a typical teenage boy at that. But if anyone’s asked you what’s up (which, they all have, after almost 4 years of seeing you two not go a day without bickering), it’s just easier to say you’ve been busy.

Okay, so perhaps you’ve been avoiding him too.

Annabeth clocked you as soon as you turned tail after almost bumping into him after archery practice. Damn children of Athena; it’d be nice if they weren’t so perceptive sometimes.

“What did he do this time?” she pipes up, filling the silence of the Big House. It’s late now, and the cabin counselors’ meeting just ended.

“Seeing as you’re the one helping me with the paperwork tonight and not him, you can take a good guess, Annie,” you sigh.

Honestly though, who the fuck kisses someone senseless and then runs away? (Luke Castellan, that’s who.) You weren’t sure what to make of it. You’re a daughter of chaos, after all, not love. But if there’s anyone who can read your emotions better than yourself, it’s him.

Annabeth stares at her idiot brother through the window as he wanders in the grass outside the Big House.

“That bad, huh?”

“He’s just…being Luke,” you say, blinking slowly as you shuffle through the last of the files you need to put on your dad’s desk before you mutter, “I’m just having a bad day.”

A noise of concern makes its way up Annabeth’s throat. You haven’t had a bad day in a while, in all honesty, not one that makes you act like this, admittedly not one that makes you act like you— the daughter of Dionysus, god of insanity, and not the daughter of Mr. D, camp director.

It was just a bad day until it turned into a bad week, and the voices in your head were starting to get loud without Luke distracting you. Because that’s what he ultimately is, a distraction from your camp duties.

There’s so much to do and so little time, however, that you hide away your microexpressions that seem to be clawing at you from the inside. The anger, the mania, the hurt. If you unleash it, only the gods can predict how much of camp would be affected by your ‘outbursts’, as your dad likes to call them. Not like you had a choice in the matter. Your days of wreaking havoc are behind you, now presenting yourself as the stellar star of the Camp Half-Blood show. It’s almost a one-woman production with you picking up after your father and trying to tame the traits he passed down.

Thanks for that, D.

So you give and you give and you give—all your attention and time and effort into keeping camp upright, into being the perfect daughter, that at the end of the day, you’ve drained yourself of who you are with who you try to be.

You look at your tired reflection in the window, before your eyebrow raises at the sight of Luke blending in with the shadows of the tree he’s leaning against. Idiot.

“Annie, would you mind…”

“Yeah, I’ll do cabin checks myself. Might drag your brother to do them with me,” she smiles, patting your arm before grabbing her bag.

“If he complains, let me know. Pollux has heard me bitch enough today.” The small girl raises an eyebrow at that, biting her tongue from responding. You chewed out a lot of people today, acting extra uptight and demanding of the counselors to “just do the right thing.” It was almost insufferable, but despite you trying to hold it in, your emotions bled into their own. Everyone was agitated by the end of the meeting, filing out quickly with biting words and hot tempers. You couldn’t help but notice Luke led them all out of there, and they also somehow got the feeling that he was to blame.

Smiling at Annabeth in thanks, you watch her walk out to Luke before punching him in the stomach as he grimaces, meeting your violet gaze through the window as he raises a hand. It’s hard to tell if it’s to signal a truce or his embarrassment, but he trudges the way up the path and the door creaks open.

“Heard you were having a bad day,” he mumbles, scratching the nape of his neck. You look at him from the corner of your eye as you continue to write down the weekly to-dos and organize papers for your dad to sign and send back to Zeus.

“Why are you still here, Castellan?”

“So we’re back to that? I thought…” his voice trails off at the sound of his last name, not Luke, not angelface, or anything in between, and both of you are unsure how to proceed. Neither of you have done this before, at least not with each other. You tilt your head to the side, daring him to speak, and it reminds him of a week ago, you bathed in sunlight when he leaned in and kissed you. Though if he did that right now, he’s not sure how you’d react.

“It’s just a bad day,” you whisper in defeat, lilac eyes wilting in front of him like an overwatered flower.

He realizes then that he cares for you more than he knows how to. And Luke knows what it means when you’re having a bad day.

There’s a deranged look in your eye, a subtle eye twitch and clench of your jaw that is almost insusceptible to the average demigod, but he knows you’re on edge, having taunted you mercilessly until you scream, cry, laugh, or all of the above. But most of all you look tired and in need of someone who knows how it feels to be underappreciated.

“D’s a great dad to the twins. But I just feel like… maybe he wasn’t meant to be mine,” you whisper, rolling your tongue against the front of your teeth to push back the sob a 14-year-old version of you would let out deep in the dark of cabin 11, having been there for months and knowing Dionysus was your father and waiting for him to see you. To know you.

“Giving me a hard time about all of this,” you say, hands gesturing to the things you have to prepare for him by morning. You’re overworked, underpaid, and definitely not appreciated— and Luke decides he hates your dad for what he puts you through, not just as a shitty camp director but as a shitty dad. He’s learned to live with the hurt—to use it to fuel his vengeance for how he plans to make the world better. But your ambition makes you change yourself constantly to try to be better. Both fatal flaws are fueled by the ignorance of your fathers. He knows the feeling all too well.

He knows you.

“What do you need?” he asks simply, stepping closer to your form hunched over the desk.

“I can do it, you know. D’s wrong about me,” you whisper, and the words come out sounding so desperate for him to believe the performance you always put on that you avert your eyes.

He doesn’t need to be convinced; instead, he holds his arms out waiting for you to let you make the next move. Luke is neither a fool nor a knave— there are no tricks here, no hidden agenda as he watches you try to compose yourself with a deep breath instead of showing him the real you. The one who’s beneath the mask of being head counselor, your father’s saving grace, and the one who carries her responsibilities like Atlas carries the weight of the sky.

“I know you can. You always have. You really think I’m here to help you file paperwork?”

“Will you let me?” Whether he meant sharing the workload or being there for you, you wouldn’t dare to ask. It’s all the same, anyway—laying yourself bare for someone to peek into your mind and have them not laugh at it.

Suddenly you speak, and the intensity of your tone makes him straighten his posture.

“Sometimes… Do you ever feel the need to just…”

“What?” He reaches out to tug your hair, and in the dim light, he can see the bloom of your cheeks. You’re shy, and Luke thinks you look soft like this, wary of how he perceives you.

“I shouldn’t.” Fuck the gods. He can see the thought form in your eyes, the heat of your stare tearing through his, and his lips pull into a smirk.

“What was that, Trouble?”

“Luke, don’t be an asshole…” You say warily, biting the inside of your cheek. There’s no way you’re going down in the history books for cursing the gods because Luke Castellan of all people made you.

“I thought you liked me like that,” he’s grinning now, and grabbing your chin lightly, mouthing the words to echo your thoughts.

Fuck the gods.

“Fuck.” you whisper, before your voice fails you, your eyes closing both from his touch and the genuine fear of the heavens falling down from the sacrilege falling from your lips.

“Louder,” he whispers, pulling your face up close to his, “come on, you used to be more fun, Trouble. I believe in you.”

“Fuck!” you say louder and he’s whispering in your ear, urging you to toe the line between perfect child and degenerate.

“Say it again.”

“FUCK! FUCK THE…” you yell before you sigh exasperatedly, eyes widening as you feel the breath release from your chest before your head lolls onto his shoulder.

“Gods, you’re fucking insane, Castellan.”

He laughs lowly, and it sounds as sweet as sin. Your smiling lips make an imprint on his collarbone, and he wishes they would sear themselves on there for the rest of eternity.

“Hey, I get it from you. Feel better?”

To be seen is a fickle thing. But to be known is something more intimate, and nothing will be able to erase the connection you both share—fatal flaws and all. There are things you can’t change about people, what they are at their core, and so he takes what you hate about yourself with both hands and pulls you towards his chest until you settle against him with a sniffle. Luke tilts your chin up again, a rough thumb wiping away evidence of your watery smile. He thinks he sees a glimpse of a past you—a younger one that dyed his socks purple to make him feel like he belongs here. And he knows now that he does belong with you, right here as he holds you in the quiet of the Big House.

“Ugh, I’ll kiss you later, I still have to finish up here. You’re not off the hook, angelface.” You sigh, pushing away from him before he tugs you back, your feet stumbling as you roll your eyes at his impish expression.

“Let me make it up to you then, Trouble.”

“What, so you run away again?” you scoff, snickering at the sight of his ego being taken down a notch.

“I’ve just….I don’t know how to do all of this with you. Guess I’m worried it won’t meet your expectations, Miss Head Counselor.” A boyish sort of bashfulness crosses his features, and he’s twirling a piece of your hair in his hands like spinning silk.

“I just hope you never stop surprising me. That’s all I ask.”

Your hand touches his wrist lightly, and he sighs like you’ve already taken his breath away.

“I keep my promises. Do you?”

“Who said a kiss was a promise? I meant it as a threat,” you laugh before he’s pressing your hips into the table, nose nudging against yours and suddenly work is off the table for the rest of the night.

You on the table, however, well... that could be negotiated.

“I knew something was wrong with me when your so-called threats got less scary and more sexy,” Luke teases, running a finger on the side of your cheek. His breath tickles your lips, and you can imagine the rage your father would feel if he caught the two of you in his office like this. Besides the blatant defiance, you briefly wonder if your rebellion would get him to respect you more. An interesting thought.

“You’re absolutely terrible. I need to get this done… The gods don’t wait for us.”

A weak sigh leaves your mouth as your brain is already riddled with thoughts of him and he closes the gap between your lips.

“They can wait until morning. For now, you’re mine.”

—

“You can’t love someone unless you love yourself first — bullshit.

I have never loved myself.

But you —

Oh god, I loved you so much I forgot what hating myself felt like. (via swxrn-in)”

ask to be added to general/luke taglists!

luke taglist (some won't let me tag, turn on my post notifs?): @kissingyourgrl @dorcas4meadowes @lorarri @andrewgarfldsgf @noodlesketchbook @10ava01 @poppysrin @ashisabitgay @timhalamet @liv1104 @leeknows-wife @mxtokko @bugcuti3 @luvvfromme @midmourn @2hiigh2cry @yuminako @niktwazny303 @lukecastellandefender @intergalactic-padawan @iliketopgun @annybah @dangelnleif @thegrinningghost @alyssajunelle @obxstiles @m00ng4z3r @visndcaitswhore @b0ok-lover @elegant-face-tree @this-barbie-is-having-breakdowns @amortencjja @idonevenknow1359 @maliaaaa @targaryenluvs @sakyira @dhdjdjjdhsjdiri @number-onekidqueen @nininehaaa @bradynoonswife @stevenknightmarc @hoodedhavok @happy-mushrooms @homebyeleven @anotherblackreader @too-deviant @liviessun @lilacspider @theadventuresofanartist @sucker4seresin @simpforsunwoo @zanzie @starrystormwritings

#luke castellan x reader #luke castellan x dionysus!reader #luke castellan fanfic #pjo x reader #pjo imagine #made by ma1dita ♥︎#trouble!verse #percy jackon and the olympians #luke castellan angst #thank you for reading my love ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

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24kmar · 1 year ago

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ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ’ꜱ ɴᴏ ᴡᴀʏ ʏᴏᴜ’ʀᴇ ɢᴏɪɴɢ ᴅᴏᴡɴ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʜɪꜱᴛᴏʀʏ ʙᴏᴏᴋꜱ ꜰᴏʀ ᴄᴜʀꜱɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ɢᴏᴅꜱ ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ ʟᴜᴋᴇ ᴄᴀꜱᴛᴇʟʟᴀɴ ᴏꜰ ᴀʟʟ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ᴍᴀᴅᴇ ʏᴏᴜ.

inspired by @mischiefmoons luke castellan x daughter of dionysus 🫶🏻🍷

"you're cold as ice baby, but when you're nice baby you're so amazing in every way. Its like i told you, if you stay ill stay."

“You just caught me off guard—throwing yourself at me like a deranged satyr.”

“Oh because you’re a dainty nymph in distress,”

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ma1dita · 1 year ago

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what if i said this is trouble!verse coded

"if i was orpheus i would simply not turn around" yes you would. if you were orpheus and you loved eurydice, you would. to love someone is to turn around. to love someone is to look at them. whichever version of the myth — he hears her stumble, he can't hear her at all, he thinks he's been tricked — he turns around because he loves her. that's why it's a tragedy. because he loves her enough to save her. because he loves her so much he can't save her. because he will always, always turn around. "if i was orpheus i would simply —" you wouldn't be orpheus. you wouldn't be brave enough to walk into the underworld and save the person you love. be serious

#trouble!verse

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technically-human · 9 months ago

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hi :) i hope you don't mind all the asks about which characters are switched in the reversed universe, if you do feel totally free to disregard this. but i was wondering, are the cat king and esther switched? also, perhaps monty and simon? i would love your thoughts. thank you :)

I don't mind at all, please keep them coming!

There are certain characters that we decided wouldn't be swapped, such as everyone's parents, the sprites, David the demon and Simon, although some things do change to better fit the story.

For example, David was never dating Niko. He offered her friendship, maybe pretended to have someone he loved. Niko is not dumb, but she is heartbroken and lonely since her dad died, so she allows him to possess her.

Simon is still the one who lead the boys who killed Edwin. He was, indeed... In love? with him, but he took it way too far. I don't think we can redeem this one guys.

Monty is swapped with the Cat King, so Thomas is actually Mick's (yeah, Mick) familiar. His attempts at seduction are way too forward for Edwin though. And Monty is... I suppose the Crow King? He's a lot more charming, but still doesn't entirely work on Edwin, so he ends up trapping him, oops.

Esther is a woman who was granted immortality but won't stop aging. She has accepted this and is now running a magic shop. She will complain to anyone who's willing to listen.

And Tragic Mick? He's willing to sacrifice whatever and whoever it takes to become a walrus again.

#ask ask ask #reverse verse #we didn't swap the backstories of esther and mick because it seemed like too much trouble

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livwritesstuff · 1 year ago

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The first Harrington family cat was planned.

Hastily planned, sure, but still planned.

Steve and Eddie’s daughters had been campaigning for a puppy for ages, which…would not be happening. 1984 might have been thirty years ago and maybe Steve should have recovered from that shit by now but he knows for sure and certain that he couldn’t handle getting a dog – ever, and especially not since Moe turned thirteen (the same age Dustin had been when Steve was convinced he would have to watch him get torn to shreds by a stampede of demo-dogs).

Then, one of their neighbors got a tiny little kitten and all three of their daughters were so obsessed with it that their quest for a family pet took a complete 180.

Steve and Eddie saw a window of opportunity and they were going to take it, so they picked a weekend, went down to the animal shelter, and three hours later, a tiny black and white kitten named ZZ (as in Zinnia, if you asked the girls, Plant if you asked Steve, and Top if you asked Eddie) was adopted.

The second (and final) Harrington family cat was not planned.

Two years after they adopted ZZ, Eddie took Hazel to the shelter to say hello to all the animals (which they did all the time). Pretty much the second they arrived, they both fell head-over-heels in love with a two-year-old tabby cat, and because Steve accounts for about 90% of Eddie’s impulse control, it didn't take Hazel much more than suggesting they adopt the cat for Eddie to agree.

Halfway through the drive home with their new cat, Bowie, in the backseat, Eddie realizes that he might have made an error.

“This is gonna be our secret for a bit, okay Haze?” he said slowly.

“How come?”

“Uh…it’s gonna be a surprise.”

(Which technically isn’t a lie – it would definitely come as a surprise to Steve whenever Eddie figured out the best way to tell him).

In the end, it took Steve two entire days to discover the new cat, when he heard a meow coming from behind Hazel’s closed door.

He assumed it was ZZ until he turned his head and saw ZZ sitting at the end of the hall and flicking her tail as she slowly blinked at him.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered as he pushed open the door.

Indeed, there was a cat in Hazel's bedroom.

Steve stared at the cat for a while (mostly just making sure he wasn’t imagining it), and after a few moments it opened its mouth and let out a squeaky meow.

“Hello,” he replied cautiously.

Then he shut Hazel’s door, and called his husband.

Eddie, the second he picked up: Stevie, my love. To what do I owe the pleasure?

Steve: Why is there a cat in Hazel’s room?

Eddie:

Eddie: ZZ?

Steve: I'm going to kill you.

#eddie was in Trouble #steddie #liv’s steddie dads verse #steddie dads #steve harrington #eddie munson

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lebuc · 2 months ago

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good trouble (for the epoch of facism's abating)

* …above all, fight back exactly how you choose to, resist - as you surely will;

know that battles can & should best be waged on varied & sundry fields.

destroyers are best at destroying, creatives just yearn to create

the difference between the two is stark & that chasm looms ever great.

in this spasm, make sure to embrace your whole self, don't distort for the boomers in charge;

due time, you'll clear a lane, find causes opposers will find hard to dislodge.

the time, like many others before them, behooves us all to react;

reciprocate, but remember to elevate, honoring this so-simple pact:

do unto others what you'd have done to yourself in a similar state;

if destroying, you should surely be stifled; if well-building…here's keys to the gate.

from your tasks, may no voice deter you; unearthing your singular style;

the sweat - well, don't let them see it, displaying a subtle, disarming smile.

come the time for cheers, accolading - do know that your work is amazing

& if unheralded at the epoch of facism's abating, revel in the 'good trouble' you've been making. * 4/25 - lebuc - good trouble (for the epoch of facism's abating)

#poetry #poets on tumblr #creative writing #free verse #spilled ink #twc #writerscreed #poetryriot #alt lit #lit #good trouble (for the epoch of facism's abating)

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cherrywhite · 11 months ago

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One thing I love about Hayward in s1 is ya, sure, he's a cop. But most notably, he's not even a good cop.

Hear me out. This isn't saying Hayward does not have the intuition one would associate with your typical, glorified cop from tv shows (in chapter 40, Hayward is absolutely right in that he immediately figured Carpenter out the moment he spotted her in Marcel's Crossing) and other instances, like chapter 43, shows that he has good reflexes for moments under fire (is the first to notice Brother Philly and co. at the door and pushes Carpenter out of the way). Not to mention that Hayward was on the force since he was 19, and to survive on the force for that long means he surely had plenty of solved cases under his belt, regardless if pressure has slowly built up by the time we're introduced to him.

No, when I say he's not even a good cop I mean in the sense of: he's not good at what cops actually do.

One of the very first things Felix reminds him is to not "forget his gun this time." Implying that this has happened before, enough times for Felix to sound audibly tired about it (and he does have to go back for his gun at least two times in season 1). When Mr. Finch points a gun at him, he sits on the ground for a conversation. When asked, Hayward is confused as to why Daggler would need a knife when they find Carpenter and Faulkner's abandoned car, the thought of slashing the tires never even crossing his mind. And instead of immediately taking her into custody with no warrant whatsoever aside for his hunch, he sits down with Carpenter for an amicable conversation and a meal; only later showing his hand long enough to warn her that he's a cop and he's on to her. He's a cop and he has the Stink on him; because s1 Hayward is a bad cop. Because he does not immediately resort to violence.

(And this isn't to dismiss his role as a cop entirely, something we're never fully privy to; chapter 3 alone shows us how his mere position as a cop was enough to cause a death that could have easily been avoided, because that role prevented Hayward from providing Mr. Finch with the actual help he needed.)

Daggler is such a ridiculous, exaggerated character but he's also the picture perfect cop. The Lieutenant-Colonel sends Daggler of all people, when they think Hayward can't solve the case. And, look, we don't really know what Daggler's position on the force is compared to Hayward, but he's clearly trusted enough to be sent, to be the exception to personal gods and keep a rhetorical god. Clearly trusted enough to close the case efficiently. Yes, Daggler is utterly ridiculous when put next to Hayward but that's because Hayward is a bad cop. Daggler is the ideal: he gets results quickly (by losing patience and immediately assaulting the bookseller), he takes perps to court and wins (with the use of The Coiling Speaks, not a liar's god btw), and he knows how to tell a compelling story (because of course Carpenter tried to attack Hayward. And of course the Good Cop shot and killed the Heretic to Protect His Partner). Good publicity all around.

S1 Hayward shows that there is no "good cop;" because being "good" is antithetical to what's expected of cops. There was no way he could continue being good and being a cop, it's why the Stink was beginning to creep up on him. "You're one of them nice coppers." says Mr. Finch. Nice. Not good. Because so-called good cops are probably the first to get sacrificed; because these institutions are not built with morality in mind.

#the silt verses #nothing to say here just i love tsv's world building #sorry i love going back to s1 and hearing sounds of footsteps coming back to the car. don't forget your gun hayward #james hayward #constantly thinking how in ep 3 after mr finch dies and hayward is leaving the place #he mentions how if the police can't find a solution for the problem they'll probably go with the rabbits #literally the thing mr finch was doing to satiate its hunger #the exact same solution and for what #also thinking how daggler had so many cases and complaints against him #but is obviously still on the force and his personal god is licensed by his station #and any cops that complain about him find themselves in trouble #obviously getting the preferential treatment #purposefully saying hayward is a bad cop instead of saying he's bad at his job btw

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iliketopgun · 1 year ago

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This spoke to me.. I was in the middle of questioning life and I'm so glad I opened this notification

Ellen Bass, "The Thing Is"

#trouble!verse #iliketopgunreblogs

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johannes-van-helsing · 30 days ago

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Open Starter - Aftermath

There was a soft thud as the hunter fell back against the wall, his back flat against it as pain lanced across his body in sharp, aching waves. He moved a hand to his chest and winced as his palm cupped the bloody gash there, a parting gift from his latest quarry.

Across from him the werewolf lay still, finally dead after having tore through two houses, butchered a sheep and being shot nearly two dozen times with mercury rounds. It was only through Johannes' own quick thinking, a sharpened metal bar and a high voltage power cable that finally wounded the beast to the point where he could finish it off permanently. It stank of singed hair and burned meat as its lifeless jaws hung open in a silent snarl, its massive clawed hand now limp but still reaching out to him in the aftermath of a final defiant lunge.

He took a few moments to still his breathing but winced as he applied pressure to the deep rents in his flesh where the Werewolf's claws had nearly ripped straight through his ribcage and into his heart and lungs. He tried to calm himself and focus on stopping the bleeding as he heard foot steps, glancing up from where he was sitting he sighed. "I hadn't expected company, you least of all. If you're expecting witty repartee I'm afraid you've caught me at a bad moment." He remarked drily.

#The Preacher || Blessed are The Peacemakers || Main Verse #Come One Come All || Open Starter #Freeform-ish || Word of Mouth #Troubled Thoughts and Dark Times || Angst

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ma1dita · 4 months ago

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as above, so below

a 'partners in crime' installment - luke castellan x dionysus!reader words: 10.4k. wow. prev -> asking for trouble summary: (post-TLT) The one where you plead your case with the gods of Olympus. (The one thing the fates didn't expect was how much you'd both be like your fathers; in a way, you and Luke didn't see it coming either) a/n: depictions of overdose/suicidal ideation, grief and then a bittersweet ending. this is the final chapter of partners in crime, and a love letter to everyone who’s made it this far—for all the wonderful comments and rbs! i hope this ending and this story serves as a reminder to all to support writers and their work!!! also a love letter to myself?? and the immense growth i’ve experienced creatively and in my life in the past year and some change of writing this story, it was truly a transformative time. thank you. to end, i hope you all get the love that you deserve.

—

—KATABASIS—

Is love in this world a gift or a curse?

Watching your campers file into the Hall of Gods felt like being stuck in a perpetual state of unease. Or maybe how you imagine it would feel to drive in the wrong direction on the Long Island Expressway during rush hour. It felt like staring into an oncoming car crash with your shoulders stiff, bracing for impact as you waited for something to just hit and hurt.

What else is there to do after a war is won but revel in how it hurts?

The campers look at you as they pass you on the stairs—a ghost of yourself after the deed was done, and it was almost as if Luke took whatever little life there was in you with him to the underworld. Like moths hovering toward light, the crowd starts to grow, waiting for someone to have the answers on what to do next as the Olympian Council prepares to convene.

Instead, you mentally do a headcount each time another one of the kids makes an appearance through the marble foyer; you wonder about a lot of things now that you find yourself with the time to think. You haven’t spoken in the hours since Luke died and your heart falls further with every covered stretcher the satyrs carry in.

“Hey.”

Flinching, you soften slightly when you realize it’s Annabeth grabbing you by the crook of your arm, “Let’s go wash up.” It’s not a suggestion. She leads you to a secluded part of the hall and there’s a basin filled with warm water and soap waiting for the both of you. There’s no use in tidying up the mess, you think—we just won a war! But the daughter of Athena tuts and sits you down how you imagine your mother used to when you’d come in from the backyard covered in mud. The pearlescent pool in front of you is instantly sullied as your fingers descend into the bowl—scarlet running down from your elbows, stuck to your skin, and coming off in plumes that drop into the water like miniature explosions. You hadn’t realized there was so much blood—so much of him still left on you.

“Where’s…” You say hoarsely, jerking your hands upward so that the dirty water splashes onto your knees, and Annie clasps your forearms firmly until you stop twitching—sitting still like this suddenly feels like burning coals under your feet.

“Your phone’s in your pocket. We can get it after.” “It’s dead. Uh…I need to charge it, before the Mist lifts.” The thought of calling your boyfriend comes and goes quickly like a balloon in the wind—your mind is filling up the spaces of grief with other things to worry about like Dex, who’ll be driving home soon with breakfast and waiting patiently for your return to the apartment you share. Thinking about what you’ll say to him is better than having to sit with the truth.

The younger girl is now watching you with half-lidded eyes, scrubbing at your arms delicately with a sponge and trying to not think about how all of the crust and blood that covers you used to be her brother’s. This was blood that pumped through his arteries and through his lungs that produced oxygen, straight back into his stubborn heart that beats no more. Annabeth glances through her lashes at the stoic look on your face—she’s not sure yours is working either, and well, there is nothing more that Annabeth Chase hates than not knowing what to do next.

“Help me help you. Where do we go from here?” she mumbles, but it barely reaches your ears. Any thought you might’ve had is washed away with what was left of him; blankly, you’re staring at your red-hued reflection within the porcelain bowl.

“I don’t know.”

There is nothing left but time now that the war is over—and it buries you, so far into the earth that maybe if you try to sink far enough you’d see where they’ll put his body to rest. A sickening realization hits you like a freight train: your relationship—all of it—exists only in dreams now, memories, the spaces between thoughts, the seconds before someone remembers the reality of how the world almost ended because of a love that you’ll now have to live without.

How, after everything, is this the end?

You knew this was coming, you try to remind yourself. Losing him was years in the making—you’ve been mourning Luke Castellan for almost as long as he let you love him. No one knows when the end is until it’s happened. Or for you—for as long as it takes for you to admit it. It was the end when he left you to wake up alone on his last day of camp.

Maybe even earlier than that—but now you’ll never know.

Looking back, all the time spent with and without him was just you trying to keep going as if he hadn’t already signed a death sentence. The lines have always been a bit blurred for you when Luke was part of the conversation. Endlessly toeing the line between your love for your home and your love for him, you couldn’t help but indulge in the hitch in your breath that filled with Luke’s name whenever he would pop into your life. Even when the rest of the world found reasons to hate him, you could not bear to.

Would it have made a difference if you fought back against him? Not Kronos, him—the boy that didn’t include you in the decisions he made for you, now sauntering towards Elysium leaving you to deal with the rest. Does doing nothing make you worse than his father? Would the results of the war changed if you turned him in? If you found a way to resist the hold he’s always had on you, would Luke still be alive?

Everything after feels like it’s going in a blur—endless questions swirling through your head that make your knees buckle from the vertigo. The gods can’t just expect you to go back to your nine-to-five and pretend that walking away from the wreck will mean it never happened.

“Right?” you exhale, answering your inner thoughts. Annabeth is drying your arms with a pinkened terry cloth and hums in response, before meeting your gaze over the horizon that peeks out to say hello.

The sky seems endless when you’re standing on Mount Olympus watching the gods rebuild the damage that was left behind. Everything moves in reverse—buildings rising from rubble with every floating brick, pathways smoothing with the gentle touch of time, and plants rebirthed from ash. The city will always wake up to move towards tomorrow, but for you, there’ll be no proof that your world ended while everyone else gets to keep theirs.

Time is being undone before your own eyes, and you suppose you have the rest of your life to fix it—whatever that means now.

“Was any of it real?”

The Olympians will be summoning you any minute now. Percy shuffles over from his spot against the wall where he is watching you both, stoic as a statue—everyone’s made their way inside and the three of you are the last to enter.

“Doesn’t really feel real,” the son of Poseidon mutters, mindlessly playing with a tendril of Annie’s hair—she lets him with no complaints. The weight of the world hasn’t been lifted from their shoulders like they were once promised. No one wants to celebrate when you’ve lost your friends—your family in the process.

Apollo stretches his arms and pulls a blanket of dawn overhead as if a final countdown before you have to walk in as glimmers of gold spread across the sky.

“I wonder if Luke always knew this is how it was gonna end,” Percy says simply, your eyes meeting his and the boy almost sounds apologetic. Annabeth scoffs, “The jerk always was the type to pull strings.” A crescendo of trumpets and fanfare begins to shake the halls—your cue to enter. Walking slowly behind the pair, you wrestle with the tug deep within you that silently agrees with her.

Grover joins them and all together, the trio make their way to the stage. You find a spot next to your brother who notably has his arm in a misshapen cast decked out in smiley faces—Will’s doing. Your lip quivers at the sight of him.

“The hell happened to you?” you murmur. Pollux kisses your temple and slings his good arm around your shoulders, voice hushed to not distract from Zeus thanking the half-bloods for their efforts of saving humankind, which is a rare occurrence as it is. You couldn’t be bothered by the grandiose display, focusing instead on the big baby next to you.

“Just a scratch,” he says cooly, and you pinch his side in annoyance—”He-OW!” Pollux shrieks, swallowing the sound when the satyrs shush him.

“What happened to you coming straight to me?”

“I’m the least of your worries,” the blond boy mutters, purple eyes meeting your own. Even if so, you disagree.

“Not true! You know that.”

Pollux takes a good look at you from the peripherals of his vision as you huff and try to pay attention to whatever’s going on up front. He wishes you could see yourself how he sees you—completely worthy of love in every capacity, even if life makes you work for it tirelessly like Sisyphus pushing a rock atop a hill. You’ve always been so close to getting what you want…but never quite reached it. He doesn’t know how you do it, but both of you being your father’s children makes him understand why you do.

Understanding doesn’t make you hurt any less though.

“You know, no one would blame you.”

The longer you stand here feels like someone’s shoved cotton through every open crevice of your body. It scratches at your throat and dampens your ears as you turn your head to face him, eyes dragging up his face in question.

“In fact, no one would bat an eye if you left and never looked back.”

Scoffing, you turn to look at the floor and his hand feels heavier on your shoulder now like you’re carrying the weight of him too, “It sounds like you just wanna get rid of me.” Feeling like you’re constantly at a loss can radicalize anyone—you’ve never felt so close but so far from Luke than at this moment. People turn away from everything they’ve ever known for less.

And still, you’re here.

Still.

Pollux shrugs, wincing when his bad shoulder jerks, “Maybe. Do you still want this? Any of this?”

He thinks of you spending the rest of your days sitting in that tiny apartment burning cookies in that cramped excuse for a kitchen, and how when he visits, he’ll have to say hello to that boring man who’ll greet him with a megawatt smile, so unknowing of the world you come from. Ignorance is bliss, as they say. Your brother thinks you might be happy, if you just let yourself be.

There’s a silence that stretches between you as Grover tumbles to the ground in search of food up on stage, conveniently being caught and attended to by the prettiest naiads you’ve ever seen. You snort at the sight, but your brother’s dedicated to knowing what’s on your mind, continuing to whisper like an angel (or a devil) on your shoulder.

The rest of this ceremonial shit doesn’t matter to him.

“Dex is not Luke.”

“He doesn’t have to be,” you say through an exhaled breath—he can tell you’re troubled by the idea of choosing to leave everything behind and start over, without them and without Luke, so he says just that—trying to feel out your brain and where it’s at.

Your heart, however, is evading the matter.

“Now that it’s all over, you can start over again. Without us weighing you down.”

Pollux watches you furrow your eyebrows, scrunching up your face in the way you do when you want to say no. But your expression is impassive in the next moment like a trick of the light, “I’d have to think about it. It just happened, after all.”

Once again, Luke Castellan seems to have left you without a choice. What an asshole.

But what do you want, anyway?

“There’s no time like now. You could if you wanted to.”

Why has every difficult decision you’ve had to make meant giving up something good?

Shifting your weight onto your other hip, you grit, “Shit. I mean, what good is it to not have what I want?”

“Shit,” Pollux smirks with a knowing glance, “You tell me.” You grab his hand and squeeze it tightly, intertwining your fingers. No god can take away what you share with your brother. You both live this reality, after all—one where you have to go on because your other half cannot. The purpose of Pollux’s message might’ve gotten lost in translation, but the intention hit home.

“Guess I’ve never thought of it that way.”

Chuckling under your breath, you take a good look at everyone in this room—the roles they take, and the purpose they serve. There’s not much of a place for you here, not anymore, and Pollux thinks you know that too. You’ve done the best you could offer to the gods despite yourself and the children you’ve cared for. But he wants you to understand that you don’t need to worry about them anymore. All your dad and him do is worry about you anyway.

“What if I never looked back?”

He bites the inside of his cheek, thinking of the right thing to say but the truth is much simpler, “I love you. That’s a good enough reason to, right?” You’re not sure if he means him or you—but still Pollux’s figure blurs in a vignette of moisture that overcomes your vision.

Amid your hushed conversation, the room around you has gone silent and everyone’s eyes are suddenly focused on you, making you realize you’re the last demigod to be awarded. A crowd of cheers and war-hardened hands push you onto the central platform, out of the furnace, and into the fire. The spotlight overhead shines so brightly it makes you squint, amplifying the pulsing in your temples; it makes you sick.

This was finally it—the honor, no, the glory of being recognized by the gods for doing your part and being a great example for all demigods. For fulfilling your duty to Camp Half-Blood. For choosing to protect your home, and keeping your promises. The Olympians look down at you with carefully crafted smiles and what you hope isn’t pity.

“Your gift is a permanent job with Camp Half-Blood. Full benefits, PTO, 401k, whatever you want, I can make it happen,” Zeus says with a grin as if he’s told you that continuing on the way you have would make your greatest dreams come true—like you’d wish for nothing more.

Swallowing as he continues to prattle on, your figure retreats in itself, hunching over as if you’re hiding something from all of them. You are—the idea that Pollux put in your head festers like an open wound the more it ruminates.

“You’d have a spot here on Olympus too if you wish—our official liaison for demigod communications, actually—goddess of demigods! If Jackson doesn’t want it, it’s yours…” he grins dryly, a beat passing as if…

And like the speed of light, your head jerks up to meet Zeus’ eye to eye, a damning thing as you register that the king of the gods does not remember your name. Almost ten whole years of running around in the same circles and keeping his world upright, and he doesn’t know who you are—just your job, and the consequences you bring.

Something cracks within your resolve then and the pressure shatters like glass into tiny, shiny fractals until what you really want reveals itself to everyone in the room—the Council, the nymphs and naiads, and all of your friends who are staring at you with bated breath, sparkling under the lights. Your chest tightens like a Titan’s fist is wrapped around it; this is what Luke wanted, not nearly anything you’d ever imagined for yourself. He wanted this so-called glory, and the longer you listen to Zeus fumble over his words, only one thing becomes apparent—you just want Luke. What you want is to be with the love of your life again, no matter what it takes. What you really want is a gift not even the gods can provide…

Unless…

Hera clears her throat, shaking her head in disappointment and simultaneously catching the fire ignited within your eyes—Hestia sees it too, standing up from the flames of her hearth in front of the platform. The former corrects her husband with a stern brow, “...that’s her name. You should ask the woman what she wants, dear.” Zeus repeats it, throwing your name around by the syllable like it’s foreign. Percy Jackson already denied godhood in exchange for a simple promise to be kept for the unclaimed. Anything left for you to choose can’t be that bad, right?

What’s the worst thing a daughter of Dionysus can ask the Olympians for, anyway?

The king of the gods taps his finger on the armrest of his baroque throne, repeating your name this time with a stroke of seriousness.

“Well then, out with it. What do you want as your gift?”

You look down at your feet, feeling Annabeth sneak up behind you to intertwine her fingers with yours—always six steps ahead. Her support is what you need to spit the words out without it feeling like a slur, to have the audacity to want something, someone so bad that the gravity of it weighs you down and makes your knees buckle—but not a single person in that room that really knows you is surprised by what you want.

You want him, still.

It is so human of you to still want Luke Castellan, to want your love in physical form even after he’s gone. Maybe they should’ve waited to ask you this question or maybe they shouldn’t have asked you at all—but the time it would take to get over the man who’d thrown his destiny away to save you is immeasurable.

Growing up, so much of the time you shared with him was spent picturing what the rest of your lives together would look like, and that idea sticks to the forefront of your mind even now—a hole that pierces through the foundation of the walls you built up to try and forget him. Maybe life with Luke and what you’d had before was the real dream instead of something you’d have the opportunity to experience—it feels so far away from the life you live with Dex, who you’ll go home to once you scrape yourself off these marble floors. Somehow, time has passed and everyone in this room—including Luke, wherever the hell is now, has gotten exactly what they wanted except for you.

What about what you want?

“What I want…” you mutter under your breath, before raising your eyes to meet Zeus’. There is not a single ounce of doubt or fear he can detect as he stares back into your pools of amethyst, hardened by equal parts stubbornness and determination.

“To be completely honest with you, Divine Zeus—all I want is the opportunity to die.”

—

Chaos breaks like the eye of a storm as your statement echoes in the open air of the Hall of Gods. Somewhere, Percy starts to laugh at your flair for the dramatics and Chris joins him until Clarisse jabs him in the gut despite the twisted look that overcomes her face. You hear your father yell his disagreement from his throne, grapes rolling off the gilded vines that adorn it and they bounce towards your feet. The hilarity of all of it makes you smile.

It shouldn’t, of course—your dad looks like he’s about to wreak havoc on Earth itself, but he chooses his words carefully, so quietly under his breath that you almost don’t hear.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

Dionysus walks toward you with outstretched hands, beckoning you to him. The strain he puts in keeping his composure reopens the cut on his forehead. Golden droplets drip down past his eye like a stroke of lightning, and your eyes glaze over, lost in a memory. All of your surroundings seem to move slowly then, everyone losing their shit and he just takes a moment to appraise his little girl who in the blink of an eye, is not so little anymore.

“Dionysus, your daughter better have a good explanation for this!” his father yells, but Mr. D pays him no mind. Hermes is the first and fastest to put your plan together, looking at you with a reverence no would expect a god to have for a mortal. Grover’s picking up the grapes to munch on while Percy pulls at his arm to back away from the center platform. Aphrodite’s swooning over the thought of your devotion, and Athena looks at you holding her daughter’s hand—the both of you strengthened by ambition instead of deterred, making her scoff in amusement. Hera is laughing at the frustration on her husband’s face as he sputters, attempting to regain control of the room.

The sheer audacity you present yourself with is laughable even to you until you realize that this is the most yourself you've felt in a long time—here in front of the Olympian Council, with the bold request of choosing death over immortality. You were brave once—gutsy even, when you were fourteen. And this feels like that—like coming home.

A hand clasps your other shoulder.

Pollux.

For a moment, you look around the room wildly until you remember Luke’s not here to see this. You hope he’d be proud.

“SILENCE!”

Your father’s voice booms overhead, calming the chaos with a snap of his fingers as everyone has the words choked out of them like a water spout gone dry. Zeus rises to the challenge then, regarding you with an odd curiosity, “You know we can’t bring that boy back. The atrocities he’s committed, the choices he made—”

“I’m not denying any of that. I guess all I’m asking for is a chance. I’ll take any consequences that come with it.”

No matter how bloodied the path was to get there Luke has always made sure that he gets what he wants, in one way or another—at the cost of sparing no one, not even himself.

“Child, do you think this makes you a hero? Do you think you can go down in history as someone who chooses to die instead of live? Don’t you want to be something more?” His voice booms so loudly that you wince.

“I never needed to be a hero, Divine. I am loved. That is better than any glory I care to receive—I mean look around you,” you exclaim, gesturing around the room, “Your kids don’t want glory. They want love.” Breathing shakily, you look pointedly at all of the gods, emboldened by the momentum of getting it all out once and for all.

“I’m 23 years old. I’ve spent almost ten years of knowing Luke by loving him, even if five of those years were also spent missing him,” you say and your voice shakes with emotion, “To you that’s nothing, but I want that time back, even if I have to go and get it myself… That’s what I want.”

Hades speaks to you for the first time that morning, a simple question falling from his lips.

“Why would you go through all of that trouble?”

You can’t help it— you laugh in the face of the most powerful beings in the universe. For a moment it was like hearing your name in the distance but in reality... it was always the answer; your father knows from the crooked smile that grows on your face that your decision was made up from the second they walked in to watch Luke Castellan take his last breath. Then and there, you decided you would give up yours—and he hates that he understands it so deeply. He was the one who told you so long ago that love is insanity. He himself has done unimaginable things for love. So he’d be a fool to hold you back from someone you truly want.

“The only thing I am sure about myself is that I have nothing left in me but love. And that love gives me what it will take to die.”

“You followed him to Hesperides, all those years ago,” Hermes interrupts with a wistful look on his face, “Do you know what this means—you think you can cheat death?” He is, after all, the guide of all souls. It isn’t rare for someone to try to venture into the Underworld, but it is rare to come back in one piece.

“No. But I can’t not try.”

Zeus bristles once more—insulted by this tirade of human emotion.

“Dionysus, say something! You cannot allow this!”

Ares butts in, “Your ambition’s gonna be the death of you kid. I vote yes!” Zeus slams his fists against the armrests, cracking them in the process, but then Hades raises a hand, “Hold on, my domain, my rules.”

“Brother, you cannot be serious! You’re just gonna let this girl walk in there with no—”

“We promised to grant the demigods their wishes, and if this is what she wants—well it’s her funeral,” he chuckles at the irony, “Luke Castellan is waiting for his trial at the judgment pavilion as we speak. If you make it before he crosses the threshold for rebirth—he’s yours.”

You swallow, “And the catch?”

The god of the dead quirks his lip into something that resembles a smile. He’s always liked how sharp you were, never letting anything get by you, “You must both drink from the River Lethe and the pool of Mnemosyne. No outside help, only your spirit will go down for the journey. Do that and you earn a consultation at the palace—and I’ll grant you both a single wish. Anything you want.”

“What if they don’t make it back?” Annabeth says sternly, though you know she’s looking at this from every angle—it’s better than the instinctive yes that almost escapes your mouth.

“If you fail to convince him to drink, or if you don’t fulfill our deal, you will find Asphodel to be a lovely resting place. Forever.”

Taking a deep breath, you nod. You know the odds of what you’re signing up for—but your dad’s still looking at you like you’re the last drop of whiskey. He wants to savor this for as long as he can before he has to let you go.

“I can’t… you’re my daughter. I-I can’t allow this…Hestia, is this my debt? My retribution for taking your seat?”

The aforementioned goddess chuckles softly, like sparks of cinders as she drifts over to him, unafraid of breaking any remaining protocol—all of it is thrown to the wind as she pats her nephew’s back, “Dionysus, you are still young compared to the rest of us, and yet you’ve raised her to be the woman she is today. My darling, she is your reward.”

“And you want this, princess?”

“He’s my Ariadne, dad,” you say through a shaky breath, “Let this be my quest,” you beg—you’d get on your knees if he wanted to, shovel all the pegasi shit for the next 100 years if only you had the time, “please.”

Your father nods solemnly. Fate has a way of fooling even the greatest of the gods.

“I do enjoy a good love story. I think you deserve to write your own ending, my sweet,” the goddess of love smiles lazily as she rests upon her palm. The rest of the council murmurs in approval despite Zeus’ insistence that this is not a group decision.

But this story has been told thousands of times before, spanning different millennia, different lifetimes, and different lovers. Everyone in this room has seen how it ends. You were, however, never someone who could resist a good story.

To be or not to be, right? —that is the question.

Guess you were about to find out.

—

There are a lot of ways that a person can die—but when someone makes the choice, it usually means you have the time to think about it.

Completely serious matter, yes—irreversible?

Questionable. Of course, you don’t have either the time or liberty to mull these things over. Luke could be a toe into the gates of Elysium by now, and the thought of missing him makes your stomach into a pit you could compare to Tartarus.

It’s weird to say goodbye and not want to mean it. Even weirder that all of your friends couldn’t say anything other than good luck as you were ushered through Olympus and put into a room to die. Words don’t come easy when you’re unsure of the outcome and death looks different when you’re the daughter of the divine form of insanity. The flame within your soul is lit by what defines him and so it is agreed upon that it should also be the reason for your end.

This is just a journey—Dionysus tells himself. Death is just a journey of millions of souls returning to dust, star stuff finding their way home. A journey he’s taken before, not once, but twice, and would again if you asked him. How bittersweet is it that you are exactly made in his image, and how blind was he to not realize that when you first came to camp almost a decade ago? If only he could’ve cherished that more in the early years—the stupid pranks, the incessant laughter, and the sound of your voice at nightly sing-a-longs. Your dad knows that he’d face death a million times if it meant that you didn’t have to.

You used to hate it—the similarities that stuck you two like a reflection in a mirror. The feeling of feeding off of other people’s turmoil, or how drink flows through your fingertips as soon as the thought of thirst is formed. It wasn’t comparable to wisdom or war—conjuring mayhem wasn’t cool like Percy breathing underwater, or how Lee used to pull sunlight through the clouds.

It didn’t come easy, being your father’s daughter.

But as you lay your head onto his lap, you realize that there is no one else you’d want to be. He’s since changed back into his trademark patterned shirt—visions of palm trees and hibiscus dancing in your vision as you get comfortable in his arms, breathing steadily as he strokes your head.

“I wish we had the time to make it home,” you whisper, “It would’ve been nice to be on the docks, listening to the water.” There’s a tentative quality to your statement, feeling out the silence that’s been enveloping the both of you since you walked out of the main hall. You’re not used to seeing your dad so serious; it’s almost jarring that he’s not being a menace or calling you batshit for your latest—and last crazy idea.

He bites though, murmuring, “That your favorite spot at Camp? Would’ve thought you’d be buried under the covers at the cabin.” Dionysus swallows hoarsely, voice faltering as he comes to think of you being buried under anything.

“Nuh-uh,” you say through a bitten lip, “I’ve always liked Canoe Lake. Lots of good memories there.”

“What’s your favorite one? Billie Holiday at the cost of Luke’s pocket change?” your dad gruffs, “Or what about falling into the lake after that time you fought over the flag?”

Dionysus hates this—feeling powerless at the hands of mortals. Gods aren’t meant to feel this way, but out of all of them, he understands best because he knows this story.

He was this story: a demigod boy scorned by his father who wanted nothing but to rescue his mother from hell and who willingly gave up his life for the woman he loved. If there’s one thing he still admires Luke Castellan for—it’s letting him keep you safe while he went off to wreak havoc on the world. Sure, it’s selfish, but the kid has a good heart if all it was made up of was you. The courage of stars and souls is that even time cannot stop them from finding where they are meant to be. To love someone so much that it transcends timelines and angers the gods—your father finds himself ruminating over the fact that Luke’s someone was you.

Of course, it’s you.

He looks down at your position as if you’ll crumble into a pillar of salt in the mere seconds it takes to blink. There’s so much hope in your eyes that it batters into his resolve as if you’ve swung into his ribcage with a sledgehammer— it tears down any doubt he might have that you will not come back safely. At least Castor would have company, he thinks morosely—Pollux is somewhere running around the compound trying to find an iPhone charger. Dionysus just wants to sit with his baby and be.

The goblet is heavy in your hands as you look at the golden liquid within. Nectar heals the body and soul, but in excessive quantities—it burns. So much so that demigods that overdose feel their sanity melt away from their brains and separate their souls from the body until there is nothing left but the memory of who they once were.

What a way to go, right?

“Is it gonna hurt?” you say suddenly, cracking your knuckles and tugging at your sweater and he knows what you mean to say is that you’re scared. This is the first time you’ll do something for yourself, by yourself, without your support system.

“Not if I can help it,” your dad sniffs, “Hermes is gonna meet you once you cross over since it’s not my job to be down there anymore. I’m gonna be with you for as long as I can… Where the fuck is your brother?”

Laughter spills from your lips as you start to drink anyway like it’s a glass of wine after dinner—thick syrupy sweetness slides down your throat. It tastes like crisp apples and the carbonated tang of Redbull, making your eyes water from the punch that hits every one of your pores, “Don’t want him to see. I don’t…” In through your nose, out through your mouth.

“He saw Castor when he…I don’t want him to see.”

Clutching at your father’s shirt sleeve, his hand gently tilts the goblet further toward your mouth as you take the nectar in painstaking gulps. You’re shaking now, skin hot to the touch under his fingertips as you start to gasp heavily. He models how to breathe slowly, waving away the brushfire that spreads through your veins as best as he can, “It’s gonna be okay, princess. Just breathe.” If your senses weren’t overflooded with flashing red lights, maybe you would notice that he was crying.

“Say it, dad.”

“I love you,” he chokes out then, holding onto you as your body seizes in his grasp. You’re shaking your head, exasperated that you can’t get the right words out when you need them most, “I know that. Say you…I need,” you dry heave, sweat dripping down your face and turning molten to the touch. He still doesn’t let go.

“D-Dad, d… I need…”

It comes out in a whimper, and he shushes you, hugging you close, “Anything for you, my heart.”

“Need you to…believe in me.” Nectar gurgles in your throat as you’re white-knuckled around the goblet, forcing yourself to get the rest of the drink down. This won’t work if your dad doesn’t believe it will. You need him out of anyone to believe in you—to believe that you can do this.

With your eyelashes fluttering like a hummingbird’s wings he laughs through the tears; of course, he believes in you, he always has. The sound of his laughter hits your system like the whistle of a freight train, breaking through your ribcage and releasing the pressure as you let it all go in one deep breath.

Despite the discomfort, you find that death does not hurt—it feels like holding your father’s hand.

You squeeze him three times for a silent I love you because you won’t let yourself die without saying it back. Dionysus, your father in this lifetime, and hopefully all the ones that come after, leans closely toward your ear to tell you what you need to hear to get to your life’s quest that can only begin after he has to let you go.

“You are my heart’s joy—the most stubborn person I’ve had the pleasure of meeting. I know you can love that boy back to life.”

Death feels like an endless summer in your mind, of pine trees in the North Woods, toasty smores over a crackling fire, and sand between your toes as you run along the shoreline. As your thoughts fade to nothingness and your body is erased from the mortal realm, you think that your favorite memory of camp is floating in the bubble bath you made of Canoe Lake on a summer day nine years ago.

—ANABASIS—

When you open your eyes, all you see is bright yellow and all you can smell is leather disinfectant. You’re in the passenger seat of a taxicab, and behind the gaudy blue dice pendant that dangles on the rearview mirror is Hermes. He pulls his lips into a tired smile, scratching at his goatee as the vehicle speeds down the side of the River Styx. The windows are rolled down and the wind is blowing back against your face.

“I thought you couldn’t meddle,” you croak, dry mouth from sleeping with it open catching up to you. You snap a finger…and nothing happens. Any trace of your father stayed up in the mortal realm with him; his best friend hands you a chilled water bottle to quench your thirst.

“Your dad said you’d be thirsty.”

Twisting the cap open, you gulp the cool liquid down with ease as you watch the Underworld pass you through side windows. Cerberus is almost galloping playfully along the side of the car a ways back, all three heads getting smacked by its lolling tongues as he barks in greeting.

What a cutie.

Something’s under your butt—when you dig a hand into your pocket, you find a bright red ball. You smile at the thought of Annabeth Chase placing a squeaky toy on your shroud, just in case. You don't get to bring anything in death other than what's in your heart, and pure Greek tradition, what’s placed underneath your shroud. As you toss it out the window for Cerberus to chase it into the Fields of Mourning, he barks happily, an echo of booms that follow him into the distance. Hermes takes the chance to speak, his eyes flickering to the acceptance on your face. You’re in the Underworld now, and like the EZ-Death line of souls the car passes, you take this news in stride.

“He’s already dead. You— you’re a special case. Had to do something, even if it’s too late.”

“It’s not. It can’t be,” you insist, bravely at first, until you lose your nerve by the end of it, “I…” Drumming your fingers against your lap, Hermes can’t help but snicker, “You know, you’ve always had such an innate sense of how to take care of other people, but never yourself—it reminds me of your dad.”

“How is he?”

Hermes purses his lips. That’s as much an answer as you’ll get from his best friend, so you nod, “Luke’s the opposite, I think. He always knew how to take care of himself, just…he tried his hardest with me.”

Down in the underworld, the sky takes on a tawny hue with grey clouds overhead, and there are no signs of whether it’s day or night. You wonder if you still have enough time—if he’s there at the pavilion, waiting for you. The car jets past Asphodel, and you slink back down in your seat to avoid the view when you remember Hades’ conditions.

If Luke’s already moved on, that’s where you’ll be.

Hermes is skipping through every song that comes onto the radio—the incessant noises make you want to grind your teeth but you remind yourself he's doing you a favor, in his own way.

“He never fooled you, that kid. You knew exactly what he was and you still loved him anyway. Me and my kids aren’t exactly easy to love, aren’t we?”

You shrug. Small talk is weird—now’s not exactly the time to be close with Luke’s father, and you’re not trying to impress him or anything anymore.

“I don’t think love is easy or hard. Sometimes it just is.”

The car rolls to a stop and you push yourself up on your palms. The judgment pavilion is in the near distance and you realize you’ll have to run the rest of the way. But you don’t move, even when the taxicab is put in park.

“This is your stop,” he says slowly, flicking the button that unlocks the car doors, “I really do mean it when I say that I wish you good luck.” Your eyes soften at that, and when you swallow, you recognize the weight of your two necklaces resting against your collarbone. He can tell you’re scared, but there’s no time to feel anything if you want to catch him.

Take that quite literally—there’s no time here in the underworld. Hermes says your name gently, and you look at him. If Luke were here, you think he’d be braver than you—running out to fight the unknown if it meant he could take you home. But your hand is frozen on the handle and your legs feel like they’re cemented to the ground.

“After he… He was worried about you.”

“What? Really?”

You unbuckle your seatbelt and turn to face the god, hesitation making way for shock. Hermes blinks. He technically shouldn’t say more, but there’s nothing left to lose.

”He was worried about what you’d do if he wasn’t there when you woke up. Luke asked if I was sure you’d be able to find him.”

“And what did you say?”

With a subtle move of his fingers, your car door pushes open, and you step out onto the dusty gravel. His father salutes you with two fingers, “Told him you were coming for him.”

“I am,” you chuckle, slamming the door shut and beginning to run. Worry wracks your entire essence—if it’s even possible for a spirit to feel this intensely it might not be normal, but nothing about you is, even here.

“Hey!” Hermes calls out, his upper half hanging out the car window, “If…When you find him, do you think I’d get another chance?”

You turn unsteadily on your feet, looking at him with the roguishness he knew his son fell for, throwing your hands up in the air, “If this somehow works out, I think anything’s possible don’t you?”

Clouds of dust prickle at your ankles as you race back toward everything you’ve ever wanted.

—

Stuck somewhere in the in-between, you trudge toward the entrance of the judgment pavilion—a large titanium structure that stretches towards the heavens quite ominously. The closer you get to it the more your feet feel like sinking into quicksand, your paces getting slower and your legs moving like molasses, but you aren’t lost. It seems to somehow be getting farther the more you run, but maybe your stepmother’s blessing still reaches you down here in the dim wasteland she was doomed to—until Dionysus himself, your father, came down to search every corner of the Underworld and brought her back to life. He’s in there. He has to be.

You can do it, you mumble to yourself.

You can do this too.

Or maybe the gods are laughing at the mortal woman who was too much like her father, laughing at how stubborn you are trying to save a paradox of a man who almost brought down Olympus. Unlike your father though, there is less bloodshed in your quest to find him, less anger at the gods for having to forsake glory for love.

But you were never a fighter anyway, not in the traditional sense. The Battle of Manhattan was one you fought in and despite the winning outcome, it felt like anything but. The biggest battle you’d won was hoping he’d still be yours until the very end. Until his very last breath, and then some—if you’re as lucky as his father tells you.

You almost trip over the stoop, flailing underneath the archway as if someone pushed you straight in front of the lone spirit who’s working on fixing the bulletin board. Catching your breath, you wheeze, “Excuse me, sir—have you seen a boy….uh, or a man? Not sure how time works here…I’m under direct orders from Hades hi—”

“It doesn’t.”

“Hm,” you attempt to sound thoughtful, but the non-answer of the wispy shade that peels letters off the bulletin board painstakingly slowly does not help ease your stress.

“Well, whatever he looks like now, he should have a scar running down the right side of his face…Um…he should at least,” you hesitate. And it hits you just now that you gave your life up not knowing what comes next. Without a semblance of a plan you ran to the underworld fueled by pure spite. Your eyes travel to the board the figure in front of you is still working tirelessly on, letter by letter. The metal clinks as it falls into the bucket.

NOW SERVING:

LUKE CASTE–

Wait a fucking second. Maybe the gods had the right to laugh at you. You push forward, almost ramming the specter into the wall behind him, for a moment you thought you’d run straight through but then your fists are grabbing his shirt, “Where is he?” The bucket falls to the floor with a heavy clang as his eyes widen.

“WHERE IS HE?”

The translucent man shrugs under your rough grasp with no sense of urgency, “He’s on a journey. Aren’t we all?”

Gods have mercy, you’ve never wanted to beat a stranger’s face in so badly—you drop him in exasperation and he crumbles to the floor, “Tell me his sentence. Now.”

“Boy said he was taking the long way home. Skipped the trial completely. Didn’t want Elysium, but he had to go through it to find rebirth. Northeast from h—”

You don’t need to hear anything else. You’re running away, hands and feet almost flying the faster you go around the perimeter of the building in hopes that you’ll still catch a glimpse of this stupid, stubborn man who does anything for you but never with you.

Maybe he’s still yours, even here, even now.

There’s a river you have to cross that intersects the courtyard behind the judgment pavilion. It flows towards Elysium with clear crystalline water going upstream and as your eyes follow it, you think you see him in the distance.

You know it’s him. You could recognize that back anywhere—having spent so many years staring at it as he continued to walk away. As your mouth falls agape, you’re at a loss for words. It can’t be that easy to defy the gods and get what you want, finally, finally—-but the longer you watch him walk towards Elysium with a skip in his step, you falter.

What makes dragging him out of here any different than what he did to you?

You’re rooted to the ground then, taking deep breaths as you think of what to do next. Back then, Luke was always the blind devotee, hands and knees bruised from prayer, until the truth was the only sound that echoes back. You never understood it—another wayward child forced to bend under the gods’ will. No one should make a religion out of someone, but as you watch him smile in the fields of death itself…he is your answered prayer.

Seeing that he’s okay is enough—that he hadn’t been damned to Tartarus sets you at ease, worry leaving your body on the exhale of breath that you let go. If you turn around now, well, maybe an eternity in Asphodel would be alright too. You could pick a good spot on the outskirts. Forever might be nice if it means you’d get to look at the gates of Elysium itself for all of it, branches reaching for him until the end of time.

But Luke hasn’t seen you yet. Does he feel you reaching for him? The twisted coil of fate that yearns for him, the sting in the back of your throat in the form of his name, wanting to bridge the gap from the short distance that separates you. Between life and death, somehow the short traverse of barren land feels to stretch much further than that.

You turn slowly and walk away, muddied boots grating against the dust with every atom of your spirit resistant as if it fights the magnetic pull it was meant for. He doesn’t even have to know. Meeting him again means you run the risk of losing him again. You’re not quite sure you have it in you; so you walk away this time. This time, you won’t have to watch.

But then you hear him call out to you.

“Hey! It’s you!”

Faster now, faster.

Your legs move unsteady and your clenched fists propel you forward. Maybe they’ll let you skip the EZ line and get this all over with—Asphodel is the only place you can be with all of this regret.

But fuck, he’s persistent, even in death. Before you know it—he’s caught up to you, the sound of splashing water making you jerk back towards him in alarm, “Luke! You can’t do that!” He’s grabbed onto your shoulders and the simple touch makes you gasp. Bone-chilling fear wracks through your body as your eyes drink him in, watching the moisture darken his Converse, all the way up to the knees of his cargo pants. He blinks as if his mind is a rewinding cassette and you wonder if the River Lethe has a stronger hold on him now than you ever had.

“Who?”

And out of everything he’s told you in your lifetime to hurt you—that one word is what breaks you the most.

His eyes swiftly move over your face, dark brown and soft like that of a lifetime ago; one of bruised knees, hushed lullabies, and kisses that taste like strawberries. But there’s not a single ounce of recognition in his stare and you wonder if you’re close enough to launch yourself into Tartarus. Maybe you’re already there— he’s standing here in front of you a little lighter, and a lot unknowing.

“Am I Luke?” he whispers with a playful tone like it’s a secret you share even if there’s no one else around you for miles. He looks at you again, slowly this time—eyes pouring over you, in case your figure is an illusion or a great temptation such as sweet pomegranate seeds before spring. Luke’s eyebrows furrow like he’s trying hard to remember something; it stabs at your heart like he did his.

“Forget it.”

‘Wait, don’t go,” he starts, sounding bashful as one of his hands tugs at the sleeve of your sweater, the other curled around the nape of his neck, “I uh…the judges made me drink before I left the pavilion. I didn’t even stand a chance. Sorry to disappoint.” He chuckles, and it's a wispy sound that tickles your insides; you find your lips turning up at the sound. Luke, or whoever he is now, finds himself in awe at the sight, muttering under his breath, “I think I’ve dreamt of you before.”

For someone whose mind was washed by the River Lethe, Luke Castellan stares into your soul as he tries to get a glimpse of why you’re so familiar. Looking at you feels like the moments of a dream before he wakes up—a sliver of memory just as Morpheus pulls the rug out from under him. He’s seen your face before and he knows this, somehow.

“I just… I don’t even know why I ran over here, probably looked stupid jumping into the riverbed.. but uh…” he chuckles, biting his lip before blowing a raspberry. His mind is working faster than his mouth, “I just…wow. You’re beautiful.”

Luke’s still holding onto the threads of your sweater even as you try to put distance between you. He holds onto you like a kid catches fireflies, gentle and secure with no space between his fingertips, in case you fly away.

“I’m no one. Just forget this happened, will you?” Recoiling in what he hopes is not disgust, you turn your cheek, “Have a good life.” Wherever he is on his journey, Luke finds that there are things he knows and things he does not. He knows that he’s a human who died pretty young, someone with a jagged scar that runs down his face, and that his socks are uncomfortably wet inside of his Converse right now. What he doesn’t know is why his plans have suddenly changed, and why every wisp of his incorporeal being does not want to leave you alone. There is something he still has to do.

“Hold on, pretty girl!” Luke says incredulously, “You want me to just…look away now that I’ve seen you? I’m sorry, but no can do.” He holds onto your arm how two people share a lifeline —-it almost makes you want to sock him in the face if you weren’t on the brink of tears.

“And why the fuck not? I’ve got things to do.”

The foul language doesn’t deter him one bit; in fact, it makes him like you even more, “Things to do? Here? Maybe there is no rest for the dead.” You’ve ripped yourself out of his grasp and he dramatically puts a hand over his heart like you’ve wounded him, but by now, you’re stomping away, “You’re funny.”

And he follows you.

“Am I?”

“No,” you scoff, stopping in your tracks and not turning around. For a reason unbeknownst to him, Luke wants you to, badly. Kicking at a rock, you sniff, “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

You’re walking along the river in the same direction you came from and he’s stuck to you like a shadow. You move right, and so does he. You stop walking, and so does he.

“Where are you headed?”

Spinning frustratedly with your whole body, you look up at him like he’s stupid. Maybe he is—was. He has a feeling you’ll tell him anyway.

“You’re being stupid. Go away.”

There we are—he’s grinning at you now, a spark of satisfaction running through him like a match to gasoline, “Can I at least know your name?”

“Not important. Do you think if I pick a spot in Asphodel and stand long enough, I’ll grow roots?”

Luke frowns at the sentiment, “After everything you’ve lived for, you want Asphodel?” He sounds so disappointed in you that you do punch him this time. Your fist is clenched, landing against his abdomen with an oomph that pushes out of his chest.

“What I want is none of your business.”

“Well I got what I wanted,” he shrugs, like nothing of the sort, tricking you to look into his eyes for the first time in his new existence. His smile softens, almost as if his breath was taken away by the sight of them. Luminous, even in a place with no life or real light. Like a twinkling dusk that he wants to sink into.

They dart away too soon for his liking, pulling back to him only when he speaks again, “This is gonna sound crazy but…”

“I know crazy, trust me. You’d never believe what I have to tell you,” you mutter with a ghost of a smile—the high he gets from chasing it would be unhealthy if he already weren’t dead.

“Try me.”

“Fine. I knew you. Before. It’s all I’m allowed to say. And I need you to trust me, or I’ll be stuck here forever,” you say under your breath, “But that’s okay.”

“Okay,” Luke says passively, a nod of his head—does he not know what to make of what you just told him? Or does he think the idea of forever in a place like this is alright for a person he barely knows okay?

The element of surprise isn’t lost on him even here, “So what do we have to do?”

You pinch the bridge of your nose then, breathing slowly through your mouth, “Did you not just hear what I said?”

“I did, and I think even in our past life, you must have severely underestimated me,” Luke chortles, grabbing your hand instinctively until he realizes what he’s doing. Even if he’s a little lost, he watches closely as his fingers clasp around yours almost in greeting, like it’s muscle memory, not a handshake but something sacred and secure— it’s a relief to hold your hand and he doesn’t know why, but he also doesn’t let go.

Your mouth falls agape with a shuddering breath, “You always kept me on my toes, that’s for sure.” There’s a pinched quality to your voice and Luke decides to tell you the reason he ran across the River Lethe in the first place.

“I do,” he swallows, “trust you, I mean. I don’t know why, but I just do. I just really wanted to see the color of your eyes…” Luke trails off. Can you feel it? he wonders—a stretching, growing feeling that unearths itself from the pits of your existence, calling for you to stay together like this as if there is no other way to be.

“And what do you think now?” your voice wavers as your fingers subconsciously tighten around his, a rough, scarred palm feeling much more real in his grasp.

“Waking up to them must have been Elysium in itself.”

Falling to your knees, you busy yourself with cupping the water from the river instead of entertaining the overwhelming urge you have to kiss him. Out of the corner of your eyes, he watches you like how he used to hover at camp—wanting to help but also letting you do your thing, an outstretched hand in case you need it.

“I drink…and I’ll forget you,” you say to him, realizing your instructions also have to be your final act of letting go, “and then you take me to the pool of the Mnemosyne under the poplar tree, and we drink from it together.”

“And then?” he murmurs, sitting next to you to cup your hands to your lips. Your mouth begins to water as if the tastebuds on your tongue yearn to forget all of life’s transgressions too. And you watch him the whole while, letting him, trusting him.

“It’ll be me and you, and whatever comes next.”

Do you trust him? After everything?

“That sounds nice,” he hums, watching the faraway look in your eyes and wanting to join you where your mind is at, in knowing.

You love him—that in itself is trust.

Love is the strongest faith you’ve ever cared to know, and both of you are holding it to your lips with matching smiles on your faces. You don’t know what comes next, but this feeling frees you from the worry that’s been weighing you down with every step you took to find him again.

So, is love in this world a gift, or a curse?

Love can be found everywhere and made into everything if one tries hard enough.

Love is biting into the fruit,

Love is turning around,

Love is giving him the knife,

Love is a kiss on the cheek,

Love is reaching for the sun,

Love is making an impossible journey—neither of you is running from this, catching your breath until the air between your lips intermingles with familiarity, harmonious and in tandem. Two spirits share the secret of a life lived and the love that was shared as one wants to forget and the other wants to remember. There are no words that can explain the way your shrill laughter makes the recognition slightly glaze over his eyes like sweet honey, and he looks toward the poplar tree in the distance, itching to take you there afterward.

In case this is the last time in all of eternity that you’ll set your eyes upon Luke Castellan, you set your forehead against his ever so gently, a kiss of skin against skin as the water ripples from your shallow breaths.

“I’ll meet you at the poplar tree.”

He nods, and the liquid reaches your parched lips, all of your thoughts dissipating into the air around you. There are no names in this place, no status or glory and memories fade, like sprinkles of rain against your skin, sending shockwaves to your system as you’re fighting to hold on to every wave of nostalgia before it’s taken away. Luke’s smile is like sunlight as he watches the river wash over you completely, and then you settle into his arms as if falling asleep. Neither of you knows the answer to the question that’s tested by time, but here, time does not exist.

For once, it finally might even be on your side.

“I think I’ve been waiting for you,” Luke murmurs, brushing a strand of your hair behind your ear as he waits for you to wake, for the hummingbird flutter of your eyelashes to reveal your eyes in all of their ethereal glory. This prophecy was laid out and this love was self-fulfilling damnation and he smiles as your breath shifts, hands reaching out to pat him softly as if checking if he was still there even unconsciously, even without knowing him.

Time stands still here with you in his arms, and Luke is at peace with not knowing all the answers to the universe’s questions if it means he has you to face whatever’s next. Perhaps the answer is clear for others, but until then—whenever that may be, you have all the time to figure it out.

Together.

—

“What though the radiance which was once so bright

Be now forever taken from my sight,

Though nothing can bring back the hour

Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower,

We will grieve not, rather find

Strength in what remains behind.” - William Wordsworth

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

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