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[breadbrioche]

keep that to yourself | luke castellan

song: keep that to yourself by tristan

synopsis: luke survives the battle of manhattan and returns to camp half blood. he sees you and apologizes for all the damage he's done.

a/n: not associated with my other exbf!luke one shot, just obsessed with writing exbf!luke rn lol. please listen to the song bc it actually broke me.

luke castellan was never mean to you. he was always the boy with the kind eyes and gentle smile. the boy who was the first camper you met at 16 when you stumbled into camp half blood, terrified and partly relieved that you'd finally found sanctuary after two years of fending for yourself.

he offered his bed to you when you walked into the hermes cabin, stating that nobody deserved to sleep on the hardwood floors in a sleeping bag on their first night at camp. it was unusual for the head counselor to give up the bed they earned for a new camper, but you didn't know that then. you didn't question why luke never offered it to any new campers who entered the cabin throughout the years.

luke castellan was never mean to you. he was always the boy who stole extra pieces of dessert at dinner because he knew you had a sweet tooth. he noticed that when it came to burning offerings, you'd always frown knowing that you'd have to save your dessert to pray to your parent, so he started stealing an extra slice of cake or a fruit platter or the corner piece of the brownies.

when he passed by your table, he'd slide the plate on your tray and offer a shy smile before walking away. the grateful look in your eye every time he did this was cemented in his brain. you looked at him with so much adoration in your eyes and luke promised himself that he would do everything in his power to keep you looking at him like that.

luke castellan was never mean to you. he was always the boy who spent too much time helping you train because once kronos started visiting his dreams, he knew he wouldn't always be there to protect you. he would stay in that secluded part of the woods with you until the sun disappeared from the sky.

he would push you to your limit and you'd give it your all until your bones ached and you collapsed in exhaustion in his arms. then, he would kiss your temple and tell you that you did so well and joke that you were going to surpass him as the best swordsman at camp soon enough. you'd end the night winding down, pointing out the constellations in the sky, until the ominous sounds of the creatures lurking would force the two of you to retire to your respective cabins. he'd bid you goodnight with a soft kiss to your lips and a promise that he'll be outside your cabin door, bright and early, ready to take on the world with you the next day.

luke castellan was never mean to you, until he was. the fireworks in the sky illuminated his face in an eerie way, fire and anger dancing in the brown of his eyes as he pointed his sword at percy. you screamed at him to stop, to drop his sword, and he scoffed at you, calling you a traitor for taking the side of a boy you'd only met a few days ago. he accused you of betraying him, of never loving him, because you turned your back on him.

his words still ring in your ears years later. and when he walked into camp half blood, terrified and partly relieved thinking that the worst was over, that kronos was gone and he managed to survive the battle of manhattan, all you could think of was how he spoke to you that night.

there was a pain in your chest when he walked in with annabeth and percy. there were new scars on his body, two new ones that joined the scar on his face that you used to kiss. he looked older, too, sunken eyes and a slight hunch to his back, but he still looked like luke. your luke.

when he saw you, there was a stutter in his step that had percy gripping his arm to keep him steady. when the younger boy realized what luke was looking at, he offered you a small, apologetic smile. you tried to return the gesture, but your lips formed a grimace. you clutched your chest, standing frozen in your spot as your eyes raked over luke's body.

"y/n."

you closed your eyes at the sound of your name leaving his lips. it hurts to hear it. you gulped, blinking away the tears that were pooling in your eyes. when you finally found the strength to move, luke broke away from percy's grip and walked towards you, despite the warnings from the kids behind him.

there hasn't been a day since he left where luke didn't regret the way he left things with you. he wasn't himself then, but even that didn't excuse the way he treated you. he'd spent too many nights practicing what he would say to you, how he would apologize, how he would plead for your forgiveness if the gods showed him mercy and somehow blessed him with the opportunity to see you again.

now that he had the chance, he realized that it was not a blessing. this was a punishment from the gods; a punishment for his actions in the last few years, a punishment worse than death. you were looking at him like you hated him, like you wanted nothing to do with him. you looked at him like he was a stranger to you and it killed him slowly because he still felt like you were every memory, every hope, every lifeline he'll ever have.

luke knew he couldn't blame you. you had a million reasons to walk away from him right now and leave him here with his tail tucked between his legs. he ruined the one good thing in his life the night he spoke to you like that and accused you of never loving him. how did he ever think that? how did he ever doubt you when you've shown him nothing but the good in this god-forsaken life? it haunted him. it still haunts him.

"don't."

luke's lips formed a straight line. he looked down at your feet, a shudder trickling down his spine when he saw the fading doodles on your shoes that he drew with sharpie years ago.

"you don't get to talk to me," you said. "you don't get to do that, okay?"

"i just want to apologize."

"you don't get to do that," you repeated, voice wavering as you spoke. you wiped your eyes with the sleeve of your shirt, clenching your jaw, "it's not fair."

"y/n, please," he begged, "please."

"no, i've grieved losing you already," you croaked out, crossing your arms over your chest, "i've already accepted that i lost you. you don't get to come back to my life for any reason."

"baby..."

"you're so mean, luke," you cried, pushing him back. he let you shove him and hit his chest. he knew you were pulling your punches. he stood there and took it, biting his bottom lip as he watched you break down in front of him, unable to hold you in his arms. "you're so fucking mean, you know that? you were gone for years and so many people died and got hurt because of you. and you come in here and use how i feel about you to your advantage. how fucking cruel can you be?"

"i know, i know, i messed up really badly, but you gotta believe me. i didn't do it to hurt you."

you scoffed, backing away from him, "but you did."

"luke," annabeth approached the two of you, placing a hand on luke's back. "we should go, get you checked out at the infirmary."

you sniffled, wrapping your arms around yourself as you looked away to hide your tears from the pair. luke reached out to touch you, but he quickly dropped his hand when you flinched. his tongue poked the inside of his cheek as he tried to keep his emotions at bay. he wiped his eyes, giving annabeth a small nod.

he looked back at you, hoping that your eyes would meet his, but you never turned around. luke sighed sadly, following his younger sister to the infirmary. you didn't turn around to watch him leave until he turned the corner, disappearing from your view.

[breadbrioche]

love overflow—kento nanami

synopsis. a random man at the library piqued your interest (kento.)

c info. fluff, gender neutral reader, + libraries. sorta rushed..

it was the usual to observe the people around you in the library; it was quite possibly your favourite thing. the routine was to read a few pages of your book, put it down, then watch, after watching, pick up your book again and continue to read.

a few months later into this routine of yours, a somewhat random guy surprisingly piqued your interest—a blonde-haired man in his late twenties (you assume), a pair of thin-framed reading glasses seated on the bridge of his nose, a cup of coffee from the local cafe that you normally frequent beside him and a thick book in his hand typically a classic.

now, you don't go to the library to even attempt to read any more; you go to see him. you've tried your hardest to focus on the books before you, but your eyes always wander over to him.

unfortunately for you, your habitual glances that last much longer than you think have been noticed. kento also indulges in discreet glances; he's much better than you since you haven't caught him yet. he enjoys taking little mental notes about you — the way you've done your hair, the outfits that you wear, the slight smile on your face when you see him not knowing kento's been looking at you through his peripheral vision, and the way you nervously gulp when you both accidentally lock eyes immediately hiding your face in your book like nothing happened.

his unspoken practice between you two became a recurring thing during the year— the drawn-out gazes you shared before realising you'd been staring at each other for too long and hastily turning away.

hopefully, someday, one of you will get the courage to speak to each other, but for now, you'll just stick with the glances.

[breadbrioche]

1000 Followers Giveaway!

1st Prize - A 1000-2000 word fic of a Reader x Canon character of your choice from any of the fandoms I write.

2nd Prize - Headcanons for a Canon Character of your choice from any of the fandoms I write.

How to Enter - To enter, just reply to, reblog, or like this post. I'll keep it open for a week and then pick two winners using a randomised generator or however else you do these things. You must be a follower of mine to take part and please be over 18!

Also, if you want me to write for a fandom not listed in my Masterlist, we can talk on the messenger function and see if it's doable, there are some animes/movies/TV shows/games/etc I've watched but haven't written any fics for.

So yeah, let's do this!

[breadbrioche]

I just found your blog and I am EXTREMELY IN LOVE with how you write Claude. Thank you so much 🙏🙏🙏

If you take request, I'd love to see a jealous Claude of some sort. Or Claude having a crush on you and he wants to be very tactical about it but fails because for once he also stumbles over his words.

~🌻🌻🌻

Hello Sunflower anon! I promise I hadn't forgotten your ask, I just didn't want to respond until I had something to show for it. Now, here it is! Hope you enjoy! :)

Also available on Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/52063906

Out of the corner of his eye, Claude found himself watching you.

The Leicester Alliance might not have been as...enthusiastic in their celebrations as the kind of feasts that went down in Almyra, but they still knew how to host a party when the situation called for it. The buffet table groaned with a banquet of food that would have been unthinkable just a year or so ago and everyone was dressed in their best outfits, determined to finally enjoy some splendour after fighting their way through some of the bleakest days in living memory.

You were working the room, the goldenrod gown you were wearing rustling across the polished marble floors. He wondered if you had picked out that colour for any particular reason – was it simply because it looked nice on you, or was it some kind of message? A code, if you will.

“A woman’s outfit isn’t just for practicalities, Claude!” He heard Hilda’s voice chiming in his head, something she’d told him once in the old days at the Academy, when he’d once asked why she bothered to wear perfume and earrings to a mock battle. “When you pick out your clothing, you’re making a statement about who you are! And not just the girls – look around you sometime if you don’t believe me!”

He’d been sceptical of this claim initially, but after that conversation, Claude had found himself paying closer attention to how his fellow Golden Deer and other students wore their uniforms and had been both surprised and intrigued to see that Hilda had been right. It was in the little things, like Hilda’s skirt being as short as she could possibly get away with without incurring the wrath of Seteth, while Marianne made sure her uniform covered as much as herself as possible, like she was using the fabric to hide in. Then you had Sylvain with his sleeves rolled up and his hair messy, like he’d just rolled out of bed and couldn’t be bothered to button up the cuffs or front of his jacket. Then you had Lorenz and that ridiculous rose he always wore pinned to his lapel…

Speaking of Lorenz and his questionable choice in accessories, Claude spied the man himself across the room…and there you were, laughing at something he was saying.

An unfamiliar knot of irritation tightened in Claude’s chest, which was ridiculous…Lorenz was your old classmate, after all, so why wouldn’t you be catching up with him? There was plenty to catch up on, after all, especially now that the wore was officially over and Fodlan could breath a sigh of relief…

Yet he still didn’t like the way Lorenz was staring at you, like he’d discovered a rare new species of flower or bird. No doubt you looked even more lovely close up, but Claude wondered if you remembered what Lorenz used to be like around female students at Garreg Mach, to the point that Teach herself had to step in. As the sun poured into the room, catching on the jewellery you were wearing around your neck and in your ears, Claude couldn’t help but wonder what you had been thinking when you chose them, if each item was a tool in your arsenal to be deployed at the key moment…

“Stare, much?”

Claude jolted and turned to see Hilda, who was unsurprisingly in a resplendent pink gown that was clinging lovingly to her curves – if she was trying to convey a message with her outfit, then “Look at me!” seemed to be the end result.

“Hilda!” Claude greeted her, shooting her an easygoing smile that did not quite reach his eyes. “I see that you’re already enjoying the festivities.”

“Oh, there’s plenty to enjoy around here,” Hilda said airily. “But I have to say, you’re not looking as happy as the hero of the hour should be. Are you wishing you’d stayed home in Almyra?”

It was still so strange to hear the other half of him spoken aloud so casually, when he’d been hiding it so painstakingly for five years. Yet it came with an undeniable surge of relief.

“My home is here and Almyra.” Claude replied diplomatically. “Anyway, you think I’d pass up an opportunity to see everyone all together again?”

“Hmm, that’s true.” Hilda nodded, sipping from her glass of champagne. “This is a prime time to start forging diplomatic relations, isn’t it? Looks like those two over there are already making inroads.”

Hilda tilted her head, pink hair slipping off her shoulder, an amused little smile playing about her lips, like she knew something Claude didn’t. She’d always been able to see through him, and vice versa.

So no doubt Hilda had noticed the way that, no matter who Claude was talking to, his eyes kept wandering back to you, tracking you all about the ballroom as though he was worried that the moment he wasn’t making sure you were still there, you might just disappear.

“I thought the war taught you that sometimes you can’t just stand back and watch before you make a move.” Hilda remarked.

“It did.” Claude replied evenly, his green eyes growing half-lidded as Lorenz put his hand on your waist.

“Then go and talk to her! It’s not cute to stand around pouting at your age, you know.”

“Ha! You’re one to talk – you’ll be pouting to get your way until you’re an old lady.” Claude said, imagining an eighty-year-old Hilda in pigtails. “And I know.”

“Good, because it’s so exhausting trying to play matchmaker.” Hilda said, with an affected hair toss, before she spotted someone across the room and gave them a dainty little wave, her fingers fluttering.

“Oh, there’s Caspar! I promised him a dance!” she lilted, before swanning away, the scent of her perfume wafting behind her – Claude caught a whiff of anemones.

“Bet that’s not all you promised.” He murmured under his breath.

Nevertheless, Claude heeded her advice, because as spacy as she might have liked to seem, Hilda was a startlingly perceptive woman under her ditzy attitude. He strode across the room, boots clicking on the polished floors, surging ahead before he could start doing what he always did. Running through various scenarios in his head like he was figuring out his next move in chess, making contingency plans, scheming. It was his fall-back from when he was a scrawny young boy, hiding in the shadows from those who sought to harm him that he couldn’t possibly retaliate against physically. Old habits died hard, despite everything.

“Lorenz! I see your fashion sense has improved since our school days! Well, somewhat.” Claude said in a cheery voice as he approached the two of you. “Remember how people used to ask if you’d tried to cut your hair with an axe?”

“May I remind you, Claude, that you wore the same uniform as me back then?” Lorenz sighed, but it lacked the genuine irritation it once did.

“I see you still like yellow, though.” You said to Claude, turning your head to smile at him, though that smile was teetering on being a smirk.

Claude’s mouth went dry.

“So do you.” He replied. He didn’t mean to say that; it just popped out before he could stop himself. It was unlike Claude to be so concise with his wording, he had always tended to err on the side of verbosity, yet…

Your smile widened and heat spread across your cheeks, and his own mouth curved in a smirk.

“Yes, well, we were just about to dance-“ Lorenz said haughtily, seeming not to notice your reaction to Claude’s comment, and the latter gave a wince of faux-sympathy.

“Ooh, sorry, Duke of Gloucester, but she already promised the next one to me. Did she not say? Ah, for shame, my lady!”

“Oh, right, yeah,” you said, before quickly turning your head to Lorenz. “Apologies, do excuse me. But you know, if you’re looking for a dance partner, why not ask Marianne? She’s been standing over there by herself a while, it would probably be nice for her to see a face she recognises.”

“Ah, yes, what a good idea!” Lorenz said, his face brightening at the suggestion, turning to look across the ballroom. “I had to speak with her about Margrave Edmund’s proposition…”

He wandered off, still muttering under his breath, though it was obvious neither you nor Claude cared whatsoever what he was talking about. Instead, Claude offered a hand with a slightly mocking edge to it, unable to resist bucking against convention.

“Shall we?”

You accepted his hand and he lead you into the middle of the room where several people were dancing, and he saw Hilda shoot him a grin as Caspar somewhat clumsily whirled her around in a blur of pink and blue. Claude rested one of his hands on the small of your back and though the contact was hardly anything risqué, it still sent a bolt of delight through you.

“So you really did mean to dance.” You remarked, falling into step with him almost without thinking about it. You’d been instructed how to dance for formal events like this by your parents when you were younger and as much of an irritating chore as they’d felt at the time, it was like second nature now.

“What else could I have meant?” Claude replied, lifting one hand to twirl you around. “I could have challenged you to a duel, I suppose, but neither of us seem dressed for the occasion.”

“Well, for a second there, I thought you were just going to start grunting and throw me over your shoulder.” You teased, as he pulled you in again. “That was quite the glare you were giving Lorenz Hellman Gloucester.”

“Do you want to be thrown over my shoulder?” Claude asked, tilting his head. “Or would that put a dampener on all your schmoozing?”

“Forging important political alliances, you mean.” You corrected Claude with a smirk. “Goodness, Claude. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were jealous.”

“And if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were purposefully trying to induce a little jealousy.” Claude replied, eyes sliding down to your lips.

You tilted your chin up, defiantly.

“And if I was?”

There was a small silence, a verbal gauntlet thrown down, and Claude looked at you with an expression that made your insides twist. He reached his free hand out and twined a lock of your hair around his finger, his expression thoughtful.

“Then I’m afraid you’re just going to have to suffer the consequences.”

~

“Claude…Claude!”

You were sweating. Heated kisses and a warm, muscular body pressing you to the wall would do that to a person. Along with the fact that you were only on the other side of the room from the entire ballroom – if somebody left to get a little fresh air, for example, they might well stumble on the scene of the new Duke of House Riegan kissing you against the wall like a naughty schoolboy. You pulled back, feeling a little dazed.

“I know you like to make risky moves, Claude, but isn’t this a bit much?” you said, a touch breathlessly.

Claude laughed softly, breath tickling your cheek as he moved in closer, pressing his lips to your neck.

“I consider the pros to outweigh the cons in this specific scenario.” He replied in a murmur.

“Which are?” You giggled.

“Pros: I get to put my hands on you,” Claude replied, sucking hard on the skin of your throat, making you gasp. “Cons: Someone might see me put my hands on you.”

“Then why are you doing this in a place where the cons could become a real possibility?” You asked, though you knew the answer already – you just wanted to know if he’d admit to it.

“If you want a gamble to have the best possible payoff, then you have to make sure the risk is big enough.” Claude replied with a wry smile, his fingers squeezing your hips. “Anyway, I didn’t hear you doing much maidenly protesting. Though your mouth was quite occupied at the time…”

You laughed and pulled him down for another kiss, because he was quite right, of course – knowing that other people were there, mooning for someone else across the room but not daring to make a move, or chastely dancing together while secretly wishing they could do so much more, gave you an adrenaline rush you hadn’t felt since you were standing on a battlefield so many months ago. These thrills were less likely to come with the potential cost of your life, but they were exciting in an entirely new way.

“Claude…” you mumbled, leaning into him, resting your hands on his chest, feeling his heart pounding against your palms. It was true you’d wanted to get his attention today – he’d been away in Almyra for months and you’d missed him. Missed his laugh, the easy way he could banter with just about anyone, the sharp line of his jaw and the particular shade of green of his eyes…perhaps going around in a dress the same colour as that cape of his was a little on the nose, but it seemed to have worked.

“Mm?” he seemed preoccupied with your earrings, taking one and giving it a playful little tug, an emerald sparkling between his teeth.

“How long exactly is the hero of the Leicester Alliance expected to stay at the ball until he can flee into the sunset?” you asked, tilting your head.

"Flee? Is that how you see me? Some coward who's always running away at the drop of a hat?” Claude asked, holding a hand to his chest in a parody of shock. "I'm not Bernadetta!"

“I wouldn’t call you a coward,” you said, then paused. “But you do tend to rush from place to place without giving people a chance to say goodbye.”

Understanding dawned across his face, and he ran his fingers through your hair, his touch gentle.

“I had things to do. But I always intended to come back.” He said, simply. It wasn’t easy feeling torn between two things all the time, but he had hope that now, he could finally act as a whole for the first time in his life.

“Still, a word or two would have been nice…” You said, a little churlishly, unwilling to melt under his touch just yet, not wanting to give up your grievances so easily. You didn’t consider yourself the type to be pining over anyone, but Claude von Riegan wasn’t just anyone.

And here was something you loved about Claude, one of the many things – instead of getting exasperated or defensive at your stubbornness, your unwillingness to just sink into the moment, into him, a slow smile spreads across his face, honey-sweet.

“Oh, sweetheart.” He cooed, cupping your face. “Did you miss me that much?”

The sting of his teasing was mitigated by the way he kissed you next, soft and sensually, the scruff of his beard rubbing against your skin, but you didn’t care, you were too busy kissing him back, lips tingling, sighing against him as his hands squeezed your waist like he didn’t want to let go.

“You know, I think I might be able to make it up to you.” Claude said breathlessly, when you both finally paused for ear. Some of your lipstick was smudging his face and a perverse stab of pride poked you at the sight of it. “If you’re willing, that is.”

“That depends on what it is,” you replied, your lips tingling. You knew you were smiling despite your grumpy tone.

“Oh, you’ll like it. But we’d have to get on my wyvern to see it.” Claude replied, brushing his thumb across your bottom lip. “Think of it as an adventure.”

An adventure with Claude sounded…well, even a casual conversation with Claude could be exciting, he was the kind of person who could talk about any subject. But to be whisked away into the unknown made your stomach perform a swooping feeling, almost a pre-emptive recreation of what sitting atop a dragon was like.

“So am I being kidnapped now?” You said with an excited giggle, the possibilities opening up to you suddenly making this spacious corridor seem like a prison you’re about to break free from, and Claude laughed back. “Will you stop and write out a ransom first?”

“You know what us Almyrans alike. We just can’t resist something pretty to take for our own.” He teased, pulling your flush against him. “What do you say we have a real celebration?”

His eyes glinted with mischievous intent, reminding you sharply of the emerald earrings you’d carefully slotted into your ears as you were dressing for the ball. You leaned into his embrace, breathing in the scent of Claude, parchment and cloves and pine needles.

“That’s fine with me. I don’t mind being stolen.” You whispered back to him, and his answering kiss sealed the deal.

[breadbrioche]

KIM SEJEONG for ELLE Korea Special 'ELLE D' Edition 2024

[breadbrioche]

Hibari for earl grey and chai tea pls

hiiii anon!!! all good, thank you! weeeee everyone suddenly wants to know how they spice up their relationships lol. but these were fun, thank you!!

character/s: tyl!hibari kyoya, reader-insert (gender-neutral)

word count: —

warnings: the second one is intentionally written to come off suggestive in the narration and dialogue lol

prompt: tea prompts (coffee, chai tea)

coffee; do they get jealous easily? how do they show it?

hah. ha. well, not in the most… convenient way…? not that he’s ever had to worry about his partner cheating on him or being unfaithful, and usually walking around publicly as Hibari Kyoya’s partner you’d skip a lot of people trying to hit on you. but I think he’d still get… unnecessarily…. competitive? he knows he’s stronger, he knows he’s better, this other person can eat shit. it’s all very stupid truthfully lmfao

Their nervousness was getting worse the longer this conversation went on. You were trying to steer it into something that would help comfort him, but Kyoya’s presence was like a wall. Unmoving, unfaltering.

“Oh, the time…” You looked up at Kyoya for a moment. “You’ve got to go, don’t you?”

Kyoya nodded once. “Yes. A meeting.” Your expression flattened when he held the other’s gaze evenly. “A Guardian meeting.”

The flaunting of his title seemed to work a bit, bc the man you’d been talking to flinched a little. You could almost hear Kyoya snort in amusement over the reaction, so you grabbed his arm, tightly.

“You should get going, then. Don’t want to be late.”

“It’d be a shame if someone held me up, huh.”

“O-Oh! I’ll let you get to it then, Sir!” You smiled warily as the man in front of you bowed his head and left with a quiet goodbye in your direction, waving.

Once he was gone you turned to smack Kyoya’s arm before doing it again for good measure. “What’s wrong with you? Cut it out.”

“It’s kind of funny, isn’t it? I wonder how they’ve survived this long.”

You turned him and forced him down the hall with a loud noise. “You’re like a mafia anomaly to these people. Stop scaring people for no reason.”

“They’re scared because they know I’m stronger.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

chai tea; how do they spice up their relationship?

right. so, you’d know how to fight already by his standards. I think for shits and giggles he’d just give you his weapons. just let you go to town learning them, and I bet he’d probably think that’s soooooo attractive, sooooooo cool and sexy. he’s a stickler for the rules (the ones he likes following, at least) so he wouldn’t do anything too reckless, but fighting is right up his alley, so letting your learn with something apart of him is the way he’d go about it

“Harder!”

You seemed to do well, getting yelled at and commanded into things, because your next swing at the dummy took the wooden head off it’s stiff shoulders, letting the heavy ‘thunk’ echo in the training room.

“Yeah!” You threw your hands up, gripping his tonfa tightly. “God his stupid ass head off!” You turned to grin at him, eyes wide and sparkling. Chest heaving with adrenaline from training. Very clearly expecting praise.

Kyoya sighed softly, head tilting, but he watched you with amusement. He waved a hand at you, instructing you to come closer, and you came immediately.

Once close enough, he lifted a hand to pet you on the head once. “Good job. Now go destroy the others and I’ll give you a reward.”

The way you visibly lit up, practically vibrating with excitement, was almost endearing. He waved you off and you ran off with a laugh, lifting up a tonfa threateningly. They looked good in your hands.

[breadbrioche]

I felt such a strong, visceral reaction to this post specifically and had to write something really short and dumb for it literally immediately I’m so serious holy shit. in love with this. I’m gonna cry

character/s: superbi squalo, reader-insert (gender-neutral)

word count: 359

warnings: swearing

prompt: squalo runs colder than most

“It’s too cold! I don’t want to go on this stupid mission!”

Squalo watched you kick up a fuss, quiet as you gathered your stuff. He paid attention to every item you grabbed so he would remember them, so you wouldn’t complain about losing them if you forgot one on your way back.

“I just wanna stay here! It sucks, but it’s indoors at least…!”

“Just hurry up. The faster we leave, the faster this gets done, the faster we get home.”

You grumbled about it the entire way out of the estate, and he let you grouch on your way through. It’d get it out of your system and then you could get to work; you at least knew when to shut up.

You also promptly ignored every dig or mocking remark made at you as you pulled on gloves, a thicker coat, earmuffs. Because of your thick snow boots, the scarf you were wrapping around your neck. They could make fun of you all they liked, but you wanted to stay warm. Fuck ‘em.

Once you’d made enough of a trek away from the estate, pushing through snow with irritation, you eventually slowed to a stop.

“What?”

Squalo stopped next to you, and leant down when you waved at him to. He stayed still, head bowed a touch so you could reach up and slip your (his) earmuffs onto his head. He straightened with a low noise, a grunt of thanks.

“You should start killing people if they’re gonna make fun of you for wearing fucking earmuffs, you know.”

He blinked at you slowly before lifting a leg. You yelled out when he hooked his foot into the back of your knees and you fell, knees hitting the snow.

“You bastard! Give them back and freeze, then!”

Squalo snorted and headed off again, not waiting for you to scramble out of the snow and catch up to him. You didn’t.

He jerked forward after you threw a crudely made snowball at the back of his head, poorly constructed due to your gloves.

“Oi! You stupid bitch; just get up and come on!”

“Bastard! That’s what you get!”

[breadbrioche]

kiss of life (i.)

pairing: luke castellan x aphrodite!daughter reader

summary: in a universe where soulmates are interlinked by shared pain (senses) and emotions, luke castellan refuses to have anything to do with his soulmate because of what it did to his mother, but he can't ignore fate.

—or: luke castellan and the soulmate he never wanted.

word count: 4.03k

warnings: suppperrr angsty, luke castellan pov, long reading time, descriptive injuries, blood, pre-tlt, luke is a dick, annabeth carries her 5 seconds of screen time, there's no happy thoughts in this whatsoever, slight reader pov during capture the flag, i lowkey messed up but whatever!!

a/n: i wanted to make a cute lil fic for valentines day but uh... that didn't happen. this will definitely be a two (maybe 3) part fic so pls bear with me guys. this is based on this request! (sorry i babe this probably isn't what you expected). i'm working on a tag list! lmk if you wanna be added! make sure your tags are on

Luke Castellan had always known of soulmates, a covenant bestowed by the goddess Aphrodite after Zeus' condemnation. In this tapestry of fate, each person had a counterpart, a soulmate crossing the expanse of the world in search of their other half. Aphrodite offered the assurance as an unspoken promise that no soul would tread the journey of life alone.

It was undeniably a blessing, an ethereal gift from the divine. 

However, within the enchanting threads of destiny lay the knots of a curse, a double-edged sword cutting through the hearts of those entangled in its mystic web.

If caught in a love affair with the gods themselves, to have a soulmate is to be cursed. 

It is a curse.

To be bound by an unseen force to another being carried the weight of uncertainty. The love meant to be shared might be misplaced, bestowed upon one undeserving of such devotion. The anticipation of finding one's missing half, the yearning for completion, came with the haunting possibility of realizing your soulmate is a terrible person (or a god).

Luke Castellan, haunted by the thought of his own mother's despair, struggled with the contradictory idea of soulmates.

He had witnessed the agony of misplaced trust, the shattered promises of an everlasting bond that crumbled into abandonment. The bitter taste of reality lingered in his memories, and he found solace in mistrust. The once-a-believer had been wounded by the fickleness of fate, and the shards of shattered hopes had left him jaded.

For Luke, the concept of soulmates had become a distant echo, a melody drowned in the clamour of broken vows. The elaborate dance of destiny, with its promises of eternal love, had left him disillusioned and wary.

The mere thought sends shivers down his spine. There was a time when the uncertainty of meeting his soulmate fueled his excitement, the prospect of finding the one who could empathize with his scars and decipher the intricate labyrinth of his thoughts. But it all crumbled under the weight of bitter revelations. It was all from a time before he understood the depths of his father's betrayal of his once hopeful mother. 

May Castellan, who, like her son, had yearned for the embrace of a soulmate, had fallen victim to the callous actions of the gods, of Hermes. The invisible bond that tethered her to a true soulmate, forever elusive, disintegrated into ash as Hermes, with deceitful promises, claimed her love, gave her a child, and then abandoned her. 

Hermes, in the eyes of Luke, was never deserving of the love May once held for him. The curse woven by him and Aphrodite condemned not only May but every parent of Half-Bloods, forcing them to lose their soulmates the moment they fell for a god unbeknownst to them. A life of loneliness, unless deemed worthy of a second chance.

The wicked curse that hangs like a shadow. Luke harbours a desire to curse each deity responsible, yearning to reverse the relentless march of time and rescue his mother from the clutches of an ill-fated love. His gut turns to spare himself from the knowledge that his soulmate is burdened with every ache in his bones, every cut against his skin, every burn etched into his soul, and all the hatred festering within his heart. 

A bound linkage to someone unseen, someone he wishes never to encounter, so he can evade the piercing gaze that would reflect the damage he unwittingly wrought upon their shared destiny. The very thought of this entwined fate, tinged with regret and resentment, casts a dark pall over Luke's existence.

He had never desired to cross paths with you, and he dreaded the thought of it, actually. And now, in the cruel twist of fate, he is intimately acquainted with every nuance of your existence. The touch of your hands lingers on his skin, your smile etches itself into his mind, and he has meticulously memorized every curl and detail of your hair. 

Luke hates himself because of it. 

Even before he met you, he sensed the gentleness that resonated within your heart during the quiet hours of the night. In the shadows of darkness, he felt the healing energy from you, mending his wounds with an invisible touch. The cuts on Luke's skin were yours as much as they were his. The unspoken link between your souls allowed him to witness the subtle acts of kindness, and Luke grapples with the conflict between the soft purity he perceives in your heart and the darkness he knows resides within his own.

Luke reluctantly admits that meeting you has broken down the barriers he built against the concept of soulmates. He sought refuge in the hectic pace of camp life, immersing himself in caring for the needs of others and teaching classes nonstop. The hope was to drown out the impending meeting, to avoid the inevitable collision with the person he believes is destined for a lifetime of torment, told to love a fractured soul like his own.

He battles against the current of fate, fearing that he, like his father, will ruin someone deserving of far more than what he is willing to give. Luke Castellan, with his decaying and rotten heart, grapples with the impossibility of being loved the way a soulmate should be. 

Luke used to avoid the infirmary as if it were a contagious plague. He observed other campers entering with the innocent thoughts of treating their injuries, only for some (most) to depart, hands entwined with another camper bearing matching scars. 

At Camp Half-Blood, discovering your soulmate was a rare alignment of stars and celestial threads. However, if one dared to tread the delicate line of hope the best place to look in was the sanctuary where most children of Apollo thrived—the infirmary, a haven where wounds were healed, and the whispers of shared pain lingered in the air.

Knowing himself, Luke carried the confidence that his soulmate must be among the group who spent hours of the day in the infirmary. The persistent pain in his body, a result of late-night training sessions when the cloak of darkness allowed him to unleash a more violent, heartless side with his sword, left an indelible mark on his consciousness. 

If he aches, you ache with him.

And as you used to pass your days with the intent of healing, he embarked on a self-destructive journey. Rest remained elusive, sleep a forgotten companion, all of it was a relentless chase of distraction from you before even meeting you. It was excessive, and he knew it.

The awareness that he shared hurting wounds and silent pain with a soulmate haunted him long before he set foot in camp. But the realization of you being so close scared him, and it came swiftly when the first breath of the air in the camp seemed to carry a lighter touch than anywhere else, his bruises throbbed less, and the sting of cuts transformed into a light buzz, resonating with the rhythmic pound of his heart. He was fourteen years old when he realized his soulmate wasn't as far away as he thought. 

Yet, despite this, Luke avoided any acknowledgment of you. He dismissed the whispers from those who bore similar bloody knuckles or heard rumours of others awakening with jabs on their arms, reminiscent of his own accidental self-inflicted cuts while sharpening his sword. The passage of time at camp became a delicate dance of evasion, each day spent in a fervent hope to remain blissfully unaware of the person who mirrored his wounds and pain.

Driven by guilt and fear, Luke deliberately sidestepped any potential encounters with his soulmate. His days were crafted meticulously to maintain this distance.

And it worked.

At least for a while.

Until the fatal return to camp after a failed quest, a burden placed on him by his father. Hopes and ambitions lay crushed and battered, and Luke's spirit shrunk from the pitiful gazes of other campers and the wallowing anger toward his father grew.

Annabeth ushered him to the infirmary the moment she laid eyes on him. 

And for once, Luke never fought her against it.

There, in the quiet confines of the healing haven, Luke sat in a vulnerable silence. His head hung low as an older Apollo child skillfully stitched up the wound on the side of his face, wrapping it to keep it from infections as it healed. By then, tears had become a rarity for Luke, but that night was an exception. When the son of Apollo left the cabin, he could feel them stream down his cheeks, the ache in his chest returning as he sobbed into his hands. 

At that moment, he felt like a child again, hiding in his bedroom, hiding anywhere he could; under his bed, in his closet, locked in the bathroom. He only ever wanted his mom. He was scared, fear gripped him, in his heart, and he wanted his mom to hold him and reassure him that everything was okay and that the monsters were only from the stories. That they'd never hurt him. But May Castellan was the one who-

"You're Luke, right?"

He was snapped back to the present as he heard the soft voice, a gentle interruption to the echoes of his past. A pair of old shoes appeared at the foot of his bed, their white socks and lace trim capturing his attention. 

Initially, he assumed it might be a random camper stuck on bed rest offering words of encouragement or recognition for his efforts on the quest. Maybe even a pat on the back. However, the soothing tone and genuine concern prompted his clenched fists to uncoil.

Luke looked up with rosy cheeks and glossy eyes, unable to hide the traces of his tears. There you stood, the toe of your right shoe tracing patterns on the floor. 

Despite the weariness, a glimmer of hope shone in your eyes as you tilted your head and softly spoke his name again.

The world seemed to... stop. Luke felt himself sinking into the soft mattress, softer than the one on his bed in Hermes' cabin. Tunnel vision enveloped him, rendering him oblivious to the lingering ache on the side of his face, the lingering humiliation, and even his festering hatred toward his father. For that fleeting second, he was acutely aware of nothing but you and the rhythm of his heart, pounding against his ribcage.

He tried to stop staring, but it was difficult. Your eyes, filled with curiosity, roamed across his face, and his figure, before finally settling on his gaze. Luke felt the pull, a silent exchange. You raised your chin ever so slightly, an uncertain smile etched on your lips as if grappling with the urge to ease his pain without knowing how.

Luke couldn't help but think that you were the most beautiful person he had ever seen.

"Hi." You say, voice quiet. It felt familiar, and Luke found himself sitting up, his body finally coaxed back to life. A soft wave accompanied your introduction, and you shared your name.

He repeated it, savouring the sound of it. Luke nodded, clearing his throat before finally acknowledging, "Yeah, I'm Luke." As you looked at him, a sense of familiarity lingered in your gaze, prompting him to question, "Have we met before?"

Considering the number of Half-Bloods at camp, he might have seen you in passing and might have heard your name in others' conversations. He wasn't surprised when you shook your head. "No, I don't think so. Not officially at least."

Gratitude flooded him as you refrained from prying into his well-being or questioning the details of his quest. It was as if you inherently knew not to press him. Yet, there was an undeniable shift in your demeanour.

It only took a few more seconds for it to click. 

Alarms started to ring in Luke's head as you tucked strands of hair behind your ears, revealing your full face. A jolt of realization struck him like a punch to the stomach. His gaze fixated not on you but on the healing stitches adorning the right side of your face — eerily similar to the ones he had recently received, wrapped and hidden to ward off infections.

His stare shifted from you to the delicate ridges of your skin, where the cut appeared in far better condition than his own. A pang of bitterness surfaced as he realized you had tended to your injury promptly, unlike him, a failure who had journeyed back to camp shrouded in defeat, covered in grime, sweat, blood, and tears.

Your cut would heal nicely, leaving behind a faint scar visible only under the summer sun's ray in the camp. Meanwhile, Luke knew his own would bear the mark of an ugly scar, a haunting reminder of his losses, of his anger, of how he hated pieces of himself and every piece of the gods. But in between, Luke liked to think of how in the summer months, your matching scars would serve as a silent testament to your contrasting yet interlinked connection as...

Oh.

Oh, no.

You seemed on the verge of saying something, brows creased, a nervous laugh bubbling within you, but Luke avoided meeting your eyes. The unspoken sentiment hung in the air, clear as day, and he didn't need you to say it.

He could almost picture you then, collapsing, your skin tearing as Ladon dug his claws into Luke's face. The echoes of your screams intertwined with his own, and the lingering pain painted a vivid tapestry of shared suffering. It struck him — you never deserved the consequences of his failed quest.

The weight of having Luke as a soulmate felt like an inescapable curse, a burden you never asked for. It was a curse he never wanted to bestow upon anyone, especially you. In the sheer minutes of meeting you, he already felt that you deserved better. 

The day had already unravelled into a series of unfortunate events — a failed quest, pitiful glances, and now, an encounter with a soulmate. While others might interpret this moment of fate as the gods offering forgiveness for his quest's failure, Luke perceived it as a cruel mockery. The gods, it seemed, were determined to make him hate them.

When his eyes finally met yours, he was taken aback by the kindness reflected in them. There was no trace of hatred, despite the bodily harm he had indirectly inflicted upon you. A part of him hoped that, in time, you would come to despise him enough for Aphrodite to redirect the course of your fate, steering you toward a soulmate other than Luke.

But she didn't.

And he refused to talk to you since.

When he woke up the next morning, you were there, sitting by the bed nearby, reading a book quietly. When you saw him awake, already looking your way, you seemed to brighten in a way that he could think the sun looked like until he met you. Before you could say anything, he turned the other way.

You got the hint and let Luke settle with the newfound information placed upon the two of you. You gave him time. Surely, he'd come around eventually. 

But hours turned to days, and days turned to weeks and you were sure he could feel the way your heart sank every time he'd leave the room the moment you entered. He never gave you a chance.

Luke was being an asshole and he knew it. But it was complicated and the root of it all made his head spin. You started to cloud his judgement and change his beliefs, and he'd only spoken three words to you at most. What kind of sick and twisted fate was this?

Before, glimpses of you were brief and fleeting, mere blurs in the edge of Luke's attention. He could have sworn he spotted you in the company of Silena Beauregard and Piper McLean, and that led him to assume that you were, ironically, a daughter of Aphrodite. 

But now, you seemed to be everywhere, appearing in every corner of camp.

You were there by the strawberry fields when he searched for solace. At the lake, you were teaching the youngest campers how to swim, a nurturing figure amidst the laughter and splashes. Even at the Dining Pavilion, he couldn't escape the proximity of you and your friends, sitting so close to his own table.

Luke pretended not to notice the soft smile you sent his way, a silent plea for acknowledgment. Instead, he rose abruptly. Luke retreated to the ritual of burning offerings without uttering a word and left, ignoring the way your eyes followed.

The ache in his chest intensified with each passing moment, and it made him wonder if he could die from the heartache of avoiding his soulmate. Surely, it wouldn't kill him, Luke told himself, his mother was still alive, wasn't she?

Throughout late spring and into the swelting days of summer, you saved time to break through Luke's walls, to get him to talk to you. You couldn't fathom the idea of having a soulmate so near, let alone hate for reasons unknown to you. 

One day, you cornered him admits the chaos of Capture the Flag, the end of your sword at his chest. Up close, he noticed the subtle differences in your demeanour - the determination hidden beneath your helmet, the armour wrapped tightly around you, the clinking of metal as you moved.

Instinctively, Luke reached for his sword. 

But to his surprise, you made no move to attack. You only wanted to talk. 

"There's nothing to say," Luke shrugged, his tone guarded. "Unless you want to surrender your flag."

"That's not what I want to talk about," you countered, your voice firm yet tinged with an edge of annoyance. It was a change from the shy and nervous tone you had shown in the infirmary months ago, or during your previous attempts to confront him.

He shifted uncomfortably, his grip tightening on the handle of his sword. You removed your helmet and placed it by your feet, the vibrant red feathers stark against the lush green grass, and you rose to your full height and met Luke's gaze.

"Luke," You started.

"No," he interjected, defensive as if the mere sound of your voice threatened to unravel him completely.

"I didn't even say anything."

"I know what you're going to say."

You tilted your head in a gesture of inquiry. "I thought you said there was nothing to talk about?"

Your words seemed to fall on deaf ears as Luke withdrew his sword, taking a step back to maintain distance between you. With a firm grip on his weapon, he pointed it in your direction, it clashed against the blade of your own, a warning to keep your distance.

Undeterred, you persisted, unwilling to let him slip away without a fight. "You're my soulmate, Luke."

He shook his head dismissively. "You don't know that."

In response, you scoffed, pointing to the thin line that mirrored the scar he hid beneath his helmet. "I don't?" you countered, your tone laced with incredulity.

Your scar had indeed healed beautifully over the summer, unaffected even by the harsh rays of the sun. It adorned your face like a badge of resilience, a mark of strength that Luke couldn't help but envy. To him, it only served as a reminder of his own perceived flaws - a source of insecurity and self-doubt.

"You can't keep ignoring me," you persisted, taking a step closer to him, your determination unwavering. "At least tell me why. I don't blame you for the pain you've caused, Luke. So, stop looking so guilty when you see me."

Luke remained stubborn, his resolve unyielding. Without warning, he lunged at you, his sword poised to strike. 

Startled, you stumbled back, your own sword drawn instinctively in defence. While your prowess with a sword may not have been the greatest, you held your own, maintaining a defensive stance against his relentless onslaught.

"Why are you so against it?" you pressed, your voice tinged with frustration. "Do you not believe in soulmates? What are you so afraid of?"

Luke grunted in response, pulling back when you pushed him away, his expression unreadable as he turned his back to you.

Left standing there, feeling utterly hopeless, you tightened your grip on your sword, its weight heavy in your hand. "Is it me?" you questioned softly, the weight of rejection bearing down on you.

To be rejected by a soulmate was a rare occurrence, one usually shrouded in untold reasons and unspoken pain. Yet, as Luke kicked your sword away and forced you to surrender for the remainder of the game, compelling you to raise a white flag in defeat, you couldn't shake the nagging doubt that perhaps Aphrodite had been mistaken. 

Luke had seen it reflected in your eyes – that deep-seated fear of being unwanted. It was a fear he knew all too well, one that had haunted him every time he caught his own reflection in the mirror. However, you never brought yourself to believe in a mistaken fate, clinging to the hope instilled in you by your mother's unwavering faith.

You signed up for counsellor activities you don't usually take on, hoping for a chance to engage with Luke, but time and again, it was Chris who appeared in his place, offering apologetic smiles and half-assed excuses for Luke's disappearances. As a last resort, you left a note attached to the sheath of his sword.

He had found it hours after sword practice, long after the clang of blades had ceased and the eager shouts of campers had faded into the twilight. The training grounds lay deserted, bathed in the soft hues of the setting sun as its golden rays cast long shadows across the empty expanse. He looked for you in his surroundings, but you were nowhere to be found.

In the note, you'd asked him to meet you by the lake the next full moon. You pleaded for an opportunity to talk, no snarky comments, no sarcastic jabs, no running away. You only wanted to understand why he had been avoiding you. You told him you'd wait for him by the dock. 

And you did.

The moon cast its light upon the waters, and you waited patiently, the soft ripples of the lake lapping gently at the shore. The night air was cool and crisp, carrying with it a hint of anticipation that mingled with the rustle of leaves in the nearby trees. You hugged yourself tightly, a futile attempt to ward off the chill that crept beneath your skin.

Hours passed in silence, the passage of time marked only by the soft murmur of the water and the distant call of nocturnal creatures. Yet, despite the solitude that enveloped you, you remained steadfast in your guard, your determination (or perhaps stubbornness) unwavering.

Luke stood by the shadows of the treeline, clutching the note you had left tightly between his fingers. From there, he watched you sitting alone by the docks, a lone silhouette against the moonlit expanse of the lake. He felt a pang of guilt tug at his heart as he watched you shiver in the night breeze, the weight of your unspoken words hanging heavy in the air.

For a fleeting moment, he contemplated approaching you, the urge to bridge the growing chasm between you almost overwhelming. Yet, as uncertainty clouded his thoughts, he hesitated, paralyzed by his own insecurities and fears.

In the end, Luke made his choice. With a heavy heart, he tossed the note, watching as it fluttered to the ground. With a sigh, he turned and retreated into the darkness, seeking solace in the shelter of Hermes's cabin, leaving you by the water's edge.

He knew then that he'd been right: to have a soulmate is to be cursed, and you eventually were to realize that you cannot love a fractured soul like his own, even if it was what the Fates had in store for you, it only led to despair. 

[breadbrioche]

Boosting here too just in case anyone can offer any advise (please help me omg)

I preordered the Tsuna and Hibari pop up parade figures from Dekai Anime but today Dekai Anime suddenly went under?? They’ve provided so little info but they said said to file a charge back with paypal/banks but those are all asking for times when it should have been delivered - and both of the figures were set to deliver in June and September so haven’t been delivered yet. Does anyone know what I should do??

[breadbrioche]

The foreshadowing of Luke being a monster in the fic has me SICK 😭😭😭😭

Omg anon the worst thing that it was completely UNINTENTIONAL WHOOPSIES sorry hehe 😭😭 but looking back on it maybe I should’ve played on that more bc I had no idea how to end it 💀

But thank you for bringing it up because I wouldn’t have noticed otherwise lmaoo

[breadbrioche]

fit for a princess

luke castellan x reader

➳summary: a quick fluffy thing because admin eagerly wishes summer can come sooner and is purposely ignoring the ending of the pjo series :D

➳warnings: not proof read, written during multiple fits of delusion, established relationship

➳word count: 1.1k

➳a/n: IM BACK!! Sorry to any who were expecting a TUC fic but the pjo has been my latest obsession so I had to write it

At Camp Half-Blood, the weather is always perfect but, somehow, its even better than most days. The sun is shining at its brightest yet the cool breeze blowing made it so that it wasn’t uncomfortably hot. As one of many campers taking advantage of the great weather, Luke leans his back against a tree with his eyes closed and enjoying the warmth and listening to the calm sounds of the nature around him.

He winces when a suddenly shadow obstructs the light and peaks his eyes open slightly to see what caused it. Though through blurry eyes as he blinks to adjust to the brightness, he spots your figure looming over him and a smile instantly forms on Luke’s face.

“Can I help you?” He drawls out teasingly. You pout playfully before seating yourself next to him, fingers easily tangling with his like routine.

“You should be thankful I’m even here! Seriously, it took forever to track you down.”

“It’s not like this place is a particularly hard place to find.” Luke argues back but you roll your eyes and lean your head on his shoulder.

“Yeah but I’d never thought you’d be here of all places” You point out as it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“What, can’t a guy just enjoy some peace and quiet?”

At that, you bark out a laugh, not believing him. “Not if you’re called Luke Castellan.” You chastise. “You’re always training as if you aren’t already the best swordsman in the camp”

“Did you come here to nag at me or do you have an actual reason?”

“Oh right!” You reach into your bag and place something atop Luke’s hair faster than he could see what it was. Immediately raising his hands to his head, he gingerly felt around blindly to see what it was. His fingertips brushes against something soft yet so thin he could tell it was delicate but also a more rough and rigid material.

As he carefully removes the item of his head to inspect it, Luke amusedly huffs upon realising what it was.

“You made me a flower crown?” He asks as he admires your craftsmanship - various summer flowers were woven together intricately, intertwining to create a colourful circlet. Leaves were bent precisely to frame each flower, some of which Luke could recognise being sunflowers and marigolds.

“I saw some Demeter kids making them and I wanted to try too.” You explained. “Do you like it? I know it’s not perfect but I think I did a pretty good job with it!”

“I love it.” He confirmed and using his free arm to pull you in for a hug to show his gratitude. “It’s almost as pretty as the person who made it.”

Groaning at his cheesy line, you lightly shoved him off you before taking the crown back into your hands to nestle it on top of his dark curls once again.

“Well I think you look way prettier than I ever could; it really suits you, y’know” you tease with a sly grin. “You’re giving serious fairy princess vibes”

“Are you being for real?” He sighed, looking away embarrassed but making no move to remove the flower crown. You giggled at his actions, cooing as you poked his reddening cheeks. Luke catches your offending wrist before using it to pull you into his lap, his arms wrapping around you and nestling his face into your neck.

“I thought I was supposed to be a hero” he complains against your skin.

As you wrap your arms around his neck, you huff endearingly, feeling how warm his face is.

“Ayy now don’t sell yourself short; you can still be a hero while being a fairy princess. I’m sure there’s a myth about that.”

“I don’t think there is, love” Luke retorts which makes you scrunch your face disappointedly. Though, you don’t dwell on it for long as you gently grab his face and remove it from the crook of your neck. Luke’s face morphs into a confused expression, eyebrows furrowed and dark eyes assessing you to find the meaning behind your antics, but you paid him no mind as you grinned happily.

You don’t understand how the boy before you doesn’t know how beautiful he is - and hell, you’d even say that Luke is way more attractive than any of the Aphrodite boys - especially in this current moment with how the sun made his eyes twinkle and his ruddy skin look like it was glowing.

But unfortunately, your thoughts are interrupted with the way Luke drums his fingers at your side, an unspoken request for an explanation. Stubbornly, you deny him the satisfaction in favour of admiring him more.

However, his drumming becomes more insistent then turns into pokes and before you know it, he’s attacking you relentlessly with tickles. This forces you to release your hold on Luke’s face to wrestle his hands off you. You shriek when he resists your attempts and puts his weight forward which pushes your back to the ground.

“Stop-!! Let go!!” You demand between fits of laughter while you writhe on the grass from the way your stomach cramps, you kick your feet and claw at his hands but Luke is, as always, relentless, finding how the whole situation has turned incredibly amusing.

“What…the fuck was that- “ you pant out when Luke eventually stops tickling you. As you heave, you glare up at Luke - the damn flower crown still perched on his head even after all that - who has a shit eating grin on his face.

“Maybe you aren’t a fairy princess hero after all.” You say accusingly. Luke raises an eyebrow inquisitively before rolling onto the ground next to you, his shoulders bumping into yours in the process.

“What am I then?”

“Probably a monster. A mean,ugly monster who disguised himself as an insufferably pretty boy who’s sole mission is to make my life a living hell.”

After you air out your complaints, it's his turn to laugh; the deep sound almost makes it hard for you to keep scowling at him.

“It still beats being a fairy princess hero, for sure! That job sounds right up my alley.” Luke exclaims, urging you to shove him with a roll of your eyes but he’s not at all unfazed. Rather, he shimmies closer to you so his mouth is at the same level as your ear.

“Y’know what being a ‘pretty monster who’s sole mission is to annoy you’ would mean right?” He asks you, and it’s like you can hear his smirk.

“What.” You reply, not bothering to correct his misquote.

“It means that I would get to be with you all the time.”

[breadbrioche]

campfire games

luke castellan x reader - percy jackson and the olympians

[established relationship, fem!daughter of ares reader]

summary: bets are fun, until they aren’t. you’re fine though. luke knows you’re an absolute badass.

warning: pushy male behaviour, suggestive comments, swearing, bets, threats, assault (physical), sexual harassment.

word count: 1.6k

(help i’m writing too many of these but this is the only other good one also feel free to leave requests yall i’m on summer break i have so much time and need something to do 🤩🤩)

(also i am still in love with luke castellan thank you very much I CAN FIX HIM PLSSSS)

(also very sorry to anyone named andrew it was the first name i thought of)

——————————————————

there wasn’t much that your siblings in the ares cabin liked more than winning capture the flag, but watching you tear down another boys’ ego was definitely one of those few things.

campfires were great for many reasons. singing, marshmallows, games—and bets. when chiron and mr d. turned in for the night early, something that rarely happened, the bets would come out. guys would try and talk to you, your siblings would intercept them, find out what they wanted, then place bets among themselves and with other campers as to how long it would take you to tear them down a few notches, or, on occasion, tear them a new one.

clarisse patted your shoulder as two of your brothers talked to another camper. “incoming.”

“details?” you picked at the chipped red polish of your fingernails.

“son of apollo. been here for about two months. andrew. something about wanting to go on a date with you and thinking you’re prettier than the aphrodite girls.” she rolled her eyes. “he tried it on with me before and doesn’t like taking no for an answer, so break his spirit completely. or, you know, his bones.”

you saluted her teasingly. “yes, ma’am. you can count on me, sergeant.”

she patted your shoulder again with a joking grin. “good on you, private. godspeed.”

with that, she left you sitting alone.

well, not really alone.

luke castellan had somehow ended up as your bodyguard in all of these cases. probably something to do with the fact that you’d been dating in secret for the last three months. you weren’t a huge fan of keeping your relationship a secret, but when you’d told clarisse, she told you that her and your other siblings wanted to keep making easy money, and betting on me was the best way to do that. since everyone thought you and luke hated each other anyway, it was easy enough to keep it up, but as your mocking remarks turned to teasing, then to flirting, it was getting more and more difficult. and as he was getting more attractive each day, it was getting harder not to kiss him in front of everyone at camp.

you swivelled in your seat to look up at him. he was sitting three rows back, almost hidden in the darkness, a distinctly put out look on his face.

“you hear that?” you asked with raised eyebrows and a grin on your face. “he thinks i’m prettier than the aphrodite girls. when have you ever said that?”

“i told you you’re prettier than a model one time and you punched me,” he said dryly. “and then i said you look like a goddess while fighting and you punched me again.”

“in my defence, i did hate you at the time.” you shrugged. “got my back?”

“always.” he said seriously.

you grinned and winked at him as you turned around, waiting for the newest idiot to come annoy you.

luke had, once upon a time, been one of those idiots in your mind. he irritated you to no end. he was better than you at sword fighting, so you bested him at everything else. he was more popular than you, so you became one of the most well-liked people at camp. all of your attempts to break him down, however, only made him fall in love with you. now, there you were, wishing you could be sitting beside him instead of waiting for some loser to come annoy you to death.

“y/n, hey.” andrew said, sitting next to you, probably a little too close.

you looked over at him. “andrew, right?”

he nodded, his smile widening as you knew his name.

you sat up straighter and scrutinised him, looking him up and down. “yeah, you look like an andrew.”

you heard luke hide a laugh in his cup behind you.

andrew’s face fell a little, but he regained it quickly. “heard you were one of the best fighters in camp.”

“i am.”

“that’s pretty cool. i mean, i can help you become the best if you want.”

“no, i think i’m okay.”

“come on, i mean, everyone needs to improve. even the self-proclaimed best. bet i’m better at archery than you at least.”

you looked over at his smirk and had to stop yourself from smirking too. this would be too easy. “no. thanks, though. i’m good on my own. one of the best, remember.”

“you could be better. we should have a little challenge. a game.”

“i only play games with people i like.”

“you could like me.” he leaned a little closer. you leaned away slightly. “i bet i could make you like me.”

you had to stop yourself from laughing. “yeah, i don’t think so, buddy.”

‘buddy’ was usually all it took to break a man’s ego. you’d used it on luke many times during unusually flirtatious sparring, back when you still pretended to hate his guts. it didn’t work on him anymore, but it usually worked perfectly on everyone else.

andrew didn’t falter. “i bet i could. give me a chance. let me take on a date. show you a good time.”

“no, thanks,” you said calmly. your siblings were watching intently. clarisse looked ready to step in if you needed it. you wondered what he’d said or done to her to put her on edge. then you realised it wasn’t what he’d done to her. it was what he was about to do to you.

his hand was on your thigh, gripping onto the bare skin by the hem of your shorts.

his hand was on your thigh.

gross.

you looked up at him, eyes sharp. you could hear luke shifting slightly behind you. “what are you doing?” you voice was deathly calm.

“showing you that i can show you a good time, princess.” his voice oozed honey—sickly sweet and sticky, like a fly trap. good thing you hated honey.

“how about i show you how many bones there are in the hand? by breaking every single one.” your voice was equally as saccharine sweet, but your eyes were glaring daggers into his and your jaw was set tight.

he just shifted his hand higher. you tried to push him off but he was strong. annoyingly strong.

he tutted. “come on, sweetheart. you’re gonna make a scene.”

you finally managed to peel his hand off your skin. “i’ll make a scene, alright. get off me and leave me alone. and while you’re at it, leave my sister alone too.”

he raised his hands, a sickening, sleazy smirk on his face. “i was just being nice, princess. you and your sister need to relax. you especially. i can help you relax.”

“oh, i’d love that. you know how i relax?” you tilted your head mockingly, eyes hard. “i punch my enemies in the face.”

he laughed. “you’re cute. now, come on. it’s not like you’ve got anything going for yourself. i mean, you’re hot, sure, but no guys ever gonna look at you when they realise how much of a bitch you are. not like i will.”

you rolled your eyes and stood up. it was time to go and sit by luke. it grated at you, but if he wouldn’t listen to you, maybe he’d listen to another guy.

he didn’t let you leave. his hand gripped your wrist and pulled you back to him as he stood up too. you were chest to chest with him. he towered over you, at least six inches taller. you stepped back, but he pulled you in by your waist and laughed.

“look at how good we look together,” he smirked. “i could show you—“

you punched him in the stomach. he doubled over, finally letting you go, so you kneed his diaphragm. he gasped for air as you stepped back. your friend chris rodriguez whistled appreciatively.

“touch me, or anyone here, ever again and i won’t just hurt you.” you hissed at him. “i’ll beat your ass, then i’ll drag you past the boundary and leave you for the monsters. got it?”

he nodded, still hunched over.

“good boy,” you grit out.

“fucking bitch,” he grunted.

your eyes darkened, but you didn’t do anything. your siblings were right behind him, all ready to drag him away. “good luck walking tomorrow, andrew.”

“good luck finding a guy stupid enough to fuck you,” he scorned.

you laughed. “hey, luke?”

“yeah, babe?” he stepped down beside you, his hand settling on your hip and pulling you gently into his side. andrew faltered at the sight. he probably hadn’t even realised luke was up there.

“are you stupid enough to fuck me?” you asked with raised eyebrows.

he looked like he was trying not to laugh. “oh, i’m way past stupid.”

you didn’t care about any of your sibling’s bets anymore. you didn’t care that people thought you hated each other. you especially didn’t care that everyone was watching. you kissed him. and in front of the whole camp, he kissed you back.

your siblings groaned in disappointment, knowing their betting days were over, but you didn’t care. you smiled the stupidest smile ever as you pulled away, feeling like you’d just had your first kiss all over again.

“what?” he asked quietly.

“nothing.” you shook your head. “just glad we don’t have to hide anymore.”

after months of kissing behind buildings, pretending to fight in public and avoiding each other so people wouldn’t find out, it felt honestly freeing to kiss him in the open.

he kissed you again as your siblings dragged andrew away. “and all it took was an asshole.”

“thanks for not stepping in,” you said. “i had it handled.”

“oh, i know you did. i was more than happy to watch you destroy his ego.”

“good, because if you had stepped in—“

“i’d be going home in an ambulance?” he smiled.

“no, you’d be going home in a hearse.”

“ah, my bad.”

as the campfire kept burning, you sat down with luke. your legs were pressed against his and his arm was around your waist. there wasn’t much that you liked more than tearing boy’s egos down, but being with luke castellan was definitely one of those few things.

[breadbrioche]

— 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗻𝗮𝗺𝗲 𝗶𝗻 𝗺𝘆 𝗺𝗼𝘂𝘁𝗵

⤷ a chase sequence on loop (how luke learns loss and you learn forgiveness ft. hermes) / luke castellan x (gn + child of aristaeus) reader

⤷ wc; 2.7k | angst, grieving someone alive, lin-manuel miranda jumpscare, zero (0) proofreading, jubilee addendum + tracklist : sit - japanese breakfast

⤷ the jubilee recollection ( masterlist )

♫ — hear my name in your mouth (i’m done for)

Luke has always tried his best to keep his promises. Sometimes they don’t work out. But he made a promise to you, and he’d be damned if he didn’t keep it.

The drachma gleams gilded in the sunset, beams of light catching the coin, quicksilver—the refraction of it sears his eyes for a moment, like staring into the flash of a camera without blinking.

Spots of color seep into the edges of Luke’s vision, bright and psychedelic like the time a Demeter kid had burned weed as an offering. He recalls, briefly, that you’d leaned against him sleepily, warmth pressing into his cold side. It had made his heart skip like pebbles across a lake.

He finds a water fountain, jams the side of his hip against the button and fishes out a flashlight from his pocket. The spray of it wets his shirt dark, a stain like blood.

The drachma catches the light again, the sheen of it reminding him of how your eyes blinker when wet with tears. He presses the coin to his lips, imagines that he’s almost fifteen again, alone on a quest, and you’re telling him—

Didn’t know you were such a flirt, Castellan.

And then he’d respond—

It’s the natural Hermes charm, champ.

The memory curls itself into a ball like the roly-polys that roam the garden of the Demeter cabin, lodging firmly in his throat when he thinks about how you’d gently push them aside when picking leaves for tea. How some would crawl over the peaks of your knuckles and you’d coo at them, gentle.

“Iris,” his voice escapes in a wisp, “Goddess of the Rainbow.”

And then he sees you again, superimposed on the backs of his eyelids when he turns the beam of the flashlight on, remembers the image of your face in the spray of water, how it had gleamed in the rainbow, prismatic. He tosses the drachma in, directs the light to the fountain, and prays when the arch of color appears.

“Please,” and he’s near begging, nose burning with the heat of tears, “accept my offering.”

His shirt grows darker still and his arm cramps the longer he holds up the light. Luke closes his eyes, feels how the sea rocks below the ship, reminisces about kayak racing at the lake in Camp Half-Blood.

( You’d hit him with your oar halfway through the race and fussed over him as Clarisse and Silena darted past your boat with little more than a ripple. The other duo had won, of course, but Luke didn’t mind for once. )

“I,” he manages, and it wavers noticeably, “I’m not sorry for what I did and what I’m going to do. It isn’t what you want to hear me say, but at least that’s the one of the things I can apologize for.

“I know you won’t turn from Camp, so I’m not going to bother trying. But I’m sending this because—” and here he chokes up “—I promised that I’d Iris Message you so that you’d know I’m okay, even if what I’m doing isn’t a quest.”

And there’s no response, but maybe Luke pretends that he can hear the hush of wool slipstreaming between your fingers. Maybe he lets his mind play tricks on him.

“And—I want you to know that I’m alright with not being forgiven, that even though I’ll be punished for this, I’d love you again.” Luke takes a deep, gasping breath, and the rattle of it shivers in his ribs.

“Hate me, forget me, I don’t care. Please—and this is the last thing I’ll ask of you—just stay safe until the storm passes over. I can go on if you don’t love me, but I don’t think I can live if you aren’t.”

His arm wavers, tired from the still position it’s kept; the whole lower quadrant of his shirt is soaked through, the stain of it clinging cold to his skin.

There’s only the sound of the sea around him, but he grasps at it like trying to catch the smoke that curls from the lit end of an incense stick. The hush of it—waves and seafoam and the crest of it against the ship’s hull—reminds him of you.

Everything reminds him of you.

And maybe sometimes he wants to go back. Let the rest of his days flow past him like sand spilling through an hourglass, live with you in the cottage by the strawberry fields, drink tea with honey every morning, fall asleep to the singing of bees, spin yarn and learn to knit sweaters and weave a tale from a loom.

But that thread of fate had already been sliced the moment Luke took Kronos’ hand and pledged the Titan King his allegiance. Still, Luke can only dream.

♫ — the life that you chose (it kills me)

“No,” you groan in exasperation, “Luke hasn’t contacted me since.”

Clarisse’s gaze narrows in suspicion, and she directs her flashlight into your eyes. “Are you sure? Your pupils shrunk down—Mr. D, is that a sign of lying?”

“Oh yes, of course,” says the camp director, fingers propped up in a steeple. The dimness of the room paints him dark, and the little rays that do peek through the curtains halo the exiled god in a divine light, albeit unflattering due to his garish shirt.

Chiron sighs. “No, it’s because of the flashlight. I think that’s enough, Clarisse, I assure you that I trust my ward to believe that they are not lying.”

“That didn’t work with Castellan,” snipes the daughter of Ares, but she still unravels the rope that ties you to the chair. It falls to the ground in a heap, cords of fiber rippling out in a pool at your feet.

“That’s ’cause no one went up to him and asked if he stole Zeus’ master bolt,” Percy interrupts, voice creaking at the seams with youth. “Plus, he’s the son of Hermes, you think he’d be a bad liar?”

“Oh, shut up, Peter Johnson.”

“It’s Percy Jackson.”

“I don’t care, Parker, just go get me another can.”

You exhale in a long, tired huff, rubbing at your wrists where the rope had chafed over. “Please, can we not do this now?”

Chiron smiles kindly at you, the white bristles of his short beard peering through the dark. “Of course, you are dismissed. I trust you will take proper care of Luke’s belongings?”

And then you hesitate too long with your hand hovering above the doorknob, the sleeve of your jacket rubbing against the worn brass. Luke’s things—the list flashes through your mind.

The feather-soft down of his duvet, the polaroid of him and his mother tucked underneath the springs of his mattress, his little box of trinkets hidden behind a loose panel in the wall, a nightlight hidden beneath his clothes. The sweaters and camp shirts and scarves that’d still hold the fading scent of copper and sandalwood lye soap.

He left his necklace under the doormat of the Mid-Sized Cottage, right next to the key.

You try your best not to flinch at the static shock that reverberates through your bones when you finally make contact with the knob. You remember, in a daze, that he’d been gone for most of the trip to Mount Olympus, and when he’d come back, your palms had popped with the telltale prick of lightning.

“Um…yea.”

Your back presses against the low frame of the bed in the cottage, Luke’s camp shirt bunching under the tight grip you have on it. Little damp spots bloom on the fabric, and they dry just as quickly as they came. And it’s a bitter thing, how you’d found it on the Cabin 11 clothesline, the scent blown away by the wind like the spores of a dandelion during its last days.

You shake, a shuddering breath worming its way out of your lungs, and it hurts with the way your sobs encircle your voice in barbed wire, claw at the muscle of your throat, taper out into whimpers when they escape the gritted gate of your teeth. Your chest heaves with the effort to keep air circulating in your system, a vice that ties you to the living world.

And it really does feel like you’re a monster whose essence is being torn apart by Celestial Bronze—losing him piece by piece, the reminders washing away as you struggle to gather them in your arms. It’s futile, as if swimming against a riptide.

You know that eventually, you’ll forget the sound of his voice, how his laughs rumbled like the bass harmony to his favorite song and the way his pulse fluttered when you traced your fingers against the underside of his jaw.

The nail of your thumb loops a pattern on the fabric’s weave when you press it flat against your nose—there’s only the smell of a forest breeze and detergent left in it.

There’s a wind chime hanging by one of the open windows, and the glass shards of it clink together, a tinkling song that itches at your mind.

The sun’s setting rays angle across the strawberry fields and refract through the delicate, clear crystals, prismatic, and a braid of color spills across the room.

Some fragments even warble in the sink, full of water from when you’d been washing leaves to dry for tea. Before you can think better of it, your hand digs into your pocket and a drachma is flung high from your spot by the bed, arching towards the porcelain basin.

The coin dances in the air before dropping under the water’s surface, a muted plop that’s erased by the thunder of your pulse.

“Iris, Goddess of the Rainbow,” you croak, voice warped with grief like the crinkle of wet paper, “please accept my offering.”

You picture him in your mind, the black, oil-slick sneer of his hair, the curl of his mouth like a wound, the arrow-point of his nose and how his irises swirl with an iridescent gold in the sunlight, how they gleam amber, ichor from the veins of a god.

( Or a monster. )

You can hear a spark from the basin, a sputter of divine energy, little droplets of water flitting over the edge. A face rises from over the bowl, peering at you.

It looks like him…somewhat. The man has the same arrow-point of Luke’s nose, the same pout of his lower lip. Deeper-set eyes, the small pull of a hood over them, fuller cheeks. The stubble of a beard winds its way up from his chin.

“Hi,” he says, voice warbling and higher-pitched, a telltale tenor, and your molars almost grind to dust. “Oh, I know I’m not who you’re looking for, but I pulled a favor with Iris.”

“Hermes.”

“Hi,” he repeats again. You resist the urge to ball up Luke’s shirt in a way that’d resemble a basketball and throw it in his face. Maybe even use his old camp necklace as a garrote to really rub salt in the wound. “That’s me.”

“You really have some nerve to show up—”

Hermes raises a finger. “Ah-ah. I came to talk with my favorite in-law about my son.”

“I am not your in-law.”

He shrugs, hums a questioning note. “Close enough.”

The god steps out from the basin, body phasing through porcelain. Molecules—if gods were even made of something so commonly mortal—swirl in a storm before solidifying into a mailman’s uniform. You note that his beat-up sneakers have wings stitched into the sides.

“This is very important,” Hermes continues, and he takes a few strides to join you in leaning against the bed frame. His fingers catches a corner of his son’s shirt, the fabric rolling under the press of his thumb. “I’m asking you to stop trying to contact Luke.”

You scoff, a sneer stitched into your lip. “Afraid I’ll turn too?”

“No,” he says, light, a quick brush of wind against the feathers of a bird, “you’re not the type to leave your friends. But everything that’s happening now will turn the tide of history. Luke must be evil before he can be good, and a prophecy is something that can’t be avoided.”

And you regard Hermes with a sidelong stare, peer into the deep black pool of his pupils, and it feels like the floor’s been dropped out from beneath you. “You knew this entire time and didn’t try stopping it?”

He nods solemn, head bowed down in a mourning posture. “Yes.”

You say, less a question than an accusation, “So you know how this ends.”

“I have an idea.”

Grief is the snake that braids itself between your ribs, constricts your lungs and drowns you beneath the cold gloss of a iced-over sea. “He won’t be safe.”

“We won’t know for sure until we near that event horizon. But Luke needs this. He has to pacify the wrath himself without dependence, because you know that if—”

“—If I help him and I die somewhere along the line, it’ll only get worse.”

“Exactly,” Hermes sighs, a beat of wings against a slipstream of wind. You swallow the boulder cradled in your throat, the weight nodding in your stomach. “We both know I’m not a good father.”

“You’re a shit father. Even my father’s decent, and he’s a minor god,” you spit, but the words hold no poison, only resignation.

The god of thieves chuckles, a wind-chime sort of sound that escapes like fluttering doves, the jingle and latch of a lock’s cogs unhitching. You hate how similar it sounds to Luke’s. “Well, your old man doesn’t guide souls to the underworld.”

The inner lining of your cheek worries between your teeth, tongue rubbing at the dip where your canines had pressed into the soft flesh; your lips are set together, the press of them brutal. “Did you love him? Were you proud of him?”

Hermes smiles, the bitter, bone-white curl of a melon’s rind. “I did, and I still do.”

You sniffle lightly, and Luke’s camp shirt ripples in your grip, the soft ply of it warm with your heat. “You’ll lead him though, right? When the time comes for Luke, you’ll hold his hand and help him move on? He’s so scared of the dark, can’t sleep if there’s no light or someone to comfort him.”

“I know.” And it’s a smear of honey on a gaping dagger-wound, barely a dent in the healing process, but relief nonetheless. “I will.”

And then silence, a small relief from conversation.

“And if the time doesn’t come,” Hermes speaks again, gaze turned toward the open window where the wind chime hangs, and you get the feeling that his eyes are burning with saline, choking with grief, “you’ll be there for him? Make sure he wears a sweater indoors because he always gets cold, guide him through recovering?”

“Yea,” you say in a breath, a lilting note that hangs in the air, the eventual promise of a song, and you trace the seams of Luke’s shirt, think of copper and sandalwood and lye soap. “I get the feeling that I’m on the way to forgiving him, if I haven’t already anyway.”

The god of travelers opens his hand to you, an empty leather cord resting on his palm like a pearl in an oyster’s bed.

“That’s good,” he tells you, and it’s an assurance, a friendly extension of arms to a firm handshake of alliance, “we have something in common, then.”

post-script; kowtowing on the ground rn, please comment and reblog with tags and talk to me thru inbox, feedback is honestly so priceless and it helped me get this short fic finished while i was back at school!!

luke tags; @melllinaa @amortencjja

[breadbrioche]

the search for glory

pairing: luke castellan x ares!daughter reader

summary: you're stubborn and relentless; he's calm and taunting. two opposites put aside their differences after years to meet in the middle to understand what glory truly means, and in the meantime, they start to question why drifted apart in the first place.

—or: desperate, you ask luke to help you learn how to fight with a sword so that you can be the best, he sees it as a way to spend time with you.

word count: 6.9k (i need help)

warnings: luke castellan, violence, long reading time, rivals to lovers, teenage angst, tooth-rotting fluff, angst, clairsse and annabeth being done with reader, percy and grover being the best duo, i used the fuck outta a thesaurus website, percy being head over heels for annabeth, kinda angsty ending... sorry not sorry!!

explicit warnings: allusions to sex, mentions of sex, kissing, kissing and more yearning!!!

a/n: luke castellan has been plaguing my mind. i need that evil man in my BONES!! INSTANTLY. charlie bushnell as ruined me like i need to remind myself who the enemy is like i'm tryyyinggg :( anyways this is a fic i wrote based on this request! i clearly got ahead of myself and once i started i couldn't stop.

enjoyyy :)

You hate swords. 

They were too long and heavy, an extra weight for you to carry on your body that only slowed you down. Your preferred knives, daggers you can throw with perfect precision, blades you can tuck in your boots and hide anywhere on yourself. 

For years your ego had you refuse to ever touch a sword. You knew your weakness, and there was no need for anyone else to know. 

"Again."

The rain pours nails against the trees. It's cold and seeping through your clothes, yet you are still outside, circling the head of the cabin and eldest son of Hermes in Camp Half-Blood. In the summer, there are storms so strong that pass by that not even the Mist can deflect. Luke Castellan has a smug glint in his eyes, directed at you, at the sword clutched in your hands and the way you still cannot control your swing. He's been trying to teach you the art of swordsmanship for days now, a necessity, he claims. 

You only agreed because you thought you could've mastered it easily, much like everything else you've ever done in your life. You wanted to spite Luke and be the best, even where he thrives. But you were too rash, too much in a hurry to end things.

"Again." He repeats.

"No," you say. 

"No?" 

He almost laughs at you.

He's doing it to wound your pride, you know it. For years, Luke Castellan has been an itch on your back, crawling under your skin, setting everything in its path ablaze until there was a wildfire in the pit of your stomach. 

"A daughter of Ares can't wield a sword?" He teases.

You take honour to your father's name. It makes you feel worthy of something, a strength that fuels your ambitions. Luke knows this; he had been there when you got claimed after a month of moping like a kicked puppy in the Hermes cabin. He'd seen the way it gave you purpose. He told you he had seen it coming from miles away--from the moment you first met eyes.

"You have the battle of fire in your soul," he said to you after the ceremony, and you never knew if he meant it endearingly or to mock you. You remember glancing at him, and the warm light of the lantern sitting on the dockside between you flickered before the flame cracked to life again. The moon hung low when he continued, "Now you need to find your glory." 

And then Luke reached over to push you into the lake. You had grabbed onto the collar of his shirt, bringing him down with you. Luke spluttered when he emerged, shoulder-deep in the lake as he stared at you, hair dripping into his eyes, and oh, he was mad.

But that was years ago when you were kids. 

But even then, you would have done anything for Ares. The loyalty you harbour for your father was one of the things Luke held against you. He hated it. You never knew why. You didn't care enough to ask him. 

The blades of the daggers gifted to you by or father, Ares, burn against your skin, tucked away by your waistband as you tremble in the cold rain. Your fingers twitch, eager to grab and launch them in Luke's direction when he stands tall and repeats himself one more time.

"Again."

You leap at him. A shout rips from your throat as your feet stomp against the muddied ground, splashing over puddles while raising your arms to swing your sword at him. 

Luke saw your attack coming from miles away. He swats you, kicking your stomach. It sends you to a tree trunk, your sword falling out of your hands. You were panting and shaking from the cold or anger or both. You slowly get back up on your feet, jaw clenched and knuckles white.

"Again."

"Fuck you!" You explode, walking angrily towards him. You've had enough of him and stood your ground. It's been hours. You missed dinner, and you were hungry and tired and sick of his shit. Once you're close enough, you shove Luke with all your might, and he stumbles into the mud. 

It almost makes you smile when he looks up at you, his face twisting into something between shock and a tinge of annoyance.

"What's the point in all this, huh? Make me catch a fucking fever? Hypothermia?"

"You don't know how to use a sword," He says simply. 

It spurs you further. "So what? I don't need a stupid sword to beat you."

He stays quiet for a beat, then two. The rain continues to fall as he looks up at you again, squinting as water falls into his eyes, dripping from his dark hair. "I know," Luke says. "You gotta do something about that anger, though. Restrain it."

You take a step back, watching him closely as he pushes himself back on his feet. "You said you wanted to learn." He tells you and picks up the sword you've discarded by the tree. Luke hands it back to you, shoving it into your hands. "So, I will teach you and you will learn."

The blade is heavy in your hands. 

"Maybe after this, you'll be the second-best swordsman in camp."

Your eyes snap to him. "Second?"

He smirks, amused, "You didn't think you'd be better than me, did you?"

When you don't answer, his smile widens. Luke holds his sword up, nodding at you to step closer. "C'mon. Let's go again."

Lightning strikes as the metal of the swords clash against each other again. And again. There are grunts of effort coming from you, of exhaustion, and a great fury to see that Luke's barely broken a sweat, that he's enjoying every second spent with you under the rain.

With a gaze as sharp as your blade, you were fueled by the inexplicable thirst for excellence in swordsmanship; you know it was out of your expertise. Luke Castellan was the first person you turned to, despite your best efforts. And you're not surprised when he agreed, and he was shocked, yes, but he agreed nonetheless. 

You only chose him because you knew he wouldn't go easy on you and that maybe, once you lash out at him enough times, stubborn, testing his patience, he would give up and leave you be. 

But it's been weeks, and he's still here.

The clash of blades between you two isn't just about skill anymore; it's pride, it's a puzzle of the invisible line between the two of you, testing the boundaries, toeing at them. 

And you still can't help but imagine the look on his face once you finally beat him. So you swing harder, move faster.

Luke has trouble catching you off guard or forcing you on the defensive side or even finding an opening to sweep your feet. But you were getting frustrated again, every time the two of you met in the middle, every time your shoes stepped into another puddle, every time he blocked your hits, or if the wind blew too strong. He finds your gaze when it happens, catching the way your lips twist into a deeper frown and the way your brows furrowed, how your jaw clenched and unclenched, huffing as you pick up your pace again. 

In your haste to beat him, your restraint evaporates, leaving your movements once again sloppy and uncalculated. It isn't hard for Luke to knock the sword out of your hand, sending it flying backward. But you don't stop, you only grab his by the blade and throw it aside as well. 

Before Luke knows it, your fist collides with his cheek. He blinks as his body registers the pain, wiping the warm wetness dripping down his nose. The rain washes the blood from his hands quickly.

His eyes trail up your tense form to settle on your face, then your eyes. His fingers flex in restraint against engaging in close combat with you. He knows he can't win this one. So he waits for the explosion that will come. And it does. 

It comes in a blur of vengeful fists, kicks and grunts.

In a flash, he jumps back to avoid your hook punch, then your uppercut. He rolls to avoid your kick, but he doesn’t see your hands coming up to grab his throat and slam him back into the same tree he kicked you to. 

Your hands are tight on his throat, but your rage blinds you to the knife he draws from your own waistband. In a quick motion, he slashes your forearm. You draw back your hands and release his throat at the same time. 

Luke jumps out of the way. He sees the defiance in your eyes, as well as the satisfaction.

"What the fuck was that?" He sputters, tossing your dagger by your feet.

"Are you angry?" You taunt. 

Finally, you think when you can see that familiar flare in his eyes once he realizes you've been meaning to rile him up. The same flare you saw when you dragged him into the lake with you. You tuck your dagger back in its place.

Luke crouches to pick up both swords again, then he throws one at you. "I showed you what restraint looks like. Lesson over." He wipes the blood from his face again, "Now, let me teach you channelled anger."

Whatever you expected, none of it prepared you for the beating you were about to receive. 

The next morning, you owned bandages, bruises and healing cuts. Your foot bounces restlessly under the table as you glare at the breakfast in front of you. You have no appetite, not after last night, not after Luke had crushed every inch of your pride with every hit from the back of his sword to each time his blade would slice your skin just enough for it to leave a scar. 

Clarisse was grinning, a wide knowing smile that sets your own teeth on edge when she sits next to you, your headache worsening when you catch sight of Luke slouched a few tables away.

He has a purple mark on the side of his face where you had hit him, his bottom lip split, and he has a bandage wrapped around his bicep. He doesn't look at you, eyes on his food, wincing. 

It makes you feel better, knowing you had gotten a few good hits back before you threw your sword at him and stormed off.

"A little birdy told me Castellan could barely get out of bed today," Clarisse snickers. She reaches to your plate, taking a strawberry. She bites into it, humming while nudging your arm playfully. 

You roll your eyes, "whatever Chris told you--"

"Annabeth, actually." Clarisse corrects you, her voice cutting through the air with a touch of authority. "She also told me she saw you two walk out of the infirmary late last night. Look, I know you guys are just sparring, but there's a line and you need to set limits and bring it down a notch. You're going to kill each other one day."

It's troubling when Clarisse, the epitome of combat resilience, steps in to address things that are becoming too violent. Her concern is a rarity, a signal that a boundary has been pushed. You do need to bring it down a notch. And you want to try. You really do. But there's this persistent itch in your bones, a phantom tug on your finger that refuses to let go.   

"Whatever," you say, because you cannot find a way to explain it. You want to be the best, but Clarisse knows that. Everyone at camp wants to be the best, everyone has that craving for glory stitched into their veins with golden string. But your hunger doesn't stop there, you didn't want to be better than anyone, you wanted to be better than Luke. At everything he does. 

There's an intangible presence that envelops Luke Castellan, an invisible aura that chases him through the air, and you're pulled to it with an almost magnetic pull. It's something you desire, something you want to claim as your own, willing to be consumed entirely by its intriguing draw. This unsaid yearning has been simmering in your mind from the moment he shoved you into the lake.

Last night, in the cold grip of the rain-soaked ground, whatever it is that chases him, slipped through your fingers. Your back against the wet earth, teeth chattering in the cold, you held your sword defensively, trying to fend off his strike from above. It was in that unsettling instant, as the rain mingled with the blood from a thin cut on your cheek, that you felt it—the pulse of something profound. That's your glory.

When he froze, your eyes brimming with angry tears, a sudden softening overtook Luke's face as he looked at you. For a fleeting second, you almost felt a twinge of remorse for your earlier outburst. That brief vulnerability, however, vanished as fast as it appeared. In the next heartbeat, your sword lay discarded on the ground, and the cold steel of his blade pointed at your neck.

"Honestly..." Clarisse starts, pulling you out of the memory. "The way you guys flirt is concerning. I think you just need to work out that sexual tension without killing each other." She grabs her empty plate and begins to stand. "Just don't do anything I wouldn't."

You would've laughed at her joke if you didn't burn at the insinuation of flirting. And sexual tension. With Luke fucking Castellan. 

It makes you think of every time he's made you curse, scream, bleed, cry and laugh. You can't even say anything because Clarisse walks off, dumping her strawberry stems into the fire and disappears to meet Silena, probably. 

Suddenly, you can feel your stomach twist into ugly shapes when you accidentally catch Luke's gaze. Of course. Just your luck. He's already looking at you when you're flustered. You bite down the inside of your cheek and start to stand, hoping Clarisse hasn't gone too far yet. Or maybe you could find Grover and see what he was up to. 

The boy beats you to it, as always, already making his way towards you before you can even pick up your plate, still full of food.

"Hey," Luke says breathlessly. He looks smug as he stands in front of you. Too smug, you realize, for someone who has an equal amount of wounds as you do. 

You hate it.

You hate his brown eyes, the way they catch the sun and look like honey. You hate the smattering of freckles he gets every summer, the scar on his face, the ones you know litter the rest of his skin. You hate his hair, how it falls into his eyes when he gets mad at you, how he gets too focused on you to push it back. 

The way he holds the fresh ice pack between you irks you, a gesture that feels more like a taunt than sincere worry. "In case you need it," he says with a smile, and you can't help but think he's teasing, revelling in the fact that he got the upper hand last night. The unspoken message lingers—that you lost, that he's superior with a sword.

Nonetheless, a voice of reason nudges you to reconsider. Maybe just maybe, he's offering the ice pack out of genuine concern, untainted by the competitive undertones. Maybe you're reading too much into it, and his smile is merely a sign of kindness rather than a subtle mockery. 

It still hurts your pride. "I don't want it."

"I didn't mean it like that," Luke says hastily, as if he can sense the turmoil of thoughts crossing your mind. "I just... I feel bad. I was too hard on you."

His words catch your attention, and you finally meet his gaze, a curt nod recognizing the rare admission of wrongdoing. It's remarkable for Luke to admit regret, and the weight of this confession lingers in the air.

"You were."

"But you can't really blame me," He adds. And, of course, he finds a way to turn it back on you. “You kinda started it."

"I know."

"So, I think we're even."

"You think?"

"You literally went ballistic."

You huff out a breath, annoyed, "I get it." And you finally take his stupid ice pack. 

When he doesn't move, you look at him again, squinting at the early morning sun, "What do you want?"

He smiles again, swaying on his feet. "I'm taking a few kids hiking."

"Okay?"

"I need another counsellor to look after them. If you wanted to come with me," he suggests, the words carefully chosen.

"Why?" You raise a brow, hoping to hide your initial shock. 

"Because the weather's nice," he shrugs, "And Annabeth said she found a waterfall somewhere off on the other side of the mountain and I've been meaning to check it out for a while-"

"No," you interrupt, shaking your head, "I meant why me."

Mischive sparks in his eyes, reminiscent of your earlier years at Camp Half-Blood, before you were claimed. Back in the short time when the two of you would wander away from the group, charting your own course, or setting up silly pranks for Mr. D. A particular memory resurfaces—your favourite prank involving filling bottles of wine replaced with soy sauce, left for the camp director to discover. 

"For old time's sake." He says. 

You're still apprehensive, "The last time we went hiking together, Chiron shunned us to the get-along-cabin." 

It was three years ago, and you don't remember it as clearly as you hoped, but you can still recall teasing, poking each other with sticks, swearing and the nasty names, and racing to see who would find the young camper you lost first after spending ten minutes fighting over it. 

Fortunately, you did find Apollo's young daughter, but not before rumours of a missing camper reached Chiron's ears. He had assigned you two cleaning jobs at the same time you were compelled to stay at the small cabin in the middle of the forest till you weren't neck and neck with each other.

"And that wasn't the best week of your life?"

You can't help but roll your eyes. "When are we leaving?"

Soon enough, you're busy smearing another layer of sunscreen on Grover's nose when Percy appears at your side. 

Two groups of kids under thirteen had made it halfway up the trail, the sun lazy and warm, the way it could only be on a late morning hike. The kids are still quiet with sleep, trailing happily behind each other, trading secrets and sips of water with their assigned hike buddies. 

It was nice. And a part of you was happy you've agreed to tag along. The smell of fresh pine needles, like forest floor and mountain air, makes you smile.

"Are you and Luke fighting?" Percy asks, twigs and leaves already poking out of his curls.

You finish patting Grover's forehead as you turn to the other boy with a soft frown, pulling out the small sticks. But the two kids stare up at you expectantly, as if waiting for some sort of answer. 

"I don’t know if you've noticed, Percy, but Luke and I fight all the time."

Grover rolls his eyes as he falls back into step beside you, the three of you continuing up the path a little behind the rest of the group. But Percy tugs at your arm, clearly not finished with the conversation, nor satisfied with your answer. 

"But that's the point," he says, and you huff as you pull him out of the way of a fallen branch, his attention focused too much on you to notice it in his way. "You haven’t been mean to each other all morning."

"Or called each other names," Grover pointed out from the other side of you. 

"You call each other names all the time."

Annabeth Chase appears beside Percy, tucking her hat into her pocket as she sets you with a knowing look. Percy grins at the girl's arrival, cheeks pink as their shoulders brush together on the narrow path. 

“So what?” you mutter.

You glance up ahead, over the crowd of children’s heads to see Luke bickering with the smaller kids, a boy from Dionysus' cabin poking him in the back with a long stick as he trudges behind them. You have to bite back a smile, but only because you had offered to lead with the younger kids, because you know they like you more than they like him, but Luke, stubbornly, refused your offer. He's an idiot.

"We're adults, we can call each other names."

Percy scoffs loudly, and all three kids stare at you, less than impressed. 

“Have you and Luke ever kissed?” Grover suddenly asks, letting the words burst out from his chest like he knew he shouldn’t have asked. 

You trip over a branch, the same fallen sticks that scattered the trail that you’d pulled Percy away from. You turn to look at the boy so fast that your neck protests, your eyes wide.

"Because Luke looks at you like he wants to kiss you all the time."

"Of course they've kissed," Annabeth grumbles. "Don't act all shocked," she tells you, "I watched you guys last night."

"Ew," Percy makes a face.

Annabeth wacks the back of his head, and while Percy winces, she continues, "Not like that. I noticed neither of you were at dinner. So, I went to check on you. I found them sparring."

"In the rain?" Grover's eyes widen. 

"Stop stalking people, Annie," You warn, but there's no bite to your words.

"I'm being observant," she declares.

"It's definitely stalking..." Percy mutters, kicking a small rock down the trail.

She decides to ignore his remark this time and looks up at you. "I always thought it was ridiculous whatever you and Luke had against each other. I hoped you'd do something about it before you both imploded because you're too horny to come to terms with normal emotions."

Your jaw drops, a small noise of indignity and humiliation comes from you, and Grover looks mortified. Percy lets out a loud, obnoxious laugh, nearly doubling over as if Annabeth has said the funniest thing he's ever heard. 

There's a faint smile on her lips when Percy puts his hand on her shoulder as his laughter dies to quiet, amused snickers. It eggs Annabeth to keep going, "I'm sure your kiss was romantic. Glad it took you guys a week of almost killing each other to realize you actually have feelings for one another."

You feel it again, that itch and wildfire that spreads in your stomach whenever Luke gets too close or says something that irks you. You find yourself fumbling with your words; no comment about how wrong she was, or how disgusted you were, or a snarky, awfully rude remark as a way to deflect. No, your voice starts to betray you. You only hope your father can't see you now as you grow flustered (this is something you will never admit). 

"We never kissed."

Annabeth hums, raising one brow as she nods. She pulls her hat back out again, unfolding it as Percy drops his hand from her shoulder. When she looks at you, she has a similar smug look on her face, akin to the one that adorned Luke's face earlier that morning during breakfast. 

"You know, Luke said the same thing when I asked him. But he never denied he doesn't like you, and neither did you." 

With that, Annabeth puts on her hat and disappears. 

You watch branches move and footprints left behind on the dirt in her wake, and you hate that Percy and Grover are smiling at each other as she leaves. They share knowing looks, speaking in a silent language only they understand and it puts you on edge.

Suddenly, you have to remind yourself that the kids are twelve. They have no idea what they're talking about. 

Thankfully, Grover and Percy never bring it up again. It's as if they've forgotten about it after spotting a pegasus within the trees. Percy instantly named it Bob, and when Grover disagreed, he named it Peter. 

"Seriously?"

Percy shrugs, "Spider-Man's cool."

When the group arrives, you still can't get Annabeth's words out of your head. It makes you uneasy, and you don't feel like yourself as you watch the kids gasp and gape at the sight of the hidden waterfall tucked away behind so many trees and bushes you would have thought it was sacred to Gaia. The waterfall appears to be any other cascade in a forest, but the fact that it is concealed under the Mist that protects the camp makes it so alluring. 

It was peaceful but not quiet with the roar of water, droplets pattering against the rock at the bottom of the falls. All nature and life near the waterfall seemed to grow in size, and more birds called and sang—more snakes that twisted around the branches of the tall trees and frogs that softly croaked as they soaked under the cool water. 

The afternoon sun sparkles over the water and the small frothy cascade of a plunge pool. Everyone starts to scatter, Demeter's children running off to climb trees, Artemis' kids rushing to chase after the few lizards and bugs tucked under wet leaves; they all find a place to be, one they all know they will thrive most in.

"Annabeth sold this place short. It's way better than she described it."

When Luke appears at your side, a conscious effort keeps you from growing stiff. There's an obvious warmth flowing from him, a subtle tug inviting you to come near him. But you resist, steadfast in denying yourself that proximity.

"Yeah. It's nice." You say, aiming to keep it short.

"Just nice? Is that all you've got?"

You shrug, crossing your arms around yourself. "It's okay." But the truth is, it's more than that. It's beautiful. Words fall short of capturing the essence of the waterfall before you, the mist delicately kissing your skin or the laughter of the kids transforming the wildfire in your chest into a warm and comforting glow.

Luke's brows furrow, tilting his head at you. "You okay?"

"I'm fine." 

You're not. It has been hours since you've fought, yet you can't get it out of your head. Shit, you can barely go on with the day without someone reminding you of it; Clarisse, Annabeth and even your mind wanders back to it, how he's been so persistent in making sure you'll be able to wield a sword, a silent promise.

In all honesty, since you've started, you could barely recognize yourself, and you knew it had the potential to be disastrous, but you weren’t sure you disliked the feeling. It was just new (it really isn't) and foreign (you've known, you've just refused to accept it), and you felt like you had to go to it rather than run away from it. 

When Luke utters your name, the resonance carries an unfamiliar softness and tenderness, diverging from any way you've previously heard him speak it. The rhythm prompts you to turn your head to look at him.

The sun, in its glorious descent, casts a warm glow across the water, creating a tapestry that highlights the tan of his skin earned through long days under its unforgiving rays. His hair, in a charming disarray, falls across his forehead, and within the depths of his dark eyes, a fondness surfaces.

"Something's bothering you," he observes.

It's a statement that goes beyond mere recognition; it's an acknowledgment of his innate understanding of you. His ability to see you. He wants you to know he can see right through you. That's his glory.

“And how would you know that?”

"Maybe because I spend every waking moment of the last, what, four years, in your close proximity." As for emphasis, he moved closer to you, as close as he was the other night but without the blades of swords between you.

You'd usually have countered, perhaps by tripping him or tugging on his ear to coax him to step back. But this time, you don't. You can't bring yourself to. You find yourself strangely incapacitated, torn between the impulse to push him away and the undeniable desire to punch him again.

"And don't forget that week in the cabin. Best week of our lives, right?"

It takes him some time to react, "Sorry did you just make a joke?"

“No. I’m always serious,” you don't concede, but you did suppress a smile. You turn the rest of your body, finally fully facing him. "Listen, Luke..."

He goes to say something at the same time, but he closes his mouth and looks at you. His eyes are wary of you. It was like he was expecting you to pull a knife out of thin air and attack him. 

"LUKE!" 

Percy Jackson's voice echoes, a thunderous announcement as he cups his hands around his mouth, sending a mighty shout from the waterfall's peak. Your eyes widen at Percy's reckless display, a mix of respect and wonder washing over you. The boy, sitting on the treacherous ledge, dares you to wonder how he managed to get up there. But knowing him, Percy Jackson finding a way to reach to the top of the waterfall makes perfect sense.

"LUUUKE! LOOK AT ME! GROVER!"

His voice carries a blend of disbelief and excitement as if Percy himself doesn't believe he's climbed to the top while he waves his arms. Luke steps away from you, moving closer to the cascading water out of concern. The other kids begin to gather, their curiosity piqued by Percy's boisterous display. Grover walks up to you, tugging at your shirt to bring you to the edge of the natural pool.

When Annabeth suddenly appears at Luke's side, you can hear him asking why Percy was up there. 

"Well, he said he could flip off the waterfall. I told him he didn't have the guts. So, here we are."

"Reminds me of someone." Luke smirks, eyeing from where he stands, Grover grinning between you both.

Percy lets out a loud battle cry from the top of the waterfall, smacking his fists against his chest. A responsible head of cabin would have told him to get down, or else he would be shoving pegasus shit for the rest of the week. But Annabeth is the one who drove Percy to the top of the waterfall, and whenever you and Luke were together, everything else was a second thought. 

The kids collectively ignite, encouraging Percy with animated cheers, urging him to jump. Stepping back from the edge, he bursts into a sprint, the excitement evident as he hurtles off the rocks. Percy's arms flap for a heartbeat before effortlessly accomplishing two flips, resulting in a thunderous splash as he plunges into the brilliant blue waters.

A symphony of cheers erupts, the youngest kids bouncing in excitement as Percy emerges from the water, shaking his head to rid his curls of excess water, a gleeful grin stretched across his face. His eyes meet Annabeth's first, and his wild grin widens as she nods in approval, her own smile radiating with bright satisfaction.

Grover is the next one to jump in, tucking his legs to his chest before gracefully splashing into the water beside his best friend. The infectious spirit of adventure spreads like wildfire, and soon, a cascade of laughter and giggles fills the air as all the kids join in, frolicking in the embrace of the water.

At that moment, you feel an unexpected force crashing into your side. It startles you, and you instinctively shove the prying hands away. It's only upon a closer look that you realize it's Luke. He's looking at you with raised brows in a way to taunt you.

You aren't arguing, not quite, not yet. But the buzz in the air still feels fun. 

His expression suddenly turns playful. Without warning, he seizes your arm, yanking you closer. Luke grins, that wide, bright kinda smile that shows off the dimples you almost forget he has. He looks boyish like this, pretty in a way that's soft and full of sun. Maybe it's because he is looking at you without the lines between his brows, the downturn of his lips, a cold glare in his eyes.

The toes of his shoes teasingly brush against yours, prompting your chin to tilt up defiantly as you lock eyes with him. You can smell the forest on him, campfire smoke and pine, leftover rain and something minty. He looks too happy, excited even.  

You narrow your eyes at him, gaze lingering on the bruise you left on his cheek. "You're wrong, you know."

Luke tilts his head, intrigued, "About what?"

"What you said earlier. About being even."

"Oh?"

You hum, a subtle melody lingering in the air, your hands resting gently on Luke's arms. His attention is diverted as he holds his breath, waiting for what you'd say next as he stares at the softness of your skin in the sun and the beads on your camp necklace.

In the midst of this, a wide grin flashes across your face, a mischievous spark in your eyes. A sudden, forceful shove against Luke's chest disrupts the moment. Caught off guard, he stumbles backward, tripping over his feet and thrusts into an unexpected fall.

He hits the water with a splash, and to the rowdy sound of whoops and cheers, a wolf whistle from Percy when Luke emerges, top soaked and clinging to the ridges and dips of his muscles, tangled at his waist. 

He sputters as he stares back up at you in shock, treading the water around him. "Seriously?"

You're fucking joyous, wrapped up in the way everyone is laughing, and you don't break eye contact with the boy as you bend at the waist and hold your hand out for him.

"I'm sorry," you manage to utter amid giddy giggles. It's a peculiar sensation—this feeling of not quite being yourself. For goodness' sake, you're giggling! It's as if you've been gently enveloped by something sweet and affectionate, a touch so tender that it feels as if Aphrodite herself has graced you with a kiss on the cheek.

But really, it was Luke. He takes your hand and tugs hard, pulling you straight into the water with him. You hit the water on the side and swam back to the surface with a gasp.

He stares at you with a devious grin, daring you to do something about it. You push your hair out of your face and lung at him. 

You have to admit, sparing in water isn't something you have ever done, and the attempts to avoid any of the kids are getting to you. You are better at hand-to-hand, but now Luke has the absolute advantage. His longer limbs allow him to move better and to pull himself up on rocky ground when you try to push him down.

He places you in a headlock and presses your back into his chest. You quit struggling at that point, knowing it was over for you. But he doesn't let go, and you don't move when he slightly loosens his hold.

You spot Annabeth's gaze from the other side of the pool. She sits by the waterfall with Percy and Grover, adorning a knowing look as she raises her brows at you again.

Both of you are panting from the effort, his chest heaves against your back, a synchronous beat. The water adds a chilly bite to your and Luke's skin, but his breath is warm on the crook of your neck. Usually, you would have tapped out, or more commonly flipped him over. Yet, you find yourself in a trance, and you don't understand why you can't move away.

Why can't you move away?

"Gotcha."

The faint chuckle in his voice sends a shiver down your spine.

His breath stills on your neck, and you gulp. You clear your throat, and he drops his arm but doesn't step away, letting it hover around your waist. You laugh, and it sounds nervous, a soft noise of embarrassment, like a girl with a crush. 

You don't know how to feel about it when you turn to face him, chests almost touching from the proximity, and so do your noses. You can feel your heart beating so loud in your ribcage that you think he can hear it too.

You can feel the sting of the cut on your arm, and it pushes you to ask, "Why'd you agree to teach me how to use a sword? Was it pity?"

It takes him time to answer, his hand brushes against your hips underwater, but he doesn't move it, and neither do you. The droplets of water on his skin sparkle under the sunlight. "No," He finally says after a moment. "Not pity."

"Why, then?" You ask, not looking away. "Wanted a good reason to beat me up without getting in trouble?"

He laughs a genuine burst of amusement from his lips that doesn't sound sarcastic for once. It's a great contrast to how he laughed the night before under the rain, where it was taunting and he was in his element, the thrill of a sword in his hands crushing his veins. Glory.

"Yeah, that's it."

You can't hide the smile growing on your face. "I knew it."

You float around each other in a few beats of silence, the chatter of children in their own worlds buzzing away. His hand caresses your shoulder like a feather, and you lean into his touch. It is familiar and comforting, and it makes you realize that you might have needed it more than you ever thought you would. 

"No, uh," Luke shakes his head, and you find it endearing. He looks a little pink around the cheeks, his smile nothing short of scandalous. "I actually wanted to spend time with you. Fighting's just a bonus."

His admittion makes your mouth fall open. His teasing words are no longer a taunt, and the conversation is no longer an argument. Luke Castellan looks at you with the same fire he always had though, a challenge in his eyes that you desperately want to rise to. 

"You like fighting with me?"

He smirks. "Best part of my day, honestly."

"Don't lie."

"I'm not."

"What's next?" You tease, "Pulling my hair at recess?"

"Would that do it for you?"

"No," you whisper because you don't think your voice should be any louder when he's so close. "This works just fine."

His lips are lightly touching yours, hovering as a ghost of a desired kiss. You hold your breath and close your eyes. 

Ever so slowly, he tips your chin up and leans in to capture your lips in a sweet kiss. His free hand circles your waist and brings you flush against him as you curl your fingers into the front of his shirt, pulling him even closer to you. Luke gladly presses up against you, his fingers trailing from your chin and moving to curl into your hair, easily deepening the kiss. 

Despite the prickling of your scars and the shallow cut in your forearm, you let yourself to the electric tingle of the kiss, the way it steals your breath and fills your chest with a million exploding fireworks. 

You allow yourself a selfish moment to indulge in the way you can feel his heart pounding against your chest, the barely-there press of his thigh between your legs, the scrape of his bandages beneath your fingers. 

You're both crossing the unspoken line, his breath warm against your flushed skin. What happened to your pride? Your glory?

He pulls back, meeting your eyes again and gently combing your hair back. There's a sick smile plastered on your face, and you watch his lips turn up, dimples creasing his cheeks. You have a swell in your chest, and it makes you acknowledge that even if you never beat him with a sword, that satisfaction would never come close to this.

A chorus of "eww's" comes from the kids, only the twins from Aphoridite's cabin are kind enough to coo and "aw". And you have to take a moment to catch your breath, fingers slipping from his shirt when he drops his arms. 

Luke lets himself fall back, the water lapping at his shoulders, and he grins at you, the soles of his feet brushing up against your thighs, just for a second. He clears his throat and lets his hot gaze linger on you for just a moment too long before he turns to splash water at anyone close enough.

"Mind your business, you little Krakens!"

You believe you've stumbled upon something greater than glory, a thought that's never once crossed your mind before Luke Castellan emerges as the sun illuminating your darkest nights. It's a poetic dance, a celestial symphony where every note he strikes resonates with the promise of warmth and brightness.

His laughter becomes the melody that accompanies your every step, and the moments shared feel like constellations etched against the canvas of time. Luke, the sun in your dark nights, bathes you in the comforting glow of his presence.

But there is an inescapable inevitability that shadows his light—a matter of time until the searing flames envelop you. A war catches on, and in its path, Luke Castellan sets ablaze everything his touch graces. He becomes the harbinger of impending reckoning, and you will be forced to pick up a sword once again.

[breadbrioche]

daylight

part two - series masterlist

pairing: luke castellan x daughter of ares reader

word count: 4.6k

summary: the max/luke fight exclusive. and the first time you went more than a day without talking to luke.

warnings: max says very mean things about reader (hes not a nice guy), fight descriptions, wound descriptions, near death experience, severe reader injury

“Violet told me it looked like you were going to cry, Luke.”

“She did not,” he says through a laugh. He drops a handful of strawberries into the bucket by his feet, pushing his hair out of his face.

The June sun isn’t too flaming hot yet, but it’s warm enough where an hour of strawberry picking has the both of you sweaty and tired.

“Tyler said it was more like you were about to keel over and die,” you tease. “I can’t believe that me ignoring you for less than twelve hours moved you to tears.”

He rolls his eyes as he tosses a strawberry at your head. “I wasn’t moved to tears,” he insists. You nod like you believe him. “Anyway, I thought you were into that thing.”

You shift your nearly full bucket of strawberries over, sighing with the exertion. “Into what thing?”

“Y’know. The whole defending your honor thing.”

Your laugh is so loud it attracts the attention of the satyr playing his reed pipes a couple feet away. Luke’s chest does something weird at the sound.

“You’re funny.”

“I’m being serious!” He laughs too, to try and loosen that weird feeling in his ribcage.

“So what?” You’re grinning as you take a few slow steps in his direction. “You wanted me to fawn over you?”

His back goes stick straight when you grip one of his biceps dramatically, feigning weak legs. You throw the back of your hand against your forehead, swooning against his chest. “You wanted me to faint and say, Luke, oh Luke! You’re my hero!”

He pinches that part under your ribs that he knows is ticklish and watches as you dissolve into laughter, stepping away from him. The loss of touch makes his chest feel empty.

Did he want that from you? He would be lying if he said no. And as he watches you laugh as you gather your hair away from your face, he decides to say, “Maybe I did.”

Your bright laugh tapers into a small smile, and Luke wishes he could read your mind. “Alright, hero. But how ‘heroic’ was the punch if you and Max were just having a dick measuring contest?”

Luke blinks hard. You’re kidding, right? Max’s snarky comments about him added fuel to the fire, sure, but that was not why he punched him. “What do you mean?”

“You know. That thing he said about you while we were leaving. The reason why you jumped at him?”

He uses a hand to block out the sun from his eyes so he can see your face better. You’re being dead serious.

“Killer,” he starts slowly. “That wasn’t why I punched him.”

—

Luke had called your name, his voice pitching up nervously at the end.

You had turned to face him from the top of the hill, your eyes softening. Luke could cry at how relieved he was that you and Max weren’t holding hands.

“Luke,” you said, taking a few steps closer to him. At the sight of his nervous fidgeting, you frowned. “Are you okay?”

“Do you have a second?” he’d asked. He shot a side glance to Max. Obvious code for without the loser standing next to you. “I have to talk to you.”

Sharp eyes darted down to where the hem of his shirt was wrinkled from his fidgeting hands, and you nodded without hesitation. “Of course.”

You turned back to Max, an apology in your eyes. His mouth was parted in what was probably surprise. “I’ll only be a second, I’m sorry.”

Luke extended his hand to help you down the sharp incline of the hill, and your fingers slotted with his like they always did.

A better person wouldn’t turn back to smile at Max.

But Luke wasn’t a better person.

He smirked at him, unashamed, and the slight upturn of his lips must’ve been Max’s tipping point, because then, he was opening his mouth to speak.

“No surprise,” Max had mumbled.

The anger laced with his words made you cock your head around. “What’d you say?”

Max raised his shoulders in an offhand shrug, but his eyes were narrowed in irritation. “Nothin’.”

“C’mon, dude,” Luke said, his smile curling into something meaner. He wanted you to see exactly how much of a coward this guy was. Maybe then you’d be mean enough to turn him down next time. “Say it again.”

His eyes narrowed directly at Luke. “I said there’s no surprise.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” you’d asked, and even though your expression was calm, the way your voice lowered implied you were feeling anything but casual about it. You knew Max wasn’t being snarky to you, but you had gone toe to toe with someone for Luke before, and were willing to do it again.

Sometimes, Luke forgot you were a child of Ares. You loved a good fight, but didn’t go around blatantly starting arguments like some of the other demigods from your cabin. But as he watched your head tilt, he remembered just how much he loved you like this — willing to snap someone in half. The unmistakable fire in your eyes and the way your entire presence seemed to grow in size seemed surprising to Max, and his eyes widened a fraction.

Luke stepped closer to him until they were a few feet away from each other. “Just answer the question.”

His mask of indifference was beginning to fall. Max’s face reddened as he grew even more annoyed at the challenge. “There’s no surprise because you’re always like this, Castellan. You don’t let anyone speak to her for a second before you lose your fucking mind.”

You had scoffed from behind him. “That’s it? That’s your problem?” Luke could picture the face you were making at Max right now. Your eyes were probably rolled as you stuck your tongue into your cheek the way you did when you were really annoyed. “Let’s go, Luke. What a waste of time.”

You turned to walk down the hill without him, ready to get as far away from Max as possible. Luke smiled at him as he backed away. “Lady’s orders.”

“Taking commands like a dog,” Max spat, but Luke didn’t care. His smile was growing in smug satisfaction at the knowledge that you would never give Max the time of day again.

The delight on his face must’ve been making Max desperate, because he shot out a few other quips at Luke, fighting miserably to land a jab that would sting. But it wasn’t working. Luke didn’t care about Max or what he thought of him.

But as Max’s eyes slid over to you, he knew exactly what to say.

“Y’know, if you’re gonna react like this whenever another guy looks in her direction, keep your bitch on a tighter leash, Castellan.”

It was no surprise to either of them when Luke’s fist met the side of his face.

Max was down for the count. He staggered back, landing on his ass in the dirt. Luke moved to grab the front of his shirt collar, yanking him forward with his fist.

“Apologize,” Luke snapped, his voice taking on a dangerous tone. He wasn’t even sure if all five of Max’s senses were working after that hit, but he didn’t care. “Fucking apologize, now.”

At his lack of response, Luke shook the boy again. His head lolled, dazed.

“Gods, Luke,” you had said, appearing at his side. You pushed at his shoulder in warning. “You proved your point. He’s a jealous asshole, let’s just go.”

“Are you kidding? Did you hear what he said?” he had asked, giving you a look in disbelief. “He doesn’t get to say shit like that and get away with it, he—”

Luke was cut off by Max’s shot to the side of his face.

Of course, his jaw stung. But there was no dizziness like when someone managed to get in a good hit on him during sparring, so Luke was able to catch his barings almost immediately. Max staggered back, clutching his throbbing hand in his other.

Luke decided the Hephaestus kids must’ve locked the boy up at the forges and fed him scraps, because it was clear he had never punched someone in the face before.

“Tighter leash,” Max still had the gall to repeat. His mouth was splitting into a grin Luke could not wait to knock off his face.

And so he did.

He shoved Max to the ground, getting one good strike in before you and someone else were pulling him off of him. The crowd that had apparently formed to watch the argument was thinning out, letting Chiron drag them in for what was likely an hour long talking to.

When it was all over, and the two of them are dismissed to their cabins, Luke made sure to shoulder check Max, just for good measure.

—

You gape up at him.

“Max really said that?”

He nods, his throat dry. He hadn’t wanted to repeat the words, but you had begged and pleaded in that way that had Luke folding like a lawn chair.

“Woah.” Your voice is quiet as you hold out your hand. Luke reaches for yours like a trained dog.

(Max had certainly been right about one thing.)

You had sat down on the grass sometime during the story, keeping the two of you away from the sun in the shade of a tall strawberry bush. Luke worried that you weren’t comfortable against the rough material of his cargo pants, but you looked content to lay your head in his lap and listen.

The other campers around you say their hellos as they step around you, thankfully not saying a word about your slacking off. One of the Aphrodite girls teasingly wiggles her eyebrows at Luke while you aren’t looking, and he flips her off behind your back.

He expects you to lace your fingers together like always, but finds himself staring as you hold his hand in both of yours. You inspect the wrapping around his knuckles before leaning down to kiss his skin through the white fabric. “Guess it really was a heroic punch.”

His heart is stuttering in his chest, but he wills the burning away. “Guess so.”

You sit upright, nearly knocking your faces together. But you tug him closer again after he dodges the collision, your hands going around his middle as you press your face into his collarbone in a way that has his breathing unsteady. He brushes a kiss onto your hairline.

Happy to be held, you sigh out, “Thanks, my hero.”

The two of you aren’t hugging completely — it’s way too hot out for that — and Luke has to fight against every part of his brain to keep it that way. The addition of that one single word is doing something to his head.

My hero.

Yours.

You call him a hero every single day — it’s your nickname for him, for crying out loud — but you’ve never called him yours before.

He’s not just anyone’s hero, he’s yours.

You pull away from his chest with a smile, but his hands around your waist don't let you get too far. “That night was probably the longest we’ve gone without speaking. Sorry it was kinda for no reason.”

He doesn’t outright say it, but you know you’re forgiven. If there was a world where Luke could stay mad at you, it wasn’t this one.

Luke turns your words over in his head, buying time for himself with the way he’s rubbing circles into your side. He already knows you’re wrong about that, and he’s going to correct you, but he feels content with having you so close. You lean back against him, the both of you uncaring of how warm it already is outside.

“One time, we didn’t talk for almost two days.”

You pull back again to frown at him. “No way. If we were ever not speaking for that long, I’d remember.”

“Oh, yeah?”

You hum, confident in your answer. “One of us would’ve gone insane if that had happened. We wouldn’t be sitting here right now.”

Luke doesn’t stop to think about the truth to that statement. He shifts forward a little, leaning in closer just to watch the face you make. “How much do you wanna bet?”

You’re a little flushed, and you give him a wobbly smile like you know what he’s doing by sitting so close. After a second, you say, “Loser has to bring both our strawberries to the truck later.”

He flicks your forehead, leaning back onto his palms in the grass. “Typical.”

You were always looking for a way out of carrying the strawberries down to where the camp loaded them up for shipping.

“Have fun with both of our crates, then,” he teases. “‘Cause we both know you didn’t get those scars on your back from a cat.”

—

You were both around twelve, and the two of you had come a long way from Connecticut.

Luke tried not thinking of his mother and Westport much, determined to look forward and not back. Leaving was what was best for him. But from time to time, you’d bring up home, and he’d get a pit in his chest whenever you did.

He missed his mother. He hated feeling so alone.

You were his best friend, and though you soothed the ache in his heart, no friend could replace the comfort a mother was supposed to bring. He grieved the perfect life he never got to live. The pain would flare up once in a while, and he would be quiet and inconsolable.

You understood, because you always did, and always were extra nice during these times.

Your latest adventure had taken you two all the way down to Hershey, Pennsylvania. Neither of you had money to do much, but you had weighed your choices and spent the few bucks you two could spare on chocolate at Hershey Park.

It was stupid, sure, but he saw your smile when you split the bar with him, and he knew he’d sacrifice another hundred dollars just to share another chocolate bar with you.

It reminded him of home, in a good way. But everything just hung heavy over his head, and Luke was still down for the rest of the night.

“Don’t worry about coming with me. I’ll get the wood tonight,” you offered. “Can you get the fire started?”

He was unresponsive, staring away at the sunset in the distance. But you didn’t get angry or annoyed. You just squeezed his shoulder as you went deeper into the woods for good fire sticks.

Wait for me. Don’t go too far, he would’ve said on a normal night. But his words were getting jumbled up with the thoughts of his mother that plagued him, and he was quiet.

When Luke thought about you again, the fire had been burning for a few minutes, and his hands were beyond warm from it.

He turned in the direction you had left in. He called your name once, his voice hoarse from his bout of silence.

“Hey, you get enough wood yet?” He tossed the last bit of kindling into the fire, brushing off his hands. The turkey sandwich you were about to share was warming up next to the flames. Both of you knew that no warmth could make the bread taste like something other than cardboard, but you insisted on it anyway.

The dense foliage of the trees blocked out the last bits of light from the setting sun, so he knew you wouldn’t have gone far. He picked up his own sword as he headed away from the fire, squinting in the dark for you. He called for you again.

The empty trees echoed Luke’s voice back to him.

“The turkey’s going to get cold,” he had warned, moving in the direction he’d thought you’d gone in. This was stupid. You shouldn’t have split up when it was so dark out.

Luke strained his eyes to find a blob, or a shape, or anything that remotely resembled you. But it was like you were gone, without a trace.

That sick feeling was beginning to stir in his stomach. He called your name again, louder and more frantic. Luke knew without a shadow of a doubt that you hadn’t left him on purpose. Something bad had to have happened.

You were hurt. Or something took you. Or you were lost. Or maybe all three. The idea of you alone out here had him calling out for you louder. Whatever light the sun might’ve given was gone now, and Luke was relying on his sense of sound just as much as his vision. Staring ten feet ahead was like staring into a dark abyss.

It had been fifteen minutes of this with no response. Before he could get too nauseous, Luke did the one thing he thought might work.

He closed his eyes, dropped to the ground, and begged.

“Dad.”

He swallowed around the weight in his throat.

“I know we don’t talk. And I don’t know if we ever will. But she’s my best friend. Please keep her safe, because I…” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I can’t do it without her.”

There was no glowing figure that appeared before him to hand him his friend back. He tried again.

“Aphrodite,” he pleaded, his voice cracking. How desperate was he? “Please bring her back. Please. And I’ll never ask for anything ever again—”

His heart jumped into his throat. Tension was gripping onto every part of him. Luke hoped that he had heard something different. But then it cut through the silence of the night again.

A scream of terror.

Luke shot to his feet, his sneakers skidding against the leaves covering the forest floor. He stumbled like a baby deer as he sprinted into your direction, his shoulder catching prickly branches while he tried not to stumble over jagged rocks.

He decided that when he found you — because he would, he had to — he was going to kill you for this.

Luke prayed for a clear pathway back to you and begged his legs to move faster. He followed the sound all the way into a clearing.

You were leaning against a rock when he found you, your stare a mile long. It seemed like it stretched past the trees in front of you and even through the acres of farmland past that.

“I stabbed it.” There was no tone to the way you spoke. Just syllables spat out by a machine. “It’s dead.”

Your dagger was a few feet away, the blade splotched with red. The blood was smeared on the palms of your hands, too. He couldn’t tell if it was yours or not.

He swiped a hand through your hair, checking for bleeding there. Finding nothing, his hands went to the sides of your face, trying to match your gaze.

“Where’d it get you?” he asked desperately. “You gotta tell me.”

You shook your head, your hands twitching at your sides.

“Luke.” Your voice broke as you pulled his hands from your face. Your hands were tight around his wrist. “Please hold me.”

“You have to tell me where it got you, first. Please, please tell me.”

One of your hands dragged his arm around your waist, the way you usually did when you wanted a hug. Luke shook his head.

He said your name firmly. “I’m not messing around. You could die if you don’t—”

His hands were shaking so bad, he almost didn’t notice when they had brushed up against something wet and thick and coating the small of your back. But when he was so accustomed to every small difference in the way you acted, or the way you held yourself, or the way you felt under his hands, the foreign patch of wetness had him stopping in his tracks.

He let you lean forward onto his front as he braced himself for the sight of your back. You were eerily silent as he did so, your arms resting over his shoulders in an unreciprocated hug.

If it was bad enough, you were going to die here. And Luke was going to have to hold you and watch.

Your cheap t-shirt was shredded to strips of fabric, offering him a sickeningly clear view of the wound underneath. Whatever monster did this to you was big. Three jagged lines marred the expanse of your lower back, the gashes angry and red and inflamed. From them gushed red hot blood. The claws that had left their mark had torn at the tissue—

(Luke fights back a gag thinking about it now.

Of course, time had run its course, blurring his memories. But the sight of this wound has been one of the only things that’s stayed, even years later, when the two of you are miles away from that forest in Pennsylvania.)

He fought down bile as you tightened your arms around his neck. “Please, Luke, please.”

In what you thought were going to be your last moments, you wanted nothing more than to be held. And as he felt your tears stain his shoulder, he knew that he wasn’t going to let it end like this.

“Save your energy,” he said firmly, fumbling to find a steady grip on the bottoms of your thighs. “We’re going to the hospital.”

On any other day, you would’ve protested the way he was supporting all of your body weight, letting you slump forward. But you were quiet now, and Luke found his legs carrying him out to the street even faster.

A trucker found the two of you collapsed in the road on the outskirts of the forest.

“A bear,” Luke thinks he had said, but he can’t recall anything after your injury with any accuracy. He was watching as blood poured from your wounds one second and was scrubbing that same blood away in the hospital bathroom the next.

While you were whisked off by the doctors, Luke sat in the waiting room next to a cop and what was probably a social services worker. They tried asking him questions about his parents, your parents, what you two were doing out in the woods.

He answered the same thing everytime, and made up a bullshit excuse when he couldn’t. I don’t know. I don’t know. I found her out there.

For a few hours, the hospital was working to keep you alive, and for even more hours after that, they worked to keep it that way. The cop at his side changed after a while, but Luke sat in that chair the entire time. And he stayed there for an entire night waiting to hear about you.

“Just let him in,” a nurse said in hushed tones to another. She was pretty and had kind eyes that looked sad when she snuck glances at him. “He’s been here for seven hours.”

Had it really only been seven hours? Luke already felt ten years older.

After lots of back and forth twenty feet away, your nurse approached him. He thought she kind of looked like you, but looking back, Luke thinks he was just missing your face.

The nurse had told him you would wake up on your own time, that you were hurt pretty badly and your body needed time to get better. Then she handed him some crackers and let him step into your room.

You were hooked up to a bunch of wires and bags and machines that made you look small. Your hand was cold when he slipped his into yours, with none of the usual warmth you offered.

He had done this to you, Luke realized in horror.

He had been so torn up about his mom, he let you go off on your own, and didn’t even realize it. If he had gone with you, this never would’ve happened. The two of you would’ve eaten your gross turkey sandwich and taken turns keeping watch while the other slept.

Luke never told you, but he had done lots of thinking at your bedside. Mostly, he thought about leaving.

He was perfectly capable of disappearing and never being found again. And after enough time, the cops would identify you. They’d call your mom, who would drop everything to come and get you. You could go back to the safety of your home, live a comfortable life, and not have to go to bed hungry everyday.

Luke was being selfish by bringing you with him all of those years ago. And as he decided against leaving, he realized he was being selfish by making the decision to stay with you, too. He needed you. You were all he had left.

Twelve year old Luke Castellan ended up going forty hours without hearing your voice. Forty hours of silence with nothing but the beeping of the machine hooked up to your heart.

He could only breathe easy again when you were strong enough to run a hand through his hair. You were warm again.

The two of you had fled from the hospital a few days after. The two unaccompanied children from that Pennsylvanian hospital had disappeared before they could even put out a Code Amber.

—

Luke decides to keep most of these details to himself, omitting most of it for his peace of mind.

“The longest we went without speaking was that time you got mauled by a monster out in the woods,” he reminds. You already know the story, anyway. “You were asleep in the hospital for a day or two, I’m not sure.”

He is sure — you were asleep for thirty six hours and didn’t speak for another four.

You make a face, completely unaware of the unwanted memories this conversation has dredged up. “That doesn’t count, Luke. I was dying!”

He knows. His nightmares about that night haunt him just as much as the nightmares he started getting after his quest.

“Never said we were only counting times we didn’t talk by choice,” he says, stacking your strawberry crate onto his. He had won your little bet, but he was planning on carrying yours no matter what.

You smile, interlocking your arms. He’s grateful for the touch. Both of you have come a long way from those woods in Hershey. You’re alive and safe, with no memories from that night but the scars on your back that Luke will stare at sometimes. You lean against him as you walk down the hill, the summer sun disappearing behind a cloud.

“I’ll never understand how we did all that when we were kids,” you say, your voice quieter now. “We were so little. We should’ve been doing math homework, or something. Not fighting for our lives all by ourselves.”

Luke nearly freezes, but your connected arms force him to keep walking. “The gods don’t exactly like being nice to their kids.”

Your father left you to die. It was Luke that dragged your half conscious body to safety. He was the one who held your hand in the hospital when you cried from the pain and begged for someone to take it all away.

And the both of you were twelve.

Why should the gods get away with that?

But you knock your head against his shoulder with something shining in your eyes, and his thoughts disappear from his head.

“They did one nice thing, though,” you say offhandedly as he passes the crates off to another camper.

With his hands free, he pulls you into a side hug. One of his warm hands slips under the back of your shirt, sliding to the small of your back. His fingertips run over the scars that have been healed for almost seven years.

You’re alive. You survived. That’s all he could ever ask for.

“One nice thing. Like what?”

You have a sly grin on your face, and Luke knows you’re proud of what you’re going to say next.

“They brought me you.”

my thoughts on aphrodite/the nurse

notes: wipes away tear. hes my best friend… as always lmk if u enjoyed!! i do plan on writing more luke hes so fun

luke tags: @randomgurl2326 @repostingmyfavs @cedricsleftelbow

[breadbrioche]

no alarms and no surprises (please)

pairing: luke castellan x thanatos!reader

tw: major TLO spoilers (honestly tho if u haven’t read it yet, begone), major character death, discussions of blood and death, Luke was reader’s first kiss, mentions of past manipulation, lots of crying, and also i made [REDACTED] take way too long to die for the sake of dialogue. Sorry. Also! she/her pronouns are used, but I tried to steer clear of descriptors outside of that so this SHOULD be woc friendly

word count: 3.4k

It was cruel, this end he was facing. Y/N had felt it long before she’d seen it, that deep intrinsic tug within her, that sixth sense that had begun to go haywire since New York had fallen asleep, since the final countdown for western civilization had officially started running. The tug that alerted her to a new death in her vicinity. The curse bore by the children of death, the chained god, to feel the string of fate being cut, to sense lost souls being carried to the underworld by their father. To mourn, but not to see. She’d never felt it as frequently as she did now, feeling like threads tugging her in countless directions, so much so that her aim with her sword was affected. She’d been coined the best swordsman back at camp, after the previous titleholder had vacated the position, but now, it was like she was jittery, like a newborn zebra with a sword in their grasp, trying to learn how to stand and fight all at once, her battle senses being overridden by the unavoidable emotional pain of the fact that every tug she was feeling, was the feeling of a fellow demigod dying.

But then she’d felt that one.

The strength of this particular tug wasn’t lost on her. It was stronger than any she’d faced yet— stronger than the tugs of those she’d slain herself, and stronger than the tugs of those who had been close to her, when they were alive. It was so strong that the metaphysical tug had felt like a real, physical one, like she was physically being pulled in its direction. The proof of it is the crude slash on her forearm, where the kid she’d been fighting back had gotten a lucky shot on her due to her presently distracted nature.

It had to have been him.

She wasn’t sure just who she’d been fighting, and in the end, she doesn’t think it really mattered all that much, if they were a former camper; a demigod, or if they were an armored monster, as with a wave of her hand, the ground rumbles, opening up under their feet, boney, decayed hands dragging them into the earth, only for the ground to close up on them halfway through their forced descent. Y/N didn’t even notice, nor did she really care. All she knew was that she’d put an end to her own fight, allowing her feet to carry her to his side, numbness flooding her body, with a whispered command to her undead soldiers,

“Protect them.”

She’s not even sure how she found him, exactly. She’d just always been able to find him like that. Now seemed to be no exception to the rule, as she followed what she would consider to be the string of fate to his side. The sight she sees when she does is an unwelcome one, however. There’s three of them— she sees Percy and Annabeth crowded around a figure on the ground. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out who it is.

“Oh, Gods,” Y/N whispers, hesitating to get closer. She doesn’t know if she can. At the sound of her voice, Percy turns. He looks pale, eyes ringed in red. It looks like he’d been crying, exhausted, eyes wide, as if he were afraid he’d collapse if he even blinked. Y/N wouldn’t blame him, if he did.

“Y/N—“ He hesitates to speak, to try and explain, but Y/N doesn’t let him. She’s already marching over, ignoring the dread building in her gut, the tears in her eyes. And that’s when she sees him.

“Luke,” She whispers, the single word bordering on a gasp. Internally, she’s vaguely aware that this is the first time she’d used his name in years, preferring to call him by his last name, or traitor, at best, or whatever random curse she could think of at the time, at worst. She’d gotten pretty good at it, honestly— the coming up with insults to hurl at him every time they’d crossed paths since his betrayal. But now, all of that is gone. It seems that at that moment, Annabeth and Percy disappeared. It’s just them as she crumbles, falling to her knees before he can even protest. It’s him, not Kronos, she knows. They’d all learned how to tell the difference between the two, when Kronos had taken Luke’s face. Kronos had a colder air about him, eyes golden. Just pure evil that seeped into your bones, that seemed to change even the people around you. But this? This was Luke Castellan. Soft, soulful brown eyes, and a welcoming air about him. This was the guy who had been like all of Camp Half-Blood’s big brother. This was the guy Y/N had been in love with ever since she’d arrived at camp, even if she realized it far too late. Even if he was currently trying to get Percy to make her leave, not wanting her to see him like this. Never like this. Her eyes take stock of his appearance against her will. He looked just as bad as Percy did— worse, actually, given he was bleeding, Annabeth’s knife clattering from his hand to the marble below him. It makes her heart ache, the picture in front of her painted so clearly, even if she hadn’t been present to see it herself.

A hero’s soul, cursed blade shall reap.

They’d realized what the prophecy meant, clearly. Luke had to be the one to take Kronos— and to an extent, himself— out. And when Luke had done it, when he’d touched his own Achilles heel, Kronos had run. So now, Luke Castellan was dying. Alone.

Well— not alone.

She was still here. She always would be, even if he’d insist otherwise. He hated how she always had made him want to be a better person. Even now, as he lay dying, covered in sweat, blood, and ash. If she tries hard enough, she can almost pretend that they’re back at camp, that they’d had an extremely rough day playing capture the flag, that the pair of them are in the infirmary, making up ridiculous stories for the scars they’ll have as a result of their adventure, shedding tears from their short lived pain in the name of glory but laughing anyway as they stitched each other up, letting the Apollo kids deal with those who didn’t have someone to back them up like Y/N and Luke did— someone to dote on them, and someone to dote on in return. But it gets hard, keeping up this fantasy. They’re both far too battle-worn, both with eyes that had seen far too much, faces years older than they were the last time they’d seen each other. And in spite of it all, all she can find herself thinking is,

‘Oh, love, you grew up without me’.

“You shouldn’t be here.” Luke tells her plainly, his brown eyes fighting to focus on her through his tears that he’s fighting to push back. Had they always done that?

“Yet I’m here anyway. Deal.” She responds, brows furrowing, focusing on the wound in his side. Prophecies be damned, she won’t let him die. He sits up straighter, slumped uncomfortably against a marble wall at the sudden pressure to his side, the daughter of Thanatos trying to staunch the blood flow, trying to give him more time, tears clouding her own vision, hands shaking. She knows deep down that it’s all in vain, but she won’t let him go. Not like this. She’ll fight her father back herself, if she had to.

“Y/N…” He whispers uncomfortably, hating how blood spurts past his lips, onto his chin, as he utters her name. He’s going to die, he knows, he can almost feel the fates beginning to prepare to cut his thread, but there’s some things he can’t leave unsaid. “My— my heart, it was always yours. You know that, right?” He notices how she flinches, expression troubled. “Take care of it, for me. I know you’ll do better with it than I ever had.” It’s true— his entire time at camp, since she’d arrived, he’d stupidly ignored it. He let hate and anger and jealousy cloud his mind for so long, he never really appreciated what was in front of him. It was just unfortunate it was taking his death to realize that.

“Don’t— don’t say that, not to me,” she sobs, shaking hands still covering his wound, stupidly, naively, believing she could still save him. “Don’t make it sound like you’re dying. You’re not dying, damn it,” she still sounds determined, one hand leaving his wound to touch his face, holding his cheek, accidentally staining it with his own blood. “Don’t— don’t leave me here, please, I just got you back,” she pleads, glassy eyes blurring with tears. She thinks, honestly, that this is the first time she’s talking to just Luke, free of Kronos’ influence, since he’d stolen that lightning bolt from Olympus years ago. It’s the Luke she remembers, the one she so sorely missed.

He laughed quietly, reaching up to touch her fingers. Even now, as she was sobbing over him, unable to look him in the eye, she’s the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Her lips were so plump — as if made to be kissed, even in this moment of peril. “The gods might not want me, but I’m glad they’ve given you to me,” he whispered, squeezing her hand in his again. “I’m dying, Y/N. You can’t save me.” This makes her squeeze her eyes closed, shaking her head lightly, as if she isn’t listening. She isn’t, not really.

“No, nononono— stop that,” She cries, her eyes squinting shut in an effort to banish her tears, but it doesn’t work. “I’m— I’m the daughter of Thanatos, damn it, what good am I if I can’t do this? If I can’t keep just one person alive?” She seems to be talking mostly to herself, not giving up her mission on keeping him with her. Not after everything that’s been said, not with everything that’s being left unsaid. “I know this isn’t what I do, that I’m not a fucking sunshiney Apollo kid who can heal someone on a whim. But this is kinda my thing, is it not? Just… Just one. Please, let me save just this one. I’ll never ask for anything again.” She’s looking up at the sky— praying, it looked like, while blinking away her own tears. She couldn’t remember the last time she prayed to the gods for anything, but she was now. To anyone who would listen, though Luke gets the sneaking suspicion she’s talking to her father. The one she blamed, for being unable to save anyone. She couldn’t heal, the best she could do was sit by and watch.

Luke laughed again, but it’s humorless— and it was so cruel, to die when he could feel his heartbeat quickening as Y/N was so close, her lips so near to his, her eyes so lovely. He wished he could kiss her right now, in this moment, on the marble floor, with blood running over his fingers and the dagger still next to them.

“Y/N, promise me one thing?”

“Anything,” Y/N nods softly, her attention turning back to him. She hates how the simple act of saying her name still affected her so much, after all this time. Her tears were cutting through the grime on her face from a hard fought battle, covered in her own and the blood of others, trembling. Still, she finds it in her to make a promise to the dying boy she loved. “Anything. Just—“ she drifts off, nodding, knowing they don’t have time. Luke took a breath, his eyes fluttering shut. For the first time in his life, he genuinely felt like a young man. A teenage boy, holding his girlfriend's hand and wanting nothing but her to keep safe. For a moment, he can pretend. But only for a moment. His breath hitched, and slowly, he felt the life fading from his body — as if it was being drawn from him like water in a cup. He hesitates to speak, but knows he’s running out of time. He can feel it, being sapped from his bones. But in spite of that, he’s not… afraid. He isn’t angry. He almost isn’t even in pain. He thinks it’s her, that it’s Y/N’s aura as a daughter of Thanatos, that no one in her vicinity will feel pain, a divine remainder of her father’s power flowing in her veins, the guide to the underworld, before they’d meet the ferryman. A walking shot of morphine. He’s heard stories from his spies, about how when Camp would lose a camper during their fight with Kronos— with him—, Y/N would stay with them until they passed, holding their hand, telling stories, bringing them peace, so they would go out with a kind face. Much like she was doing now, for him. The Thanatos of the waking world, the guiding light to death. It’s much more than he deserves, and he knows it.

"Promise me.... you'll meet me again... at the River Styx," He whispered.

“I’ll find you in Elysium.” She promises softly through sniffles, brushing his hair out of his face, a forced soft smile on her own face. She wants him to go out peacefully, wants to remember her smiling, even if she wants to scream at the sky and cry until she couldn’t breathe anymore. She’d been pretty good at it, feigning calmness and serenity with the campers they lost on their own side. It made their passing easier. But this? With him? She doesn’t know if it does. He’d always been far too good at reading her, for that. “I swear it, on the Styx, that I’ll find you in Elysium.” She sounds sure of herself, that even after everything he’d done, he’d earned a hero’s afterlife. That’s what the prophecy said, after all, right? Somehow, she knows she, too, will find herself with a hero’s death. Life wouldn’t be so kind to allow her to die of old age. She’d die hard, with a sword in her hand, and anger in her heart. Luke's eyes flickered open to meet the softness of hers, of lips he wanted to taste, of skin he wanted to cover with kisses. For a moment, he allowed himself the luxury of mourning the future he could’ve had with this girl, if he hadn’t been so hellbent on his never ending quest for glory.

Kleos. The word feels like poison, now. Maybe it always had been.

"No —" He whispered, head shaking lightly, "I won't be in Elysium. I’ll go to Asphodel—" He choked. That's where he'd likely be, being punished for his treason. It’s the least he deserved, after everything he’d done. "— and then the Fields of Punishment. But promise me... that you will wait for me, at the River."

“No,” Y/N shakes her head, adamant. He should probably take her word for it— she’s the daughter of the god of death, after all. She had a sense for these things. “Elysium. I’m sure of it. You’ve earned it.” She promises, tone soft. She doesn’t mention how she’d never let her father live it down if anything else took place. She’d tear Hades apart herself, find his soul and bring him back, somehow. Like Orpheus and Eurydice, except she’d succeed. “Regardless— it doesn’t matter. I’ll always find you. No matter where you are, I’ll find you. I swear it.”

He laughed, and it was a sad one. He was so weak, so very weak, his eyes flickering once more, his hand squeezing hers as tightly as he could, wanting to burn her imprint into his flesh. "You are so stubborn, you know that? You always have been," he whispered. Images flash through his mind against his will— her face, always her face. When she’d learned of his betrayal, then later when he’d attempted to sway her to his side. When they would train together in the arena— camp’s two best swordsmen. When she’d have nightmares, constant images of the dead trying to use her, both for her powers and as revenge on her father, who they felt claimed them from the mortal plane far too soon, to crawl their way back to the world of the living, and how, terrified of closing her eyes again, she’d crawl into his bed with him, the only place she felt safe enough to fall back asleep. When she’d kissed him for the first time, on her seventeenth birthday. Because ‘most demigods don’t get to make it to seventeen, so I’m making seventeen count’, as she’d put it. Then, later that night, after his surprise wore off, when he had kissed her. It pains him to think about how he’d only been manipulating her, back then. Had he loved her? Sure, but his mission always seemed more important at the time. He’d do it for them, he’d told himself. The gods would regret every unclaimed child, and every claimed child resigned to the Hermes cabin because they weren’t born with the luxury of having a parent that had a throne on Olympus, one of the big twelve. For kids like Y/N. His hand slipped from hers, and he couldn't bring himself to close his eyes. Instead, he'd watch her, as if he could lock her into his memory. "Will you... will you stay here with me, until my life..." He couldn't finish the sentence.

“Until the very end.” She promises softly, her voice cracking with the effort not to cry. She’d almost given up on trying to staunch the bleeding, one hand resting on his face, brushing languidly, lovingly, over his cheek, just around the edge of his scar. She’s not sure what possessed her in that moment, as she leans down, placing a soft, chaste, yet romantic kiss to his lips. After all, he’d been her first kiss, it felt fitting that she would also be his last. As she pulls away, she whispers against his lips, “I love you, Luke Castellan.”

He was breathless, the kiss like a dagger to the chest, biting deeper than the blade that will end up taking his life. In a matter of minutes, his heartbeat would skip its last beat, and her face will be the last he sees, the last thought on his mind. His hand came up to the back of her neck, holding her as he whispered in return, "... I love you too." He managed only that, before his heart failed him. He was gone, and he didn't make a sound.

Gone with a whimper, not a bang.

The blood that fell from his wound was now staining the pristine marble flooring beneath them, the last remnants of life and love, of devotion and betrayal. Y/N hoped that it would stain forever, a constant reminder of his sacrifice.

Y/N felt his final breath fan across her face, and she knew he was gone. Her eyes remained closed, steady tears rolling down her face, their foreheads pressed together. She can feel him growing cold as she sobs. “No,” She whimpers, his hands, now gone limp, still in hers. “No, please no—“ Vaguely, she’s aware of the rumbling of the ground under her feet, a telltale sign of her powers coming out to play, a throng of undead soldiers aching to burst past the earth’s mantle, to await her command. Her face screws up into an expression of anguish, though she forces the feeling down, knowing that if she didn’t reel in her own emotion, her legion of death wouldn’t hesitate to grab every demigod in her vicinity and drag them into the earth, to take their place in the afterlife. Maybe they’d take her, too. Maybe she hoped they would.

The thing about being the daughter of death, was that when a soul left a body and you were near enough to it, you could feel them leaving the mortal plane, accompanied by her father to the underworld. She could feel it, feel him, Luke’s soul leaving his body. She always did, with the campers they lost during the war, but this one hits too close to home. It’s a startling, chilling, terrifying feeling, that only makes her sob harder, knowing the boy she loved was now in her father’s hands, and out of her own. This was always the hardest part. “Take care of him for me, pops,” she whispers, voice trembling, knowing her father was with Luke’s soul right now, the pair watching over her mourning over Luke’s body. As that realization passes over her, she sits up straight, a ragged scream of mourning threatening to tear her vocal cords apart. In the background, she’s vaguely aware of the voice of Percy Jackson speaking,

“We need a shroud. A shroud for the son of Hermes.”

Notes: and with that, we’re done. This was super fun! I feel like I could go on forever about Luke x Grim Reader (I’m calling them deadwings/grimwings), and if there’s enough of a demand, I just might. Feedback is obviously appreciated !! Drink some water, hug a friend, and don’t forget to pirate PJO 🫶

[breadbrioche]

Happy new year everyone!!

Sorry again that I went MIA for months 😭 I’ve said before how it was because my workload was really heavy and I didn’t have time to write and even being on break made me realise that I was quite burnt out from writing?? At the time I was most active, I’d written the most I ever had in such a short time frame. While it was a fun challenge, I still kind of feel the effects of the burn out.

So please wait a while longer for me to recover! I still see all the love yall give to my work and I appreciate it so much 💗