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locknco · 1 year ago

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had to read this two times to fully comprehend the masterpiece that this is. the imagery was spot on and I LOVE the description of Jason’s eyes sm!! the butterflies? they were there for me. Jason does not get enough love or fics but this helped fill the Jason-sized hole in my heart. I’m obsessed w this fic and I will be coming back periodically to reread and relive it! sm love <3

₊⊹⁀➴ hey, lover (my one and only) !

pairing — jason grace x child of victoria!reader

synopsis — twelve years of badgering and beating each other up with jason grace (you've been a long time coming)

contents — gn reader, childhood rivals to lovers, non-linear plot, no use of y/n (nickame: ace)

notes — just when we thought it was over WE R SOOO BACK!! one of my favs ever written, rivals with romantics always has my back

ONE —

It’s sunny when you see him again.

The golden rays punch holes through the clouds, the heavens threaded in each sunbeam, gilding the carved city with light.

You can see it through the hole in the senate dome; a bright, football shaped mass of bronze plating breaking through a large nimbus, refracting white like a second sun—wait. The warning horns echo deep in the valley, vibrating between the hills; around you, the senators clamors nervously.

You look up to the sky again, scooping your helm under your arm—from the edge of the massive flying warship stands Jason. He looks as if the months haven’t passed for him.

Still buff, still tall, still squinting and still blond, although it looks like he’s finally gathered the courage to grow out of his regulation cut.

And then you catch a little white figure behind him, a stout marble bust without arms and legs; he’s nearly thrown back by a small explosion—you lock a laugh behind your teeth—and Terminus begins to scream about Greeks in the Pomerian Line.

Victoria. You learn her name when you’re young, spell it and know it better than your own. Victoria is strong. Victoria, the goddess of victory, wreathed and haloed in gilded laurels, Midas-touched and unattainable like the cookie jar atop your grandmother’s cabinet.

You learn her name and learn to hate her, how her divine patronage had burrowed so deep into your very being that it’s been engraved in every action and thought produced by your mind.

( It’s raining when the goddess leaves you on your grandma’s doorstep. She tells you that lightning had streaked across the sky, a race of electricity under the heavy, pounding droplets—a good omen, a blessed sign from Jupiter.

You think of it as stupid then, your entire two-year-old body heaving with the roll of your eyes. What a big, scary man in the sky, surely he could afford to descend the heavens and allow himself to be humbled every once in a while. )

They tell you about Victoria, and then they tell you about Jason Grace.

He must be the ugliest toddler you’ve ever seen. The son of Jupiter looks exactly like what you imagined: blond, blue-eyed, and stumbling stupidly over his own feet like the daddy’s boy he is.

He doesn’t even properly serve in the legion; he hangs about in the barracks after dinner and snaps crayons between his chubby fingers instead of joining the war games; you know this because you’re stuck in the barracks too, babysat by the Lares who wave their ghostly swords around and tell tall tales about Caesar's days.

Granted, you’re also a kid, the little lead probatio tablet too big for your neck that still hasn’t lost its babylike rolls of fat, and the chain it hangs from is so long that the lowest point brushes your belly button.

“I don’t like the war games,” Jason mumbles, words impeded by the gnarled scar on his lip. He’s still learning to speak with it. “Why can’t they just talk?”

You sink deeper into the mess room’s couch, shoulders hunched and facing away from him in annoyance.

( Even Lupa had told you about him, the son of Jupiter who lived against all odds. Unlike with your grandmother, you didn’t roll your eyes in fear that the wolf will snap your head between her jaws and feed you to her pack.

She says that he is strong and capable and quiet, a good boy, something she hasn’t seen since Romulus, and she let you know that you fight weak and have a brittle spirit but make up for it by being the fastest child she’s ever seen.

Lupa thinks you could be a praetor’s champion and you swear to yourself that you’ll only be the equal of Jason Grace and never under him. )

“Hey,” he calls softly, an offer to converse, and you hear the sound of his brittle crayons scratching against paper, “hey, you.”

( Just you. He doesn’t even calls you properly by your name, although later you learn that he actually had not known who you were at all. )

Snotty little shit is a phrase you learned from the seniors in your cohort—though you don’t know better about the meaning—shouted broadly in the barracks and accompanied by raucous laughter.

“I think you’re a snotty little shit, Jason.”

You hear a small gasp from behind you, a pause in the crayon’s scratch, and there’s a sharp sound, the little column of colorful wax snapping under the boy’s shocked grip. A sharp and quick clack of projectiles hits your turned back and you see red.

Not unlike a lightning bolt’s strike, you find yourself swinging around and launching towards the boy. He meets you with chubby, balled fists and cuffs you at the shoulder, pinches your ear lobes in his short fingers and tugs. Hard.

You cry out sharply, thread your hand into his soft blond hair and pull just as hard, if not harder. The Lares, ghostly and purple, transparent bodies superimposed on the walls of the barracks, cheer loudly and make no move to stop your fight.

Jason catches your shoulders and locks you into a wrestle, both of your arms like the trapped horns of two stag beetles, feet slipping to find a grip on the polished floor. You knock your forehead against his and he doesn’t budge despite the ringing in your ears from the impact.

“Yield,” he tells you unsurely, his irises warbling at the edges.

“You don’t even know what that means!”

“Yes, I do!”

( He’s lying—you know this later because he tends takes a higher vocal pitch whenever he’s not truthful. )

“No, you don’t! You just copied it from the big kids!”

You tense your leg, the bare sole of your left foot sticking to the polished floor and keeping you in place as you raise your right knee. Jason wails in pain when your shin makes contact with his crotch and kicks you in the stomach before he backs away.

You double over but crawl towards his writhing form on the floor regardless, pressing him under your elbow and grappling with his hands that try to claw at your skin.

“Yield!” ( You don’t know exactly what it means either. )

Jason snaps his jaw at you, blunt baby teeth gleaming white and almost straight when he bares them—there’s a pout to his lower lip that you could have found endearing if you weren’t trying to beat the living daylight out of him—and you can almost see Lupa’s ferocity superimposed on his face.

It scares you, a fear that awakens deep from where it had seeped in the marrow of your bones, and he seizes the advantage, pushes up against your weight—your head hits the floor and now he’s the one pinning you down.

You cry, kick, scream; you even manage to land a hit between his legs again but Jason holds fast. He’s strong for a toddler who always looks like he’s about to cry with his stupid watery eyes and chubby, fidgeting fingers.

You sniffle amidst your struggle, the weight of your incoming admission to loss tying your windpipe into a knot, and the chain of your probatio tablet starts to feel like a noose. “I hate you.”

His snarl would have sounded almost feral if his voice had been any lower than the whiny toddler register. “I hate you more.”

There’s the crack of footfalls on gravel and the door to the barracks flings open. The centurion of the Fifth Cohort—Chang, you think her name is, the medal on her armor sharp at the edges with novelty—pulls the son of Jupiter away by the ear and apologizes deeply to your superior officer, Adam.

He’s seventeen, imposing in the dusk-lit doorframe, brassy armor battered and scorched, eyes thin, tired, and heavy. A tuft of his black hair smokes lightly, embers caught in the short strands. You’re fast, but he’s faster.

Adam grabs you by the back of your purple camp shirt like how a mother would bite a kitten’s scruff and drags you off to the ranks of the Second Cohort to watch the medal ceremony without a word.

You look over your shoulder from your standing at the back of the group to see Jason at attention in the front line of his cohort; envy wraps a barbed wire around your heart and shreds it bloody. He must see you too because he frowns and thumbs at the jagged scar on his lip, a nervous habit that’ll die early on.

When you continue to eye him, he sticks his tongue out at you just before the ranks break—Adam places a still, firm hand on your shoulder before you can retaliate and you know that you’re really in it this time.

Punishment day comes too soon for you. As the dawn splits open like an egg, the yolk of the golden sun coming free from the brittle chassis of clouds, Adam flings open the barrack curtains to a symphony of bemoaned complaints.

( “Five more minutes, mom.”

“Alright, which one of you snotty little shits stole my helmet?” )

The moment you try to scamper out of the space for breakfast, the centurion is already waiting at the doorway, catching you once again by the scruff of your shirt. He picks you up easily enough, two battle-worn hands cupped under your armpits like you’re a human Simba, and you hang there with your feet dangling a good foot off the ground as he takes you to the basilisk nest. You groan and fuss and kick your feet to no avail—a little kid obviously has no chance against a teenaged centurion.

“You’re such a crank,” he sighs, the stride of his long legs smooth and quick, as typical of a son of Mercury. He’s fast, if not the fastest demigod at camp and you often watch his races like an annoying little sibling looking up to a big brother.

“He started it!” A vain protest—you’ve already resigned yourself to your fate. You know that the centurion wouldn’t make you do things that’d put you in real danger.

“Really? Reticulus told me that you called Jason a snotty little shit first.”

“Addie,” you draw out the vowels of his nickname, “he didn’t even try stopping us! Everyone calls him Vitellius the Ridiculous for a reason.”

Adam lowers your feet to the ground, pulls a kid-sized Hazmat suit from his pack and dumps the headpiece of it unceremoniously over your eyes. The centurion helps you into the gear, tugging the gloves firmly over your small hands.

“You gotta learn to respect the house gods, ace,” he says, turning you around to face the basilisk nest. Adam places a gentle, forgiving hand between your shoulder blades and nudges you forward. “They’re wiser than you think.”

The nest is cradled between four white walls and a red tiled roof, sticks and straw packed together to form a squishy carpet that crackles with each tentative step you take. It’s warm inside, heat threading through your suit and around your nerves.

You start to sweat before a whiny, familiar voice breaches the protective fabric of your headpiece.

“You’re here too?”

The heat of the nest ebbs away and replaces itself with a chilled annoyance.

“No, I’m not.”

“Am too,” battles Jason, the blue of his eyes shining through the transparent shield of his suit. You’ve never quite noticed until now that they gleam crystalline like the shallows of a babbling, sun-drenched creek.

“I don’t like you, Jason,” you tell him, glaring through your own eye shield. His brows crease, mouth pinching into a pout that flaunts the scar on his lip.

“I don’t like you either, what’s-your-face.”

You ball your fists and rest them on your hips in offense. “You don’t know my name?”

“No,” the boy admits, tone morphing once again to a guilty one. He looks down to his fabric-covered feet and reaches up to touch his scar before remembering that he’s wearing a hazard suit. It’s big on him, and you too, so you both look like little apocalyptic snowmen. “But my name’s Jason Grace.”

You huff lightly, a breath that condenses into a wet cloud on your eye shield. “I know that already,” you say flatly.

“I heard the big kid call you ace.”

“That’s not my name,” and something crackles to life in your chest, a spark between two live wires when he takes you by the hand and starts walking to the corner of the nest.

“Okay, ace,” Jason blurts, shrugging. He smiles politely, the scar on his mouth pulling along with it, and grabs a bucket. “We have to finish cleaning before lunch.”

( You suffocate the urge to kick at his fabric-covered knees and start a fight in a nest of deadly snakes. )

Jason hadn’t shed a tear when his probatio tablet was taken and replaced with the mark on his pale arm. He shows you the eagle and single bar burned into his skin after your chores and you poke at the pinkness of it. He sniffles but does not cry.

You don’t cry either, not until later. The brand had seared you to the bone, a divine reckoning burned into your soft flesh. A reminder that you, body and brittle soul, belong to Rome and its senate and its people.

It itches until it bleeds and Jason washes your boiled skin with cold water, pastes a eagle-patterned plaster over the laurel wreath cradled in the crook of your elbow as tears drip into the folds of your mouth.

He tells you not to scratch it; you say that he’s stupid for being worried about a weakling even though he shouldn’t because he’s stronger, that you’ll beat him one day, be it a fight or a race or being the first to become centurion.

Jason pinches your earlobe and accepts your challenge on the terms that you’ll promise to be as strong as he is at the end of it.

Never in your entire three years as a legionnaire had you ever been shut into the detention brig.

“What is your problem with me?” Jason whines, kicking at the enclosed flagstone walls. He’s still as short and chubby as ever, blond hair sheared to fit within the confines of regulation. “You always get us in trouble.”

“Maybe if you hadn’t been followed when you sneaked off to the ring, we wouldn’t be here,” you retort, back pressed into the opposite wall. You slide down the surface dejectedly, settling on the surprisingly clean floor to glare at his turned back.

“You said at noon behind the stables, how was I supposed to know that it was an illegal fight club?” he nearly shouts, throwing his hands up in frustration. “Wasn’t even worth it, your form was sloppy.”

Your knuckles, bruised and nearly bloody, crack from the tension in your palm.

“And you think you’re better—” you sputter for an insult “—sparky? You don’t use the proper breathing tech-techni—tech-nick when you run.”

“You can’t even say it correctly!” He’s whipped around, pointing a short, accusatory finger at you.

“Not fair, that’s a big kid word!”

“Well, I’m not big kid either, but at least I can say—er, tech-techni—technique!” Jason’s embarrassed blush creeps down to his neck, scar flexing when he pinches his lips in realization.

“You can’t say it either!”

The son of Jupiter huffs, collapses himself down onto the floor—the cell is so small that when he stretches his legs, the soles of his shoes come in contact with yours. You make no comment on it, continuing to give him a cold, hard stare.

He flares his nostrils when he sighs. “We’re acting like babies when we shouldn’t be.”

“I think you’re the biggest baby of them all,” you blurt, the words bubbling free and uncontrolled. Jason pulls back one of his legs by the knee and kicks the sole of your sneakers. “…Sorry.”

Surprise blooms on his face, brows raising incredulously. They’re browner than his light hair—noticeable now that you’ve calmed—thick and straight and serious. The light that streams in from the cell’s barred window paints him near-white, an almost divine figure haloed by the sun, marred only by the little jagged strip of skin on his mouth.

( No wonder that group of elementary girls from the inner city follow him around in giggles when he visits on off days. )

Jason pinches his lips again, this time in remorse, cheeks puffing out in reluctance. The tip of his shoe taps against yours apologetically.

“‘M sorry too.” He lurches forward with his fingers splayed, eyes shining wide and crystalline, the sky painted in them. “Truce?”

You blow a raspberry, lips fluttering—he laughs quietly at the sound and face you make and you swear that the jitter in your stomach is only from the cold.

( It’s summer, sweltering and dry in the way only California could be. )

“Fine.” His palm is already blistered and calloused from constant training but you find that the back of his hand is still soft like a baby’s. Jason doesn’t say anything when you hold it for a second too long.

Your truce lasts a whopping four days until the siege game, when you fire a water cannon straight into Jason’s squad, the swirling ball of green and blue and white foam absolutely decimating the front line.

He stands from the muddy crater with pink, watered-down blood trickling down the side of his face. The hairs on your neck stand straight up and the battlements are torn down without warning by a curtain of lightning.

Jason wins his first Mural Crown and gets thrown into the brig for reducing the fortress wall to rubble. You’re already there for briefly abandoning your post during the game to take a piss—the lemonade at dinner had been particularly good that day.

You snap a square of ambrosia in half to share and serve it with a side of toe stomping and an eagle-patterned plaster when the cut on his head doesn’t fully close; he tells you that the divine lemon bar tastes like the brownies from his favorite bakery in the city and you say that he’s lying because to you, it tastes like soft-boiled eggs soaked in soy sauce.

TWO —

Reyna calls forth the centurions, spine rigid and shoulders tense beneath her breastplate. You join the senior officers, the medals on your armor gleaming gilded in the afternoon rays. A chill snakes its way up your back, climbing the thirty-three ridges of your spine to settle at the base of your neck; you recognize the weight of another’s gaze.

The praetor begins to issue orders right as Jason catches your eye over her shoulder, and the meaning of every word—hell, the entire dictionary for all you care—dissolves into oblivion.

You furrow your brows, wrinkle your nose in the way you know is unnoticeable to everyone but the son of Jupiter. He sneers right back at you, a cheeky toddler flashing through the cracks of his otherwise perfectly composed façade.

From behind you, the augur Octavian whines about letting Greeks into camp. Reyna cuts him off and you take the opportunity to shift your heel back and stomp on his toes; Octavian darts his head around the gathering to seek the perpetrator. Jason laughs softly from where he stands behind the praetor and something untangles from you in a breath, the rigid tautness of a braid that only ties itself back to him.

The centurions break rank when Reyna dismisses them, going lax from their posture at attention—you’re no exception, pulling off the heavy shell of your plumed helmet and tucking it into your elbow. The dyed feathers tickle at the slice of soft, exposed skin between your purple shirtsleeve and spaulder.

The son of Jupiter brushes past Reyna to greet you, lips curling at the corners. He gives you a once-over, taking the senator’s toga pinned between your armor and camp shirt.

You grin, lips peeled back to show your teeth, palm outstretched and splayed for a dap. “Grace, sparky, whatever.”

“Hey, ace—” His mouth twitches, scar trembling in a poor attempt to contain his smile. Still buff, still tall, still blonde, although he isn’t squinting as much now that he’s only a foot away; your palm closes into a fist.

And then you sock him in the stomach.

“After so many years, it’s finally your chariots debut, ace,” Adam claps his hand on your shoulder, rattling your helm. The thick leather cap sitting atop your head is half a size too loose, the edge of it slipping over your eyes—the centurion says you’ll grow into it eventually, but for now he’s strung a piece of yarn under your chin to hold it in place. “Excited?”

“Why can’t you just do it instead,” you complain, hand curled into the hem of his camp shirt. “You’re the fastest, dude.”

“I only race on foot now, silly. Remember I quit chariots because I hurt my shoulder?” Adam laughs, runs his fingers over the seam of your helmet, the soft cap sliding over your eyes again. He kneels down to tighten the string cupped under your jaw. “But Victoria’s your mother, so I know you’ll get it.”

You look to the clear sky dubiously, the blue of it spinning lazily in the glassy reflection of your irises.

“I don’t like my mother.”

“Well, let me tell you a secret, comrade to comrade,” he puts a hand over his mouth but does not whisper, “I don’t really like my father either.”

You giggle, smile splitting across your face. The gummy lining of your cheek tingles when it pulls back, missing the familiarity of your molar—you’d lost it just recently, the last of the baby teeth to go.

The centurion taps his knuckles on your leather cap, tracing the seam absently, eyes glimmering with a bitter fondness. “This was my old helmet, ace. Take care of it, okay?”

You salute to him, spine rigid. He laughs, the sad gleam in his irises evaporating; he pushes the helmet down over your eyes again in playfulness and scoops you into his hands by the armpits to lift you onto the beam between the axles.

Adam helps you secure the reins around your waist—use your full weight to steer, he advises—and you tug on the hard leather straps to draw them taunt for a sixth sense so deeply engraved in your bones that it just felt right to do so. They dig into your flesh, leaving marks with every movement you make.

He smiles, kind. If he weren’t centurion and instead your real brother, you would’ve bitten his ankles by now. “See what I mean? You’re a natural.”

“Addie, I needa pee.” You draw out the syllables and pump your knees, head bobbling as if you weren’t a civilized preteen, but a whiny toddler.

“The race’ll be halfway done by the time we strap you back in, ace,” Adam sighs, exasperation in the wrinkles that form when he drags his hand down his face, “Jason’s racing for the Fifth…but I guess if you really need to go, I’ll ask Larry to—”

“Uh, I don’t need to go anymore.”

He grins knowingly, crouches to pull out the block of wood that stops the chariot’s wheels from turning. The vehicle lurches forth when you lean back on the reins.

Adam keeps in step with the slow drag of the horses and presses a long dagger into your palm, telling you to cut yourself free if ever you feel something wrong. The chariots—lightweight wooden things splattered with poorly drawn eagles and war paint—line up in the circus’ long oval track, the walls of which are padded with airbags.

The crowd of spectators, legionnaires and civilians alike, are thunderous in their roars and cheers, the sound of them crashing over you like a two-ton wave.

You turn your head to look at Jason—he’d forgotten to cut his hair, the length of it toeing dangerously at regulation. Blond tufts feather from the edge the leather cap that sits against his skull and dance lightly in the evening breeze; his pale skin is lit warm and bright by the braziers lining the stadium, scar flickering in and out under the guttering torches.

Something sparks behind your chest, an urge to smile at him, shake his hand, say good luck with a hug on the side.

( The longer you gaze at him, the ruddier his face gets beneath the sputtering braziers that line the walls. )

“Good game, Jason.”

( In the temporary moment between this breath and the next, he’s stopped being sparky to you and became Jason. )

He smiles, lips tight against his teeth. “You’re supposed to say that after, dummy.”

Your teeth bare in a grin, mouth peeling back with a wicked-sharp confidence. “I know I’m gonna win, that’s why I said it.”

You do win, and take every race after that too. You’ve a collection of medals now, years worth of identical rows of Victoria’s gilded wings lining the wall by your bunk—the first win is pinned onto your armor, dented and scratched at the corner from when Jason had tackled you in a congratulatory hug.

“Ace,” the son of Jupiter breaks through your thoughts. His voice is already a familiar song to you. “Hey—” he snaps his blunt fingertips together “—we’re on the same side for Siege. Offense.”

You bite your tongue, miffed. Now you’ll have to compete for the Mural Crown. “The cohort teams haven’t been announced yet.”

“The praetor told Reyna who told me,” he says casually, as if it were just a commonplace thing, a puffball’s spore in the wind. “First Cohort privileges, I guess.”

Your teeth grit for a pressure building wrathful in your jaw—the sound of it makes your ears ache.

“That’s great.”

( It is great. You end up saving his ass and winning the Mural Crown. )

“Hey, kid.” Adam strides up behind you, lips set in a bittersweet line. His armor is dented, concave marks gleaming warped in the sunset, hair smoldering at the edges and the soles of his shoes scuffed. He looks old, now that you’ve grown up, every one of the seventeen years as legionnaire etched into his face. “You did good out there.”

You smile, gummy, adult teeth fully set in—you remember that he’d helped you pull out the first one you lost. It had been quick, bloodless; you’d caught him sneaking denarii under your pillow that night, fake fairy wings strapped around his shoulders.

“I know I did,” you boast, fists balled and propped on your hips. “I finally won the Crown.”

Adam’s lips wrinkled with the smile he tries to hold back. He tugs at the straps of your breastplate, reels you in by them for a hug, and holds on tight like you’ll leave him.

“Raised you right,” he says, the edge of his vambrace digging into your shoulder. You don’t know when you start to cry. “You’re a proper Roman, ace. Get ‘em for me, okay?”

You blubber, bottom lip trembling in a pout, oxygen set alight in your throat. “Huh?”

“I’m retiring, kid.” He smiles sadly, eyeline liquifying like the horizon of the ocean. “It’s already been over ten years—missed out on a lot and it’s time for me to catch up.”

“You’re leaving me?” You sob then, the grief tearing you asunder, rib cage cracking with the weight of it. “You’re just gonna quit the legion? What about the cohort? The newbies?”

Saline runs down your cheeks, dribbles from your chin. Your cries are guttural, near screaming—you think that if you cause enough of a ruckus, Adam would see how much everyone needed him and maybe he’d stay.

“We need you. Who’s gonna teach us how to aim the water cannons and say don’t kill anyone? You’re centurion, no one’s as good of a leader as you.” And then, quieter, so soft that if it were a leaf, it would not make a single wave in a still pond, “No one’s a big brother like you.”

His smile has long disappeared, the corners of his lips wilting, the petals of a flower crinkling in the face of adversity. There’s a punching sensation at your chest, a pinprick in your armor—he’s pushing a medal through the hard shell of it.

“Ace, look at me.” You do so through the heavy shutter of your eyelids, drooping and nodding with the weight of your tears. “Ace, hey.”

You sniffle and grunt, weak.

“I need you for this.” He holds out his index finger, jabs the point of it into the chassis of your breastplate, rattling the badges that hang there. His touch goes from medal to medal, connecting them in a constellation of gold. “You’re the next senior officer in our cohort. I trust you to be there for them.”

Adam stops at the medal he’d just pinned onto your armor. “You carry everyone with you now. Me, and the centurion before me, and the centurion before him, all the way back to the founding of Rome.”

“I’m thirteen,” you croak, grit and gravel rasping in your voice box. “Fourteen in a week.”

“I know,” he says, quiet and rueful. “Being a demigod forces you to grow up. It’s not right and I’m not doing anything to change that with this, but I know you can. I know you’re meant for great things, ace, I believe in you.”

“Okay.” It comes out small, short, a click dampening on your tongue. “I’ll miss you.”

Adam laughs, lips stretching wide and handsome. You think that whoever gets him will be lucky, assuming that you don’t scare them off first.

“You’re acting like I’m about to die, kid.”

“But you’re leaving forever…?”

“You silly, just the legion,” he flicks your forehead hard, the spot tingling numb. “You can still visit me in the city. I’ve got an apartment and a pension and a degree at the uni waiting there.”

Your eyes lift, the weight behind them dissipating as your stupidity begins to sink into reality.

“Oh.”

“Yea,” Adam laughs, rubbing his knuckles into your skull, “oh. Y’know, I think you have a problem with assuming the worst.”

Your fists find the plates of his armor weakly, heated embarrassment creeping up your neck. “Shut up, shut up, shut up. I hate you so much….”

He bellows, shoulders shaking, lungs hollowed for a wheeze. Adam pats—slaps—your back, tears prickling at his waterline when you choke on a punched-out breath.

“Why don’t you go tell Jason? I think you finally got a solid one over him,” he says, stomach heaving in an attempt to regain air; the former centurion’s face is split wide, a smile carved deep and joyful below the blunt cliff of his nose, cheeks stained red. You manage to land one more weak punch on his armor before bounding off.

Jason is nursing an ice pack for the fat welt on his forehead when you catch up to him, pins jangling against your breastplate. He doubles over in surprise when your fist strikes the ridges of his back, his armor long gone with the end of the battle.

“That hurt,” he complains, voice splintering at the edges, revealing something deep. “Sneak attacks aren’t good form, ace.”

“I win,” you blurt, words wispy between your pants, “I win the challenge, I’m centurion now.”

The son of Jupiter’s brows draw together, face set in a scowl. It would have been convincing if he wasn’t smiling, scar pulled tight against his teeth, crow’s feet crinkling prematurely over the swell of his soft cheeks.

“That doesn’t mean anything,” he says, betrayed by the glimmering sheen in his crystalline eyes. You can see yourself in them, painted blue and silvery, and think that your reflection looks rather nice in his irises. “I’ll get the praetorship and beat your ass.”

“Ooh-ooh,” you jeer as if you weren’t a civilized teenager, “I’m telling Chang that Jason ‘Sparky’ Grace said the a-word.”

“Hey!”

THREE —

Jason doubles over immediately—you relish in the way your scabbed knuckles sink into the soft flesh of his abdomen for a splintered second before his instincts catch up to him and he tenses his muscles, recovering quickly from the impact. He laughs deep just like how you remember he did, smiles big and you can see that his lower lip still has that pout to it, albeit nearly gone with the loss of baby fat.

Jason coughs, still grinning. “I take it you missed me?”

“Not you particularly,” you turn your nose up in false disinterest, although you don’t miss the way his arms flex against the seemingly soft material of his orange shirt—he looks so out of place in it, the toga and cloak that he wears on top doing little to assuage the foreignness. You make a note to ask the Greeks about workout regimens—Jason must have gained another few pounds of muscle with them. “I definitely missed leaving your ass in the dust, though.”

He frowns, scar tracing the movements of his face. “I have more Mural Crowns.”

“And I’ve more Wings of Victoria.”

“I became praetor first.”

“Our deal was for the centurionship.”

He huffs, scar sputtering and eyes wandering around your face. He looks kind still, gentle and forgiving despite the twelve years you’ve spent badgering and beating each other up.

“I really did miss you, though,” Jason says, quieter, voice dipping low. It sends a shock through your nerves, neck prickling when he slings his arm over your shoulder and jostles you close into his side. “You’re pretty much my best friend, ace.”

“Ew,” you shudder, shaking away the warmth creeping up your spine, “you talk to all your long-term rivals like that?”

He quirks his brow—still darker than his fair hair—in confusion, drawing your eyes to his blue ones. They gleam, watery in the way they always have been, like he’s about to cry. The sky spins in them, capturing every cloud and bird and all.

“But you’re my only rival.” He says it like it’s a question and not a statement of fact. “Like, singular from the start.”

You blow a flustered raspberry, bones melting into your muscles, and you have to consciously will your knees to stay in place. Your voice warbles, “Okay. Wow. That’s amazing.”

Sliding out from under his arm—heavy and muscled and warm, you might add—you scamper off stupidly with your joints stiff to make pointless small talk with your fellow centurions, exchanging fleeting words and dapping up every other legionnaire with a complicated handshake that would always end in ‘S-P-Q-R!’

( “What the hell’s up with that?” Reyna asks, a shadow sliding silent up to the son of Jupiter.

He sighs, shoulders dipping with it. “No idea.” )

“I think small talk is stupid,” you say one day, brownie crumbs flecking the seam of your mouth. Your fingers hover like buzzards circling over his box of goods from the bakery, the scent of them heady and rich. “How’s the weather, what’re you up too, stuff like that. I hate people who skirt around the topic and don’t get straight to the point.”

“But how do you think the weather is today?” Jason says, sky spinning lazily in his brilliant irises. His lash line is filled to its watery brim because his eyes can’t take the brightness of the California sun. You gawk but can’t find the will to make a derogatory comment.

“I think it’ll rain soon—” he holds out a finger peppered with chocolate dust to gesture at some clouds on the far-off horizon “—because the bottoms of those ones are wispy. Depending on the wind, we might have some showers in the valley.”

He stays gazing enamored at the sky for a good five seconds before you speak again.

“I think you have a serious problem and need to get your selective hearing checked out.”

“And yet, you’re talking to me and eating my brownies.”

He leaves for Charleston on a rainy dawn in late July, clouds whirling thick and dark, a watercolor sky painted in a burgeoning greyscale. IVLIVS pinched between his fingers, he tosses it—a quicksilver thing, it lands in his palm as a lance. Jason looks every bit of the centurion he is.

Your teeth grit, a pressure digging into your ears. Something jaded turns your heartstrings crystalline when you spot Reyna in her gilded armor behind him, praetor’s medal gleaming in the cold light.

“Don’t die,” you tell him, curling your fingers into a fist, knuckles pressed into his sternum. You can feel the faint pulse of his heart there, warm and slow. “I’m supposed to be the only one who can beat you, so I’ll kill whoever did it and then you.”

“I don’t think you can kill a dead person,” he says cluelessly. For a brilliant solider who can out-maneuver any strategist, he still has his dumber-than-a-kindergartener moments.

After, you get berated for having the hem of your jeans sit just below the ankle by Terminus as you put your weapons on a tray and cross the Pomerian Line. It’s a path you know all too well, a turn at the corner where Jason’s favorite bakery stands, straight until the lemonade stand and up a flight of stairs.

You unlock the door, knob squeaking when you turn it, and the hinges cringe with rust. Kicking off your shoes, muddied with the light rain, you crash on the couch.

Right as you settle into the cushions, Adam comes wheeling out from his bedroom brandishing a toothbrush in a threatening manner, hair longer and sleep-mussed, a new pair of glasses askew on his nose.

“What the fuck,” he mumbles, rubbing at the pillow marks on his face, “I thought I was being robbed or something.”

“Those are new,” you say, gesturing with two finger circles over your eyes. “Now you look like a proper nerd. What did Chang say?”

Adam blushes furiously at the mention of the former Fifth Cohort centurion. They’d retired around the same time, being barely cordial in the legion and then ‘friends’ at the university. You’d taken his spot, and Jason hers.

( He had become centurion the next week and they’d combined your promotion ceremonies. Adam and Chang were both there to officially step down—you didn’t miss the way he smiled at her when she slung a medal around Jason’s neck. )

“That is none of your business,” he sputters in a fluster, red staining his neck. Adam scratches at the stubble that’s starting to line his cupid’s bow, a little goatee forming under his mouth. You make a face and scratch at your side.

“When’s the last time you shaved? No way, does she like guys with beards?”

“Oh my fucking god,” he grumbles, splashing his face in the kitchen sink. You wonder why he’s not washing up in the bathroom. “I’ve been cramming for finals, give me a damn break. And no, she doesn’t like beards.”

“I told you that the physics professors suck ass, Adam,” warbles a faint voice from another room, sweet but deceiving, for you’ve heard it screaming wrathful on the battlefield. The toilet flushes, light footsteps shuffling against the floor. “Of course, you didn’t listen to me and applied anyway.”

You make a wheezing noise, fist pounding at the couch cushions and howling further when Chang emerges from the doorway, kissing your brother-in-arms on his stubbled chin.

“Hey, ace.” She greets you with a solid dap before walking behind the island counter to operate the coffee machine.

“Cramming for physics, was it? Find any new hands-on ways to exert force?” you ask, devilish grin carved onto your lips, to which Adam grabs a battered pillow and hurls it roughly at your face. You cough, spitting out a stray feather, sliding off the couch and onto a high-chair at the island.

The summer’s heat in your bones bends under the gentle hand of the countertop’s coolness, a wane in the unbearable tide. Chang takes notice of your melting into the marble slab, arms akimbo and torso draped limp on the smooth surface.

She reaches to touch your hand briefly, a light touch that’s gone as quick as it comes. “Something wrong?”

Adam glides by, nonchalant with the way his palm cradles the curve of Chang’s waist when he reaches over to fill his coffee mug. His cheek brushes hers, a miniscule tilt of his head scraping his lips across the side of her face.

“Ace gets pissy and then starts heating up,” he mumbles, neck twisting to place a soft kiss at Chang’s temple. You wrinkle your nose at him. “Are you avoiding centurion duties to freeload off my AC?”

“It’s humid ‘cause of the rain,” you complain, twisting back your arm to flap the hem of your shirt, sticky with sweat and the drizzle from outside. The syllables stretch on your tongue—long, thin, and weak. “No one told me that you got together. And I have boy problems with Jason.”

The retirees do a number of things in the following seconds. The mug in Adam’s hand slips, hot coffee scalding his skin pink; Chang sputters at the lip of her cup, droplets dribbling, splashes echoing in the basin. Your brother sandwiches his girlfriend between his front and the countertop in an attempt to flick on the water and ease the shock of his burn; she blushes deeply.

“Okay,” Adam breathes out once the mishap is sorted, cheeks still high on a pinkened fluster. He holds out his hands palms-out to you, fingers curled lax in a half-point to the sky. “Boy problems? Jason?”

Chang smiles, sweet and cloying, eyes curved crescent. “Tell me where he is and I’ll beat his ass for you.”

“Not that, it’s just,” your shoulders dip with your frustrated sigh. “I hate him but now it feels like it’s getting stupid and ridiculous and—”

And you tell them everything. The words spill endlessly, flowing from your lips and fluttering off like a flock of birds set free. Over a decade of thrown hands and half-truces, all revealed in a ten minute spiel.

At the end of it all, Chang and Adam share a look, thoughts cycling between irises, messages sent from deep, dark pupils with many an eyeroll and reluctant head tilts. The former centurion of the Second Cohort clasps his hands together gingerly, lips cracking into a smile that makes you squirm in unease.

“How do I put this,” he starts, knuckles twisting together. “Ah. You are completely—”

“—enamored with Jason, my dear comrade,” finishes Chang. You know the way Adam looks at her, the stars gleaming in his eyes, crinkled with premature crow’s feet. Now that he’s pushing twenty-eight, you sometimes forget that he’d only been about ten when he joined the legion.

You manage to blow a weak raspberry, the revelation sinking deep in your gut.

“That’s stupid. It’s not like you’re psychologists or something.”

( There’s no way in hell you’ll admit that the thought of loving Jason simmers at the bottom of your stomach like a pile of warm, fuzzy, glowing coals. )

“That’s my major,” Chang says.

“Fuck,” you let out under your breath, pressing your face into the marble counter, nose bent against the flat surface in defeat. And then, resigned, “I think he and Reyna like each other.”

“I think Reyna likes me,” Jason tells you once he comes back, perched atop the low fence around the sparring ring. Your surroundings are empty, save for nature and a few faun scavenging for any loose denarii.

His mission to cart Imperial Gold back to camp from Charleston had taken a week; reappearing over the crest of Caldecott tunnel, gilded weapons gleaming bright and refracting across the valley, he looked like a god bearing riches.

He continues, “She never makes eye contact with me, even though she can stare at someone else forever when they’re talking. It might be nothing, but….”

You huff, air slipstreaming out of your lips as you hook your elbow around your outstretched forearm. “Well, do you like her back?”

( Your pulse begins to run, the thunderclap of racing feet gaining ground. )

Jason looks at the dirt, kicking up small plumes with his battered shoes; his fingers twitch occasionally, pulling winds along the ground that whirl in small dust storms. His scar puckers with his lips. You find that you like these little things about him.

“I think she’s a good friend.”

( Heart stilling, calming, the wane of a tide. You let out a breath and take another back in. The world isn’t over. )

You grasp your lance that’s sticking out from the ground, spearhead deeply embedded within the earth. You pull it free with ease, doing a spin to shake off the dirt—is it your imagination, or did his Adam’s apple bob? Maybe he’s impressed by your dexterity; maybe he needs to swallow his saliva like normal people do.

“Something wrong?” he asks, kind, gentle, low. You think he’d gotten his compassion from Chang. There’s a nondescript breeze sweeping through camp, twining with his hair, strands curling with the late July heat. He had it trimmed recently, but it’s still long enough to toe at the boundary of regulation. “You’ve been quiet. I haven’t been jumped since I got back.”

Your chest aches—you find the urge to pull your ribcage apart, bare the bloody, bloody mess he’s made of your insides—snipped heartstrings, holes in your lungs, knots in your stomach—this is all your fault, you want to say. Now, you recognize the spark that had churned behind your chest years ago, gazing at him under the guttering flames in the circus.

“Nothing,” you say, dismissive, voice hollow. “It’s just hot. Not that you care, sparky, you have your own personal fan with those special wind powers from daddy.”

Jason is dubious, one perfect, straight, thick brown brow arching, lips puckering and pinched like it’s the dam holding back a rush of words. Fuck, he’s hot, hisses the voice in your head as you flap the hem of your camp shirt.

“Okay,” he agrees quietly, tongue clicking damp in his mouth. He digs his hand into the pocket of his jeans—were his fingers always that long? That veined, blue and green lines snaking under his pale skin? For how long have his arms been that big? IVLIVS, his golden coin, glints Midas-touched under the midsummer sun, starry refractions dancing before your eyes. “Let’s go. Loser treats like always?”

You don’t think you can do this anymore.

“Actually,” you blurt, a little too breathy, a little too faint. You stab your lance back into the earth. “The heat’s really getting to me. I think I’ll go find some AC instead, we can do this after it cools down.”

The son of Jupiter catches your wrist in his callused palm when you try to brush past him. You feel like there’s an electric current running up the length of your arm, a windswept coolness radiating from his skin. His eyes are kind, gentle, glimmering with a hollow sadness in the way they’re always moistened with a thin layer of watery tears; he could hold an ocean in them and never spill a drop. You think you’d be glad to drown if it’ll always be Jason.

“I’m serious.” His breath smells like the spearmint toothpaste from that corner store in New Rome, the one with the broken AC and cloudy windows and a graffiti-battered alleyway that you’ll always know like the back of your hand. “We can talk, y’know. Being rivals doesn’t mean we can’t be there for each other.”

You steel yourself—tenacity, whispers Victoria, brave the storm. “It’s just the weather,” you tell him again, jaw tense, the iron will of a bough that stands firm amidst a gale. “Heat stroke’s serious. You should find some shade before you burn, too.”

FOUR —

Sometimes, you feel like everything’s too much. The itch of your brand, the flow of the wind, the chatter of the faun and wind spirits in the Forum. Everything has a weight, a warping dip in the fabric of spacetime like how the Sun’s mass exudes gravity and pulls in the objects orbiting it.

Jason is the Sun to you.

( Did you know that when a star collapses, it can form a black hole if it’s large enough? Sometimes, you feel like you’ll get buried under it—infinite mass condensed into an infinitely small space. Singularity point. )

He’s sitting beside you at the short table, legs crisscrossed on the cushions of the low couch, popping grapes into his scarred mouth casually.

“How’s your cohort?”

“Worse than yours. The Fifth carried our asses at Fortuna—half of us are still out of commission.”

Jason chuckles, soft and deep, lips splitting wide and wrinkled with lines at the corners. The afternoon light plays gentle on his face, shadows burnished and warm.

The shiny strip of skin on his lip flickers white in the brightness. “Well, that was Percy, not me.”

The mention of Neptune’s son irks you. “Hm.”

You both reach for the same thing at the same time, fingertips crossing like tangents over some insignificant sandwich—the bread and filling of which you can’t even remember. Jason unfurls his palm in invitation.

“All yours.”

From his other side, the girl with the braid and swirling eyes—Piper, you think her name is—laughs a little too loudly at something in the distance.

You bite your tongue, blunt teeth sinking into the muscle. Pulling your hand back, you brush the invisible crumbs off your fingers and pick up your cup and plate to move to another table, face pinched and sour.

You know this feeling. It’s the empty bitterness of loss.

There’s always strife brewing on the horizon. You know this now, standing armed in the temple of Bellona, goddess of war. Reyna, praetor’s cloak swimming crimson around her feet, stabs a lance into the soft dirt at the foot of her mother’s statue. It’s a vow to destroy your enemies.

The centurions stand in a half-circle around her when she issues battle stations on a map of Mount Tamalpais, playing out the siege on the Titan stronghold. Third and Fourth cohorts in the rear, First at the front lines of the offense with the Second and Fifth as the second wave.

Jason bumps his spaulder against yours, a dull clinking echoing from the contact between your armors. Silence follows—you haven’t said much since you cancelled on him in July. His hair and medals glimmer, sharply illuminated by the oculus at the pinnacle of temple’s dome.

( He’s the Sun. )

“Reyna says that war is inevitable,” he whispers in the car, one of the many black SUVs belonging to Camp Jupiter. His breath tickles your skin, spearmint toothpaste, close enough that you can almost taste petrichor on your tongue—he always smells like rain and now is no exception. “We’re Romans. Fighting is in our blood.”

“So?” You’re the only ones speaking in the otherwise silent car. Like this, it feels like he and you are the only people in the world.

“So we’ll win this battle, and the next. If we lose, we’ll just get back up again to fight some more. At least, that’s what she said.”

“And what if there’s nothing left to fight?” you hiss, words struggling to free themselves from behind the cage of your teeth, “Rome fell because we conquered everything and got lazy.”

“Rome fell, but it wasn’t completely destroyed—we’re still here.” He smiles, sending the corners of his mouth crinkling; his hand is warm, rough-hewn, when he places it over yours. “You’re still here. And…after this—”

One of the older centurions sitting shotgun slides open a little door in the privacy screen separating the passengers from the front seat. One minute, goes her mouth; the words swim distorted, out of sync with her movements. Jason’s hand goes tighter over yours and the world becomes alert again.

Keeping his palm on yours, he balances his helmet between his knees and lift his other hand, tapping the Mural Crown and Victoria’s Wings pinned onto your breastplate.

“Of all the champions of Rome, I think you’re my favorite, ace. Let’s get ‘em.”

The car jerks to a stop, engine guttering before it’s cut. Jason slides away with the other officers, helm already sitting over his ears; his hair peeks out from over his darker brows, strands of star-spun gold gleaming in the fading light.

The first part of the siege is an operation by night, using the dark to cover the legion’s advance until Reyna gives the call to ride at dawn. Jason stands to face the sunset, painted with the bruising watercolor sky; he looks stupid when he holds his hands up to the heavens and draws a blanket of thick clouds to shut out the moon.

The legion sets up camp a half-mile off from the Titan stronghold, tents rising on the slopes and small, dim fires guttering within them—you keep the flames small, barely rising above embers, just enough to stay off the radar while still being able to walk around the centurion’s tent.

Jason splays on his sleeping pack, still wearing the camp shirt and cargoes that were under his armor. His arms are tucked behind his soft head of blond hair—you swallow when he shifts, biceps rippling beneath the thin parts of his skin.

“Nervous?” he asks once everyone else is asleep. You’re laying on your stomach, face half obscured by the flannel lining of your bedroll.

“Why would I be,” you respond, monotone and muffled, punched-out with the way your weight presses against your lungs. You aren’t nervous, but your insides tingle anyways; from here, sleeping bags crammed next to each other in the small space, you can count every single one of his eyelashes. “We trained for this anyways. It’ll just be like the war games.”

Jason springs on you then. “Why are you more mad at me than normal?”

“I’m not,” you snap.

He huffs. “There it is again. We haven’t been the same since I got back from Charleston.”

We. He says it like—you don’t actually know, but it sets something in your stomach alight.

“It’s fine. We’re fine. In fact, you should enjoy the peace because after this, I’ll just get right back to kicking your ass.” You roll over sharply as Jason lets out a quiet, deep laugh. He shuffles in his bedroll, warmth creeping closer and closer to your turned back.

You find that the ridges of his spine fit against yours neatly like shards of pottery long broken apart and finally reunited.

( You think you remember a story about humans who were split in two. )

“Sleep tight, ace.” His breathing starts to deepen after some time, ribs following a slow rhythm against your shoulder blades.

You wait for a few breaths, the push-pull of his lungs pressed flush to your back. “Night, sparky.”

He’s beautiful, captured in the lens of rage. Jason goes absolutely ballistic once the First Cohort decimates the stronghold’s defenses, zipping up and down the fortress.

Haloed in lightning, he spins IVLIVS, form fluid between lance and gladius. They could say that he’s a god of war and you’d question nothing.

Krios stands before the Black Throne, swatting away arrows and javelins like flies. It’s like the world around you is only illuminated by a single line of light. You’ve heard of things like this, children of Victoria entering a state of total clarity—the victory path.

You know where to step and when to lunge like the back of your hand, a map only you can read, dodging arrows before they come, wind whistling in your ears like a familiar song.

The lance in your hand is too long to be used as a javelin, but still you find yourself trotting forward and throwing all of your weight into the sharp-tipped pole. It sails away, cutting through the air in an arch; light shines through the ruined ceiling and refracts off the gilded head, spattering the walls with color.

Krios lets out a trembling cry that shakes the stronghold’s foundations. Ichor pours from his eye—you can barely see the blunt end of your lance in it. The Titan of Stars sweeps his hand blindly, a gale peeling from his palm and knocking you into a nearby column. You slide pathetically onto the floor, the strength evaporating out of your bones.

You can hear a guttural bellow from deep in Jason’s chest. Next thing you know, the throne room is being sucked into a vacuum—bright threads of lightning crawl up the marble walls and explode in a sea of stars.

The demigod descends from the nebula—his cuirass splits to make room for a white toga, hair shorn and crowned in gilded laurels. His spaulders shine, the corners of a deep purple cloak rippling like wine clasped under them. Jupiter’s blessing.

Slowly, he staggers over, shadow stretching over your face, scratched and beaten all over. Oh, his shirtsleeves are in tatters; you can see the soft burnishing outline of his biceps, overlaid white with the light filtering in from the crumbling ceiling.

He tosses your lance at your feet, eyes crackling electric with life, chest heaving.

“Hey,” he gasps out between tired pants. “I think you dropped that? Sorry, it kinda melted when I blew Krios up.”

You only stare at him blankly, ribs barely opening for a breath. Jason’s brows knit, scar furrowing with concern; he kneels down, and oh, his hand is freakishly warm when it comes to your face. It leaves a soft heat in its wake when it comes away, slick and red.

“Ace?” he whispers, voice dipping so low that it cracks. “Hey, can you talk? Ace, please, you’re scaring me.”

Your ribs finally let up, lifting off your lungs for a rattling inhale. The wind had been literally punched out of your body by Krios.

“I hate,” you rasp, grit-gravel and jagged, “your hair now. Everyone can see that dent in the side of your head. Didn’t I give you that? Whatever, it’s better long.”

“Ace, please, you’re bleeding,” he rasps, something in his voice shattering. “I can’t find where.”

Jason sniffles, nose pink and eyes shimmering like the sky after rain; he looks pretty even when he cries.

“Probably not mine. Besides, if I’m bleeding, it’s probably internal—that’s where all the blood’s supposed to be.”

He looks like he needs to break some very tragic news to you, tonguing at the hollow of his cheek; it’s more attractive than it should be.

You continue, “Dude, your eyes are borderline radioactive—eons of immortality and daddy still hasn’t learned taste.”

He kicks up a dust storm as he swoops down to sidle up against you on the ground; the warmth of his arm is electric, sending your nerves in a frenzy.

“I’m truly hurt by your opinion.” He’s smiling, the scar on his lip making the barest brush against the shell of your ear.

You press the hotness of your cheek into his bicep. “Your scar’s stupid. I bet it’d be a bald spot if you ever grew a beard.”

Jason’s neck cranes, the tip of his nose grazing yours like a compass’ point. He smells like clothesline wind and petrichor and ozone, the promise of a storm.

“Really?” He drawls it out, low and deep and spearmint toothpaste breath and all; his irises are cerulean and endless under the shadow of his lowered lashes, lips chapped pale pink.

You let in a shaky inhale, sharing breaths with him. “And, uh, you were built like an oversized sausage as a kid. I heard Larry call you blond Superman after you got jacked.”

“I see that as a win,” he says, shrugging. His arm under your cheek flexes hard—you have to hold back from embarrassing yourself and sinking your canines into the his soft skin until they reach bone.

“Yea….”

You feel your eyelids begin to droop, nodding with the weight of fatigue. Jason pries the gilded crown off his golden hair, gently setting the laurel wreath onto your own head; the snake of his arm around your waist feels too familiar to notice immediately, like a phantom limb returned.

“They’ll come for you with shields,” you tell him, speech slurring, vision already darkening. “Just make sure I don’t get trampled, ‘m gonna take a little nap. Wake me up once you’re praetor.”

Jason’s hold around your waist tightens; you think he’s saying that you have to stay awake, fear slithering into the edges of his words.

You blink a few times as you settle, gazing at him—the ceiling is barely there, sun coming through to halo him in white gold. “Relax, Jason. ’M not planning on dying soon, not in my sleep at least. I know you can’t live without me anyway and—well, that’s an even shittier way to go.”

He blushes, a sunset blooming over the constellation of freckles on his cheeks. It’s the last thing you see before you drift off, and even after, his silhouette is still burned into your eyelids.

Jason carries you out of the throne room, your arm held tight over his shoulders, strong hand never leaving your waist. He’s so steady that the laurels on your head never shift, sitting firmly around your skull until it clatters to the floor when you’re put on a stretcher.

And still, he bends down despite the crack in his back to pick it up and fold the crown into your palm with a small smile. The metal is warm with his touch for minutes.

“Why do you hate me?” he asks on the ride back. You’re sprawled out over a row of seats, him on the floor of the SUV. The son of Jupiter has his palm over your clasped hands, fingers brushing with the wreath.

“I don’t,” you tell him, sleepy, eyes closed. “I’ve just been pissed for fifteen years. Not at you, though.”

You can hear his jaw strain. “Then who?”

You sigh, air slipstreaming from your nostrils. “Victoria. I thought we’d be friends, the strongest to the strongest, y’know? Then I heard you got an offer to join the First Cohort. You chose the Fifth. The highest I could get was the Second—you can guess how my inferiority issues reacted.”

“Oh,” he breathes out, wispy with revelation. “I’m sorry.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” you grumble, fidgeting in your makeshift bed. “‘Twas but a long time ago.”

He chuckles, and your heart does a backflip. “No one talks like that.”

“Shut up before I deck you with your laurels.”

“Your laurels.” The heat of his hand is nearly unbearable, but you push on, brave the storm.

You bite the smile growing from the inside of your mouth, scoffing. “Then shut up before I deck you with my laurels.”

FIVE —

Jason catches you at the edge of the city, touch still electric even though he’d been gone for nearly three-quarters of a year. He grins disarmingly, an awkward little piece of lettuce caught in the corner of his mouth.

“You’re moody,” he gasps out, hair decidedly tousled and lips cherry pink. “Why?”

You let a laugh rip out of your throat. “Did you fucking fly here?”

He shakes his head, frustrated. “See? Half the time I think we’re really friends until you start acting like you want nothing to do with me.”

“Well,” you manage, heat creeping up your neck, “being friends doesn’t mean we can’t be rivals.”

“We.” Jason scoffs it out like something dirty. “We’re not rivals. It’s just you.”

The statement sends a lance arrowing through your chest; it travels up, choking in your throat as tears begin to burn in your vision.

“Well,” you sputter again, tongue heavy. “I mean—”

You don’t mean to start crying, but the tears come anyway, spilling hot and embarrassing down your face. Jason’s stupid orange tee comes into view before dimming out to a dark shadow as he comes forward to embrace you.

Clothesline wind and petrichor and ozone, the eye of a storm, a familiar tapestry of him. His nose presses flat against your temple, apologetic nothings lost to your skin. He sighs and you find that his breath no longer smells of spearmint toothpaste, but of strawberries. A weak sob forces itself from you like a broken winged bird set free.

“I’m tired, Jason,” you say between hiccups. “I feel like I’m losing everything.”

Jason holds you tighter like you’re going to evaporate at any moment. “You still have me.”

“Not for eight months.” Your fingers twist in his toga. “God, I even got on an eagle every week and circled around the country for you.”

“You hate the eagles,” he reminds you, knuckles coming up to dry your tears. “They smell—”

“—like wet blankets,” you finish with him, sniffling wetly. Jason smiles wide, laughs deep, and you can feel it rumbling alive in the barrel of his chest.

He turns his head, pressing the compass point of his nose behind your jaw, arms drawing tighter still. His voice is muffled by your neck when he says, “I missed you too, ace. More than you know.”

“Careful, sparky,” you warn, the last of the tears running off your chin. You let your fingers travel up to twine with his soft, flaxen hair—you think it better like this, longer and wavy, no longer spiky or rough. “People might think you’re flirting with the enemy instead of practicing for your crush.”

He hums absently, but the heat that rises on the side of your neck is telling. You twirl a curl of his hair around your finger, feeling the skin of his nape prickle.

“What do you mean crush?” he asks, nerves laced high into his voice.

“Jason, you moron: Piper,” you answer, like it’s a duh fact and not something that rips your arteries apart. “Can’t believe you pulled before I could.”

He stays hugging you, fingers tapping against your waist. “I don’t—we’re just friends.”

“That’s what all guys say,” you drawl, lengthening the syllables, “until they get the girl.”

“It’s not like that,” he whispers, quiet and honest into the silent temple behind your ear. “I thought it was, but Hera—Juno, she did something. Piper and I, we’ve sorted it out. It’s….”

Jason leans back to look at you, mouth set kindly and eyes watering with a sad blue. The scar that cuts through his lip is muted coral, gnarled and old—you want to run your tongue over it and pour your love into his mouth like wine.

His mouth crinkles nervously like the opening of a drawstring bag, melancholy knitted in his brows.

“It’s just you,” Jason murmurs, words carried slow by the nondescript breeze sweeping through the city. “It’s always been you.”

It’s everything and nothing like you expect. You’re sharing breaths and orbitals, Jason’s nose crawling forward to slot hesitant against your own and you take the last millimeter for yourself.

He moves soft, gentle with purpose, lips chapped pale pink and tasting of fresh-baked bread; hands firm, steadying, he wraps you impossibly closer into him. Everything, nothing; nebulas colliding and a summer’s heat bending under the gentle hand of a cool breeze, a sea of stars and this world alone and out of the eight billion people on Earth, it’s only ever been him.

( Ambrosia squares and brownies and eagle-patterned plasters on a wound you’ll always have. It’s the light under a guttering brazier and a dented medal and two spines that fit together like pottery reunited. )

Something in the distance rattles the city right as you pull apart for an inhale, smoke flaring above the rooftops. Jason’s eyes are glassy, the sky in them dazed, out of focus. You catch your air, greedy, wind and petrichor and ozone oozing into every pore in your body.

“I have to go,” he says in a rasp threaded with hesitancy, lips still brushing yours.

“I’ll give you a head start, sparky,” you tell him, pressing a kiss to the edge of his scar. Your hand finds its way to his sternum, knuckles curled and poised above his heart. The drumbeat of it matches your own, warm and slow. “Go be a hero.”

This time, he’s messy, heavy, tongue laving at where his teeth land on your lip. It’s like he’s trying to commit all of you to memory and knit the shape of you around his nerves before he has to leave again. You’re just as bad, fingers tangled in his hair, tugging occasionally for an inhale and diving right back in. Needy, like he’s air bubbles to a drowning sailor in desperate need of oxygen.

Breathless, still in intimate orbit, “It’s always gonna be you, ace.” And, oh god—

It feels like winning.

post script — have u ever yapped so hard bc in februrary i told myself that this was gna be maybe 4k and the final wc is nearly 3x that,, + pleaseee lmk ur thoughts, i need more jason friends, he's my og one and only crush

feedback and shares greatly appreciated ₍⑅ᐢ..ᐢ₎ ᡣ𐭩

jason tags (open) — @supercutszns @pariahsparadise @lovebug0 @leo-lvr

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locknco · 1 year ago

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this is heart wrenching I have to read the rest of this series. did not need to be crying this afternoon but here I am!

love me dry

a 'partners in crime' installment - luke castellan x dionysus!reader

words: 4.5k

summary: (post-TLT) The one where he meets you at his mother’s house, though both of you didn’t expect the other to be there. A glimpse into May Castellan’s perfect day (Luke Castellan x fem!Dionysus!reader)

a/n: sorry for the hiatus! been on the study grind and didn’t even notice, but i’ve been working on this for a bit! macbeth references (comment if you catch them/or ask and i’ll yap) and slight suggestive stuff under the cut—but anyways let’s just say the prophecy by taylor swift came out at the right time.

(posted 4/19/24, semi-edited)

—

The drive to Westport has become almost an afterthought in these past few years— in the way you unconsciously reach for your favorite hoodie on the way out the door or tuck in your chair before you leave a table, almost automatic but ingrained with a touch of care. With letters to May Castellan occupying your passenger seat instead of the boy who wrote them, you’d make the drive multiple times but stop short just before the property line. It took months of parking at the bottom of the hill and just watching the sun set on the little house, so clearly being able to imagine a smaller version of him running around and wreaking havoc.

Little Luke, with bandaged knees and feet that move as fast as his motor mouth, amber eyes glinting like windchimes in the summer breeze. His mom must’ve watched him play by himself through the bay window before calling him home when the clouds covered the horizon, wispy tendrils stretching over the rain gutter like how lovers hold hands. It must’ve reminded her a lot of his father, leaving nothing but the open air in his wake. Still, all of this was familiar to you too—despite having never stepped foot in the white house.

But knowing Luke meant knowing his home like it was a part of you.

The old hatchback’s engine gently rumbled against the quiet of the property each time you visited, and May would wait for you to come near— waiting for you to be ready to walk into a mausoleum of the boy you both once knew. You were familiar to her too, even as a blurry figure hunched over the steering wheel. She’s seen your face in the small glimpses between the shattering earth of her reality and the hazy foresight she lets herself succumb to remember what her son looks like. In every vision of him since he’s left, you’ve been there; and something about that quells the pain and anguish that it brings to her body when she sees it. But May Castellan is ever an observant woman, gift of prophecy aside. A mother always knows.

It also turns out that she makes excellent conversation over a plate of slightly singed chocolate chip cookies.

—

Luke Castellan is years older than the version of him that last sat at this kitchen table. He doesn’t know if he’s any wiser for it—wondering if he’s made a mistake in coming back here after all this time as he watches his mom hustle around the kitchen that’s suspiciously sparkling clean. A silver spoon clinks against the glass pitcher that May stirs mixed berry Kool-Aid in, his favorite, he remembers, and it makes him squint against the light that filters through the gauzy curtains of the windowpane above the sink. Luke could’ve sworn that there used to be badly patched rips in the fabric, but he attributes it to the dark corner of his memory he still hides away like a secret. Sitting there and taking it all in, he wonders what it would’ve been like to actually grow up here—to stay, for once.

But that’s something he doesn’t have the privilege of knowing. When his mom turns to hand him a glass with her shaking hands, wrinkles and laugh lines are mapped across the expanse of her face. He’ll never know how they got there. The wooden chair creaks under him, groaning under the weight that he carries and Luke once again feels uncomfortable in a place he once called home.

“Knew you’d come back. A mother always knows,” May mutters, voice disembodied like she’s floating just out of reach. Her hands clasped over his, rubbing her thumbs over the veins as if she’s checking his pulse (or the possibility of him being an apparition) and the crack in her smile mirrors his. But this isn’t the home he remembers—his frontal lobe was underdeveloped back then and the only plan it could form was the one to get him the hell out of Westport, there’s something different in the details. Tiny things, like the patio swing chain reattached to its post, a mended table leg, and ceramic tiles on the countertop unbroken and smooth. This is a home and a mother he once longed for as a kid, along with the feeling of comfort and safety you can only attribute to a place like this. Calculating eyes scan the perimeter of the kitchen, but no one knows he’s made the trip to Westport, not even his own crew. Surely nothing could mess this up for him, not here. This was his last step before his quest for redemption eats away at his physical body, and then it will all be out of his hands.

There’s not much left for me here, he thinks— there’s not much of me left here, either.

Then Luke hears you before he sees you—the sound of you humming under your breath mixed with the jingle of keys turning in the front door. With bags of groceries leaving marks on your arms and a soft smile he hasn’t seen you wear in ages, for once you look lighter again. For a moment, the thought crosses his mind that this must be what you look like when he’s not around. Nonetheless, he breathes easier when you’re near. Of course, you’re here, and the irony grips him by the neck almost as if to make it known why his home feels like home again.

“Yeah hon, I’ll have to call you back,” you laugh into your headphones before tapping them with one free finger to end the call. In a split second, your eyes meet. Staggering back at the sight of him sitting at the table and the absolute grin on May’s face, you decide to continue into the space ahead and start putting the groceries away like nothing is out of sorts.

“I see you have a visitor, Miss May. Is he staying long?”

Luke sips at his glass, juice extra tart just how he likes it. His lips pucker at the taste it leaves in his mouth and when he opens his mouth there’s a hint of blue. You try not to look too long.

“For the night,” he answers, even if you weren’t talking to him, but it makes May so vibrant with the notion of him not running again that she instantly hops to her feet and rushes to make the bed in his old room. “I won’t be in your way,” he swallows. You gravitate towards him like a moth to a flame, but move around his chair without touching him—further proving that Luke is, in fact, an obstacle you must overcome. He’s a stranger in his own home and you’ve found yourself at ease in it. You wonder if any of that will make a difference in the long run.

“She’s…”

“More peaceful. I’ve been practicing with my dad, so I do what I can to ease her fits but I’m not exactly equipped to lift a curse from Hades,” you mutter through a bitten lip. Luke stares at you but it feels nostalgic, like someone on the outside looking in. Well, shit. He’s been leading demigods to their deaths every summer and you’ve been trying to cure his mentally ill mother in the time you don’t spend trying to stop him.

“I don’t think I even remember the last time she made sense while talking to me,” he laughs hollowly. You purse your lips and shrug, “I visit her every two weeks. She still has her triggers, and she gets confused but she’s not in pain. Your letters helped.��

“Is that why you came here then?”

“Don’t shoot the messenger,” you joke feebly. It falls flat and yet he still smiles, even when you say, “They weren’t for me.”

“They were about you. All of them were.”

You know that too. May makes you read them to her before bedtime as you stroke her hair and send her off to Hypnos. You’ve relived your relationship with Luke a million little times, and he’s written about you and all of your yesterdays like it was the only glimpse of Elysium he’d ever reach. In those letters, you get to remember the good parts of being in love—laughing in the empty amphitheater, holding hands under the dining table, sneaking kisses in the strawberry fields.

You used to understand each other so well: every dream, every feeling. But there is nothing you understand about the man sitting across from you now. The both of you sit at the kitchen table and there is nothing more to say.

Luke doesn’t have to stay. While you were at the supermarket, he spent an hour trying to explain to his mother that he needed her blessing to swim in the River Styx. Through nuances and veiled simplicity in the words he weaved to convince her, there wasn’t much opposition in her half-empty, half-prophetic mind. May always knew that Luke loved to swim when she took him to the beach, and that was that.

There was nothing more to say.

—

He knows it’s too good to be true when moments later May’s screams carry through the halls of the little house, down the stairway you’re currently clambering up to reach her. By the time his boots reach the second landing, he finds the two women he loves most in a huddle against the linen closet, his mother’s glowing green eyes and empty groans rattling him to the bone. If he were any smaller, he’d be shaking. Even now he doesn’t know what to do— feet frozen as he watches you brush her curls away from her face and lull her to solace.

“Can’t find Luke’s sheets—he needs the Toy Story ones…” May mutters as she rocks on her heels, “My boy needs to be home…He’s meant to be home!” Her fingernails are cutting into your wrists and then she silences with a wave of your hand.

“He’s home, Miss May. He’s right there,” you whisper. When your eyes look at Luke, you watch him crumble—the cracks in his fortitude tumbling like fallen rocks at the sight of the two of you and then you see him. The boy you met at 14 who was angry at the world for making him run away from his mother and the hands of fate until it crept up to snuff him out for the sake of a prophecy foretold by deities who will never understand what it’s like to be human. But there are no second chances, and there is nowhere left to run. “He’s here for you. I’ll take care of him, don’t worry.”

“I see it, the two of you together. The worst will be over soon, and then it’ll all make sense,” she says breathily, licking her lips and straightening herself like nothing happened. Even after you send her off to prepare a basket for the beach, Luke doesn’t move when his mother pats his arm and walks around his body and towards the stairs. Neither of you speak until your fingers touch his jaw lightly, and Luke doesn’t know if you’re trying to help him or inspect him. He tilts down to look at you anyway.

“She thinks we’re still together.”

He blinks. Somehow that’s the most shocking thing he’s heard today. Fate is most definitely cruel and fucked up because he never expected it to be like this—once upon a time he hoped he could take you home to meet his mother when everything was said and done; no shackles from Titans or pressure from the gods. It was supposed to be different.

“The letters probably didn’t help as much as you thought they would then,” he mumbles, calloused hands guiding your hands over to his swiftly beating heart. You scoff, “Neither does bringing up my boyfriend. She thinks it’s you.” He’d believe anyone who’d say they watched you yank his heart out of his chest with that statement, everything bloody in your hands. It’s still yours, even if you don’t want it.

“Kit?”

You shake your head and shrug, “That was forever ago. But he treats me well.”

Luke wants to ask more but by the tension in your shoulders, he knows not to push. He’s not entitled to know anything more than what you give him. It’s not his place anymore. So his brow furrows at your next suggestion.

“Just pretend, Luke. For the day, so your mom doesn’t get agitated. I’m not asking for much here.”

It’s a terrible, terrible idea—even you know that. But you both have always been good pretenders. Liars, a voice corrects in the back of your mind. You reason that it’s for May and insist upon that fact, even if the heartbroken girl you left at Camp Half-Blood is raging at you from deep inside the recesses of your mind that you hide her in. What’s one day with him compared to the many you’ve gone without? You don’t need to know the rest of why he’s here, or what more he’s going to do— and you don’t ask.

Not knowing has always hurt less.

—

You’ve forgotten how good Luke is at playing the part of a good boyfriend. He offers to drive to the beach, carries the picnic basket and blanket for you all to sit on, and listens intently when May asks about your college classes. There’s no discomfort in the way he holds your hand as you walk in the sand or dusts your feet off before laying them across his lap. It’s easy to laugh at his bad jokes, it’s easy to act like the boyfriend you describe is anything like him (even if he’s the complete opposite), and it’s too damn easy to fall into the familiar rhythm that is you and Luke. The three of you lay down as the spring breeze covers you from the rest of reality, hiding away from the truth of a broken woman and two ex-lovers. By late afternoon, you find yourself enjoying it, and it’s cruel how the guilt isn’t rolling off you in waves, instead longing for him to follow you anywhere.

He meets you by the shoreline with both of you waist-deep in the water. May’s collecting seashells but she turns to look at you two every so often like she’s framing this memory in her fragile mind. Without saying it out loud, the both of you hope it will hold.

“She always talks about you, you know? Even without trying,” you mutter as saltwater pours from your fingers to the valleys made by the veins in his forearms. It’s like initiating touch without the consequences of actually doing it, and he immerses himself in the feeling as it spills over him, feet rocking against the tide.

“I do too. Can’t help it.”

When the sea ripples once more pushing you against the wall of his body, you end up holding on, and he doesn’t let go. You both smell like salt and sunshine, pressed together and nothing has made more sense. The silence goes on for a beat too long—he whispers, “You still talk about me? Your boyfriend must hate that.”

“Why wouldn’t I want to talk about you? For anyone to get to know me, they have to know you.”

Your shirt is stuck to your skin in the surf and Luke’s hands brush over the waistline of your underwear, daring to reacquaint himself with your touch and spur a reaction from you. You may be the best actress he’s ever known but anything is better than watching you be complacent with the false niceties of the day.

“There isn’t much worth knowing.”

“I’d never say that, Luke,” jaw tensing, you let out a breath when his hands encircle your hips, hidden in plain sight in the deep of the ocean. He chuckles and the sound tickles your brain to remind you it's the type of laugh he spits out when he’s hiding his anger, “There’s a lot we’re both not saying.” Your name slips past his lips, sneaking past your defenses and hitting you head-on like a bullet.

“Why?”

Why are you doing this? Why are you helping his mother, why aren’t you actively fighting and turning him in, why are you letting him hold you if he’s only going to leave again—there are too many questions and only one clear answer.

“Because it’s out of our hands, isn’t it, Luke? You love your mother but you wouldn’t have come here unless it’s too late. Annie told me you went to see her in San Francisco.”

He was never here to make amends or save face. There was no version of him that was going to ask you to run away with him because he knows you deserve more than always running from fate. He’d do it all over again as long as you got this— the life you’re living with your college degree, your boyfriend, and your happy family— and Luke has no place in that.

A dry laugh bubbles from his throat, sticking like seafoam when he says, “You hate San Francisco.”

You wouldn’t have come.

—

By the time you get home for dinner, your skin is sensitive and tingly from the heat of the sun. May’s tracing circles into the back of your hand as she leads you up the patio steps. There’s a sinking feeling in your stomach that makes you sway against the doorway.

“Too much time having fun,” she mumbles, patting your cheek, “Take a cold shower dear. Join us when you’re ready?” Luke’s eyes follow you all the way up the stairs and then again, he’s left to his own devices.

Most of the said shower was spent thinking about what your friends would say about you for playing house with the enemy. The guilt felt like ice along your spine, paralyzing you for wanting to be selfish, to choose what makes you happy even if it fucks the rest of the world. But looking in the mirror afterward was scarier—you recognized the girl that stared back at you as someone you thought you’d never see again. A version you left behind years ago, with her head held high and so sure of herself with your Luke by your side.

Surely, there’s no harm in indulging in this vice for the rest of the night. Not when you haven’t felt this relaxed in years.

Dinner is being served by the time you make your way back downstairs. It’s a simple dish you taught Luke how to make back at camp when you raided the kitchens at midnight. Nothing special, reminding you of your own home—but the fact that he remembered makes your smile widen as you take a seat and promise to wash the dishes. Luke chuckles the type that makes his eyes crinkle in mirth once he watches you dig into your meal, knees brushing under the table like old times.

Everything feels easier after that.

“Today was the best day,” his mother mutters as you tuck the covers under her chin. May kisses both of your cheeks before she shuts her eyes and you gently fold the letter she chose tonight back into her nightstand for safekeeping. This time, you read her the story of your first kiss with Luke sitting at the foot of her bed in the dim light of her room. It’s less scary here than he remembers, but maybe it’s because this time there’s no screaming and him running to hide in the closet. Your voice is much more pleasant than those suppressed memories, immersing you all in a more pleasant one— the both of you in the amphitheater kissing on the stage with his hands in your belt loops. Luke could recite every word on that page if it meant he could go back in time, not with Backbiter but with you, just to live through that moment again. I think I’m falling in love with her, is how the letter ended but by then he already knew. Writing it down to tell his mother always made it real.

This, you, right here—everything is real.

He’s silent even as he watches you smoke through the cracked window of his childhood bedroom, and you’re surprised when he steals a puff. His hands are shaking under the moonlight and suddenly it’s clear that he’s scared. Everyone feels fear, but in all the years that you’ve known him, Luke Castellan has never let you see it.

“Those things will kill you one day,” you mumble, watching him lean against the windowpane. It’s what he used to always tell you so that you’d quit, but old habits die screaming. It’s another vice you refuse to let go of.

“Wanted to try something new before I…” his voice drops off.

Lose myself.

Lose you.

Luke coughs as the smoke enters his lungs, a momentary rush hitting him brought by the nicotine. Your hands go to cup his jaw as you set your forehead against his, a silent plea for him to just be honest if there’s truly nothing left to lose.

“I’m out of time, trouble. It’s out of my hands.”

Shuddering at the feeling of him tracing every ridge of your spine, you think the way he says your nickname sounds like the way he used to say I love you. It’s raining outside now, the harsh pitter-patter of wet drops drowning out the sound of your voice, “What can I do? Is there anything left for me to do?” When his head shakes, your noses brush, and your breaths intermingle, almost magnetic. Perhaps the rain is getting in from the open window and you feel it hitting your cheek until you see the shine of his eyes.

“You think I did this because of you. I know you do, but you need to know I did all of this for you, trouble. I choose you and me. Every time,” Luke gasps, intertwining his fingers with yours, the both of you pushing and pulling in this embrace like the moon with the tide.

“Luke…”

You’re pressing yourself against him, face hidden in his shirt as your brain catches up to your heart, hasty breaths and every atom of your being screaming to be held together by him and then you’re on him, through tears and clenched fists tumbling towards the tiny twin bed. The only way he likens himself to his father is his yearning to be a true traveler, but what he knows best out of anything in this entire world is you. He knew this body once too— every birthmark, scar, and dimple. Who else has had the privilege to navigate the ridges of your spine, to know the pressure of your kiss? A tattoo peeks out to say hello at your hip bone. There are new stories and new marks, there are parts of you unknown to him now. Luke thinks that must be what hurts most about each time he leaves you.

But then why does this feel so good?

Warm palms caress your waist, nudging your shirt up in the hopes that this will be enough compensation for all his misdoings—the tears you’ve cried, the anger you’ve felt, the things you had to do and will have to do because of him. Luke is someone who’s gotten comfortable with manipulating time, but time has manipulated him and all of his plans for the both of you. Sleepy setback bedroom eyes meet his own that glow in the gentle light of the lamp on the nightstand. Maybe if you pretend again his childhood bedroom can turn into the star-speckled darkness of cabin 12. You can just lay down and tuck underneath his arms waiting for him to fall asleep. But he stays up this time, making you hiss at the feeling of his lips against your neck.

“We can’t… Angelface,” you say breathily, still leaning into the trail he marks across the valley of your collarbone, “We’re not together anymore.”

A kiss is placed on your pulsepoint, knocking against the cord of your necklace.

“We shouldn’t… I have a boyfriend.”

Another kiss rests against the warmth of your forehead.

“We’re on opposite sides of a war… You’re my enemy.”

Finally, his lips meet yours, for a moment as if to test the waters.

“Not tonight,” he says, and there is no other option but to agree. There is a lifetime to make up for in a night, and fuck it—they’ll crucify you anyway. You were never meant to be a hero, that’s what he always wanted. You just wanted him. Your head hits the pillow and he looms over you until you’re pulling him in for more than what’s necessary to accept an apology.

There’s nothing left to lose.

—

Before your mind can wake up dreading the consequences of last night, your socked feet take you to the kitchen to clean up the mess you’ve both left behind. The old floorboards creak underfoot and there’s a method in the way you’re washing the dishes, hot water and soap starting to seep through your shirt sleeve but you choose not to notice. Scrubbing at the dirt and grime left behind on the porcelain until your fingers start to prune, a lump forms in your throat before you can stop it. Maybe if you scrub hard enough at the glass that Luke drank out of last night it can eventually be clean. But it’s taking you longer than you thought, jaw tensing and fingers turning white at how hard you’re holding on. May appears behind you, guiding your hands away from the scalding water, and though you resist— the glass drops into the sink and shatters with a loud crack.

“Damn spot wouldn’t get out,” you sniff, turning away to look out the window and think of anything but him, but he’s everywhere even when he’s not here, so much so that it suffocates you. Guilt lines every shaking breath you take until lavender eyes meet amber at the sensation of her clasping your red and raw palms with a dishtowel.

You see him in her too.

“His fate is greater than the cards he’s been dealt with. You know that.”

It’s the clearest and most sensible May’s spoken in days. Perhaps when it comes to Luke, she’ll always know better. Eyes darting elsewhere to fight the tears that brim at your lash line, you look down at your swollen hands, palm up towards the heavens almost imploring, “Why couldn’t it be me?”

The question’s direction is unclear and you don’t expect to get an answer, turning away to grab some ice from the freezer and she remains standing there—staring at the windowsill at a compass that’s now found its home next to the faded picture of a man who’s left more than finding reasons to stay. Just like his father, she thinks, a small smile quirking at the side of her lip where a scar would meet her son’s. Clicking it open delicately like how she used to hold his hand, there’s a photo of you and Luke resting against the cover ripped away from a memory frozen in time.

“It is you,” May says quietly, though you’ve already left the room.

A mother always knows, after all.

—

“Aphrodite,” I pleaded to the moon-drenched night sky. “Tell me; if love is meant to heal, then why does it destroy those who choose it?” From somewhere beyond the clouds, I heard the Goddess laugh. And I knew. -Nikita Gill

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locknco · 1 year ago

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literal perfection. this singlehandedly brought me out of my seasonal depression and took me back to my summer lifeguarding job😭 your use of senses to invoke imagery is spot on and the ending dream sequence was everything and more.

a world alone

the killerverse masterlist

pairing: luke castellan x daughter of ares reader

word count: 6.6k

summary: set before luke’s quest. you and luke take a well deserved day off at the lake, and you talk about the future

content: happiness. me waxing poetic about luke castellan via killers inner monologue about him lol, talks of having kids

notes: title from a world alone by lorde. this is probably my favorite chapter lol i hope you enjoy as much as i did!

Luke’s hands burn hot where they rest on your shoulders. You wonder if they’re going to leave behind marks in the shape of his palms, like brands pressed onto your skin forever.

The slight breeze coasts past your arms, tickling the bare skin of your arms and legs. The sun beats hot on your backs, but the excitement outweighs whatever discomfort it could bring. You can hear the sounds of the lake already, and you can’t help but turn to Luke with an uncontrollable smile.

The two of you speed up, listening to the sounds of nature and the crunching of dirt and gravel beneath your feet. Luke has been planning this day for forever, and even though he’d be stuck with two weeks of extra dishwashing, he swears it’ll be more than worth it.

The Hermes campers would officially be under Chris’ rule for a day, and you and Luke were free to take a day off.

“How much do you bet your cabin will be on fire when we get back?” you can’t help but ask.

He laughs quietly by your left ear, and it sends chills down your spine. “I’m trying not to think about that.”

The trees begin to grow sparse as the lake comes into view, so Luke slips your backpack from his shoulders, swinging it and letting it smack into his calves. The moment his feet hit the dock, the bag falls to the ground with a metallic thunk, and you sigh out his name, annoyed.

“I slaved over those sandwiches, you know. I’m making you carry me back to camp if they're flattened.”

He smiles, guilty, his hands frozen over the main pocket of the bag. The towels he’d packed are already hanging halfway out of it, the mat you’d brought to lounge on tucked under his arm. He’s practically halfway in the water already. “Sorry, chef.”

“You can relax. The lake’s not going anywhere,” you tease. Your shoulders brush when you nudge him away from your bag to rifle through it yourself.

Even though you poke fun at him, you can’t help but feel the same way. It’s been too long since you and Luke have had any personal time that wasn’t surrounded by other demigods. Your break’s been long overdue.

Luke surveys the best spot for swimming while you scrutinize the wooden dock. The old thing is riddled with splinters and nails and wobbly pieces of wood, but you find a good spot just on the edge of the structure.

The second your mat is rolled out, you collapse right on top of it. It’s an old plastic thing that one of Luke’s brothers stole from who knows where. The dark blue material folds into the shape of a bag so it’s easy to lug around, but years of lakeside lounges have worn it down — the strap that makes it into an actual bag snapped off a while ago.

You have to shove your hand to the very bottom of your backpack to find Luke’s sunglasses, but you’re quick to throw them over your eyes as you lay back down. The sun hits your skin and seeps the tension straight from your body. You wish Apollo were here so you could thank him personally; if it was possible to sunbathe forever, you would.

The rays on your skin are perfect. The lake is perfect. Being here with your best friend is perfect.

Luke moves from his spot by the other side of the dock and steps in front of you, eclipsing the sun. You peer at him over the rims of his glasses, unable to see much of him with the way he’s standing against the light.

“You look comfortable,” he says, rocking back onto his heels.

You prod at his ankles that are parallel with your face. “I am. Now move over, you’re blocking the sun.”

Something hard drops onto the wood beside your head, and your eyes shift to the container by your side.

It’s Luke’s sticky tube of sunscreen. The cartoon sun printed onto the front of the plastic is enjoying himself, his own shades pasted above a smug grin.

Luke nudges it towards you. “Could you get my back?”

You’re about to complain. He knows how much you hate the greasy feeling the sunscreen leaves on your hands and on everything you touch afterwards, but he’s making you do it anyway. Your eyes trail back up to glare at him, and you make it through a single syllable before your complaint evaporates in the heat.

He’s still looking at you expectantly, and he nudges the bottle closer to you with the point of his sandals again.

He’s trying to rush you, but you don’t really care. You’re thinking.

Yeah.

Thinking.

You’ve known Luke through everything. The terrible twos, your fear of the dark at six, his obsession with Pokémon cards at eight, and both of your awkward, gangly, preteen years.

In your head, Luke’s still your best friend that’s trying to relearn how to use a sword after he’d hit a growth spurt at fourteen. Whoever the fuck is standing in front of you now is not him.

Sometime between when you’d first arrived and had gotten settled on the dock, Luke had stripped himself down to his swimming trunks, eager to get into the water. Sunscreen he hasn’t fully worked into his skin leaves a white cast down his chest and arms, and you have to blink to see if the shadows are playing tricks on your eyes.

Luke had always been strong. But fighting off monsters thirsty for demigod blood generally did not require having abs.

Fed up with your staring, he pushes you over on the mat and places the sunscreen into your hand himself. His biceps shift and grow taut as he leans over.

“Have you been lifting?” you say, instead of anything normal. The tube of sunscreen feels like a thousand pound weight in your hand.

“Oh.” Luke looks down at his arms, as if he hasn’t even thought about how different he looks. He flexes just to show you, and your eyes actually widen at the definition of his arms. You trace the pathways his veins make from his wrist all the way up, feeling like you’re seeing muscles for the first time ever. “Yeah. A little.”

“A little?” you repeat, before actually laughing. “Dude.” You prod at his stomach, and he swats you away, red creeping up his neck. “Back in the day, they could’ve used your chest as like, one of those old laundry washboards. Since when do you work out?”

For a second, his face falls. The light air that’s been sitting between you two feels tainted. Luke shifts his eyes from your face to a spot behind your head, and you realize you’ve been walking carelessly through a landmine.

“Just, since…” He goes quiet for another few seconds. “Since Michael’s quest.”

Luke’s voice twists in a way it only does when he talks about things revolving around his dad. Your heart sinks with the weight of guilt.

Months ago, Luke’s older brother Michael had received a quest from Hermes himself. Him and his quest group had emerged victorious, finishing the quest with tons of time to spare. The three of them were treated like royalty the second they’d stepped through the entrance to camp.

Luke had never outright told you, but you know he’d been jealous. His relationship with his dad has always been rocky, but you think he wants to prove himself, for one reason or another. The bulking and the additional training… All of it must be to show his dad he’s ready. For his own quest, or something else.

Comfort has never come easy to you. But it does when it comes to Luke. A lot of the time, he just wants to be reminded that you’re there for him, even if you’re just sitting in silence. Words don’t usually work when he’s upset about things like this, so you finally pop open the sunscreen to give your hands something to do. He turns around without a word.

There’s a spot of white on his back in the shape of a smeared handprint where he must’ve tried putting it on himself before realizing it was no use. As you apply some more properly, the sunscreen disappears under your fingers, and you don’t even think about how gross your hands will feel later. You put on more of the lotion, rubbing slow circles into the broad stretch of his shoulders and then the dips of his back.

It feels weird touching the expanse of his bare skin like this. You’ve felt the warmth of him countless times, but always through a shirt or a jacket or that one sweatshirt that’s now yours. Luke’s skin is so warm it makes you want to slump forward and let him hold you until sleep takes you away. Absent-mindedly, your hands reach out to trace over a spot on his shoulder blades that’s covered in freckles.

“Killer,” Luke says softly. He pinches the skin just above your knee and your hands stop moving. “You’re supposed to help me put sunscreen on, not give me a massage.”

“Oh.” You realize his back has been thoroughly covered two times over. “Sorry. I got distracted.”

“That’s okay. It’s your turn, though.”

You sigh, slumping back onto the mat. He turns around to face you again, the harsh lines of his frown already disappearing off his face.

“You need to invest in better sunscreen,” you say as he works to undo the buttons of your old Hawaiian tee. “This one makes me feel so gross.”

Luke doesn’t say anything about your complaining. He’s too busy looking perfectly sun kissed, a light dusting of red across his cheeks glowing against his tan. He motions for you to turn over, and you oblige.

You don’t mention how you haven’t even put sunscreen on the parts of your body you can reach, but he doesn’t bring it up, so neither do you.

You’ll give him this. He needs something to do that isn’t sitting and thinking about his dad, and you’re willing to let it slide even if it’s at the cost of feeling greasy and gross.

“You know what’s even worse than the sunscreen?” he asks.

“What?”

“Skin cancer.”

Luke’s already grinning when you tilt your head to glare at him. “What even possessed you to say that?”

He laughs, squeezing the bottle of sunscreen directly onto your back. You flinch at the coldness, but it’s quickly remedied with the warmth of Luke’s hands. He doesn’t let the sunscreen sit for a second before he’s working it into your skin. You can feel every single movement of his fingers and every shape he traces there.

The slowing of his hands when he lingers at the scar on your back nearly causes a full body reaction.

“Thought we weren’t giving each other massages,” you choke out, just so he stops dragging his nails over the raised skin.

He hums. “Your scars look really badass.”

(Luke does this a lot — says something offtopic in lieu of responding. He doesn’t mean to do it to ignore you, and you don’t take offense, especially if it's during quiet moments like these. When you sit in silence like this, his off topic thoughts tend to morph into compliments.)

You feel flushed all of a sudden. “Thanks, hero. But keep going, please. I can feel my skin withering away under the sun already.”

You can hear the smile in Luke’s voice when he says, “Told you.”

A bit higher up, closer to your spine, he presses a finger into your back twice, each prod an inch apart. And then, just below, he drags his finger in the shape of an arc. He leans back on his heels to look at it.

You push yourself off of the dock, trying to crane your neck around to look at your spine. “Did you just… draw a smiley face?”

“What?” his left hand pushes your face away while the other swipes quickly over your skin again. “No. Stop moving around.”

“So that wasn’t you trying to wipe away the evidence?”

He scoffs. “I’m not five years old.”

“Sure.”

He wipes away the last of his sunscreen art once and for all. As quick as he can, he smears more into your shoulder blades, and the back of your neck, and the tops of your shoulders.

Luke pauses for a second, and for a second you think he’s finally done. But you can feel his hands move out of the dip of your back and higher up, his touch feather light. His index finger ghosts over the band of your top, and he pinches the fabric between his fingers.

“Is it good if I lift this for a second?”

“Yeah.” You clear your throat of whatever’s blocking your windpipe. The fraction of space between you burns with heat. “You’re good.”

The split second he spends passing his hand over the skin there feels like it lasts an hour. A moment later, the fabric is snapping back into place, and he pats your back twice to let you know he’s done.

“Want me to get your arms for you?” he asks.

A weird wave of restlessness washes over you. You shove the cap back onto the sunscreen, your hands fumbling to toss it back into your bag with his sunglasses.

“We’ve been up here forever,” you groan, Luke’s impatience from earlier suddenly infectious. “I’m trying to spend at least some of our lake day in the actual lake.”

“Great.” Luke lifts himself to his feet and extends a hand.

The mat is warm under your feet when he helps you up. You can feel his hand squeeze yours a little too tight, and your stomach nearly drops when you realize he’s looking away from you, towards the water.

“Luke,” you warn, planting your feet and trying to resist the way he pulls you forward. “No.”

When he turns back to look at you, his eyes glint the same way it does when he’s waiting for one of his brothers to fall for one of his stupid pranks. And of course, he’s grinning at you the same way he does when someone doesn’t realize he’s nicked something straight out of their pocket. It’s the always mischievous face of a son of Hermes.

Ever innocent, he asks, “What’re you talkin’ about?”

You stumble when Luke uses his other hand to tug you closer. Dread spikes in your chest. He pulls you right into his chest at the edge of the dock, locking his arms around your waist.

You’re stuck. “The water’s cold, Luke, please—”

“You’ll warm up,” he promises, his voice sweet and low.

A second later, with his firm grasp around your middle, Luke tip both of you backwards off the dock.

The cold water jolts you out of the peaceful state you’d been in just a few seconds ago. The air is effectively shocked straight from your lungs, the water rushing past your ears and bubbles dancing across your vision. He releases you so both of you can resurface, and his laugh is the first thing you hear when you come up for air.

You make sure to splash him in the face the second you gain your bearings. “Asshole.”

The dark mess of curls on his head hangs over his eyes, heavy with water. He shakes it out like a dog, sending droplets straight at your face.

“Maybe if you didn’t always take fucking forever to get in, I wouldn’t have—”

You drop your tone and mock him accordingly. He splashes you again, grinning. The water has washed every remaining part of his frown away, the quest slipping from his mind.

This spot by the dock is shallow enough for both of you to just be able to stand. Sated with happiness, Luke lets his guard down enough to let you come closer and wrap your arms around his neck. You seize the opportunity to shove his head underwater, managing it for a few seconds before you feel his hands go under your arms.

You scream, your hands slipping off of his wet shoulders when you try to hold onto him. Armed with a steady grip, he tosses you straight over his shoulder and head first into the water.

His smile is what greets you when you resurface. He slicks your wet hair away from your eyes, laughing at the scowl on your face.

“I’m sorry, I swear,” he insists, pulling you closer. He’s using that stupid starry eyed look he always uses to get you to forgive him. “I’m done now, no more fighting.”

He puts both of his hands on your face, swiping away drops of water that track down your cheeks.

“Luke Castellan.” You sigh, leaning into his palm.

His eyes follow a droplet that runs down your neck. “Yeah?”

“I hope you can swim fast.”

When you catch him halfway down the lake, his laughter echoes throughout the clearing, joining the sound of the wind rushing through the trees and the choir of birds over your heads.

—

The sun has long moved from the high point of the sky when you decide to get out. Luke calls it a day when he can barely move his legs, thighs burning from swimming. You’d been clinging to his side for a while at that point, teeth chattering without the hot sun to warm the water.

Luke pushes himself up onto the dock and nudges his waterlogged hair out of his face. When he extends a hand to you, water runs down the slopes of his arms and drips down his fingertips.

He snaps his fingers in your face when you don’t reach for him. “The hypothermia get to your brain already?”

You grip his hand in yours, tugging him forward like you’re going to pull him back in. “Funny. I was actually deciding whether or not I should make you face plant.”

You dry yourselves off before Luke disappears into the woods for firewood — not without a comment about what happened the last time he let you go get it — and you set up your stuff on a soft tuft of grass as close to the water as you can get.

He reappears after a few minutes, his arms full with sticks that he drops at the foot of the mat. “There wasn’t much dry wood out there. Might only have enough for an hour or two.”

“That’s okay. It’s more wood than I ever managed to bring back by myself, anyway.”

Luke freezes from where he’s starting the fire, the flame of his lighter dancing in his cupped hands. He turns to see the shit-eating grin on your face. “That was a good one.”

“Thanks.”

Luke busies himself with the fire, letting the kindling catch while you take out the sandwiches you’d brought. Thankfully, only one of them is a little smushed from Luke’s reckless bag handling, but you set aside the nicer one for him anyway. You work your hands over the aluminum wrapping as you sit back.

“It’s been a while,” you say, just loud enough for your voice to carry over.

Luke tosses another piece of wood into the fire to feed the growing flames. “Since what?”

Since this. Everything’s the same. There’s the silhouette of Luke’s back, a shape you’d recognize even without the light of the sky. There’s the familiar warmth of the fire at your feet. And there’s that summertime buzz in the air — a sound you can’t place, but know like the sound of your own voice. It’s the sound of you and Luke’s nighttime lullaby from all those years ago. It’s been so long since you’d been out here alone together.

“Eating sandwiches by the fire. The woods. Us.”

He mumbles something that you can’t hear. Louder, he says, “At least the sandwiches are good this time around.”

You crack a smile. “That’s true. No more old peanut butter and crumbly bread.”

Luke had hated eating those things as a kid, but he’d toughed it out for you. The sandwiches reminded you of home. Even though the dry crust tasted nearly powdery in your mouth, you would close your eyes and imagine sitting under the tree in Luke’s backyard, eating a plate of sandwiches and drinking your mom’s lemonade.

You reach for the sweater at the bottom of your bag, tugging it over your top. When you pull out the blanket you’d brought, you’re surprised to see the bottom of the bag. You turn to face Luke.

“You didn’t bring a jacket?” you ask. He shakes his head no, calm and collected like he can barely feel the breeze that whips his hair around.

“You’re gonna get cold,” you chastise.

Satisfied with the fire, he finally settles down next to you. “It’s not even that bad out. You’re just cold-blooded.”

You hold the back of your hand against his neck, and he cringes away. Teasingly, you say, “You know what they say. Cold hands, warm heart.”

He tugs the blanket over both of your laps and opens his left arm for you to lean against him. You’d slept like this as kids, too, his left arm over your shoulder and his weapon of choice sitting in his right hand. You would switch when it was your turn to keep watch, the familiar weight of your knife in your dominant hand and Luke’s warmth coming from your other side.

But you’re at home now. You no longer have to sleep with the handle of your knife imprinted into your hand, and Luke is free to take your hands in his. He rubs his thumbs over your skin, his hands hot and soothing.

“If that saying’s true, my heart must be made of ice, then,” he says, no doubt feeling the warmth seeping back into your hands from the heat of his.

You smile, watching as he turns your palms over in his until they feel normal again. You probably would’ve turned into a demigod popsicle without Luke all those years ago, and the same is true. The mutual body heat was often the only source of warmth you’d have in the colder months.

Keeping each other alive is all you two seem to do.

After a few seconds, Luke tugs you back to lay on the mat with him. You turn further into him, soaking up every ounce of comfort he offers.

With your head tilted back, you can see the makings of stars in the sky, just beginning to fade into the blue with the sun setting. You’d have to ask someone to teach you the constellations visible this time of year.

Luke taps out a rhythm on your forearm, and then on your bicep, and then up to your shoulder. His hand finds its way into your hair, rubbing at your scalp before slipping down to the ends.

There’s a glowing form brighter than the rest just above the treeline. A planet, maybe. Or a star. You’d probably be able to remember if you weren’t so tired.

You can feel light tugs at the end of your hair — Luke, playing with the ends, twisting strands around his finger before letting it go.

“We’re gonna fall asleep,” you warn, but you’re much too comfortable to actually do something about it. His chest rises steadily at your side, the even movements drawing you closer and closer to sleep.

Luke’s eyes have taken on a faraway look to them, his hand still messing with the tips of your hair. While you stare skyward, he’s focused his eyes on the setting sun right ahead.

“Hey.” You link his restless hand with yours. “Can you start talking about something? I don’t want to fall asleep yet.”

He squeezes you twice. “You cut your hair.”

You wilt, your face already beginning to heat up. “Preferably anything but that.”

“Why?” he asks, turning to face you. His eyebrows knit in genuine confusion. “It looks great.”

“Not really.” Your own hand slips from his to pull at the ends self-consciously. “I love Junia, I do, but she cut it way too short. I can’t look at it.”

He tilts his head to look at you head on, a frown on his pretty face. He nudges a strand behind your ear, deep in thought, like he’s trying to look for something. “Don’t say that. It looks good. You just haven’t had it this short in a while.”

“I know, which is why I hate it,” you lament. “It’ll be a while until it grows back.” You’d been mourning the lost length all day, and thought Luke wouldn’t be able to notice the difference.

He flicks your forehead, eliciting an ow from you. “Always so stubborn. You look cute, killer.”

You let your hair that you’d worried between your fingers fall back into place. You squint at Luke for any sign of a pity compliment.

“You really think so?”

He seems to take offense at your doubt. “You really think I’d lie to you?”

It’s crazy how much weight Luke’s words hold in your mind. You know the next time you look in the mirror, you’ll rethink everything about the way you look.

When you settle back down without a word, Luke knows he’s won. He tugs at the fabric of your sweatshirt.

“You talk to your sister lately?” He asks, just to change the subject.

You look down at your sweater. Emblazoned across the front are letters that spell out UC San Diego.

“Kinda. She sent me and Clarisse a postcard and some merch from school. Clarisse refuses to wear the t-shirt she got, though.” Luke’s hand reaches out to trace over the embroidered letters. “Mel says she wants to visit soon. I can’t wait to see her.”

Mel was the Ares cabin counselor up until last summer, when she’d left for college on the other coast. You’ve missed her terribly, but you heard all about her life out there and knew she was having a great time.

“She’s almost done her sophomore year. I think she switched her major to nursing, or something,” you add on. “Kinda ironic, isn’t it? A daughter of Ares healing injuries instead of causing them.”

Luke smiles. “I can see it. Mel’s always been the nicest Ares kid I know.”

You huff. “Well, thanks.”

He pretends to think it over again for a few seconds. “Don’t worry. I’d say you’re tied with Clarisse for last.”

“Ha ha,” you drawl. “Fuck you.”

“Actually, you rank just above her, I think. She would definitely drown me if she found out she wasn’t at the bottom of the list.”

“Probably.”

Luke’s hand is still pressed to the letters on your sweatshirt, his eyes trained on the words there. Something begins to form in the back of your mind.

“Maybe we could take another trip,” you suggest. “Me and you. California.”

The amusement is written on his face. “As if Chiron would let us take another vacation. We barely got him to agree to the last one.”

“But he caved eventually!” you remind him. “And wasn’t it great?”

“I guess.”

“Oh, please. That was the most fun we’ve ever had, and you know it.”

(For your sixteenth birthday, you and Luke had managed to charm your way into letting Chiron and Mr. D set you loose in New York City. You’d been on your own for a day, spending your allowance of a whopping fifty dollars on two small meals at an even smaller restaurant. You had also managed to score sight-seeing tickets on a rickety boat that didn’t look safe to ride.

Luke had rubbed your back for you when you’d gotten seasick, and given you Dramamine he’d pilfered from the bag of a man a few rows ahead of you. You’d given each other an awkward look when the guy got sick over the side of the boat an hour later.

“Here, man,” Luke had said. He placed the foil of Dramamine tablets in his hand. “We have extra.”

The man nearly got down on the floor, thankful out of his mind. There were tears in his eyes when he said, “Thank you so much. I seem to have forgotten mine, and I get so terribly sick on boats.”

You and Luke were silent for the last ten minutes back to the dock.)

“We might have to wait a while to ask,” Luke says, giving in. “Chiron’s not gonna be too happy when he finds out we skipped out on everything today.”

“You’re like the camp golden child. I’m sure if you flashed your pretty smile at him, he’d give in.”

Luke turns away, smug.

The two of you settle into another bout of silence, thoughts of the sunny California beaches running through your minds. You can picture the both of you there already — a little older, a lot happier. Luke would probably take up surfing, because he’s that kinda guy. You’d have a Jeep, or something, driving to the beach with the top down to watch the sun setting over the water.

“We could always say we’re touring schools,” you offer. “We should probably be thinking about future colleges, anyway.”

Luke sits up abruptly, so you do too. When you see the look on his face, fear strikes in your chest. His eyes are shining with something unreadable, and it’s beginning to dawn on you that you and Luke haven’t discussed this before. You have no idea if he even wants to go to college, and you’re already roping him into your fantasy of school on the west coast.

“You want that?” he asks, quiet.

“I think so,” you say honestly. “I kinda just assumed we’d go somewhere together.”

Luke is silent, his face a complete mix of emotions that you can’t tell are good or bad.

It sounds beyond dramatic, but it feels like the rest of your life is riding on the rest of this conversation. There’s no future for you without Luke in it.

Your voice is quiet when you speak next. “Do you want that?”

You can’t imagine what would happen if Luke suggests something like the two of you splitting up, finding your own ways after camp. He’s in every plan you have, a permanent mark on the rest of your life.

Your attachment issues are serious. You’re barely able to imagine yourself as a person without Luke Castellan.

The way he smiles makes it feel like someone’s pumping air back into your lungs. It dispels every single doubt you’d ever had.

“Do I wanna go to college? Sure,” he says. The grin on his face lights up his eyes, gorgeous pools of dark brown. “But if you’re asking me if I want to be with you?”

Luke laughs in disbelief, like your question is the funniest thing in the world. The sound makes something in your chest constrict. “I hope you know it’s been a definite yes for the past decade.”

You don’t even realize how much you’re grinning until Luke leans forward to knock your forehead against his.

“Can I be honest with you?” you whisper, serious as ever.

The joy is written on your face, plain as day. It’s like you’ve ascended into the sky and merged into literal nature all at once. The wind rustles the taller grass blades behind you. A dove chirps over your heads.

Luke nods.

“Even if you decided you didn’t want to go to college, and just wanted to fuck off and live in the Canadian wilderness or something…”

You slide your arms around his neck just so you can hide your smile. You’re embarrassed out of your mind, knowing he can feel your grin against his skin. “I’d still go with you, honestly.”

A shocked laugh bursts from his throat. Luke’s arms link behind your lower back, and you fight the urge to do something stupid. “Fuck. Are you proposing, killer?”

You feel like you’ve been set on fire.

“I think we should go ask Chiron about plane tickets, like right now,” you say, no trace of a joke in your voice.

His chest rumbles against yours when he laughs. “Sure.”

The two of you stay like that for a few more minutes, and Luke only lets go of you to add the last remaining sticks into the fire. He sits back again, this time dragging you against his chest. He slumps onto your back, resting his chin on your shoulder.

It’s weird, knowing for a fact that you’re going to spend the rest of forever with your best friend.

“Do you ever think about, like, the other parts of the future?” you press, your curiosity getting the best of you.

His shoulders lift against your back in what you think is a shrug. “Like what? Up until now, I had no idea I even wanted to go to college.”

Of course.

“Like anything after college. Where you wanna live. If you want kids.”

Luke’s taken to rubbing the skin of your thigh through the blanket over both your laps. “I have, actually.”

His answer surprises you. He’s thought about stuff like that, which is a million years from now, but not college? Something that could very much happen in the next few years?

“Care to share?” you push. “I haven’t really thought about it yet.”

Luke hums, and you can tell he’s thinking everything over. You watch the fire dance in the pit while you wait for him to speak.

“I’ve always wanted to live by the water,” Luke admits. “I liked that about where we grew up.”

His voice takes on a quiet tone, always awkward whenever he mentions Connecticut. You’d lived in the suburbs about ten minutes from the coast, and so many of your summers and few weekends were spent down by the water.

“I think that’s why California sounds good to me,” Luke continues. “It’s not New England, and it’s different in a good way.”

You would love to go back to your mom’s house — see the place that shaped you and Luke into people. But you know he could never consider it. Westport haunts him even now, his own personal ghost.

“And I want a big house,” he continues. “With one kid. A boy or a girl, I don’t really care.”

“Luke Castellan, girl dad,” you tease, everything about it sounding fond.

In a few years, the same boy who used to chase you through his backyard with worms in his hands will be an adult. Your best friend, pressed against you right now, could one day be a dad.

“Maybe,” he answers. He squeezes your knee two times, and it keeps you from drifting off into your thoughts.

“I don’t know if the world could handle a Luke Castellan Jr. running around. You were a crazy kid.”

Luke pinches you in offense. “Big talk coming from you, killer.”

He draws out the syllables in the old nickname to drive his point across. The joke had come from somewhere, of course.

“It wasn’t like you were the angel between the two of us,” he adds.

You smile because you know he’s right. You’d been a handful for your mom, always causing some sort of trouble in one way or another. And Luke had been right there with you, every step of the way.

Beyond college, you don’t know what you want for yourself. You just know that you’re going to have Luke, no matter what happens.

You think of the two of you a few years from now with your college diplomas and your families in the audience. Years of laughter and sunscreen and your big house on the California beach. And then the two of you, old and tired but with a lifetime of stories to tell.

You sink further into the cradle of his arms. “I just can’t wait, Luke. For all of it.”

Straight ahead, the last of the light from the sun gets consumed by the darkness of the night. You and Luke lay there, alone under the stars.

He mumbles his answer into the quiet of the sky. “Me too.”

The fire goes out sometime later.

—

Luke dreams of you that night.

You’re about sixteen years younger, but it still looks just like you.

You’re both sitting on the beach, though it doesn’t quite look like the one from your childhood.

The water is so blue and the sand is so fine and white and Luke knows he’s never been here before. When he turns around, he can see nothing else but more sand behind him, an eternal beach his mind has drawn for him. In front of him is a stretch of water that goes as far as his eye can comprehend. And to his left is you.

He knows it has to be you the moment he sets his eyes on the back of your head, the same messy hair of his youth.

It’s the same kid he sat with on the back steps of his porch, hands sticky with melted popsicles. The same kid he’d watch late night cartoons with on his couch, asleep with a half eaten bowl of ice cream on the floor.

You turn to face him, and Luke knows if he had full control over his body, his face would’ve split into a grin.

You’re just a baby.

You’re so tiny that even the version of him in his dream reaches out for you. It seems that Dream You is still a baby, but Dream Luke isn’t.

There’s a ridiculous sunhat on your head, the kind his mom would make him wear as a kid. It’s in your favorite color, and when you toddle closer, he sees you smile with all three of your baby teeth.

There’s a few things different about you that don't feel familiar to him. Something about the curve of your nose is off, and your hair looks curly in the way that his is. There’s a look in your eye that reminds him a lot of one of his younger brothers, the makings of a mischievous smile new on your face. You waddle right into his arms, and he lets you clamber onto his left thigh. When you throw your tiny arms around his neck, he realizes you smell like his sunscreen and salt water.

You pat his face, your eyes wide and glittering. He wipes a bit of drool away from the corner of your mouth, and you jump a little.

“Mama,” you babble, since it’s probably the only world you know.

He thinks of your mother, all the way back in Connecticut. He thinks of her big smile and warm hands and her freshly squeezed lemonade and her empty house.

She was like a second mother to him. He thinks of how she likely saw this same thing — this tiny version of you, unable to talk and lacking motor skills.

“Mama,” you say again, insistent. You pat his face again, like you’re trying to get him to understand. But Dream Luke can’t do anything but hold you, it seems. So he does.

There’s a shift, and you notice it too. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up as he feels movement behind him. Luke knows he should feel on edge, but his body physically refuses to. Baby Killer goes crazy, blabbering excitedly as familiar arms go around his shoulders.

Luke recognizes the feeling immediately. They’re the same arms that he feels curled around him when he wakes up from his dream.

my commentary on the ending

the killerverse masterlist

notes: and somehow they still aren’t together… idk. this was definitely my favorite chapter to write so please oh please leave feedback if you enjoyed!! it means sooo so much.

tags in the rbs!

#luke castellan x reader #fic recs

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locknco · 2 years ago

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SOBBING AND SCREAMING WHY COULDNT I BE THERE TO SEE THIS IN PERSON😭

UM SO IDK IF ANYONE HAS SEEN THIS BUT CAM AND ALI WENT TO THE ONE YEAR ANNIVERSARY MEET-UP IN LONDON

OH MY GOD I WANNA SOB

THEY LOOK ABSOLUTELY GORGEOUS IM GONNA THROW UP

@neewtmas @wellgoslowly @uku-lelevillain @avdiobliss @demigoddess-of-ghosts @losticaruss

#ali hadji heshmati #george karim #lockwood and co #cameron chapman #anthony lockwood #lockwood & co #lockwood and co anniversary #save lockwood and co #renew lockwood and co

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locknco · 2 years ago

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YALL

THE PETITION WEBSITE SENT OUT AN EMAIL

SHADOW AND BONE IS TEAMING UP WITH LOCKWOOD AND CO SO BOTH OF THEIR SHOWS CAN GET RENEWED

THIS IS LITERALLY THE BEST CROSSOVER EVER

#WHAT #bring back shadow and bone #shadow and bone #bring back lockwood and co #lockwood and co #IM SO HAPPY #MY TWO FAVORTIE SHOWS GETTING THE LOVE THEY DESERVE

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locknco · 2 years ago

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you guys don’t understand what netflix has stolen from us. when i say i would do ANYTHING to see cameron and lucy act out the scene where lockwood and lucy are fighting marissa fittes in TEG and where lucy wont leave.

HEAVY on the line: “lockwoods eyes are dark with desperation” YOU DONT UNDERSTAND HOW MUCH I WOULD PAY TO SEE CAMERON TAKE THAT DIRECTION

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locknco · 2 years ago

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aww thank you 💗 now trying to find another little video/film he was in that I know I watched that was peak awkward cute boy🫡

I looked long and far for the full version of the short film (which I think I watched but I may just be gaslighting myself) and it was featured on the website of the college he went to but is no longer there 😔

yeah I really wish the link was still there 😢

being deprived of border collie lockwood content fr

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locknco · 2 years ago

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i found it! it’s the exact opposite of border collie Lockwood tho it’s a quite dark short film (drugs, blood) but here’s the link if you want to watch https://jiayiliu-design.com/dove

yeah I really wish the link was still there 😢

being deprived of border collie lockwood content fr

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locknco · 2 years ago

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have yet to read king of scars (just bought it) but Ik he and zoya end up in some kind of relationship. I thought we didn’t like zoya tho? was she not a bitch to Alina?

#grishaverse #nikolai lantsov #zoya nazyalensky #zoyalai

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locknco · 2 years ago

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Deck the Halls (and not your partner) - part 4

Christmas Eve, and the day of the party.

once again I maintain the idea that lockwood has his tea as a Cameron special (for absolutely no reason, they've just merged into one being in my mind)

Word count: 3.2k

Warnings: swearing, family members being mean, lockwood never put his pyjamas back on, I should mention now that they're 18 for plot and ethical reasons, mentions of body image issues, innuendos?

series master list

(image credit to @sxnflowersa_tv on pinterest)

When Y/n woke up the next morning, her first thought was that she was cold.

Her second was that she was in a double bed and not her usual tiny single in Portland Row, and the third was panic at seeing her boss shirtless.

Lockwood's blanket had slipped at some point in the night, and so when she sat up and stretched she was met with the sight of him sleeping soundly in the armchair, his pyjamas folded neatly on the small table next to him. How he wasn't freezing to death she wasn't sure, but then Lockwood had never made sense to her. One minute he was all smiles and charm and then the next he was saying something completely opposite into her ear, and she was left to figure out which version was the real Lockwood.

Today would be difficult, and they had to come to some sort of understanding if they were going to survive the hell that they would soon be entering.

Lockwood didn't look comfortable at all, with his neck at an odd angle and his legs curled up underneath him (he was bound to get pins and needles when he woke up), and Y/n felt the smallest pang of pity before a knock sounded on the bedroom door.

"Are you two awake?" Her mother questioned, likely wanting to know if they wanted tea. Y/n clambered out of bed and leaned against the door.

"Uh, I am," she whispered. "Lock- Anthony's still asleep."

"Right, well do you think he'll want a cup of tea? I'm heading down to make a pot now."

"Oh, yeah. He has it weird though, with sugar and honey."

"I'll pop those on the tray, then, and he can put in what he wants."

"Thanks Mum." She heard her mother shuffle and head down the stairs, knees clicking as she went, and turned back to look at her fake boyfriend. "Fuck," she said, a horrible realisation dawning on her. Lockwood couldn't be in the armchair when her mother brought in the tea, or she'd wonder if they'd had an argument. Walking over, she gave his arm a quick prod.

No response.

She tried again, harder this time, and when he stirred a little she cheered internally. "Lockwood?" she whisper-shouted, giving him a proper shove.

"What? What is it?" He was bolt upright almost immediately, scanning for any signs of danger and reaching for Y/n. "Is everything alright?"

"Uh... yes," she said slowly. "Mum's making tea, and when she brings it in you can't be in the chair or she'll have questions." She stared down at his hand where it was grabbing her pyjama top (an old oversized t-shirt), his knuckles white. "You... you can let go of me now, Lockwood."

"Oh. Right." He retracted his hand, but not before letting it hover in the space between them for a few seconds. He stood up, the blanket falling, and Y/n immediately turned around.

"Why are you naked?!"

"I am not! I got hot in the night so I took my pyjamas off! I still have my pants on, thank you very much!"

"Well put your pyjamas back on!" she shrieked, pressing her hands over her face (despite still having her back to him) and desperately hoping she could delete the image from her brain. She had thought he'd only taken his top off, but since he wore matching pyjamas the pile of clothes on the table had looked like one thing, not two. She could hear him hopping around while he attempted to quickly pull his trousers on, and after a minute or so he cleared his throat.

"Alright, I'm dressed." Y/n turned around slowly, scared that he was joking, and sighed in relief when she realised that he wasn't. "Such a drama queen," he muttered under his breath, clearly not wanting her to hear as he looked to his left with a red face.

"I am not a drama queen, Lockwood. If anybody is the drama queen it's you. Now get in the bed." She pointed at it, glare on her face.

"If you wanted me to sleep with you you could have let me do that last night," he smirked, and she threw a decorative pillow at him.

"Just get in the bed, Lockwood." She went to grab a second pillow when he wriggled his eyebrows at her, and he quickly stopped and pulled back the covers. When he was finally settled she climbed in next to him.

"Y/n."

"What?"

"You should probably come a bit closer." He wasn't wrong, since they were as far away from each other as they could get, but she stubbornly refused to cosy up to him when she didn't need to just yet.

"Hang on." She'd spotted the blanket still crumpled on the floor, and hurried to pick it up just as she heard her mother coming up the stairs. Chucking it over the armchair she rushed back to the bed, pulling the duvet over her just as the door opened.

"Fuck's sake, come here," Lockwood whispered, harshly tugging on her arm and then wrapping his arm around her waist. "Ah, good morning, Emma!"

"Morning! Just got some tea for you here," she put the tray down on Y/n's bedside table and paused for a moment as she took in the two of them in the bed. "How did you sleep? Hopefully you feel rested enough for today?"

"Oh I slept beautifully, thank you." Lockwood beamed up at Emma, and Y/n wondered if she knew that his fingers were stroking the skin of her stomach under her top where it had ridden up.

"I'm glad to hear it! Well, I'll leave you to it!" They both smiled until Y/n's mother was out of the room, but as soon as the door clicked shut behind her they shot away from each other.

"I hope we never have to do that again."

"We'll have to do it tomorrow morning, darling."

"Nobody else is here, you don't need to keep calling me that."

"Ah, yes. Sorry, Schmoopie."

"I hate you. I'm going to poison your tea." She was getting the mugs ready now, adding extra honey to one and pouring in the water over the tea bags.

"And I will happily drink it."

A few minutes later (she'd had to let the tea stew for a bit) she poured in the milk and handed over his mug.

"Did you add in the sugar?"

"Yep."

"And the honey?"

"You watched me do it, Lockwood."

"Right, yes. I did." He was quiet for a moment, staring into the contents of his mug. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," she replied, mild shock running through her at the sincerity of his gratitude.

They drank their tea in silence.

~~~

"So, just to recap, there are around fifty people coming over today?"

"Yep," Y/n said through a mouthful of cereal. "All extended family members and close family friends and their families. I've been thinking about it, and as much as it pains me to say it I think... ugh," she scowled into her bowl. "I think you're right abo-"

"Ha! Finally! I got you to say it! About what?"

"If you'd let me finish, you would know, idiot."

"Oh, yes. Sorry."

"I think you're right about needing to do a big speech to everyone all in one go about..." she gestured between the two of them vaguely, "us."

"Ah. Yes, it would save a lot of time, wouldn't it?"

"Hm, it would. And then we only have to remember things once really."

"Remind me again what the story was?" They were sat in the kitchen, the only ones up other than Y/n's mother (who was upstairs getting things ready).

"What was 8 months ago?"

"Why 8 months?" Lockwood frowned over his second mug of tea that morning.

"Because that's what I told Steph last night."

"Oh. Uh, April I think? There was that one job we went on in March, just the two of us. We could stick pretty close to the truth then if we used that as a death scare that made you realise that you couldn't possibly live without me."

"Wasn't the story that you realised you were hopelessly in love with me one day and asked me out, but I refused multiple times until eventually I gave in to get you to shut up?"

"Well, yes. But I just think that- morning, Stephanie." His smile was clearly forced, and Y/n realised with a start that she was beginning to be able to tell which of his smiles were real.

"Morning you two. Hopefully you didn't get too frisky last night after that adorable kiss under the mistletoe!"

"No, we-"

"Well, a gentleman doesn't kiss and tell, Stephanie," Lockwood smirked, and Y/n rolled her eyes at his interruption. Her cousin was lapping it up, and after a few minutes the kitchen was filled with various members of Y/n's family as they all filed in, bleary eyed and reaching for tea and coffee. They would have to figure out their story while they got ready for the party, since they definitely couldn't get details straight with so many people in the room.

"Morning, Squeak," her brother Will murmured as he sat on a stool next to her at the counter. Y/n scoffed at the nickname, but there was nothing resentful behind it. "Sleep alright?"

"Yeah, did you?" He nodded in response as he started shovelling mouthfuls of cereal in, the bowl nearly spilling over with the amount of food in it.

"Lover boy didn't give you too much grief last night, did he?"

"No, he was alright."

"Hey, if you need a break at any point today come and find me, yeah? I'll fend off any inquisitive relatives."

"Thanks, Will." He was only a couple of years older than her, being the third youngest of her brothers, but Will liked to act as though he was the oldest of all of the L/n siblings. In fairness Tom was eleven and Sam and John who were thirty and twenty-eight respectively were rarely home or in contact with her, and she didn't have as much of a bond with them. Olivia was a year younger than Y/n, but since they had shared a room growing up they had fought consistently over the years about completely irrelevant things and barely talked outside of gatherings.

"Anytime. I think me and the boys were gonna take your lover boy away at some point to give him the proper talk, so if you can't find any of us later that'll be why."

"Please stop calling him 'lover boy', Will," she grimaced, not noticing Lockwood come up behind her.

"But I am your lover boy, darling." She whipped her head around to see Lockwood leaning against the counter next to her with a soft smile.

Weird. She'd thought he would be smirking instead.

Will snorted, then tipped his bowl up to drink the last of the milk. "You two," he said after he'd finished, "are quite possibly the most sickening thing I have ever seen."

~~~

"Is a suit too much, do you think?"

"Maybe leave the tie," Y/n called out from the bathroom where she was getting changed. She had long since pulled on the burgundy dress, but not knowing when Lockwood would be in a state where she could walk out meant that she had spent the last five minutes staring at her reflection in the mirror. She was absolutely certain that multiple people would make comments about her figure, or compare her to Stephanie, or both, and she was dreading leaving the bathroom. Then there would be the comments about her job, and how being an agent was a terrible choice and she should have gone into full-time education instead.

"Y/n? You can come out when you're ready."

She sighed shakily, taking one last look at herself in the mirror above the sink before unlocking the door and stepping out.

Lockwood was in one of his usual suits, pink socks poking out from under his trousers, and he was just sorting out his cuffs when he looked up and froze. When he still didn't say anything Y/n's mind started racing ahead to all the different possibilities.

"I look awful, don't I? I'll get my jeans and jumper and get changed, give me a minute."

"No!" Lockwood shouted, his arms outstretched. He hesitated, then spoke again, and his voice was back to how it sounded when he was being an arse. "No, don't do that, just... you look fine like that and we'll be late if you get changed now."

"Oh. Alright." She frowned, wrapping her arms around her midriff as she inspected Lockwood's outfit. "Wait, don't move," she called out when he went to move. Y/n walked over to him, then reached up to straighten out his collar. It had been sticking up, so she smoothed her hands over it to right it, letting them linger on his chest afterwards. He wasn't moving, and she was quite sure that he wasn't breathing either, and when she looked up at him she realised that she was holding her breath too.

They hadn't been this close since they kissed the night before, and then they'd had an audience.

Now it was just the two of them, alone in the room.

"Y/n?" Lockwood asked, his voice slightly hoarse.

"Yeah?" Had his face moved closer? Suddenly she could make out the individual colours in his eyes and was able to count the freckles on his cheeks. He licked his lips, tilting his head slightly to brush his nose against hers, and she felt her eyes fluttering closed.

"Are you two nearly ready? Emma needs help getting food and things ready for the guests!" A loud knock accompanied the shrill voice of Y/n's Aunt Linda, and the pair of them sprang apart, clearing their throats and avoiding eye contact. Y/n marched over to the door and wrenched it open, plastering a smile on her warm face.

"We're ready! Anthony? You coming?"

"Yeah, just... I'll be down in a minute, darling. I just need to use the loo." He flashed the two women a smile, then disappeared into the en-suite. Y/n could have killed him for leaving her alone, but maybe that was for the best given what had just happened.

"Come on then," Linda said, and ushered her downstairs.

~~~

Everyone was busy doing something, and everything was in complete chaos.

"Oh, that can go over there. Tom, don't put that in your mouth, please. No, over there, Ben. Tom! Not in your mouth! You're eleven, this shouldn't be difficult! Boys, please stop mucking about and do something useful! Over there- oh for god's sake, give it here!" Y/n's mother snatched a plate of food away from her husband, rushing between the kitchen and the dining room that was through the open double doors off to the side. The whole area would be brimming with guests in less than thirty minutes, and things were still being put out. "Oh, you're here, that's perfect. Where's Anthony? Never mind, no time. Here, you can put this next to the thingy there!" Luckily Y/n had grown up with her mother's distracted way of talking and knew exactly what she meant, taking the opportunity to run away from Linda.

The next ten minutes followed the same pattern of being handed things and told to put them in various spots on the table, and Lockwood was nowhere to be seen for any of it. Y/n was starting to worry that he'd flushed his skinny beanpole of a frame down the toilet.

"Where's your boyfriend, Y/n?" Stephanie asked, sidling up in a stunning silver dress that looked as though it had been painted on her.

"In the toilet. Are you gonna help, Steph?"

"Oh, you're... wearing that again?" she asked, ignoring Y/n's tired request for help. "Didn't you wear that last year? You've put on a bit of weight since then, haven't you!" She let out a laugh, and Y/n brought her arms around her stomach self-consciously for the second time since putting on the dress. Maybe she should have ignored Lockwood and got changed anyway. At least then when people complained about her outfit she'd be more comfortable in her own body. "Well, personally I think you should get it let out a little, Y/n. You do look awfully-"

"Beautiful?" a voice questioned from Y/n's right, and after a second someone else's arms were around her waist, pulling her back against a warm chest. "She does look stunning, doesn't she?"

"Anthony," Y/n breathed when he spun her around to face him, his hands holding hers tightly. He was smiling one of those private smiles reserved for the people he cared about, small and gentle, and her heart jumped in her chest.

"I... I suppose," Stephanie said, sounding confused. It was so typical of her to not think of her cousin as anything other than a way to make herself look better. Y/n barely noticed when her cousin drifted off, or when her brother picked up his camera and took a photo of the two of them framed by the lights that had been draped over the doorframe, since all she could focus on was the feel of her hands being held by Lockwood and the way he was looking at her.

"Aww, aren't they just adorable!" Y/n's grandmother Jean said loudly, catching the attention of everybody nearby. Apparently half of the guests had arrived on time (of course the one time that happened was the time she had to pull off a huge fake dating stunt), because the kitchen and dining room were packed with people. Murmurs of assent travelled around, and Y/n could hear a few people questioning who the tall young man next to her was, and suddenly her heart was plummeting rather than jumping, and she felt sick.

"Hey," Lockwood whispered, still smiling at her. "We can do this, alright? It's only today and most of tomorrow, and then we're back in London. It's really not that long when you think about it."

He needed to stop being nice to her, because it was freaking her out.

One minute he was saying she looked fine and not seeming to care much about what she looked like, and the next he was declaring that she was beautiful and stunning with such sincerity that she couldn't help but think it was real.

"So this is the boyfriend Linda told us about, huh?" one guest asked.

"Um... yes," Y/n replied, moving closer to Lockwood and curling into his side, trying not to look too stiff and petrified when his arm came around her side. "This is Anthony." She gestured up at him, feeling increasingly uncomfortable about the fact that around thirty people all had their eyes on her, and any one of them could work out that this relationship was a farce and completely destroy any good reputation that she had amongst her family.

"How did it all start? Go on, give us the story!" somebody called out.

"Yeah, we all want to know!" exclaimed a different voice. "Y/n/n's never had a boyfriend before!"

Y/n shared a glance with Lockwood, and he opened his mouth to speak.

part 5 (coming soon!)

Tag list (I think this is everyone): @ahead-fullofdreams, @aislinrayne, @anathemaloren, @augustisintheair, @avdiobliss, @aysha4life, @briar-rose23, @curseofhecate, @dangelnleif, @edible-rat-vomit, @el-de-phi, @ell0ra-br3kk3r, @fearlessmoony, @fudosl, @informedimagining, @karensirkobabes, @locklyebrainrot, @locknco, @mentallyillsodapop, @mischivana, @mitskiswift99, @mrsklockwood, @mrsyixingunicorn10, @newbooksmell777, @no-morning-glories, @novelizt, @ran23sblog, @star-of-velaris, @superpositvecloudshipper, @t2sh0, @taygrls, @tournesol77, @whenselenefallsinlove, @wordsarelife

let me know if you want to be added to/removed from the tag list! <3

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locknco · 2 years ago

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i love this series so much it’s not funny

Deck the Halls (and not your partner) - part 3

Word count: 3.9k

Warnings: swearing, Stephanie is a bitch, lockwood was a complete arse in the past, he's also very guarded in the present, they kiss for like three seconds (because Steph makes them), mentions of sex, mentions of lockwood's family being dead, neither of them can deal with emotions, proof read maybe once

series master list

Anthony Lockwood was starting to think that this family Christmas would be a disaster.

He had no issue with playing the perfect boyfriend at all; in fact, he was doing rather brilliantly at it.

But something wasn't quite right with Y/n.

Now he didn't know how large families were meant to work, since his own relatives were either gone or lived too far away and his only experience with larger gatherings was the few times he'd been to George's, but he did know that the snide remarks about how much cake Y/n should be given and the fake laughter from her aunt wasn't particularly regular.

The cake and tea situation had certainly been strange.

Normally Y/n went through around four cups of tea before noon, and if cake was offered she would have such a large slice that Lockwood would often joke about leaving some for the rest of them. Instead of cracking one of those jokes that afternoon, he was currently staring at her half-drunk mug and a plate of cake that hadn't even been eaten, and Y/n was in the toilet instead of glaring at him.

He didn't exactly like her, but he hadn't been raised to not be a gentleman. He excused himself with a smile, pushing himself out of the loveseat and making his way out of the living room in a search for his fake girlfriend. It took him nearly five minutes to check all the bathrooms in the house, and naturally the last one that he knocked on was the one she was in. There hadn't been any answer, but he had heard sniffles from the other side of the door of their en-suite bathroom and had assumed that it was Y/n.

"Are you alright?" He was starting to get tired of asking that question, but she was clearly not alright, and if this whole charade went wrong then she'd just have more reason to hate him, so he was attempting to carry out damage control.

"I'm fine, just... go back downstairs, Lockwood."

"Anthony."

"Whatever." He could hear her huff in annoyance, and bit back a retort, instead settling for a frown. Lockwood sat down, his legs pulled up to his chest and his arms wrapped around his knees to keep his balance as he leant backwards.

"I'm not going back without you," he said to the door. "Your sister looks like she's going to eat me alive, and I don't think I'll be given the satisfaction of dying afterwards which scares me."

"...What?"

"I said that-"

"I heard what you said, I just... don't know what you mean."

"Your sister... is going... to eat me. And I don't mean 'she's going to eat me like Christmas dinner', I mean 'she's going to... eat... me." He was trying to get his point across through euphemisms, but apparently that wasn't working. It didn't help that Y/n couldn't see his face or hand gestures, but at least he heard the door lock click.

He had barely registered the sound before the door opened behind him and he fell backwards, only being stopped from landing on his back like an upside down beetle by Y/n's legs.

"What the fuck are you doing? Get off the floor, you dipshit."

He stood up, brushing himself off and turning around to inspect her face. She'd obviously been crying, but was trying to hide it, and was now shoving past him into the bedroom.

"What do you mean, eat you?"

"You know..." he gestured vaguely, now feeling embarrassed. He sighed when Y/n only looked quizzically at him. "She keeps looking at me like she wants to fuck me and it's making me uncomfortable."

"Oh, poor you. What a shame for you."

"Oh shove off." She was irritating him again. At least that meant she was somewhat back to normal. "Are you going to come back downstairs? I think your mother has nearly finished cooking dinner."

"Right... uh- I don't know, really." She was folding her arms now, closing in on herself and looking away. Lockwood felt like he was missing something, the key piece of the puzzle that would give him all the answers, and it was frustrating him. It was so close, he was sure of it, but what 'it' was he couldn't say.

"Well you can't leave me down there on my own! You dragged me up here to be your boyfriend for the holidays!"

"You'll be fine. You're great in these situations!"

"Yeah but this is your family, Y/n, you should spend time with them. You never know when-" He couldn't finish, his throat closing up slightly.

"I don't exactly want to spend time around them when I have to pretend that I'm hopelessly in love with you!"

"Well you don't have to go that far with it!"

"Oh like you aren't? What was that earlier? 'Best Touch in England' and 'there's nothing that could have stopped me from falling for your daughter'!"

"I've got to butter them up somehow, haven't I?" She huffed again.

"Look. I have no issue with pretending to date you. I have no issue with pretending to date you in front of my family to make them think I'm not a lair, even though I am. What I do have an issue with is you trying to tell me how to live my life in my own home, and how to act. I know my family, Lockwood, and I know what I'm doing."

"Do you? Because so far I've seen you leave half a mug of tea and an entire slice of cake, which is entirely unlike you. And what the hell was that thing that happened with Stephanie saying you don't need a large slice? Is that why you don't want to come down for dinner?"

"No, it's not that, I just... Stephanie always makes comments about me because she doesn't like me, and I don't really feel like spending an entire meal being watched by her."

"Well then I'll tell them you're not feeling well because of the journey and could we eat up here!"

"You-!" she was still shouting, but broke off when she registered his words. He had only just realised what he'd said himself, and he was taken aback at his offer. "That... would actually be nice, actually. If you don't mind."

"No, I don't. It means I don't have to fake liking you for a while."

Y/n scoffed, but she looked somewhat less disgruntled than she had before.

~~~

Ten minutes later Lockwood was knocking on the door, demanding to be let in.

"Seriously, can you hurry up? My arms are going to fall off in a second!"

"You are such a drama queen," she replied as she opened the door. He would never survive as a waiter, which was surprising since given he had clearly practiced with a rapier for years and had a strong throw, Y/n had assumed that he had somewhat sturdy arms. With the way he was acting now anyone would think he'd never held a thing in his life.

"Yeah, sure, let me come in. I need to put this down, I think I'm going to die."

"Fucking idiot," she muttered, stepping back and allowing him room to walk inside. He put the tray down on the desk, dragging over a second chair to put beside the one that was already there and sitting down. Y/n stood nearby, unsure about sharing a meal with Lockwood as he got stuck in, but then he paused for a moment and looked back at her with a frown.

"Well? Are you going to sit down? Imagine what your family will say when they find out I let you starve."

"Of course all you're worried about is what other people will think of you," she grumbled, reluctantly pulling out the desk chair and sitting on it.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"You're so obsessed with your image, Lockwood. It's a wonder that nobody has suffocated on your ego yet."

"I am not obsessed!"

"Ok, sure. Remind me, how long did you spend on your hair this morning?" Y/n asked, her face the picture of innocence. Lockwood floundered for a moment, then stuck a forkful of food in his mouth.

"That's irrelevant."

"I think it's entirely relevant."

"Shut up and eat your veg, Schmoopie."

Y/n threw a piece of carrot at him, and laughed when it landed in his hair and made him shriek.

~~~

Y/n had snuck downstairs with their empty plates and glasses while Lockwood used the toilet.

She had thought she could simply put everything in the dishwasher and go right back upstairs, but just as she closed the door to the machine and turned around she was greeted by her cousin.

"So," Stephanie started, attempting (the key word being 'attempted') to look disinterested. Y/n internally groaned, knowing exactly where this was leading. "How long have you two been... a thing?"

"8 months. And it's not a 'thing', Steph. He's my boyfriend."

"Sure, sure." Her tone suggested that she didn't believe Y/n at all, and was agreeing with her in much the same way that one might agree with a child who had said something wrong, but looked proud of themselves for saying it. "How'd it happen, then? Who asked who? What was the first kiss like?"

"Steph, I'm really tired, alright? And I'm only going to have to repeat this story multiple times tomorrow to literally fifty people, so please just let me go to bed and I'll make sure you're the first one I tell in the morning, yeah?" Y/n started heading for the door, pushing past her cousin.

"Oh, so you have more time to come up with the perfect lie?" Stephanie's words made her freeze with one foot out of the kitchen, and when she turned back the other girl was stood with a smug smile on her face.

"What do you mean?" Shit, her voice was shaking, and she was certain that if Stephanie came any closer she would see the slight sweat that had broken out on her forehead.

"Oh please. Nobody like him would ever go for someone like you, Y/n. I mean, he is way out of your league!"

"Personally I think that Y/n is way out of my league, but each to their own, I suppose." She hadn't even heard Lockwood come in, but now he was wrapping his arm around her waist like it belonged there and smiling softly at her like they hadn't been arguing about five minutes before (the argument was about something pointless, but that didn't stop Y/n from gloating when he gave in and said that she was right). "You alright, darling?"

"Yeah, just tired. Could we-"

"Oh, since you're both here, maybe you could share the story of how it all happened?" Stephanie cut her off, and completely ignored Y/n's responding scowl.

"I think we'll save that for tomorrow, Steph. If it'll make you happy we'll tell everyone at the same time and give a big speech," Lockwood said, and Y/n's insides started churning at the thought. She would have to find a way to convince Lockwood to do all the talking, or even her deaf older relatives would know that this whole relationship was a farce.

"Well, how about a kiss then? I still find it hard to believe that my little baby cousin has a boyfriend!"

"There's two months between out birthdays, Steph. It's really not that much. And we're not just going to kiss for your entertainment!"

"Aw, darling, you wound me. You don't want an excuse to kiss me?" Y/n could tell that Lockwood was having far too much fun with this, pouting and clutching his chest, pretending to stagger backwards in pain, and finally offering up his mouth in a ridiculous attempt to gain a kiss. She knew that he didn't actually want to kiss her, and what he really wanted was to rile her up, but she couldn't help but feel nerves in her stomach at the idea of it.

"Not really. You get enough of them as it is, Anthony." It felt weird, his first name in her mouth, and he paused for a moment in his actions to stare at her, tilting his head and frowning slightly.

"Oh, just one little kiss? You are under mistletoe, after all," Stephanie piped up again, pointing gleefully at the plant that had been badly taped to the doorframe.

The doorframe that Lockwood was leaning against, and that Y/n was stood under.

Shit.

They had an audience now, since her parents and siblings had come out of the living room to see what the conversation was about in the kitchen. Even her grandparents had emerged from their downstairs bedroom to join in. Y/n swallowed thickly as she looked around at everyone, her eyes finally landing on Lockwood. His frown was still in place, but his face was more relaxed. He pushed off of the doorframe, stepping forward and placing his hands on Y/n's waist as he leaned in a little.

"Is this... I mean... do you-?"

"We probably should. We were gonna have to at some point, right?" He was close enough now that she could feel his breath on her cheek, and his eyes kept flicking between hers and her mouth.

"Right." Lockwood brought a hand up to her face, holding her jaw gently as though he thought she might break if he applied any more pressure. His nose was brushing hers, and she had to push herself up on her toes and wrap her arms around his neck to bring her lips to his.

The kiss was short, only a couple of seconds at most, but as soon as they pulled away from each other she missed it.

Why did she miss it?

Claps from Y/n's family followed shortly after, and she was glad for once that Lockwood had no sense of personal space because it meant that she could hide her face in his chest without it coming across as strange to him, since he hadn't let go of her waist.

She absolutely could not start craving a real relationship with Anthony Lockwood.

Not when they hated each other with a burning passion.

And especially not when she had previously heard him say that he would never like her because she was 'not good enough for the company'.

No, she couldn't crave a thing with him other than their usual dynamic.

~~~

Lockwood was warm.

They had turned out the light and gone to bed about forty minutes ago, and after around twenty he had heard Y/n's breathing even out as she drifted off. As per usual he was still awake, left to stare up at the ceiling while he tried everything he could think of to fall asleep.

Normally it was the fear of nightmares that kept him awake, and if anybody asked tomorrow he would tell them that, or possibly something about how he was so used to working at night that he now found it difficult to sleep.

Realistically, though, he was too warm.

He had contemplated the pros and cons of taking off his pyjamas (pro: he'd be cooler, con: Y/n might scream at him and attack him with a blunt object) for the last thirty minutes, and had heard an owl hoot for the sixth time. He was also relatively sure that there was a fox somewhere outside the house, but since he had spent his whole life living in the city he wasn't entirely sure what they sounded like. The ghosts normally attacked any animals that tried to make a home in London, and as such wildlife was limited.

Another five minutes later and Lockwood decided that if he was going to die by having a lamp thrown at his head, he would much rather be more comfortable than warm and stifled, and peeled off the blanket that Y/n had given him when he first got comfortable in the armchair to take his pyjamas off. He folded them neatly, creeping around so that he didn't wake up the witch sleeping in the bed, then got back in the armchair and pulled the blanket over him again.

Why was he still warm?

He huffed in frustration, making a mental list of all the reasons his body could be overheating, then froze.

Somewhere along the way he'd added 'kiss' to the list, and then all of a sudden his mind was filling with the events of earlier and images of mistletoe.

Shit.

It had been awkward after they kissed in the kitchen doorway, Y/n's whole family watching and clapping with joy afterwards, and he had been very glad that she had hidden her face in his chest, because that meant that she couldn't see his own flushed face.

He had told himself that he was blushing because that had been his first proper kiss, and then followed that up by listing all the annoying things about Y/n.

They had been forced back into the living room for another two hours after that, with introductions being made to Y/n's grandparents (the ones that owned the house) and siblings (since they hadn't had the chance to say a proper hello yet). He had felt a little scared when all four of Y/n's brothers crowded around him, including 11 year old Tom, and made a promise to have a chat the next day, and then he'd been downright fearing for his life when Olivia pushed through and draped herself over his arm.

Y/n had simply been snickering in a corner at the whole thing.

Lockwood had glared at her in response, hoping that she might come and save him, but instead she turned back to her grandparents with a smirk and left him to her sister.

When they had finally been allowed to leave for bed, Lockwood and Y/n had got stuck in the doorway in their rush to go upstairs.

"After you, darling."

"No, you go first, Anthony."

Her family had been not-so-secretly watching the whole affair, and after a moment of staring at each other Lockwood had stepped back and swept his arm out for her to go first. He told himself it was because he had been raised to be a gentleman and also so that her family would think of him as the perfect boyfriend, but realistically it was so that he could hide his second flushed face of the evening when his gaze darted down to her mouth.

They had got ready for bed in silence, the only words spoken between them "excuse me" and "thanks" as they moved around, and then Y/n had given him the throw blanket from the end of the bed and turned out the lights.

"You sure you're fine in the chair?"

"Perfectly fine, Schmoopie."

"Do you want to die, Lockwood? Because you're getting dangerously close to seeing my rapier sticking out of your torso."

He hadn't answered her question, instead opting to shuffle around in the chair until he was as comfortable as he could be and bidding her goodnight.

And now here he was, around fifty minutes later, attempting to go to sleep while he also attempted to not think of the feeling of Y/n's lips on his.

He really should give up the game of hating each other that the two of them had going on.

Since that first night where they had met by quite literally bumping into each other, Lockwood had maintained the belief that she was no good for his business.

His meaning for what that meant had changed over the years, though.

Originally he'd thought that she would be clumsy and ineffective in a fight since she'd walked right into him and nearly pushed him over, and then when she'd come for an interview and walked into the doorframe his mentality had stayed the same. He was in too much debt to waste money on an agent that was as accident prone as Y/n.

But then? Then he'd seen her in action.

It had been around four months after she first joined Lockwood and Co (as he had stubbornly refused to go on jobs with her). George was behind on research for other jobs, and Lucy had a case of her own to deal with. Lockwood would have taken this particular one on his own, but Holly had recounted the client's report of what could be felt and dictated that he needed backup or he wasn't going. She herself had claimed there was a mountain of paperwork with her name on, and so Lockwood had been left with Y/n as his only option.

The taxi ride had been silent, with Y/n ignoring him and instead looking out the window, and when Lockwood thanked the driver his mouth was dry from disuse.

He knew he'd been an arse the last few months when all she was doing was attempting to be nice, but now he felt he was too far in to stop. She likely wouldn't believe he was being sincere anyway.

Two hours later they were done, worn out from running around trying to find Sources, and Lockwood had taken a new stance on his feelings towards Y/n.

It would have taken them at least twice as long to locate the Sources if Y/n hadn't used her Touch, and from what he could gather she was actually seeing the scenes play out in front of her, complete with sound and all as though she was actually there. He had never seen anything like it before, and when he went to tell her in the taxi home he was met with a very different Y/n to the one that had been trying to be his friend.

"You were incredible back there, Y/n."

"Not sure why you care, Lockwood. You've spent the last four months avoiding me and putting me on different jobs so you don't have to be around me." Her tone was harsh and cold, so far from the warm voice she had had only a few hours before, and Lockwood couldn't help but bite back.

"Of course I don't want to be around you, I was only saying that to make you think you're actually worth keeping around." It was awful, and he would never normally say something like that, but she was an enigma and he was tired and scared that if anyone found out about her Talent then she would take the spotlight away from him, and the words were out of his mouth before his brain could catch up and tell him to stop. She had stared at him, and for a moment he thought she might start crying from the way her eyes glistened and her lip trembled slightly, but then her expression was turning hard and a scowl settled on her face, and after that it became the norm for Lockwood to catch her eye and be glared at.

He knew he should apologise, but he couldn't figure out how to do it in a way that she would accept, and they were so entrenched in this hatred now that he was struggling to see how they could ever leave.

No, better to stick to what was normal and safe.

Not his normal mentality, but when venturing into the unknown meant exploring why he felt so warm, he was perfectly fine with staying behind the iron chains he had placed around his heart.

part 4 (coming soon!)

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