soulthrifted

[soulthrifted]

This changed my life

phone works two ways, you know

pairing: sam winchester x fem reader 5.2k

summary: stories of that one time sam surprises you, that one time you surprise sam, and that one time you surprise each other

contents: childhood bsfs to ‘i sometimes want to kiss you but like the normal amount’ to strangers trope will always be loved by me

notes: title from baby came home 2 by the nbhd. this is set during season one because ive only watched the first season of spn lol. this fact also makes me not liable for mischaracterization ok enjoy please!

— thank u to the lovely @locknco for editing this love ya

Nightmares follow Sam Winchester like a moth to a flame.

Most of the time, they’re about Jess. Before the nightmare even starts, he knows what he’s about to see because it’s always the same.

The steady drip of blood against his forehead.

The burst of unbearable heat exploding against the ceiling.

The guilt that creeps in every time without fail.

He wakes up from those nightmares with his heart pounding and a blanket of grief smothering his lungs.

But sometimes, Sam Winchester is lucky.

Sometimes, Sam Winchester dreams of you.

—

Sam wipes his eyes as he stands over your bed.

It’s your actual bed, and not one at a crappy motel in the middle of nowhere. It’s unfortunately humid since it’s creeping toward the middle of August, but Sam doesn’t care. It’s a pretty special occasion — you’re taking a break from hunting for a few days.

He’d been beyond surprised when you’d told him. Catching you at your house during the summer was near impossible with the way your parents ran you around the country, so all your free weekends were taken advantage of.

John had dragged him and Dean to a case just a state over from yours, and Sam had realized it was the closest they’d been to your house in a while. The second the bones had gone up in a pile of salty flames, he was halfway to the nearest bus station and on his way to your city.

The bus pulled in late, and the long walk to your neighborhood meant Sam arrived even later. He wondered if your parents were home and decided he hoped they wouldn’t be. The last thing he wanted them to see was the pitiful sight of him walking through their front door at four in the morning.

And despite the way you insisted it wasn’t true, Sam knew your parents didn’t like him. He’d probably be seeing the barrel of your mom’s revolver before he saw her smile at him.

(“It’s not smart to be telling people the code to your house alarm.”

You laugh in that girly way you do sometimes. Sam imagines you twirling the coiled wire of your phone cord and his throat runs dry.

“Come on. It’s just you, Sam. And how else are you going to sneak into my house?”

Your parents change the code to disarm the alarm every two weeks as a precautionary measure, and you never forget to update him everytime it changes. Sam thinks it’s sweet, but the both of you know he’s barely lucky enough to get the time to call you. The stars would have to align for him to come visit.

“I’ll go in through your window,” Sam says.

There’s a small lift in your voice. “I’ll make sure to double check it’s not you when I throw a knife at the freak climbing up the side of my house.”)

Zero-five-zero-two-eight-three, you’d told him last week.

He’d gone silent on the other end when the numbers clicked in his mind — his birthday. The code to your house right now was his birthday.

Your dad had been too busy to set it, so you’d done it yourself, using the first six numbers that came to mind.

His birthday, apparently.

Sam tries not to think about it too hard.

But now he’s here, standing over your bed and trying not to pass out from exhaustion on your carpet.

Your room looks slightly different from the last time he visited. The walls are a new shade of your favorite color, and the old desk that was in the corner has been replaced with a vanity. There’s pictures of your hometown friends pinned all around the glass, but there’s a few photos he does recognize.

One is from your ninth birthday. Dean had smashed your cake in your face, as expected from the then thirteen-year-old, and you’d clocked him with your fist a second after. The photo was taken post-punch, and you’re grinning through the frosting on your eyes while Dean clutches his face.

The other picture is of you and him from when you were both about twelve. He’s sitting between your legs, laying against your stomach with your American Girl doll in his lap. He’s braiding her hair using the instructions in an old book of yours, and you’d shoved the camera in his face before he could stop you. The photo captured him glaring into the lens of the camera, his thick brown hair pulled into two pigtails on top of his head.

It’s nearly cut out of the frame, but you’re smiling so hard behind him it makes your entire face light up. It’s one of Sam’s favorite pictures of you.

Now, you’re a lump on your full sized mattress, a new step up from your trusty twin bed. The blanket thrown over you has little flowers on it that match your bedsheets, which he already knows you’re very proud of. Still asleep, you roll over onto your back, and that exhaustion from earlier comes back with a vengeance.

Sam drops his jacket onto the heap of clothes on your chair and works to unzip his jeans before his legs give out.

If you were awake, you’d slap him on the back for that, a teasing grin on your face. “I would’ve brought some cash if I knew you were going to strip for me!” you would probably say, like a menace.

He can’t wait for you to wake up so you can annoy him even more.

Sam’s left in a pair of boxers and a baseball t-shirt from a supermarket in Pennsylvania, sweating even in your air conditioning. When he lifts the covers off the bed, he freezes.

You’re wearing a shirt he’d given to you as a souvenir a few months ago. A movie theater in Jersey they helped with their ghost problem gave them a free shirt in return. The cartoon penguin smiles at him now, balancing on one foot with his arms out, like he’s surfing. Sam smiles back while he settles in next to you.

Now that your bed is bigger, there’s more than enough room for the both of you, which is good since it’s so hot out. It means there’s no need to sleep piled up like you had to in the past.

…but Sam hasn’t seen you since that time your families had run into each other in New Mexico, and he hasn’t slept with you like this since you’d been home during your finals week a few months ago.

Under the eye of the penguin on your shirt, he slides one arm below your side pinned to the bed and uses it to pull you against him.

You complain up a storm, even asleep, but settle down quickly. He wonders if you’ll kick him in your sleep again, claiming you were dreaming of being a soccer player.

With your face pressed to the spot between Sam’s arm and shoulder, he listens intently to the nonsensical string of words you mumble out against his skin. Your musings only get more muffled as you press even further into him, throwing your arm over his torso and staying there.

Sam’s hand kindly soothes over your hip, where your shorts have little pink clouds printed on them.

“Woah,” you grumble, dragging out the word. Your hand flexes and then clenches into the fabric of his shirt. “Woah.”

His eyes dart to you embarrassingly fast, guilty for disturbing you but more than excited that you’re awake. Your voice always sounds sweeter in person than it does over the phone.

When he finds your face in the darkness, he realizes your eyes are still shut. Sam runs his hand up your side, warm with sleep. “Hey. You okay?”

Your mouth twitches into a frown. “My friend. My friend’ll do it.”

Oh, he realizes. You’re just sleep talking.

“Okay,” he answers quietly. He wants to hear your voice again, but he also wants you to go back to sleep. You only really mumble like this when you’re about to wake up from a dream. “Sorry,” Sam adds, though he’s not sure what for.

Your face screws up, but then you sigh sweetly against his chest. “Dean?”

(Even when Sam dreams of this, he still feels like you’ve beaten him over the head with that single word.)

You’re dreaming, all right. Of his older brother.

“You gotta get rid of it,” you complain, a pout pulling at your lips.

“He will,” Sam agrees, just to appease you. Thankfully, the worry lines on your face flatten out, and you move yourself even closer to him.

You’re quiet for a few seconds, so Sam closes his eyes, squeezing your shoulder in hopes you go back to sleep.

It doesn’t work, though.

You jolt up and practically launch yourself off the bed, nearly slipping on your hardwood floor before you grab onto your bedside table.

Sam calls for you, but you don’t seem to hear him, busy fumbling in the dark for the lightswitch. He leans over and flicks on the lamp, flooding your room with warm, yellow light. “You okay?” he asks.

The way you spin towards him is comically slow, like you’re being spun in a microwave. There’s a crease on your cheek from being pressed to your pillow for so long, and your eyes are barely open. Sam laments the heartbreaking fact that he can’t see you everyday.

Within the next second, he’s being flattened back against your pillows. You’re by his side so quickly, he’s half inclined to ask you if you’ve gained the ability to teleport.

He squeezes your hip. You take the hint and loosen your hug.

“Sam!” you say, at a volume much too loud for four in the morning. You don’t say anything when he tries shushing you, too busy flitting your hands over whatever parts of him they can reach, laughter spilling from your lips. “You’re here!”

“Took you long enough to realize,” he teases. “I could’ve been some kinda killer, and you would’ve gone on sleeping.”

“What kind of killer would have a face as sweet as yours?” You’re kneeling over him now, smiling so wide it makes Sam feel winded. “I missed you so much.”

“I missed you too,” he says, matching your smile. “Do you wake up from all your dreams like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you’ve been electrocuted.”

You smile. “I think my brain knew you were here. Made me wake up so I could say hi.”

Sam kisses your forehead. “Hi. Thank you to your brain.”

“Hi. And you’re welcome.”

The two of you sit like that for a little bit, taking in the sight of the other’s face for the first time in months. You seem to enjoy his new haircut, and he studies the new scar going down your bicep while you tell him the story about how you got it.

When the recount of how you were thrown out of a window starts turning into more yawns than words, he pulls you back down to the bed.

“How are you?” he asks, like he hadn’t just asked you that this morning.

Your tongue darts over your chapped lips. “Good. Missed you a lot,” you say, for the second time in the past five minutes.

“Your parents are—they’re good too?” he asks, stuttering over his words.

Whatever he feels for you gets stronger every day, but it’s only when he sees you again that he realizes just how much he likes you. He forces his eyes up from your lips and squeezes your side. Sam really wants to kiss you.

You nod, moving his arms around so you can cram yourself as close to him as the world and physics allows. “Yep. Yep, yep, yep. Your dad and Dean?”

Sam hums. “They’re fine. Didn’t even ask where I was going when I took off.”

“You didn’t tell them?”

“I think they know by now. My dad asked about you on the drive back to the motel.”

You’re curled against his left side, your chin resting against his chest so you can stare up at him. It means that his next few intakes of breath have to be done with a lot of careful thought.

“Can I just come join you guys?” you ask, and Sam’s surprised he can’t hear any hint of a joke in your voice. “I’m sick of missing you all the time.”

He makes a fist, and uses his knuckles to drag circles over your back from the hills of your shoulder blades to the jut of your hip bones.

Sam laughs. “I don’t think you’d want that.” He can tell you’re about to argue until he adds, “Moving in with my dad, that is. You know what he’s like.”

“I’d put up with it for you, though,” you say honestly.

“He treats you like shit,” he stresses. “And he likes you. Maybe it’d be better if I moved in with you instead.”

You push yourself onto your forearm so you can give him a real serious look. There’s a sore spot on his cheek from where he’d gotten shoved into a wall by some spirit, and somehow, you know.

You caress his face, dragging the pads of your fingers over it. Sam makes a weird sound in his throat, something like a hiccup, and you thankfully don’t smile too hard about it.

Sam decides that it’s probably best for his health that you don’t see each other too often. He knows without a doubt that his heart would give out if he felt any stronger about you. He soaks up the warmth of your hand on his face before you let it drop to his collarbones.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

You lean down to press a kiss to his cheek before shifting your face into his shoulder. “Just appreciating your pretty face. If you moved in, I think my parents would have your head on a stake by the end of the week.”

It startles a laugh out of him. He can’t quite look you in the eyes because you’re trying to hide from him, but he tries to anyway. “Are you serious?”

“I’m sorry!” you groan, using one of your free hands to push at his face. “I thought they liked you, I really did. But my mom found out what I changed the alarm code to and made me clean every single gun in that stupid closet.”

Cruel and unusual. “All ‘cause of me?”

You think long and hard about it. “I think it was part of it. She was also mad because I forgot to do the dishes last week, so it could’ve been that, too.”

Your parents have quite the array of weapons. The jacket closet turned armory in your living room has enough rifles to arm half the state of Kansas, and Sam thinks about what a sad sight it would’ve been: you on the floor with a cleaning rod in hand, and about fifty more handguns to wipe down.

“Poor girl,” he says, pulling your palm into his hand. He presses into the calluses you have from where your gun usually sits. “You didn’t suffer too much?”

“Nope,” you say, awfully cheerful. Your next blink is slower than the others, so he resumes his ministrations against your back. You go limp again. “Only cause I… knew you were coming over soon.”

His face warms, but he has to poke fun at you before he lets you fall asleep.

“Sam, my parents love you,” he mocks, letting his voice go quieter. “Come over for dinner, Sam. No, my parents won’t mind, they love having you over.” He smiles at you. “Must be why I gotta show up here before the sun is up, right?”

Your chest stutters before you laugh, which usually means you’re really embarrassed.

The dream ends when he takes pity on you and kisses the spots on your arms you tell him are aching from all your hard work.

—

Dean wakes up that morning to the sight of Sam hunched over the old table in the corner of the room. There’s a pile of newspapers at his feet and one in his hands, which he stares at so intently it looks like he’ll burn a hole through it.

“Y’know, if you keep scowling, your face is gonna get stuck like that.”

Sam doesn’t grace him with a glance. It’s clear he’s been up for a few hours already. “I think I got something.”

—

Rachel Anderson and John Hansen were two college kids from the suburbs of Virginia. Both were from respectable families, both were straight A students, and both were well-loved by the community.

Two nights ago, John left family movie night to shoot himself in his backyard. And last night, Rachel drowned herself in her bathtub during a sleepover with her friends. In the center of their bedroom floors were identical suicide notes. Each in their own handwriting, but not a single difference in wording or sentence structure.

Sam has to park the car down the block when they arrive outside Rachel Anderson’s house. The street leading up to the building is lined with shiny new cars — Mercedes, Lexus, and BMW logos as far as the eye can see — making the Impala stick out like a sore thumb.

Dean cranes his neck to look up at the houses on the same street as the Andersons. Pretty suburban towns like these scare him a little more than he’s willing to admit.

He whistles. “Didn’t know they made BarbieLand a real place.”

Sam cracks a smile at that. “How many of these people do you think have a membership at that country club down the street?”

The two of them snicker all the way up to the front door. Sam knocks, his brother too busy looking around at the rest of the neighborhood.

“If any of your little college friends have houses as nice as these, maybe we should make a quick visit the next time we’re in California,” Dean jokes, eyeing a neighboring pool.

Sam stops rolling his eyes because the door swings open, and he plasters on his most sympathetic smile for whatever grieving family member is on the other side of the door.

It’s a guy about his age, wearing a crisp black sweater. The dark circles under his eyes make it clear he was close with Rachel — a man plagued with grief through and through.

“Hey,” Sam says. “This is Rachel’s house, right?”

The man flicks his eyes from Sam over to Dean, who’s only now looking away from the nice looking houses to join him at the front door.

“Yeah. This is it,” he answers, though he still doesn’t open the door fully. The three of them stare at each other for an awkward second before the guy clears his throat. “If you guys don’t mind me asking, who are you?”

“I’m Sam, and this is my brother Dean,” he explains. “Me and Rachel had psych together. She saved my grade in that class last semester.”

Sam’s not surprised at how easy the lie rolls off his tongue. Lying is almost as important to the job as the guns in their trunk are.

The man, satisfied with the answer, lets the door creak open. “Oh, I see. I’m Will. Thanks for coming, you two. Everyone’s out in the backyard.”

A girl’s voice floats to the front door from somewhere nearby. “Will, is it Deb?”

William Anderson was mentioned in the article about Rachel’s death. He’s the girl’s older brother, who pivots to face the girl speaking from behind him.

“These are friends from Rachel’s psychology class,” he says, stepping out of the doorway.

Olivia Anderson was mentioned in the paper too. The youngest child of the family, just a year younger than her older sister. For a second, Sam thinks he’s hallucinating. She looks just like her and a little like Will too, down to their twin black sweaters.

A different voice responds, and something about it makes the hair on the back of Sam’s neck stand up. “Psych class? Rachel didn’t—”

The closest Sam can get to describing this moment is like the seconds before a spirit manifests. His heart kicks up a little bit quicker. Alarms ring in his head, and the area around the Andersons’ front door turns electrified.

It’s you.

You get pulled into view by Olivia Anderson, a deer caught in headlights wearing your own matching black sweater.

Sam doesn’t want to blink, certain that your face will shift and it’ll be some sick trick of the light. A dream haunting him even while he’s awake.

“Rachel didn’t what?” Will asks, not suspicious, just curious.

Your mouth opens and closes, like you’re fumbling for something to say, and Sam doesn’t blame you.

For one, you’re going to lie for them. Both him and Dean are beginning to realize that Rachel didn’t take a psychology class at all, and you’re trying to figure out how to twist your sentence into an excuse that makes sense.

And two… you’re standing in front of your best friend who you haven’t spoken to in four years. Sam isn’t surprised that you have nothing to say to him.

“Rachel didn’t like anything about that class,” you decide on, your eyes shifting from Sam to Dean then back again.

You swallow hard. It looks like you’ve—

“—seen a ghost?” you ask, grinning.

The duffel bag in Sam’s hands hits the motel floor, but he’s too stunned to even wince at the sound.

“Looking a little scared there, Sammy,” you tease, pushing yourself off of the old bed in the center of the room. “A little old, too, honestly—”

He’s crossed the room before you can finish your sentence.

You squeak at the impact, your arms being crushed to your sides with the way he captures you in a hug. The two of you stumble two big steps back so you don’t tip over.

“You’re here,” Sam says, like he can’t quite believe it. You manage to work your arms away from your body so you can hug him too. “What are… How did you—”

“Dean finally remembered my phone number,” you joke, squeezing him with a big smile on your face. “I know you guys have to drive out early tomorrow — uh, I guess today, actually — but you know I had to come see you on your birthday, Sam. Even if it’s just for a few hours.”

It’s seven minutes past midnight on the second day of May.

Sam Winchester is eighteen.

“You’re here,” he repeats. He doesn’t bother trying to wipe the smile off his face. “I can’t believe it.”

When Dean had clapped him on the back and told him he’d booked him an extra room for his birthday, Sam was shocked. Birthdays weren’t anything special to either of them, so he’d been thankful, but also very confused. Buying another motel room wasn’t cheap, yet he’d done it anyway.

From the adjoining room next door, Sam’s sure his brother has a shit-eating grin on his face. He’s probably going to hold this over his head forever, claiming how much of a great brother he is, and Sam will let him.

He hasn’t seen you in four months. He thinks he might throw up.

“You drove here all by yourself?” Sam asks you, once the two of you have settled on the bed. He takes a seat cross-legged and both of you pretend like you’re not about halfway into his lap.

“Yep,” you say proudly. “Dean had to teach me how to parallel park over the phone so I would have my license in time.”

Sam’s heart swells ten sizes. “Thank you. I can’t believe you came out all this way.”

You hit him on the shoulder. “Of course. You’re my best friend, did you really think I was gonna miss your eighteenth birthday?”

He leans in close enough to the point that it’d be easy to kiss you. So, so, so easy.

He doesn’t, though, and you don’t push it. You reach for one of his hands in his lap and trace over the ridges of his knuckles, a little smile on your face.

His hair has finally recovered from the Nair that Dean had put in his shampoo a while back, so it hangs just over his eyebrows and curls around his ears again. You blow the brown locks out of his eyes and then smile a little wider.

“I have a gift for you.”

You slink out of his lap, and Sam tries not to frown when you get up to grab your backpack. “You didn’t have to get me anything.”

“Stop worrying,” you chastise, dropping your bag onto the bed to look through. “I’m your actual birthday gift. This one’s just extra, so it’s nothing fancy.”

“You being here is worth more than any fancy thing you could've bought me at a store,” he says, and you brush his hair from his face affectionately.

“I’m happy you think so, Sammy.”

Too wrapped up in the sight of your smile, he forgets to say something about the dumb nickname.

“I got this from the grocery store down the street before you got here.” It’s wrapped in the plastic bag you’d bought it in, but Sam takes it from your hands like it’s made of gold. “Consider this one… supplemental.”

You huddle close while he takes the gift out of the bag and reads it.

“Thirteen Ghosts,” he says, flipping the DVD case over in his hands.

“Figured we could watch a movie together.” You poke his side. “See how funny they make their monsters look.”

This isn’t the first time you and Sam have watched a movie together. There was that one time when you’d watched Notting Hill on your couch, but your parents kept giving him warning looks from in the kitchen and he’d made sure to keep the bowl of popcorn and half of the couch between you two.

And Sam will always hold some level of respect for your parents because they’re your parents, but he could not be more glad to be hundreds of miles away from them right now. Because the second that he comes back from popping the DVD into the player, you’re very kindly asking to spoon, and Sam is not well known for being able to say no to you.

You tuck yourself against his front, and he slips his arms around your middle. You trap his hands there by slotting yours together, tracing over the lines on his hands like a palm reader. Sam watches you while you watch the movie, pretending to follow along with the dialogue and your whispered commentary.

The lights of the TV flicker on the side of your face as you poke fun at the actors, and he’s hit with a wave of anticipatory sadness. Sam prays to whoever’s listening that he never falls asleep. Prays this night lasts forever, and that you don’t have to go home and he doesn’t have to leave in the morning. If the rest of his life is bad horror movies and sleeping next to you, he’d die happy.

You laugh at something that jumps on the screen, and Sam can’t help himself anymore.

When he says your name, he practically winces hearing the sound of his own voice. It’s shaky and nervous, and you shift to look at him with concern in your eyes. One of the actresses screams on screen, and you squeeze his hand that you still haven’t let go of.

“You okay? Did you wanna turn the TV off?”

“I love you.”

You turn to face him completely, and Sam Winchester, the luckiest eighteen-year-old in the world, is able to watch the smile light up your eyes.

You let go of him to hold his face, like he’s something to be treasured. “I love you too, S—”

“—am, and I’m Dean,” his brother says, offering his hand for you to shake.

Your grip looks solid when you reach across the threshold of the Anderson house to take his hand in yours, as if you’re meeting him for the first time.

The whole thing feels like a nightmare.

It’s unnatural to watch your tight lipped smile and awkward shuffling while you stare blankly at Dean. You let go of his hand like he hasn’t pulled you off your couch and taught you how to dance in the middle of your living room. Like he hasn’t let you finish the rest of his food at rundown diners just because you ate yours too fast.

You turn to Sam next, and his stomach does a backflip.

Four years was a long time.

Sam knows he’s not the same person who left you on your front porch. He’d held you for longer than usual that day, and left you with a promise to visit that he hadn’t meant.

He doesn’t think you’re the same girl who was left there either. You look different. A little older, a little more mature.

(At eighteen, you would’ve given him a nasty look for that. “Older? You can’t say that to a girl, Sam.”

“I said you looked older, not old!” he would’ve defended frantically. “There’s a difference!”

“Why the hell would I want to be told I look older, you jerk!”)

And he loves you, but it’s true. You look older, but it means you look as lovely as ever. Grown into yourself and radiant in ways you hadn’t been at eighteen. You look like you’re glowing.

Your hair is also done in a way you never liked to do by yourself. He knows it for a fact, because you’d always complain to him over the phone about it, wondering how he was able to do it for you so nicely.

(He’d always said it was because he was patient and you were clearly not, but it was mostly because he’d practiced it on your old dolls a bunch of times before he’d asked to do it on you.)

Your hair now looks nicer than anything Sam could’ve done for you. He wonders if you did it yourself—if you had to learn because he wasn’t around anymore, and was never coming back.

Sam wants to tell you that he’s missed you, and that there hasn’t been a day he hasn’t thought of you.

He wonders what you would say. He wonders if you'd sound the same, and he’d be able to tell, ‘cause of how often he plays your old voicemails over when he misses you. He remembers just how you would sound when you were laughing and remembers precisely how much slower you would speak when you were upset.

You don’t extend your hand for him to shake, and Sam’s left to wonder if your hands would still feel the same in his.

And when he meets your eyes, he reads the hurt written all over your features. Hurt that he put there. Hurt that’s probably healed over in the last four years, leaving a nice long scar he’s sliced open again just now.

You nod at him. “It’s nice to meet you, Sam.”

He digs his fingers into his palms. “It’s nice to meet you too.”

notes: the party ended four years ago and she JUST GOT HERE!!!! LMAO ive been infected with the sam winchester virus but who can blame me look at his face

[soulthrifted]

Beach house

pairing: luke castellan x AmphitriteFem!reader

Warning: blood, injury, kissing, guilt, Poseidon hate

A/N: this takes place after the final episode when he runs through that portal. Also Amphitrite is a see goddess I would do a quick google search before reading . enjoy :)

The bathwater had grown cold, and the passage of time had become a blur as my fingers wrinkled with prolonged immersion. Hanging my head over the lip of the silicone tub to keep my hair dry, I listened to the subtle creaks of the wooden structure from outside the bathroom. The sun sliced through the curtains, casting a warm glow onto the tiled floor of the beach house where I now spent most of my summers. Despite the chill and perpetually damp sand, I had come to appreciate the quiet solitude of this place. 

A sudden, loud thud resonates from the kitchen, jolting me from the serene embrace of the bath. I toss in the water, eyes narrowing as I fixate on the bathroom door. A distinct grunt and a string of swearing echo through the timeworn walls of the old house. Gripping the sides of the bath, I listen intently, tension coursing through me.

I decide to investigate, standing in the bath as water drips from the ends of my hair, tracing a wet trail down my back and skin before rejoining the bath. With cautious steps, I exit the bath onto the soft mat, water droplets still clinging to my skin. Grabbing a nearby towel, I briskly dry off, the urgency fueled by the mysterious sounds from the kitchen.

Swiftly, I slip into a pair of shorts and a singlet, the cold tiles sending shivers through my bare feet as I tread toward the door. My curiosity intensifies with each step. Reaching the door, I press my ear against the cool wood, straining to hear the sounds from the kitchen. Someone is turning on a tap, and the noise reverberates through the quiet spaces of the beach house.

With caution, I twist the doorknob slowly, the hinges barely making a sound. My hand rests on the door as I push it open gently, the wood creaking softly in protest. The muffled sounds from the kitchen grow clearer, and I step out into the corridor. 

I Tiptoe down the hallway, I move slowly, my ears attuned to the distant sounds emanating from the kitchen. The old wooden floor protests beneath my careful steps, but I press on. As I turn the corner leading to the main area of the beach house, the view of the kitchen unfolds before me.

There, at the sink, stands Luke. In the soft glow filtering through the curtains, I observe Luke at the sink. His silhouette is framed by the ambient light, creating a scene both surprising and puzzling. I linger for a moment, captivated by the unexpected presence of the familiar figure. His untamed curls hang over his face, and a hint of familiarity washes over me as I recognize the orange camp t-shirt rolled up above his abdomen, revealing a gash that slices through him.

A rush of concern replaces my initial surprise as I notice the injury. The silence in the beach house seems to amplify the distant sounds of the tap running in the background. With a mix of curiosity and worry, I find my voice and speak up, "Luke?". 

As I speak, my voice carries a hint of vulnerability, almost weak, yet Luke hears me. His head twists around to meet my gaze, and what I see in his eyes is a profound sadness, as if they were made of fragile glass. In the weighty silence that follows, he doesn't utter a word, but his gaze lingers on me.

I remain frozen in the doorway, my hand resting on the frame. The air seems to hang heavy with unspoken emotions, and a sense of unease settles over the beach house. The sound of the tap continues to fill the silence. My mind races with questions. I take a hesitant step into the room. I stay on the other side of the room, my back pressed against the wall behind me. 

As the weight of Luke's silence hangs in the air, I take a deep breath "I haven't seen you since last summer," I finally say, my voice cautious. His face remains inscrutable, a fortress guarding the secrets he refuses to share. 

"I don't want to talk about it," he finally murmurs, breaking the silence. His voice is a mixture of resignation and defiance. I watch him intently as he resumes tending to his wound, grabbing a washcloth and pulling his shirt back up to dab away the blood. Unable to remain a passive observer, I leave the wall and approach him. The floorboards creak beneath my steps. I circle around the kitchen bench, and he deliberately avoids meeting my gaze, as though pretending I'm not there. His focus remains on the task at hand, the rhythmic dabbing of the washcloth.

I stop beside him, feeling the proximity between our silent selves. He continues to avoid my gaze, his hands steady as he tends to the wound. With a gentle touch, I reach for his hand, the one cradling the washcloth. Our fingers naturally intertwine, and as he finally looks up, our gazes lock. In the depths of his eyes, I discern a tempest of emotions, a vulnerability carefully concealed beneath layers of stoicism. His face contorts, and it appears as if he's teetering on the edge of tears.

Softly, I guide his hand, still holding the washcloth, away from the wound. With my other hand, I delicately extract the washcloth from his grasp, careful to maintain the connection between our eyes. 

With a deliberate motion, I squeeze the cloth over the sink, allowing the red-tinged water to drip away. The metallic echo of the droplets blends with the rhythmic tap of the running faucet. I run my hand under the cool water, feeling its soothing touch against my skin.

Turning back to Luke, I press the freshly dampened washcloth onto his abdomen. He hisses in pain, a sharp intake of breath, “sorry” I quickly mutter . My hands rest on him, the cloth serving as a conduit for the water's healing properties. I draw on the essence of water, channelling its power through my touch. There's a light glow from my hands and the water that sits on them. The water works its magic, mending the gash on his abdomen as a soothing energy emanates from my fingertips.

"Where did you learn that?" he asks softly, his voice a gentle interruption in the stillness of the room. Our gazes meet, the glow from my hands casting a subtle radiance in the dimly lit kitchen.

"Just because I'm not at camp doesn’t mean I can’t learn new tricks," I responded with a soft laugh, looking up into his eyes. He studies me with a soft smile, a familiarity tinged with a newfound awe. Unbeknownst to him, he releases his grip on my other hand, and a loose strand of hair that had fallen across my face is gently brushed away by his touch.

"You know, if you told me what happened, it wouldn't matter," I assure him, the reassuring tone breaking the quiet intimacy. The soft glow from my hands fades as I pull away, placing the washcloth in the sink. Running my hand over the healed skin, I inspect the remnants of the once-open wound. The magic of water has completed its work, leaving only a faint trace of the injury.

Luke watches my movements, his eyes reflecting a mixture of emotions. "You don’t know that" he responds, caution in his voice. Then, unexpectedly, he adds, "I missed you." I look up at him, meeting his brown eyes. His curls almost touch his nose, and his hand gently moves to sit behind my neck, adding a subtle pressure.

"I missed you too," I responded with a soft smile, reciprocating the sentiment. Luke, in a tender gesture, pulls me into a hug. My arms find their place over his neck, and his head buries itself into the crook of my neck. As I rest against his shoulder, I catch a glimpse of his sword, Backbiter, sitting on the ground behind him. The weapon triggers memories of last summer when he had shown it to me in the Hermes cabin. Its long, angular blade, stained with red. 

The sight of Backbiter sends a shiver down my spine. I peel away from him, and he rests his forehead against mine, as if afraid I might disappear. Our foreheads touching, I can feel the warmth of his breath, a shared vulnerability exposed in this moment. The beach house, with its weathered walls and creaking floors, becomes a sanctuary for the echoes. 

"Luke, whose blood is that?" I whispered softly. His eyes were shut, and his head pressed harder into mine. He shook his head, as if trying to dispel troublesome thoughts. "Tell me… please," I begged. Seeing him like this stirred a torrent of questions in my mind. Why are you here? What happened? Who hurt you? Did you know I was here?

"If I told you… you would leave me again," he whispered, his words hanging in the air like a fragile confession. 

"I will not leave you again … I promise. What happened wasn’t your fault," I stated, my voice carrying a reassurance that echoed in the quiet room. Pressing my head against his with the same force, I closed my eyes, waiting for him to answer. Instead, his lips found mine.

He kissed me with an intensity that spoke of hunger, as if he had been starved, and this moment was a desperate attempt to savour life. and for a moment, I couldn't breathe. He was everything—all-consuming, intense, and magnetic.

Luke had been there, attempting to shield me from Poseidon's wrath, I could still feel the echoes of that fateful day when the sea breeze floated through the house. The day  when the sea rebelled against me. I had been dragged to the bottom of a lake at camp, the weight of the water pressing down on me, and Poseidon, the god himself, who was once unaware of my existence, had just caught on.

It had taken 18 years for the truth to surface. My mother, Amphitrite, had kept the secret of my existence hidden from Poseidon. He never knew that she had a child with a mortal—a betrayal in his eyes. He argued that, at least, she knew about his affairs with mortals and his demigod children. But he, the mighty sea god, had no idea about me. 

When my mother persuaded Poseidon to let me return to camp, the weight of guilt seemed to settle on Luke's shoulders. In his eyes, he blamed himself for not being able to save me, to help me, to protect me from the turmoil of gods and the consequences of their disputes. Now, as he holds me, his touch feels like an unspoken apology.

The calloused warmth of his hands threading through my hair, the reassuring pressure of his hand on my lower back—it's as if every touch carries the weight of an apology. In the way he presses into me. 

I break apart from him, and he looks at me, his thumb rubbing circles into my back. "I'm sorry," he says in a hushed tone. I place my hand on his cheek and trace his scar with my thumb. "You don't need to apologise; you did nothing wrong," I smile softly, searching his face as if trying to read his mind. "You will never do wrong in my eyes, Luke." 

A/N: if you would like me to write a second part I am happy too!

[soulthrifted]

About - The reader finds themself overwhelmed by their godly parent’s absence and Luke comforts them.

Pairing - Luke Castellan/Reader

Warnings - Hurt/Comfort

A/N - I’m not too happy with this one for I feel like it could be longer, but I hope you enjoy it!! I also didn’t proofread much so I apologize for any mistakes with in the writing.

-[ Made for you ]-

Sometimes being a kid of a godly being isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. It can be lonely and tiring. Never knowing what your parents truly want from you. Never knowing what you were truly made made for. That’s what I’m feeling right now as I take my anger, my sadness, out on a practice dummy at the training arena. I slice it over and over as tears stream down my face. Each time I slice at the dummy another sob leaves my throat. It’s late at night, the arenas lights are off and the only thing illuminating me is the soft glow of the moon. Why doesn’t he talk to me? Slice. Why doesn’t he care? Slice. What does he want from me. Slice. Why won’t he talk to me? Slice. Does he even care? I collapse to the ground, my body finally gives out and my arm goes slack. My sword clangs to the ground and I can no longer control my cries, I’m just tired. Tired of not knowing. Tired of begging for attention from my own father. I’m so tired.

I can hear footsteps approaching me, but I don’t stop crying. As much as I want to I can’t. I can’t stop. I don’t stop when I hear my name called out. I don’t stop when the soft footsteps turn heavy, they must be running. I don’t stop when I feel a hand on my shoulder. I don’t stop when I feel the person pull me flush against them. Instead I cry into their shirt. I cry as they hold me tightly. I cry as Luke Castellan’s familiar voice whispers sweet things to me. “It’s okay, (name). I’m here now. It’s okay.” I feel him rub comforting circles on my back. The attempt to calm me down only causes me to cry harder. I try to speak, but all that leaves my throat is another sob.

Luke and I sit like this for what feels like an eternity. He holds me closely until my sobbing stops and silent tears stream down my face. I pull away from the crook of his neck and look at him sadly. I know my face is red and puffy from crying, Luke doesn’t care. He reaches up and wipes the remaining tears from my face. His touch is gentle. He’s always so gentle. “It’s okay.” He whispers again “I’m here.” He flashes me a soft smile. There’s not an ounce of pity in his eyes. He doesn’t pity me, he understands me. He knows why I’m crying. He knows why I’m so hurt. He always knows. I don’t know how he always knows. Maybe it’s the years of friendship we have between us. Maybe it’s his excellent analyzation skills. Whatever it is, I’m greatful for.

In the tapestry of my life, Like stands as the unchanging thread that weaves through every moment. He’s always here giving me unwavering support through both my good moments and my bad. Luke’s consistency is not just a fleeting assurance; it’s a timeless commitment that assures me he will always be there for me.

I rest my forehead against his and place both my hands on either side of his face. I whisper a small ‘thank you’ to him. My voice is raspy and corse from crying, but he doesn’t care.

He squeezes my side in acknowledgment of what I said. “There’s no need to thank me, I’ll always be here for you.” I close my eyes and take in the comfort that Luke provides. “Do you want to talk about it?” He asks and I shake my head.

“No. Not at all.” I pull my head away from his and my hands fall onto his shoulders. He nods his head in understanding and his hand reaches up to wipe away the last tears that fell from my face.

“You’re perfect, (name). I want you to know that. Your father is an idiot for not answering you, for not seeing the woman you’ve become.” He pushes a price of my hair behind my ear and I feel as if my skin has been lit aflame. “He doesn’t deserve your tears. He doesn’t deserve you.” his hand falls from my face and captures my hand instead. He pulls it up to his lips and presses a soft kiss to my knuckle. “Let’s get you to bed, yeah?”

I shake my head again. “I don’t want to go back to my cabin.” I say as Luke helps me up from the ground.

“They you can stay with me.” He says as we begin walking towards the Hermès’ Cabin. When we walk inside I take in the familiar walls, the comforting smell and the warmth of the cabin. I spent my first two years at camp in this cabin with Luke. It took me a long time to prove myself to my father. It took a long time for him to claim me. When I was claimed and I moved into my new cabin, it didn’t feel like home. It still doesn’t. For me, home is not a place, but it is a person. Home is wherever Luke Castellan is.

I watch as he pulls back the covers of his bed and lays down in it, patting the spot next to him. This isn’t the first time we’ve shared a bed together for a night, and it likely won’t be the last. When we lived in the same cabin I used to snuggle up next to him when he had a nightmare or was just simply feeling alone. I lay in the bed beside him and his arms immediately wrap themselves around me. I snuggle close to him, enjoying the warmth his body provides.

I fall asleep finally knowing what I was made for. I was made for Luke Castellan as he was made for me.

[soulthrifted]

‧₊˚✧ Soulthrifted ✧˚₊‧

[ Information ]

Hi!! I’m Jade and use she/her as well as they/them pronouns. I’ll accept any type of criticism (negative or positive) for it helps me as a writer, so don’t hesitate to leave me a message about my writing!!

—

[ Master List ]

{ PJO }

i. Can’t Escape You - Luke Castellan

[ The reader fears having their heart broken again, but there is just something so tempting about this Hermes boy… ]

ii. Made For You - Luke Castellan

[ The reader is overwhelmed by their godly parent’s absence and is comforted by Luke. ]

—

[ Requests ]

My requests are open, but just because you request something DOESN’T mean it will be written. I take requests as suggestions, and if I find the request perks my interest to write I will write it for you. Feel free to look at the next section for suggestions of characters I will write for or request a character of your own.

—

[ Fandoms ]

Here are a few fandoms/characters I will write for!

SPN: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Gabriel, and Castiel

PJO (Disney+ series): Luke Castellan and Percy Jackson

Marvel: Matt Murdock/DareDevil, Frank Castle/The Punisher and Spider-man (Andrew and Tom)

Criminal minds: Arron Hotchner and Spencer Reid

Good Omens: Crowley

[soulthrifted]

you can hear it in the silence

pairing: anthony lockwood x fem reader

tags: reader is female and uses she/her, no use of y/n, fluff then angst then fluff again, canon typical violence/content, near death experiences, reader gets injured, BEST FRIENDS TO LOVERS MY BELOVED, title from you are in love by taylor swift sorry not sorry

word count: 7.5k woah howd that happen

notes: btw i have not read the books and have no idea how the series lore works. im just a tv show enjoyer who loves using Every Single Trope in the book <3

You decided to blame it all on the black cat you passed that morning.

There was really just no other explanation as to why you were having the worst possible luck imaginable.

It started when George insisted that the four of you celebrate the latest win for Lockwood and Co. Hung on the fridge was a chalkboard that was updated daily, labeled ‘Days Gone Without a Near Death Encounter’. The company had reached its latest milestone, which was reflected in the large number ten written on the board in Lucy’s neat handwriting.

“Oh, come on, Lockwood. Just smile for the picture,” Lucy demanded, not able to keep the smile off of her face. George peered over her shoulder at the sight of you wrestling him into position next to the fridge.

“And why am I the one being subjected to this?” He asked indignantly.

“Well, we had to have the sign’s number one offender in the picture, of course,” you explained simply, dodging his hand that aimed to yank at your ear.

He shot you a flat look, but you could see the way his eyes shone with mirth and the way a smile pulled at the corners of his mouth.

Without a doubt, this was your favorite thing about being a part of Lockwood and Co. Sure, you loved the adrenaline that came with containing visitors and looking for sources, but nothing would beat this. Laughing around the kitchen, stomachs full from George’s great cooking, Lucy inevitably poking fun at Anthony, and everyone’s spirits high after a successful job.

You particularly loved the way that Anthony was finally able to bring himself to relax. No matter how hard he tried to hide it, you could see how the burden of his responsibilities was affecting him. You had known him long before he became the sole resident of 35 Portland Row, before the business, and before George and Lucy managed to fight their way into his heart. You had remained each other's constant through it all.

Thus, all of his attempts to hide his internal struggles were not lost on you. You tried to make things easier for him at every turn, triple checking the kits before you left for a job, washing the dishes even though it was definitely his turn, and doing absolutely anything you could to make his life easier.

“You’re too soft on him,” George accused you one day, kicking your foot lightly with a sly smile on his face. “You nearly tackled me over the couch the last time I tried taking the last of the noon khamei that, must I remind you, I made.”

“You must be going mad, Karim, because that never happened,” you said with a laugh, looking up from your drawing of George and his scheming face that you were sketching onto the Thinking Cloth. Cartoon George’s eyebrows were furrowed together, a frown on his face while he was trying to figure out how to beat Anthony at chess. Real George grinned back at you, ready to fire back a retort before Anthony spoke up after moving one of his pieces.

With a mouth full of noon khamei, he said, “And that’s why she’s my favorite.”

“I’d better be your favorite, after putting up with you for this long,” you said in disbelief. “I would’ve made you choke on that pastry if you said it was George.”

Anthony used his ankle that was hooked around your chair leg to pull you an inch closer to the table.

“You were the only candidate for the spot.”

The two of you shared a smile while Anthony checkmated George’s king.

After another minute of arguing, you were able to corral him into taking the picture by the chalkboard. George and Anthony left the kitchen to set up the movie in the next room, a whirlwind of arguments over what you would be watching. You and Lucy trudged up the steps in the meantime, going to return her camera to her room. The two of you placed bets on who would break the company’s streak next, and Lucy was insistent that it wouldn’t be her.

Still laughing when you reached the top floor, you pushed open Lucy’s door and moved to land face first on her bed.

You adored Lucy’s room. After a few months at Lockwood and Co., her room was now completely transformed from the attic full of extra junk to an actual bedroom. Her bedside table was full of her small belongings that you loved to look through. A pair of small scissors that she used to trim her bangs whenever they got the slightest bit too long. A stack of her audio recordings she had yet to send to her friend Norrie. Her black nail polish. At the foot of her bed was her pair of Converse that she had kicked off earlier.

“Oh, look, the picture developed.” She held the picture out to you to see, pulling your attention away from the pictures pinned on her mirror.

You took the freshly developed photo out of her hand and couldn’t help but let a smile take over your face. Anthony was half grinning and the board was tilted from when you accidentally knocked him into it. You could see where your hand was curled around his bicep to keep him from ducking out of frame. You moved to hand it back to Lucy, but she shook her head, smiling like she knew something you didn’t.

“It’s for you.”

“Really?”

This confused you. Lucy never really gave away the photos she took, instead choosing to stick them on her walls. She was almost completely done covering one of the posts in her room, and you assumed she wanted to add it to her collection. Except she nodded, the odd grin still painted across her face. She moved for the staircase, leaving no room for argument.

“I guess you’re right, if Anthony got his hands on this, he’d probably toss it,” you agreed, moving down the stairs after her.

Lucy had to fight the urge to hit you. You and Lockwood were really some of the stupidest people she had ever met.

Slipping into your bedroom that was next to Anthony and George’s, you reached onto your shelf for your photo album. You had lots of pictures of the four of you, but not nearly as much as Lucy. All of yours fit into one photobook, and you flipped to the nearest empty page. You froze while sliding the picture into the sleeve. It was actually really cute.

Well. No one would know.

You darted down the steps after Lucy, the photo safe in your wallet and your album back in its spot on the shelf.

The small television sat in the center of the living room, the movie already playing. Everyone was sitting in their unassigned assigned seats, Lucy in her armchair on the left and George lounging on the single couch opposite her. Anthony, ever the annoyance, was sprawled out along the length of the entire couch, his long legs kicked up on the arm rest while his feet, clad in pink socks, hung off the edge. You grumbled to yourself and cursed everyone for starting the movie while you were gone. You laid down hard on top of Anthony, causing the air to leave his lungs. You repositioned yourselves for a while, before finally ending up with you laying down on your back and him draped on top of you on his stomach. His head rested under your chin, and your legs were tangled together. He shifted and you could smell cinnamon.

“You smell nice,” you mumbled into his hair.

“Quit sniffing me.”

“You remind me of a flower.”

“You’re terribly allergic to them.”

“I know.”

The film played for a few more minutes. The movie was actually pretty interesting, and you watched in amusement as the main character slipped down the stairs and toppled into the love interest.

“This movie sucks,” Anthony mumbled into your neck.

You smoothed a hand over the back of his messy hair.

“Why would you let George choose it?” you whispered back.

“I didn’t. I chose it.”

You rolled your eyes and did not respond, opting to watch the movie instead. Anthony had a terrible habit of talking whenever anything played on television. The only times you could pay attention to movies was when he was fast asleep. Your hand began to card through his brown hair, and it felt like his body melted into yours.

He groaned, reaching up with his arm to half-heartedly swat your hand away from his head.

“Stop that. I’m going to fall asleep.”

“The only other way to get you to fall asleep is by taking a bat to your head. I’m up for that too, if you’d prefer.”

“It’s so fun when you threaten me.”

George shushed you both from his side of the room, oddly defensive over a movie he was arguing against less than half an hour ago.

“If you guys could stop talking, that'd be great.”

You held up your hands in surrender. Anthony did too, you guessed, as he quickly reached to pull one of your hands from the air and back to his head. So much for not wanting to sleep. After a few more minutes of lightly dragging your hands through his hair and sweeping stray hairs out of his face, he was out like a light. You craned your neck slightly to see if he was actually asleep. Your heart constricted in your chest.

As his best friend, you would admit that Anthony looked nice. Most people would agree. When he wore his trademark button up shirt and tie and had a blinding smile plastered on his face he could charm his way into whatever he wanted. But nothing would beat the way he looked here at home, in a tee shirt and comfortable pajama pants, his hair haphazard from you running your fingers through it.

You fell asleep to the sound of church bells as the man on screen kissed the bride.

—

Your neck tickled. You moved your right arm, not surprised to find it stuck. Opening your eyes, a familiar scene was before you, the sight of you and Anthony tangled together on the small couch. Ridding yourself of him was always like solving a difficult puzzle. In his sleep, Anthony always found a way to cling, as if you’d run away in your sleep. It appeared that your position had not changed much while the two of you were off to Dreamland. He was hung half on top of you, his right leg sandwiched between both of yours, an arm curled over your waist and his hand stuck under your back. His face was burrowed into the area between your shoulder and your jaw, and when he exhaled, you could feel the warmth tickle your neck.

Your favorite blanket was falling off of Anthony’s leg and onto the carpet. It was your favorite blanket, a funny one that George had knit for your last birthday. Stitched above a slightly lopsided cartoon ghost was a stupid joke.

Why do ghosts ride lifts?

It raises their spirits.

Lucy must’ve thrown it over the both of you last night, but she didn’t take into account how Anthony was a living, breathing, fully functioning human heater. You were convinced that all of his thoughts bounced around his head like crazy and significantly increased his body temperature. He said it was from the high blood pressure he got from being around you so much. You decided to agree to disagree.

A clink could be heard from somewhere in the house, presumably the kitchen. Your stomach echoed its hunger at you. You snuck a chance at Anthony, who was still fast asleep.

During the night, Anthony had herded you between the cushion and the back of the couch, his body effectively creating a barrier between you and the door. You could practically feel your heart soften at this. Another new change that came from the start of the company was a rather… fierce protective side that came out of him. Even asleep, his mind was working at a million miles per hour. One of your free arms rubbed up and down his back, which seemed to make him stir awake.

“Anthony, let go.”

He ignored you and his grip seemed to get even tighter. “Good morning,” he rasped instead.

Your heart, still softened from thoughts of your best friend, lurched violently against your ribcage. Not even you were immune to the way he sounded first thing in the morning.

“I’m going to starve to death if you don’t let me go eat.”

“Oh no,” he mumbled, moving you in his arms so that your back was pressed firmly to his chest. “What wood would you like the coffin to be made of? Do you prefer an open or closed casket?”

He caught your wrist and held it against your chest when your arm moved to hit him in the face.

“Mmm… Mahogany. And open casket, but only if you get Lucy to agree to do my makeup. You can’t have me looking like a corpse at my funeral.”

“As if I’d ever allow that. But I’ve just remembered we’d have to use silver for the coffin, actually. We can’t have your ghost coming back to visit us.”

You smiled as you absentmindedly spun the ring around his finger. “You could do the eulogy, I guess. I wouldn’t want to overwhelm George, as I’d like him to do the catering.”

He hummed noncommittally into your shoulder, and you could tell he was nodding off again.

“And invite Kipps for me too, please.”

He stiffened. Scoffing, he tightened his grip on you the slightest bit again.

“If he even thought about showing up, I’d put his rapier right up-”

A new noise chimed in now, a crash from the kitchen.

You sat straight up, senses heightened.

“Hello?” You called out.

There was no response.

You pushed yourself up off the couch, climbing over Anthony’s legs.

You padded across the wooden floors, your socks quieting the sound of you moving across the room. Nearly tripping over a stack of books from the library that George left sitting around, you walked past the other couches and reached to grip the doorknob in your hand. Anthony beat you to it, though, and he slipped into the hallway before you.

Prick.

The hallway was empty. A quick glance up the steps showed that it was also void of life. You caught a glimpse of old newspaper clippings that mentioned the company and of course, ones mentioning Lockwood himself. You turned back around, and was met with the sight of Anthony brandishing his rapier, having silently pulled it from its stand next to the front door.

“Relax,” you whispered. “The scariest thing you’ll see this early in the morning is George without his trousers on.”

It was able to get a slight laugh from him, but the crease between his eyebrows told you he was still worried. Your hushed tone and nervous shuffling told him the same thing.

In the corner of your eye, the both of you caught movement through the frosted glass that led to the kitchen. A figure moving, one that was much too tall to be George or Lucy. Your breath caught in your throat.

Anthony turned to you, a serious look on his face now. Stay back, he seemed to say. He continued towards the door, his sword held defensively in front of him. You slid yours out of its holder as well and followed behind him.

His hand rested on the doorknob and he turned to face you again.

One.

Two.

Three.

He slammed the door open, its hinges creaking in protest. It seemed like the glass would rattle straight out of the door with the force of it colliding into the door stop. Anthony’s gaze swept around the room, surveying the danger. You held your rapier up in front of you, ready to jump into action. Instead, you watched as he pulled his sword out of view from whoever was in the kitchen, and rested it on the doorway.

“Well, good morning,” he said, cheerily, and you already knew he had his endearing smile on. “To what do we owe this pleasure, sir?” He stepped over the threshold and continued conversing with this person in the kitchen.

Taking it as a sign that no danger was nearby, you lifted his sword and returned both of yours to the rack before following him into the room.

Sitting in your usual chair was a young man, probably in his early twenties. He had messy blonde hair, which looked like he, too, had just rolled out of bed and come straight to 35 Portland Row’s kitchen. His face was sickly pale, and it looked like he was going to pass out right on the chair in the middle of the room. George was standing in front of the pantry, looking rather upset with a broken glass in hand.

All of that worrying because of a young man and a broken cup.

“Forgive my state of dress and rather abrupt entrance, Mr. Moore. You can never be too careful these days, can you?” Lockwood asked, smoothing his own hair back into place while continuing to beam at the strange man in your seat.

You made your way over to George, who ran a hand through his unruly curls in frustration.

“What’s up, Georgie?”

He sighed, tossing the remains of the cup in the trash before turning around and pressing his palms to the counter. “Yesterday, Lucy was badgering me so much about picking up last nights’ movies that I completely forgot to restock our food supply.”

“So?”

“Usually, I wouldn’t care, but,” his voice dropped to a whisper, “this man looks like he’s a second from keeling over, and we have nothing to offer him. You should’ve seen the way he looked when he came knocking about an hour ago. He looked even worse than he does now.”

You two dared a glance at the man in question, who was swaying slightly in his seat. Tears were forming in his eyes, and his hands were shaking. He tried to clench and unclench his fingers to hide it, but the tremors were clear as day.

“I could run to Arif’s, pick up some doughnuts,” you offered. If he was this unwell now, you could only imagine what kind of state he was in when George opened the front door.

George’s entire face seemed to light up. “That’d be great. I’m going to get the kits ready, it looks like we have a job on our hands.” He disappeared down into the basement, whistling down the steps. You could hear the sound of keys jingling as he swung the keyring around his finger.

You continued toward the front door, and squeezed one of Anthony's shoulders to let him know you were heading out. Still deep into his serious conversation with Mr. Moore, he nodded his head slightly towards the coat rack. Don’t forget.

You gave him a show of sliding your arms through the sleeves of your jacket and even throwing on the warmest scarf you could find before shutting the door behind you.

—

It passed you when you were crossing the street back to the house.

A small black cat, sprinting in front of you like one of its nine lives depended on it. You nearly dropped the dozen doughnuts in your hand, and you watched as it dived into a nearby bush. How cute.

(You would later retract this statement.)

You opened the door and were met with the sound of voices coming from your right, in the sitting room. Anthony and Mr. Moore were immersed in their discussion, a piece of paper full of notes in the former’s lap.

You placed the box in front of the older man and insisted he take one. Up close, his condition looked even worse. Dark circles, much more severe than Anthony’s, hung under his eyes. Wrinkles littered his face although the man could have been no older than twenty-five.

“Sir, I assure you that coming here to Lockwood and Co. was the best decision that you could have made. We will deal with this issue as soon as possible, and I hope that we are able to give you peace of mind.”

When Anthony spoke to clients, he tended to slip into a persona. He would play up his confidence and feign concern. But the sympathy that dripped from his words now was genuine, and you felt yourself worry for this Mr. Moore.

You settled down on the couch next to Lockwood. Anthony handed you your tea, which had a splash of milk and a small bit of honey, and he took his usual doughnut from you, which was filled with creme. The man gave a weary smile after finishing off a jam doughnut.

“Me and my love Elizabeth were just like you two,” he whispered, voice catching.

You sat a bit straighter on the couch.

Mr. Moore stood up, and Lockwood followed suit. “I assume that you can understand how I feel, son.”

“I understand completely,” agreed Anthony.

“Promise to take care of your love, Mr. Lockwood. Better than I took care of mine.”

The two of you responded at the same time.

“Oh, we aren’t-”

“I swear it.”

The two men shook hands before Lockwood directed him to the door.

You could do nothing but sit on the couch in shock. Anthony’s words echoed in your head.

I understand completely.

I swear it.

I understand completely.

I swear-

“It’s rather cold out. Were you fine on the walk to Arif’s?”

Anthony asked you this while pulling the scarf from around your neck and slinging it over the back of the couch. The words were sweet, and while his voice usually made you feel as happy as the tea he made you, you currently felt about as sick as Mr. Moore looked.

“Why did you say that?”

He looked taken aback for a moment before he pinched your side.

“Sorry, if it’s a crime to wonder if someone with Touch was about to get her fingers frozen off.”

“Not that,” you sighed, shrugging your jacket off. He took it from you and hung it up on another coat rack. “That thing you said to Mr. Moore. We aren’t… We aren’t lovers. Why didn’t you deny it?”

He stood as still as the rack he was in front of. He turned to face you with no sign of his Anthony Lockwood confidence on his face. It was a bit eerie. The two of you stared at each other for a few moments longer in silence. He pursed his lips before one of those fake smiles you hated to see took over.

“Just building rapport with the client.”

Your heart sank.

“Right.”

“The mutual understanding is good for-”

“I know, Lockwood.”

His fake grin seemed to flicker off his face at the use of his last name. He was always ‘Anthony’ to you. But Lockwood was who was standing in front of you now, having this conversation with you.

“I’m going to go get ready now,” you explained, shifting your weight awkwardly as you slipped past him out of the sitting room. You looked about ready to bolt away from him. “I assume we’re heading out in a few hours?”

He wanted to say something. Your fingers were already gripped tightly around the banister, your feet carrying you halfway up the first flight of steps.

What did you want him to tell you? That he was in love with you? That you were the first person he looked for when he walked into a room? That he did nothing but worry about you, wonder if you were okay, and desperately need you to be safe?

Instead, he nodded. “Yeah.”

You could do nothing but accept his response and wonder why it hurt so bad. You gave him one of your fake smiles, too, it only getting slightly genuine when you passed Lucy on her way down the steps. Lucy reached the bottom of the steps and her and Lockwood stared at each other for a few beats of silence.

“You’re even more dense than she is,” she complained, before making her way over to the box of sweets.

—

You were right to worry about Mr. Moore. Lockwood had explained it to you on the way over, his recap filling the silence of the cab instead of your usual joking. It was just the both of you. Lucy had planned months ago to go see Norrie today, and George had gone to do the much needed food shopping he had forgotten about in his haste yesterday.

Mr. Moore, or Leonard Moore, was now the only one living at 15 Ashburn Way. His wife, Elizabeth, had been murdered last week. The tragedy was a result of a rogue burglar that had struck her over the head before fleeing the scene. Leonard was away on a business trip and came back to find her body in their bedroom.

They had been childhood sweethearts and were married on Elizabeth’s twenty-first birthday. The lovely couple bought a nice house further away from the busy city, a home big enough to start a family in. She hadn’t been born with a Talent, but Leonard had. His gift of Sight was just now beginning to wear off, and every night after her death, her death-glow stayed beside Leonard, a harsh reminder of everything that happened.

Mr. Moore had no idea what the source could be, but her personal effects were all located in her bedside table on the second floor. He said that he saw Elizabeth early this morning. She was rageful and charged for him, Leonard narrowly being able to escape dying by Ghost Touch. The situation had utterly destroyed him.

“That’s tragic,” you mumbled. Poor Mr. Moore.

Lockwood went silent after your acknowledgment. He had been talking to you, but your lack of response the entire ride made it seem like he was talking to himself in an empty taxi. You had spent the better half of the cab ride staring out the window, watching the buildings get sparser and the greenery begin to take over as you neared the suburbs. You could see his face reflected in your window. He looked surprised at your response.

His call of your name was cut off by you turning to him abruptly. “We’re here.”

You slipped the cab driver his payment and as always, Lockwood beat you to opening your own door. You swore he could teleport.

The house was beautiful. It wasn’t too big or small, and you could see yourself wanting to live in a house like this in the future. It was in a nice, quiet neighborhood, too. The two of you smiled at a passing neighbor who wished you a good night.

Anthony seemed to read your mind. “It’s cute, isn’t it? I can see why they chose to live here.”

You couldn’t help but give him a real smile. “Yeah.”

The gate to the house was wide open, a testament to how fast Mr. Moore had left. The grass was neatly kept, although a little overgrown. A swing was hung from an oak tree in the front yard. Although they did not have any children, it was already on its way to becoming a picture perfect family home. You could picture little kids running around here and summer picnics in the grass. It all made you so unfathomably sad.

You were lagging behind. Lockwood had already climbed up the porch steps and was watching you look around the property. You knew he was just observing and not rushing you, but you couldn’t help but pick up your pace to join him.

“Alright, let’s go,” you said, adjusting your grip on your bag.

He blinked a bit sadly at you and a soft call of your name slipped past his lips.

Your stomach churned. You reached out to grasp him firmly by the wrist, the one without his watch on it. “Anthony, I know. We can talk about it later, alright? The sun is setting.”

He wanted to argue with you about it. It was written clear as day on his face. But he knew you had a job to do.

“Right.” With one final look at you, he slipped the house key into the door and pushed it open.

You shined your torch on the light switch, and flicked it on. The house burst into light, bringing life back into the home. Anthony looked at the thermostat.

“It’s broken.”

You shared a look before walking through the kitchen. At the table was leftovers for a meal for one.

A crunch could be heard under Anthony’s foot. A broken glass, the liquid once in it sitting around the debris. A knife was sitting uselessly on the ground a few feet away.

“Do you think he tried fighting back?” you asked quietly.

“Probably. Neither of them strike me as the kind to throw knives in their free time.”

No matter how upset you were with him earlier, there was no way that you would walk into a haunted house without listening to the plan first. The two of you walked straight up the wooden stairs as planned, each step creaking and protesting under your combined weight. Following Leonard’s directions to the bedroom, you were continuing down the hallway before Anthony caught your wrist.

“Do you hear that?”

You furrowed your brows. It was completely silent, save for the sound of your own breathing. You were about to respond when you heard it, too.

Crying. No, not crying. Wailing. Quiet gut wrenching sobs, that you could hear as loud as day, now.

But, you couldn’t really hear it. You could feel it. It was like the crying was coming from the walls, from the ground, and from all around you.

“You ready?”

He nodded and drew his rapier as you closed your eyes. You gingerly placed your hand on the wall, and sensed.

Using Touch felt like being suspended in open air.

It was like you were nowhere, but everywhere at the same time. After you came into contact with the wall, you began to see things. Flickers of the Moores’ life here. Them sharing a romantic dinner over the kitchen table. Them laughing in the living room. As you began to continue down the hallway, you could see more. The two of them fighting in the doorway, them kissing in front of the Christmas tree.

The source was definitely in the bedroom.

You opened your eyes.

Anthony was still behind you, and his sword shined under the fluorescents. You drew yours as well before nodding at their bedroom door. After a silent count of three, you pushed it open quietly.

The bedroom was in about the same state as the kitchen. One of the red curtains lay in a heap on the floor, clearly torn off. The sheets were unmade on the bed, and you could smell it before you saw it. Blood. Using the end of your weapon, you lifted the blanket off the bed. On the right side, a dark red puddle was soaked into the mattress. You covered up the stain, not wanting to look at it anymore.

The house was starting to get cold. A shiver went down your spine; she was near. You could feel Anthony’s warmth from behind you as you both dropped the kits so he could prepare the chains.

You moved towards the bedside table on the right, the net in hand. The top of it was completely empty, except for a single framed picture of Leonard and Elizabeth’s wedding day. She looked absolutely gorgeous in her white wedding dress, and her and her new husband were sharing a smile so full of love. Both of them deserved better.

Suddenly, the lights flickered before the room was plunged into total darkness. The new moon in the sky did nothing to help your case, and you and Anthony reached to turn on your torches.

“Looks like Lizzie doesn’t like us looking through her stuff,” he mused. “We have to go faster.”

“No, really?” you couldn’t help but fire back.

You gripped the handle of the top drawer and tugged it open. It was neat and ordered, totally unlike the rest of the house. You could feel the energy radiating out of the drawer, a pull strong enough that it felt like you were being drawn into it.

“Lockwood, the source, it’s… it’s definitely in here.”

“Good, keep looking.”

He was crouched down, lining the salt up in a circle around the both of you.

You began to reach for the trinkets inside the drawer, feeling the emotions and memories tied to each one. There was a wide range of them, some sad, but most were happy. You had touched her diary, a necklace, and a ticket to a carnival when you saw it. A box, tucked into the very back of the drawer. You reached for it, and brought it into the light of your torch. When you popped the top open, there sat a ring in the middle. A gorgeous diamond was embedded in the center of the box, and it seemed to shine even under the harsh light of your flashlight. It was beautiful. And then it was like the box was on fire.

You cursed, wildly, clutching your hand as you staggered back. It was like you were drunk. Unable to control your limbs, you flailed like a baby deer. You ended up on your back a few feet away from the drawer, your palm burning like somebody had pressed it to the inside of an oven.

Your vision was swimming in and out, and you were vaguely able to make out Anthony’s panicked face in front of you. He stepped out of the circle. Why did he step out of the circle? Your fading vision turned into black. Maybe you had passed out. But you could hear Anthony calling your name, and you could definitely feel the way your hand was aflame, the pain completely unbearable.

“Anthony… Anthony, I can’t see. It hurts. It hurts so bad.”

You could feel yourself wave your burning hand in front of your face, and fear gripped you by the throat. It was taking so much effort to breathe in and out. You couldn’t see anything. You reached out with your good hand and felt for him. Felt for anything. But your sense of Touch felt dialed up to one hundred. Touching the floor made you see nothing but Elizabeth slow dancing with Leonard here. Touching the wall behind you gave you a rush of euphoria, the memory of the couple painting their house together for the first time.

You could hear Anthony’s voice next to your ear. “I know, I know it hurts, but I need you to move. I’m sorry, I know.”

You could feel his quick breathing on your back as he attempted to control your limp body long enough to pull you to safety.

He dropped you somewhere on the floor, a bit roughly. You knew the circle was not intact, The chain and salt who knows where, now.

You could vaguely register yourself mumbling. Whether it was coherent or whether it was nonsense, you didn’t know. The overstimulation of the room didn’t let you think, your brain overloaded with nothing but memories and voices and feelings.

You felt hands on your face. You started to sweat. Fight-or-flight mode kicked in, and you decided to fight. You swung your fists at nothing, crying out in fear the entire time. Your hands were caught with ease, but then you heard his voice.

“It’s me, it’s Anthony, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, but you need to tell me where the source is, please.”

Calm flooded through you at the sound of his familiar voice. The recognizable way his words echoed in your ears gave you something to hold onto. You felt yourself grounded immediately.

“The… the box, there’s a… there’s a ring inside,” you managed to get out. But you could feel the way his hands slipped from his face and knew.

Elizabeth was here.

Your heart rate began to pick up. Anthony wouldn’t be able to fight her off and secure the source at the same time. You felt panic surge through you, the thought of your best friend fighting a Type Two alone, the thought of your best friend Ghost Locked. The thought of your best friend dead. The sounds of the shrieking ghost faded to the background, and you began to feel around the floor.

To save your best friend, you would have to push all of it away. You had to put your trust in Anthony to do his job, and get yourself to do yours. You fought Elizabeth’s memories that were rising to the surface, suppressing them completely. You blocked off every single thought and focused only on the mission before you.

Secure the source.

You shut your eyes and felt. You felt for the strength that coursed through you when you briefly touched the ring, and trusted your body to move. Your hand knocked against something hard, and you felt the unbearable warmth surround you again. Gritting your teeth, you picked it up one last time. White hot pain seared through you again, and you wanted nothing more than to drop the box. The ground shook with vibrations and his footsteps.

Anthony. You had to do this for Anthony.

If you had dropped the net near the bed it couldn’t be far now. You blindly reached out towards the vague area you thought it to be in, your arm going numb due to the sheer pain you were in. Your knee snagged on something, and you felt relief course through you. The net. You dropped the box on top of it and wrapped it clumsily, your arms shaking, and your right hand unable to move.

Then it was silent.

“Anthony?” you nearly sobbed.

Dread coursed through you.

No.

No, no, no, no.

You couldn’t hear yourself.

You cleared your throat and tried again.

“Anthony?” you yelled, screaming this time, uncaring of the poor, sweet neighbors nearby. Yet still you heard nothing. You put your hand to your heart and could feel it hammering wildly against your chest. You were alive. You were breathing, although unsteadily.

But was he?

Your unsteady breathing became hyperventilation.

You felt around blindly, moving further away from the bed and deeper into the room. Another wave of nausea hit you. It was stronger this time.

“Anthony, please.” You were begging now, begging for something. Anything. You could feel your mouth make the sounds but nothing was coming out. Your hands raked through your hair, tugging at the roots. You couldn’t hear and you couldn’t see, but you could feel. And you felt awful. Your body gave out a few feet from the door.

You felt warm, all of a sudden. Not warm like the heat of the source. But warm like falling asleep at the kitchen table and waking up with a blanket around you. Warm like wearing someone else’s jacket after you refused to bring one. Warm like Anthony. You wondered if this was what dying felt like. You stopped fighting.

Hands. Hands were on your back, you could feel them wrapping around your shoulders and pulling you up. Hands wrapping around your front, hands gripping your face. Your head lolled forward into something hard.

Cinnamon.

You smelled cinnamon.

You hiccuped.

“Anthony?” You tried again, knowing you would not hear it.

A hand sliding to the back of your head. Pulling you towards something warm and firm. A body. His body.

Cinnamon.

You were safe.

And you felt yourself slip out of consciousness.

—

You woke up seeing and hearing more than you would have liked.

Bright lights shone through your eyelids, and the steady beeping of monitors was quiet next to you. Your fingers twitched and the sound of a chair scraping the floor nearly exploded your ear drums. Reluctantly prying your eyes open, you were met with Lucy’s pretty face. Her hair was unbrushed and her bangs were pushed out of her face. Her jaw was hung open, her eyes wide as if she had just seen a ghost.

Ha.

“Luce-”

She surged forward to capture you in the tightest hug you’ve ever been a part of.

“You had us worried sick,” she sobbed into your hair. “Never do that again, do you understand?”

“I’ll try not to,” you whispered, not used to the sound of your voice again.

You pulled back far enough so you could give her a wet kiss on her cheek before she wrapped you in her arms again.

“I’m so glad you’re okay. I can’t believe you almost left me alone.”

“You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

You smiled into each other's necks.

“I have to go tell Lockwood,” she murmured, reluctantly pulling back from the hug. “He’s been going insane.”

You nearly jolted up at the news.

“Is he alright?”

She nodded, pressing the button to call for a nurse.

“Physically, he’s all good. He had to get stitches on his arm and has a couple of bruises, but he was out of the hospital a week ago. Didn’t even have to stay the night.”

“A week ago?”

You sat back against your pillows, letting it sink in. You had lost consciousness for a week. Missed out on an entire week of your life.

Lucy nodded, before reaching for your left hand. A quick glance to your right one showed a thick layer of bandages over your palm, where you had held the box.

“We’ve had to wrestle Lockwood out of your room a few times. He’s barely been eating and sleeping, but seeing you awake will hopefully soothe his state of mind.”

Your heart skipped a beat in your chest. Poor Anthony, he had to deal with you in hysterics and the aftermath of the job. The door opening caused you and Lucy to look up, but seeing a doctor in the doorway instead of your best friend made you slouch.

“Don’t look so happy to see her,” teased Lucy, before she slipped from the room.

Dr. Anderson was very sweet. She checked you over and found everything to be perfectly fine, and even let George into the room when she saw him sitting outside. He brought you a plate of his best shirini morabai and updated you on everything that went on in the week you were gone.

Lockwood had taken to sitting by your bedside during every minute of visiting hour. It was quiet at Portland Row without you. Lockwood was apparently unbearable to be around, sleep deprivation and stress turning him sour. He would snap at people when they would do something as small as breathe too loudly or he would go silent altogether. Today was one of the rare days where the two of them could convince him to go home and function normally for a few hours before returning to the sterility of the hospital. Lucy went back to Portland Row to pick him up and would be back any minute now.

You were letting George take the last pastry when the door nearly slammed off its hinges. George stood up abruptly, getting ready to aim his plate at any violent attacker who stepped in.

It was only Lockwood.

You took him in for a second. His hair was disheveled and his tie hung loosely off his neck. His jacket was missing completely, and you couldn’t help but wonder if he was cold. The dark circles that you had worked so hard to get rid of were back. Your feet were moving before your mind could tell them to, and you were yanking wires out of your arm.

You could hear George say, “You really shouldn’t have done that,” but you didn’t care.

Anthony was here. He was alive. And he was right in front of you.

You stood on unstable feet, and your first steps had your knees buckling. But it didn’t matter, because he had already crossed the room and swept you into his arms. He was warm.

“You’re… You’re okay,” he mumbled shakily into your skin. The two words took an insane amount of effort for him to choke out. The next four words came easier.

“You’re my best friend.”

You pressed a kiss to his chest, rattled by the sheer amount of love you had for him. “You’re mine too.”

Anthony’s next three words came even easier.

“I love you.”

It felt like someone had taken a vacuum and sucked all of the air out of the room.

“You what?” You pulled away from him, the shock painted all over your face. Your hands interlocked around his neck to steady yourself. You wondered if you were going to pass out again.

“I love you,” he repeated, his voice steady. His hands slid down your back and went up to cup your face again and again, as if he needed proof you were real.

“I nearly lost you a week ago and never got the chance to say it. So, I’m telling you now.” He let out a deep breath before knocking his forehead against yours. “I love you. And I couldn’t sit here for another moment without you knowing.”

You laughed. Anthony’s heart did a triathlon in his chest.

“I love you too. I think I have for a while now. It was true five years ago and it’ll be true for the rest of my life,” you said, beaming directly at him.

He gave you a real, golden, and shining, Anthony Lockwood smile before leaning down and kissing you.

He smelled like cinnamon.

And everything was okay.

[soulthrifted]

luke leaving the solstice celebration with zeus’s master bolt up his ass

[soulthrifted]

Can’t Escape You ↴

About - The reader has been through many relationships and in return has had their heart broken many times in various ways. They fear having their heart broken again, but there is just something so tempting about this Hermes boy. The way he makes them feel. The way he treats them, it’s surreal and like nothing they’ve ever felt. Maybe this time will be different.

Pairing - Luke Castellan/Gn Reader

Warnings - kissing (fluff)

A/N - This is my first time ever posting one of my writings on a social platform so any critic is welcome!! Also, please let me know if there is anything else you’d like to see me write :D

In a world where heartbreaks were familiar scars, I had found solice in the comforting rhythm of solitude. Yet, there, on the horizon of my guarded heart stood a figure. Luke Castellan. There was just something about him. Something about the way he looked at me. Like I wasn’t something just for him to devour, but something he was willing to savor. Something about the way he made me feel. Like I wasn’t just something he could have when he wanted and toss me to the side when he didn’t need me, but something he would cherish and adore for every second he had me.

He makes me feel different. He makes me feel special. I suppose that’s why I’m here now. On the shoreline of the lake late at night. It’s past curfew and I’m not meant to be out, I know that, but I just couldn’t stand the crowed cabin any longer. I needed to get out. I needed to think.

My thoughts are cut short when I hear a twig snap behind me ‘shit’ I think to myself. I’m caught. That’s when I hear a familiar voice call my name out. The voice of the boy that’s been haunting my every thought. It was only Luke.

“Is that you?” He asks as he approaches me.

I nod my head. Though, I’m not sure if he can see me. It’s rather dark, so I say “Yeah, it’s me.”

He sits down beside me in the sand and I can feel my heart rate begin to pick up at the proximity. His leg is touching mine. Now that I think about it, he’s always finding ways to touch me. Wether is during sparing and he is “fixing my stance” or taking my hand to drag me somewhere.

“What’re you doing out here so late?” He asks me, and I wonder the same thing about him.

“Just needed somewhere quiet to sit and think” I can feel Luke’s curious gaze on me as I stare out at the glistening water. “Why’re you out here so late?”

“Same as you.” I can still feel his curious gaze on me as he speaks. It’s almost as if he’s challenging me to look at him. “What’s on your mind.”

“It’s—“ I sigh and lean on his shoulder “I don’t know, it’s complicated.” I continue to watch the water as it ripples under the moonlight.

He places his arm around my waist and I can feel my skin ignite under his touch. “Would you like to talk about it?”

“I’m just overwhelmed is all.” I finally look at him with a reassuring smile. “Nothing you have need to worry about.”

Luke nods his head accepting that I’m not willing to talk about it just yet and I thank the gods he doesn’t push any farther. He turns to look out at the water and I do the same. “I see why you like it out here. It’s quiet.” He turns to face me again “Do you come out here often?”

I nod my head. “Yeah, I usually sit out here to get away from everything, from everyone.” I let out a content sigh before laying my head on his shoulder. “I used to think it was nice to be alone here, but I think I like it better with you with me.”

Luke chuckles and I can feel the blush build up on my face. I’m not usually so confident, but the mix of drowsiness and the comfort of the situation drags it out of me. “Really?” He asks me, almost whispering. “Am I better company than your thoughts?”

I nod my head. “You are my thoughts. Almost all of them. No matter where I go I cannot escape you, Luke Castellan.”

Luke pauses for a second and I lift my head from his shoulder. Had I made him uncomfortable? My racing thoughts are silenced when I hear him talk “Can I ask you something?” I nod my head, too nervous to say anything “May I hold your hand?” His question catches me off guard, but I nod my head almost instantly.

He takes my hand in his and it feels as though electricity is running through my body. He’s so gentle, so careful. My hand isn’t much smaller in comparison to his. His fingertips just barely extend past my own. He interlocks his fingers in mind and looks up from our intertwined hands and into my eyes. “The truth is, I came out here to do the same. To try and rid my mind of you. You’re all I can think of of. How beautiful you are, how perfect your eyes look under the sun, how your hair frames your face perfectly, how kind you are to everyone around you. You’re all I can think of and I know—“ He pauses “I know you haven’t had the best experiences with relationships, but I really do hope you’d be willing to give me a chance. I want to prove to you that there is more than just heart break. I want to show you how beautiful love can be. How beautiful our love can be.”

His words surprise me. Of course, I’ve had my suspicions that he liked me, but hearing him admit it out loud is something entirely different. He’s different. Everything about him is different. He says my name and it snaps me out of my daze. “Please.” He says softly, almost begging. All I can bring myself to do is nod my head

“I—Yes, Luke. I’m willing you give you a chance—is a chance. Gods it’s all I can think about.” He smiles and it feels as though the Earth has shifted. That smile, that beautiful smile. I can’t help but smile back at him.

his hand that isn’t holding mine makes its way onto my cheek and I watch as he glances at my lips before returning his gaze to my eyes. The look he’s giving me is, well it’s captivating. I nod my head and without hesitation he presses his lips to mine. The world seemed to fade away as we kissed, marking the beautiful beginning of a journey from friends to lovers.

[soulthrifted]

"he's a villain" but have you seen how hot he is???

[soulthrifted]

a place with you; luke castellan

wc: 2.8k (got a little carried away whoops)

pairing: luke castellan x f! reader

synopsis: luke is used to people coming in and out of hermes’ cabin without a second thought. so when you’re having a hard time adjusting to camp life, he doesn’t expect you to stick by his side, even after you’re claimed.

warnings/notes: shy reader going through a tough time, hurt/comfort, pining, kisses, fluff, potential ooc luke i don’t know what i’m doing, most of this is prob inaccurate lol, i got wayyy too attatched to this i am sorry, title inspired by dragon eyes by adrianne lenker

Luke Castellan is the son of a messenger. He’s used to delivering, passing things along, letting them enter his life and leave him. Sometimes it makes him angry. At his father, at the world, at himself.

So when you passed through the Hermes cabin for the inevitable few weeks before getting claimed by your Godly parent, the last thing Luke expected was for you to stay.

When you first got to camp you were terrified. Luke remembers that much. He can still picture you in Chiron’s towering shadow as he led you up to Hermes cabin. He gave you the usual spiel about the cabin, the land of the unclaimed, but it clearly hadn’t quelled your nerves. You were wringing your fingers together when Luke first spotted you, your eyes blown wide in what he knew as shock and a sort of . . . grief. For a life you’d left for what Luke knows as a life you’d never really have. He’d seen it in so many campers before you. He’d see it many times after.

“This is Luke, Hermes’ head counsellor and one of Camp Half-Blood’s finest,” Chiron pointed him out to you at the entrance. After Chiron introduced you, Luke held your name in his memory. Not because there was anything particularly intriguing about you at first, to be honest, because he’d seen a lot of people like you that needed help settling in (although maybe not many his age). It was harder for some people to adjust than most. He knew that better than anyone.

“Nice to meet you,” he stuck out his hand for you to shake after Chiron left. “I’m Luke.”

You sniffed, shaking it without looking at him. You were so, so embarrassed. This whole time you’d been too stupidly overwhelmed to process anything. Why was this so hard for you? Was it this hard for everyone? “Hi,” you managed, and that was it.

Now, weeks after your first meeting, you’ve concluded that it was not, in fact, this hard for everyone. The camp is crowded but full of life. You’ve never seen more happy kids in your life. There’s a sense of community on the wind.

So why can’t you feel it? Why is it so hard to connect with people? To participate in the fun? Everywhere you look there’s people but it’s all just so . . . lonely. You don’t fit. You’re lost.

Luke wakes up at night when the cabin door creaks open. He’s already tossing, so it’s no surprise he catches it. Unfortunately, he’s supposed to be a good counsellor—sneaking out at night is against the rules, and you’ve gotta reign the strays back in before they cause a ruckus. Sure, Luke’s not exactly a stickler for the law, but the least he owes is to make sure everyone’s safe.

Groaning, he draws himself out of the comfort of his bunk but doesn’t get far when he spots a familiar silhouette slipping out the door. He knows it’s you. He’s been hearing crying at night, and this is confirming his suspicions. It makes him ache in a million different places. Every time he thought about approaching you he shut himself down almost instantly, because who the hell wants some random guy coming up to them in the middle of the night and drawing attention?

This time, though, he’s a little worried.

It’s chilly tonight but not too bad, especially when you’re huddled up in a ball on a hill in front of the lake, grass tickling your ankles. Your tears keep you warm.

It’s a sorrow that feels bottomless. You don’t know what’s gotten into you. You don’t know why everything’s so hard.

There’s a scuffling of shoes, and your name is carried to you on the heels of a breeze. Oh God. There’s someone else here.

You sniff and smear your tears on the palms of your hands the best you can but a little part of you only wants to cry more now that you’re all anxious, and you only have a few seconds to collect yourself before you turn around and see Luke, your cabin leader, with furrowed brows. “Oh, h-hi, Luke.” It’s hard to ignore the splinter in your voice. You curse yourself a thousand times.

“Hey,” he says hesitantly, eyeing you in a way that makes you feel entirely exposed. “You, uh, you know you’re not technically supposed to be out here, right?”

You start to scramble to your feet with an apology on your tongue but surprisingly he laughs, a gentle sound, and beckons you to sit back down. “No, no, I’m not gonna get you in trouble or anything, just . . . letting you know.”

It’s uncertain if you should keep sitting, but you decide to because well, you’re already down here, and things can’t go lower than this. Luke comes to sit next to you and you stare out into the sea like your life depends on it. “Wanna talk about why you’re out here?”

“Wh-what do you mean?”

“I mean,” Luke sighs, scooting a little closer to you. “Most people don’t up and leave in the middle of the night because they’re having a great time.”

The answer is too hard to say so you don’t reply.

Again, Luke sighs, and you try not to look at the shadow the moon casts on his admittedly handsome face. “It’s hard settling in, I know. It happens to a lot of people. I’ve . . . I’ve seen a lot of them, and it doesn’t get any easier.”

“Well it sure seems easier,” you snap, and your self-control flies away before you can stop it. “I have no idea why I can’t just suck it up and fit in here. Everyone seems so happy and it’s driving me nuts because I’m just so confused on why I can’t—why I can’t—process any of it.” Tears burn your eyes. “I’m just miserable. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

In the corner of your view, Luke’s face falls. “I’m your guide, you know that, right? I can help you.”

You sniff, embarrassingly pathetic. “I know.”

He comes even closer. “So why didn’t you ask?”

“Because I—I don’t know, you’re busy all the time with all the people in there, so I’m sure your job’s already stressful as is, so—”

“My job is to help you,” he says, a hand on your shoulder. “That’s what I signed up for. If you need something, I’m the one to ask.”

“I’m not sure you signed up for me crying like a baby,” you swallow, the ripples of the lake blurring together. “I mean, I’m like, older than half the kids here, and they’re all so much better than me. I’m not good at a—anything, and I’ve tried it all, and nobody’s claimed me yet, and I feel so weird and old and alone and . . .” It’s too much to think about so you dig the heels of your palms into your eyes, hoping the sting wards off the thoughts. “What if I’m nothing? Why am I here?”

You’re crying again, hiccuping into your hands. Shame sears into you. Luke’s arm curls around your shoulders and you realize how cold you are when he’s warm, so warm, and you want to cry even harder. You don’t even know him, but it’s the most tenderness you’ve received in what feels like years. “Hey, deep breaths,” he murmurs, rubbing your arm with his other hand. “It’s okay. Look at me.”

It takes a ridiculous amount of strength to heed him. His hand catches your cheek and you can’t bear to pull away. Something strange rustles in your stomach.

Luke’s taught instinct when faced with situations like these is to reassure that the Gods always have a plan. But he doesn’t feel like much of a liar tonight. Both his hands steady your face towards his, your skin damp and cold beneath his thumb. “It's not your fault. It always takes a little bit of time for people to get claimed, it’s never . . . well, you can never tell.”

“What if I don’t get claimed?” You say it so quiet you can pretend it was imaginary.

His eyes crinkle at the sides when he says, “Well, Hermes’ll always have a place for you.”

I’ll, Luke wants to say, I’ll. His father is not responsible for his cabin’s kindness.

“No one really prepares you for how overwhelming this is,” he continues, thumb rubbing the apple of your cheek. Your vision is clearer now, and Gods, he is handsome, isn’t he? Even when his eyes are forlorn. “It’s harder in a way when you’re older. More to leave behind. Less to look forward to. It’s easier when you have a friend. Or a great cabin head.” He tilts his head with a faint smile, “Lucky for you, I’m both.”

It almost makes you laugh, and that’s enough. “It’ll get easier,” he promises softly. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”

Your cheeks burn. It’s hard to keep his gaze, so you blot at your eyes with your hands as Luke gently slides his off your face. “Thank you. Sorry for, um, all that. And the crying.”

He chuckles, “Don’t even worry about it.” You watch him rise in the throes of starlight. He offers you a hand. “Aren’t you cold?” He asks after pulling you up, and you sheepishly nod your head. He tosses you a sweater he’s been wearing, and it smells like firewood. Nostalgic, in a way. “I’m gonna poke around for some tea. Wait for me back at the cabin.”

Before he leaves, he squeezes your arm and that thing happens again in your stomach. “No need to be embarrassed, by the way. You can come to me anytime. I’m probably less busy than I look.” As he walked away, he added, “And don’t worry about the crying. You’re pretty either way.”

Either way. The tea doesn’t seem important anymore because your face is on fire.

Time reveals that Luke is right. He is a great cabin leader and a friend, and it’s hard to tell which he’s better at. You fall in with him right away. Soon enough, you’re drawn into your new life, so slowly you barely realize it’s happening. The days get shorter and you start wishing they were longer. The nights get easier. And when they’re not, Luke tucks you into his bunk and folds you in his arms until you drift off. You pick up a bow. A sword. Luke tells you to straighten your shoulders with a hand on the small of your back, and you swear it always lingers. You braid garlands of carnations for your cabin mates and they wear them with pride. It’s warm, your cheeks hurt from smiling, and things start to feel like home.

Until you’re claimed.

Now you’re a ghost in Hermes cabin, another empty bunk to be filled, and Luke stares at it until he can remember every last detail of what it looked like when it was yours. A beautiful, gentle daughter of Demeter, no longer in arms’ reach. He should’ve seen it coming.

He sees you with your siblings all the time. You’re so happy and he envies it. You belong there, he knows that, the way your face lights up at the dinner table and how you giggle when your half-sister presents you a flower. But sometimes your eyes wander, and something inside them dulls, until you look at him, too.

Luke’s place at camp is to be nothing but a funnel for lost campers to find their home. He’s a temporary stop in everybody’s journey. He’d made peace with it a long time ago. But here you are, messing it all up, because you still don’t leave him.

You beg him to give you another sword-fighting lesson. You sit next to him at bonfires. You pick him for partner camp activities. It doesn’t matter how many younger boys want to latch onto him for guidance—he sees you heading towards him, and he can’t imagine choosing anyone else.

But you’re always whisked away by your siblings, separated at meals and in sleep and in activities so it’s never, ever enough. Why did he delude himself into thinking you’d stay forever?

After weeks of distance from you, he’s elated when you have even a fraction of a conversation. “Hey, Luke!” You call out to him, and he finds you instantly. You’ve broken away from your siblings to get to him.

“Hey,” he smiles, and hopes he doesn’t look too pleased.

You lean a little towards his ear, and you smell like every wonderful thing in the world. “Can we hang out tonight? On the hill?” You’re a little bashful when you say it and it’s entirely endearing. Even now, you’re still so unsure. “I miss you.”

“I miss you too,” he says almost instantly, and it makes you look less nervous. “Yes. Absolutely. But don’t get caught breaking curfew now, you hooligan.”

Someone calls your name and you give a curt, playful nod. “Yes sir, camp counsellor sir!” He carries your laugh close to his heart until night falls.

You’re already there when he arrives, a vision in the moonlight before he even sees your face. “Hey, angel.”

When you turn around you look flustered. He won’t pretend like it doesn’t flatter him. “H—hi, uh, hello.”

There’s a moment where the world is still. The two of you, alone, for the first time in ages.

He sits down next to you, and it’s like the first time all over again. You get to talking, about your days, your anecdotes, your cabins. The strangeness of it all. “It’s so weird waking up in the morning and not having you yapping in my ear,” you remark, and he teasingly pushes your shoulder.

“Well, one of us has to be the talker, and it’s clearly not you,” he retorts.

You fiddle with blades of grass between your fingertips, weaving them together. “I’ll have you know I had a cabin-wide conversation about Capture The Flag yesterday, and I contributed greatly.”

“Oh, really?” He grins, knocking your elbow to steal your attention. “Look at you, coming out of your shell. I’m so proud.”

It’s hard to hold his gaze for more than a second. You’re afraid you’ll do something stupid if he keeps looking at you like that, but you almost want to. “Oh, shut up.”

He puts a hand on your shoulder. “No, I’m serious. I’m proud.” His eyes rake over your face. “You’re flourishing. You found your place.”

You can’t stop yourself from saying, “I kind of miss my old one.”

There’s a way he studies your expression that makes you feel utterly helpless. You wish you could dish it back to him, but you know you just look awestruck whenever you stare at him for so long. He’s quieter when he replies, “I miss it, too. A lot. Sometimes, I—” His face scrunches up like he just tasted something sour. “Nevermind.”

Frowning, you prod, “What? What is it?”

He sighs and turns to the horizon. This is the first time you’ve ever seen him struggle. “Sometimes, I wish you hadn’t been claimed. Sorry, that’s . . . that’s awful, I know.”

His surprise is evident when you say, “Sometimes I wish I wasn’t either.”

He turns back to you. “Really?”

“Really,” you nod, staring at the beads on his necklace. “You’re the only reason I’ve adjusted here at all.”

“Don’t sell yourself short.”

“It’s true. And I miss you.” A few months ago you would’ve kicked yourself for saying this. But Luke has a way of inspiring confidence in people.

“I miss you, too. So much.” He gently prys the grass you’ve been weaving out of your hands, now a small necklace. “But look at how talented you are. I’ll tell you, I’m lucky you’re still sticking around. For most people, Hermes is touch-and-go.”

Luke leans forward to tie the garland around your neck, and your pulse picks up. “This isn’t about Hermes, Luke,” you try to be firm but it comes out soft. “It’s about you.”

His hands stop fiddling and rest on your neck. When he speaks, you can feel his breath on you. And you have no idea that he’s been waiting to hear that his whole life. “What’s about me?”

It’s not fair, your inability to string sentences together only worsens right when a beautiful boy is this close to you. “Hermes isn’t—it’s not special because of your father, it’s special because of you.”

There is nothing else you can possibly think of saying with the way his fingers trace up your neck and hold your jaw. “Yeah, well,” he murmurs, “The only reason anything in my life is special is because of you.”

You don’t know if it’s a lie or not; you don’t care. His nose nudges yours. There’s a moment where you wonder if this is as close to Elysium you’ll ever get. Then he slips a hand to the back of your neck and pulls you to his mouth.

He kisses you in a near fury, then when he knows you’re not going anywhere, it’s the gentlest thing you know. It’s hard to believe this is even happening. Your hands weave through his curls but he holds you steady, and thank the Gods for that because you’re pretty sure you’re melting. You kiss again, and again, and again, until you genuinely think you’re going to pass out and you have to pull away.

“Aw, look at you,” he murmurs when you can’t meet his eyes, a playful lilt in his voice. “Still so nervous.”

“Would you shut up?” You press your face into the crook of his neck with a huge smile.

He kisses the top of your head. “Love to, angel.”

Luke Castellan is the son of a messenger. He’s supposed to believe he’s bringing the best of humanity to the Gods and glory above.

But screw the Gods. He’s keeping this one for himself.