HOORAH!!!!!!!!!! YIPEEEE!!!!

oh nothing yeah just thinking on casually like sitting on luke’s lap and like i dunno playing with his hair or something or like maybe i dunno kissing him all over his face with bright red lipstick you made sure to wear just for that…hmmm luke castellan yeah

𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 & 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐥𝐞 | endless oneshots (winter edition)

pairing—regulus black x reader genre—angstyyy summary—a moment shared in the living room word count—3.4k

masterlist. ☕. reqs are open!

the wall distracts you. the great family tree of the noble house of black. on their velvet sofa you find yourself quite small faced with the vastness of the room – in front, the magnificent tapestry of a lineage woven into time and into objects, like a permanent impact; in back, the frost covered windows, and further still, the late afternoon glow of the sun burning the whole of london. you imagine, briefly, yourself painted in. your small portrait and your name. you long for it in moments; you know no other wish. the shape of you has been made for this only.

how tedious. how meticulously exact the needlework must be to look appealing. how with your wand you can only return the inner lapel of regulus’ coat to its pristine condition and begin again. each time, the frustration threatens to spill through bitten lips. an uncaring loop thrusts through skin and hits bone. you give up, almost, with the silver thread coiled around your fingers like a hair. r. a. b. shouldn’t be too hard, should it? three letters only, sown by hand, a small, meaningless claim to a coat he already owns. as if he can’t recognize his things, how silly. by the seventh poke you wonder if this odyssey has any significance to it. why grapple to capture a tempest in a teapot? you could easily weave it into existence with magic.

it would still be a kind gesture, a thoughtful one. an affectionate one, even, if regulus cared to look – see the tired hands, the waxen expression, the lapel grasped so tightly. the look you’d give for a second because you couldn’t bear to be more honest than that. i did it for you, please wear it and think of me.

but no, it must be done by hand, else the magic won’t work. something about labor, the repetitive loop and pull that sows in more than letters. fixes more than thread. such a potent protection, only from what you can’t say. in a blood-warm waters of a dream, you puzzled over a crystalline cave in search of something precious, only you couldn’t recall what. in april of next year, regulus will die there, and you’ll never know. but he’ll wear the coat with his initials woven by your hand, and that will be enough.

you don’t look up when he enters, but you recognize the footsteps. regulus is never direct, at least, not with you. he’ll circle the tapestry and then circle the windows and circle the coffee table and then he’ll have nothing left to admire so he’ll admire you. sit beside, throw a glance at your pious work and draw, with his eyes, the shape of your profile. think, perhaps, of a branch of the family tree from his portrait to something that doesn’t yet exist, or the rose-bush pattern of the couch and how one branch connects his shoulder with yours.

“what are you doing?”

“making sure you don’t lose your things,” what a non-response, as if he’s known to misplace objects or articles of clothing. regulus can be careless, but never to warrant worry over useless matters such as this. he has many coats, and can purchase just as many if not more, and if petty, he can pilfer from sirius and row because the silence had grown too loud, “don’t make fun of me, it has to be hand-stitched or the enchantments will fade."

"i was never going to," he says, a faint twitch of amusement about the mouth. regulus always likes that you take his jokes seriously or his comments too light. that, from anyone else, you'd hardly even register. it makes him special, perhaps. as though only he is worth the recognition, or you desire him to have it, "...is this my birthday gift?"

"birthday, don't make me laugh," you mumble, biting the inside of your cheek, "would hardly be appropriate. it's a christmas gift."

"christmas." is the offhanded response. a statement, an assessment, but without judgement. only regulus can wield that so cooly. can live in between worlds that should not overlap. androgyne in tone and disposition, and the sound of it, your name, sweet as any chocolate. you glance up and smile wryly, "oh."

"oh indeed," you utter, and the final, hesitant thread is plunged to the fabric. his initials gleam as freshly cut silver. you offer him the needlework, "there." pride fits in your mouth like a candy well liked, sweetens the tone into something likely mocking, "not bad, is it, regulus? or perhaps you think hand-stitching is out of fashion and outdated, a lost art of our aristocratic roots."

regulus doesn't respond. his touch is a cautious one. fingers slide gently across the intricate curve of his initials and trail it upward to the collar and you pretend not to notice. regulus must always inspect things like an artist inspects his pieces. with a certain amount of scorn and longing.

"if it's for christmas," regulus says quietly, still running his fingers along the letters, "do i need to return a gift to you?"

you stop yourself short of giving the response that is right at the tip of your tongue. the verbiage is odd. instead, "return?"

"yes. to match, or rather, one that compliments. does such a custom matter much?"

"ah, well," it does, of course it does. such gifts are not for two sides. they're something sacred for one side only. he's not nimble with his fingers nor patient enough to wield a needle. he'd quit before the first draw of blood on cloth from his useless hands. he could magic it, but that would feel like a lie. what is this offer, or is it a suggestion? an implication? more daring than the look he gives you, certainly. no, he couldn't possibly imply something so domestic. regulus is not the type. so it can only be you reading too much. a stanza where there should be none, "you'd ruin my coat."

"naturally," regulus doesn't smile, not even to go along with his deadpanned tone, as though he could think of no better possibility, but you know better, or at least you tell yourself this. you do; how his head tips slightly towards you, the steady gaze, and the quirk of his brow, it's a rare breed of expression he dons only to you, when he can't bring himself to a more chaste form. you could spend hours sorting every fraction of difference, so keen they are to the point that you swear they must exist. you wouldn't be surprised if someone else says they see nothing,"... a handmade gift for a handmade gift. just for you."

"for me," is all you can muster in response, perhaps hoping you'd hear it clearer, and less vague and silly, in your mouth than his. he has given you presents. lovely, but impersonal. his brother shows more interest even if he has none for you. sirius hears but regulus listens and then willfully picks things everyone would like to receive. the ideal gifts, never with heart or consideration, yet you wear them proudly to hide your bitterness, because such attention is not unwanted, and neither is this. regulus is not incapable of more but his more is reduced to a subtle nothing, like a glance at the tapestry and a thought.

"...the needle's sharp." is the offhand observation, "you're bleeding."

regulus's concern is odd and undefined; you're not the most affectionate of friends. the fondness shared, the gentle jibes, are for you, really, because how else can you convince yourself you're happy. or to soothe the aching of that pesky hope, the wish and want of the moon reflected upon water. your gaze is steady. your hand is steady, "see how much i care?" and you hold up your middle finger with a smile, "i bleed for you."

he does look at it. his lips quirk into a ghost of a smile. "do you." he says, and returns to you, the trace of a frown on his face as though he's grown distressed with such a gesture, and like an adult will scold their pet for bad behavior, says, "really, that's quite silly. no, worse. don't do such unnecessary things to your pretty hands."

pretty, he says, and how easy would it be to mock him or put him in his place with a joke and a teasing word or two. is he making fun of you again? it's only an insult when delivered to the point. and it would feel worse when he isn't, when he's just offering a compliment in a strange sort of way.

"doesn't hurt that much." you say with a confidence unshaken, and the wounds are so meager they're not even worth healing. they'll dry and close before he can lift his wand for episkey or conjure a bandage. but they'll remain, for a day or two, as proof of your diligence. the methodical elegance that comes from creating a handmade gift. you'll look at your hands and know they have worked to protect him.

it hurts a bit more when he reaches for them. if you really did want to press, he'd insist or, with a haughty glare, defy you and prove the strength of his own silly pride, but he only asks, and then, does so with such tenderness you would think he held glass and not your injured hands, the result of a restless task meant for his comfort. your fingers stings the slightest against the brush of his fingertips, calloused and slightly cold, "...you've always been a fool."

"only when it matters," you say softly.

when he says your name, he lingers on the last syllable, with the tilt of his head and the curious narrow of his eyes. to pick apart and discern. to wonder. only briefly, like all his attentions, does the hand linger. the expression you want is not one he'd be willing to show so clearly, not even in the warmth of the dying light.

"stop saying ridiculous things." regulus says after a pause. he won't, however, release your hands. they remain there in his grip, unmoving and together.

"learn to take a joke," you answer.

he leans forward. "make it funny and perhaps i will."

"funny," you can't say a thing to that, yet you've thought up many. later, when he is asleep and his pale face is illuminated by the moonlit night, you'll recite all the things you could not.

"got nothing else to say?" a quirk of the lip. joined hands, fingers intertwined, though not so securely. loose enough that if the mood strikes or a strange sentiment overcomes him, he'd break them apart and away.

"oh, plenty," you can't keep your face straight, and so your smile is quick to return, "i’ve only taken pity on you. did you miss the sound of my voice already?"

"very presumptuous, aren't we," he glances aside, "and really, so outlandish. the nerve. you have the nerve."

"i suppose i do." you squeeze his hand lightly, "nerve. candor. the quality that earns a great admirer."

"or the ire of all who know you best," he tilts his head to the side, glances quickly at you, and with a surprising amount of assertiveness, curls his fingers tighter around yours, "i appreciate that you'd like to share your charisma but some people don't consider charm to be a particularly laudable virtue."

"that's such a bad lie that i might as well be told you don't think i'm charming at all, not in the slightest. and oh, there we are, what a pout. you're entirely predictable."

"and you entertain me, still."

"you're the one that holds my hands hostage," you note wryly, wiggling your fingers slightly.

regulus doesn't have a quick response for that. at most he offers the roll of his eyes. doesn't let go, simply presses. let's a drop of your blood stain his skin. when he speaks again, he's grown thoughtful, "...hostage, yes?"

"...oh, do stop that," a pause. the silence lingers, "no, that's quite unfair."

"do you think so or not?"

your pulse throbs loud enough to deafen you. it is a foolish question and the answer is a clear enough indication of what you think. what motive could he have? to delight at the humiliation of your confession or to watch you tangled in a lie you clearly don't believe? the truth is so obvious it's untactful to inquire about its validity.

he sounds so serious as his thumb brushes along the dips and hills of your knuckles, "well? your answer? or is a minute not enough to think of something witty?"

at this, you frown, "regulus." and it comes quiet, like a warning.

"thought it came naturally to you. such creativity."

he has grown to be cruel sometimes. most times, rather, when it suits him to be. a petty, petulant thing not yet ready to leave its comfortable shell and grow beyond, "you must be eager for me to release you," he adds. a bitter afterthought.

"are you done?" you ask.

"what shall you do with your hands once they’re free?" he wonders, "sow something for sirius? he’d be wrecked if he didn’t receive a gift like mine."

"regulus." you repeat with a frown, "don't."

"why not?" he blinks.

"a gift doesn't mean anything if it's a gift for the masses."

"well, it'll be custom, i imagine," he says, "with his initials this time."

"regulus," a third time you've said it, a sharp tongue to cut, "stop it. you're being mean."

his eyes are cast downward, expression impassive. "if this is what it takes to get you to respond, then perhaps i am."

this isn't the game. the one where he'll pretend not to care so as to observe how you'll react. it is the type where you'll act cold enough he'll hesitate. then he'll carelessly expose himself so the hurt can be delivered with ease. an offense so great you'll seek the sweet relief of exile.

"i made it for you," you utter, barely a whisper, "no one else."

"is that so."

"if you don't want it, i won't force you to keep it."

"no, i like it," his expression has remained the same, if not with a certain lack of conviction, a flat tone you want to interpret as some half lie, but you don't. instead you nod. a half-hearted turn of your head before meeting his eyes.

"a bit possessive, don't you think? getting so cross over a made up problem?" you inquire.

"made up, huh?" you like the inflections of his voice, and even in his reluctance he maintains them, the gentle flow, the steadfast determination to the subject.

"mhm."

"thought it was logical to assume. you're friends."

"i have a different gift planned for him."

"different?" he clarifies.

"quite," you say, all sorts of bitter, "a broom cleaning kit."

that, at least, seems to somewhat appease him. and regulus settles, ever so slightly, his brow a faint twitch. the motion you always want to trace with your fingers, and map along until you memorize every curve and line and plane of his face.

he adjusts your hands again, idly thumbing over the slope and curve. he is thoughtful again, contemplative and somber and nothing more. a lingering fear clings to the curve of his mouth, "do you ever wish you could disappear?"

the question has no context, and it strikes you as the type that never did, with a subtle heaviness he is familiar with the implications of. it is only in a selfish way that the fear occurs. his isolation, perhaps. or he must assume that all others can share a similar loneliness, though only in different quantities.

"do you?" you ask instead.

"perhaps. sometimes. maybe not." he does, you think, look as though he often considers running away to somewhere no one else is aware of him. or if he's not wanted there, then elsewhere. somewhere remote and a touch fantastical. a desperate escape from family tradition, from being the second born son. a desire, or rather, absconding from responsibility. to be far and forgotten; to live a life you believe would bring you some semblance of peace and happiness, though not enough for the longing to subside and never enough for him to admit to it. no, regulus would first die than admit it out loud.

admit the envy he has for his brother. admit to wonder if anyone would look for him if he was to disappear.

you would. even if the rest wouldn't, you would. and if they did, how angry it'd make them if you refused to quit searching. it strikes you suddenly and without remorse, as if you've been pushed into a pile of snow. it's him you were searching for in your dream.

"no, then?" his voice shakes you away. your expression had frozen over, had it? how rare it is, to see worry worn so openly in the shape of those brows.

"sometimes," you answer honestly, though you're never quite sure where that might be. a growing, restless worry expands in the pit of your stomach. as though your nightmare is not so far from becoming reality. that one day, you'll search for him to the edge of the earth only to never find him again, "you aren't thinking of leaving, are you?"

he's taken aback by your expression. "of course not," he reassures, and he seems as though he means it, "i'm only indulging hypotheticals."

"alright."

"are you okay?"

"sure. yes. yes, absolutely."

regulus peers at you closely, scrutinizing, the gesture intense and pointed in its nature. and he returns to tracing the veins on your skin, a practiced art. a light tickle that has you shivering, not that you'd want to move away. never from him.

you hear him, soft and hushed. perhaps it is more suited to the intimacy of the moment and not that he's become ashamed. a faint, lovely mumbling that you would like to indulge forever if possible, "i'm really not going anywhere." he brings your hand to his lips after a moment of hesitation, like he needs the courage, the comfort. an earnest reassurance in a form of a small kiss as if it were his own insecurities at play, "here's okay. here's more than enough."

you nod. whisper, when you realize how close the two of you have become, "yes, stay here."

"...you as well."

"i will."

"wouldn't want to run around looking for someone who's meant to stay within my sights, anyways."

and it is you that laughs a little too hard to seem genuine, "as though you'd do such a thing."

he answers with a confidence unshaken yet poorly disguised by the restraint shown, "i don't plan on ever losing sight of you."

your eyes meet and hold, but neither will ever confess to be the one who glanced away first. for different reasons, perhaps, and no less of a humiliation. no less difficult to accept. the sight of him is too difficult to bear; the hair framing his face and the gentle hue of pink that grows steadily redder the longer he holds your gaze. he drops your hand first, and you resist the urge to run your fingertips down the sharp of his jaw and feel the softness of his skin or tug his bottom lip and hear the shuddering intake of air. to feel what can't be expressed, at least, not so simply.

you can't blame regulus for not wanting to admit it. he's shaped by his surroundings, has grown up in a family that doesn't permit affections. he doesn't know the structure of i'm sorry or thank you or i love you. but if only for a second, surely, he can try to imitate. you treasure each of his clumsy syllables and failed tries because he has never attempted anything of this sort for anyone else. the success doesn't matter, because he is earnest, at least to the degree of his own understanding and limit, and it's easier to say what's painful in silence.

or, maybe, nothing's difficult when the sun's nearly gone. when the window pane burns pink and white, and when the stars appear through the haze of fog and snow, and you think of the future, with him, but as the heirs of two prominent houses together, and it feels like a fairy tale that way, not quite real. so long as you imagine it with a dreamy detachment, you can convince yourself it doesn't matter further than a wish that will never come true.

because you've never learned to say i'm sorry or thank you or i love you, either.

thank u for reading <3

🍁☕

i’m so hyperfixated on the marauders that i’m gonna end up putting fanart in my portfolio.

ok ummm wow there is a stabbing pain in my chest !

day 200 of odie winning the ‘letting troubleverse take over my life’ challenge ^_^

when the curtains close

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

words: 5.3k

summary: (post-tlt) The one where you lose two people in the Labyrinth that day. All strings are cut. (Pollux, Annabeth, Percy, and Mr. D find out the biggest difference between you and Luke.) (Luke Castellan x fem!Dionysus!reader)

a/n: yeah to me this fic sounds and feels like that tiktok of the girl humming to her microwave. split povs: pollux, annabeth, your depictions of the titular battle of the labyrinth at CHB, some blood/gore, death & grief. the usual. you forced me to by lizzy mcalpine. references to cat on a hot tin roof by tennessee williams if you squint

(posted 5/14/24, semi edited—def coming back to this)

—

The first time Pollux has a panic attack, time seems to stop and the world keeps moving on without him.

He’s reminded of a time when you rambled on about how anxiety takes possession of the senses like a moment frozen in a snapshot meant for you to identify. In the memory, you had your feet kicked up on the dash flipping through a DSM-5 while he and Castor took turns speeding up and down Farm Road (totally normal older sister behavior from you, and when a cop pulled you over, the three of you narrowly escaped a ticket by talking in riddles and godly smoke that smelled like grapes). Pollux still remembers the sound of laughter in the car blending like three different chords to an archaic melody (or squawking crows in the strawberry fields)— the bond between you three laid out before time knew limits and was always meant to be.

It’s still his favorite song. You’re their favorite (and only) sister, they love to joke. These are facts that will never change.

“You two have each other, and well, I’ve got this,” you had said, the Zippo flicking open and closed against your thumb in the blossoming darkness of the car. Pink and purple rays of waning light blanketed the old hatchback as it steadily made its way back towards Half-Blood Hill, comfortable silence shared in the way only siblings can stand to be quiet—when there are no words needed to get a point across. But you’ve always set yourself apart from the pack, not needing anyone like how they need each other.

Not since Luke left, at least. The growing distance between you three since your untimely resignation from camp was proof enough. Pollux’s eyes met Castor’s in the rearview mirror as they both noticed your sad smile. His brother’s voice broke through the silence then, having always been the one blunt enough to say what was on his mind, “You’ve got us too if you let us see you more often.” Your fidgeting stops.

“It’s not you two, it’s just hard to be back here sometimes. I see things for what they used to be instead of how they really are now. Now it’s just… it has to be all business.”

Pollux cracked a smile, “S’what you get for growing up. Soon we’ll just be annoying voices in your head like you are to us.” Shutting your textbook, you turned to look at them from the passenger seat, eyes that match theirs darting between their blond heads, “All of us have to grow up eventually. Except maybe you two— I prefer you in my nightmares like the kids from The Shining. Whenever you get sick of Dad, come see me. Gods know that camp deserves a break from the two of you too.” Your knuckles knocked against both of their heads affectionately as he put the car in park, “My built-in bodyguards, huh? Always looking out for me.”

All words and meaning escape Pollux now as he stands in the greenery of the North Woods with battle gear ill-fitted to his large frame. It’s the first siege he’s ever taken part in, the first time he’s had to use battle strategies outside of Capture the Flag and the first time he’s slashed his way through monsters and demigods with the intent to try and kill or be killed. Sword and Shield could have never prepared any of them for this—as his eyes meet Castor’s and then yours with all of you thinking the same thing, the three of you join the sea of iridescent orange through mind-numbing black moving like a sharp three-pronged sword.

This type of stuff isn’t typical for him, he thinks. He and Castor are used to being comedic relief— being the source of laughs and juice boxes for pesky little campers instead of facing the real world outside the boundaries of the Mist. Perhaps your father babied them to make up for the time he lost with you, but there’s a moment where he wonders how being kept soft will keep him alive in a world as harsh as this one.

Childlike innocence is ripped away from them in the bubble they’ve inhabited until this moment. Home is now a warzone and like lambs set up for slaughter, the twins both turn to look at you as a shuddering gasp leaves your mouth at the carnage in your surroundings, monster blood and fallen friends and enemies at your feet. Breaking away from formation to take a deep breath, he looks at the sky and wonders where your father is, but smoke and soot fill his lungs and he coughs desperately for a breath of fresh air.

Pollux thinks he must have stopped breathing before Castor took his last breath. It wasn’t supposed to be a competition, but sometimes life was just funny like that.

5, 4, 3, 2, 1.

Just like you told him.

Castor was always the more manic one while Pollux knew how to endure. Children of Dionysus are forced to befriend insanity before it makes an enemy out of them—twisting the ugly into what’s real and creating something beautiful out of the deranged. You’ve shown the boys how you detach from emotion by recognizing the details—separating fact and fiction, a methodical process only describable by the blood that runs through your veins. Pollux doesn’t know where to start—everything happens so fast but it plays out in front of him like someone put the pieces together to a stop-motion animation.

He sees Castor’s sword fall to the ground when he gets slashed on the forearm and sees him get clubbed over the head with a metal weapon he’s only seen bad renditions forged for theater practices and hanging on the walls of the armory. Castor falls first to his knees, and then into the dirt with a thud. He never knew there could be that much blood coming out of a person, much less a mirror image of himself. Pollux sees your face come into his line of vision, deep maroon splatters on your face glittering with hints of ichor and then you’re moving because he can’t. The enemy is coming back for him now, and for a moment he wonders if Castor will be mad if he lets him. He sees you turn in an instant, swinging your sword down on the neck of the aggressor, a teenager not much older than he and his brother are—were. It’s funny how his brain immediately makes the switch to past tense, and how he can’t stop thinking about how he’ll now and forever be older than his twin. Pollux then sees you catch the body of the boy you just killed as life seeps out of him slower than it did for Castor.

It doesn’t make him feel any better, though.

His knees hit the ground next to his twin, touching the sludge of dirt soft like quicksand and moist with what he hopes is not blood, but Pollux is not quite sure of what else there is to hope for. His fist is wrapped around Castor’s shirtsleeve, touching faded orange and sweat as he holds on for dear life. Maybe if he tries hard enough his soul will still be intertwined with his. Your hand touches his shoulder, five fingers reaching out to brush the back of his neck and the feeling of your skin helps him refocus a bit, even if you’re saying something he can’t make out. Then the metal of your Zippo lighter feels cool to the touch within his palm and he knows what he needs to do.

The battle isn’t over, but for the three of you, everything stops here. There is no going forward without your brother. You were never meant to be children of war.

Pollux hears the sound of his heartbeat thundering through his ears, blood rushing through his veins and can’t help but notice the silence amid the chaos. There are no words fit for this—and even if there were, Castor and you were always the more talkative ones. He hears the spark of the purple flame between his fingers, blowing the smoke over him and his brother’s body, and their father’s powers blanket them like how you used to tuck them into bed, warm and safe. This is what your family is—unconventional and unending even in different realms of existence. And then Grover’s scream of panic echoes through the air and everyone hears that. Hysteria ensues as monsters and demigods alike run amok, and Pollux realizes he’s stopped shaking. In his father’s domain, he will always find comfort.

You stand above him now directing campers calmly with a free hand—a brewing storm crackling underneath your skin that he now understands. Hidden by the illusion of smoke, Pollux’s tired bones rest alongside his brother’s dead ones— together as they always were meant to be.

The three of you together, his little family—that is a fact he hoped would never change.

The smell of grapes envelops him as he leans his forehead against your muddy leg… when did the battle end? It almost masks the scent of death that rips through the air as your hand brushes through his sandy hair. Pollux stinks of sweat and you stifle a laugh as you see him smell his armpit. You three were always the same type of fucked up. He doesn’t look down at Castor laid across his lap but knows he would’ve found it funny too. Ignorance of reality even for a moment serves as a comfort. Purple meets purple as he looks up at you with a smile that doesn’t fit his face anymore and he croaks, “Wonder what dad would say about our first battle…”

Glory was never meant to be this bittersweet—it tastes like blood in his mouth until he wipes it away from his cheek and realizes it’s Castor’s. In a way, it’s his too, everything about him and within him is exactly the same down to the star stuff the fates wove them from.

“I’ll be the one to tell him. You take care of Castor,” you answer, as if there’s anything else he would want to do and then he realizes you’re crying— and he’s seeing all of the pieces put together in front of him in this photograph in his mind.

Pollux blinks slowly.

Suddenly the image he has of you is more defined— there is new meaning to the sadness you could never shake off all these years, and he is too young to lose his greatest love, which makes him realize then that so were you.

How long does this have to go on? he wonders, grabbing onto your hand with an eagerness only comparable to the feeling he got when you and Luke whisked him and Castor away from Florida all those years ago. This punishment of living while half of his soul does not—what is he supposed to do next? This was supposed to be the safe place. There is nowhere left to run. His thumb rubs circles into the back of your shaking blood-soaked hand, a secret within the smoke.

Pollux thinks there will always be a part of him frozen in time now, a memory of this day hung up in his mind like a portrait as he holds Castor’s cold hand in his warm one.

—

Annabeth finds you in the middle of the strawberry fields before the sun sets. She knows you won’t be sleeping tonight, not if you can fight it— not when there’s so much to do. You’ve long grown out of your ripped-up and tie-dyed camp shirts, and the one slung on your frame is newly pressed and starchy from the storage room of the Big House, still stiff against your freshly washed skin. When she’s close enough to touch you, you’ve been scrubbed clean of today.

She doesn’t have to be a daughter of Athena to know that you know that she’s there even if you can’t see her, but for once she feels like she has to hide. For once, Annabeth Chase doesn’t know what to say. How can she explain the feeling of guilt that coils around her brain like barbed wire—how can she even begin to apologize for the thing wearing her brother’s skin, knowing that it killed yours? For once, her hubris is crushed by the sinking feeling of humiliation.

“Was your first quest all you thought it would be, Annie?”

As she takes her navy cap off, silver braided strands around her face wave in the wind as a reminder of what Luke put her through. Though as she looks at you now with your berry-stained fingers plucking at stems one by one instead of using your powers, she thinks that your mind is elsewhere—anywhere but here, where everything is a painful reminder of your five years as a camper.

Five years with Luke.

Mourning him isn’t a new feeling for either of you, even though he comes in and out of your lives like a poltergeist you want to bash across the head, just always out of reach. But he’s a constant, even when he’s not here and he’s what binds you two together as you huddle hidden away from the rest of camp.

“He did this for you.”

It’s not a question, more so a fact out of Annie’s mouth when you finally meet her eyes and sigh, “Luke’s always had a way going about things. The most stubborn man to ever live.” You toss another strawberry into the crate at your feet. No one’s working right now, trying to tend to the injured and the dead. Everyone’s doing their best to chase away the nightmares that are bound to come, and she knows you’ll be making rounds with her on the night shift to ease everyone’s anxieties. But there’s a thought so strong it makes her head hurt, bursting at the seams until she can’t stop with her last-ditch effort to fix her found family.

“Maybe if we find him, we can save—”

“He’s been out of time for a while now, Annabeth. We both knew that,” you say, voice firm and unwavering. You’ve never sounded so monotone before, and it hits her as her mouth falls agape, “You’re giving up on him? Why…why would you give up on him?” Anger courses through her veins like fire and she’s mad that she’s at the center of this prophecy, of Hermes’s anger for his doomed son who will love you until the ends of the earth.

And what of her?

What of the hope she has in happy endings, how is it that you’re so damn calm? Annabeth kicks at the crate, strawberries rolling out in different directions and your jaw tightens as you let her be petulant, let her scream and yell until her inner child can catch up with the reality of the world around you.

“How could you?”

Your name echoes as she repeats it, grabbing at your shoulders and she’s as desperate as the truth that shakes her when you cup her face in your hands and wipe her tears.

“You’ve carried the weight of the world Annabeth– you know what it feels like to let it go. It’s time to let him go. There’s nothing I can do or say to fix this.”

Then it hits her that you knew of his fate and yet this was still the outcome. There was nothing else to do but watch him be puppeteered by a Titan and have to fight evil while it wears his face.

“He came to you after he saw me, didn’t he? Why didn’t you tell me? Why don’t you love him anymore?”

Because it wouldn’t have changed a thing, your eyes say. Instead, you grimace as you say, “Wouldn’t that be funny if it were true?” You lean down and pick up the fallen berries, some bruised and covered in dirt, and then you look at her again with teary eyes.

“Some prophecy huh? To lose a love to worse than death. What could we have done besides love him until the end?”

“He’s still in there. I know you know that too. Don’t talk about him like he’s not,” Annabeth insists, and a sad smile settles upon your face. It’s as gentle as the kiss of the breeze on your cheeks.

“I lost a brother today, Annie.”

“Me too.”

—

The funny thing about planning funerals is that with all the fuss it takes to organize one, you still find extra time on your hands. Barely getting any sleep and dragging yourself out of your dad’s bed, Pollux snores loudly next to you after hours of working on Castor’s shroud. Sleep wasn’t expected for either of you, but being unconscious was the only way of giving your brains a reprieve. The both of you have been busy doubling down on the preparations, even if it means Mr. D won’t be back in time while he’s out rallying gods for war.

The faster Castor’s earthly body is reconnected with his soul, the easier his trip will be into the Underworld, Nico says, and it’s funny how comforting the little emo pipsqueak can be when it comes to matters of death.

Perhaps this is the solace you bring to others with things you’re able to control—keeping camp afloat is something you were always good at, and helping every traumatized child that comes up to you for a juice box or a lullaby eases the guilt that follows you. Walking around Camp Half-Blood for more than a weekend made you feel like a judge, jury, and executioner. Though most of the campers from almost five years ago have either aged out, defected, or died—the ones that remain still look at you like you’re trouble.

Perhaps you always will be.

You even found yourself with the time to pray to Hermes last night for your brother’s safe passage into the afterlife, though if he’s angry at Annabeth, he must hate you for letting Luke go. Dinner didn’t seem appetizing enough anyway, so your whole plate was tossed into the hearth. You hope he likes chicken and rice.

But if a god can’t fight fate, what did he expect you to do?

The Iris Message to your dad last night was difficult, to say the least. Pollux’s hands shook as he continued to paint grape vines onto the silk cloth and the both of you didn’t say anything when your father started to cry. He out of all of the gods knows what it’s like to be tested to the limits—to endure pain and it’s a gift you and your brother are grateful for in times like these. Watching the god display the human emotion that either of you couldn’t as freely made it more real though.

There was also the interesting predicament of Chris Rodriguez being locked up in the basement of the Big House. Replacing screaming fits with serenity was almost second nature, and your gentle hands were what got Clarisse to truly respect you again for the first time in years. You could hear her sneak downstairs and talk to him while he slept (and the look in her eyes when you’d greet her with a cup of coffee made it known to you that she finally understands what it means to love someone who’s lost—two demigod daughters filled with a lot of rage and hurt were more alike than they think).

So the morning of your little brother’s funeral, you found yourself on the shoreline of Canoe Lake, setting your Redbull against the post of the dock and looking out onto the water.

You needed to do something with your hands. In the past few days, if your fingers were not occupied by pen and paper, a guitar, supply crates, or anything else that was helpful to others and all the more distracting for you, it’s been so easy to pick at any little thing. Perhaps it was your subconscious trying to reflect the damage on the inside, but today, your nail polish was chipped beyond belief. A small price to pay to not lose it without a signature boyish smile to ease your worries and amber eyes that could help you escape from the routine.

Running camp was always easier back then with your runaway boy and his scarred cheek.

How pathetic.

Crouched over in the sand, you plucked stones and filled your pockets with them. They knocked against each other — weighing your pockets down as you walked closer to the dock. Swinging your feet off the side and chucking them into the water, you could barely achieve a ripple.

It’s so quiet that you end up wondering if the rocks in your pockets would weigh you down to the bottom of the lake. It must be nice down there, to exist away from everything.

Bubbles surface slowly in front of you, then Percy’s head bobs in the water as he squints at you through sunlight.

“You chucked a rock at my head!”

A smile tugs at your lips, almost indiscernible but definitely there, “I was trying to skip them. Didn’t know you were doing water tricks in there, kid.” His grin gleams like freshwater pearls, pulling himself up onto the dock as his hand clasps yours. Shaking his sopping hair, Percy’s gangly frame sits next to yours like a wet bag of sand—all wrinkly and misshapen and sprinkling you with lakewater.

“Maybe next time don’t pick rocks the size of your fist. How many have you got in there? Your aim is scarily accurate,” he laughs and you huff and shake your head when his hand sticks into your pocket and takes out a few smooth ones to roll around in his hand. You mirror him, watching him skip a few stones into the water that reach a good distance before sinking into the depths of the lake.

There’s something sad about feeling comfortable to trauma dump on the teenage son of Poseidon, but with the way he grabs your arm at your third unsuccessful toss of a rock, you can’t do anything else but sigh.

“Why didn’t any of you call me, Percy?”

He was waiting for this question—it’s been banging around in his head since the beginning of Annabeth’s quest, and perhaps her talk with you yesterday didn’t go as expected so once again he’s left with the difficult part.

Things happen to turn out pretty difficult for him a lot, he's noticed.

Many things could have been made easier in the past few weeks: Ariadne being your stepmother and her blessing to you would’ve made the Labyrinth easier to navigate, and having another demigod to fight alongside him instead of a mortal girl would’ve been a plus too. But he looks at you with ocean eyes and a smaller smile that reminds you of how he looked at you when you dropped him off in Montauk the summer you met him and quit your head counselor job.

“You’ve already made a lot of difficult decisions. We weren’t sure if…”

The rotten wood beneath you creaks under your shifting weight as you turn to him, tucking your legs underneath your bottom.

“Didn’t think I could handle it?”

He shakes his head, “The opposite, actually. Annabeth has this notion that you’re the only one that can save him. You know, back on my first quest I met Luke’s dad and he told me something…”

You swallow instead of answering. There’s no way Percy is giving you Hermes’s advice right now. Somehow this feels like karmic retribution after years of spiting that asshole, and what he tells you next is more of a sign that it must be true.

“He said, ‘Do you know what that feels like? To be so close to someone you love knowing neither of you has any choice but to keep hurting each other?’ I didn’t get it then, but I do now.”

“With Luke and his mom?” you ask, picking at the remaining slivers of varnish on your thumbnail.

“With you and Luke. I didn’t call you, because… why would I want to see you hurt after everything?” Percy says this like it’s something he would do for everyone.

Perhaps it is, but the knot that forms in your throat feels as heavy as the boulder you almost sunk into his skull. He’s tall enough to lean your head against now, and you don’t mind the water spots that will form along the side of your funeral outfit. The shape of him it leaves will remind you of the little brother you gained through so much loss.

“Plus he has a new girlfriend. Absolute horse of a girl,” he jokes. It slips over your head but you still giggle, “I could’ve taken her.”

“I know, that was Grover’s worry. You’re prettier anyway…” Percy pauses, and then clears his throat, “You’ve always taken care of this place, y’know? Even after….I just think someone ought to take care of you.”

Your shoulder bumps against his as you finally skip a rock. It only bounces across the water twice and you think Percy might have had something to do with it, but you’re not bothered by the help this time around.

—

You wake up in the dark of night to see your dad looming in the doorway to his office. With drool and a post-it stuck to your cheek, he comes over to ruffle your hair in amicable silence.

“Hard at work or hardly working?” he chuckles, leaning over your shoulder to scan over the paperwork sorted into piles for him to sign from his absence.

“Hm. You wish,” you scoff, leaning against your arm as you look at him. He’s not in his usual eyesore of attire, wearing a clean-pressed suit with his hair slightly slicked back.

“You look good. The meeting went okay?”

“Grover will be. The Council of Cloven Elders? Not so much. Neither are the gods ready to take sides. Putting out little fires everywhere as we speak.”

The wheels of the office chair roll as you swing your feet, and if you both listen closely enough you can hear Pollux snoring upstairs. Chiron loved the earplugs you gave him.

Your father’s face smooths out a bit at the sight of you and the sound of his son’s breathing upstairs and he asks, “Are you? Good?”

A shrug slides off your shoulders, “How does one be good in a world like this one?”

A startling scream echoes off the walls of the Big House, rattling the floorboards from below as your father grimaces.

The work is never done for you two.

“Don’t look at me like that. It was worse when he first came here.”

“Don’t doubt it,” he mumbles, brushing lint off your shirt before he notices you’re donning neon orange. “Didn’t do laundry, princess?”

“Pollux and I haven’t gone back to our cabin since... I can wake him up if you—”

Mr. D shakes his head and goes to toss his body onto the couch against the window, shutting his eyes and taking a deep breath.

“Dad? Do you think Chris is a bad person?”

A beat passes and you think he may have fallen asleep, but then his voice sounds like gravel scraping up his throat.

“I don’t think anyone can be bad, kid. I think it is more often that people get lost. What Rodriguez needs is someone to take hold of him gently, and hand his life back to him—you…Clarisse… that’s what we’re giving him.”

Now you’re silent, staring at the dust on his name placard at the edge of the desk.

“Do you think otherwise?”

He calls your name again, and you look up like you’re about to lie to him but don’t have the energy to.

“Princess, do you think you’re a bad person?”

He stands up and walks around to your side of the desk, sitting on the edge so you have to look at him.

“I killed someone. During the battle. Didn’t even think twice about it, slashed his neck as soon as Castor went down and…” you sniff. “I kill monsters, not children, Dad. How does that make me any different?”

The last time blood was on your hands like this it was Luke’s in the Garden of Hesperides. All these years later you ended up being right— the only person you vowed to get bloody for is Luke Castellan, and now in a twisted turn of fate, you’ve bloodied your hands because of him.

“Because you did it for your brother. There are no other explanations needed.”

He sees the exhaustion in your eyes, the drop in your shoulders, but your dad also sees the strength in your bones that spans generations and he knows you and Pollux are strong because you are both his.

“Humans believe in life everlasting—glory, as some call it, but they’re too focused on achieving it on earth instead of enjoying what life has to offer,” he scoffs, “Everyone has the guts to die, but no one has the guts to truly live. How sad.”

“His name was Rowan. Son of Hecate. I taught him how to whistle the summer I left. This is all my fault, Dad,” you say shakily as he comes near and pulls you into his side. He shushes you but you relent.

“Luke’s killing all these people to fulfill a promise he made for me. I’m just fucking disgusted with myself for being the cause of it all. What good life can I deserve when wherever I go I leave a trail of blood?”

Love and addiction must be so alike; to know that to be sober you can’t indulge in the vice ever again—not only does it hurt you, but others around you. But through the years you’ve always kept the taste of his name in your mouth, the feeling of his skin under your fingertips, and the knowledge of why he’s destroying the world so he can make you a better one. Insanity stems from fighting for so long that you embrace the pain; feeling something so intensely that when it consumes you you’re able to walk out the other side and wear it as armor.

Not everyone is hardwired to persevere. There are moments like a night like these where it would be easy to give up. Instead, you pour two glasses of whiskey you’ve conjured and hand one to your dad. You both sip on your drinks slowly, embracing the crawling feeling of the burn.

“Liquor is one way out and death is another,” your dad sighs blissfully. He almost looks rejuvenated by the alcohol he knows he’ll hear about from Zeus later, but perhaps the death of his son is a good enough pardon.

“For some of us, we don’t have to think about the answer.”

Mr. D grabs a pen off the desk and starts signing papers to do something with his hands, and then you speak again, “I think I’d rather die than for people I love,” and your dad’s attention whips to your blank face staring at the moon outside the window. “Instead of killing for them. I’ve never been a good soldier, Dad.”

Mr. D looks at you thoughtfully and wonders where all the time has gone that you sit there in front of him with more knowledge than him at your mortal age before saying, “You’re my daughter. You’re a fighter. Death is for chumps anyway.”

He lifts you by the arm to try to usher you up the stairs but you stay in his office chair swatting his hands away.

“Got work to do, you and I. Not getting rid of me until it’s done.”

“When are you going home?” he asks, pulling up a chair next to yours.

“I am home.”

You don’t look up from the papers you were filing, stubbornness leaking through your voice.

“If there is a war coming, I want to be home as much as I can. I’m finishing my last semester and I’ll be here before and after classes. You can’t stop me, dad.”

And he knows that too.

There is no such thing as leaving Camp Half-Blood for you.

Never for too long. Your love for it is scattered everywhere campers can see.

—

In all these years, you never believed I loved you. And I did. I did so much. I did love you. I even loved your hate and your hardness. - Tennessee Williams

MORE MORE MORE MKRE

tweets with pjo characters (ii.)

content summary: implied luke x reader once again... swearing! percabeth once again! <3 reader goes by she/her prns, reader and clarisse are lowkey a thing on the side LMFAO

part one

when they're a completely made up band>>>

you never disappointed me - part four

part one part two part three

➻ synopsis: luke castellan x aphrodite!reader ; you agree to go to the Apollo party with luke, and the night is in no way what you expect (10 things I about you AU)

➻ word count: 4070

➻ warnings: ooc/kind of loser!luke, ooc silena, she/her pronouns used for reader, sexual innuendos, alcohol, smoking/weed, swearing, kissing

➻ this took yonks oops - hope u enjoy!! (it's a bit longer than all the others though so don't say I don't love u xx)

TAGLIST: @myxticmoon @wicca-void @leeknows-wife @thekittyxo-blog @number-onekidqueen @instabull @slaybestieslay946 @sflame15-blog @yourfavmiki @ivory-sage @caramelandvenus @chasebeth

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The night of the party, you were having serious doubts. You were just glad you hadn’t told Silena that you were considering going at all as she was already practically feral over not being allowed to go. It was times like this that you wondered how things would be if the two of you were closer — helping each other break the rules and have a social life rather than keeping each other on your father’s short leash, ratting each other out at each opportunity.

“Can’t you just be normal?” Silena whined, brushing out her hair and gazing longingly at the outfit she’d picked out for the event, sitting sad and unworn.

“Define normal,” You replied, not sparing her a glance over your novel. This was a well-rehearsed dance by now, and you both knew the steps by heart.

“The Apollo party is normal — leaving your bed for one Friday night is normal!” She cried, pulling far too roughly at her hair in frustration.

“That party is just an excuse for all the idiots here to drink smuggled alcohol and grind up against each other in futile hopes of distracting themselves from the pathetic emptiness of their—”

“Meaningless, consumer-driven lives.” Half the cabin joined Silena in her chorus and you stopped short. You didn’t know whether to be proud of your brand or offended that you’d become so predictable. Silena approached you, speaking quieter so that she was talking just to you and not the show that you usually put on for the rest of the cabin.

“C’mon, please? Just for one night, do this one thing for me? Please.” You hesitated. Silena looked unexpectedly sincere and you realised that the party really meant a lot to her. And, despite your best efforts, you thought of Luke. You thought of his pretty eyes and his dumb smile and his insistence on getting you to this party, and your resolve started to crack. One party couldn’t be that bad, right? It’s not like you were leaving camp, worst case it was always an easy trip back to your cabin. You inhaled deeply, sending your mom a silent prayer.

“I guess I can make an appearance.” The whole cabin erupted in cheers and disbelief. You hadn’t been to a Camp Half-Blood party since your very first one when you were fourteen years old, and not one of your siblings knew why. Silena especially was ecstatic, jumping about and pulling you into a tight hug. You didn’t know how to respond, the gesture of affection foreign between the two of you, but reluctantly wrapped your arms around her.

“Alright,” You ended the moment, “Let’s just go before I back out.” You stopped for a quick second in front of your own vanity, ensuring nothing was seriously wrong with your outfit before bidding the younger campers goodbye and opening the door.

And there, standing nervously in what might’ve been his nicest shirt, was Luke.

“What are you doing here?” You rushed out before you could properly process what was happening. You’d forgotten all about his promise to pick you up, and now the whole cabin would be eavesdropping.

“Nine-thirty, right? Ah,” He glanced at an imaginary watch, “I’m early.” You might’ve laughed a little if you weren’t so mortified at your siblings spying on you.

“Whatever. Let’s just go.” You pulled him along with you, unaware of his eyes glued to the place where your skin touched his. He tried to make conversation with you, willing both of you to return to the dynamic you had after the concert a few days prior, but your embarrassment had shut down any good humour you might’ve possessed. Already dreading the party again, you could feel yourself curling into yourself, but were powerless to stop it.

You were immediately reminded as to why you hated these parties, people you didn’t like only heightened by the substances floating around. It was held in one of the abandoned bunkers littered through the woods, only adding to the claustrophobic feeling with its dark walls and low ceilings. Plus, you were sure the few winding tunnels leading to other rooms would be hell to navigate when drunk.

You knew it was rude, but you lost Luke quickly. You were already uncomfortable enough here and had resigned to sticking out the night for Silena only, you really didn’t want Luke clinging to you all night and trying to ‘get some’ — or whatever his goal for your supposed date was. Your solitude didn’t last long though, as you rounded a corner to smack into Ethan. You scowled, trying to push past him, but he seemed determined to chat.

“Looking hot, Beauregard. You should get out of those camp shirts more often.” Your frown only deepened, hand itching to slap the shit out of him.

“Hey, wait — did your hairline just recede?” You almost laughed at the way his hand flew to his hair; Ethan White was undoubtedly more vain than any of the Aphrodite kids. You ducked around him, desperate to be anywhere else.

“Where are you going?” He called after you, shoving a younger camper out of the way.

“Away.”

“Your sister here?” You froze up, turning slowly towards the disgusting boy.

“Stay away from my sister,” You threatened, your meanest look painted across your face. Ethan only smirked, and it made you hate him more.

“Oh I’ll stay away from your sister, but I can’t guarantee she’ll stay away from me.” Your hand was raising to slap him down when one of his friends pulled him away to go spectate a fight. You supposed you were somewhat glad, Silena would definitely hate you if you hit him at a party, and the Apollo kids would definitely all be too hammered to treat any busted knuckles.

You’d hidden away with Clarisse for half an hour, a much needed respite from the torture that was all around you. You passed a blunt between you, giggling and gossiping, Luke’s name coming up more than once. You weren’t sure what to think of him, but you did know your social battery was absolutely dying, and you really weren’t in the mood to be there anymore. Your chat with Clarisse only ended when Chris approached her, asking for a dance. She looked to you for confirmation that it was ok and you waved her off, very much on board for whatever was blossoming between them. You wouldn’t say you liked Chris — you barely liked anyone — but of the campers around your age, he was on the better end of a terrible spectrum.

As you watched her go, a much more unfortunate sight caught your attention. Silena hanging off Ethan’s arm, one intention clearly in mind. You and Beckendorf appeared as parallels on opposite sides of the room, both wearing dismayed expressions, hearts sinking.

“Look who found me,” Ethan turned to you, cocky grin lighting a fire in your chest. He turned to go, pulling Silena with him, but you found your voice just in time.

“Silena, wait!” Your sister turned quickly, disgust evident.

“Can you not address me here?” She snapped and you were taken aback for a second.

“No, wait. There’s something I need to tell you,” You tried, but she was wholly unaffected.

“Look, I am busy enjoying my adolescence, so scamper off and do the same.”

“Bye bye,” Ethan added, and you really wondered how he was beat up so rarely.

You felt your heart sink, genuine worry for your little sister overtaking the annoyance that Ethan so often caused. You thought she would have at least heard you out when you were actually worried for her, but Silena never failed to disappoint you. Ok, maybe that was a bit mean. That didn’t stop you from wallowing in your own feelings and grabbing a shot from some guy who was handing them out.

“Right on, sister!” Travis Stoll exclaimed, cowering only slightly when you shot him a glare, downing the liquor as quickly as you could stomach.

“Hey, what’s this?” Luke came out of nowhere, putting one of the shot glasses you’d picked up back in Travis’ hands. “I’ve been looking all over the place for you.” You rolled your eyes, alcohol only fuelling your irritation.

“I’m getting trashed, man,” You mocked, “Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do at a party?”

“I dunno. I say do what you wanna do,” Luke said, and it took everything in you to keep your resolve. Maybe getting crossfaded wasn’t such a smart idea.

“You’re the only one. Later,” You grumbled, pushing away from him while you still had your self-restraint. You just wanted this whole night to be over.

In the same moments, Beckendorf had just seen Silena without Ethan for the first time in a while, and hurried to talk to her.

“Hi, Silena,” He raised his voice to get her attention over the music.

“Oh, hi Beckendorf,” She seemed to be a million miles away, hardly listening to him, “Uh, you know Drew?”

“Um, yeah, I think we had Greek together once?”

“Great.” Drew looked supremely unimpressed. Beckendorf persisted.

“So, Silena, you really look amazing.” The compliment fell a bit flat when Drew raised an eyebrow and Silena looked like she’d rather be anywhere else. Ethan, having heard Beckendorf’s sad attempts, joined the conversation.

“We all know I look amazing,” He said, and Beckendorf didn’t know why both the girls giggled like it was in any way funny.

“C’mon, Silena. We’re all playing beer pong.” Silena finally spared Beckendorf a glance.

“I’ll see you around, okay?” She said, and Beckendorf managed a pathetic nod. As they retreated, Ethan couldn’t help but throw a cocky thumbs up his way, and Beckendorf felt his shoulders sag. After an awkward moment of silence between him and Drew even she left, and he was alone in the middle of the party.

You were similarly alone, having escaped Luke for some time, using the respite to get significantly drunker. You didn’t know exactly why, you’d never been one to get blackout for the sake of it. Maybe you were sick of being there, maybe you didn’t want to face all the emotions bubbling dangerously close to the surface. Maybe, as Silena would say, you were finally becoming ‘normal’. Regardless, you were hardly aware of what was going on anymore, finally feeling like the party wasn’t total dogshit. At least until Luke grabbed another shot out of your hand. What was with that?

“Why don’t you let me have this one, huh?” He asked, bringing it up to his own lips. You intercepted, downing it before he could stop you.

“No! That one was mine,” You whined impetuously. If you were aware of your actions you would have been horrified, you almost sounded like Silena. Luke, despite his worry, almost laughed. That was, until you started taking off, again. He really didn’t anticipate you to be a wandering drunk. Luke trailed after you into another room until Ethan stopped him in the doorway, looking delighted.

“My man! How’d you get her to do it?” He asked, a vaguely misogynistic air about him.

“Do what?” Luke replied, worried for the response.

“Act like a human.” They both turned to search for you, finding you somehow on top of a table, dancing in a way that was all hips and hair. Neither could deny it was pretty hot.

You’d already attracted a crowd, half interested in your sudden change of demeanour, the other half just appreciative of an opportunity to ogle a pretty girl’s body. Ethan was a member of both groups, yelling and whooping as you grinded against nothing, Aphrodite allure keeping all eyes on you. Luke rushed over to you, knowing if he sat by and watched as you did this while out of your right mind you would never forgive him.

Intending to just coax you down Luke ended up in a serendipitous moment of being in the right place at the right time, easily catching you when you toppled over, unbalanced from knocking your head on a light hanging from the ceiling. You landed squarely in his strong arms, looking up at him in a daze.

“Are you okay?” You heard him say, though he sounded much further away than he was.

“I’m fine,” You grumbled, trying to hop up but stumbling embarrassingly back into him. Luke took it in stride, carrying you bridal style until you were out of the bulk of the crowd. Setting you down gently he kept a hand securely around your waist, leading you through the bunker out a hallway.

“I just need to lie down somewhere,” You mumbled, clutching at your pounding head.

“Absolutely not. You lie down and you’ll go to sleep.” You smiled dreamily, something that Luke returned involuntarily.

“Sleep is good.” He barked out a laugh.

“Not if you have a concussion.”

You both paused in the middle of a hallway so you could sit at a chair conveniently placed as Luke searched for a glass of water. Instead he found Beckendorf. After several unsuccessful attempts to shoo him away, Luke gave up and let him talk.

“It’s off, okay? The whole thing’s off.”

“What are you talking about?” Luke asked, sparing a glance at you; obliviously playing with a strand of hair.

“She never wanted me. She wanted Ethan the whole time.” Luke resisted the urge to roll his eyes — he really, truly, did not care.

“Charles,” He said, “Do you like this girl?”

“Yeah,” Beckendorf sighed. Luke tapped his foot.

“Right. And is she worth all this trouble?”

“I thought she was. But, well—” Luke cut him off, truly frustrated with the inexperienced boy.

“Look, she is or she isn’t. First of all, Ethan isn’t half the man you are. Secondly, don’t let anyone ever make you feel like you don’t deserve what you want. Just go for it.” Luke lunged to catch you when you tipped out of the chair, a signal clear to even Beckendorf that the conversation was over. He spared the younger boy a smile before leading you away gently, murmuring promises of fresh air and feeling better. Beckendorf didn’t know what to do with Luke’s advice, but at least he wasn’t so mopey anymore.

You’d come out of your dream state back to being a little more sentient by the time you got outside, your personality returning.

“You’re so patronising,” You groaned, eyeing Luke’s hand supporting the majority of your weight.

“Leave it to you to use big words when you’re smashed,” Luke laughed slightly, removing his arms when you tried to shove them off, and snorting quietly when you tripped onto the grass.

“Why are you doing this?” You didn’t dare look at him.

“I told you, you might have a concussion. I might not be an Apollo kid, but I’ve had enough to know how to handle them.”

“You don’t care if I never wake up,” You laughed humourlessly, pushing your hair out of your face in a manner similar to that of a toddler. Luke grinned, eyes sparkling even in the dark outside.

“Sure I do.” You gave him a questioning look and he led you to a selection of flat-ish tree stumps around a clearing. “I’d have to start taking out girls who actually like me,” He explained and it was your turn to snort.

“Like you could find one.”

“See that, there? Who needs affection when I have blind hatred?” You laughed despite yourself, missing the way Luke lit up at the reaction. He helped you onto the seat, taking the one next to you. You looked over at him, unaware that the smile you thought was internal was clear as day on your face. Luke admired it, revelling in the fact that he was probably one of very few at camp who had ever seen it.

You two sat quietly for a while, making meaningless conversation — Luke told you stories you missed from the party and you regretted getting too drunk to see it all yourself.

“So why’d you let him get to you?” He asked eventually, and you cocked your head to the side.

“Who?”

“Ethan.” You groaned.

“I hate him.”

“Well you’ve chosen the perfect revenge; mainlining tequila.” You both laughed at that, and you hazily noted how good it felt to laugh with him.

“Well, you know what they say…” You joked, but Luke didn’t catch on.

“No, what do they say?” He asked with childlike innocence, but in an instant you’d slipped into sleep, comforted by the perfect summer night weather. Luke was up in a second, crouching in front of you, holding your face in both hands and frantically trying to wake you. If you’d been awake, you might’ve noted how intimate it felt. You only woke when he slapped you — lightly, but effective enough.

Gazing up at him through your lashes, you had something of an epiphany. You liked Luke. You didn’t know how you didn’t notice it before, or really how it had happened at all, but seeing him standing inches from you really brought things to light. You opened your mouth to illustrate this point, still not quite sober enough to have those reservations, but instead all that came out was “Your eyes have a little green in them.”

Luke’s face twisted from confusion to relief, lips perking up into a smile. You held eye contact for an extended moment, a foreign tension building between you both (as opposed to the old, comfortable tension you’d gotten used to when hating him). Then you threw up all over his shoes. You at least had the decency to be embarrassed about it, and Luke had the decency not to mention it, instead pulling you up to prepare for the journey of a walk back to your cabin.

Ethan had meanwhile cozied himself up between Silena and Drew, a hand over each girl’s shoulders.

“Some of us are staying out longer, going for a special swim in the lake. You in?” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, and Silena looked up at him warily.

“My sister’ll freak if I’m not back in twenty,” She said. A lie, kind of. She didn’t actually think you were in any position to be worried about her at that moment.

“I don’t have to be back…” Drew nominated herself, cuddling in closer to Ethan’s side. He still persisted with Silena.

“One more chance…” He tried his best to be at his most attractive, but Silena was more than over the whole night.

“Oh, man. I can’t. Damn.” It was hardly believable, but Drew had decided that she wanted Ethan then, and she got what she wanted.

“That’s a shame.” She produced a saccharine smile. “Well?” Ethan held out an arm for her to take, and the two were already getting handsy on their trip down to the lake. Silena dreaded to think about the things that would be done there in the coming hours.

“Have fun tonight?” A voice asked from behind her. Beckendorf sounded accusatory, and honestly Silena couldn’t even blame him.

“Tons,” She lied, wrapping her arms around herself. He stalked past her and Silena was about to leave him be when she was struck by a realisation.

“Charles?” She called, and Beckendorf dutifully turned to face her despite his obvious angst. “Do you think you could walk me back? I don’t have a weapon and the forest really freaks me out.” Silena fully expected him to refuse, and wouldn’t have blamed him for it in the slightest, but moments later they were walking side by side along the dark path.

There was tense silence between them for a while before Beckendorf finally gathered the courage to break it.

“You never wanted to go out with me, did you?” He asked, and the earnest directness of the question shocked her.

“Yes I did,” Silena lied, trying to be nice.

“No you didn’t,” He refuted bluntly.

“Well, okay, not actually—”

“Then that’s all you had to say!” He cried, and she really did feel badly about upsetting him. “Have you always been this selfish?” He could barely hear her whispered “Yes.”

“Just because you’re beautiful, doesn’t mean you can treat people like they don’t matter. I mean, I really like you, okay? I defended you when people called you conceited, I helped you when you asked me to. I learnt how to weld for you! And then you blow me off for—”

Without thinking, Silena grabbed his face in her hands, pressing a kiss to his lips. It was innocent, sitting on his lips for a few seconds before pulling away, both teenagers sporting matching blushes. Silena gave him a quick smile before hopping up the steps and safely into the Aphrodite cabin. Beckendorf managed to wait until he was safely alone to celebrate, a dorky little dance and an excited fist pump.

Your night didn’t follow quite the same trajectory. You’d been walking with Luke for what felt like hours, your tired brain and feet unwilling to finish the journey. However, it was the same easy conversation that you’d started to enjoy with Luke more often.

“I should start a band, I always wanted to — my father would love that.” You’d approached the cabins from the back, and the two of you had stopped near the rear wall, still hidden away out of sight and earshot.

“You don’t strike me as the type to ask your father for permission,” He said, leaning against the wood panelled wall.

“Oh, so now you think you know me?” You raised an eyebrow, standing opposite to him with your back to the woods.

“I’m getting there,” He replied, and his earnestness caught you off guard. You talked through your nerves.

“The only thing people know about me is that I’m ‘scary’.”

“Yeah, well, I’m no picnic either.” The tension crept back again as you looked at each other, but Luke pushed through it. “So, what’s with your dad? Pain in the ass?”

“No,” You conceded, “He just wants me to be someone I’m not.”

“Who?”

“Silena.” You couldn’t help the edge of bitterness that infiltrated your voice, and Luke suddenly understood a lot more about you.

“No offence or anything, I mean, I know everyone’s obsessed with your sister. But… she’s not all that.” You stared at him, unable to withhold the small smile that had crept onto your lips. No one had ever said that before.

“You know, you’re not as vile as I thought you were.” You leaned in, eyes fluttering closed. You could feel Luke’s hot breath mixing with yours, and another fraction of an inch and you’d be…

Luke’s hands were on your shoulders suddenly, softly moving the two of you apart.

“Maybe we should do this another time,” He said. Your eyes opened with a start, and you could feel red hot blush unfurling up your neck and onto your cheeks. In an instant your hardened expression was back more than ever, and you stomped past him up to your cabin, humiliation churning in your stomach, replacing any alcohol that might’ve lingered as you suddenly felt stone cold sober.

Luckily Silena and your younger siblings were all asleep by the time you returned, and the older ones were all off doing who-knows-what, so you effectively had the cabin to yourself. When you lay down in your bunk, makeup still on and shoes barely kicked off, you sobbed. You cried like you hadn’t in a long time, feeling stupid and ridiculous and hardly like a daughter of Aphrodite. You could only imagine what your mother would think of the mortifying display, and cried even harder.

my favourite gay people 😗

i love them sm

inspired by the cigarette scenes from all the young dudes