stvrchaser

[stvrchaser]

yk the drill. i come here to talk about my latest interests, disappear for months, and the cycle starts anew. ironic how dead boy detectives was the show that finally brought me back from the dead. neil geiman, you and your work will always be loved by me.

#dead boy detectives #charles rowland #edwin paine #edwin payne #crystal palace #i haven’t had this much fun since sandman #are we noticing a pattern

[stvrchaser]

LIKE REAL PEOPLE DO - c. rowland

content; gn reader, spoiler free, lowk soulmate au but also not,, 3.0k

honey just put your sweet lips on my lips / we should just kiss like real people do - hozier

Charles has never been in a gallery quite like this before. The walls are a deep teal, the same shade of a sea past its shallows, mounted with smudgy paintings like globs of kelp floating flaccid over the waves.

Everything’s grainy, edges soft and bleeding, too muddled to make sense of anything much. There are shapes moving too, dark things in his peripheral, wading slow in the eddy of colors.

He catches something at the edge of nothing, a glimpse of clarity. A frame of a person, white shirt, black tie, inky slacks. Indiscriminate, plain. Someone he could pass by every day and never spare a second glance.

Now, the curiosity that pulls him in is gravitational.

Despite everything looking like plumes of colored dust, the bench is solid, soft and sinking under his nerves.

“So,” Charles manages, barely above a whisper. It’s the only audible thing that doesn’t lie dead in the air. “Who the hell are you?”

Something clicks when his eyes meet yours. The snick of a key in place, a rib returned.

“Oh,” you respond, and it feels like something very, very far away has come running home, “no one important.”

“Really? You feel like someone important.”

Your smile is surreptitious, told only by a small tilt to your mouth. You pull a small pad of paper and then a mechanical pencil from somewhere, gazing at one of the paintings, the details of which he can’t make out. The graphite makes a featherlight sound until you speak again.

“I can assure you I’m not. You’ll forget me as soon as you wake up.”

Charles can play along and agree for now, squinting at the square-like blob on the opposite wall, watching the grainy colors smudge together. “Alright.”

And then he remembers. Ghosts don’t dream—at least, he’s never slept since he died. By the time he turns, there’s not even an echo of you in the cushions of the bench. His shoulder is cold, a heat that he didn’t realize was there gone suddenly, blown flimsy into the wind.

There’s only your paper, lead lines blurry. He creases it as his surroundings begin to shift like a dune toppling, shoving it into his pocket right as a wash of Midas-touched light engulfs him.

He comes back curled up on an armchair at the agency. The paper crinkles in his coat; he pulls it out, unfurls the flimsy sheet. His side profile stares back—the likeness is incredible. Same strong nose, hooded eyes, angled bones, sunken cheeks. Curly hair, elfish ears, even the gold earring dangling from his lobe.

Charles holds the paper close and watches the sun roll into daybreak. It’s warm in his hand, soft heat and reassurance sewn into the fibers.

“You never told me your name.”

This time, he’s in a sea of green, a faint rustling of leaves singing through the dreamscape. Like last time, everything’s grainy, smudged like graphite under a careless hand.

You’re in the clear, standing at the edge of what looks like a pond, back facing him, still in those plain, semi-formal clothes, except you have a coat wound over your shoulders now. The hem of it sways in the nondescript breeze.

Bread crumbs float over the water, sending ripples like beacons to a gaggle of little brown blobs. Ducks, with the way their faint shrieks sound, somewhat warped like a movie where the voices don’t quite match the motion of mouths, but unmistakable still.

“I’m Charles,” he says to fill the absence of your words. “Charles Rowland.”

He sniffs, a little louder than he intends. The noise of it sends feedback bouncing around the underside of his skull, a bang petering out into a whimper.

You murmur your name and the whine in his ears ceases to exist, like a string snipped too suddenly. Charles tests it in his mouth, rolls the syllables behind his teeth and tries the weight of the syntax on his tongue. It feels nice to say, right to say, so he repeats it thrice-over for the fun of it.

Again, your lips tilt in a furtive smile. It has a drop of bitterness bleeding in from the corners, almost guilty. Now, your mouth looks more of a wound than anything.

Your words are faint. Very, very far away, even though he’s standing nearly shoulder-to-shoulder with you, like they’re being shouted down a long wind tunnel.

“Did you know that ducks don’t mate for life? They find a partner one season, and then move onto a stronger one the next.”

“Finicky,” he agrees, reaching over to peel a piece of bread from the loaf you hold. “Tragic, really.”

“Mhm.”

Silence is rarely ever silent. There’s still the leaves sighing and the ducks yammering and the swish of water. It’s probably the quietest Charles has ever been in a while.

“So, what do you do?” he asks, studying the side of your face. Average-looking, plain to the point of forgettability.

( Not to him though. He’s already memorized the line of your nose and the geometry of your eyes. They’re familiar, like a painting he has a vague idea about, before he sees it again in clarity for the first time. )

You shrug, passive and half-pensive. “Study, sleep, eat, shit and repeat.”

“Oh.” What a drab outlook on life. “Well, I’m a detective.”

You run your eyes over the sketch of his frame, no doubt taking in his pin-heavy coat and gilded earring, elfish ears and curly hair and all.

“You look—”

“—too young for sleuthing? Don’t worry, I’m technically older than I appear.” He doesn’t know why he’s telling you this.

The wound of your mouth looks like it’s healing now. “I’m somewhat of an investigator myself. Look—” he follows the compass of your pointing finger “—at that man over there. You can see him clearly, right?”

Charles hums. “Weird. Everything else is blurry but him.”

You nod, lowering your hand.

“This must be a significant place for him. Maybe a first date, a good memory. Or maybe he’s hiding something here. A body, perhaps?”

Danger sparks under his skin, crackling between his nerves and singing along his spine. Charles treads carefully with his next words, like he’s walking over a boneyard.

“How are you here, exactly?”

You battle his question with another. “Have you ever heard of astral projection?”

“Maybe.”

“I do it. This,” you gesture weakly towards the pond, “is where all consciousness resides. A lot of people call it the astral plane, but some call it the Dreaming.”

“The Dreaming?” A shiver sinks its cold little claws between the divots of his spine. The name sounds familiar, and he thinks of Edwin’s scattered books.

( Death. Dream. Night and Time, Endless. )

“Only the surface, though,” you tell him, casual. “I glean what I can from here. Any deeper and we could get caught.”

“But it’s perfectly safe, right?”

The tilt of your mouth goes a little flat. “As long as you avoid the nightmares.”

“Well,” he sputters out a little flatly. “That’s brills.”

You step back, hand buried in the pockets of your coat. Charles follows you to what looks like a sign—a big blue blob with white squiggles propped up on a skinny grey thing.

You squint at it and the writing becomes just a bit clearer. He makes out an E, an A, an St. You seem to be able to see it better than he does, because you pull out the same notepad and mechanical pencil from last time, jotting it down.

You rip the paper off and pass it to him, pinched between your index and middle finger. “If you want to solve a mystery, find me there tomorrow evening.”

Charles squints at the smudgy paper, the grainy graphite lines. He folds it in his pocket and turns to speak again, but you’re gone.

You don’t look at him, rather, you look through him. Eyes passing over his head and shoulder cutting the air of his chest, clueless.

“Hey,” he says. The pond is in full clarity, ducks sending ripples arrowing across the surface, reeds singing along the bank. Little dots—people—move in the distance, tracing concrete paths. “Hey! Hello?”

You take an unsure second glance before walking towards the bank. Little waves roll up to kiss the soft silt; the peacefulness of it all is shattered by the spade in your hand plunging into the mud, shoving earth around everywhere.

Charles watches you dig, the toes of your wellies muddied and sweat beading on your temple. Minutes later, he hears the snick of metal against bone, the scrape of it rattling his teeth.

You stop and rummage around your pockets, pulling out a streamlined device and punching at it with your thumb. The line picks up and you prattle off an address and location before tossing the burner phone to the ground and grinding it under your heel.

You then turn, trudging away from the bank, spade in hand. A breath unravels behind his lungs when you stop just ahead of him, feet sinking into the mud. A grainy filter blooms from your back, unfurling until you’re both enclosed in that little smudgy world again.

“I was starting to think you weren’t coming.” Your words are uneven, ragged with exhaust.

Charles shrugs, a bit sheepish. “Didn’t exactly get the chance to tell you what I was.”

“Sorry,” you say quickly, coming a little closer. Like this, he can almost feel your living warmth. “I had to wake up. School and all that.”

“Ah.”

You come shoulder-to-shoulder with him, pivoting to watch the colors of glassy pond as they start to go grainy, sanded down. The trees smudge together, swirling into the sky.

“So you’re actually dead?” you ask, quiet. He hums, the sound carried slow by the dreamscape’s eddy.

“You say it like you already knew.”

“I had a feeling,” you agree. “It’s mainly dead people I see clearly in the Dreaming. Something about the limitations of the brain preventing the ordinary living from fully understanding the scope of the realm.”

“So I’m smarter than a live person?”

Your smile is small, barely a tilt to your mouth but less furtive. It makes something between his lungs ache and bloom warm.

“Perhaps. I’m surprised you’ve been able to evade Death for this long.”

The corners of his lips quirk up almost involuntarily. “We have all have our secrets.”

“I guess we do.”

The grainy sphere you’ve constructed melts away, folding in on itself. You’ve gone back to standing a stride away instead of at his shoulder, eyes clearing into wakefulness.

Charles doesn’t move, keeping still on the bank. He can almost see his afterimage in the black pools of your pupils, a blink-and-you-miss-it thing like glimpsing a light so bright that it leaves spots in your vision. You’re looking straight at where you’d last seen him, gaze focused.

“See you next time, Charles Rowland.”

There’s a draft here. Charles can almost feel it, the cool slice of a fingernail across his skin, a puff through his hair.

Except, ghosts can’t feel physical sensations. But he knows this place, recognizes the boards and the dust even when it’s all smudged together—so. Although he certainly can’t feel it, he’s definitely imagining it, and it’s practically the same thing.

“Oh hell,” he sighs. “Is there anywhere else we could go?”

You’re perched on a box, legs crisscrossed and thumbing through an old pamphlet. Charles knows the sketchy cover like an old friend.

“Sorry, I just woke up in here,” you tell him, setting aside the comic book. You look tired, eyebags more pronounced, shirt collar a bit wrinkled. “I’ll adjust.”

“If you’re too tired, it’s—”

The colors shift rapidly, and with a pop, you both land on a carpet of green, a pond coming up just beyond your feet. The grass prickles against his back, the sensation still imaginary but all the more real.

“Oh.” You then groan lightly with your palms pressed over your eyes, words chasing the tails of one another. “Oh, I’m stuck. Fuck.”

It’s unbecoming, totally out of character. Charles doesn’t really mind, though—he’s just gotten a bit more curious if anything.

“When’s the last time you slept?” he asks, sitting up and scooting closer. Like this, Charles can almost grab onto the tangibility of the notion of body heat.

“I don’t—well, I’m sleeping fine. It’s just this,” and you weakly gesture, “stuff. Doesn’t put me fully down, you know?”

He leans back, elbows bent to carry his weight. “Then why don’t you stop?”

( To be honest, there’s a slice of himself that wants you to keep slipping into the Dreaming with him. It’s too selfish—he wills the thought away. )

“Sometimes it’s involuntary, like now. I get pulled in before I can think to stop it.” Your eyes go hazy, the grainy sky spinning in their glassy reflections. “‘S getting more frequent, so there’s probably something happening in the deeper levels.”

He hums sympathetically, arms giving out to let him rest by you, hands folded over stomach, knuckles relaxed.

“You should take a nap, then.”

“Dreaming in the Dreaming?”

“Yea.” Charles bares the whites of his eyes and tilts his head and parts his lips for a false snore. He smiles, eyes going crescent. “Can’t hurt.”

You think about it and roll over onto your side, white shirt pressing into the knoll. You’re breathing softly, nose brushing his, almost in orbit. And maybe, just maybe, Charles can map the path of your exhales over his philtrum.

“Good night, Charles.”

He gingerly peels off his overcoat, using it to shade your head as you begin to doze off. You mumble something that sounds like thanks before the strain of your chest starts to slow in its breaths.

“Sweet dreams, angel.”

“Here’s a funny little thing,” announces Charles, sliding up to you. You’re curled up on the ground, knees-to-chest and gazing on a hazy sunset over the cross of your arms. “Most of the beaches I’ve seen are rocky as hell. So all this sand is aces.”

You turn your head, eyes soft in the grainy light and furtive smile hidden by your shoulder. The sea comes up to meet you, kissing the toes of your shoes.

You’re in a knit jumper, deep blue and soft. The wings of your usual white shirt stick out over the collar, tips creased. Something about the light here paints you gentle, edges burnished and smudged like some romantic movie.

“Well, I guess this is a first for you.”

Charles laughs softly, folding his lanky frame down to sit on the surf. He takes your posture, knees pressing into his chest—the hem of his trousers ride up just enough to let a slice of skin peek out from over his long socks.

“Kind of, yea.” He scoots just enough to brush his side with yours, head tilting to rest on your shoulder. “Is that okay?”

You hum, a light note. “I—er, I’ve never really been close to a lot of people,” you tell him, pressing into his side, knuckles slotting between his. “I’m not very memorable. But you….”

“Yea,” he slides in between the gaps of your sentence, “I remember, you know, when I’m not in here. I wonder what you’d like when I pass a shop or a restaurant, and where you’d go first in a library or museum.”

Your smile looks like a moon rising, full-bodied, teeth gleaming under your parted lips. “You’re a real sweet talker, Charles Rowland.”

“Just Charles,” he mumbles, something in him unraveling too quickly to place. “Please.”

You say his name equally as quiet, almost hidden by the waves singing softly. The weight of the syllables on your tongue sounds heaven-sent, too fitting to be true.

He leans just a little closer, something gravitational in your gaze capturing his weight. Your lips look soft, slightly chapped, and maybe he wants to run his tongue over them in a way that he shouldn’t because you’re friends.

Oh god.

Your nose slots beside his, the gentle point of it grazing his cheek. Temples touching, sharing breaths. Oh god.

Charles finds something soft blooming behind his ribs when you finally press your lips to his. He presses closer, a hand coming to graze your jaw, tilting your mouth deeper into his. It’s like he’s a real person, feeling his nerves sing with your touch and his mind go blank under your mouth.

On a technicality, he can’t, but it’s nice to imagine, nice to dream about it. You pull away and he goes chasing for one more like a tide does the moon.

Your thumb presses against your mouth, near incredulous, eyes glassy and pupils wide. “Oh.”

“Yea.” His giddy chuckle is barely swallowed down, bubbling in the line of his throat. “Woah.”

“Sorry, I didn’t—”

“No, it’s—” Charles lets his lungs fill for a breath, holds the air behind his ribs in anticipation. If there’s a heat crawling invisible up his spine, nestling in the divot at the base of his back, he ignores it. “Can I have another one?”

He likes the smile lines in your skin. Wants to push his thumb into the dimple of the wrinkle, feel the dip beneath his touch and the fold over his nail.

You kiss him again, soft and sweet as the sunrise, and Charles has never felt more alive in his entire life.

p.s; wrote half of this pre-release and drew some of my characterization for charles from lockwood & it turns out i was slightly right BYEE,, also to whoevers reading this u can barge into my inbox to talk plsplspls im bursting at the seams about this guy phewww

sharing is caring; please rb and leave nice thoughts ₍⑅ᐢ..ᐢ₎ ᡣ𐭩

© klineinie 2024 — do not plagiarize, translate, or use ANY works to train ai

[stvrchaser]

"this is my comfort artist!" proceeds to play the saddest music you've ever heard in your life

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listening to music i listened to when i was 14 makes me realise im still the same person but taller & with a rare esoteric wisdom that can only be gained through suffering

[stvrchaser]

so glad u giggled ur way through writing because then at least one of us is happy. now me personally? i’m gonna take a few business days to recover

It’s dawn, golden rays settling over the rippling field, Midas-touched and bright, the striking purr of crickets petering out as the sun rises higher.

Oh my god??? Your ability to evoke such a vivid image in my head never fails to amaze me. Sometimes I have a really hard time picturing the stuff I read, so it’s always such a fun treat to read your descriptions. You really know how to set the scene. I could literally read thousands of words of you just describing the setting.

“I have orders to—,” you tell him quietly, hesitant, arm coiling to draw your blade across his bared throat. You don’t finish but he already knows what they asked you to do. “Can you forgive me?”

No words. Just tears. This is so intimate and heartbreaking and tragic and you’re crazyyy for this (and I’ll tune in. every. single. time. It’s a crime to deprive myself of talent like this, however miserable it makes me)

— 𝗳𝗮𝗰𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝗳𝗮𝗰𝗲 (𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗮𝘁 𝗺𝘆 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗱𝘀)

⤷ it's dawn, it's winter, and he's a traitor; aka you find each other even through the war (you always do) / luke castellan x (gn + child of aristaeus) reader

⤷ wc; 2.2k | canon typical violence, swords and stuff, luke and jubi fight literally, angst + tracklist: in hell — japanese breakfast

⤷ the jubilee recollection ( masterlist )

♫ — with my luck, you’ll be dead within the year

It’s dawn, and Luke Castellan is wandering a meadow. The tall grass brushes against his shin, twines their verdant blades around the rough fabric of his pants in a braid.

It’s dawn, golden rays settling over the rippling field, Midas-touched and bright, the striking purr of crickets petering out as the sun rises higher.

It’s dawn, and Luke is lost in a field, Backbiter in hand—and he could just score the blade against the soft dirt ground, open a door back to the Princess Andromeda, but…. Well. It’s winter too.

It’s winter, and Luke Castellan is a traitor. It’s winter, persimmon season, and he knows that the grove back at camp must be bursting with the deep orange fruits.

It’s winter, and he knows that you didn’t get his botched Iris-message, because you’re standing across the sea of gold staring at him, sword and shield in each hand, a short dagger at your belt.

It’s winter, it’s cold. Luke shivers under your gaze, hawk-like with the way your back is turned against the rising sun, shadows dimming your features. He’s never felt real fear, not before this moment.

It’s a chilly, bleak, mid-winter dawn when you rush forward, sword arm drawn and locked, and even through the fear that thrums through his veins and chokes his stomach in knots, Luke can’t help but feel glad that you’d be the only one to hurt him like this.

♫ — laid on your side (i cried and cried)

You’re fast. It’s a trait of yours that reminds Luke of a wasp, stinger sword-sharp and darting with the intent to kill. It’s also a trait that makes Cabin 11 the most desirable for teams in capture the flag.

You disappear from his line of sight when you start moving, ducking into the field and using your surroundings to your advantage. Luke surveys the rippling grass, notes where the blades distort with irregular movement.

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

There’s a blur of orange, a shade reminiscent of persimmon skin spiraling under the peel of a knife, and Luke’s chest vibrates with the brutish shock of your shield.

He grunts, recognizing the burning press of bronze against his skin in the impression of Hermes’ staff, the Caduceus—two snakes locked in combat, their imprinted and detailed heads digging into his clavicle as if to bite, to draw blood.

You make a grating sound in the back of your throat, frustrated and low, grit and gravel and years of war weighing on it.

( Luke’s spine tingles, a snake curling and braiding itself between the segments of bone to settle comfortably at the base of his back as something he only identifies as a longing satisfied. )

His heels dig into the soft dirt as a deterrent against falling, battle instincts automatic. Luke punches away from your shield despite wanting to pull you closer, knowing that you’d try kill him right here, right now.

Not that he’d really mind—if he was to die, he’d rather it be by your hand instead of someone else’s.

“Look,” and he’s backing away, hand outstretched in caution, Kronos yelling and rattling at the cage in his mind—fight, coward!, “I’m sorry.”

Your teeth grit, jaw muscles feathering in the shadows of your face. Luke wonders then, if you could process the fact that he’s lacking any defense. He’s not carrying a shield, armor-free, prone and exposed like the soft meat of a crustacean, the vulnerable belly of a rabbit.

You rush him again, fueled purely on offense, the short, classically shaped blade of your sword bouncing off the long and tempered edge of Backbiter. Luke has already given up on seizing the upper hand, concentrating all of his willpower into deflecting and watching his blade.

Luke lets you take your rage out on him, weapons ringing clear in the meadow, a violent song of bronze against bronze. He thinks you know now, that you can’t cut him. Percy probably told everyone that he’s bathed in Styx already.

Your energy begins to ebb, peters out to the point where you collapse your shield into the form of a protective arm guard, the fitted plate of divine metal glinting in the growing dawn.

He takes the moment to retreat, and you circle around each other, carrion-starved vultures out for flesh. Luke’s head is stuffed with the cotton-like clouds that hover above the field, exertion blurring his vision and pounding at his pulse.

You advance again, slow, almost like a hunter, and Luke recalls the sparring rings back at camp, remembers how you’d tackle and wrestle him into the dirt, sword thrown to the side. But you aren’t kids anymore, and a sword discarded is a life wasted.

One thing he forgets to consider in his distracted reverie: the field’s form. It splays a blanket over a hill, the grass growing into an incline, hardy little blades spreading across the earth regardless of condition.

He steps back again, shoe wavering uncertain in the air for a moment before finding shaky footing on lower ground, and Luke knows that you’ve driven him to the edge. You’re still wordless, silent; he wonders briefly if this is just a dream, a one-in-million of the nightmares he has.

( Maybe it is a nightmare, being hunted at your hands, but he finds himself grateful nonetheless that you’re here in front of him. )

It’s not a dream, just reality in the way your advance begins to gather energy and speed, blade tucked harmless against your side, and you leap across the dirt, bounding through trampled grass and into his waiting arms. The exhausted warmth of your body wakes him and he wraps you into a protective embrace as the two of you fall backwards.

You both tumble down the hill, grass on grass on bodies on shirts, choked grumbles of pain and definitely bruised knees, and when you settle in the dust, Luke finds the razor edge of your sword tucked against the impenetrable skin of his prone throat.

♫ — hell is finding someone to love

He’s laying on his back, spread-eagle like a butterfly-cut chicken, ready to be flayed open as you straddle his stomach, thighs locked against his body in a cage. Luke finds himself unafraid of death, staring you deep in the irises in the only familiar way a remorseful lover can.

“I missed you,” is a rasp that frees itself from the cold bronze press of your blade, threaded with a breath unraveling to the quick, “I missed you a lot.”

You push your sword harder into his throat, his skin dipping under the weight. You’re breathing terribly hard, and he can see how your eyes sparkle with saline, bloodshot and red-rimmed with grief.

There’s a smear of dirt across the high curve of your cheekbone, a cobweb-thin cut beading with red at your brow. His heart writhes with regret—he gave that to you while parrying to deflect a vicious blow.

“You lied to me,” and your jaw is locked, a gate of enamel that holds back the cry that he can almost feel trembling deep in your chest. “You left me.”

“I’m sorry.”

You breathe deeper, a near gasp in a battle with yourself to keep your oxygen. As you shudder, your tears free themselves and pepper onto his dust-smeared cheeks. His right hand, lax against the earth, crawls across the ground to lay gently on your hip.

“I have orders to—,” you tell him quietly, hesitant, arm coiling to draw your blade across his bared throat. You don’t finish but he already knows what they asked you to do. “Can you forgive me?”

“Of course. But this won’t work,” he confesses, and in a blur too quick to catch, your sword is buried into the dirt above his head like a grave marker, and he presses the dagger from your belt into your hands, the tip grazing against the weak spot at his left armpit.

Luke relaxes under you, tilts his head back to gaze at the burgeoning sky for the last time. He’s never thought about how blue it is until now, the vibrancy of it matching the outer paint of the Big House and its Big Shed back at camp.

“Go on,” and he’s smiling when he whispers it, even though he’s practically letting himself die at your hands. “Do what I can’t. You’re my real Achilles heel, anyway.”

“No,” you choke, wavering in despair. Something warm blooms in Luke’s chest, fills the cavity to the brim, seeping between every organ and vessel. “You’re not being fair right now. I see you for the first time in years, and we’re supposed to be enemies, you can’t just—”

“Please.” And it’s gentle in the way he gives you permission, his forgiving hand teaching the strong jut of your hipbone circular postulates and geometry. “Do it for Annabeth.”

You choke on another cry again, a half-aborted gasp for breath, fingers curling into claws that bunch at his collar. “I can’t.”

Luke smiles, soft, and it’s almost like he’s thirteen again, losing his first sparring match to you, wooden swords forgotten in the dust of the sparring ring because you’d gone for his ticklish stomach like the brilliant fighter you were.

( He’s happy that you’re taking the life that he’s already given wholly to you. )

“Be strong for me,” Luke rasps, throat drying. His right hand, the only free one, travels from where it had circled shapes into your hip, up your waist and past your shoulder, rough palm stopping at the side of your neck. “Hold fast.”

His thumb reaches up, brushes away the tears that are beading on your lashes, dries the damp tracks that are already eroding at your cheeks. Luke finds it endearing that your face still heats at his touch despite the biting cold and the situation you’ve found yourselves in.

“Brave the storm,” you whisper the words back almost automatically—he knows that you’ve never heard such a saying, knowing it only as a thing that’s reappeared from some forgotten dream—escaping in a breath carried slow by the eddy of air that wraps around the two of you in the dust of the hill’s foot. There’s something tucked secret into the fold of your lip, a brutal and solemn set that makes you look like you know more than you let on.

You move too quick for Luke to process in the moment, the needle-sharp point of the dagger releasing from where it presses into his underarm, and the blunt end of the hilt digging into the side of his neck with a speed he can only recall as ruthlessly efficient and a pressure that bleeds dark spots into his peripherals until he finally falls into a dreamless sleep.

Luke wakes alone and spread-eagle in the field, skin bitten cold and pale by the winter’s breeze sifting through the tall grass. Backbiter pins down a familiar weight in his outstretched hand, and he takes grip of the tempered sword, digs the tip into the soft dirt to pull himself up.

When he’s fully upright, ankles rolling sore and knees chilled to the tendon, he finds a pack by his imprint in the dirt. Your pack, to be specific.

It smells sweetly of a mandarin’s citrus and the lacquer of the cottage’s floors when he lifts the flap, jars of honey and the deep orange skin of persimmons gleaming in the dim light. There’s a paring knife too, small and silver, initials scratched rough and ancient into the handle.

( He makes out ‘L.C. +’ encased in an uneven heart, realizes that you’d been through his things after he left and tongues at the soft tissue of his cheek in embarrassment. )

The knife, still sharp, slides under the persimmon’s skin, peels it in one go, the shiny orange thing falling to the ground in a neat spiral like a piece of confetti. It’s high noon, mid-winter—at this time, you’re probably having lunch somewhere, maybe messaging Annabeth and Percy through Iris.

Would you tell them that he almost let you kill him? Would they think of you as a traitor for letting him live?

The persimmon splinters sweet under the brunt of his teeth, and he keeps the seeds in his pocket for later—maybe he’ll grow them as a reminder, or something; Luke scores a mark in the ground, gazes into the swirling door it opens, and….

He looks back, up the hill blanketed in the tall ripples of grass, verdant blades twining around his ankles. Looks at the trampled areas, dirt peeking through the field’s hardy roots, the imprint where he laid under your blade and wished for a forgiving death.

Luke thinks then, before he leaves, that this is how you’ll find each other again, staring across an ocean of distraction and only finding the face you’ll always look for in a crowd. You always do.

( Eight billion people. You. )

p.s; giggled a lot when i wrote this, sorry...to the anon who asked if jubi and luke were going to meet during the war even tho hermes said not to, you awakened something so terrible that i wrote this in like. a day. honorable song mention to mitski’s i want you 😗😗

comments, nice asks, and esp REBLOGS are greatly appreciated!!

luke tags (open); @melllinaa @amortencjja @niktwazny303 @arsonnaire

#if nobody got me ik the jubi collection got me

[stvrchaser]

i have so much love for writers and artists and musicians and everybody willing to share a piece of themselves with the world

#eternally grateful that i have the privilege of seeing how other people love

[stvrchaser]

a world alone

the killerverse masterlist

pairing: luke castellan x daughter of ares reader

word count: 6.6k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah.

Thinking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

“Skin cancer.”

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

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

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

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

He hums. “Your scars look really badass.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He scoffs. “I’m not five years old.”

“Sure.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I hope you can swim fast.”

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thanks.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You really think so?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You huff. “Well, thanks.”

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

“Ha ha,” you drawl. “Fuck you.”

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

“Probably.”

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

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

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

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

“I guess.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Luke turns away, smug.

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

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

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

“You want that?” he asks, quiet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Luke nods.

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

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

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

You feel like you’ve been set on fire.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of course.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The fire goes out sometime later.

—

Luke dreams of you that night.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re just a baby.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

my commentary on the ending

the killerverse masterlist

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

tags in the rbs!

[stvrchaser]

btw love will make you do crazy things. like glowing pink in the night in your room for example

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“wanna listen to the sound of you blinking, wanna listen to your hands soothe, listen to your heart beating, listen to the way you move”

a/n: quick luke drabble based on an adrienne lenker song ^_^ i’m very excited for the last episode! (no i’m not my heart is hurting)

warnings: minor spoilers for PJO! angst, angst. angst, fluff.

luke castellan is a quiet lover.

he likes the small things- the sound of your heart beating when he rests his head against your chest.

the sound your hands make when you scratch his scalp ever so gently.

the shaky breaths you take in between giggles.

he sits in silence and he listens. because he’s already memorised your face and the feeling of your hands on his arms and the taste of your neck and the smell of your hair.

now, he needs to memorise your voice, and your sniffles, and the nasally laugh you release from your lips when you’re pretending his jokes are funny.

he needs to memorise all of it.

because sooner rather than later, if he wants to hear the way your tongue clicks against your teeth after you say something sarcastic, or the humming noises you make in the middle of the night, or the melodic whimpers you let out when you’re trying to guilt trip him- he’ll only have his imagination to rely on.

sooner rather than later, he’ll have to learn how to think up your body next to him when he sleeps at night.

sooner rather than later, he’ll have to conjure up a version of you, alive only within his mind, if he desires the comfort and tranquility that you once brought him.

because luke left as quietly as he loved. the luke you knew, anyways.

#angst to adrianne lenker is SICK AND TWISTED #and i was seated the whole time #what about it

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grief is weird because sometimes you’ll mourn someone for a decade and, one day, you’ll realize you don’t remember the sound of their voice anymore. and then you get the sense that you’re longing for something but you have no clue what it even is.

#hit with such a profound wave of sadness tonight that im channeling all my feelings into a very long journal entry #and by that i mean a combined vent on both tumblr and the notes app

[stvrchaser]

send this to the twelve nicest people you know or who seem to have a good heart and if you get five back you must be pretty awesome. 🩵

OH MY GOSH HI ILYSM!! this was such a sweet thing to wake up to thank you, and absolutely expect to see this in your inbox ☺️❤️

and i love seeing you on my feed! you’re so talented!!

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three clarisse fics in my drafts and not a single second to actually work on any them 😔

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the search for glory

pairing: luke castellan x ares!daughter reader

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

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

word count: 6.9k (i need help)

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

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

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

You hate swords. 

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

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

"Again."

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

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

"Again." He repeats.

"No," you say. 

"No?" 

He almost laughs at you.

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

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

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

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

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

But that was years ago when you were kids. 

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

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

"Again."

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

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

"Again."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The blade is heavy in your hands. 

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

Your eyes snap to him. "Second?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Are you angry?" You taunt. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hate it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You were."

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

"I know."

"So, I think we're even."

"You think?"

"You literally went ballistic."

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

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

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

"Okay?"

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

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

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

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

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

"For old time's sake." He says. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You call each other names all the time."

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

“So what?” you mutter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ew," Percy makes a face.

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

"In the rain?" Grover's eyes widen. 

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

"I'm being observant," she declares.

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

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

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

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

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

"We never kissed."

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

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

With that, Annabeth puts on her hat and disappears. 

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

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

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

"Seriously?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm fine." 

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

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

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

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

"Something's bothering you," he observes.

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

“And how would you know that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

"LUKE!" 

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

"LUUUKE! LOOK AT ME! GROVER!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What you said earlier. About being even."

"Oh?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why can't you move away?

"Gotcha."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yeah, that's it."

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

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

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

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

"You like fighting with me?"

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

"Don't lie."

"I'm not."

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

"Would that do it for you?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Mind your business, you little Krakens!"

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

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

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

[stvrchaser]

you guys.... as someone who's type in women is, essentially, mean sapphics.. nobody gets the mean masc protective lesbian clarisse agenda like me and dior.

[stvrchaser]

Reader: So anyways... I have a crush on Clarisse. Thoughts?

Percy who was just zoned out until now: And prayers girl- what?? 😦

[stvrchaser]

fellas, DO NOT fall for the person who reminds you a little too much of yourself unless you want a little voice in your head going “well if you like them, and you’re so similar, what makes you think they don’t like you?”

#don’t get me wrong #it’s a valid question in many cases i’m sure #just not my particular case

[stvrchaser]

nobody look at me i’m living through gold rush by taylor swift in real time

#this is the worst possible person i could have possibly fallen for #but what am i if not perpetually suffering #i know like five other people who have liked this person and with perfectly good reason