Stanford!art X Reader

FEIGNING FOR YA’

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CHAPTER 1

pairing: luke castellan x fem!reader

summary: as a little childish act of rebellion, you try dating your friend, Luke Castellan, to really piss off your parents (for a actual real reason, not the small things they hate). what was supposed to be no strings attached turned into a little more than just childish revenge.

warnings: slow burn, college au, smau, fake dating to dating, cursing, clarisse x chris, aged up! pjo charcters, yn is older sister figure to percy, luke and thalia are older sibling figures to annabeth

a/n: i have re-written this one too many times and am still in the process of revising and proofreading to give you guys the best condition of the start of this fic series! So sorry for the delay!

series list | next

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“Are we still friends?”

“What?”

“Can we be friends?”

“After all of this?”

“After all of this.”

It would be a disastrously great story to tell your grandkids (if you had grandkids). Quite embarrassing really, telling someone about how naive and oblivious you were (still are.)

It was spring. The flowers in full bloom. Allergies spreading like wildfire due to pollen. Thankfully, it was raining cats and dogs, so no stuffy noses tonight. You decided to come back from your hometown two days before spring break ended. As much as you were homesick after spending so long at college, your family made you feel homesick for college.

It was torturous. Questions and questions about your college life were thrown at you left and right. From potentially having a significant other to your major that you were taking to who you were friends with to being disappointed in your college major to asking about your grades to being disappointed you party to just being disappointed.

All in all, truly you loved your family. Really, you do. Your aunt made great pastries. Your dad a great cook. Your uncle made really funny (bad.) jokes. Yet, they found some way to critic your every decision and move you make. You hated it.

Your shoes squeaked on tiled stairs. Lugging up your suitcase, you just prayed you didn’t fall. The tiles were wet because people’s shoes were wet. You did not want to pay a hospital bill after barely paying for college.

By the time you got to your dorm, you were already half asleep, running on an overpriced yogurt parfait from the airport. The soft comforter of your bed calling out to you like a siren’s song.

You were lulling off to dreamscape when a loud ominous creak filled the silence. “C’mon. You gotta be better than that. Lock your doors.” Luke’s “charming” voice replaced your peace. “Some creep could waltz in and kidnap you in your sleep.”

“Supposed you’re that creep?”

Luke has been attached to your hip since highschool, freshman year. Both of you have suffered through each other’s numerous cringy phases (only to bring them up for the annual birthday post on instagram).

He was one of the friends your parents despise. They always ranted about how they’ve been a bad influence to you since highschool.

“Depends.” The bed dipped under his weight. “Do you think you look okay enough to go out?”

“I guess, but I feel disgusting.” You answered. Confusion swimming through your mind. Where was Luke going with this?

“Are you upset because of a recent event?”

“Kinda.”

“Upset enough to stay holed up the whole evening?” Luke rephrased.

“No.”

“Okay.” Decision.

You heard his windbreaker swish as his arms wrapped around your waist. “Luke!” Like a bag of potatoes you were tossed over his shoulder. “You fucking—!”

He grabbed what he was originally came in your dorm for and exited. Silena, Chris and Clarisse were waiting for Luke and now, you. “Welcome back!” Silena said, masking her shock.

No one knew you were coming back home early and Luke wasn’t surprised. As much as you wanted to stay in your dorm and sleep, you were glad to be with your friends.

The restaurant was loud and lively. The rain ceasing. College students were celebrating their final few days before classes started up again. The occasional drunks here to watch the multiple football games going on. Your friend group chose to celebrate.

The dim lighting was a stark contrast to the bright TVs that played various football and soccer games. Drinks slid down the bar into the awaiting consumer’s hand. Alcohol got everyone in a better mood during the night (though the same cannot be said the morning after).

A waiter placed down the five shots Luke had ordered, in toast of your unexpected return and the final days of spring break. The shot glasses made a tiny clink before the liquid burned your throat. It left a warm feeling in your chest.

Silena and Clarisse went to take photos via Chris the cameraman. The three went out to the porch of the restaurant bar. You opted out and Luke stayed with you. You weren’t exactly in the nicest clothes.

Another round of shots were placed on the table. Luke ran his fingers through his curls and checked his phone. “What’s bothering you?” He asked.

“What?” You tore your gaze from the two girls and looked at Luke.

“You said you were upset about something, but not too upset to not go out.” Luke explained. “Better to get it off your shoulders than to bottle it up.”

You roll your eyes at his last sentence and sat up in the cushioned restaurant chair. “Family.” Luke laughed a little at that. He’s known how perfect your family wants you to be.

You shove your face into your hands as if you were reliving the reunion all over again. “I didn’t even do anything bad or get in serious trouble this time!”

Luke nodded along slowly, taking in your every word. You can’t tell what he’s thinking as you continue on your little rant. Yet his face shifts as you rant.

“Why are your grades like that?”

“I saw your Instagram post. Drinking? Really?”

You parrot some of the questions your family said to you, with their fake smiles and judgmental eyes. You were old enough to drink! “And then they started talking my ear off about you all. Clarisse! Thalia, you—Silena and Chris” The list goes on. Luke knows it. You know it.

“Why are you friends with that temperamental girl? Lord knows the trouble you’ll be roped into with her.” You mocked your parents, aunts and uncles’ words. “I don’t like how that Thalia girl. Too rebellious, disrespectful too!”

“That one girl is an airhead. Head in the clouds.”

“Don’t get me started on that Luke boy again.”

“Get better friends.”

“Maybe you hang out with a different group.”

“They piss me off! And well maybe they’re concerned about my wellbeing, but—they keep harping me about everything little thing I do.” You groaned and rubbed your eyes exhausted. “Which is why I came back early.”

“So piss them off.” Like that was the hardest thing you do. You unintentionally trigger their judgmental side without even trying.

“What?”

“It’s what I do to my dad. I piss him off most of the time when he tries to come back.” Luke shrugged. “If they hate all of us so much. Date one of us, shit—date me, you’ve known me the longest. I think they’d be pretty pissed about you dating a bad influence.”

“That’s so childish.” You commented, but it was good, but it could work. Rebellion never hurt anyone that bad. Well, maybe your aunt will have a “heart attack”, but it should be fine.

And you were out of options to try and get your family off your back.

So the next afternoon, when Clarisse was out, Luke and you sat on your bed and conjured up a contract for this temporary relationship; a day before break was over.

“I don’t see why we need a contract.” Luke sipped on a juicebox. The sunlight providing a nice atmosphere in your dorm room.

“I saw it work on a show I watched kinda.” You whispered the word “kinda” under your breath. It was a long time since you’ve seen the show.

Luke raised an eyebrow and set the empty juice box on your desk. “So…uh—terms and conditions.” You typed out on a Google doc in big bolded letters. How do you start this?

“We could “date” from now until the start of summer? I think that is a long enough rebellion.” You suggested and looked at Luke. “I have to go back home for Easter and my little sister’s birthday, but then I have that family trip in summer…”

“Sure.” Luke agreed.

You looked at him silently asking him to elaborate. “From now until that family trip is over. I’ll go to Easter, the birthday and the trip.”

“You aren’t trying to mooch off me for the trip are you?”

Luke slid the computer to him and typed out the first terms and conditions. He ignored your question with a smile and a shake of his head. “You have to come with me when it’s Mother’s Day though.”

You agreed to that relatively quickly. Your mom and dad were always out of town that day. “I’m fine with kissing on the cheek and forehead and holding hands, if you are?”

“What? No lips?” Luke teased with a grin.

“I haven’t had my first kiss yet.” You muttered in embarrassment.

“Fine, no lips.” You were slightly surprised Luke didn’t tease you for not having your first kiss yet. He typed it on the computer. “And no sex.”

“No sex.” You agreed. “And we cannot let the others know. They’ll start talking and then it’ll get to my family somehow—”

“Okay…no sex and no talking about the fake relationship.” Luke chucked and typed it on the computer. “This seems good enough for a contract right?” He still thinks the contract is stupid.

You smack his shoulder. “This is serious, Luke! If I wanna piss of my parents I have to do it right.”

“Okay, sweetie.” He spoke sarcastically and typed his name at the end of the document. You did the same. “But there is no right way to piss off someone. You just do.”

After signing the temporary dating contract, Luke and you talked about the story of how you got together.

Luke and you supposedly have had some unrequited feelings during highschool. Both of you began talking over spring break after a drunk conversation and decided to give dating a shot.

Then, there was the fact that Luke and you had to announce the relationship. So, social media it was. Which prompted you to grab his hand. “Where are we going?” Luke asked as he was dragged off your bed.

“A cafe.” You held his hand, fingers lacing together. “I’m hungry after all that and it would be great publicity if we went out holding hands.”

“Whatever you say.” Luke rolled his eyes, though he didn’t mean it. “Then I guess I’ll be the good boyfriend and pay.”

“Really?” You asked and looked back at him.

He shrugged. “Why not.”

Luke and you held hands and talked about whatever came to mind. Like you usually did as bestfriends. He opened the cafe door for you and paid for your food and drink.

Maybe “dating” Luke won’t be the worst thing ever. Rebelling doesn’t seem to be all that bad now. Maybe everything will turn out fine. You rebel against your perfect family and Luke will get a free trip as a reward. Yeah, you’re sure things will turn out okay. Maybe.

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taglist:

@happy-mushrooms @m00ng4z3r

☆ I WANNA BE YOUR MAN

“his band is playing tonight, at seven,” annabeth reminds you, with the knowing air of someone far wiser, and far older, “you should go.” (1.7k)

contains: loser older brother luke castellan x fem! reader. mortal au. pt 2 of parent trap but can be read standalone ish. guest appearances! rock / metal music references.

kashaf’s note: i think i can call myself a melomaniac now

LUKE CASTELLAN HAS always occupied that in-between space, the no-man’s-land between something and nothing — his indecipherable gaze as his cold, black, and blued knuckles grazed your cheek when he tucked a lock of your hair behind your ear swims around your mind endlessly. despite how each thought, each expression, each breath is as familiar to you as your own, you have never quite known where you stand with him, regardless of how quickly he seemed to inhabit a piece of your soul.

the familiar weight of the mixtape that luke made you feels unusually burdensome in your hands, mirroring the heft of the songs on it that you have painstakingly committed to memory, each sleepless night’s offerings of tossing and turning becoming a reoccurring ritual. 

you had popped the tape in your walkman immediately after luke had handed it to you, incognizant of the way his eyes softened as you concentrated on the music, trying to identify the first song. 

“this is that band you like — l.a. guns, right?”

“you’re a regular sherlock,” luke had said, smiling and sarcastic, twisting his silver rings.

“shut up, no i know this song,” you say, tilting your head and snapping your fingers. “its — um — i wanna be yours? nono, don’t make that face at me, asshole, hold on… i wanna be your man?”

hues of pink crept up his cheeks, and you basked in the warmth of his answering crooked grin, the feeling wrapping around you like the caress of a summer night. 

you uselessly stirred the spoon in your now stone-cold cup of chai, leaning across the kitchen table with your head propped up in your other hand. the phone taunts you from its corner on the counter, sitting just by the clear jar of blue cookies, its black hue a beacon among the sea of greens (the cabinets, the tiles — you liked to tell sally that she should try her hand at interior design one of these days) — as of late, the jacksons’ kitchen has become somewhat of a refuge for you. 

you set a steaming china cup down in front of him, listening to the sounds of percy, annabeth, and grover in the living room, pulling out the chair in front of him with a slight creak on the slightly worn wooden floors, and watching him as he taps his fingers along to bob marley’s soft crooning, “little darlin’, stir it up”, lost in his own world.  

“luke,” you say, breaking him out of his revelry.

luke sits up straight, meeting your amused gaze, “yeah?” he asks, reaching for his chai, and mumbling a quiet thanks as he sips it.

“you look kinda stupid when you think,” you say, watching him blink before taking the bait, and hiding your smile of satisfaction behind your cup.

“y’know, this is why you have a black hole for a heart,” he says, grinning crookedly, filling you with an indescribable longing to reach out and trace his grin. 

“what?” you laugh, “what does that even mean?”

“just that you’re mean,” luke says, and the afternoon sun chooses that specific moment to encompass him in its glow, like a kiss from apollo. “and that you’re emo.”

“you literally say this every time, oh my god, i’m not mean or emo.”

“because i’m literally right?”

“you like him,” annabeth says, sympathetically, standing in the doorway, arms folded across her chest, her braids resting across her shoulders, glancing from your untouched cup to your face, an expression of pity gracing her features. her presence caught you so off guard that you don’t even question where percy ran off to, who was usually attached to annabeth like a conjoined twin. 

“i know,” you say, shivering slightly, the revelation feeling strangely empty, although you suppose the same part of your soul that recognized him had always known, a small inkling reappearing with every argument, and every nudge. 

“he likes you,” annabeth adds matter-of-factly, interrupting your stream of consciousness. 

“i know,” you repeat, picking at the lint on your sweater, and while this revelation is supposed to be shocking, it is also hollow, as you suppose your soul also knew this with every hushed conversation in the dead of night, and the slips of silence that only spoke volumes around him.

“his band is playing tonight, at seven,” annabeth reminds you, with the knowing air of someone far wiser, and far older, “you should go.” she turned and stalked back toward the living room.

you sat still for a minute or so, before sighing and putting luke’s mixtape (even in your misery, he is somehow always there) in your walkman, putting your headphones on as axl rose trilled, ‘i said, baby you been lookin' real good’ in his voice that took a while to get used to — something luke gave you a heads up on.

you sighed, conceding to annabeth’s attempts to rewrite whatever fate had pushed the two of you apart, from the hours-long phone calls that dwindled into short, clipped conversations, you can’t necessarily blame annabeth for trying to fashion a phoenix from the ashes of your friendship. 

you stood up, grabbed your jacket off the back of the chair you were sitting upon, and walked into the living room, pausing for a few minutes to watch the scooby doo episode on the screen along with percy, grover, and annabeth, who were currently sprawled across the softly carpeted floor, arguing over monopoly.

“you’re literally cheating,” percy was saying.

“i’m the banker, i’m supposed to be innocent,” annabeth argued back.

“percy, i saw you steal a couple dollars behind annabeth’s back,” grover added, rolling the dice.

“guys,” you said, interrupting their three-way argument, “put on your jackets and shoes, we’re going to the fair in five minutes.”

you ignored the way the troublesome trio exchanged glances, walking through the hallway covered in framed photos of percy and sally, going to wait by the door for them.

“so,” percy says, all-too-innocently, “why the sudden change of plans?” once the four of you are a couple of blocks away from his apartment.

“no reason, just wanted to see what was so hot about the fair,” you say, digging your hands in the pockets of your jacket. once more, you ignore the glances the trio exchange. 

“so it doesn’t have anything to do with a certain curly-haired individual that we’re currently seeing less and less of?”

you keep walking, trying to feign ignorance, although the question was so pointed even you were concerned with percy’s audacity, “what’re you talking about?”

“oh, nothing,” percy smiles. “just the way —”

“— the two of you —”

“— were inseparable —”

“— for a disgustingly long time —”

“— and now you’re not —”

“— but we’re going to the fair because —”

“— his band is playing —”

“— and you’re going to try and fix —”

“— your troubles in paradise.”

you blinked slowly, as the three of them did jazz hands, matching shit-eating grins on all of their faces, “how long did it take for you guys to rehearse that?”

“a week, give or take,” grover says, and annabeth shoots him a glare.

“not the point, the point is, we support you.”

“gee, thanks, all i really needed was the support of three twelve-year-olds.”

“three twelve-year-olds that know you’re stupidly in love with luke castellan,” percy points out.

“okay, y’know what…” you trail off, frowning.

annabeth nudged percy, “not the point here, again.”

“fine, fine, fine,” you huff, as the four of you approach the brightly illuminated fair, looking for the ticket-selling booth, “i’ll buy you guys tickets so you can go hang out on the rides and i’ll go to the concert.”

the three of them nodded happily, making a beeline for the cotton candy stand a few feet away. you shook your head before pushing through the bustling crowd to look for the concert stage. when you finally do find it, after three excuse me’s and four sorry’s, the concert is already in full swing, with what looks like a mini moshpit already forming somewhere near the center.

once you’ve pushed your way to the absolute front, the darkening night sky serving as a backdrop, the harsh lights illuminate all five individuals on the stage, with a gorgeous girl with shaggily-cut hair and a raspy voice singing as lead (thalia? you think you remember luke telling you on the phone late at night once). however, your gaze almost immediately fixed on luke, who was playing a riff on his electric guitar, looking as hot as ever, his crooked grin on full display.

the band is covering l.a. guns’ ‘i wanna be your man’ at the moment, and you’re suddenly very grateful to annabeth for her unsubtle nudges, because you would’ve missed out on this sight of luke castellan, the view of his muscled arms bulging out of his band tee is permanently seared into your memory.

you’re almost sad when the show is over though, finally realizing why luke liked concerts so much, from the crowd surfing to the drumstick tricks during solos (beckendorf, you think the drummer’s name was — luke had mentioned him before) to the lead’s insane vocals, to the girl with long curly hair that stood next to you for most of the concert (probably the band’s most enthusiastic fan), you savored every minute of it. however, you’re glad for the chance to corner luke afterwards, climbing onto the stage as the crowd begins to disperse in waves, and realizing the curly-haired girl was already among the band members packing up their instruments, helping the curly-haired bassist pack his things. 

luke barely looks up at your sudden arrival. “what’re you doing here?” he asks, packing away his guitar.

“i’m here to see you,” you say, trying to drive the hint home.

“i told you that you didn’t have to come see the band if you were busy,” luke says, uncomprehendingly, making eye-contact with you. 

“i like you,” you say insistently.

“c’mon, let’s not kid ourselves right now, you said we’re friends so you don’t have to try to make me feel better,” luke says, shrugging and looking away from your face, rubbing the back of his neck.

“i listen to your dumb mixtape every night, luke castellan. does a person who’s not into you do that?”

there is something so raw about the way he looks right now, with his expression stilling as his cheeks are colored in swathes of red. 

smiling at his dumbstruck expression, you surged forward to kiss him, ignoring all the wolf whistles and “get some, castellan” enveloping the two of you, tangling your fingers into his hair, his hands coming to rest upon your hips.

© sayoneee on tumblr. do not repost, plagiarize, translate or claim any of my works as your own.

The people have spoken! I will start writing ch. 5 of FFY. In the mean time have:

A SAD SONG

A cute like hadestown inspired fic with the reader and luke with absolutely no tragedy…

A SAD SONG

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pairing: luke castellan x daughter of apollo!reader

summary: in which the gods and goddesses were hungry for something new.

warnings: not proofread! tlt/tlo spoilers! major character, death, angst

a/n: inspired by @basicrese post!! i did use some hadestown lyrics/lines from the show, so credit to anaïs mitchell & Rachel chavkin.

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The seeds of doubt sprouted: grasping at his mind, tangling itself through his hope. The Fates whispered in his ears, step after step. It was cold and dark. He never felt more alone.

Where is she?

Where is she now?

Orpheus gripped his guitar tighter. Every step he made felt like he was getting further and further from the surface. He chastised himself at every turn.

Why would he let me win?

Why would he let her go?

Why am I to think that he wouldn’t deceive me just to make me leave alone?

Where is she?

Where is she now?

Eurydice’s words fell on deaf ears. She was desperate to let Orpheus know she was here. Right behind him. She’d always been. She kept staring at the back of his head. It brought immense comfort as they walked and walked out of the Underworld.

They were so close. Eurydice could taste the surface, until she saw the contours of his face and his warm eyes filled with affection. A soft gasp fell from her lips.

“It’s you.” Relief filled his heavy heart when Orpheus saw her. His love. What had he done?

“It’s me.” She committed his face to memory, the warmth of his gaze comforting her. “Orpheus—” Helplessly she reached out, hoping to embrace her love once more. Instead of the warmth she wanted, cold hands grasped her arms, dragging her back to the Underworld.

“Eurydice.” His voice cracked. Frozen, staring at the place where she was.

Thus ended the tragedy of Orpheus and Eurydice. Hermes told tales to entertain Olympus, but the gods and goddesses were growing tired of the same old tales: the same old tragedies. They craved something new.

Hermes gave a small smile and shook his head to the stars. He gave them what they wanted as a new tale formed in his head. It was a sad tale, but he was going to tell it anyway, even if it involved his own son.

Luke Castellan was a hungry young boy. A runaway from everywhere he’d been. He was no stranger to the world. No stranger to the wind.

The daughter of Apollo was a poor girl, but she had a gift to give. She could make you see how the world could be. In spite of the way that it is.

Yet, the son of Hermes had seen how the world was. When he fell, he fell in spite of himself…

In love with the daughter of Apollo.

It was the height of spring when Luke and you fell in love. He was scorned and pitied after failing his quest. Feelings of abandonment, fury and betrayal simmered below his lighthearted jokes and his composed smiles. He learned he could only fend for himself. To hell with the rest.

Until he met you, your sole being made him feel alive and when he fell—he fell hard. He was enamored your bright smile and optimistic personality. You’d caress his hair gently while singing a small tune. He learned to lean on your shoulder when nightmares passed, hoping your light was enough to shine through the darkness that overtook his head, plagued his sleep.

It wasn’t enough.

You awoke to the sound of shuffling. Blinking the sleep from your eyes, Luke was sitting on the edge of his bunk. His shoulders tensed as he held his head in his hands. “Luke…?” Your voice hoarse.

He turned his head towards you. An apologetic smile graced his lips. “Hey…” His voice low, raspy from underuse. He stretched over to give you a kiss on the forehead, keeping you from sitting up.

“You okay?” Your arms wrapped around him. He melted, burying his head in your neck, hiding his turmoil.

“Mhm.” And for a night, your light clouded the promises the deep voice in his dreams offered. It was a temporary distraction, one that wouldn’t last long—one he couldn’t keep relying on.

You should’ve known. Blinded by your ignorance and his empty reassuring words of his health, Luke disappeared from camp. Hit with the reality, you did everything in your power to find him.

But, he did not want to be found. Not by you. He knew if he saw you again, your eyes, your smile—your light would melt his purpose, his mission, leaving him putty in your arms (he missed it.)

Your original camp songs disappeared from the nightly bonfires. Your light faded ever so slightly. Regret, worry and guilt simmering beneath your smiles.

You swore you’d catch glimpses of his curls or his broad frame when you were in the city. You were chasing a ghost—holding onto the love you had for him. The restless nights plagued you, but instead of Kronos’ words, music notes coaxed you to stay up and write.

The sheets of music hidden beneath your bunk. The song for your and Luke’s hearts only. You were holding onto something you should’ve let go.

But, like the tragedy tale of Orpheus and Eurydice you met once again, but not under joyous circumstances.

The Battle of Olympus was treacherous. You kept catching glimpse of Luke—but instead golden eyes replaced the ones filled with affection you used to know.

You saw how the world could be, no longer naive to the truth. Your siblings perished in the battle. Cabin Seven went from being the largest cabin to the third smallest in the span of—gods knew how long. In spite of it all, you saw the beauty after it ended.

A bright light flashed. Exhausted from fighting hellhounds, empousas, telkhines, etc, you trudged your body to the Hall of Gods. Bone collided with the marble floor.

After all these years, you saw your love. Without the golden eyes or scorned look in his face, albeit bleeding, it was him. Your eyes filled with relief and warmth when you saw him, finally.

A soft gasp fell from his lips. He expected hatred, frustration—but found nothing but affection from you.

“It’s you.” You whispered, cupping his face with your battle-worn hands.

Luke leaned in, knowing it was the last time he would feel your touch, your light, your love. He committed your face to memory, so that when he goes—he goes remembering your face forever.

“It’s me.” He reassured, turning his head to kiss the palm of your hand.

So many words were on the tip of your tongue, but they kept themselves from forming properly. All you could do was stare at Luke, at last, after so long. Tears blurred your vision. Luke reached up to caressed your cheeks. Remembering your face with his eyes wasn’t enough.

“My love.” His voice so soft, gentle like he was admiring your light again: getting lost in your songs, melting in your arms and loving like the Underworld was shining.

Luke knew you had a lot to say. Words laced with frustration, concern, confusion, but all meant to be said with love.

“Luke.” You whispered as if your heart wasn’t breaking into a million pieces. Communicating in a silent stare, he felt your words, taking them to heart.

You couldn’t leave him with that and so you hummed.

The familiar notes that plagued your nights emitted from your lips. Luke’s hand dropped form your face with a thud. He shut his eyes and smiled as he listened. And for a moment, just for a moment, it felt like you and him were back at Camp. His head in your lap as you caressed his hair. The sounds of the forest accompanying your singing.

His breath stilled. The cold hands of the Fates grabbed him after you said your goodbyes, but his dead body held your warmth, your light. He remembered your face long after he made it to River Styx.

And you?

You sang your private song again for the world to hear. To keep him alive and you were going to sing it again with your love so full for the runaway.

Thus ended the tragedy of the son of Hermes and the daughter of Apollo. The gods were throughly entertained asking to hear it again and again. Until, it was an old song and they craved something new.

Hermes shook his head up to the stars. Heart stricken with grief and sympathy. It was a sad tale. A tragedy. And he was going to tell it again. The gods and goddesses of Olympus knew how it ended, but they were going to listen again and again as if it might turn out this time.

See, the daughter of Apollo was a poor girl, but she had a gift to give. She could make you see how the world could be. In spite of the way it is.

And the son of Hermes was a hungry young boy. A runaway from everywhere he’d been. He was no stranger to the world. No stranger to the wind.

Yet, the son of Hermes had seen how the world was. When he fell, he fell in spite of himself…

In love with the daughter of Apollo.

It was the height of spring when Luke and you fell in love.

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MY INBOX RANDOMLY CLEARED OUT, TF? please send in the luke requests, i faintly remember ones about luke and the reader on a mission. i’m so sorry!! 😭😭

but also, luke one shot tonight as an apology

levii's jeans | art donaldson x reader

warnings: SMUT 18+, cursing, mention of death, other than that pure fluff! this is an au!!

listen while you read! cowboy carter masterlist

The front door creaked open with a heavy groan, hinges warped just enough by time and South Carolina summers. It was nearly seven, the sun starting to melt behind the hills, and the smell of baked peaches and browned butter still clung to the air. You didn’t turn around at first—you knew that sound, knew the lazy thud of boots on hardwood, the way it was always followed by a deeper, familiar exhale.

"Hey, pretty girl."

That voice. Rough with exhaustion, low with affection. You grinned into the sink as you rinsed the last plate, suds clinging to your wrist.

"Hey, sexy," you shot back, glancing over your shoulder.

There he was—sweaty, sun-kissed, a walking southern daydream. Art Donaldson leaned in the doorway like he hadn’t just spent nine hours mending the southern pasture fence. Shirt half-buttoned, jeans hanging low on his hips, hair matted down by his cowboy hat. Lord, he looked good. And he knew it.

He set his gloves on the table, walked over slow, like he had all the time in the world. You felt his eyes sweep over you, the soft hum of appreciation under his breath.

"What’s that smell?" he asked, nudging your shoulder with his nose, his hands already at your waist.

"Peach cobbler. Still warm," you murmured, leaning back into him. "And don’t try to distract me with your hands in my back pocket again, Mr. Donaldson."

He chuckled against your neck, voice all gravel and syrup. "Can’t help it. These jeans were made for my hands."

You elbowed him playfully, but he just held you tighter, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. Outside, the kids yelled something about the sprinkler, laughter echoing off the barn walls. Inside, it was just you, him, and the scent of something sweet.

You glanced toward the window. "We should call 'em in before they track mud everywhere."

"They’ll come in when they smell supper," Art murmured, spinning you gently to face him. His hands found your waist again, pulling you close with a soft insistence that made your breath catch. "Right now, I’m busy."

"Oh, you’re busy, huh?" you teased, letting your arms drape around his neck.

He didn’t answer with words. Just slid his hands into the back pockets of your jeans, pulling you flush against him as he kissed you slow, deliberate—like the whole day had been leading to this moment. The kind of kiss that made you forget the dishes, the sprinkler, the porch light you’d meant to fix.

And then—

"Ew! Moooom, Daaaad!"

You broke apart with a laugh, forehead pressed to Art’s as the kids barreled in, barefoot and soaking wet, each dragging a towel behind them.

"Told you they’d come in," Art grinned, pressing one last quick kiss to your cheek.

"Go wash up! Supper’s ready," you called, still flushed and smiling.

As they darted down the hall, Art leaned in close one more time, whispering, "I'll get you later. Trust me."

You swatted him with a dish towel. He just winked, sauntering off to set the table like the smug, lovesick cowboy he was.

It still feels like a dream, some days. That this is your life now—boots by the door, cobbler in the oven, laughter echoing through the halls of the house Art had once only known through childhood summers. Every July, without fail, Granny Donaldson would bring him here. She’d plop him in the porch rocker with a popsicle or sweet tea, let him chase fireflies until he collapsed into her lap—half-asleep, sticky with sunshine, a gap-toothed grin still ghosting his face.

She’d been the kind of woman who ran the ranch with a firm hand and a warm heart. She smelled like lemon balm and old books. She called him her golden boy and taught him how to ride, how to tend tomatoes, how to tell the weather by the sky. When she passed—just after he turned pro—Art hadn’t cried. Not at first. But when the letter came saying the ranch was his now, he spent three hours alone in a locker room, staring at the tile floor until it blurred.

It was only natural for him to end up here when he finally retired. Tennis had taken so much—his shoulder, his fire, his sense of peace. And he gave it willingly, until there was nothing left but a name in a bracket and a body that ached in the mornings. But it had also brought him the two greatest things in his life: Tashi, his old coach and lifelong friend (now very happily with Patrick, which still made Art smirk), and you—his wife, the only person who made him feel like more than what he’d won.

The ranch isn’t just a home. It was a return to softness. To something earned, not chased. And every day that begins and ends with you? That’s the real trophy.

Dinner is a little chaotic—just the way you like it. Art’s already got one kid slung under his arm like a sack of potatoes, spinning them in slow circles while they shriek with laughter. The other clings to his leg dramatically, demanding equal attention, and he obliges with a tickle attack that ends in a pile of giggles on the kitchen floor. The kids bounce around the table, hair still damp from the sprinkler, cheeks flushed from sun rays and childhood. Eventually, he wrangles them both into chairs, brushing flour off one forehead and plucking a wild dandelion from the other’s curls. He sets the plates down with a mock flourish, tossing you a wink when the cobbler gets an audible gasp from your youngest.

You scoop mashed potatoes with one hand and tap a napkin under your daughter’s chin with the other. Across from you, Art is dramatically cutting the kids’ chicken into cartoonishly small bites, complete with sound effects and mock chef commentary that makes both children giggle so hard they almost forget to eat. Art slips into the seat across from you, that easy smile on his face as he passes the butter for the rolls like it’s the most important task he'll ever do.

"Daddy, why do your arms look like tree trunks?" your son blurts, halfway through his cornbread.

Art raises an eyebrow, flexes—just a little—and leans in. "Because I wrestled an alligator for that fence today."

The kids shriek with laughter. You roll your eyes. "He fixed a post and scared off a chicken. Don’t let him fool you."

Art shrugs, smug. "Still counts."

The table rocks with warmth—forks clinking, stories swapping, feet nudging under the table. You catch Art watching you more than once, chin resting in his hand, his gaze soft and full of something weighty. Something content.

He doesn’t say it out loud, but you know what he’s thinking.

This. Right here.

This is the life he never knew how much he needed.

"Who wants some vanilla bean with their cobbler?" you ask, already reaching for the ice cream scooper.

Two voices chorus, "Me! Me! Me!" as the kids bounce in their seats, bowls clutched in eager little hands.

A few minutes later, they’re curled up on the porch swing and an old quilt, cobbler bowls in their laps, bare feet swinging just above the floorboards. Fireflies flicker at the edges of the yard, and the sky is fading lavender, dusk giving way to the velvet hush of night.

You and Art settle into the rocking chairs side by side, plates balanced on your thighs, each holding a generous scoop of cobbler crowned with slowly melting vanilla. The whiskey glasses clink softly between you, golden liquid catching the last threads of light.

Art exhales, low and content, boots crossed at the ankles as his chair creaks back. He leans just enough to nudge your shoulder.

"You really outdid yourself with that crust," he says, voice warm and a little raspy.

You hum, licking cobbler from your spoon. "You say that every time."

"Because it’s true every time."

The breeze slips through the screens, carrying the scent of honeysuckle and cooling earth. One of the kids lets out a sleepy giggle. You glance over to see your daughter bump her brother with her elbow, both of them sticky and happy.

Art watches them too, then looks back at you. That same look from dinner—like everything in the world could stop, and he’d still be right here.

And for a moment, you let it all be quiet.

Just the chairs rocking. Just the cobbler cooling. Just the love lingering in the air like smoke and the essence of promise.

Eventually, the kids are carried off to bed—sleepy and syrup-smeared, full of stories and sun. You wipe the last of the cobbler from your son’s chin and braid your daughter’s damp curls as she yawns in your lap. Art reads the bedtime book tonight, his voice deep and slow as the kids cuddle into your sides. You sing their goodnight song softly—one passed down from your own mother—and tuck in blankets with whispered kisses to soft foreheads. When your son insists on 'just one more hug,' you oblige, pulling him in tight, while Art straightens the stuffed animals along the windowsill.

You close the door with the practiced hush of parents who’ve done this a hundred times and hope to do it a hundred more.

Back in the kitchen, it’s just the two of you again. The plates are stacked in the sink, the cobbler dish nearly empty, the last of the whiskey poured. You stand at the counter, sleeves pushed up, warm water running. Art takes the towel without asking, drying beside you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

"Thinking about calling Mr. Sutter next week," he says. "That north field’s about ready for leasing. We could run that hay crop deal we talked about."

You nod, handing over a plate. "Might be time to start writing out some numbers. You want me to look over it tomorrow?"

He hums his approval. "You always catch what I miss."

You glance sideways, smile tugging at your mouth. "Damn right I do."

He laughs—low and boyish—and sets the last plate down with a thunk. His hand grazes your lower back, slow and lingering. You don’t have to look to know what’s coming next.

"You think the kids are really asleep?"

"I think they’re out cold," you murmur, turning to face him.

He steps closer, hands skimming your hips, eyes dipped in amber and mischief.

"Then c’mere, pretty girl. Been thinking about you all day."

And when he kisses you this time—without an audience, without the interruption of sticky hands or squealing laughter—it’s deep and unhurried. Like every quiet thing you’ve built together. Like the kind of love that grows slow and steady and pulls you under just the same.

He backs you up against the counter, mouth still on yours, one hand slipping beneath your shirt, the other tugging you close. You hum into him, fingers curling into the fabric of his tee, and let yourself be kissed like that. Warm. Wanting. Home.

Eventually, you're tugging him down the hallway by the collar of his shirt, both of you muffling laughter like teenagers about to get caught. The bedroom is dark except for the moonlight pouring in through the sheer curtains, and the air smells faintly of cedar and sun-warmed linen.

Art closes the door behind him, and when he turns, his eyes are hungry in that soft, familiar way. Not greedy—just full of you.

"Think I should get you out of those jeans," he murmurs, brushing a thumb under the hem of your shirt. "You know, before I do somethin’ irresponsible."

"Pretty sure we passed 'responsible' an hour ago," you grin, already reaching for his belt. He laughs, kisses your cheek, your jaw, your collarbone.

Clothes come off between kisses, tossed somewhere near the foot of the bed. The mattress dips beneath you both, and he settles between your legs like it’s the only place he’s ever meant to be.

It’s fun, and messy, and filled with the kind of intimacy that only grows from years of loving someone deeply and daily. He makes you laugh when he nearly knocks his knee on the nightstand, and you whisper a soft “bless your heart” into his neck as he groans dramatically.

His hands roam slow—callused palms skating down your sides, thumbs brushing over your hips like a prayer. Your back arches under him as he kisses down your stomach, his name a breathy sigh against the pillow.

"Want me to take care of you?" he asks, voice low and velvet-smooth.

You nod, dizzy and already undone. "Always."

He does—patiently at first, tongue tracing soft, devastating circles that have your thighs tightening around his shoulders. His fingers find their rhythm next, slow and purposeful, curling just right until you’re gasping his name like a benediction. You fist the sheets, hips rising to meet every glide, every press, every flick of his tongue that turns you molten. He doesn’t stop until you’re trembling, crying out with your head thrown back and your voice wrecked with gratitude.

You’re still breathless when he crawls back up beside you, and you drag the back of your hand across your damp forehead, grinning like a fool. You press a kiss to his jaw and murmur, "I would’ve suggested we move down here a lot earlier if I’d known you were so passionate about cowgirls."

Art blinks, then grins, teeth catching the light. "Oh, you know exactly how I feel about cowgirl."

And before you can laugh again, he flips you with practiced ease, hands already trailing down your sides. His mouth finds your neck as you settle into his lap, and you’re both breathless with laughter and heat all over again.

You brace your hands on his chest, rocking your hips just enough to tease him as you sink down, slow and steady, watching his eyes flutter shut and his jaw clench. He leans up to press a line of kisses along your collarbone, then latches onto your chest with a low groan, tongue swirling, teeth scraping just enough to make your breath hitch. He murmurs something hot against your skin—“so damn soft”—before sucking again, then pulls back just long enough to say, “drives me crazy when you ride me like this.” His hands guide your rhythm while his mouth keeps alternating—suck, praise, kiss, filth. He worships every inch he can reach—your breasts, your sternum, the space just below your throat—like he can’t decide which part of you he needs most. Each word falls between kisses, between gasps, until your name is all he can say, all he can taste.

"Jesus," he breathes, hands gripping your hips like he’s hanging on for dear life.

You start to pace yourself now, slow and deliberate, grinding your hips in lazy circles that make his grip tighten and his mouth fall open. He leans in again between bounces, mouth latching onto your breast mid-movement, sucking you in deep before pulling back with a pop and whispering something filthy right against your skin—only to repeat the cycle all over again. Praise, suction, gasped-out adoration. One moment his mouth is dragging over your nipple with aching focus, the next it’s murmuring "you’re unreal, baby, fuck, just like that" into the curve of your chest. Every time you rise and fall, he meets you halfway, a soft grunt escaping him each time you take him deeper.

He’s a mess beneath you, flushed and panting, eyes locked on where your bodies meet. His mouth is far from quiet—he keeps talking, filthy and sweet in the same breath. Telling you how good you feel, how perfect you look like this, riding him like you were made for it. Every time you grind down, he gasps, eyes flickering up to yours with raw need.

"You’re gonna kill me," he groans, voice wrecked.

You lean forward, hands on either side of his head, and whisper, "What a way to go."

He laughs, breathless, but it catches midway when you clench around him. "Just like that, baby," he groans, hands guiding your hips into a deeper grind. "You’re so fuckin’ beautiful—look at you. You’re gonna ruin me." And when you lean down, pressing your mouth to his, he doesn’t stop. Even between kisses, he’s murmuring praise, coaxing your name, losing himself in the heat and rhythm of you. You ride him harder now, bouncing and grinding, letting your name fall from his lips like a prayer.

You feel it building in him before you’re even close—his hips stuttering, his head falling back into the pillow, a low moan breaking in his throat. You watch the tension coil in his body, watch the way he tries to hold off, tries to wait for you.

But you know him. You know that look.

"Let go," you whisper, hips rolling just right, your hand splayed over his chest. "I want to feel you."

And he does—with a strangled groan and a shudder that rocks through him, his hands seizing at your hips as he spills into you, mouth parted in awe.

You don’t stop. You keep going, slower now, chasing the rhythm that still curls in your belly. He’s still hard enough to keep going, to keep thrusting up into you with trembling effort, trying to give you what you need.

You grind against him, one hand slipping between your legs, and he watches—absolutely wrecked—as you take yourself over the edge. The sound you make is soft but guttural, head thrown back, muscles tightening around him until he gasps again from the overstimulation.

You finally sink down against him, chests sticky, breath tangled. He wraps his arms around you, and neither of you says a word for a long, perfect moment.

You collapse onto his chest, hearts racing in sync, bodies flushed and sated.

For a while, it’s just the sound of your breathing, the slow stroke of his hand across your back, the cool brush of the sheets as you both shift into something softer. You press your cheek against his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart under your skin.

He finally breaks the silence with a low murmur. "You’re unbelievable."

You grin against his collarbone. "Takes one to know one."

He kisses your hair. "We should do this more often."

"What, have incredible sex while the kids are asleep and the house is clean? Groundbreaking."

He chuckles, deep and warm. "Okay, yeah—but also just... this. You and me. Like this."

You lift your head, meet his eyes in the dark. "You know we’ve got it good, right? Like really good."

His expression softens. "I know. I think about it every day."

You lay there a while longer, curled into each other, letting the silence stretch. Not empty—never empty. Just full of peace.

Eventually, he shifts to reach for the blanket, tugging it over both of you with a satisfied sigh. You nestle closer, nose brushing his shoulder.

After a few quiet beats, you murmur, "I know you miss her."

Art doesn’t answer right away. His hand is still moving gently across your spine, slow and thoughtful.

"Every day," he finally says. "She’d love this. The kids. The way you bake like it’s a sacred ritual. The porch. The damn cows. All of it."

You tilt your head to look up at him. "She’d be proud of you, you know. You turned this place into something really beautiful."

He nods once, eyes a little glassy but steady. "I hope so. Sometimes I think I hear her voice out by the tomatoes. Or smell her tea on the breeze. I don’t know if it’s real or just memory playing tricks. But it’s comforting either way."

You press a kiss to his chest. "It’s real enough."

He breathes out, a quiet laugh. "She always said I needed to slow down. I guess she got her wish."

"Yeah," you whisper, closing your eyes again. "And look at everything you made when you finally did.

Art’s quiet for a second, then grins. You feel it more than see it—the slow curve of his mouth against your temple.

"How about we make some more?" he whispers, pulling you gently by the hips, shifting beneath you just enough to suggest exactly what he means.

You laugh softly, lips brushing his as you murmur, "You’re insatiable."

"You love me."

"Unfortunately," you whisper back, already kissing him again.

The covers shift. A soft rustle, a giggle, a breath caught between lips. His hands are already moving again—lazy, warm, familiar—and your laughter is muffled against his mouth as he flips you over for the second time that night. The rhythm starts up again, slow and teasing, and somewhere beneath the hush of crickets and the creak of the headboard, one of you says something ridiculous that makes the other laugh so hard you both nearly lose the moment.

But not quite.

Because even in the dark, even between gasps and jokes and tangled sheets, it’s all still love. All still home.

-----

tagging: @kimmyneutron @babyspiderling @queensunshinee @hanneh69 @jamespotteraliveversion @glennussy @awaywithtime @artstennisracket @blastzachilles @jordiemeow @soulxinxthexsky @voidsuites @elsieblogs @deeninadream @nozhdyved @asheepinfrance

A liiitle King Of New York snippet that I won't be finishing any time soon but it looked sad left unshared in my gallery

Find my other animatics here!!

the reader to luke after chapter 4

really honored to be on your rec list!!! thank you!!

loba’s 1k celebration! 𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩

guys thank you so much for 1k (almost 2k by the time this is out!) props to you guys for putting up with my shitposts cause i yap a lot and post nonsense half the time loll. i’m so so grateful and thankful xx 💖

anyways this post will consist of some of my favourite pjo (mostly luke castellan) works i’ve read so far (in order from the first to most recent ones i’ve read) because i think they deserve so much love and recognition! <3 make sure to check them out and reblog!!

ps! some of the work is nfsw so please respect the author and don’t interact if you are a minor!!

back to navigation. masterlist.

༊*·˚ luke castellan

i hate you by @chaussetteblanche

sly swordsman by @krkiiz

lovers lake by @balletfilmss

a place with you by @supercutszns

something out of my dreams by @celesterayel

the olive theory by @neo-nomatrix

daylight by @tangledinlove

all the stars by @initialchains

how to get a girl’s attention by @scwheeler

deception by @chaussetteblanche

this blurb with child of poseidon!reader by @birdiewriteslit

rotten to the touch series by @supercutszns

bleedin’ me dry by @atlabeth

head over heels by @sayoneee smau!

i won’t say (i’m in love) by @calliopeslyrics

lavender roses by @breadbrobin

parent trap by @sayoneee

where you are by @murdrdocs smut!

one year with luke castellan series by @tangledinlove

you’re beautiful by @ilycosy

rearrange your dreams by @murdrdocs smut!

a wish your heart makes by @mischiefmoons

always an angel, never a god by @cobrakaisb

ghost in the wind by @amoreva

this blurb by @apollos-calliope

this blurb about a bet with luke by @murdrdocs smut!

nobody's business by @voguesriot smau!

you don't know me by @kestisvrse

luke as your mom's friend's son by @too-deviant smut!

yes i’m so glad you’re writing for clarisse because im obsessed with your writing.

could you write something with reader being a really confident and vain daughter of aphrodite who channels her mothers war goddess attributes and is one of the best sword fighter in camp? also playful teasing from reader and sparring because 1 i need justice for the massacre of aphrodites character and 2 clarisse x aphrodite!reader is essential to my life force. haters can hate.

maybe also show how other campers interact with her as well, like luke showing percy around idk

LOVER AND A WARRIOR

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pairing: clarisse la rue x daughter of aphrodite!reader

summary: clarisse has always been a hard hitter and a tough lover, but a certain someone from aphrodite makes her soft. and she doesn’t entirely mind it.

warnings: use of “y/n” once or twice, kinda switches to percy’s pov, fighting, almost death(?), fluff, mentions of beckendorf!!

a/n: i really hope i did this request right! enjoy! i was trying to crank this out as soon as i could.

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Everyone thought you’d be claim by Ares (even though your dad was still very present and not a god) or at least by Athena. You were smart and a hell of a lot strong; both mentally and physically.

So it came to a surprise when Aphrodite, the Goddess of Love, claimed you.

Though, Clarisse knew you were her daughter. You were every bit of passionate: about life, hobbies, interests, her. You paid attention to every little detail that flew out of her mouth (she noticed).

It didn’t help that you channeled your mother’s past title and abilities. After all, in Sparta, she was known as Aphrodite Aeria, “Aphrodite the Warlike”.

Clarisse was head over heels for you the minute she saw you fight (you even bested Luke, how was she not supposed to not fall in love with you?)

You and Clarisse started dating at the peak of the Summer Solstice and never looked back. No one knew Clarisse could be so…tolerating to someone outside of her cabin, especially to one of Aphrodite’s daughter.

Percy surely didn’t expect it either.

Clarisse was so callous and you were compassionate. He guessed that thing about opposites attract was true.

“Look, you want attention here, dummy?” Clarisse spoke condescendingly to the newest camper. She just couldn’t believe a scrawny kid took down the Minotaur. “You better be ready for it when it comes.”

Clarisse made Percy flinch and walked past Hermes’ kids. An amused smile plastered on her face. Luke shook his head as Ares’ kids passed which begged the question. “Why don’t they mess with you?” Percy asked.

“They know better.” Luke smirked.

“Luke’s the second strongest swordsman in camp.” Chris added with a proud grin.

“Who’s the first?”

“Y/N.”

Suddenly, you walked by in perfect timing. Percy’s eyes glued to you. You witnessed the whole situation and went to talk to your girlfriend. “Clarisse…” You muttered.

Percy watched Ares’ daughter soften at the mention of her name from your lips. Nothing in the facial expressions, it was all in the eyes.

“She doesn’t look menacing or intimidating—” Percy acknowledged.

“Don’t judge a book by its cover.” Luke reminded as he glanced back at you and Clarisse. “Got my ass handed to me when I sparred with her.”

Percy looked at Luke. “Really? Can I train with her?”

•••

It wasn’t odd to find Clarisse in Aphrodite’s cabin; nor was it odd to find the two of you cuddling on your bunk. Sunlight beaming onto the two of you and the only sounds were the campers outside. All of your siblings when do go enjoy camp activities while you read to Clarisse.

Ancient Greek flows from your mouth like the water from River Styx. Clarisse had one arm haphazardly thrown across your abdomen. Her head perched on your shoulder.

Silently, she admired the way your lips moved. The way you were invested into the story. The way she can see all the tiny details on your gorgeous face from this position.

Clarisse found herself falling for you more and more with each second of the day. She was aggressive and intimidating. She was Ares’ favorite daughter after all, but she found herself becoming more softhearted to you.

“You’re my…everything.” Clarisse whispered fondly. It might’ve been a slip of the tongue, but it made you blush.

She never failed to make you blush. Your rosy cheeks complimented with a sheepish grin. “Clarisse…” You mumbled and put down the book.

“I mean it.” Clarisse stated firmly and sat up on her elbow. Her heart locket fell from her orange Camp t-shirt. It matched yours, except you had a sword charm. Clarisse insisted on giving it to you (after threatening Beckendorf once or twice) for your two month anniversary.

“I know.” You reassured and pecked her lips quickly. Clarisse smiled and dived back in to press her lips into yours

A giggle erupted from you. A rush of dopamine intoxicating your brain. It always felt like the first kiss with her. “I love you, I love you, I love you—” You repeated into her lips.

“I get it, lovergirl.” Clarisse chuckled as she pulled away. Her cheek tinged with pink. “I love you too.”

She continued. “Will you keep reading? You sound so beautiful when you read—”

“Clarisse!” You exclaimed. Your blush even more prominent.

“What? I can’t tell my girlfriend she has a voice from the sirens that could bring the Big Three to tears?”

“Clarisse…”

“Keep reading, lovergirl.”

•••

“This is safe, right?” Percy asked Grover.

“Yeah! Perfectly safe.” Grover reassured with a smile.

Luke had recruited you to help train Percy (Clarisse just so happened to tag along). There were swords in all of your hands. You were going to fight Clarisse and Luke and Percy doubted you were that good.

It was all to help Percy learn more about fighting with the sword and a great way to show off. The forest clearing gave enough room to really show your talents in combat.

“Don’t go easy on me!” You yelled at Clarisse and Luke on the other side of the clearing. Percy and Grover were sitting on rather large rocks anticipating the battle.

You took a deep breath and your eyes hardened. It was like switched had been flipped within you. You shifted your foot, sliding it in the dirt. The air felt different. Tense, sharp, lung-crushing.

Clarisse and Luke tightened their grip on their swords and gave each other a confirming nod. Percy and Grover watched as the three older half-bloods charged one another.

With precision and quick-wit, you were able to keep Clarisse and Luke on their toes. Luke shifted his weight in his feet before charging you again. You clashed swords. Celestial Bronze against Celestial Bronze.

Your ears perked up on shoes slapping against the dirt. You ducked causing Clarisse to swing at Luke. There was no trace of a your warm sweet smile Percy saw, only your hardened gaze.

It was kind of scary to see Aphrodite’s daughter switch up so fast.

Clarisse cursed under her and swiped her sword as if flicking off imaginary blood. She met your gaze, her heart skipped a beat. She rushed you again and swiped your legs. You jumped back with the grace of a swan, but Clarisse parried her sword immediately after.

You riposted Clarisse when Luke cane out from behind Clarisse to continue an onslaught of attacks. You scoffed quietly, but you could never complain. It was a good workout.

Yet, a particularly heavy swing from you knocked Luke’s sword from out of his hand. His sword flinging at Percy’s head. Percy shouted and ducked.

“Oh my gods!” You exclaimed and slapped your heads over your mouth in surprise.

Clarisse and Luke stopped their attacks and looked back at Percy and Grover. Luke’s celestial bronze sword was sticking out of a tree. Percy centimeters away from the blade.

You apologized for your reckless behavior. Percy was more scared of how fast you switched from your focused nature to a worried attitude.

“It’s okay…” Percy laughed nervously.

“He said he was fine!” Clarisse called out and walked towards you, pressing a small kiss to your cheek.

“Sorry, Percy.” Luke apologized.

“A lover and a fighter. Got it.” Percy noted in his mind as you complained to Clarisse about feeling bad about impaling Percy.

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