Cuties

🥺 cuties

"percy is an unreliable narrator because he undersells his skills!" no!! percy is an unreliable narrator because he managed to convince the fandom that he was completely oblivious to both annabeth's crush on him and his crush on annabeth when in reality he just refused to say it explicitly to the reader!!!!!

mind you, percy almost confessed to annabeth TWICE within one night in the titan's curse, and the only reason he didn't was because he was having an anxiety attack the first time, and because athena told him off the second time. he's being vague on purpose but it's pretty obvious what he means when he says "there was a lot i'd wanted to say to annabeth" lol

just bc he doesn't say "i have a crush on annabeth" doesn't mean it isn't obvious he's upset he didn't get to dance longer with her CMONNN

percy throws a temper tantrum when he finds out annabeth was thinking of a "boy-free tomorrow" LMFOANKGFNJVNF

he has this habit of trailing off when he's saying something vague that implies he likes annabeth romantically CONSTANTLY

ok so obviously he knows he has a crush on annabeth half of the titan's curse is him trying to find new ways to say it

now for proof that he was aware of annabeth's crush

he's connecting the dots everyone annabeth took the time to store something they recovered on their quest together wow!!!!

he's defensive over how annabeth is the one making effort (showing she has interest)

reassures her that he barely knows rachel 2. tries to change the subject when he realizes it didn't help LOL

i mean you could argue he's like this bc he's aware he has a crush on annabeth and everyone at camp openly teases them about having crushes on each other but still

by this point he's basically openly saying he knows annabeth is jealous

anywayyyyy im tired now but i made my point

(not to mention in the show he sort of implies she has a crush on him by saying she's acting weird after they hugged)

"‘If you ever leave me again,’ she said, her eyes stinging, ‘I swear to all the gods –’ Percy had the nerve to laugh. Suddenly the lump of heated emotions melted inside Annabeth."

I thought I would jump back on tumblr and start sharing my recent art, in case anyone isn't on IG <3

delphi strawberry service 😈

oh my gawd

let it snow [joel miller]

It's cold on the trail. Joel keeps you warm.

12 days of pedro masterlist | my masterlist

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

rating: 18+ (mdni)

tags/warnings: an early winter smattering of daddy kink, feel free to picture game!joel or show!joel here, post-outbreak, jackson!joel, christmastime fuzzies, soft old man!joel, self-indulgent age gap (20s/50s), protective!joel, christmas tree hunting, hiking, sex in an apocalypse, snowball play(?), fingering, frostbite does not exist in this universe, thigh fucking, dirty talk, ellie loving dinosaurs, snowball fights, a joel who enjoys what little peace life brings him

word count: ~ 5.3k

read on ao3!

a/n: hi, lovelies - this fic is my contribution to @hellishjoel's 12 days of pedro celebration! everyone please check out the masterlist linked above to check out the other works from all of these amazing authors!! thank you endlessly to my parents @northernbluess and @tieronecrush for beta'ing this fic and reassuring me every step of the way - i love you both to the moon and back. i hope you enjoy and as usual, please mind the tags and please tell me what you think!! ❄️

super cute dividers by @saradika-graphics!!

Fall comes on slow. The leaves begin to bleed orange from the arteries. The air crackles with bright, cold wind that bites and pokes. Debris crunches underfoot and the trees shed their lustrous coats. It’s nothing like the onset of winter in Jackson—the downward crash of an overnight snowstorm that crests too quickly for the residents to prepare. 

It's a crystallised, overrefined flurry of soft flakes that gather on thatched rooftops and bury the barren, browning garden beds in the western corner of the village. It’s a nighttime assault of gnashing wind carrying fractals of ice and snow, and before most are awake, Jackson is snowed in.

The children are thrilled. All of them too small to have known anything but the walls of the town, they burst from their homes, half-zipped coats and bright-and-early tummy-rumblings and wondrous impatience, to stick out their tongue and catch the still-falling snowflakes. Parents and caretakers and teachers straggle, still pulling on their own boots and coats, in the effort to stay close to their charges. Snowballs are packed together and hurled from behind fortified walls of snow; passers-by are pulled unwittingly into the two-sided, relentless barrage; and the shrieks and cries crackling into the dead white air are born from the watery womb of promise, not terror.

There’s some joy yet to be found in this world. 

He isn’t participating in the frozen-water war, but he’s watching from the margins, leaning against the wall of the schoolhouse with his arms folded over his chest and his eyes hawklike as he observes your every move.

A group of young girls has inducted you into the battle and now you’re hiding with one of them behind a wall, packing a tight ball of snow in your hands, barely protected by your threadbare gloves. He can see the grip of the cold on your body, the way your breath circles above your head, a silvery halo. He can see the slight shivers that start in your lower spine and tremble their way up to the back of your neck, and he can see the phantom imprint of his hand resting there, warming your nape, curling his callused fingers around your brain stem and guiding you the way he liked. He can see your gentle touch not only in your hands but in your smile, in the soft application of snow to the top of the wall as it begins to melt, in the sweet curl of your mouth as you help a child who has fallen to their feet. 

Swiping an accumulation of snow from the child’s nose with your thumb, you mouth some words he cannot see. The child sniffs happily and wraps their arms around their mother’s leg. 

You sneak away from the barrage of snowballs and blow some warm air into your cupped hands. He shifts off the wall and begins to prowl toward you. 

When he’s close enough, when no one is around nor awake enough to notice, pulls you into the alley between the schoolhouse and the theatre.

His mouth captures your surprised exhale, stealing the visible puff of warm air for himself, swallowing it down as he pries you open for him. His hand rediscovers the slow, warm pleasure of its resting place on the back of your neck, gently steering you, unkindly pinning your body to the wall. 

He feels the itch of your gloves as you cup his face, and his other hand lifts to circle around both of your wrists, idly pressing them beneath his heavy coat, against his heart. It thuds strongly, pouring its rhythm into the grooves of your palms. 

He crowds you, making you small, his desire for this closeness prodding your inner thigh. You go oh-so easily, the gruff sounds he spills into your mouth tapping, chiselling, knocking down each vertebrae. Carefully, with the slide of his warm, wet tongue along yours and the greedy assault of his mouth, he shapes you for himself and turns you into the pliant little thing he needs you to be. 

You moan softly into his mouth, and his answering groan is something rabid. Your spine curves to him, gravitational pull, wooden slats of the building at your back tugging the fabric of your coat. He will kiss you until you’re breathless and preening under his touch because it’s what he always does. He will inculcate you with the knowledge that you’re for his eyes only. 

When he pulls away, he watches you chase his mouth with lidded eyes and kiss-bruised lips, and he smirks. His hand moves to your head, gently smoothing down your crown to your jaw, the way one tenderly pets a kitten. 

“Got you somethin’.”

You raise your brows. “You did?”

“Mhm.” He nudges his nose against yours and relishes the smile you give him—eyes crinkling at the corners, irises reflecting glistening sky. “Open your mouth for me first. Go on, now.”

You obey, letting your tongue loll out, more from habit than anything. Still, he’s pleased, unfurling the hastily-wrapped paper package in his pocket and placing the small square of chocolate on your tongue. 

You close your mouth with the help of his hand on your jaw, and the gentle snap of the chocolate bleeds the melting centre down your throat, disseminating the oaky flavour on your tastebuds. 

“Y’like it?”

His voice is a carving knife. You're split down the middle by his simple show of affection, spilling out into his arms, wrists still clasped in one of his big hands. 

“It’s good,” you tell him. “I’ve never…”

His smile digs a thumb into your open wound. “I know. Took it from the kitchen.”

You lick your lips and swallow the rest of the melted chocolate. Joel watches the action from the moment your tongue darts out to the moment it retreats. “Maria will have your ass.”

“Hmm, Maria can tell me off much as she wants. Wanted to give you somethin' sweet.” He presses in closer, hands dropping to your hips, kneading the pad of his thumbs over your hips. You're wearing old jeans whose waistband is fraying. “What do you say?”

This is the fun part of the game you play. His thumb brushes your bottom lip, teasing, begging entrance even though he knows there isn't a world in which you would deny him. You part your lips and take his thumb into your mouth, swirling your tongue and cleaning off the taste of leather that still lingers on his skin. 

“Thank you.”

He strokes your jaw with his thumb. “You wanna know what else?”

You're already leaning into his palm as he cradles your cheek, and he’s so proud of the volcanic thaw in your eyes. “What else?”

Joel reaches back into his coat pocket and places something small in your palms. It’s a smooth wooden figurine that smells faintly of sawdust and is carved in the perfect likeness of your home, which sits across the street from his. 

“‘s almost Christmas,” he says, suddenly so unsure of himself as he watches you turn the little shack over in your hands. “Thought you might like—”

But you're leaping onto him like a little monkey, your mouth crashing against his. It’s all lips and teeth and tongue and he can taste the chocolate he placed there just moments ago. The chimney of your miniature home prods his chest as you hold the figure close, tucking it safely between your bodies. 

“Easy, baby girl,” he says with a low laugh, not-quite pulling away, letting you lick into his mouth like a cat after milk. The scratch of his beard will leave patches on your chin and everyone will see them. He grins, tilting your head up and soothing the worried skin with soft kisses. 

“I love it,” you tell him, sighing into his body, “so much. I love it, Joel.”

“Good.” He nudges his nose against your temple. “Take good care of it, now.”

You nod, scratching at the too-long hair curling slightly at the nape of his neck. “How do you know that it's almost Christmas?” you ask him after a moment. 

“Took a guess,” he says, nipping your earlobe. “Y’know, the big tree they put up in the middle of town helps.”

You playfully tug his hair. “Asshole.”

“So goddamn mouthy. Gettin’ spoiled.”

“You're the one spoiling me,” you purr, mouthing wetly along his jaw. 

Joel chuckles. “Yeah. Guess I am.”

“You know”—your voice takes on a musical lilt—“I don't have my Christmas tree yet.”

Joel lifts his brows. “You want a Christmas tree?”

You lift one shoulder in a shrug. “I don’t really remember the holidays.”

The watery shimmer under your irises reminds Joel just how much more life he's lived. You were young when the outbreak started, both parents lost to the virus before the first week was out. You’d hid under your bed for three days straight before FEDRA found you. 

They’d taken you, underfed and dehydrated, to the Colorado QZ, where you spend most of your adolescence until it was bombed by Fireflies. You'd managed to sneak away before they could round you up like FEDRA had. You’d travelled with one group to the next before Jackson welcomed you. 

There's a scar on your throat, just below your jaw on the right side, and another at the nape of your neck. You've been held at knifepoint, you told him in the early days of knowing one another, by the very same people who'd taken you in as one of their own. They’d offered you up as trade for some deer meat. Joel traces the mark and feels his throat constrict. 

The kind of life you’d led before Jackson… He’ll make sure you never have to run again. 

“Let’s get you one,” he says. “Tomorrow.”

You pull away from him to meet his eye. “Joel…”

“Tommy’s got a saw behind the bar. I can take down a tree. We’ll bring it back ‘n’ put it up in your place.”

The grin creeps up at the corner of your mouth. “You're going soft, Miller.”

Joel just crowds you back against the wall and slants his mouth over yours. He has no problem going soft when he can feel the wooden edges of his gift to you prodding the flesh of his chest. Let it pierce him. 

Joel has few rules he's willing to push back on. At his age, he's lost some of his jagged edges, compromising on more. When he's got you like this, tucked into his side, wearing only his shirt, he remembers exactly why he enforces these few rules. 

The light is soft in the winter; it doesn't quite penetrate his eastern-facing window the way the summer sun does. He blinks awake, feeling you shift next to him, your nose buried in his throat. Your arms are wrapped tight around his middle, one leg hoisted over his torso. 

“C’mon, baby,” he grunts, throwing his arm over his eyes. “Gotta get up.”

He can feel your sleepy pout against his neck. “Mph.”

“Yeah, I know.” Joel chuckles, slumping back into the mattress. You shift so you're on top of him, your thighs bracketing his hips. Sitting up, you explore his bare chest with your soft hands, migrating down the length of his torso and his softening belly. He grabs your hips and soothes himself awake by rubbing his hands up and down your sides. The fabric of his shirt draped over your body shifts under his palms. 

“I’m patrolling with Tad,” you tell him, “so we’ll have to put up the tree when I get back.”

“No, you're not.”

You cock your head. “Tommy told me—”

“Tommy doesn't know what the hell he's talkin’ about,” says Joel. “You and I get the day off. And I”—he pulls you down toward him and secures his hand at the back of your neck—“know a spot.”

Your answering hum is playful. “You know a spot. I had a couple boyfriends back in the QZ who knew a spot, too, Miller.”

“I ain't your old boyfriends,” he says with a faint growl, landing a light smack on your ass. “There’s a good trail west of here. Some trees what would look nice all done up.”

You beam down at him. Your hair is somewhat tousled from sleep and the fuzzy light haloes your head. “You aren't worried about raiders?”

“Don't think I can keep you safe?” He caresses your bare thighs, his cock interested in the warmth of you on his lap. 

Your mouth fits over his, fingers threading through his hair, and Joel settles into the steady rhythm of your heartbeat fluttering against his own chest. 

“I think,” you whisper, “that we're already late. Let's go get a Christmas tree.”

Half an hour later, he’s still yawning on his way to the stables and wishing he was in the warmth of his bed instead of out here in the biting cold. Joel runs his gloved palms together and fixes his rifle over his shoulder. 

You, of course, are fresh-faced and early, securing the saddle over your chestnut mare Princess. Joel pats her snout and inspects your pack where it hangs on the hook nearby. 

“Forgot your bandages again.”

You hum and it's music. “You always have extra. Ready to go?”

“Sure you’re not waiting for Tad?”

You gently pat your horse’s back. “Tad is terrified of you, so he's terrified of me. You're ruining my reputation, Miller.”

“That so?” Joel sidles up next to you, pushing your pack into your arms. “You got a complaint you wanna file?”

“None so far,” you say, biting down on your grin, “but there's always time. Better be careful with me.”

“I’m always careful,” Joel says into your ear. “Now go on. We got ground to cover.”

There is a method to Joel Miller’s madness. Tommy knows damn well he needs to pick his battles. But Joel will always win when it comes to you. That is where he simply does not compromise. 

“I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you, Tommy.”

His brother’s hands fly up, palms out, already pleading his case. “Joel, listen to me—”

Joel slaps the book against Tommy’s chest. “I don't need to hear your goddamn excuses. She doesn't go with anyone but me.”

“Listen,” says Tommy, tossing the worn leather agenda aside. “We've got people out sick, and they ain't about to go out in this cold. And you need to be with Flynn, ‘cause Christ knows he ain't trained up enough to handle anything up in those woods.”

Joel scoffs. “And Tad’s trained up enough to go with her? Don't give me that shit, Tommy. She goes with me.”

“Joel—”

“We clear?” He squares up to his brother, folding his arms over his chest. 

Tommy rolls his eyes at Joel’s posturing but concedes nonetheless. “Fine. I’ll take Flynn.”

“Good.” Joel turns to leave for the stables. He’s stopped by a hand on his shoulder. 

“She’s a strong girl,” says Tommy, “and you can't play guard dog forever.”

The snow has settled a bit in the week since the first fall. It's crystallised and hardened underfoot, packed tightly. Icicles dangle from the naked trees on the outskirts of the woods, and your breath mists. The cold penetrates your jeans and the slivers of exposed wrists where your gloves don't quite meet your coat sleeves. Hugging Joel around the middle, your body heat shudders through him. 

“Snow like this is always a goddamn problem,” he mutters. 

“Covers tracks,” you say. 

“That's right. You do listen.”

“Well, when you give me chocolate…”

Joel veers Princess north and brings your gloved palms to his mouth so he can breathe warm air into them. You sigh your thanks, bumping your forehead into his back before returning to your vigilance as lookout. Once you're well out of the way of the city walls, it's easier to get wrapped up in the blistering wind. You bring your bandanna up over your nose and watch Joel do the same as you pass the river. It’s frozen over, not blue but a sheet of miserable white. You mourn the loss of colour as the wind nips at your skin. 

“We’ll have more cover when we break through the trees,” says Joel. “Shuffle closer to me.”

You do, sliding your hips forward. Princess’s reins around one fist, he covers your hands with his other, squeezing you intermittently. His body heat helps you settle comfortably into him. 

“What was your first Christmas like with Sarah?”

Joel chuckles. “She was one hell of a rowdy kid. Had to fish her out of the tree one time—only turned my back for a goddamn second.”

You smile fondly. “Thought you were gonna have to drag Ellie kicking and screaming out of that snowball fight the other day. She was a minute away from nailing your brother in the face.”

“Hmph. Asshole probably deserved it,” says Joel. “Sarah’d never hurt a fly. She saved spiders; threw ‘em outside instead of killin’ ‘em. But she’d get along with Ellie. Sometimes I look at her and see Sarah.” Joel’s quiet for a moment, guiding Princess past the tree line where the wind begins to penetrate in bursts rather than a constant stream of cold. “Do you think that's wrong?”

You frown. “No. I don't think so. Sometimes, I talk to kids in town that remind me of you. They’ll have a nose or eyes that make me think of you, and I’ll think it’s so nice that we’re all still here, still kicking. You know? There are parts of Sarah in Ellie and there are parts of that tree over there in me. When we love someone, we see them everywhere.”

Joel brings Princess to a halt about a half-mile into the woods; a trail veers off to the east next to you. He loops her reins around the branch of a tree and helps you off the horse. “Y’know,” he says, “you're too damn smart for your own good.”

“You’ll do well to remember that, Miller.” You shove your bandanna back down so it lies limp around your neck. “Now show me this spot.”

Joel failed to warn you that it involved a hike. An honest-to-fuck hike. You and your boots are used to traversing long distances, but you hadn't particularly prepared to trek through the frozen woods in December on a few hours’ sleep, a couple hours’ orgasm, and a hastily-chugged cup of coffee. Not had you prepared for an uphill hike in the brutal cold just to find a fucking Christmas tree.

If you didn't like him so damn much, you know for a fact you'd happily throttle your Joel. 

Your Joel, who can't seem to find a tree that's good enough for you. Too tall, he'll say about one, won't fit inside your place. Too skinny, he’ll say about another, you could barely string lights on that. 

Your lungs are burning cold. Every breath you inhale feels like swallowing needles. Your chest heaves and your cheeks are numb and you’re drawing up what's left of your resolve to give him a piece of your mind. 

“Nah, not this one,” he’s saying, knocking his fist against the trunk of another tree. “It’s practically hollow. Would crumble the second we—”

“Joel, if you could find a tree you do like so we can head back and I can stop freezing to death, that would be so, so appreciated.”

Your teeth chatter the whole time, but you get your message across. Joel stops, his hand splayed against another tree, a smaller one with a decent-sized middle, and turns to face you. 

“You cold, baby?”

It's not an innocent question. Around you, the wind whips at the branches of the tallest trees and crackles through the air. But Joel’s voice, slow and gravel-thick, permeates the breeze. It bites deeper, to the gums, latched in your skin. It’s warm. 

No—it's hot. 

Joel’s hand drops from the tree. His foot crunches the snow under his boot as he takes a step toward you. 

Wordlessly, you nod. 

“You had lots to say before, baby girl. Thought you wanted your Christmas tree.”

You do. Fuck, you want to go home. You want to curl up in his bed with another cup of coffee and warm yourself up with his body. But Joel is staring at you, eyes hard, rubbing his gloved hand over his mouth, and the alternative now feels much more tempting. “Uh-huh.” 

“I think you should see for yourself,” he says, “whether or not you want this one. Go on.”

He's playing some game. He’s ringed with silvery light, a soft and hazy glow backlighting his longer hair, threaded with grey, his body so broad, solid, strong—

There’s none of your Joel in the way he stands. This is the Joel who’s used to following orders. This is the Joel he never lets you truly see: the man who has seen so many more years, seen so much more of the world.

You pass him, hiking farther up the trail, to inspect the tree. It is decent; just taller than you, but thick enough to stay upright, plush with needles. A gentle tug at your scalp, a puff of warm air on your cheek, the dizzying weight of him at your back. He’s twirling a lock of your hair between two gloved fingers. 

“You like it?” he says gruffly, his mouth mere inches from your ear. The telltale tingling begins in your core and you swallow hard. 

“Joel, I didn’t mean to—”

“Shhh. None of that. I wasn’t thinkin’, sweetheart.” He nips at your earlobe, hands trailing down your body, underneath your heavy coat, sitting warmly on your hips. “Gotta keep my girl nice ‘n’ warm. Got all caught up in my own head, thinkin’ like a carpenter. Let me make it up?”

He loves so selflessly that it can feel bizarrely like greed. 

Sometimes, you forget that he’s so much older. That he lived his own way of living for a long time before you came along, that he knows this planet like that back of his hand, that you can’t even begin to name a country or a food or a song that FEDRA didn’t teach you. That you’ve only just begun to experience the terror and the pain that’s engulfed this world for so long. 

Joel Miller’s lived a long life. He’s choosing to spend these moments with you, in the cold, dead woods, picking out a Christmas tree. For as long as he’s been waking up with you, his girl, he’s wanted you longer. He’s tired. He’s old. But he’s finally getting to choose. 

He’d like to think he deserves a bit of choice after all this time. So, again, he comes back to you, like the last time and the last, spreading his fingers over your body and cupping you, molten gold, in his hands. 

Settle down, his brother told him a few years back. You deserve this, Joel. To just… settle down, if you can ever find a way.

You’re his way. He intends to make it clear. 

“Need to hear you say yes, baby,” he says, shifting your hair aside, nuzzling his face in the crook of your neck where it’s warm and quiet and smells of the coffee he always makes you.

“Yes,” you whisper, reaching back to fix your hand at the nape of his neck and glue him to you. “Please. Please, Joel.”

He grins, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to your throat, the fluttering veins below your jaw. He steals every one of your heartbeats for himself. 

“All right,” he says. “We’ll get this one.”

Eyes lidded, you watch over your shoulder as Joel fiddles with the button of your jeans and yanks down your panties with them, now hanging limply off your knees. 

“Joel!” you gasp. The cold air bites your thighs, your ass, your poor, slick pussy, as he unwraps his present. Playfully squeezing your ass, he grinds his clothed front against you. 

“Yeah, baby?” he mumbles, the smug bastard, pinning you to the tree by his strong hips, your fingers splayed on the trunk. Above you, pine needles flutter down to the ground around you, but the trunk doesn't budge. 

It is a good tree. 

“‘m cold,” you manage, putty in his hands, under the sweet, slow kisses he's pressing to your jaw. 

Your petulant whine rivals the pitch of the wind off the mountain trail. The whistling air shrieks. The hard weight at your back absconds with the warmth it brought you, and he's bending to one knee, packing a not-quite spherical ball of snow in his gloves. 

“You’re cold?” It doesn't sound like a question and you're nodding anyway, your cheek scraping the bark of the fir tree. It smells of terpenes and the shingles of bark bleed resin.

“I’m so cold, Daddy.”

He stands, and a huge glove is caging your ribs, a bearded cheek nuzzling your temple. “Let’s see, baby girl. Open wide.” 

He brings his other hand between your exposed thighs and, lips prying at the corner of your mouth, cups the feebly-formed snowball against your pussy. 

“Daddy,” you gasp, writhing away and grinding into his hand all the same, your mouth open in a long, pitiful cry. Your silvery breath ascends in a long-limbed dance with his own. 

The snow melts in moments, rubbed firm into the scorching heat of your body, but you feel the biting cold against your clit as if it were pulled between a set of pearly teeth. 

“See?” There’s a cruel tone of mocking in it and you preen like it’s a sweet lullaby. “Nice ‘n’ warm.” 

He mouths at the crook of your neck, hot and wet, tongue dipping into the junction between your ear and your jaw, where it’s soft and does not hurt when he bites down. 

The once-packed snow, now tepid and formless, drips down your thighs, and the air is so cold it begins to freeze again. Joel hears your helpless moan and takes pity, unbuckling his own jeans just enough to pull out his cock. 

But he doesn't slot himself at your needy hole and push slowly inside you the way he did last night. No—he guides the leaking head between your thighs and closes your legs around him, the length of him flush to your cunt. 

“Ohhhh, fuck.” You shiver, dropping your forehead against the tree, as Joel lubricates his cock with the melted water of the snowball and begins to fuck himself between the cushions of your thighs. “Joel… oh my God, Daddy—”

He grunts, taking it slow, the wet slide of his cock electrifying, cold and warm all at once, his body caging yours against the tree. With every thrust, the head of his cock catches on your clit, and he gasps in your ear, nibbling your exposed skin. You grasp at his hair, the hand that presses down on your belly, fixing him to you. 

“That's it, baby. Goddamn, you feel so good. So fuckin’ soft, just for me, all for Daddy, right, baby girl?”

“Yes, yes! I’m yours, all yours, please…” Your thighs twitch when his cock drags along your clit once more, and it's so good—but it's not enough. 

“I know,” groans Joel, lowering your joined hands to your clit and rubbing slow, aching circles over your slick pearl. A strained moan rumbles in your chest and your head grows heavy, falling back on his shoulder. The pleasure, white-hot and insistent, makes you forget all about the cold air savagely biting off chunks of your skin. It's all Joel. “I know, baby girl. That feel good?”

“Mmmm,” you manage, breathless and panting, your exhales swirling up into the air and disappearing in the trees. He keeps your hands joined, working in tandem to pleasure your needy clit. “Mhm, so good. Just like that.”

Joel nods into the crook of your neck, keeping the pressure steady on your clit as he continues to get himself off between your legs. “My pretty girl, so cold,” he rasps, “so needy. Y’know I’d get you anything you wanted.”

You nod vigorously, wetting his cock with your arousal, gloved fingers slick on your pussy. The rough grind of the leather closes an electrical circuit up and down your body. Joel Miller has always known how to make you feel safe, cared-for—sensations you'd never known before Jackson. With him, you're glutted, satiated. With you, he’s begun his long winter’s task of settling down. 

“Let go for me, baby,” he says, taking your jaw between his teeth as he feels his stomach tighten, his balls pulling up. “C’mon, baby girl, let me feel it. Get yourself all warm with me.”

He rubs your clit faster until you're seizing, core tensing, your mouth open in a long, low cry that echoes down the trail. Joel talks you through it, good girl, that’s it, I know it’s a lot, honey, just let go, and your fingers flex, trapped in his, as you come until your legs are trembling. 

Joel hums like he's satisfied, his hips pummeling into your backside in stuttering thrusts that indicate he's coming, too. “You gonna let me come, baby girl?” he says, baring his teeth against your cheek. “Gonna forgive me?”

“Yesyesyes! Fuck, you’re so good. Please come for me, Daddy, please!”

“Fuck, baby, I will. I will.” And he does—stuffing his cock between your thighs, it begins to pulse beneath your cunt, spilling hot cum all over your legs, your pussy, the tree he’s pinned you against. All the while, he holds you tight, his mouth greedy on you, words coaxed into your ears that aren't meant for another soul. 

“You’re mine. All fuckin’ mine.” He's rambling as he comes down, spurts of cum still dribbling from his cock down your thighs. “Goddamn perfect.”

You shiver as the cold begins to seep back in through your skin, even as Joel helps pull your jeans back up over your ass. It's a bit uncomfortable, feeling the slide of his cum on your legs underneath the denim, but you smile anyway, letting him guide you to face him, your foreheads pressing together. 

“I like this one,” you tell him. Joel laughs, bringing your mouth to his for another kiss. 

“Dude, where the fuck did you get this?” 

You look over your shoulder at Ellie, who inspects your miniature figurine, now with a home just inside your foyer. 

“Joel gave it to me,” you tell her. 

“Whooooa. You think he could make me a dinosaur?”

You turn to Joel, who's nursing some bourbon and hiding a smile in the rim of the glass. “That's a great question, Ellie. What do you think, Joel?”

“C’mon, man, when do I ever ask you for anything?”

Joel chokes into his glass. “Every goddamn day of your life, Ellie.”

“Okay, well, just think about how cool it would be to have a dinosaur. It’s basically the real thing.”

Joel shakes his head. “Yeah, okay. Maybe next year.”

“Ugh. Fine. But don't think I’m not gonna remember.”

Idly rubbing his back, you lean into him and turn your head toward the tree. It sits tall and proud in the corner, strung with a couple coloured lights Maria had found for you, hung with baubles that some of the schoolchildren had been thrilled to make. It's a bit bare in spots, haphazardly decorated, prickly to the touch.

“You like it?” asks Joel, nudging his nose against your temple. 

“It's perfect.”

He grins into your cheek. “You think she’ll like the dinosaur?”

Your eyes fall to the smattering of gifts under the tree, tossed into spare crates and bags.  

“Ellie, why don't you open first?”

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so cute 🥺

good with my hands (joel miller x f!reader)

summary: you visit the christmas tree farm in the town you’ve just moved to, run by the mysterious miller brothers. joel is on hand to begrudgingly assist you.

notes: by far the longest piece i have ever written! i hate to sound like a broken record but thank you to @macfrog for providing endless inspo & @swiftispunk for believing in me. ♥️

warnings: age gap (30/56), reader has curves, mommy & daddy issues, past family trauma, brief mention of infertility, swearing, food, discussions of dementia and death, tommy gets a lil screwed over (sorry), gratuitous descriptions of joel, flirting, smutty thoughts, fluff, inaccurate (probably) mention of adoption & construction terms, this fic isn’t rly about christmas at all, ellie & sarah are discussed. 18+, mdni.

It’s cold. Your teeth are on the verge of chattering, but you don’t feel much like moving. The back porch of your new home is an oasis, calm and quiet as the sun breaks over the horizon.

The back yard is impressive; tall, leafy trees, grass unkempt and full of moss-covered statues you hadn’t inspected yet. The red streaks of dawn mark the end of your first week here, seven days you weren’t entirely sure you would see through to the finish line.

Ever since you’d gotten the call about this house, you weren’t sure it was a good idea. You, uprooting from the city you’d lived in all your life, to come out here: Oakwood Ridge. A tiny town you’d never heard of in a state you hadn’t visited, with a name like something you’d find in a Hallmark movie. It was beautiful in a way. Sleepy, but thriving.

The wildest part? A grandmother whose existence you weren’t aware of, finding it in her heart to bequeath her home to you upon her death.

You didn’t bother calling your mom to ask; the paperwork proved it was legitimate. You weren’t sure she’d answer anyway. The relationship between you both was strained to breaking point already, calls across the country on birthdays sufficing.

The less said about your father, the better. He’d left when you were five; you’d never known him as a real person. Memories of him consisted of half-hearted hugs accompanied by the scent of stale sweat and alcohol, and your mother offering up fragmented stories after too much wine. Memories you were happy to live without.

The coffee in your hands was doing little in the way of warming you up, but you drink it nonetheless. You think about the sweet lady next door who left it as part of some sort of care package on your doorstep; she’s well into her eighties, you assume.

You hadn’t had a chance to introduce yourself and say thanks yet, half-assed attempts at unpacking and browsing jobs on your laptop consuming your time. But you’d seen her, pottering around over the fence, a kind smile and knowing eyes.

Fuck it. You don’t know anyone in Oakwood Ridge, let alone have anything close to a friend. You’ll go over today and introduce yourself, maybe take some flowers, find out a little more about the place you now call home. Hell, this lady knew your grandmother.

Her house looks well-loved, lived in, in the way that yours doesn’t. And yet, you’ve never seen anyone else there, even visiting. Perhaps she’s as lonely as you are. It’s that thought that has you wandering over there after lunch, anxiously pressing the buzzer.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Annette Harris, she introduces herself as. Call me Annie, she adds with a wink. You warm to her instantly. She fusses around you, asks about your life, pinches your cheeks and invites you to stay for dinner. Which you do, considering you have no other offers on the table.

The soup is delicious and fills you up better than any takeout you were thinking about buying - if you could find anywhere out here, that is. You surprise yourself and manage to work up the courage to ask about your grandmother.

“Valerie and I were close for a long time,” Annie sighs, pushing the remains of her food around her plate. “I feel awful for not being there for her near the end, but I was going through so much myself at the time,” she admits, and you nod quietly, not wanting to push her.

“My husband.. He had dementia. I was his full-time carer.. We could never have kids, y’know? Friends in the town tried to help, but I was too proud,” she goes on. “We’re so isolated out here too, not that Roy would’ve had it any other way,” she smiles. “He was born and raised in Oakwood. I met him on one of his trips to the city, and I came here and never went back,” she says, the memory misting her eyes over.

“I bet you miss him,” you offer awkwardly, and Annie’s hand, veins spiderwebbing across it, falls over yours and squeezes. “More than you know. Anyway, enough of that,” she braces herself, righting her shoulders. You fight back a chuckle, watching this tiny old lady reprimanding herself.

“Valerie showed me lots of pictures of you. She was proud of her granddaughter,” she hums, and you try to hide your surprised expression. “I don’t even remember meeting her. My mom.. I don’t know if they had the best relationship. Must run in our genes,” you laugh bitterly.

“Yes, well.. Valerie never told me the full story,” Annie tuts, “but I remember the fallout. Your mother yelling on the lawn, terrible things.. A real shame. You can’t have been more than two years old. I used to make cookies for you, y’know” she smiles, and you’re grinning back.

Suddenly, you find yourself not wanting to continue the sad story of your early years. You’d spent your whole life running from it; it’s the reason you’ve come to this town. You’re desperately sorry about your grandmother; wishing you’d known her, felt her loving touch again. But Annie was here; lonely, frail, and living right next door to you.

“D’you need help with anything?” you ask tentatively, not wanting to overstep. She sure doesn’t look capable of much, but you have a feeling looks could be deceiving in this case. “I’m ticking along just fine, for the most part,” she spreads her hands out, looking around the spotless kitchen, as if to prove her point.

“There is one thing, though,” she says shyly. “Mmm?” you hum, spoon in your mouth. “Roy always used to sort our Christmas tree. It was his job to get it home,” she laughs. In the haste of packing up your life and leaving in less than two weeks, you’d totally forgotten Christmas was in less than a month.

“Sure. You want me to head to Home Depot, pick one up?” You ask, wondering where in the hell you’d even find one in a hundred mile radius around this place. “We always had a real one,” she offers with a small smile, “we used to go and pick it out together. I’d go myself, but my joints freeze up if I’m out too long in this weather,” she says as she stands, knees clicking on cue. “Of course,” you nod.

You don’t have the first fucking clue about real Christmas trees, but it’s the least you can do. “Is there anywhere local I can go? Or is it far out?” you ask as you carry your bowls over to her sink.

“Oh no, darling. There’s a farm a little way out of town. You’ll see the signs” she points a bony finger in the direction behind you. “Two brothers run it. Joel and Tommy Miller,” she offers with a sweet smile. “They’re good boys. They’ll help you out, sure they will,” she hums, rinsing the soup from the bowls.

“I’ll head there in the morning,” you say, thinking about the amount of shit that’ll need clearing from your beat-up old truck’s bed to fit it.

“You’re too kind,” Annie rubs a hand up your arm, eyes crinkling. “Tommy’s the younger brother, closer to your age. Perhaps more.. Approachable,” she tips her head with a wink.

“What about this Joel, then?” you ask curiously, “He a monster or something?” Annie laughs, clutching her sides. “Not at all. Joel’ll take good care of you, I know it,” she says. “He just takes a little warming up to, I suppose,” she muses, turning away, and you’re left wondering about the mysterious older Miller.

You know the way your luck tends to turn out: you’ll be stuck with him, whether you like it or not.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Morning comes round too quickly for your liking. The alarm batters your ears, fingers fumbling to shut it off, wanting nothing more than to burrow back down in to the covers and sleep some more. You’ve got a promise to keep. It’s Annie’s instant hospitality and gentle eyes that push you out of bed, heading into the bathroom that desperately needs a remodel.

The weather here is no joke. You can see your breath in the air as you eat a modest breakfast of Cheerios - you may have hot water, but the heating system had packed up before you arrived.

You think, fleetingly, of your warm apartment back in the city, the job you’d struggled up the ladder for five years at, the ex who left you for someone six years younger.

You decide you wouldn’t trade this for anything; determined to make a go of it. You’re stood on the precipice of a new decade in your life. Another chance, a fresh start. Small town life had wormed its way inside you in the space of a week, the slower pace of it all bringing you more peace you’d felt in a long while.

The house would take some dedication, but you’d get it there. With or without money. You were no quitter - not that anyone had raised you that way. You’d made sure of it yourself.

Wrapped in an old boyfriend’s college sweater and two scarves, soon enough you’re in the cab of the truck, grimacing as it shudders to life. Another expense you won’t be able to afford if it gives up on you.

You turn the radio up to distract yourself, Fleetwood Mac reverberating round the truck. Your favourite. You hum softly as you follow the wooden signs for Miller’s Farm; passing adorable storefronts, statues in the town centre, a quaint church and several cafes, a few patrons spilling into the leaf-strewn streets.

The sky is a freezing cold blue, the sun rising sleepily over the horizon. You leave the town behind as you follow a single-track road downhill, through white gates that lead you towards the farm. The house to the right is a gorgeous building: weathered, uneven and rustic.

On your left, you see a field sloping down from the thick green of a forest, rows and rows of trees standing to attention side-by-side. Turning left into the designated parking lot, you switch the ignition off, taking in the views.

You’re nervous: something you didn’t wholly expect. The lot is a little empty, before you remember it’s a weekday, kids in schools and people at jobs. You must be one of the only customers, which you hope will make your search a little easier. Annie’s words come back to you: Joel just takes a little warming up to. Sure. You’re gonna grab the first fucking tree you see and head out.

Heading over to the wooden outbuilding with a ‘Reception’ sign nailed to it, you notice it’s a working farm too. Cattle make themselves heard in a barn behind the house, and for a moment you’re overcome by the serenity of it all, the way something in your breath hitches. How at home you feel.

Your reverie is interrupted, however, by a voice. “Mornin’, ma’am,” come the honeyed tones, and you turn to be faced by what can only be described as a denim lover’s wet dream.

He has beautiful curls dripping to his shoulders, twinkling eyes and a mischievous countenance, walking towards you with a grin. He looks a little older than you, and he’s gorgeous. Tommy, you assume. “Hi there,” you sing, “I was hoping to purchase a Christmas tree?” you try for a smile.

“Well, I’m sure hopin’ you’re not lookin’ for Easter eggs,” he jokes, and you feel yourself laughing, at ease already. “‘m Tommy Miller,” he introduces himself, holding out a hand for you to shake.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Tommy checks you in, tells you the trees have numbered tickets and explains the process in full. He teases you mercilessly for being a city girl, and you bite back at his Levi’s ensemble. The conversation flows easily, and you find you don’t want it to end.

“So, now you can head out and take your pick. That is, if you’re up to the challenge,” he winks, and you feel yourself melting just a little. “I’m sure I’ll be just fine,” you assure him, equally flirtatious. Why not? It’s fun. “‘F ya want, I could come with ya. Make sure you’re not leavin’ without the best,” he continues, and you shrug, biting back an instant yes.

“Is this the service you usually offer?” you tease. Before he can respond, the radio on his hip crackles to life. Something about a calf being stuck in the river over the way, and you see Tommy’s brow furrow, serious for the first time since you’d met him.

“Sorry, darlin’. Gonna have to take a rain check. I’d ask my brother to go, but his back ain’t doin’ too good,” he mutters, and you feel your heart sink just a little. “It’s okay. I’ll be alright here,” you reassure him.

He grins and pulls his phone out; asking you for your number, if you’d like to go out with him some time. The transaction is almost successful, until a gruff voice comes from behind you.

“Tommy? You plannin’ on pullin’ your damned finger out today?” you hear as Tommy flushes, and a man who could only be the elder Miller brother materialises next to you, bow saw in hand.

“With a customer, Joel,” he says through gritted teeth, nodding at you. “I can see that. Apologies, young lady,” Joel addresses you, and for a moment you forget your words. Christ. If Tommy was handsome, he’s nothing compared to him.

Joel Miller is broader than his brother, thick shoulders, barrel chest and burly arms snug in his tan jacket. The same dark curls; but his are much shorter, messy, threaded with grey. His eyes are harder, framed by the intense crease between his brow and the scowl painted on his face. His jaw is sharp and littered with scruff, nose angular and beautiful. Something coils warm in your belly at the sight of him but dissipates quickly. He’s chewing his lip angrily, like he wants to take off imminently. Not get stuck here, with you.

“Tommy? Bill can’t manage it on his own,” Joel implores, after a beat. “Yeah, I heard ya,” his brother grumbles, hand lightly on your arm as he sweeps past you. “You let him know if you need any assistance, alright? Bark’s worse’n his bite. Hope to see ya real soon,” eyes twinkling again as he strides off in the opposite direction. Leaving just you and Joel. In silence.

“Well, I’ll just be outta-“ you start as Joel nods awkwardly. “Right,” he mumbles, before taking a moment to study you properly. You feel yourself subconsciously draw yourself up to your full height, straightening your shoulders. “So - would ya - do ya need assisting?” he asks finally, teeth in that full bottom lip again.

You’re trying not to laugh at his obvious discomfort as his fingers twitch at his sides. “Something tells me you’re not usually customer-facing,” you say lightly, and Joel shrugs. “Tommy handles all of that stuff. You can usually find me out there,” he thumbs over to the trees beyond.

“‘m just good with my hands,” he adds, now holding them in front of him as if to illustrate his point. They’re huge, calloused; silver scars decorating his knuckles. You drag your eyes away, clearing your throat.

“I don’t doubt it, Mr Miller,” you smile as he pulls his gloves on. “None’a that. Mr Miller makes me feel older’n I already am,” he says, shaking his head, and for the first time you’re struck by how old he actually might be. Fifty? Older? Not that it bothers you. Quite the opposite.

“Y’know what you’re looking for?” He asks, turning away from you to nod at a staff member hanging around the makeshift till point. “Oh, yeah. Your brother took care of me,” you say sweetly, enjoying the way his eyes roll. “Sounds just like Tommy,” he comments wryly, before pointing in two directions in front of you, “Pines to the left, firs on the right.”

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

You head for the sea of green ahead, boots crunching in the frost. The smell is overwhelming; heady and lush. There’s a serene silence settling as you wander deeper, something you’re certain is usually not to be found here. In your mind’s eye, you can see the families, the dad with a kid on his shoulders, pulling at his hair and babbling for the biggest tree. The moms with their baby in a sling, choosing just the right one for their first Christmas with their newborn. The fresh young couple, red-faced and excited, starting up a new tradition in their first home. It makes you smile.

You wander for half an hour, not entirely sure what you’re looking for. The trees are comforting, statuesque and non-moving. Beautiful to look at, a calming presence. Perhaps not entirely unlike the man who keeps them this way, you think to yourself as you round the corner and - yelp in surprise, colliding into something thick and solid, face smushed into it, into him.

“Jesus, girl!” Joel peels you off of him and holds your shoulders firmly. “You tryna give me a goddamn heart attack?” he says incredulously, eyebrows in his hairline. “It’s not like I meant to walk into you,” you spit back with a little more venom than you intended. You watch as Joel’s lips quirk in a smirk, something like respect settling in his eyes.

“No, I guess you didn’t,” he concedes, folding his thick forearms across his chest. “You gettin’ on okay?” he asks, and you shrug. “Not to be rude, but aren’t they all kinda… the same?” you gesture around you, and he chuckles; a deep, warm noise.

“To some people,” he nods, “others can be very specific about what they’re wantin’. This your first time choosin’?” he asks, and your shoulders roll again. “Uh, I guess so. Didn’t do much of this growing up,” you admit, deciding this guy doesn’t deserve your trauma dump. Joel, to his credit, doesn’t push you; instead explaining the measurements, asking the rough size of the space you have in your home for the tree.

“It’s not for me,” you admit, and tell him the story of your recent move here, your neighbour and how this is a favour to her. The crease in his brow furrows as you go on, before he holds up a hand to stop you. “Where’d you say you lived?” he asks, and you narrow your eyes jokingly. “I didn’t. I don’t make a habit of giving out my address to strange men I just met.”

Joel turns to face you, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips again. It cracks open something in your chest, makes your heart flutter. He’s devastating to look at. “Very good, sweetheart,” he drawls, and you try your best to ignore the swooping feeling in your belly at the name. “‘m only askin’ because I think I know who you’re talkin’ about,” he says, “wouldn’t be Annie Harris, would it?”

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Joel sticks with you after that; knows the exact kind of tree you need, measurements and all. He tells you stories of Annie and Roy, how they’d been coming here for years. “After Roy passed.. I mean, we tried to help Annie any way we could, but I guess you got the measure of her already,” he says fondly, and you agree, remembering her words from last night. Friends in the town tried to help, but I was too proud. It makes your heart ache.

“She must’ve seen somethin’ special in you,” Joel says, shooting you that lopsided smile. “Well, she wouldn’t be the first,” you tease, determined to crack the stoic nature of this man, quietly observing the way he’s carrying tension in his shoulders.

You think of Tommy’s comments about his back, wondering what the cause is. What you wouldn’t give to have him spread out beneath you; running your hands lightly over those broad shoulders, fingers carefully rubbing out the knots. Your mind drifts to the noises he’d make; whether he’d moan, if it’d rumble through his chest..

“Hey, no wanderin’,” Joel’s voice calls you back to him, realising you’d turned a left fork without even knowing. The authority in his tone makes you want to clamp your thighs together, especially after the vision you’d just seen. “It’s not like it would’ve been hard to find me,” you tell him, gesturing to the fact it was just the two of you in the great open space. Joel rolls his eyes and clicks his tongue, falling in step beside you.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

You want to know more about the farm; the gorgeous building you’d seen across the road. He tells you how it’d been in the family for generations now, he and Tommy continuing on best they could. The Christmas tree aspect was a much later addition, the commercialisation of it all not something that Joel was particularly fond of. “So you’re just a salt of the earth kinda guy, huh?” you ask, and he huffs in annoyance.

“I like my cows,” he shrugs, the two of you reaching the fenced-off entrance to another part of the farm. “They’re quiet, and do what they’re told,” he adds, stopping to turn to you. You feel hot under his gaze; his eyes assessing, stripping you.

You swallow, blinking back at him, hoping your knees don’t buckle. He’s turning the tables on you; there’s no mistaking his tone. It’s laced with the promise of something more. You think he likes what he sees when he looks at you. It’s fucking hot.

“Morning, Joel!” a voice calls out, ice water over the blistering heat between you. “Mornin’, Frank,” Joel clears his throat, waving a hand toward the smiling man behind the gate, pushing a barrow full of chopped wood.

You watch as Joel reaches deftly for the lock on the gate to the paddock beyond; something he’s obviously done a thousand times before. He stows a set of keys in his pocket, something small falling into the dewy grass without him noticing.

“Hey, Joel..” you begin as he turns around, bending down to retrieve it. A string threaded with beads, letters you can’t make out. A friendship bracelet? “That’s cute,” you say as you hand it over, biting back a smile. “Oh, yeah,” he clears his throat. “My daughter Sarah, she made it for me. She’s crazy for Taylor Swift,” he tells you.

Interesting, you think to yourself. You’ve already decided that Joel is the reserved type, yet there’s a twinkle in his eye - just like his younger brother’s - at the mention of his kid. You hadn’t noticed a ring on his left hand before, and wonder how you can find out if he’s spoken for.

Your phone buzzes with a text: you tap the screen to see it’s from Tommy. Nice to meet u, hope my brother didn’t give u too much trouble. Let me know about that drink. Watching Joel stride ahead, now, you’re not sure you will.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

“How old is your daughter?” you pry gently as he leads you towards rows of fir trees. “Thirteen,” he smiles, “and she’s always braggin’ about growin’ up here on the farm, just like Taylor did. Or, so she tells me,” he continues gruffly, and you find yourself laughing. “She sounds great,” you say, and you mean it. “She is,” he agrees, before continuing on, twisting his gloved hands over.

“My other daughter.. Not a fan. But she’s just as great,” he says as he holds his hand out, helping you cross a ditch. Butterflies erupt in your gut as you notice the size difference; his glove swallowing yours whole. “Other daughter?” you ask lightly, inviting him to spill more. “Yup, that’d be my Ellie. Same age. Not twins,” he says simply, and you’re not satisfied.

“Care to expand?” you grin mischievously, and he rolls his eyes. “I, uh, adopted her. She’s mine, for all intents and purposes,” he hums, and you feel something warm and syrupy seeping through your bones. Joel’s turning out to be all heart, huh? Who knew. “‘S kinda a long story,” he admits, scratching the back of his neck absently.

“I’d like to hear it. Y’know, eventually,” you tell him as he finally comes to a stop in front of a particular tree, checking it over and crouching down.

You take note of the fact he said his daughter is his, not ours. Definitely single. “Too goddamn old to be doin’ all of this,” he grunts from below you, mostly to himself as his head vanishes underneath the branches. “My back went to pieces the moment I hit my late twenties,” you offer sympathetically.

Joel resurfaces, straightens up beside you, and you don’t miss the way his gaze tracks for a second on the curve of your ass, your legs. “You ‘n me both,” he murmurs, the register of his voice so low; pure velvet rolling off his tongue, your toes curling.

“You’re falling apart,” you joke, jabbing his forearm. Joel’s tongue pokes his cheek in annoyance, arms folded in front of you. “I’m the wrong side of fifty, and my hearin’ ain’t too good in my right ear. That’s about it,” he informs you curtly, but you notice him beating back a smile.

Joel calls Frank over, introducing the two of you and explaining that they’ll drop the tree to Annie’s place after closing time, no purchase necessary and free of charge. You try to argue and let him know you’re more than capable, but Joel won’t hear it.

“‘S the least I can do. Besides, can’t have you takin’ all the credit for pickin’ the best one,” he smirks. You say your goodbyes to Frank, and you expect that this is where you’ll part ways with Joel, despite the fact you really don’t want to.

“I can, uh, walk ya to your truck. If you’d like,” he says, his impressive shoulders rolling in his jacket as he shrugs. You bite back a grin, trying to play it equally as cool. You like Joel Miller. He’s guarded, sure. But the layers are peeling off of him willingly; he’s funny, knowledgable, and you can tell he cares about Annie.

Hell, there’d be worse people to have as a real friend in this town. It’s just a total bonus that he’s sinfully beautiful. Right?

You meander slowly back to the parking lot, Joel quietly asking what’s brought you to Oakwood Ridge. He’s a good listener; so much so that you end up spilling more than you need to, the flow of your life trickling freely. You apologise, but he shakes his head, urges you on, nods here and there.

“I feel like.. I just want to be rooted somewhere, y’know? All my life, I’ve moved around with my mom, boyfriend after boyfriend. No solid foundations, no real friendships. Even in the city, as I got older.. It just never felt like home. I’m not even sure what home is supposed to feel like,” you admit, tapping the hood of your truck as you both come to a stop beside it.

“Think it means somethin’ a little different to everyone. Might not be a place, could just be a feelin’,” Joel surmises. “Home for me is bein’ with my girls on a Sunday, makin’ pancakes,” he smiles at you, so genuine it could bring you to tears.

“For Tommy, though? Probably someone else’s bed,” he chuckles, eyes twinkling. You hit him lightly on the arm.

“Tommy asked me out for a drink, you know,” you tell him, eyebrows raised. “You gonna go?” he asks, and you’re acutely aware of the small space between you, a threshold you could so easily cross. “Depends,” you grin, “I’ve got no other offers on the table right now.” Joel looks at his feet, shuffles a little from side to side.

“Pretty girl like you? ‘f ya want my advice, don’t waste your time on my brother,” he chews into his lip, and you feel desire bloom in your belly at the notion of him finding you pretty.

He opens the driver’s door for you, and you hop in and turn the key. The truck wheezes, groans, and promptly dies. You feel your face screw up, scrubbing a hand over your eyes. You turn it again; nothing. Just a deadly ticking noise. Joel taps lightly on the window, grimacing. “Forgive me, sweetheart, but I don’t think you’re goin’ anywhere fast in that.”

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Of course. Of course, your phone is dead too. You’d fallen asleep promptly last night, belly full of a warm dinner, and totally forgotten to charge it. You couldn’t even call for a tow truck even if you wanted to: Joel hands you his dented mobile, to find he has zero signal.

“Sorry. I don’t use it much, truth be told,” he says, running a hand through the scruff along his jaw. You notice his lockscreen; him and two girls, who must be Ellie and Sarah.

“That’s very sweet,” you offer, tapping the screen as you hand it back over to him. “Yeah, well,” he says gruffly. “They made me set it as my wallpaper,” he shrugs, but you note the way his lips twitch in a grin as he points each daughter out to you.

Sarah has his eyes; she’s taller, cuddled into her dad’s right side as he grips her shoulder. Ellie’s on his left, on her tiptoes, tongue out cheekily as she poses with her sister and father as he pulls her in.

The orange hue over them mirrors the happiness emanating from the shot, the same warm feeling echoing in your heart. “They’re gorgeous, Joel,” you tell him.

“I’d just had keys cut for Ellie,” he says, explaining why they’re dangling from his hand over her shoulder, “We went for dinner to celebrate, y’know? She was ours for keeps.”

It’s a picture of perfect peace; a proud father with two daughters who know just how loved they are. Something you never had.

“I bet they keep you in check,” you laugh. “Yup. My two little big bosses,” Joel agrees, stuffing his phone back in his pocket. “Anyway. Long old way for you to get back, ‘f you’re walkin’,” he murmurs, big hand smacking the hood of your useless truck.

“Can’t even call Tommy for help,” you giggle, patting your pocket where your equally useless phone lies. Joel’s eyes narrow a little; you find that it pleases you, wondering why he doesn’t like the idea of his brother giving you a ride home. “Come on, princess,” he tuts, “I’m takin’ you home.”

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

You study Joel’s side profile as he drives, hands sure and steady on the wheel. Thick fingers, large forearms, strong nose, eyes fringed with dark lashes. You can see a little collarbone, smooth skin, a neck you want to sink your teeth into. Curls of chest hair, creeping over his shirt just so.

Joel tells you that he and Tommy can look to fix up your truck tomorrow, that he’ll call you. If he can get your number. You tell him you’ll think about it, flash him a wink, enjoy his pursed lips in response. “How’re you findin’ the house?” he asks, and you feel yourself slump a little.

“It needs a lot of love, but I’m in for the long haul, y’know? There’s a lot that needs doing. I wish I could completely renovate the downstairs,” you say wistfully, watching as the pretty streets flash by the window. “Well, I’m also a contractor on the side, ‘f ya need a little help,” Joel tells you as you see the house coming into view.

“Joel Miller. Jack of all trades, master of…” you tease, and Joel chuckles: that noise again, the one that slides down your spine and bubbles in your stomach. “Everybody loves contractors,” he says, pulling up outside and turning to face you. “I’m sure they do,” you say quietly, “but not everyone can afford them.”

Joel holds your gaze for a beat; chewing over his words, eyes wide and beautiful. “How about.. You buy me a drink, and I’ll take a look at remodellin’ your kitchen. Sound fair?” he asks, and you find yourself grinning. “I don’t need your pity, Joel,” you say kindly, touched that he’d be willing to do that for you.

“Never said you did. I’d like to take you out,” he says softly, and your blood is singing at the prospect. You want to be taken out by Joel; maybe he could bring you home again, fingertips straying under your skirt, over the buttons of your shirt, cab full of messy kisses and impatient groans.

“We’ll see what you can come up with for the kitchen first. I might want my bathroom done, too,” you tease him, and Joel just shrugs. “Like I said, angel. ‘m good with my hands.”

And boy, if you don’t believe him.

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.