#physical wounds

[emmcfrxst]

jason todd swears like a sailor whenever you ride him. the visual of your body on top of his, the feeling of your hands on his chest and your cunt fluttering around him, the sweet sounds of your moans and mewls— everything about getting ridden makes jason’s dick hard and turns his brain to mush

[too-deviant]

The three weeks it took for Luke Castellan’s wounds to heal.

Pairing: Luke Castellan x Apollo!Reader

Summary: Luke comes back from his quest defeated and angry, and refuses to let anyone see him. But he still needs tending to. You are the lucky sucker who gets to do so.

Content: post-quest angsty luke, reader is awkward, i use the word under’t at one point because i think im shakespeare or some shit

Word Count: 7.6k

Notes: Pushing the agenda that lukes scar is gnarrly like it’s nasty !! not just some faint lil line. the boy was attacked by an actual dragon, like pls. also this hasn’t been proofread so sorry if it doesn’t make sense

part two

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The spring that Luke Castellan spent on his quest was a strange one for the residents of Camp Half-Blood.

For years, campers knew who to go to whenever they needed advice. When they needed help. They knew who to direct the new campers to when they stumbled over the boundary line — and knew they were in good hands. Luke’s hands. He was the big brother the whole camp needed, and not just because he was older than most of them. He just had that aura — and he was undoubtedly kind to everyone he came across. Not to mention the guy was insane with a sword, and had this boyish charm that anyone would fall for. Most campers, if not all of them, looked up to Luke Castellan.

So when he left, nobody knew what to do.

It was pretty tame at first, mostly just awkward. Especially in the Hermes cabin, with Chris Rodriguez in charge in his brother's absence. A Hephaestus kid had taken over the sword fighting classes Luke usually ran, which proved to do more harm than good because he wasn’t all that great at using a sword than he was at forging them, and most of Luke’s students were already better than him.

But nothing went wrong — at least for the first week.

But after the initial awkwardness wore off, chaos ensued.

Chris couldn’t keep the Hermes kids in check — once they realised he wasn’t as authoritative as Luke, they began to use it to their advantage. Everyone got pranked, the camp store was raided three times before Chiron decided to close it down for the meantime and dishwashing duty every night was not slowing them down.

You hadn’t realised just how much the camp relied on Luke until he wasn’t there to keep things under control. Fights broke out with nobody to step in between them, and more and more kids were showing up to the infirmary with injuries that they could take care of themselves — something Luke would’ve told them to do instead of bothering you and your siblings. It was actually unbelievable how much a group of about a hundred half-gods relied on the steady hand of one seventeen year old boy.

You couldn’t wait until he got back so you could finally get some peace and quiet.

Luke didn’t return to camp for two and a half weeks, and as the days went by, campers began to get uneasy. Nobody knew what his quest had entailed, or where he had to go, so the longer they went without news the more antsy people got. You didn’t speak to Luke much — maybe a few shared sentences to be polite — but you knew what he was capable of. You tried your best to reassure the campers, as did your brother Lee and the rest of the Cabin Counsellors.

You knew Luke would come back. You knew he would stumble down that hill with his head held high and meet the group of campers waiting for him at the bottom. You knew there would be a celebration, a party, and a lot of kids out past curfew. But you knew Chiron would let it off, because Luke Castellan was back.

Except that’s not what happened. At all.

It was a warm day, and you were helping some of your younger siblings make friendship bracelets by the lake. Your camp shirt clung to the sweat on your back and you peeled it off with a grimace whenever you stood, straightening out your shorts and checking on the next kid. They seemed happy enough to be in the sun — really, you should’ve been too. Child of Apollo and all. But apparently your father wasn’t feeling the love for you today, because while the rest of your siblings were thriving, you were seconds away from jumping into the lake just to cool down — even if it pissed off the Naiads.

Thankfully, when you stood up once more and looked over the horizon, you saw your brother Aden jogging towards you. You took the opportunity to hide under the shade of the trees by meeting him halfway, and greeted him with a breathless, “Hey.”

He spoke your name with a nod and a smile, throwing a thumb over his shoulder, “Chiron needs you in the Big House. Looked serious. I’ll take over here.”

“Oh, Okay.” You nodded, turning to the kids and telling them you’d be back as soon as you could, before marching your worn converse through the grass and up to where the house sat on the edge of the hill.

Chiron was in the doorway when you reached the porch, sat in wheelchair form and wearing a grim look. You paused, worried. He nodded at you, “Thank you for coming on such short notice. Usually I wouldn’t do this, but…desperate times. Follow me.”

You followed as he led you down the hall, brows furrowing, “What's going on? Is everything okay?”

He looked at you with a serious expression, saying your name lowly, “I need you to ensure that what I am about to tell you will never leave the walls of this house. Nobody needs to know about this until we have deemed it appropriate.”

“Of course.” You said immediately, folding your arms. You weren’t so warm anymore. “What happened?”

He straightened up, and stared, “Luke Castellan is back from his quest.”

That was not what you expected him to say. Dropping your arms to your side and stepping forward slightly, “What? Since when?”

“Ten minutes ago, give or take.” He replied, brows in a concerned furrow, “Mr D has taken him upstairs. He is injured.”

“Right.” You nodded, “I’ll go and—“

“Wait, child.” You stopped, one foot on the bottom step of the stairs, looking back at him, “You must know something.”

Chiron took in a deep breath, eyes glossed over like whatever he was about to say weighed heavily on him, “He is…not in good condition. On top of his injuries, Luke is unfortunately…not in a good state of mind. His quest has affected him, and he requested quite adamantly that nobody should see him until he is ready to see them. I will respect his wishes, of course, but he will still need someone to tend to his wounds. That will be you.”

“Me?” You’d never shared a full conversation with the guy. Maybe some small talk, a polite smile here and there, but you were hardly acquainted, let alone friendly. You told him this.

“Exactly my point.” Was his reply, head held high, “Luke does not want to talk to anyone at the moment, and I’m sure if any of his friends were to be up there, they would simply coddle him. You, on the other hand…”

“I’m a stranger.” You nodded, “Of course. Right. I get that. So, you just want me to patch him up, act like it never happened? I can do that.”

“Not exactly, my child.”

You raised a brow.

“Luke’s injuries are quite extensive. He will need around the clock care until he is healed enough. He will also need someone to bring him food, clean clothes.”

“Oh, so you want me to nanny him.”

He chuckled, but it faded just as quickly as it came, “Unfortunately, he needs it.”

You pursed your lips. It didn’t seem all that hard — it was just like having any other camper in the infirmary. Only this one, everyone was on the edge of their seats waiting for, and you weren’t allowed to tell anyone he was a mere fifty feet away from them, curled up in a bed in the Big House.

No biggie.

i. WEEK ONE

Chiron had ushered you up the steps as soon as your conversation was over, and given you directions to the room Luke was in. Your steps were slow and unsure — you’d never been this far into the Big House before, but Mr D stood idly outside one of the doors lining the second floor hallway, arms crossed and face taut. The floorboards creaked under the weight of your foot when you reached the landing, and he looked up at you.

“He’s in there.” He pointed to the door in front of him, “Careful, he’s a short fuse right now. All the medical thingamabobs you need are in there already. Keep your mouth shut about this.”

Then he slid past you and down the stairs without another word, and you were left alone in the empty hall. Blinking hard to clear your head, you stood a few measly steps toward the door, stopping just outside of it and leaning your ear against the wood.

Nothing tangible. Mostly just the scraping of wood against the skin of your ear, and once you had stopped moving, there was nothing. No mutters, no bed creaks, not even a sniffle. It unnerves you, but you wrapped a hand around the cold metal of the handle and turned it anyway.

Maybe it was because he had been gone for a while, or maybe it was because you never saw him that much when he was around, but you had to blink away the shock at Luke’s appearance. Minus the obvious injuries, he just looked different. His skin was tanned and rough, his jaw taut and his hair hanging messily over his forehead, longer bits curling around his ears after going uncut for so long.

He was sitting on the edge of a bed that had been tucked into the corner of the room. There was a window just above it, but a thin curtain had been pulled over it and blocked out the sunlight that was begging to shine on you. The room was dark, but light enough that you could see what you were doing when you walked over to the desk in the other corner and started shuffling through the medical supplies Chiron had left there for you. Not much, but enough for now. You could always get more later.

Turning, you finally made your way over to where Luke was hunched over, staring at nothing. When you entered his line of vision, his dark eyes slid up to yours, and he blinked. Then he sighed, straightened his back and gave you a look that said do what you have to do and then get out.

But you didn’t move, not for at least ten seconds. Because while Chiron had told you he was injured extensively, he didn’t mention the five inch long scar that ran down the side of his face, cutting through his eye. It was jagged and gnarly, sharp edges carving a path through his skin. It was red all around, and just from looking at it you could tell it needed work. It was fairly new, but he had left it long enough for it to heal over — a thin layer of skin stopping it from bleeding.

He raised his eyebrows at you impatiently, and you nodded, scooting back to the desk and grabbing what you needed before going back to where he sat.

“I, uh…I need to get closer.” You were afraid to speak, to break the silence of the room, but you did need to get closer to his face. You waited for him to turn slightly to his left, hitch a leg up on the mattress and face his scar in your direction. Instead, he just slid his legs apart, inviting you to step between them.

And so you did, albeit a little shakily. You didn’t know Luke well enough to consider him a friend, but you’d seen enough of him to know that he never acted like this. He was never this quiet — all eyes, slow movements. He was charming, always grinning, always offering a hand. His battle instincts and ADHD made him fidgety like the rest of them, but from where you stood between his thighs, he was as still as a picture. It unnerved you more than the scar on his face did. You’d seen nasty injuries before, you’d never seen this.

You picked up a gauze, doused it in rubbing alcohol, and started wiping the area. You started on the outskirts, but when you pressed over the edge of the injury, his brows twitched and you let out a weak apology before lessening the grip. You kept your breaths thin and your eyes on your hand, but he wasn’t looking at you anyway. He had drifted off again, staring at nothing, and you were scared to break him out of his stupor again.

“He’s a short fuse.” Mr D had said. But he didn’t seem that way right now, sitting back silently and letting you do your work on his face. He wasn’t much of anything, if you had to make an assessment. You really wanted to know what happened on his quest, and why he was gone for so long, but you also didn’t want to test Mr D’s words by asking.

“What happened?” He didn’t say anything, again. You pressed on, “I sort of need to know before I reopen it��just in case something—“

“A dragon.” He murmured at once. His voice was rough, like he’d just been screaming. Maybe he had been, and that’s why Mr D had warned you. But it seemed all his anger had dissipated in the time it took for Chiron to get you and explain the situation. Maybe. “Ladon. Poisonous bites.”

So he had been to the Garden of the Hesperides. Presumably to collect some Golden Apples. What for, you didn’t know. You weren’t going to ask. You just grabbed a scalpel, muttered a quiet, “This is going to hurt.”, and started cutting down the scar, following its path across his cheek.

Luke hissed hard, not expecting you to dive in so suddenly, and his hand reached out for something to grab. That ended up being your camp shirt, bunching at your waist from where he gripped it between his knuckles. You didn’t mind it, but when you put the scalpel down and started to clean the inside of his wound, he adjusted his hand so he was holding the side of your waist instead, eyes clamped shut and feet tapping the wooden floor. You paused momentarily, but you couldn’t let him breathe or else it would just hurt more when you went back to work, so you brushed it off and continued your rampage down his face until the whole wound was free of the dirt and grime he had let accumulate inside it while he travelled back to Long Island.

“Sorry.” You finally built up the courage to say.

“S’Okay.” He breathed, “My fault.”

You wiped it over one last time before taping a bandage over the top. You cut it into two bits so he could still see out of his left eye, before stepping back from between his legs and assessing your work. Once you had deemed it good enough, you picked up your supplies and headed back to the desk, feeling Luke’s hand fall from your side.

“Uh—“ You really wanted to leave the room now, “I know you probably don’t want to talk about it, but how long did you leave—“

“Three days.” He answered quickly. Chiron had probably already asked him that, and you felt stupid for making him repeat it.

You turned to leave, but then remembered what Chiron had said to you before sending you up to Luke’s room. You looked at him.

“Do you need anything from your cabin?” You asked, “It’s, uh, kind of my job to get that, if you do.” You turned to face him fully, “Oh, and are you hungry? Because I have to—“

“Just some clean clothes, thanks.” He quipped. It wasn’t looking like he wanted you around for much longer.

You were quick to leave.

It was hard coming up with an excuse as to why you were stealing clothes from Luke Castellan’s bunk, but you just told them there was a new camper in the Big House and Chiron had run out of spares that morning. They brushed it off, and you ran back up to Luke with the clothes bunched in your arms, and were breathless by the time you dropped them on the bed beside him.

“Did anyone see you?” He asked just as you were about to give him the privacy he needed to change.

You were facing the door when he asked, and turned to answer, but he was already pulling off the marred camp shirt he’d arrived in, revealing his very toned torso. You paused, eyes drifting, but quickly snapped them back up to his awaiting gaze. He didn’t seem to care that he was shirtless in front of you, but neither did most boys.

“No.” You weren’t sure how he would react if you’d told him the truth, even though it was harmless. He nodded and started to unbutton his cargos, and you were quick to turn back to the door and yank it open, “Okay, I’ll…uh, probably be back at…later. Bye.”

The rest of your week was rough to say the least. You had a lot on your plate, and it didn’t help when your siblings kept wondering why you were at the Big House three times a day and why you always made a second plate of food at mealtimes. Eventually, it got around that a new camper had arrived, and you were taking care of them. That's when the rumour mill started running.

“I heard they were older, like twenty or something. Apparently they’re super embarrassed.”

“Well, I heard they were injured super badly on their way into camp, and that’s why nobody’s seen them yet.”

“I heard they got violent when Chiron explained the demigod thing and now they have him locked away in the basement!”

So yeah, lots on your plate. You did little to dispel the rumours, not wanting to allude to the truth accidentally, but when you were the only one who knew the truth, it was difficult to hide from those who wanted it too.

But after a few days, you had developed a routine. Wake up, get breakfast, take food to Luke. Check his dressings while he ate and restock your med supplies if needed. Go to whatever task you were running that day, ignore anyone who asked about the new camper, go for lunch. Take lunch to Luke. Check his dressings. Dismiss curious campers. Go to dinner. Take dinner to Luke. Check his dressings. Dismiss curious campers. Lead the campfire sing-along. Check on Luke one more time. Go to bed.

It was a lot, to say the least. But you didn’t complain — if you did this top secret doctor work right, Chiron might make you cabin counsellor when your older sister Alina leaves after this summer.

And just as you had, Luke eased into the routine too. Every time you entered his room, with a polite knock, he would be perched on the side of his bed, legs open and inviting.

You wondered if he actually did this for you, or if he just never moved from that position.

Sunday morning was slightly different — as camp activities were more relaxed and you had more time on your hands. You strolled slowly to the Big House after breakfast — rather than your usual sprint so you weren’t late to Archery — and knocked politely on the door before cracking it open and heading for the desk. With a plate of food in one hand and a fresh bandage in the other, you made your way over to where Luke sat, readying yourself for another quiet twenty minutes of work. It was quite peaceful, now that you’d gotten used to it. More comfortable, less awkward.

“Hi.”

You blinked, almost dropping what you held, but Luke was there to grab the bandage from your hand as your grip loosened in your shock. He attempted a smile, but winced when it pulled at his scar, and chose to nod at you instead.

“Uh…” You put the plate down into the bedside table, straightening your shirt, “Hi.”

He’d never said hi before.

He didn’t say anything else after that, just let you do what you did, but your mind remained a whirlwind. He said hi. That’s a completely normal thing for him to do, and yet you were reeling from it.

Once you had changed his dressings, you headed for the door and allowed him to eat his breakfast. Your hand wrapped around the metal of the handle and turned it, pulling open the wooden door and stepping one foot into the hall before the voice sounded again.

“Bye.”

You chuckled this time, not looking back, “Bye.”

ii. WEEK TWO

It was an average morning, the blistering sun from last week finally fading and allowing you to walk comfortably outside. You never knew what your dad’s problem with you was last week, but you suspected that it had something to do with the cabin counsellor who slept on the second floor of the Big House with a bandage across his eye.

Like usual, you were heading up the stairs, breakfast plate in hand, ready to give your first checkup of the day. If Luke was healing like he should’ve been, you wouldn’t have to change his dressing at lunch, and you were crossing your fingers that he was.

Pushing the door open with your back, you walked in slowly and headed towards the desk like usual. You grabbed the bandage, made your way over to Luke and put the plate down next to his small lamp. Then you straightened up and put the new bandage under your arm, holding it in place while you moved to unwrap his eye.

Before you could, however, Luke was pulling the bandage from where it was trapped against your ribcage and held it in his own hands. You looked at him, and he gave you a weak smile, “Thought it’d be easier if I held it for you.”

You murmured out a thanks and smiled at him, keeping it there even as you peeled back the old dressings and revealed his still healing scar. Usually, it wouldn’t take this long for a demigod wound to heal itself, but because Luke had gone so long without nectar or ambrosia — or any form of medical help, that is — it was in worse condition. You had to scrape out the infected skin from it a few days back, and it left Luke blinking hard to try and hide the tears.

Nowadays he seemed to be better — not as broody as he seemed last week. But you always caught him drifting off, staring at nothing. You wondered if he was reliving it, asking himself what would’ve changed had he done it differently. Your guess? Not much — you’d read up on Ladon the dragon after finding out it was he who caused Luke’s pain, just in case there was something you needed to know before starting the healing process. He was vicious, not even Hercules could get past him. And while Luke was the best swordsman camp had seen in three centuries, even he would struggle going at Ladon alone.

Once you had redressed his face, you stepped back like you always did, your footfalls sounding out the same metronome as they did three times a day. You wondered if you would wear a mark into the floor from your constant repeating path — door to the desk, desk to the bed, bed to the door. You briefly thought that wouldn’t be possible, something like that would take years to indent, but then you looked back at Luke — his forlorn expression, the bandage across his eye and the bags under’t — and wondered how long it would be before he could build the courage to stand up from the bed, return to a camp that relied so heavily on his skill set, and take the weight of his failure with him.

He pulled the plate onto his lap and you don’t think you’ve ever seen someone look so sad while stuffing their face with bacon.

“Hey, uh —“ You started, hand on the doorframe in an attempt to look casual. You couldn’t just leave him like that, right? “Do you…know — uh, know where the spare practising swords are kept?” A measly excuse, but it had him looking at you again.

He swallowed his food before speaking, “The wooden ones are in these old boxes in the back of weapon storage, but I think the celestial bronze ones are kept in the Hephaestus cabin now.”

You nodded, tapping your hand against the wood. That didn’t work in the way you wanted it to, but you weren’t going to force it. So you turned, went to open the door and leave —

“Why?”

Nevermind!

You whirled around — not too eagerly! You didn’t want to scare him off, now — “Oh! Uh, some Ares kid snapped one in half the other day, we needed a replacement.”

Luke nodded. Shit, say something else. Get him talking!

“Odd weather we’ve been having.”

What?

His lips parted, and he had the gall to look amused, “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

“Oh, yeah.” You breathed, humiliated. You pressed your lips together, ready to give up, until a thought came to you, “Hey, you haven’t been outside in, like, a week.”

Luke nodded, shadows falling across his face like the mere mention of the fact that he hadn’t been outside was a painful reminder of his circumstances, “Yeah, I, uh, don’t think I want anyone to know that I’m back yet. Not until I’m healed, y’know?”

You knew. You also knew that probably wasn’t the only reason he refused to let anyone know he was safe in the Big House, but you didn’t say that.

“Right, but —“ A breathy chuckle, “You need, like, sunlight. Fresh air.”

“I don’t wanna risk it.”

“Ok.” And that was that. You said goodbye, left him to his own devices, and didn’t mention the sun thing again for two days.

It was on Wednesday that you finally gave in. Now that you’d put the thought in your own head, you kept noticing the effects that being cooped indoors was having on Luke. His skin, once tanned and glistening under the sun, was paling by the hour. He winced whenever he had to straighten his back, and even though his scar was healing nicely, he seemed to be more sensitive to the pain of it than he was a week earlier.

So on Tuesday night you formed a plan, and on Wednesday morning at breakfast you put it into action. It started with asking Lee — ever so casually, of course — what the activities schedule was looking like. He started yapping about their cabin, and you waited patiently for him to bring up the Amphitheatre. Then, when he said the Apollo kids were training at two, you said —

“I thought we trained at twelve on Wednesdays?”

“No, that’s Ares and Hephaestus.”

“Oh, but don’t they train at four?”

“No, Hermes and Athena train at four.”

“Then who trains at ten?”

“Nobody.”

Bingo.

Luke was halfway through pulling on a pair of shorts when you burst into the room. He jumped, yanking them up the rest of the way before turning to look at you — his face was a mix of shock and unbridled anger until he realised it was you, then it softened into something calmer. But you saw him, even for just a split second, and the animosity in his gaze made you take a quiet step back. It was fearful almost — you’d seen him annoyed, irritated. You’d even bore witness to the Carden Cross Hot Cross Bun Incident of 2002,

(Carden Cross was this fifteen year old Ares kid. He threw one too many hot cross buns at the Aphrodite table and a then-sixteen-year-old Luke had wrung him out in front of everyone.

Nobody had ever heard Luke raise his voice like that, and Carden avoided everyone for a week straight).

but you had never seen such indignation in his gaze. It was gone in a flash, and you could’ve told yourself it was never there, but it was. You were hit with the humbling realisation that whatever Luke had gone through on his quest was more damaging than you could ever imagine, and no amount of fresh air would change him back to who he was before.

That saddened you, but then you realised he was shirtless again and all morbid thoughts went straight out the window. You grinned at him, “Sorry. But we don’t have a lot of time.”

He stared at you, then at your hands that were empty of breakfast food or bandages, and asked, “Time for what?”

“For some fresh air!” You sang, throwing in some jazz hands as if they would wipe the hesitant frown that had graced his features, “Put some shoes on, let’s go!”

He said your name softly, “I can’t go outside.”

You straightened up from where you had leaned dramatically into the room and sent him a blank look, eyes still sparkling, “You can. I checked the schedule, the Amphitheatre is free from ten till twelve and it is currently…nine forty-five. If we hurry, we’ll miss the post-breakfast rush.”

Luke looked a little more at ease now, but he made no move to put his shoes on. His body twitched like he was thinking about it, but when he couldn’t come up with a valid excuse to get out of it, he sighed and nodded, “Alright. Doctors orders, I guess.”

“Awesome.” You smiled, “I’ll let you get ready.”

It took some convincing, even after you’d gotten him to follow you down the stairs, to get him out the door. But a few firm words (and a couple of threats) and he was basking in the morning sunlight just as you’d planned.

Well — more like squinting painfully. Turns out, after a week and a half in a dark room, it takes a minute to get used to the sunlight again. You ensured nobody was around and took the long way to the Ampitheatre, letting out a content sigh when you knew you were away from prying eyes. Luke seemed more relaxed already, and you could practically see his muscles getting looser.

“Damn.” He muttered, hand over his eyes, “I needed this.”

“Yeah.” You spoke over an unattractive snort, “I’m an Apollo kid, I know a Vitamin D deficiency when I’m looking at one.”

“Alright.” He rolled his eyes at you, amused, and moved towards the steps. He climbed up two before turning and sitting, leaning back on his elbows and blinking at the sky, “Think your dad made it extra sunny just for me?”

“Probably.” You smiled, standing in front of him — but still making sure you weren’t blocking the sun from his face. “After some convincing from your dad.”

Luke’s smile faded. His eyes remained closed but his hands tightened into loose fists, “I don’t think so.”

Now you were desperate to change the subject. Your eyes darted to the wall, and the rack of swords sitting in its usual spot, “Hey, wanna swing some bronze?”

“Gods.” He let out a rough laugh, and you grinned in satisfaction, “Swinging Bronze. Haven’t heard that in a while.”

You nodded, glad he was back to being somewhat happy, “We thought we were so cool.”

“We thought it’d catch on.”

You shared a laugh, and Luke peeked an eye open, looking at you, “How come we were never friends back then?”

A meek shrug, “We weren’t really friends until a couple of days ago. That's if you even count us as that now.”

He just kept looking at you, and his gaze burned into your skin. You stepped back, closer to the middle of the arena space, “We never really spoke.”

He looked at you as if he was thinking hard about what you said, and what he was gonna say next. Apparently he came up short, because seconds later he was clicking his tongue and pushing himself up, joining you in the middle of the arena, “Alright. Let’s swing some bronze.”

You let out a shaky breath, nodding. This was going well. He was outside, he was laughing, he was about to pick up a sword for the first time since he’d angrily thrown his own at the porch of the Big House when he got back a week and a half ago.

He handed you a wooden practice sword, and you raised a brow. Usually the wooden ones were for first-timers, or younger kids. He shrugged, you let it go.

Despite the fact that you and Luke had been at camp together for five years, you’d never actually gone one-on-one in a sword fight with him. It was rare that Apollo and Hermes were paired together for activities, since they were the two highest populated cabins, but even when Luke was running the practice he always picked the people he knew the best for demonstrations. You lingered at the back, watching.

So you were slightly nervous, but you also didn’t want to show it. Sure, on any normal day Luke would reassure you with kind eyes and that Luke Castellan Smile, but he wasn’t exactly himself right now. You swallowed down your nerves, matched his stance, and swung.

Best Sword Fighter in Three Hundred Years — not an exaggeration. His moves were swift, calculated, and he stayed calm the entire time. It was as if he knew everything you were going to do before you did it, and had three counterattacks on the back burner for when you would strike. Your swords clashed every time you made a move and suddenly you realised why he wanted you to use wooden swords — the clang of wood was a lot quieter than the clang of bronze, it was less likely anyone would hear you fighting. It made sense, but you couldn’t focus on that when he was practically parrying your thoughts with sweat dripping down his temple.

You held your own, though. You were quite impressed with yourself when you blocked his swipes and sidestepped his jabs. It was making him groan in frustration, and the edges of your mouth perked up. You didn’t realise how good you were at this.

Then Luke stumbled. He grunted, righted himself, and swung again. You blocked it, and he steadied his shoulders. You slowed, focusing on the way he heaved for breath, taking in gulps of air, while you were hardly breaking a sweat. The way he kept readjusting his grip on the hilt of his sword, and how his fingers shook on his free hand. He went for you again and you sidestepped him, making him trip up. He didn’t fall, but he did let out a long angry groan at his mistake, throwing the sword to the ground in frustration.

You flinched, “Luke.”

“This was a bad idea.” He snapped. He wasn’t looking at you, pacing up and down with his hands in his hair. “What the fuck is wrong with me?”

“You’re still recovering —“ You tried to reason, but he wasn’t listening to you.

“I’m the best damn swordsman this camp has ever seen. What the fuck is wrong with me? Why can’t I do this? Why —“

“Luke.” You stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. He looked at you, “It’s okay.”

“No it’s not.” He gritted through his teeth, “I fail one quest and suddenly I can’t do anything anymore? Yeah, that’s typical.”

You shook your head, “You just need time to get better.”

“I was better! Better than everyone else here, I —“ He paused, a faraway look in his eyes that unnerved you for a second before he was looking at you again, “I can hear people.”

You perked your ears up. He was right, you could hear the chatter of camp if you listened carefully enough — but it wasn’t anything to worry about. They were all doing their own tasks, far away from where they were. If someone was coming, it would be more clear. You told him that, but he shook his head.

“I need to go back. This was a bad idea.”

“Hey, it’s okay, we can go —“

“No, not we. Me.” He said firmly, a hard look in his gaze that he didn’t have before, “I’m going back. You’re staying here. And I’m never going anywhere with you again.”

iii. WEEK THREE

You hadn’t seen him in five days.

Chiron had pulled you out of Archery to ask about Luke — and why he had seen him storm angrily back into his room and lock the door. You just told him you thought it was best for him to find someone else to take care of him for the time being. You didn’t think Luke would want to see you again, ever.

All you wanted was for him to be his old self again. The guy you always saw helping out someone else with a smile on his face, the one who made others laugh and laughed with them. The one who waved at anyone who waved at him. The one who was completely oblivious to the flirting and just thought they were being friendly. The Luke Castellan who everyone gushed about, who everyone loved.

That man up there, with the scar on his face and the look in his eye, wasn't Luke Castellan. And maybe he never would be again, not completely. But he could come close — he could still smile, he could still laugh.

But you’d fucked all that up just by bringing him outside.

You didn’t know who Chiron had asked to replace you, because you never saw anyone else get up after breakfast with an extra plate. You didn’t see anyone sneaking out of the Hermes cabin with a pile of clothes. You stood in the fields for hours a day, watching those thin curtains stand stiff at the window, never to open. You thought you’d seen a shadow, but maybe it was your mind playing tricks on you.

The weekend came and went, and you spent the whole time worrying about Luke. Did this new person know that he preferred fatty bacon? Did they know that he liked keeping the curtains closed? Or would they just bring him a plate of pancakes? Ask him too many questions about his quest? Your mind whirred — would they make him worse?

No. That’s not what you were scared of.

Would they make him better?

Would they understand him more than you did? Would they coerce more words out of him? Would they even need to coerce him, or would he be comfortable holding a conversation with them no problem? What if he was better now than he ever had been with you?

You flinched when your name was called. Looking up from the bracelet you were crafting with some younger kids and meeting the eyes of Dionysus, “Sir.”

“Our, uh, special guest is requesting your presence.” He said with a stupid look on his face, “So get off your ass and get up there, I can’t stand his whining any longer.”

You did as asked with a slight roll of your eyes that made the six year old who was next to you giggle into their hands. It brought a grin to your otherwise down expression, unsure of what Luke wanted to say to you.

The room was dark when you cracked the door open — there was no response after you knocked, but you could hear him shuffling inside, so you went ahead and opened it an inch. It was a lot darker than it used to be — or maybe you too had gotten used to the shade after spending so much time there.

You pushed it open more, and there he was, in his usual spot on the edge of the bed. Head down, hands fiddling with something by his eye. He was muttering in frustration, and you stepped into the room in concern. The floor creaked, he looked up, and you gasped.

The side of his face where his scar sat was red with blood — you almost missed the bandage he was attempting to tie around it because it had been stained pink. His fingers were shaking and he pursed his trembling lips at you, “I can’t do it.”

You surged forward, immediately taking the fabric from his hands. He let them drop into his lap as you peeled it back and looked at the damage. You winced — not as bad as the blood had made it seem, but bad enough. The wound had reopened at the top, and the blood was dripping into his eye and along the curve of his jaw.

It took a few panicky minutes, but eventually the bleeding had stopped, Luke’s face was clean of blood, and you were staring at him in shock, your own fingers still red from the damage. He was avoiding your eyes, the only other thing he’d said to you being a strained thank you when you had stepped back.

“What —“ You were at a loss.

“I tried to change them myself.” He shrugged, picking at his fingernails, still not looking at you. “I’d watched you do it so many times, I figured I had it handled. Apparently I didn’t, because I woke up and it was freakin’ bleeding everywhere.”

“Oh, Luke.” You breathed, “Why didn’t you wait for someone to help you?”

“You never came back.” He said like it was obvious.

“What — so you’ve been doing this yourself for five days?” You asked, a shocked exclamation, “Chiron never sent someone else to help you?”

“He asked me who I wanted,” He shrugged, “I said you. You weren’t an option, so I did it myself.”

“You said —“

“I know what I said, alright?” He stressed, head in his hands now, “It was stupid. I was angry, hurt, whatever. It was at myself, but I took it out on you. I’m sorry. I don’t — “ His voice cracked, “I don’t know what’s happening to me.”

“Luke.” You murmured. You took a step closer, kneeled before him, and gently pried his hands away from his eyes so he would look at you. His expression was so…sad. So distraught. “What happened on your quest?”

And he told you everything.

iv. THE AFTER

Luke was ashamed to admit it — but he had no idea what your name was when you started looking after him.

Sure, he’d seen you around. You were one of the Apollo kids who spent more time in the infirmary than on the archery fields, but he was too good at his job to get injured. Hence why he didn’t know your name. He knew your face, he smiled at you and you would smile back. He was friendly with your brother, Lee. But that was about it.

That’s what made it so perfect.

You wouldn’t ask him about his quest. You wouldn’t try your hardest to get him to open up. You would do your job, and leave him to mope. That was all he wanted.

Until he learned your name.

And just from glancing at your smile — all awkward and nervous as you introduced yourself — he knew he wanted to be near you. He knew you were the type of person he could sit in silence with and walk away from it with a happy memory.

He thought he knew enough about you to determine who you were to him (a stranger). But he didn’t know your name, your voice, he didn’t know your touch or your smile — the real one you give when someone truly makes you laugh. Not the one he thought he knew.

He stood stiffly on the porch of the Big House — three weeks was all it took before Mr D was kicking him out, telling him to get a grip and face the music. Luke was ready; physically. His scar was nothing but that — a memory, faded into his skin forever. There was no other reason for him to keep himself hidden other than the fact that he wanted to. If it was up to him, nobody would ever bear the burden of seeing him ever again.

For weeks he told himself that his quest was pointless. He screamed it at the gods, at Chiron, at you. He cursed his dad every night for sending him on a path to failure and not even acknowledging it. He cursed himself for ruining the first chance he had at gaining his fathers pride in seventeen years — he sat in the dark, fists clenched, and asked himself what it was all for.

The five years on the run, the endless monster attacks, the relentless training, the offerings, the prayers. Would his life be any better had he just let that first monster kill him?

No. Because he wouldn’t have met Thalia, or Annabeth. He wouldn’t have seen the brighter side of being a halfblood — he wouldn’t have met his siblings, he wouldn’t have found his calling. He wouldn’t have experienced the joy of helping a new camper, of being the guiding hand he never got to hold.

But what of his quest? His mission for his father brought nothing but pain — a pointless trip, a humiliating failure, a deep jagged scar. For weeks he asked himself why he was given the quest in the first place, and for years to come he will question himself each and every day.

But each and every day he asks himself what the gods had ever given him, he would be reminded of the day he learnt your name. And he would tell himself had he not taken that trip, had he not fallen to Ladon, he never would have felt the searing touch of your fingertips on his skin.

So maybe it was worth it after all.

He stepped off the porch.

[daylerogers]

Worrisome Wounds

Rarely do John and I have moments where we sit at the table and just talk. Too often we’re both exhausted, and conversations drift away like bubbles on a breeze. Great intentions; non-existent energy. I was sitting on the bench at our table during one of those infrequent times as we discussed a variety of things, from work to the kids. John had an article he wanted me to read–I can’t even…

[notthatcount]

Quick and goofy Arthur and John (and alexander) cooldown from the newest Malevolent ep~

[valtsv]

"i have hobbies" and it's the emotional equivalent of wrapping myself in coils of barbed wire

[art-is-kayos]

Wailing Coffin Hong Lu and Gregor

[gingermintpepper]

There are many things people expect from one called 'God of Blood'. Always, the first thought is the blood of war, the blood of violence, the blood of the weak shed for the goals of the strong. Ares doesn't think of the blood of battle at all. When he thinks of blood, he envisions the many tied knots of blood bonds and bonds forged in the blood of battle. Blood sons and blood daughters, blood brothers and battle sisters, blood oaths and blood vengeance - he watches over them all and keeps close each one of these bonds.

One cannot begrudge his displeasure then when he realises he cannot tell Leto's offspring apart just by looking at them.

It was easier when it was just Artemis. Dark hair curled about her shoulders, a fierce mien whenever Father summons her to the mountain, a scattering of bones and blood shed whenever she was disturbed; the eldest child of Leto was a wild thing, sharp toothed with sharper claws always at the ready. There's whispers of her being a twin, of her other half being made to crawl on their belly as penance for their sin of god-slaying but Ares pays it little mind. What twins look alike among their number? Even dog litters are born distinct with all their unique markings inlaid in their fur. Artemis' twin too would be much more than their sister's mirror image.

Pouring over his list now, he wishes anything about Phoebus Apollo was that simple.

Mirror image did not begin to describe it. The twins were the same height, the same build, had the same colour and texture hair, ate the same raw food and drank the same amount of nectar. There was no difference in how they dressed, no difference in the company they kept, no variance in the weapons they used. There are some days Ares still cannot believe Phoebus will grow into a man and not some nymph with the way his ears have that slender point. He watches them now, sitting together beneath a shady palm and stringing their bows in an uncanny unison and curses because he still cannot tell them apart. What use is his skill in knowing blood when they both have the same damn blood running through their veins? What bond is there to sense when they are tied so tightly together, Ares can scarcely tell brother from sister?

He sighs. Unadorned and completely alone, the only way to know who is who is to speak to them. He'll have to find more ways to tell them apart from a distance. Surely they cannot stay this similar all the rest of their immortal lives.

[bisexualdisasterjeanmoreau]

Jeremy leaving neon post it notes with cheesy affirmations and drawings scribbled on them around his and Jean’s room. Jean rolling his eyes as he takes them off the wall, only to tuck them away in one of his drawers for safekeeping. 

[crumbpigeon]

✸ If you could only see the beast you've made of me, I held it in but now it seems you've set it running free ✸

[mirensiart]

Hmmmm I wanna do a battle related comic for the pain sharing au but like... do I even have the art skill to pull it off lmao

I wanna try and see if I can after I'm done with the legend+time comic

I feel the guys need to be put in situations

[serpentface]

SPIRITUAL POLLUTION, THE GESTURES AGAINST EVIL, AND ABLUTION: A POST

The concepts of spiritual purity and pollution are central to the Faith of the Seven Faced God (and similar takes on the concept predate it throughout and beyond the immediate Wardi cultural sphere). There is no clean cut distinction between physical and spiritual health in this belief system (these concepts exist as a heavily overlapping venn diagram) and many methods intended to cleanse spiritual pollution address both realms.

The word for the concept referred to as spiritual pollution is 'mesechitse', which can translate to 'blockage' or 'severance' depending on the context (its underlying meaning is a pathway that has been stopped in some capacity).

At its core, spiritual pollution is a corruption of the living spirit (which is carried by/IS the blood). It causes both physical and spiritual problems. Polluted blood flows improperly and does not maintain the body’s natural stasis or integrity, causing or allowing disease or other bodily dysfunctions to occur. Many ailments are seen as wholly physical and internal in nature, occurring directly due to polluted blood flowing improperly and affecting key organs. Other diseases (particularly contagious or infectious disease) are known to be caused by dagi, which are harmful spirits that enter the body through orifices or wounds. A limited number of ailments (most notably pronounced schizophrenia-spectrum disorders or cognitive disabilities, unfortunately) are thought to be caused by possession by more powerful evil spirits.

At its worst, severe spiritual pollution is thought to impact or sever one's connection to God. Summarized very basically, severe pollution = blockage of flow between one's own living spirit and the greater spirit of God, which deprives a person of God's blessings and protection, severs them from the natural cycling of life and death (and prevents their necessary participation) and can put their afterlife in jeopardy.

Some degree of corruption to the living spirit is seen as completely inevitable and managed by the body, which physically expels some polluting agents via urine and feces, as well as menstruation (thus all of these substances are themselves dirty and polluting agents). It is reckoned as impossible for any living body to exist in a Completely spiritually pure state. The goal of cleansing (and broader practices revolving around spiritual integrity) is rather to maintain stasis of the body's natural cycling (and by extension a connection to God's living spirit) and to keep pollution contained and minimized.

If one's immortal soul successfully reaches the afterlife, it is then reborn into a spiritually pure existence incapable of being 'severed' from God in any capacity. God Itself is a spiritually pure being, but Its body and living spirit (the world and its cycles, manifested as Faces) is vulnerable. The purity of God's living spirit (and therefore the life-sustaining functions of the world that all beings depend upon) must be sustained, protected, and restored through right practice, which is what much what the public religion revolves around.

Spiritual pollution is a separate but overlapping concept with:

-Metaphysical vulnerability, the word for which is 'namne couyibase' (literally ‘lacking integrity of Being’). This is a state in which the body and living spirit is considered vulnerable to great change, for good or for bad. These states can have vital and positive uses (they are utilized in many rituals, and it is what allows for conception and birth), but must be entered with caution and intentionality. Uncontrolled namne couyibase can otherwise leave one open to forms of spiritual harm. -Curses, which are targeted infliction of harm (of all sorts- bad luck, evil spirits, etc) onto a person, place, or thing. A spiritually polluted body is has less resistance to curses, and curses can intensify this pollution. -Possession, which is when evil spirits attach themselves to or inhabit the body. In the vast majority of cases, possession does not mean an evil spirit is Controlling the body, merely harming it. A spiritually polluted body has less resistance to possession, and possession can intensify this pollution. -Ritual uncleanliness, which is a state of intensified spiritual pollution that requires complete prohibition from a person from entering sacred spaces or participating in certain rituals until they are made clean. The most common reasons for ritual uncleanliness are active menstruation, being in the mourning period, or having performed a known dirtying action without its required ablution (see below).

---

Multiple levels of religious-medical practice are centered around maintaining the body's stasis and cleansing it of mesechitse whenever possible. The methods are both active and passive.

Passive methods include the wearing of protective objects/amulets or having the motifs on household items or as decoration (the most ubiquitous are charms like the pelatoche (lit: '(ocean) eye') or odatochent (lit. 'Gods eyes'), the skimmer woman, or phalluses, and the wearing of gull feathers), in addition to other beneficial/protective iconography (guardian lions are most common, though physical representations of each Face of God have beneficial functions).

Active methods cover a broad swath of rites and behaviors (which is even broader in non-doctrinal folk practices). I'll be focusing here on the two main everyday methods of protection/cleansing (rather than more specialized rites) that are supported by core doctrine and may be performed by anyone, rather than being restricted to priests.

---

Gestures against evil

These are the absolute most basic protection methods, comprised of three core gestures.

Purity of intent: the hand is held with the palm facing upward, the pointer and pinky finger extended and the thumb and inner two fingers pressed together. This is the most directly ‘cleansing’ gesture, it attempts to bind uncleanliness within the body and thus to prevent inevitable background level spiritual pollution from the body infecting a pure environment or another person. You mostly perform this gesture while entering/leaving a protected or vulnerable space (literal or figurative).

Protection of spirit: the hand is held with the first two fingers pointed together, held upwards for generalized use or pointed for directed use. This is the simplest of apotropaic gestures, aiming to protect the body and spirit from outside harm. This is commonly used before or while entering contexts seen as physically and/or spiritually dangerous, or to un-aggressively counter an evil eye curse.

Dispelling of evil: The hand is held with the first two fingers pointing together, touched to the lips, and flicked away from the body. In practice, this is most commonly used to prevent attachment by malicious or otherwise harmful spirits that may have been evoked (you might perform this after you speak of someone believed to be an earthbound ghost or refer to an evil spirit directly, or immediately after touching a potentially contagious sick person (ideally followed by ablution)). This will not help you if evil spirits have fully Attached themselves to you, but can remove ones that have been attracted to you. Doing this gesture and flicking in the direction of another person is very rude.

These gestures have separate uses, but will often be performed in conjunction (usually in the order given) as a quick means of protecting oneself and the spaces around them. It is not considered a doctrinal replacement for ablution as it does not actually cleanse the spirit, but it attempts to reduce harm (both sustained and produced by the user).

---

Ablutions:

Ablution is spiritually and physically cleansing the body with clean water. The metric for clean water is fairly expansive- ocean water, any flowing water, any clear lake, shallow water sources that are clear and free of (obvious) polluting elements such as animal corpses or unclean animal feces, any clear collected water.

The core requirement of an ablution is for the hands to be cleaned in all circumstances, and for other body parts to be cleansed in addition if the situation requires it. One must fully wet the hands/other affected areas and scrub thoroughly, and then use fresh water to rinse. If you have to clean other parts of your body, you save your hands for last (as they will be used for the cleaning).

It is appropriate to perform ablutions cooperatively, but the person assisting you should participate as well (ie- if you have someone washing your back, they should scrub and rinse their own hands after). Someone considered to be in a ritually unclean state that ablution will not immediately fix (the most common are actively menstruating or being in the midst of the mourning period) should not perform ablutions on others.

Note that there is no Hard distinction between bathing for spiritual cleanliness and bathing for physical cleanliness (there is a separate set of cultural standards for physical hygiene, but most hygiene expectations are Covered by ablution). In most circumstances, ablution is just a regular, sometimes tedious everyday activity rather than a solemn or special occasion.

The ritualized requirements denote that only the hands + any given affected body parts Must be washed, but ablutions will often be an aspect of a full-body bathing routine to meet other hygiene standards. (ie: someone performing ablution before making offerings or eating a meal is only Required to wash their hands, but will very often wash their whole bodies and clean their hair- offerings and a meal are (typically) daily activities, so this is a good time to just get a full bath in while you’re at it). It may additionally involve washing the skin with oil or soap, moisturizing the hair with oil, scraping away dead skin, and applying perfumes. This is not a ritual requirement and is performed because generally, people like to feel clean and smell nice.

The hard physicality of cleansing WITH WATER is KEY to this practice. Per core doctrine, there are no DIY cleansing methods that replace washing with water. If one does not have access to clean water for ablutions, they should not perform offerings whatsoever (but are allowed to pray) until they can be cleansed, and accept that they are receiving spiritual pollution by performing ablution-required tasks in the meantime. A blessing from a priest is the only doctrine-supported spiritually cleansing replacement for water ablutions. In practice many people will use the gestures against evil as a replacement (which is not supported by doctrine and is more common in folk religious practice), and virtually everyone will find ways to get physical contaminants off of their body either way (if you step in dog shit and don't have any water nearby, you're going to wipe it the hell off even if that doesn't make you ritually clean).

Times when such an ablution is generally considered a hard requirement:

Before bloodletting in prayer or making other offerings

Before meals

Before assisting in a birth

After menstruation ends

After receiving penetrative sex

After defecating

After urinating (this isn't as ubiquitously seen as a hard requirement, in a lot of cases people interpret it as 'only if you actually get pee on your hands')

After touching urine

After touching feces (many lines of thought make exceptions for the excrement of cattle and khait due to their clean and sacred status- this makes life a easier for the majority of people who have to use dry dung as fuel)

After touching a dead body (human or animal)

At the end of your mourning period for dead kin (traditionally as part of a larger ritual involving full body submergence in flowing water, rather than as a common ablution)

After touching someone else's blood (aside from rites that require it, in which the blood is expected to be clean and the cross-pollution of living spirit is intentional) (technically includes semen but this does not come up very often)

After touching most sick people (particularly with contagious diseases or any skin ailments)

After recovering from an illness (ablutions will be performed as an aspect of treatment as well)

Before entering most temple's inner shrines (and some temples altogether)

Also a requirement for participation in certain specific rites and/or festivals

The exact nuances on how hard these requirements are sometimes vary, particularly in instances revolving around touch. Official doctrine is that any unclean touch requires ablution, but in common practice this is sometimes reinterpreted as only a hard requirement when the touch occurs to the hands. Most practitioners do not perform an ablution immediately after an unclean touch occurs (if you're a field laborer and step in dung, you're probably going to wait to wash until you retire for the night), and not everyone performs ablutions every single time they 'should'.

Only drawing I have related to ablution under the cut (nudity)

This is one way to do it

[kybercrystals94]

Six Weeks

Read here on Ao3!

Whumptober 2024 - Day 22 - Prompts: Bleeding through Bandages // Reopening Wounds

Rated: T (for mentions of injury) | Words: 1391

“You have two choices, captain. You can spend the next six weeks in medical under the careful watch of a medic to make sure you don’t do anything stupid; or, you go home for six weeks and let your brothers make sure you don’t do anything stupid.” 

Omega rolls her eyes. “You forget it was my brothers who taught me most of my ‘stupid’ stunts, Hera.” 

“Maybe,” Hera admits. “However, one look at your injuries, and I have a feeling they’ll become the most insufferable mother nexus you’ve ever seen until you’re cleared for active duty.”

“That’s not a feeling, Hera,” Omega groans, trying to shrug into her jacket with her one good arm, “That’s a kriffing fact. I’m never going to hear the end of it when they find out what happened.” 

“You haven’t told them yet?” Hera gasps, helping Omega thread her injured arm through the other sleeve. 

“Of course not. If I did, they’d be storming the base right now demanding to see me. It’s not like I’m on my deathbed, Hera. I crashed, I survived, I’m fine.”

“Your definition of ‘fine’ needs work.”

Omega slides off the medical cot, favoring her left leg. “I’ll take that into consideration while I’m forced to lie around for a month and a half.” 

“Good.”

As Omega starts to limp out of medical, Hera stops her, pulling her into an embrace, carefully avoiding Omega’s cracked ribs. “I’m so happy you’re alright, Megs.” 

“You’re not getting rid of me that easily,” Omega mutters with a grin. 

Hera laughs. “Don’t give your brothers too much trouble, got it?” 

“Where’s the fun in that?” 

**

On General Syndulla’s orders, Omega is not allowed to fly herself back to Pabu. Instead, she is being transported by a shiny new recruit everyone calls Iggy, for whatever reason. They land in the middle of the planet’s night cycle, Omega directing Iggy to the cave that typically houses her own ship when it isn’t being held hostage by Hera. 

“Need help with your bags, captain,” Iggy asks as Omega pushes herself unsteadily to her feet. 

Omega waves him off. “It’s one bag, and I’ve got it. I’m not a complete invalid.” 

That makes Iggy grin. “Understood, captain.”

Despite protests, Iggy does help her down the ramp and hovers as Omega gets her footing on the uneven cave floor. He tries to convince her to let him walk her up to the house, but Omega insists that she’s fine. She finds one of Batcher’s long pieces of driftwood the hound has a habit of hoarding in the corner. “See, I’ve got a walking stick, I’ll be fine.” 

“If you’re sure,” Iggy relents. He gives a sloppy salute. “See you in six weeks?” 

“Six weeks,” Omega agrees. 

Omega watches him off, leaning heavily on her makeshift cane. Somehow, being so close to her brothers and their anticipated mothering makes her feel less valiant about her wounds. No matter how old she gets, how experienced she becomes, she feels like a child again with her brothers nearby to protect her. 

As she makes her way up the worn path, her injuries make themselves known. The laceration on her thigh pulses under the bandage, her sprained shoulder and elbow ache in her sling, her cracked ribs throb with every intake of air. Maybe she should have let Iggy carry her bag. 

Omega focuses on her surroundings, the familiar sound of nighttime breathing around her, the muted roll of waves on the beach. The scent of fresh air and sea laced with the sweet smell of local flora. How many dark nights did she sit with her brothers, watching the stars and listening to stories? Countless nights leaning against Hunter or Crosshair or Wrecker until she fell asleep to the rumble of their voices, to then be coaxed awake to go to bed. 

When she finally makes it to the back door, she pulls out the key already tucked in her coat pocket, and makes her way inside. She drops her bag by the door, propping her stick next to it, then limps as quietly as she can to the kitchen. She hopes to find leftover supper put away, or, better yet, cookies in the corner cupboard. 

She checks for the cookies first and finds them, plucking the box from the shelf and putting it on the counter before turning to get two cups. Right on time, the kitchen light clicks on, and Omega smiles. 

“Omega?” Hunter asks groggily. 

She doesn’t turn. “Took you long enough,” Omega says lightly. “Hungry? I was just making myself a snack.” 

“Why didn’t you tell us you were coming home?” 

“I wanted it to be a surprise. Did it work?” 

Hunter snorts. “We would’ve waited up for you if we’d known.”

“Exactly,” Omega says, moving to get out the milk, “you old guys need your sleep.” 

She hears Hunter step closer. “Omega, are you injured?” 

“I’ll be alright,” Omega says, but her body betrays her and she nearly stumbles on a side step. 

Hunter catches her bad elbow. 

The pain is immediate, and Omega tries so hard to stifle the cry that reactively comes. It only partially works, the sound escaping like a shrill whine in the back of her throat. 

“What–where are you hurt?” Hunter demands, withdrawing his grip but stepping closer. 

Omega leans against the counter, waiting for the wave of pain to fade. “Uh, that’s not a short list,” she grits out. 

“You need to sit down,” Hunter says. “Did you walk all the way here from the cavern?”

“Yeah, not the wisest decision I’ve ever made,” Omega admits. 

She finally turns around, letting the light expose her visible injuries. She hasn’t looked in a mirror recently; however, she knows must look even more awful than she feels. The look in her brother’s eyes confirms it. 

His expression tightens. “You should be in a medical bay.” 

“Well, it was that or this, and I’d take an opportunity to visit my brothers any day.” Omega lifts her good arm, and Hunter brings it over his shoulder, taking most of Omega’s weight as she hobbles into the common room. Omega is thankful he doesn’t try to carry her. 

Once she’s settled on the couch, Hunter looms over her. “Well, I’d like that long list of injuries now.” 

With a sigh, she gives it to him, doing her best not to gloss over pertinent details. When she gets to the laceration on her leg, Hunter looks down at the bandaging. “Looks like you reopened it with your little hike from the beach,” he says, and Omega glances down. A small bloom of blood stains the careful wrap. 

“Kriff,” Omega curses. 

Hunter massages the bridge of his nose, heaving a lung deep sigh. “I’ll check it over and get it re-wrapped. We’ll send for AZI in the morning.” 

Omega nods, sinking into the worn cushions. “Okay.” 

Hunter stands up, but before he leaves, he rests a hand on Omega’s head, calloused fingers tousling her hair. “It’s good to see you, kid.” 

“You too,” Omega returns softly. 

She knows her brother will take care of her, just like he always has. 

**

Omega wakes to sunlight pouring through her window. Miraculously, neither Wrecker or Crosshair woke up during the night while Hunter redressed her wounds and got her situated in bed. She can’t even remember Hunter turning out the bedroom light before she fell asleep. 

She turns her head and sees an old comm unit on her bedside table, a torn piece of flimsi propped against it. Do not get up. Call if you need anything it says in scrawled letters. Omega rolls her eyes and smiles. 

“Do you think she’s awake?” Wrecker’s version of a whisper practically rattles the door. 

“If she wasn’t, she is now,” Crosshair hisses back. 

Omega’s smile deepens. “I’m awake!” she calls out. 

The door flies open, Wrecker’s exuberant presence filling the room. “Megs! Why didn’t you tell us why you were coming?” he cries. 

“I wanted it to be a surprise,” Omega says, laughing, moving to push herself up on her good elbow.

Crosshair is leaning against the doorframe, arms folded over his chest. “Liar. You just didn’t want to tell us you crashed a stolen TIE fighter.” 

“It’s a good story, I promise,” Omega assures him. 

The ex-sniper smirks at her. “It better be.”

END

A/N: I actually had a little bit more written for this; so I might add a second part if I get that portion finished ;-;

Let me know if you'd like to be added to my tag list!

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[pizzaboat]

You gotta wonder how many times Gwens cures nearly killed Eda. Like, how many times did Eda almost die and end up in incredible distress only for Gwen to completely miss it/not pay attention because her daughter wasn't cured yet

Like, the way Lilith and Luz couldn't possibly understand that and why they got mad at Eda for it makes sense from their POV. Lilith never sees their mom, and Camila would never hurt Luz like that in a million years

But Eda was in the damn trenches with Gwen. If her mom could count nearly killing her as trying to cure her, no wonder Eda was cold AF and sent her mother packing

"I hope you're eating enough." And then she throws large knives at her daughter in the same episode

[paingoes]

Destroyer - Marks

(Masterlist)

girl help i can't stop making bonus content

this is set right around Part XIII, in regard to the “I should probably give you more visible marks.” comment.

(Content: living weapon whumpee, obedient whumpee, somewhat reluctant whumper, dehumanization, power imbalances, physical abuse, minor blood, brief drug mention, death mention)

==============

He got approximately ten million fucking emails calling him an arsonist, or telling him that the experiment is an accident waiting to happen, or asking why he was letting the A-bomb walk around off-leash, why he was letting the bomb walk at all. Accusations he wouldn’t dare repeat. It was all so stupid. Delta was good. Paris never worried about him fragging. But the appearance of insubordination was damning all on its own. It was not a good situation.

Unfortunately, the messages kept coming. From staff he actually respected, too. People he needed. He didn’t even know how word reached them that quickly. He sometimes forgot just how scared they were of Delta. It had never been a popular project. That night, he received many requests for him to be killed outright. Not fucking happening.

Fucking Nezu telling him what to do with his fucking psychic. He was more mad about that than he ever could have been at Delta. That was why he’d gone easy on him. It gave him serious pause whenever his wants overlapped with Nezu’s — sometimes enough to evaporate them completely. He really wasn’t in the mood.

Something had to be done though, by the time the next meeting rolled around. They had to know that Delta had been punished for it, that Paris didn’t just let him get away with everything.

Delta didn’t fight him on it — not that he’d expected him too. He kneeled in front of the desk like he’d been asked. Paris leaned back against it, hitting the pen a few more times than he needed to. 

Delta looked bad. That day had been the only time Paris had ever seen him cry — even weeks later, he hadn’t seemed to recover from it. His eyes were still so pleading, in a way they’d never been before. It was unsettling.

Paris readjusted the only ring he wore on his right hand. It was sapphire — and it was clean. There wasn’t any reason to drag it out. He tilted Delta’s face up a little, tucking the slick hair back behind the webbed fin of his ear. 

“Hold still.” He didn’t want to hit his eye by accident. The jewel was sharp.

He backhanded him hard across the face. Harder than he would have normally. It needed to bruise.

Delta’s head was forced sharply to one side. His hair fell back in his face, totally obscuring it when he looked down at the floor. He didn’t outwardly react, but his next breaths came out shallow and shaky. Yeah, that hurt. 

Paris cupped his face again, moving it back up to examine the injury. It’d landed where he wanted it to — a thin cut right along his cheekbone. He could see the spot where the bruise would form over the next couple hours. Delta winced. Paris gently smoothed over the flushed skin with his thumb. 

“I’m sorry.” Delta’s voice was quiet. It was all he would say recently. 

“I know.”

It was hard to be mad at him when he was so clearly repentant. When he was being this good about it. Paris released him. He’d planned on hitting him across the other side of his face as well, in the interest of covering all his angles. It didn’t feel worth it anymore.

“Hand.”

Delta placed his hand gingerly into Paris’s own. Paris tightened his grip around it, supporting the palm beneath so that it’d absorb the full force of it. Knuckles facing up. Paris reached back for the ruler left out on the desk.

It cracked down hard against his knuckles, fast enough that he didn’t really have time to flinch. His injured hand reflexively tightened around Paris’s in the aftermath; it was the only real physical reaction he’d had. His claws dug painfully into Paris’s hand, not yet breaking the skin.

Paris released his grip on the hand. Delta’s hand relaxed and the claws withdrew, but he didn’t pull it back like he’d expected. He just left it resting there in his grasp.

“Other one.” 

He offered it without resistance. Same routine. Paris brought the ruler back down over his other hand, watching as the first signs of bruising appeared upon them. He placed the ruler back down and released his grip on Delta’s hand. 

“Done.”

There wasn’t much else to do, really. Delta was always dressed in long sleeves and ceremonial garb. For the most part, only his face and hands were exposed on vanguard days. It was enough, though. His expression alone was enough. If he just stayed like that, he’d be fine.

Delta folded both of his hands back into his lap, bright purple and blue against the pale white of clothes. His hair fell messily in his face, but parts of his eyes were still visible. He was still looking at Paris in that desperate, shell-shocked way.

“…Easy. You’re fine.” Paris didn’t know what to say to make him normal again. “The sting will be gone in a few minutes.”

For the hands, anyway, though the numbness would remain. The mark on his face would hurt a lot longer. 

Delta nodded slowly. A small amount of blood appeared by the cut. 

Paris gestured for him to lean forward again. Delta did so, cringing a little. Paris pressed a tissue against his cheek to stop the bleeding. He sighed as it bled straight through.

“…You want a bandaid?” He offered. The bruise would still be visible beneath it. 

“Yeah.” His voice was barely audible. He took the tissue from Paris, keeping the pressure there. 

Paris disappeared for a moment, loudly knocking shit over in the overfilled medicine cabinet. He came back with the split bandage. Delta held still as he applied it over the cut, smoothing it out against his cheek. It was pale white, the same color as his clothes, standing out sharply against the dark blue of his skin.

“…Thank you,” Delta said quietly. Sweetly. It fucking killed him sometimes.

Paris felt something strange in the pit of his stomach. He ignored it. He made a small, noncommittal noise as he discarded the paper into the trash. 

Delta touched the side of his face gently with the newly discolored fingers. Bruises on bruises. He put his hand abruptly back into his lap when Paris looked at him, as if he’d gotten caught. 

“We’re done.” Paris waved him off, sliding the ruler back into the drawer. The pen was starting to kick in. He was getting lightheaded. 

Delta rose slowly, giving something like a curtsy before he left. Or maybe his legs were just unsteady. Paris didn’t really care. 

The door closed quietly. Paris slid the lock shut. He pressed his forehead against the wood grain. Definitely lightheaded.

……

tags:

@catnykit @snakebites-and-ink @vivulapom @scoundrelwithboba @whatwhump

@pumpkin-spice-whump @deluxewhump @fuckass1000 @fuckcapitalismasshole @defire

@micechomper @writereleaserepeat @aloafofbreadwithanxiety

[chiropteracupola]

Hi I am Exceedingly Curious about leg theory but tumblrs search function is the only search bar that exclusively shows you things that AREN'T what you're looking for. May I have a link to an explanation of Leg Theory?

leg theory is the brainchild of the excellent and esteemed @catilinas and in short it is A Collection of Thoughts regarding Seafaring, Identity, Curses and Rituals, Sacrifice, and a Significant Leg Injury or Incident!

notable incidences of leg theory include: odysseus when scar on leg, john franklin's / thomas blanky's / ???'s legs in the terror, john silver's leg in treasure island & black sails, a good 45% of what's going on in moby dick, and that time my dad fell through a hatch on a sailboat and fractured his tibia in a way that was quite interesting for his character development.

other and perhaps more coherent explanations about leg theory can be found here, here, and here, and for Grasping At The Vibes of When It's Leg, I highly recommend perusing the 'leg theory' tags on either of the fine blogs I have linked!

[luckmandude]

Big Bear Villan.