#lightning boy

The day Hera found you, the world was a storm.

Waves shattered themselves against black cliffs, lightning tore across the sky, and in the wreckage of it all, there was you—small, broken, but alive. No one else saw it. No one else would’ve cared. But Hera did. Or maybe she only cared because you shouldn’t have existed in the first place, because something ancient and wrong burned in your veins even then.

Either way, she took you in. She placed her hand on your forehead and whispered words that stitched you into her claim. Hera’s mark burned into your skin like a crown and a chain. You weren’t her blood, but you were hers. Always hers.

For years, it was enough. She whispered in your ear when the powers roared too loud. She guided your steps when the other gods turned their faces away. She said you were chosen, not cursed. And you believed her.

Then you met them.

Percy Jackson. Jason Grace.

The first time you laid eyes on them, something in you snapped. Two golden boys. Two favorites. One with Zeus’ storm-blue gaze and lightning sparking at his fingertips. The other with Poseidon’s stormy sea-colored eyes and the ocean bending when he breathed. You knew instantly what they were—sons of the kings. And for some reason, the moment they looked at you, it was like they knew what you were, too.

Your fists clenched. Their expressions darkened. The air between you sharpened into something ugly.

It was instant, instinctive. Rivalry.

At Camp Half-Blood, you became each other’s shadows.

If you scored ten hits in sparring, Jason had eleven. If Percy finished the climbing wall in three minutes, you did it in two and a half. If either of them brought back a golden fleece, you swore you’d drag a hydra by the neck into the dining pavilion just to prove a point.

“Always have to show off, don’t you?” Percy muttered once after you dropped him flat on his back in sword practice.

“Don’t be sore because you got beat,” you shot back, twirling the blade just to watch his scowl deepen.

Jason was worse. He never rose to your bait, not exactly—but his jaw would tick, and his lightning would spark too close for it to be an accident. You lived for those moments, those tiny cracks in his perfect composure.

The rivalry seeped into everything.

Capture the Flag? You were the first one Jason targeted.

Chariot races? Percy cut you off every single lap, grinning like it wasn’t personal, when you knew it was.

Even the gods fed into it. Zeus and Poseidon watched their sons like prized weapons. Hera never said it aloud, but you could feel her pride simmer when you left them both in the dirt. It was like the three of you existed in some endless competition, destined to tear at each other until one of you broke.

And gods, you hated them.

You hated Percy’s cocky grin, the way he shrugged through battles like it was all some game. You hated Jason’s perfect posture, his calm authority, his way of acting like he was the leader of everything. You hated that they were strong, that they were trusted, that they were—at least in the eyes of everyone else—better than you.

But most of all, you hated that every time you beat them, it never felt like enough. Because the next day, they were right back at it, pushing harder, forcing you to push harder too.

Years passed, and the cycle never broke.

Them. You. Competition. Always.

And maybe, sometimes, late at night when Hera’s whispers lulled you to sleep, you wondered what it would feel like to stop fighting. What it would feel like if Percy looked at you without that infuriating smirk. If Jason said your name without that iron edge.

But you never let yourself linger on that thought. Because they hated you, just like you hated them. That was the one truth you’d never questioned.

At first, it’s just sparks.

They flicker harmlessly across your fingertips during training, like static caught under your skin. The kind that makes your hair prickle or makes your sword hum when you grip it too tightly. Easy to dismiss. Easy to shove down. Just nerves, you tell yourself. Just exhaustion. Nothing to worry about.

Except the sparks don’t go away.

They multiply.

One day, when you’re sparring with a dummy, your strike lands too hard and lightning crackles down the blade, splitting the wood in half. The smell of burning lingers in the air, and your stomach knots with something you don’t want to name.

Then comes the water.

It doesn’t come gentle, the way it bends for Percy, soft and obedient. No, yours surges violent, jagged, as if it resents you for existing. Buckets topple when you pass. Streams swell when you touch them. The camp lake ripples whenever you’re near, trembling like it can sense the storm simmering in your chest.

And once—once, when your anger cut too deep—a wave rose out of nowhere, curling high before it slammed into the shore with enough force to drench half the Hermes cabin. You laughed it off. Joked it was bad luck. But your heart pounded, fear thick and sour in your throat.

Because this isn’t Hera’s gift.

She never whispered of oceans. She never spoke of tides. Hera bound you to storms, not seas. Lightning, not water.

And yet here you are, carrying both.

So you hide it.

You shove your hands into your pockets when sparks lick your skin. You run from the lake when the ripples betray you. You clench your fists until your knuckles ache, willing the storm to stay buried. You never let them see. Not Percy, not Jason. Especially not them.

Your whole life, the three of you have been locked in battle. Rivals. Enemies. You’ve always said you hated them, and you’re sure they feel the same.

So of course they’re the ones who find out.

Percy’s POV

He notices first. He always does.

You’re sparring with him on the practice field, a dozen campers watching like it’s some kind of show — because of course it is. You’ve had Percy on the ground before, sword at his throat, and he’s had you there too. That’s what everyone comes for. The rivalry. The spectacle.

Today is no different.

You lunge, he parries, you twist, he stumbles. The crowd hoots. You sweep his legs and he crashes flat on his back, your blade pressing against his chest. His lungs burn, but it’s not the fall that steals his breath.

It’s you.

The way your hair sticks to your cheek, damp with sweat. The smirk curling your lips, all sharp and victorious. The glint in your eyes — lightning, real and alive, for just a heartbeat before it vanishes.

And gods, Percy thinks — how would this look if you didn’t hate him?

How would it feel if that spark wasn’t born from rivalry, but something else entirely?

He doesn’t say it. He laughs instead, loud and careless, the way he always does. Pretends the quick thud of his heart is from the fight. Pretends he didn’t just see lightning dance over your knuckles as you offered him a hand up.

But later, when he sees the lake ripple behind you as you storm away, he knows. And he’s not angry. He’s terrified. Not of you hurting him — but of you hurting yourself.

Jason’s POV

For Jason, it comes in pieces. Little hints.

The day he finds the training dummies charred black. The way your eyes flash too bright when you’re angry. The subtle shift of the air around you, charged and restless.

But the moment he knows? That’s the night of your prank.

He still doesn’t know how you managed it — the golden boy of Zeus tied up in the weapons room, rope snug, your laughter echoing as you vanished before he could free himself. He had cursed your name, sure, but later, lying there with his wrists bound, Jason’s mind had slipped somewhere it shouldn’t have.

What if this wasn’t a prank?

What if it wasn’t rough rope in the weapons room, but silk, softer and deliberate, binding not because you tricked him but because you wanted to? What if it wasn’t his wrists tied above his head as a joke, but his whole body surrendering beneath your command, somewhere no one could walk in?

The thought burned, unwelcome but irresistible. Heat crept under his skin, and he shoved it down—like he always did. He was Jason Grace, son of Zeus, Praetor, golden boy. He wasn’t supposed to think about you like that. Not when you were glaring at him across the arena, spitting venom, out for blood every time you crossed swords.

You hated him. And he was supposed to hate you.

But then he saw the storm coil around you—lightning kissing your veins, water curling at your feet, like the sky and sea had both bent to you. Power dripped from your every breath, raw and untamed, and gods, you were breathtaking.

And Jason realized with something sharp and dangerous in his chest… he didn’t hate you. Not even close.

You didn’t mean for it to happen.

That was the worst part—losing control in front of everyone. You had trained yourself for years to keep it buried, to keep the water from answering too quickly, the static from humming under your skin where people could hear it. But all it took was one bad hit, one spark too many, and suddenly you were standing in the middle of the arena with the ground soaking wet and your veins glowing like lightning conduits.

Silence fell. Heavy. Choking.

Campers stared from the sidelines, their mouths parted, whispers already beginning to ripple through the crowd. Words like impossible and forbidden and child of two burned into the back of your skull even before anyone spoke them aloud.

You forced yourself to breathe. One inhale. One exhale. Your storm refused to calm.

“Enough.”

Hera’s voice cut through the air like a blade. You didn’t remember her arriving—you never did, she just appeared—but there she was, standing on the edge of the ring in all her quiet authority. The crowd shifted back instinctively, some bowing their heads, others turning away. Her eyes found you and didn’t waver.

You hated that you were relieved.

She didn’t move closer. Didn’t speak again. She didn’t have to.

The water receded at your feet. The lightning fizzled out. The silence remained, but it was sharper now, charged with fear and questions you didn’t want to answer.

They cornered you later, of course.

Not Percy. Not Jason. You avoided their eyes like they were curses waiting to be spoken. No, it was everyone else—the younger campers whispering about what they saw, Chiron asking questions in his grave, deliberate tone, and even some of the gods themselves beginning to stir with interest.

You gave nothing.

Every time someone asked, you laughed it off. Said it was a trick of the light, a coincidence, a training accident gone wrong. You lied until the taste of it clung bitter to your tongue, until you wanted to scream that it wasn’t a trick, that it was tearing you apart. But you never let it show.

Because admitting it meant becoming a weapon. And gods, you were so tired of being turned into something you never asked to be.

At night, though, when the camp was asleep, the storm wouldn’t let you rest.

You’d sneak out to the lake, toes pressed into the damp earth, water curling to your ankles like it loved you, like it had been waiting centuries for you to come home. The sky always joined in. Lightning stitched itself across the clouds above you, silent and dangerous, a mirror of your pulse.

And every time, you whispered to yourself—control, control, control—like if you said it enough, the storm would listen.

It never did.

One night, Hera found you there.

She didn’t announce herself, didn’t make a scene. She just stood by the water’s edge and waited until you couldn’t ignore her presence anymore.

“You can’t keep this hidden forever,” she said. Her voice was calm, maddeningly calm, like she wasn’t talking about your whole world collapsing.

You didn’t turn to look at her. “I don’t want it.”

“That doesn’t matter.”

Her answer was immediate, sharp enough to sting. And when you finally glanced at her, her expression softened only slightly, but enough to make your throat tighten. “You’re not meant to want it. You’re meant to survive it.”

You clenched your fists until lightning sparked between your knuckles, water rippling outward with the movement. “Survive what? Being a mistake?”

Her silence was an answer you didn’t want.

You hated her. Hated that she was the only one who understood, the only one who wasn’t afraid to stand in the same storm with you. You hated that when she finally reached out a hand, you almost—almost—took it.

The days after were worse.

Camp half-feared you, half-worshipped you. Whispers followed you everywhere, questions you didn’t answer and stares you couldn’t escape. Percy avoided you at first, then tried too hard to act like nothing had changed. Jason hovered at a distance, always watching, always waiting for you to slip again.

You wanted to scream at both of them. To ask them if they had any idea what it felt like to be split in two, to belong to water and sky and yet to neither. But the words never came.

Instead, you kept moving. You trained until your body ached. You forced the storm smaller, tighter, until it hid under your skin like a caged animal. And every time you felt it pushing back, threatening to break loose again, you reminded yourself: you couldn’t give them more reason to fear you.

You couldn’t give anyone the satisfaction of being right about you.

Not even Hera.

Not even yourself.

The storm is already roaring before Percy and Jason even arrive.

You can feel it in your veins—lightning sparking under your skin, the pull of the tide clawing at your chest, a rhythm too wild to tame. You don’t want anyone to see you like this, don’t want anyone to know that the gods who shaped you into their perfect rivalry toy also cursed you with both their domains. But of course, it’s them.

Of course, it’s Percy and Jason.

They appear on the cliff’s edge like fate summoned them, backs straight, weapons drawn, eyes locked on you. One with the sea at his heels, the other with the storm in his fists. The sight of them makes your teeth grind.

Jason’s lips twist into a smirk that cuts like a blade. “Of course it’s you.”

You bark a laugh, sharp and bitter. “Jealous I can outdo you at your own thing?”

Percy’s voice cuts in, low and rough, the way the ocean sounds before a wave crashes. “Both of you, shut up before the whole cliff collapses.”

But it’s too late for warnings. Instinct kicks in—the same rivalry that’s been branded into your bones since childhood. You’ve always fought them, and they’ve always fought you. Nothing has changed.

Except it has.

Lightning cracks from your fingertips, tearing through the sky, smashing into a stone pillar behind Jason. He raises his sword, and his own bolt lashes out, splitting yours midair in a blinding explosion of sparks. Your heart hammers. Not because you’re losing—but because for the first time, it feels like he isn’t holding back.

Percy sweeps his hand, and a wall of water crashes up from the cliffside, blocking your next strike. The spray mists against your skin, sizzling as your lightning hits it, turning to steam in the air. The ground shudders beneath your feet.

“Keep up, Seaweed Brain,” you spit, fire licking your words.

Percy’s green eyes narrow, the waves curling tighter at his back. “Don’t tempt me.”

Jason’s voice cuts through, taut with effort as he meets your lightning head-on. “You don’t know what you’re playing with!”

Your laugh borders on hysterical. “And you do? Gods’ golden boys, with powers gift-wrapped to you since birth—tell me, what would either of you know about this?”

Because it doesn’t feel like a gift. It feels like fire consuming you from the inside out, tearing muscle from bone, dragging you toward the edge of something you can’t control.

And still, they fight you.

Every strike, every counter, every flash of power—it feels like proof of what you’ve always believed. They don’t want you to stand alongside them. They want to push you down. To make sure you lose.

The thought shreds through you, raw and jagged.

So you stop holding back.

Your palms burn, lightning pooling in your veins, water surging at your feet. The sky darkens above you, thunder splitting the air. You’re seconds away from unleashing something catastrophic, something that might level the entire cliff and take them with it. And gods, for a heartbeat, you almost let it happen.

Then—Percy’s there.

You don’t even see him move. One second you’re ready to ignite the world, the next his hands are wrapped around yours, crushing warmth against your skin as he shoves your arms down. His chest slams into your back, solid and unyielding, the heat of his body anchoring you even as your power rages. You can feel the ripple of his muscles against you, the steadiness in the way he holds on, like he refuses to let go no matter how much you thrash.

“Stop—” his voice is rough in your ear, desperate. “Please. Don’t do this.”

You twist, lightning sparking under your fingertips, but Jason is suddenly there too. His hand clamps around your wrist, skin hot against yours, the jolt of contact sending your heart skittering. His grip is firm, grounding, his thumb pressing into your pulse point like he’s trying to steady not just your powers, but you.

And it shouldn’t feel like this.

It shouldn’t feel like safety, like home, like the one place you’ve belonged all along is between the two boys you swore you hated. But the warmth spreads anyway, crawling through your chest, fighting the storm inside you.

“Let me go!” Your voice breaks, cracked with fury and fear.

Jason’s face is so close you can see every line of strain, the stormlight flashing in his blue eyes. “No. Gods, you drive us insane, but we’ve never hated you. Not once.”

The words stab deeper than any blade.

Percy tightens his hold from behind, his breath hot against the curve of your neck. “We don’t want to win against you. We just… don’t want to lose you.”

Your power wavers. The storm falters.

For a moment, all you can feel is the heat of Percy’s arms locked around you, the unshakable strength holding you in place, and Jason’s fingers warm against your wrist, steady and unyielding. Their voices cut through the chaos, grounding you in a way nothing else ever has.

The cliff is silent except for the crash of waves and the ragged sound of your breathing. The lightning dies down. The water stills.

And you’re left trembling in their hold, not sure what terrifies you more—the storm inside you, or the way they make you want to let it go.

The cliff is silent after the storm.

Silent, except for your uneven breaths and the distant crash of the ocean below, still restless from the battle. The air tastes of ozone, scorched rock and salt. Your hands are trembling, though you’re not sure if it’s from the power you almost lost control of—or from the way they’re both still holding you.

Percy is behind you, chest pressed to your back, the solid wall of him anchoring you when everything else feels like it’s breaking apart. His grip is firm but not restraining anymore; his arms are around yours, your hands still caged in his, and you can feel every sharp inhale of his lungs against your shoulder blades. He doesn’t let go, even though the danger’s over.

Jason hasn’t stepped away either. One hand is still wrapped around your wrist, his thumb brushing over your pulse in absent, grounding circles. His other hand hovers near your waist, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to steady you further—but the heat of him, close but not touching, is enough to make you hyperaware.

You should pull away. You should shove them off, sneer something biting and cold, reclaim the distance you’ve always demanded. That’s the rule of your rivalry: never let them get close.

But the storm inside you is quieting. Their voices still echo in your head.

We don’t want to win against you. We just… don’t want to lose you. We’ve never hated you. Not once.

Your throat burns, and you hate that it’s not from lightning.

“I…” Your voice cracks, and you have to swallow before you can force the words out. “I could’ve destroyed everything.”

“You didn’t.” Jason’s voice is steady, low, but there’s an edge of something that sounds dangerously like care. He squeezes your wrist gently, a reminder you’re still here, still real. “You stopped.”

“You stopped me,” you snap, because it’s easier than admitting the truth—that maybe, just maybe, you’d listened to them.

Percy’s arms tighten for a moment, just enough to make you feel his strength. “That’s the point,” he says quietly. “We’re not going to let you fall. Not ever.”

The words lodge in your chest like a blade.

You finally tear yourself free, stumbling a step forward. The absence of their touch feels worse than the storm. You press your hands to your temples, trying to keep the chaos contained, but it’s not just power now—it’s the way your skin still remembers them, the warmth where Jason’s fingers pressed, the way Percy’s chest molded to your back like it was meant to.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you mutter.

“Like what?” Jason asks, though you can hear the smirk he’s trying to hide. Typical. Always in control. Always calm. Except now his eyes are soft, too soft, like he’s seeing through every defense you’ve ever built.

“Like I’m not a disaster.”

Percy steps in front of you this time, ocean-green eyes searching yours with a gentleness that guts you. “Maybe because you’re not.”

You laugh, sharp and humorless. “Tell that to the cliff.” You gesture to the scorched rock, the cracks spiderwebbing out where your lightning had struck, the water still steaming where it had clashed against his waves.

Jason finally lets go of your wrist, but only to shrug off his jacket and drape it over your shoulders without asking. The weight of it, warm from his body, makes you freeze.

“Power doesn’t make you a disaster,” he says. “It makes you dangerous, yeah. But disasters destroy without meaning to. You’ve always known exactly what you’re doing.”

The compliment is buried deep, but it’s there. And it makes your chest ache in a way you can’t fight.

Percy reaches out, brushing a damp strand of hair from your cheek. The touch is feather-light, almost hesitant, but it burns more than lightning. His fingers linger just a moment too long.

You want to shove him away. You want to demand why he’s being kind, why he’s unraveling everything you thought you knew. But your body betrays you—you lean, just slightly, into the touch.

And his breath catches.

Jason notices, of course. His lips twitch in something like amusement, but it’s softer than his usual smugness. He takes a step closer, until you’re caught between them again, and suddenly it’s hard to breathe for an entirely different reason.

“You’ve spent so long fighting us,” Jason murmurs. “Did it ever cross your mind we were never fighting you?”

Your head snaps up, your chest tight. “Then what the hell were you doing all these years?!”

Percy smiles, but it’s small, almost sad. “Trying to keep up.”

The world tilts. Your knees threaten to give, but Percy’s hand is already there, steadying your elbow. Jason’s jacket slips from your shoulders, and he catches it, fussing like you might break apart if the wind touches you wrong.

It’s too much. Too close. Too kind.

“Why?” The word cracks out of you before you can stop it. “Why care now? Why tell me this now?”

Jason and Percy exchange a glance, something wordless but full of history passing between them. Then Jason looks back at you, his blue eyes unbearably sincere.

“Because you almost lost yourself tonight,” he says softly. “And gods, we can’t—” His voice falters, and for once, Jason Grace looks like he doesn’t have the perfect answer. “We can’t watch that happen.”

Percy’s hand slides down your arm until it finds your hand, and his fingers lace through yours without hesitation. The callouses of a swordsman scrape against your skin, but the warmth there makes you shiver.

“Because we love you,” he says simply.

The world stops.

The ocean, the storm, Olympus itself—it all falls away until there’s only the three of you standing on a shattered cliff, your chest heaving like you can’t pull in enough air.

You want to deny it. To laugh in their faces, call it another ploy in your endless rivalry. But the look in Percy’s eyes, the softness in Jason’s—it’s not a game. It never was.

And maybe—just maybe—you don’t want it to be.

The storm inside you settles, for the first time in your life.

And between Percy’s hand gripping yours and Jason’s jacket still warming your shoulders, you realize something terrifying:

You don’t feel like a disaster. You feel… safe.

a/n : ok so u may not feel like a disaster but lowkey this fic feels likes a one.