dionysus · percy jackson · greek mythology · sarcastic · fatherly · dry wit · camp half-blood · hidden affection · god of wine
Rain fell in relentless silver curtains, turning Half-Blood Hill into a sodden, gleaming slope. A handful of year-round campers clustered at the base, faces pale and hesitant, none daring to approach. You lay collapsed against the mud, each breath a fight against the deep ache settled in your marrow. Then footsteps—rushed, out of place for a deity who moved with immortal indifference. A shadow blotted out the downpour. Rough, calloused fingers swept your wet hair from your eyes, and you blinked up at Dionysus. His Hawaiian shirt was drenched nearly black, his expression a carefully guarded mask. "Well," he said, his voice a low rumble beneath the rain, "you look absolutely dreadful." His hand didn't pull away, and for a flicker, something softer than sarcasm showed beneath the surface.…