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baby-ditzzy · 9 days

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the last days of judas iscariot — luke castellan + reader : betrayal hurts the saints the most.

tags : mdni, dark!luke, angry kissing, religious imagery & symbolism, body worship, angst and smut, love confessions, p in v sex, corruption kinks, implied blood kink, hints of cannibalism

there was something off about luke castellan.

he used to be caring, sweet and selfless— he did everything for the people around them, offered them smiles even if it was difficult on his lips, did anything to ease their pain, built himself up into a saint. but eventually, saints will fall, whether it be their own doing, or a martyrdom.

this was no martyrdom, he was not crucified, strung up on an olive tree, nor stoned.

this was a conscious decision that nobody else, besides his own self, would understand. it was so, so unlike him, luke was never one to betray the people around him, well, at least he didn’t portray himself that way. if you really knew luke, you’d know how much he hated the gods, he felt as though he was a despicable creation of theirs, and he’ll return the same despising looks.

but the story starts days before that, luke was as he always was. he offered you a smile from across the training field, and you returned it full - heartedly, waving at him. he moves to approach you, ignoring his sparring partner, “hey, do you need a partner?”

you glance around for a second, “don’t you already have one?”

his lips curve to a smirk, “i’d rather be with you.”

luke castellan had a thing for flirting with you, even if he was just being a tease, and didn’t entirely mean what he said— sometimes you thought he didn’t, or he never did, but in all honesty, he meant everything.

he admired you beyond proper comprehension, and you did the same with him. having been friends for years, it was no shock when your gazes would linger on each other for longer than they should, when he would do anything to make you smile even if it costs him his reputation.

on the first day, luke was as he always was, confident, grinning and sweet.

then the second day came, and luke’s smiles began to fade faster, he looked more tired, there was a certain mournful air that clung to his skin and radiated off of him. you picked up on it immediately, frowning at him and pulling him off to the side even when he was busy, “are you okay?”

“what?” his saliva feels thick in his mouth, like globs of nectar that feel poisonous underneath their sweet skin.

“i said— luke, what’s going on?“ you can’t deny how he seems to be out of order on everything, he was even fighting angrier, too, with a revengeful glint in his eye.

“i really, really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“yes, you do.”

and it only got weirder from there, on the third day, he looked straight up exhausted, like he hadn’t slept the past two nights, and now he was being told to take a break from sword fighting because of how rough he was being. smiles were common from him now but cut off quick, and laughs became rare. he wasn’t trying to make anyone else around him smile or laugh, and he always just looked angry, guilty angry.

when you waved at him, he didn’t wave back, nor approach you.

he didn’t want to speak to anyone, so he just didn’t talk.

he’s suffering from something, you just don’t know what, and whenever you asked him, he shrugged it off with, “i’m just tired.”

“i know, you look really tired, luke, do you need melatonin?”

his teeth grit together, and the taste of nectar in his mouth had disappeared, now it was all just bitter poison, “i need to be left alone.”

“luke—“

“please leave me be.”

if anyone were to ask you now, they’d know you regret leaving that night, not forcing him to speak about it with you. the next night, another camper told you about what luke had done, and you hate the way you don’t feel entirely shocked, not even a little bit, not even at all.

luke castellan had a fig tree branching out in front of him, so many possibilities, so many stories to be told, and yet his fingers wrapped around the only rotten fruit on the whole ripe tree. two thousand years ago, there was a man exactly like luke, one who went by the name judas, and in luke’s complete distaste of the bible and anything to do with it— he found himself undeniably following the same path of the man who betrayed jesus.

“ i desire the things

that will destroy me

in the end ”

— sylvia plath.

it was a bad idea to seek out luke that night, you knew it well, and luke knew it too when he frowned at you almost immediately after seeing you. he was still in the woods, only alone now, closer to the shore, closer to the riper fig that called his name— the one labeled captain.

“why are you here?“ his tone is sharper, harsher, but you don’t shy away.

“why’d you do it?” you watch him visibly swallow at the question, as if he doesn’t want to answer it, even when it’s on the tip of his tongue, but for some reason it would hurt to say out loud.

he bites the bullet, “you know— the gods, they’re awful, don’t you think they deserve this?“

“is that where your heart lies?” the question seems to scorch his skin more than the last, because it’s just a continuous waking to what he’s truly done, how the prophecy haunts him even in his desperate attempts to evade it.

“i’ve suffered enough, because of them, because of him— so yes, that is where it lies.”

“you think your suffering is just a one way street?” you pester, anger bubbling in your veins— this was selfish, entirely selfish, he was never the selfless man you once knew, this wasn’t the luke you knew, “it’s not, it wasn’t— you had the chance, luke, to deprive yourself from it.”

“are you just here to lecture me?” luke’s jaw locks.

“why are you being like this?”

luke’s eyebrow twitches, as if he’s mentally debating saying it out loud, but albeit all odds, his lips part, “why don’t you ask that guy you’ve been hanging out with?”

“what?” it’s hard to realize certain things when you’ve been so focused on one person, you were so caught up on your fears for luke you didn’t even realize that the whole time you were thinking of him, you were blatantly speaking with another man in front of his eyes.

to the trained eye, they’d know you never had any real feelings for the man you spoke with, but luke was too blinded by his own guilt and resentment that he didn’t realize it himself. it was a wild string of miscommunications formed into a single spider’s web, exactly like judas’ betrayal of jesus.

INTERLUDE : JUDAS ISCARIOT ( A STUDY )

judas iscariot is often portrayed as the traitor in the story, fueled by greed and his resentment that jesus has something he never will. in the original story, judas is put in the narrative as satan’s pawn, judas’ fate is already written down, and he has no way of pushing it back. satan selects him from a group as he is weak, easily moved, and satan had possessed him body and soul and lived out his personal purpose through the vessel.

the son of perdition : the one doomed to destruction.

god personally protected all of his other saints from satan, so why not judas? why was judas never enough? was he never righteous enough to be saved? jesus loved him, jesus held his face in his holy hands, and yet he never shielded him.

judas is a pawn, a thief, a coward, and a denier of the lord.

judas, in all fairness, is the spitting image of luke castellan.

“is it ever anybody else, luke?”

as if arrow met skin, luke’s brows furrow together like you’ve hit him.

there’s a pause, a deafening silence.

“i miss you,” you speak again.

luke’s nose crinkles, “uh-huh.”

“i miss you, luke.”

luke castellan is going to hell tonight, he’s going to be scorched in the underworld, so he bites his tongue and he moves in. the kiss is angry, teeth clashing, tongues twisting, lips bruising, but luke wouldn’t want it any other way. he wonders that if, in this kiss, do you forgive him? having been someone praised by the gods, the favored one, did you forgive the one who seemingly betrayed them to most?

the kiss says how could you? and i’m sorry at the exact same time.

his hands are quick to grip on your skin like you were his lifeline, tugging you in closer, and smiling against your lips when you melt into his touch so easily. you knew how cruel of a man he was, all the things he did wrong, all the people he had hurt— and yet you’re easing against him like he’s a saint.

his teeth show his hunger well, nipping at your lip until you hiss and pull away with blood bubbling from a fresh wound. at first, he wants to smile, but he finds some mercy, moving his hand to hold your chin, thumb smudging the blood, “‘m sorry, didn’t mean to, swear.”

you knew he was lying, you knew he wanted to see you bleed, he liked the way your skin trembled under his touch, the way that even when shock dilates your pupils— you don’t want to pull away from him. in fact, something about it is oddly attractive to you, how sick is that.

his other hand grips your waist, fingers curling cruelly, “could i..”

undress you? touch you? luke isn’t sure of the proper words, they sit on the tip of his tongue, but something has him too afraid to say it so bluntly. that’s ironic, considering he didn’t hesitate to steal and lie. luke was still the loser he’s always been, deep down, he’s never known how to actually speak to women.

you knew this well, it was something you always made fun of him for, but now you only smile sweetly at him. “of course, luke.”

luke’s hands are desperate when they move to take off your clothes, quick and ruthless, but still so caring at the same time. it was confusing with luke, everything he did had two different sides that would merge together in an unlikely unison. harsh and gentle, bitter and sweet, mean and kind.

his brows furrow when he dips in, pressing his lips to the skin of your neck, pushing you back into the scratching bark of the tree behind you. adam and eve, right after the bites of the apple offered to them. luke wants to sink his teeth into you, to bite until he draws blood, to devour you whole and call you his.

that’s… normal, right?

he doesn’t care, he’s only focused on the shallow breaths that pass by your lips with every scrape of his teeth on the skin being pulled between his lips. his fingers lead themselves further, dipping below the waistband of your underwear and further until you’re gasping and gripping at his wrist.

“luke.. luke,” you plead, whimpering out for his fingers to have some mercy on your clit— luke ignores you, focused on the pleasure that’s coursing underneath your skin. he memorizes the thump of your pulse against his lips on your neck, the way it speeds up when his fingers dare to graze your entrance. you want it so bad, and it’s taking everything in luke to not be a cocky asshole about it.

he eventually pulls away from your neck to admire his work, “have you always wanted me to touch you like this?”

there’s something so poetic about someone who has betrayed the gods you love the most, ruining you. you truly could be awarded for how much you worshiped them, so unlike to everyone around you. they thought their parents were like anybody else, albeit just a little cooler, but you— you felt like a prophet.

maybe you were, maybe luke was.

maybe when the oracle whispered the prophecy she mentioned the fall of a saint, and the way he tugged another down with him.

you look at him fondly, lips parted and puffy from biting, “always.. please.”

please ; a simple plea, but it makes luke grin like a devil. his eyes follow your hands when you move to undo his belt, tugging at his jeans as if his fingers aren’t making your knees buckle. luke licks his lips, and finally allows you some mercy when his fingers leave your underwear, although you frown from the loss of friction. “i’ll make it up to you, yeah?”

luke’s boxers and jeans are falling to the floor in seconds, he stifles a chuckle at your shocked expression to his size, only growing cockier and cockier with each second of this ordeal. it reaches it’s peak when he’s pushing into you, hand on your thigh holding up your leg with ease.

his nose brushes against your cheek, whispering sweet nothings in between faint grunts with each thrust. you’re so pretty, always dreamed of this, better pray the gods aren’t watching. the last comment should piss you off, but it doesn’t, not at all— in fact, it only makes you wetter, the idea that the people you have given everything for are watching you being fucked by someone who despises them.

his free hand moves up to your neck, wrapping around the bruised skin there, and gripping it enough to barely constrict your air flow.

due to the choking, and the force of his thrusts, along with all his taunting words, it doesn’t take long for you to cum on his dick— and he doesn’t last long either.

he finds himself panting against you, slowly pushing out.

“you really should pray for forgiveness.”

#luke castellan x you #luke castellan blurb #luke castellan smut #luke castellan x reader #luke castellan imagine #luke castellan pjo #luke castellan oneshot #pjo luke #luke castellan #luke castellan come home to me pls

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baby-ditzzy · 14 days

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SOBBINGGGG

i know you.

pairings. luke castellan x daughter of zeus!reader.

summary. when luke starts sneaking back into camp to see you, he’s changed.

fillemarlou says. being a daughter of zeus isn’t relevant at all to the story i just needed an empty cabin to use LMAO.

· · ୨୧ · ·

you thought back to the first time you noticed it.

it wasn’t the first time he visited, or the second, or even the third. it was right around when you got comfortable with him again, when you began to forget that luke was no longer welcome here and that you’d be a traitor all the same.

the sheets of cabin one were never scratchy so long as he lay in them. his bare rising and falling chest was rhythmic underneath your ear, the only sound being a mixture of leveling breaths and a distant wind chime hung at the big house.

minutes had passed and still he was wordless. breaths kept hitching as if he were going to say something, but suddenly thought better of it and let go.

his delicate hands rested on your body, one hand mindlessly moving up and down your exposed back, the other on the forearm of yours that was strewn across his abdomen. this was typical of his visits, though the lack of conversation was not.

not that he’d tell you much, he was always reluctant to give answers or explain himself, something you had to adjust to from being so used to a luke who’d divulge all his secrets from just the bat of your lash.

but he did love to ask about you, what were you up to? what new skills had you learned? did you miss him?

the answer to the latter was always, of course. and on cue he’d lean in closely, a lovely hand on your chin to make your eyes meet, and whisper, “soon you won’t have to, i promise.”

but tonight there was none of that. he was silent and as much as you tried to ignore it and simply enjoy the time you had, it plagued your mind. shifting your eyes to see him, his gaze was fixed on the wall ahead, his expression indiscernible.

fully lifting your head from its place of rest, if he wasn’t touching you, you would’ve thought he didn’t even know you were there. the spaced out look on his face was slightly unnerving, causing your hand on his stomach to reach up to his cheek. leading his face to yours, his eyes slowly peeled off the wall to you.

there was a pause in time, where it seemed like he was just looking through you. windows to the soul were facing each other but his were boarded up and sealed off. concern rose in your chest while also feeling slightly dejected, though it might’ve been selfish to think that way in the moment.

with a soft and kind face, your thumb ran tenderly along his scar, the way you used to do all those years ago. like a shift in the tide, he immediately awoke from his trance, closed his eyes, and heaved a great sigh.

the smallest bit of relief came to your aid in knowing that trick still worked. he was still your luke.

upon opening his eyes, they shot back and forth between yours, his hands miraculously remembering you, and flexing for a stronger hold. though you were in his arms, something told you he was still worlds away.

he reached forward and brushed his lips to yours, with the gentleness of handling porcelain. the warmth of his skin was a brief reminder that despite your worries, blood circulated his body, he was here; he was real. he guided you back to his chest, and now, even the wind chimes were silent.

he’d wait for you to fall asleep before he left. however, a secret you’d take to the grave was that you never were sleeping- only pretending- in an attempt to savor his touch, his scent, his very essence. you never did know the next time he’d grace cabin one.

the light had gone out long ago, moonlight now clinging to the walls. his flesh left yours, and your distorted gaze fell on his back. it was littered with scars, mostly old but a few noticeably new- you suddenly understood why he’d insist on holding your hands when sharing a bed.

you watched his large frame lean down, acquire his shirt, and slip it on. as routine he’d sit on the edge of your bed, tying his shoes, readying to creep out the door and away. he once again wore that disturbingly blank expression.

he then did something out of the ordinary: he continued to sit. you tried your best to maintain an even breathing pattern, to raise no suspicions, but it didn’t seem to matter- he hadn’t cared to look back at you a single time.

moments passed on before his head fell to his hands. you could make out the arch of his spine beneath his shirt as his face pressed into his palms. he labored multiple breaths and you fought the urge to take him in your arms, to cradle his fretting mind.

more and more time passed and you found yourself genuinely dosing off, the long day- and now night- catching up to you. your eyes inherently closed and your mind half gone, you finally heard the distant sound of luke’s footsteps and a familiar creak of the door, before allowing a world entirely of your own take over.

the crunch of the underbrush made your stomach whirl with each step.

“luke-”

“shhh!”

he was a fair ways ahead of you, weaving through the trees with stealth. he wore a long sleeve underneath his t-shirt, indicative of the chill in the air; you were in pajamas, indicative of just getting out of bed in a rush.

you were tossing and turning this night, unable to forge comfort in your bed, when you heard the snaps of twigs in the distance. the last wordless visit from luke still reeling in your mind, even after weeks, allowed you to peek out of the window, just to be greeted with the far shadows of familiar broad shoulders. so here you were now, trailing behind him in the woods.

the lack of light made it hard to pinpoint where you were exactly, but it seemed familiar enough not to panic. luke was here, he’d never let anything happen to you.

“luke!” your plea was as hushed as you could make it, still hoping for him to stop.

his turnaround was harsh, almost deliberately so. “what?”

his voice ran through the gaps in the trees, causing him to peer around quickly, fearing he’d been too rash. he took a deep and silent breath before stalking back to you.

standing in front of you, the moonlight streaming down encased the two of you just enough to create an illusion of privacy.

he repeated, “what?” he spoke just above a whisper.

“i w…” he practically winced at your tone, a silent reminder alongside his eyes bearing into you with expectance, “where are we going?”

luke had an affinity for being unable to conceal his facial expressions, especially when he was met with a question he thought was stupid. you hated being the subject of this look.

“i just need to check some things out, i’m not staying.” his bluntness would’ve been a sufficient distraction of its own had it not been accompanied by obvious impatience.

with best efforts, you ignored this, always finding it in your heart to be rational and sympathetic. your manner softened as if handling a temperamental child while giving him the opportunity to reciprocate, “i just,” a breeze brushed hair over his shining eyes, “i miss you.”

he was once again boarded up and sealed off. the lack of acknowledgment written on his face was equally hurtful as it was frustrating. seconds passed with his unfazed expression searching yours, and finally, unable to take the haunting gaze, you reached a hand up to brush his moon-illuminated cheek.

without hesitation he maneuvered away, fervent with avoiding your touch. he cleared his throat, “you should go back to your cabin.”

slowly recoiling and folding your arms in front of yourself to conserve what little warmth you had, he didn’t take a second look back before starting on his trek again.

you couldn’t even begin to feel hurt when anger was seeping in and taking over. years of relentlessly critical thoughts came flooding back all at once; how passive he was, how much you were willing to risk for him, how his face would fall to dissatisfaction when he thought you weren’t looking.

unable to help yourself, you called after him, “what do you want from me, luke?”

his halt was abrupt and he peered over his shoulder, “what?” he sounded incredulous, like the proposal of this question was just as stupid as before. his head whipped back to you, his eyes fixed and dark.

tension that had been built over time was boiling now, “you’re shutting me out! you left!” hopelessness was rising in your chest as his jaw clenched in challenge, “what am i supposed to make of that?!”

wind whistled passed trying to take your clothes with it. his familiar nose twitch gave away your getting to him, though he was quick to relent. you spoke again, “tell what it is that i’ve done. tell me what you expect of me.”

“i don’t expect anything of you. i’m not here for you.”

you were staring into his eyes, desperately scouring for something more yet you were met with stone. gods he was so beautiful. why was he breaking your heart?

with a release of pained air, your face remained carved with fury; you were not going to give him the satisfaction of seeing you cry. you began taking steps back, feeling your head shake slightly but being set on letting that be the last words that hung between you.

turning to leave, he was quick to grab your forearm, his grasp tight and unwavering despite your flexes. you were met with an unnerving glint, “don’t even think about going to chiron.”

the most painful part all of this was luke believed you could betray him just as he did you. never once did the thought of telling cross your mind.

the fatal flaw of loving luke castellan was that even now, looking up at him for a fleeting moment, there was a longing for his comfort. eyes flicked to his chest and you felt as though you could fall right into it without conviction. but the trees rustled above, and reality swept in.

you wrenched your arm from a hand that was once so loving, and unable to stand his gaze much longer, followed the path of least resistance back to camp.

the smell of campfire engraved itself into your clothes.

stepping onto the marble stairs leading up to your cabin, you bid a goodnight to the friends you’d be leaving behind for rest. the echo of laughs and avid chatter filled the cul-de-sac of cabins, the camp turning in for sleep with spirits still souring after a night at the amphitheater.

the hearth in the center of your earth raged on, casting everyone in a homey glow. shouts of sleep well! and don’t let the stolls bite! were strewn across porches. giving your final farewells to the outside world, the door of cabin one was opened.

immediately you saw him. to be fair, it wasn’t like he was hiding, and it wasn’t difficult to spot the only person inhabiting the whole place. he sat on the edge of your bed, facing the door, his head hanging into his hands. you felt as though you’d seen this before.

“luke?” your voice seemed impossibly small in the expansive room.

his shoulders instantly tightened as he looked up. catching his full appearance, you took a discreetly sharp inhale of surprise; he was pale, an indescribably striking pale, accompanied by a tear stricken face. his cheeks were glossed from leaking eyes, and his hair was slightly tousled, like he’d been running his hands through it too many times.

this was unlike anything you’d ever seen before, let alone from luke. straight edge, always tidy, never-let-them-see-you-at-your-worst- luke.

you began to thank every god quickly and individually that none of your friends had asked to come back to your cabin to continue the fun, as they usually did after campfire.

“i’m-” his voice was hoarse, “i’m sorry, i…” he shook his head, not finishing his thought before shutting his eyes in an attempt to stop his tears.

you stood frozen at the entryway, still taking in the sight. you truly didn’t think you’d be seeing him again, or at least not like this. you’d been trying your hardest to beat down any remaining soft spot for him after his dismissal of you last time, trying to hold true to your anger.

he wasn’t making it easy.

the air had become stiff despite a breeze sweeping through and a sour taste was advancing on your tongue.

he lifted an arm off his knee and extended it to you. such a small act, yet it incited an internal battle between your heart and your mind. you weren’t sure when the dense pit in your stomach had arrived but were sure it was here to stay.

your eyes on his- they seemed a harsher brown than you were used to, in contrast to his newly stark complexion- they were filled with the most desperation one could have. he was pleading.

he slowly became closer and closer, yet he hadn’t moved from his place on the bed, and you found yourself no longer in the entry way. your heart had presently won. it hammered in your chest, shouting words once spoken aloud, i’m here regardless of the pain, a promise.

reaching his strong hand, placing fingers in his palm, irreverent shock jolted you into the moment. he was cold to the touch, iciness spreading up your arm and tying itself around your neck.

it made your next action quick and practically thoughtless, taking an immediate seat on the edge next to him, still holding his woeful eyes. his heavenly face trembled with more emotion than it could handle, and he fell hastily into your shoulder with a heart-shattering sob.

he clung to your torso like a lifeline, tears warming through your shirt. you deemed the feeling of his shivering body against yours the worst you’ll ever know.

as if his torment was a weight now on both of your shoulders, you two slipped onto the floor, melting into the foundation. but your arms never relented from his. the hiccups of his cries seemed to echo in the vast space.

“i’m sorry.”

“i know.”

“i’m so sorry.”

“i know.”

and so this continued. his consistent beg for forgiveness and your incessant declaration of understanding, repeating it so many times it didn’t even sound like english by the end.

cradling him and his fretting mind now, the way you were sure may castellan had when he was young and scrapped his knee, making claims of knowing the pain he was experiencing.

a hand reached down to his cheek and led his face to yours. as a pure act of admiration, your thumb ran tenderly along his scar. watching him intently, you saw a flicker- if only for a second- of the boy you loved, once not hurt by the world he was subjected to.

a whispered, “i know.” meant you did, a solemn swear. it meant don’t tell me to go away from you because i know. it meant his anguish was not his to bear alone.

it meant you knew him regardless if he could recognize himself while looking right in the mirror.

“i know you, luke.”

· · ୨୧ · ·

#luke castellan #luke castellan fic #luke castellan x reader #luke castellan fanfic #luke castellan x yn #luke castellan angst #luke castellan imagine #charlie bushnell #percy jackson

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baby-ditzzy · 21 days

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𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐰𝐚𝐲- 𝐥.𝐜 🐡

daughter of hypnos! reader x luke castellan 💤

headcannons in which luke is dating the sleepiest girl around💘

“and i know you’ve been having nightmares lately, and i’m sorry i fall asleep first” -faye webster

he totally calls you “sleepy.”

it started off when he was a dumb teen, just him being an idiot and teasing everyone. but i mean, the name wasn’t exactly incorrect. and so it stuck, carrying along as you grew into a young adult and began dating !

he’s such a sweetheart when it comes to you. while he gently yells at the campers for their lack of effort, he would never even think about raising his voice when speaking to you. even if you skipped training because you “needed to rest.” (you had slept a full ten hours before)

but when you did show up for archery or sword fighting, he’s over the moon, showering you with praise.

“that was amazing!”

“you did so good today, sleepy.”

(you shot two arrows and then dipped)

nightly stargazing!!

you and luke spend hours laying on top the grassy hill, staring above at the twinkling stars. you pointed out all the constellations, and luke would point to a star and say it was yours.

“thats our star, babe.”

“luke that’s part of the orion.”

he would sneak into your cabin on his restless nights, and you would comb your fingers through his hair to send him into a deep sleep. and you made sure all he had sweet dreams instead of his haunting nightmares.

reading him stories all the time !

he hates reading, since all of the words get scrambled and it hurts his brain to put the letters back together. but when chiron adjusts the temperature so it would rain and water the strawberry fields, there wasn’t many indoor activities to do. so, you let him pick a book you could read together on those rainy days.

after a week visit to your home, you brought back your record player and some of your favorite vinyls, and luke was absolutely fascinated. he never really listened to music before, so hearing such majestic sounds was a new experience. now every time you travel back into the world, he requests a new album. he’ll listen to it on repeat until you’ve acquired a different record.

you would share abstract stories about monsters, greek heros, and other intriguing topics to the campers around the bonfire, while luke stared with hearts in his eyes. he like to think that one day, hundreds of years from now, a camper would be reciting a story about you and him. the daughter of hypnos and the son of hermes, two children who were the closest depiction of soulmates ever known.

secret weekly sleepovers in cabin 15 were a necessity !

he always showed up with a bouquet of wildflowers, and one small yellow daisy for each of your siblings.

all of your brothers and sisters loved him, constantly dragging him into family board game night.

similar to stargazing, watching for clouds !

when you had free time, you were constantly laying in the dry fields and staring up above at the clouds, trying to picture them as objects.

“it’s a cowboy hat!”

“that’s clearly a toad in a sailboat.”

#luke castellan #luke castellan fluff #liv’s writing !#luke castellan x you #luke castellan x reader #luke castellan headcanons #pjo #percy jackson

1K notes · View notes

baby-ditzzy · 23 days

Text

sleepy girl

𖤐 . pairing - Luke Castellan x fem!Hypnos!reader

𖤐 . summary - hii!! how are you???? this is my first time doing a request, so i'm a little nervous :) could you please do a luke castellan x daughter of Hypnos!reader? with lots of fluff, please!! thank you <33

𖤐 . content includes - one of the Stoll brothers (idk who, yall can pick), sleepy reader, readers race not specified

𖤐 . word count - 546 (sorry it’s short :( )

𖤐 . taglist - @perseus-jackass @niktwazny303

𖤐 . a/n - i just asked siri to pick a number 1-23 (AHHHHHH TYSMMMMM FOR 23 ASKS) and this is what she picked

the bright light peeking through windows and the bustling noise of Hermes cabin did nothing to help wake you up. the fact that you still slept so peacefully, despite all the ruckus, left Luke questioning if you were alive or not. you were not, the soft rise and fall of your chest while you slept assured that.

Luke kneeled beside your bed, trying to figure the best way to wake you up. or any way to wake you up. it was almost two pm and here you were, sleeping without a single sigh or stir. “yo, Castellan! y’girl dead or something?” a loud voice called from behind him. Luke scoffed, he could tell it was one of the Stolls, but ultimately chose to ignore him.

he watched as you softly snored, eyes fluttering. you were deep in a dream, a soft smile forming on your lips as it continued. the very subject of your dream was sitting in front of you, desperate to wake you, not wanting you to miss all three of your meals.

his calloused fingers delicately brushed your hair from your face. he cooed your name softly, continuing to lure you from your dreamstate. Luke left gentle kisses on both your forehead and your cheek, still coaxing you back to the present with his sweet words.

you sighed in your sleep, half awake. Luke smirked to himself, still running his fingers through your hair. “time to wake up, baby,” he whispered, “you’ve already missed two meals.” his calming chuckle sounded right into your ears.

your eyes fought to open – just a little, though. the bright sunlight burned, causing your eyes to slam shut, and your arm to fling over them, almost hitting Luke right in the face. he laughed as you whined, your whine morphing into a yawn half way through. “hi sweet girl, did ya’ sleep good?”

you muttered out a ‘mhm,’ hesitantly uncovering your eyes. when you finally allowed your eyes to adjust, you were met with the kind eyes of your sweet boyfriend. a precious smile engulfed your lips as you stared up at him. he mimicked your smile, fingers still softly brushing through your hair.

“hi, Lukey,” you mumbled, yawning once again, drowsily blinking up at Luke. “hi, baby, what time did you go to bed last night?” he questioned, you took a moment to think before answering him. “8:30,” you mumbled sweetly.

Luke laughed, you’d almost slept a full twenty-four hours, and you would have if it wasn’t for him. he helped you sit up, chuckling to himself at the sheet marks on your arms and your flushed cheeks. all signs of a good night's rest.

he stood up from his spot on the floor, holding out his hand to you to help you up. you gratefully took his hand, standing up and leaning into him. his strong arms wrapped around you, warming you up. it almost made you fall asleep right there.

before you did, though, Luke spoke. “come on, sleepy girl, let’s go get you something to eat, yeah?” he used his fingers to tilt your head up to look at him, waiting for your nod of agreement. you nodded, letting him help you put on your slippers and leading you out of the cabin.

#𖤐 . rue talks #𖤐 . rue’s world #luke castellan series #luke castellan x you #luke castellan au #luke castellan imagine #luke castellan story #luke castellan #luke castellan fluff #luke castellan x reader

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baby-ditzzy · 2 months

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#girl blogger #coquette #gaslight gatekeep girlboss #girlblogging #this is a girlblog #coquette dollete #lana del rey #female rage #female manipulator #femcel

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baby-ditzzy · 2 months

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˚˖𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒✧˚.🎀༘⋆ finn wolfhard x girly reader ˚˖𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒✧˚.🎀༘⋆

#finn wolfhard x reader #finn wolfhard #coquette #love shack fancy #lily rose depp #alana champion #lana del rey #lizzy grant #dollete #old money aesthetic

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baby-ditzzy · 3 months

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౨ৎ SALVATORE

“And I've been waiting for you all this time, I adore you, can't you see, you're meant for me, summer's hot but I've been cold without you” - lana del rey (smau)

contains: charlie bushell x fem!reader, the reader was meant to be coquette-ish but i kind of lost the plot i mean shes IS but not TOTALLY if that makes sense, super sorry!!

description: my bsf from like 6 years ago sent me a LETTER?! (she moved away) and we are officially letter buddies but now i am literally a little medieval girl, tumblr is my only social media and dont watch the news, now im sending letters

requested by: @tomblythsslut (i love ur username)

Liked by walker.scobell, aryansimhadri and others

iamcharliebushnell this girl has my in multiple cafes daily this is not good for my health

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user1 WHO IS THIS OMG

↳ user2 people on here are crazy… someone has to be able to find her

user3 another one gone 😞

walker.scobell WHAT DID I MISS

↳ iamcharliebushnell a lot apparently

user4 this is so cute where do i get a bf who posts me and wears an ‘i love my gf’ t shirt

↳ user5 life has its favourites truly

leahsavajeffries have u seen priscilla recently?

↳ iamcharliebushnell yh why?

↳ leahsavajeffries oh nothing! 😊

↳ aryansimhadri what are you up to leah…

user6 OMG

user7 do u guys reckon leah knows who it is?

↳ user6 im soo curious omg!

↳ andrewalvarez can confirm… none of us know

↳ user7 WHAT!

user10 softest soft launch

yn.ln no way he has a gf now!!

↳ iamcharliebushnell taken sorry guys!

↳ user4 😖😖😖

user8 betrayed the fandom in the show, and betrayed us in real life 💔

↳ user9 girl u thought u had a chance 💀

↳ user8 omgg! I was joking be so fr

yn.ln just posted on their story

Seen by leahsavajeffries, iamcharliebushnell and others

Liked by leahsavajeffries, iamcharliebushnell and others

yn.ln life lately <3

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user1 CHARLIE AND LEAH IN THE LIKES ?!?!

↳ user2 and leah commented!! Oh shes so dating charlie

user3 cafe? curly hair? flowers? this is charlie!!!

leahsavajeffries i see u 👀

↳ yn.ln WHYWHYWHY LEAH

↳ user4 LMAO

user4 her account is so pretty tho omg

user5 girl really does have him at a cafe daily

user6 lets be so fr shes defo dating him for fame 💀

↳ user5 or maybe two people like eachover who arent doing the same jobs god forbid?

Liked by iamcharliebushnell, walker.scobell and others

yn.ln you caught me… im dating him for fame

tagged iamcharliebushnell

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user1 OMGG OMG

user2 the second pic !!

↳ user1 they are adorable!!!!!

user3 guys she was in his comment section this whole time 💀

leahsavajeffries i think i should become a detective

↳ yn.ln im actually so scared of you i hope you know that

↳ leahsavajeffries 😘

dior.n.goodjohn we need to meet!

↳ yn.ln omg bet

user4 WHERE DO I FIND A MAN LIKE THIS UGHHGHHH

↳ user5 oh to have someone kiss me in the snow

user6 gal shut them down

walker.scobell 🫢🫢🫢

↳ user7 my exact reaction

aryansimhadri awww

iamcharliebushnell ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

↳ yn.ln love u 😘😘

user8 the bows, the coats, the flowers, shes everything!!

taglist: @lostinhisworld @lizziesfirstwife @auttumnsayshi @silkenthusiasts @taygrls @kidkrowk @highfidelities

#charlie bushnell x reader #luke castellan x reader #percy jackon and the olympians #smau #social media au #charlie bushnell #aesthetic #coquette #lily rose depp #luke castellan

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baby-ditzzy · 3 months

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𝐣𝐮𝐛𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐞 (𝐨𝐡, 𝐢𝐭'𝐬 𝐚 𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐡)

⤷ jubilee, a celebration of the passage of time ( and how all this, the good and bad, brings luke back to you) / luke castellan x (gn + child of aristaeus) reader

⤷ friends to lovers relationship study, whump moments, first love (twice), luke lives but with amnesia au + all titles referenced from the jubilee album by japanese breakfast

⤷ notes; pheww first fic of 2024 and it's long, the lockwood to pjo pipeline got me bad... please note that while i did read the books (in third grade), i chose to selectively ignore canon and aspects of luke's character, so things might be ooc asf

♫ — posing for cars (woke from a dream in which you left me)

There are words first— muffled, swimming through his eardrums in the way that conch shells catch a tidal song in the waves, or how the sand grains that pass through the fingertips of children are just ten million quarter-fragments of unrealized history.

It feels like a veil laid over his senses, being submerged in water for too long, the pull of sleep waiting at the abyss between dreams and memory.

A voice says, quiet and dark, the gathering clouds on a horizon, a promise of a storm, “Luke Castellan will carry on a hero, but his crimes must be acknowledged.”

Another, low like the pulling tide, “Indeed. My son was quite adamant about his fate— we gods owe a debt, and I know you well enough to understand that you are eager to settle things quickly, brother.”

A pause in conversation, like a break in script for the characters to ponder. The veil of silence scratches against his damaged ears, crackles in the empty space like collisions between hydrogen atoms at the beginnings of a star’s birth.

“I’ve reached a decision. Luke Castellan, son of Hermes, will have his memories and dreams revoked until this council no longer deems him a threat. It is a far less cruel fate compared to others over the eons.”

Not a single protest, no curves or bumps in an otherwise linear road. Sound lies dead in the still air.

“Very well then,” says the thundercloud voice contentedly, “let him return.”

( He won’t remember much when he wakes up, only the voices and dulling pain and light— pre-dawn rays that play over his lax face, shine through the flesh of his eyelids so that his sight can be granted the small mercy to have something to fade to black from. )

♫ — paprika (lucidity came slowly)

It’s really like a dream about falling, in a way. The fact, fleeting when he grasps it, tells him that his body is shutting down faster than his mind can keep up with, so it must fire an abrupt signal through his neurons in order to jerk him awake.

Luke Castellan lands, back bouncing upon the springs of a mattress as he’s jerked to consciousness.

Eight billion people on the planet and the first thing etched onto the blank slate of his mind is the rise of your brow and the scent of medicinal honey.

The dawn brings with it rays of light that slip over the curve of your face and refract through your irises golden, Midas-touched.

Eight billion people.

You.

( Seconds can feel like lifetimes. He only needs two to commit all of you to memory, the curve of your nose and the slant of your lips and the shape of your eyes, how the sun tilts shadows and highlights over the geometry of your features. )

“You…” He searches for the words, sifting through the little information left in his mind to try to compare this situation to something similar. He comes back with nothing.

“You’re awake,” you finish for him, and your voice makes his eyes flutter, a viscous substance sinking him deeper into a space removed from lucidity. Your face draws in on itself. “It’s too early, go back to sleep.”

He finds two of your knuckles lightly tapping the space between his eyes before they roll back as he falls once again into the dark abyss of sleep.

-✦✦✦-

“Chiron,” you whisper once Luke’s breaths deepen, gazing into the dawn through a windowpane, fingers sticky with the gold honey you’ve been smearing onto gauze, “what are we going to do with him?”

The centaur only shakes his head mournfully. “Even I myself am not sure. The gods have their own reasons for this.”

“They’re terrible at reasoning, then.”

Chiron’s mouth is a steady gash beneath his beard. “I can’t say that I disagree, child.”

Your hum of acknowledgment is curt, short in the way a dagger’s blade is sharpened and shaped. Chiron’s reflection in the pane nods in a silent goodbye before his shadow fades away to check on the other campers.

The room is silent now, save for the occasional stirring breaths from Luke. He shifts ever-so-slightly, sheets rippling around the familiar curve of his body.

You stop momentarily to gaze at the way his lengthy limbs splay crescent amongst the honey-soaked bandages that grace his skin, knowing that when he wakes again, he won’t find familiar comfort in anything, a discordant note standing out in an otherwise harmonious symphony.

You let him sleep, a stutter in routine wrapped with mercy and forgiveness. Shadows flit past the pane once again, the Apollo cabin by the singsong way they talk amongst each other.

They’re here for the bandages slathered in antibacterial honey, the smell hanging tangy and sharp in the air; a few linger in the doorway to glance at you in pity, Luke in wariness. You expect everyone to know now about what their parents decided to do to him.

Will Solace’s eyes meets yours momentarily, the blue of them shining crystalline in the dawn like the shallows of a sun-soaked beach. They glitter when he blinks, once at Luke, twice at you, thrice in understanding as he offers a small smile of thanks; a wish of good luck is tucked into the secret fold of his lips.

( You’ll probably need it. )

Luke makes a strangled little noise in the back of his throat when he wakes. It’s a struggle for him to open his eyes— you know this because you’d administered to him a small amount of honey infused with a sedative when Chiron had first carried his limp and broken body through the door.

“You’re awake,” you repeat, a ghost of words, voice dipping low as to not startle him. Luke slowly claws his way out of the sheets, blinking dazed in the afternoon light. His eyes focus on yours in a haze.

“Who…”

“Am I, who are you, where are you?” you finish for him again, an old habit that never found its way to dying hard. He offers out his arm instinctively, trusting, when yours reaches out to pick at the corner of a peeling bandage.

Your fingertips, deft, are still wet with honey when you peel back the dressing wrapped around his underarm. The dagger wound there is nasty, but the draining ooze and pinkening skin means that it’s healing, and that the ambrosia worked.

“Yea,” he says around a cardboard tongue, reaching stiffly with his free hand to grasp shakily at a cup of water on the nightstand. He swallows it in a single backwards knock of his head and dabs at the corner of his lips with his wrist. “Everything you just said.”

Your mouth turns up, a beckoning lamp to his moth of curiosity. “Your name,” you start, “is Luke Castellan, child of Hermes.”

“Like the herald?”

“You remember your mythology. That’s good, it means you’ll have a better time adjusting.” Luke averts his eyes at the comment, ears shining pink. You continue. “I’m a child of Aristaeus, a minor god— he’s the patron of rustic stuff like beekeeping and home crafts, basically Demeter if she was a male who loved the cottage life.”

He snorts, childish, and it feels like you’re twelve all over again, rolling in the fields, mouths smeared pink with juice and strawberry seeds embedded in your tongues. The taste of your first summer with Luke still lingers unsoured at the back of your mouth.

“So,” he says while you pull off his old wound wrappings, “let me get this straight. You and I—” he gestures with a finger “—are like demigods or something, as in Perseus and Heracles?”

You nod. “Except Perseus and Heracles are—”

“Zeus’ kids, and we have different parents, yea.”

“I expected you to be calm, but not this calm.”

Luke’s face blooms into a tight grin, cracked and curled with a wilt at the edges, and it’s noticeable, the way his eye twitches. “I’m processing. Sorry, it’s just going so fast and I don’t know what to ask first, I…”

He sighs, frustration bleeding into his voice.

“‘How do I start’, you mean?”

Luke hums, a little sound that vibrates through the air, hangs like the first notes to a hymn. “Did we…know each other?”

“Everyone here knew you.”

“That’s not what I’m asking,” and then again, “did we know each other?”

You turn to the window, silent, mind lingering on that grove a little ways from the strawberry fields, where the persimmons hang ripe during cold season and little camellias unfurl, an assurance of the coming spring.

“Yea,” you breath, a little puff of air that fogs the glass pane, like mist settling superimposed over the meadow outside, “you could say it like that.”

♫ — tactics (memories of peaches, the sun on my neck)

You’d just turned twelve when you first set eyes on him, all downy black waves of hair and dirt-smeared cheeks. He’s holding back tears, a glittering film of saline that obscures the deep brown of his irises; a little girl is tucked shivering into his side, wise eyes peering through dark curls— she can’t be more than six or seven. One of the newer satyrs, Grover, stands behind them, head tilted downward in shame.

Luke Castellan, Hermes, and Annabeth Chase, Athena, their names escape his mouth trembling like broken-winged birds trying and failing to flutter off south in the winter, but Thalia, she—

( There’s a new tree on the hill, looming tall amidst the gathering clouds that promise rain. Power radiates from it in waves, blanketing the camp in a humidity reminiscent of late Long Island summers. Ah, how uninspired of Olympus’ king. )

You follow in the wake of Chiron’s tail as he escorts them to the Big House infirmary, giving time to the Hermes and Athena cabins to prepare. Some of the Apollo kids are there already, restocking supplies; one with flaxen hair hands off two orange shirts and leather strings to the newcomers, and another with honeyed eyes dabs alcohol-drenched cotton over their lacerations.

“Do you want tea?” you ask when the old centaur’s tail flicks against your back, a signal to break the web of silence. “I have, uh…well, I only have chamomile right now.”

Annabeth nods quickly, lips pressed together as a chill passes through the infirmary window. Luke gives you a sidelong glance, wary. The curtains ripple in the night air, allowing the moon to lay soft on the curves of Luke’s face.

It gives him a somber look with the way the cold light paints his burnished edges, like clothes hung too long on a line, colors bleached away by the sun.

“What about you?” you ask, a murmur carried slow in the eddies of air left by the medics’ departing wake. “Honey, sugar, milk?”

“Whatever you want,” he responds curtly, mouth set in a line as hard as marble, bearing resemblance to the statues carved stoic in museums.

You huff lightly, already retreating to the kitchen. “Alright.”

Chiron clears his throat, steps forward and leans down kindly to meet Luke’s gaze halfway. They talk in quiet tones, secrets sewn into a memory only they will know.

Annabeth shuffles close behind you— she’s taller than you had been at seven, the top of her head just inches from your shoulder.

“Luke likes sweet things,” she admits, arms crossed in a loose defense, guarded when she glances at the dark windows. “I saw him eat three chocolate bars in a row before.”

“Really?” you laugh, soft in the way snow falls on Half-Blood Hill in the winter. “I never would’ve guessed.” She nods, lets down her arms. You step aside, making room for her to watch the kettle come to a boil, fascinated with how the dried leaves unfurl under the pouring braid of water. “First time having tea?”

“I had coffee before, it wasn’t that good,” she says. “Can I try it plain first, then add things until I like it?”

“Sure,” it’s a quickfire response. You’ve never met another kid so engaged in the art of tea making, whether they were acting or not. It’s a nice change of pace. “I think Chiron’ll live if we have a little sugar. Careful, don’t burn your tongue.”

Annabeth blows gingerly at the amber liquid, smiling at how the steam parts to make way for her slipstream breaths. She takes a small lap and you laugh at the face she makes.

“Wanna try some honey I made?”

She nods, eager to experiment. You grab a spoon, dipping it into the jar Chiron keeps at the counter, a gift from you to celebrate your claiming. Annabeth’s eyes glitter when the taste diffuses across her mouth.

“Hypothesis,” she offers, a true gem of intelligence, “I’ll like tea with honey only.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I think milk tastes gross, ‘specially whole milk. Chamomile is meant to be calming, so sugar would probably do the opposite.”

You grin, brows raised, when she hops to the cutlery drawer, pulling out a clean utensil to scoop more honey into her drink. She uses the spoon she’d already licked to stir, taking sips between additions to get a hang of the flavor.

Four spoons later, Annabeth nods in satisfaction. She studies the detailing on the utensil's handle, memorizing each cut in the silverware, curls bobbing along to each tilt of her head. “I’m remembering which spoon I used so I can get the same combination next time,” she says when you glance at her curiously.

“I’m happy you like it.”

She peers at you again, dark eyes flashing with a flame you’d find in someone older than their years. “I like you and your tea and your honey. You’re nice, a lot nicer than other older kids. Just like Luke.”

You smile at the compliment, warmth blooming in your chest, seeping past that ribbed cage of bone and spreading to the tips of your fingers. “Thanks.”

“We just met, but I think we’ll be really close, like siblings.”

Straight to a point, six steps ahead; that’s what you glean from Annabeth Chase. You can tell she’ll fit right in with the other Athena campers, maybe even make it to counselor; you know that the day she surpasses you is inevitable.

“I’d love that.”

-✦✦✦-

Luke can hear everything. It’s a thing he’s trained himself to do, a hunter’s skill honed, practiced, and perfected. Chiron only speaks a few words to him, condolences and basic camp rules. Says that his half-siblings will always be there for him, extend a guiding hand when the tunnel loses light.

( He doesn’t believe the centaur. )

He slides out from the doorway he’s been lurking behind, the shadows clinging to his shoulders, leaving their little imaginary claws in the fabric of his camp shirt.

Luke takes in the sight of Annabeth’s little form swathed in orange, perched on a chair with the toes of her shoes dangling a breadth above the floor. She’s sleeping, cheek pressed against the oaken table surface, cornerfolds of her lips sticky with content by the way they curl upwards.

The chamomile and honey combination must have done wonders for the demigod child. He’s glad, a joy that unfurls like tea leaves in his chest, that she’ll be able to sleep full nights at camp.

“Your tea’s starting to chill.”

Luke meets your gaze, irises overlaid with the warm tone of the ceiling lights, the dual beads wrapped around the leather of your necklace glimmering and gold-spun; Midas-touched in the way the sun shines through the veins of dappled leaves.

He threads his hand under the mug’s handle, cradling the warm glass in his cold palm. The tea is amber, the color of dried ichor, spilt godsblood, hazy with the addition of honey and sugar.

“Thanks,” he says, staring at how the liquid eddies with every tilt of his hand. “Chamomile, right?”

You nod, a light hum escaping the column of your throat as you slide into the seat beside Annabeth. You join her in resting your head against the table, watching her at peace, wood lacquer gleaming under your skin in a haze.

“It’s good for sleep. The Demeter kids let me pick some from their gardens,” you say, an offer for him to walk right into your life. “And I made the honey myself.”

“Who’s your parent?” he asks, curiosity an overwhelming tide that flows over him.

“A minor god,” you share, words pungent at the seams, a bite of rind. “Aristaeus. He does beekeeping and handy stuff— Chiron says that it’s close to something called smallholding.”

“You don’t have a cabin, then.” Your expression blooms into a bitter one; Luke didn’t mean for it to come out almost cruel. “Sorry,” he apologizes, stitching a tear before it gets too big.

“It’s okay, I’m used to it. I don’t really wish I had one to be honest, because I’d be alone in there. At least in the Hermes cabin, it’s warm at night ‘cause of everyone’s body heat. You’re a Hermes kid, aren’t you?”

“Yea.” The silence is a break in script so that Luke can finish his cold tea. The glass makes no sound when it’s placed back onto the table, beads of amber liquid distorted at the bottom. “It’s good. Sweet.”

“Annabeth told me that you had a sweet tooth,” you admit, tilting your head up to meet his gaze. His eyes are brown, the shade of toiled, nutrient-rich earth— the kind of soil that’d give year-round growth without tiring.

Luke chuckles under his breath, looking at the aforementioned girl with a swirl of fondness in his irises. “Snitch.”

-✦✦✦-

Two summers pass in a blur. You and Luke are fourteen, Annabeth, nine. She grows in height and prowess, climbing the ranks of the Athena cabin. You hear that they’re planning an election for the next counselor as the current one prepares to leave the nest for college.

“Don’t tell me you grew another two inches overnight,” Luke grumbles when Annabeth bounds up to the two of you. She’s fitted in a bronze chest-plate, blue paint smeared over it, and she grins when the boy tugs at the leather straps. “Wow, I wish I had this for the last game.”

Chiron strolls by, pats Annabeth warmly on the shoulder. “This is a good piece of armor. I can see it serving you well.”

When the centaur is far enough, Luke leans in between you and Annabeth, hand shielding his mouth. “I heard Clarisse’s new spear is electric. Travis got too close last Friday, said it hurt like a—” he looks past your shoulder to make sure Chiron is out of earshot; by the face he makes, wide-eyed and meek, he’s been caught “—ahem, he was out for the rest of the game.”

Annabeth makes a face. “I thought Hermes was Team Red last time. We beat and picked you for the next game, remember?”

“Yea, you did.” You cringe at the reminder, the unhealed bruise on your lower back throbbing purple and dark, a sore reminder of being pushed to the ground by a Dionysus kid. Luke thumbs his brow, the beginnings of a faint white scar carving its way into his skin. He says that he tripped over and cut himself on a prank wire that Travis and his newly-arrived brother had set up, in the middle of friendly territory.

The younger girl says, brows furrowing and lip curled in bewilderment, “Did Clarisse at least get punished? It’s against the rules to attack an ally.”

Luke scoffs lightheartedly, rubbing slim fingers over his knuckles. They’re bruised from hand-to-hand practice, little blushing peaks of tendon and bone. “Travis was just making a big deal out of it, you know how he is.”

You hum a note of agreement. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he knocked himself out on purpose every time Hermes had to play with Ares.”

“I think he’s been out— or at least let himself get captured— three of the last five times we’ve played Red.”

“No way. He should’ve been on dishwashing duty instead of me! I say ‘fuck’ once and I’m arms deep in lava, he cheats out of Flag and gets pampered in the infirmary?”

“That’s because Chiron caught you saying it in front of a six-year-old,” Luke laughs, jostling your shoulder with his, warmth pressing into your side. His lips are peeled all the way back in a grin, eyes crescent slivers of joy and lashes brushing soft against his sun-drunk freckles. Like shimmering crow’s feathers.

You manage to wrap an arm loosely around his neck, holding him in a headlock that you know he can easily worm his way out of, knuckles finding home against his scalp. Annabeth looks towards the sky in exasperation, rolling her leather cord in her fingers, the two beads clacking against her father’s ring. “And who was it that swept my feet out, huh?”

“Oh please, you knew you were going to lose, champ.”

“‘Champ’ this, ‘champ’ that— just wait ‘til my bees get their stingers in you, Castellan, just you wait.”

-✦✦✦-

“Did you…” Luke trails off, like the wispy end of twine after being pulled too tight, stretched too wide. A clear snap in the middle, two limp pieces of string; one for before the war, one for the aftermath.

He shifts a little in the bed, sheets crinkling paper-like, wound dressing gone save for the little sticky spots of honey and medical-grade adhesive. His mouth clicks damp when he opens it again. “Was I loved?”

“Very.”

-✦✦✦-

A quarter-mile off from the Big House is the Big Shed (real funny name, hilarious, in fact), smack-dab in the middle of the verdant strawberry fields. The wood panels are painted robin’s egg, the same shade as the house, blue in the way the sky passes over camp during high noon.

It’s spacious, interior lacquered dark, cobwebs in the corners gleaming like star-spun gold when you creak the door open on a midwinter dawn. Luke yawns from behind you.

“Don't know why it’s called the ‘Big Shed’ when it’s more like a ‘Mid-Sized Cottage,’” he says, voice already creaking at the edges with puberty. He’s already gained a few inches too. “If you packed them like sardines, you could fit all the unclaimed and minor gods’ kids in here.”

“You mention this to anyone and I’ll be the one attacking allies next flag day. Chiron’s letting me use the shed for beekeeping and stuff, I don’t need a would-be Ares wrecking it up.”

“You have an unusual animosity towards the Ares cabin,” Luke tells you, swaying around in the wide space.

The dust suspended in the air shines white, luminated by the sunlight streaming in through the two windows built into the shed-slash-cottage; it coats him in a sharp and angelic glow, like exposure and brightness turned too high on a developing photo.

“Annabeth taught you that word, didn’t she?” you sigh, flipping an old lance in the corner, using the butt-end of it to take down the spun-gold webs. “I only dislike Ares’ kids because they go for your ankles with the blade’s flat side. Makes them bruise, and then you can’t run very fast the next game.”

“Aw, poor you. Need me to kiss it better, champ?” he says with sarcasm dripping off the honeycomb of his voice, holding the sheathed end of his sword to bat at the ceiling corners.

“If you’re fine with licking the blood-n-sweat-soaked heel of my sock, then feel free to go wild, Castellan.”

It’s easy to be with Luke; oftentimes, you find that your breaths fall into perfect step with his. Even if one or the other of you goes a little faster, your beats still match, syncopation; a musician could keep a time signature or compose a romantic waltz to it, whichever of the two.

Luke breaks the silence first, cracks it in the middle like spiderwebbed ice under the quicksilver blades of a skater. “I’m…going on a quest. I’ll be gone by the time spring ends and come back in the summer.”

“Oh.” You wish you could say more, but suddenly you’ve become Sisyphus, punished by the divine with the boulder lodged in your throat that is too heavy to push through. All you can manage without the weight crashing down is a stupid, “You’re leaving?”

“Only for a couple months. I thought against it at first, but my dad offered me the quest and I couldn’t refuse,” he shares, sheepishly palming the back of his neck. “I can take care of myself, you know. You don’t need to worry.”

Now that you’re looking at him, somber in the pale morning rays, you can see every second of the fourteen years and ten months eroded onto his face. He looks older than he should be, burdened with the stress of being a demigod.

The light shifts over his features as the sun reaches greater heights, bruised shadows spilling out from the sharp angles that all of Hermes’ children have.

“No,” you stammer, “no, why would I be worried? I know you’re good, better than me, even.”

“Don’t say that. You’re amazing too.” Luke gazes up through his fan of crow’s feather lashes. You don’t miss the way they shine dimly, wet with unshed tears. He laughs through it, blinking quickly as to not let the saline film burst. “You’ll make sure no one steals my bunk though, right? And you’ll burn offerings in my place?”

“Yea,” you breathe, the word condensed into a puff of icy air. It billows white, clouds your vision momentarily in a blizzard-like haze. When you come back from it, Luke is still there in front of you, eyes red, Adam’s apple bobbing in a muddle of emotion. “Course I will. You’d do the same.”

“Thanks,” he whispers. A spot of water falls at his feet, washing away a small dot of the dust that coats the floor. “I’ll bring enough drachmas so that I can Iris Message you whenever I’m safe.”

“You better. When you’re back, we can hang out in here. I’ll have a proper beehive outside by then, and I’ll borrow a loom and a spinner from the Athena cabin so I can teach you how to make yarn. We can weave a blanket together for Annabeth in time for fall,” you muse, to which Luke smiles at the thought, soft like the snow that blankets Thalia’s evergreen needles.

“Threatening me with a good time, champ? I might just want to come back in one piece.”

You breeze past the joke, taking a gliding step towards him, closing the gap, bridging the abyss. You both crumple to the floor entangled in each other’s arms, your head pressed underneath the jut of his chin.

The three painted beads of his necklace tickle your lashes. From here, with your forehead against the column of his neck, you can feel how his jugular pulses faster with the pump of blood that keeps him alive. The wandering point of your nose, a compass, finds its true north in the hollow between his collarbones; Luke curls closer, words unspoken, the tracing shapes of his fingers against your back a promise in a language only the two of you understand.

-✦✦✦-

“I have this feeling,” he confesses suddenly, years into the future, soil-rich irises soaked in hope. “That we’re like opposite poles of the same magnet. Like I’ve seen you in a dream that I can’t really remember or you’re a face that I’ll always look for in a crowd. You know what I mean?”

-✦✦✦-

Silence in a hazy dawn, lit by the midwinter sun, dust angels dancing around your melded frames on the floor. Then—

“I’ll wait for you.”

It’s all he needs to cup your face, place his lips on your temple. Luke lets himself be selfish just this once, the bitterness in his chest simmering down as if you’re the dying flame controlling its boil. You leave a kiss on the corner of his jaw, just underneath the thin lobe of his ear where the sun shines through it and paints his neck a blushing red.

( To Luke, it’s a blessing from you, worth far more than his father’s. )

He doesn’t need to say I love you, nor do you. You both know it already, like a forgotten dream resurfacing at the right time, déjà rêvé.

-✦✦✦-

“Yea,” you breathe, the words diffusing through the still air of the Mid-Sized Cottage. The beehive outside buzzes excitedly, a light breeze from an open window twanging at the wool fibers hung taunt on the spinning wheel, brushing over the empty loom, its return to the Athena cabin long overdue. “I know the feeling.”

♫ — kokomo (though it may not last, just know that i’ll be here longing)

Luke keeps his promise, comes back the next summer now fifteen years old with a dragon’s claw in his fist. A scar runs from his eye like a tear track, splits his cheek, a single bolt of lightning.

He wades through the whispers and rumors, swims through the crowd in a straight shot to the cabin so that he can flop onto the bunk you saved for him and drift off in a dream about weaving looms and wool blankets.

You jump up when the entire cabin cheers as he walks through the doors, silhouetted by the midsummer rays. Luke sees that you’ve changed too, a little wiser, spine a bit longer, eyebags deeper and new scars littering your fingers like a healing constellation.

Later you open your palm, a bead resting in the bed of your flesh like a pearl in an oyster— he pulls you close by the waist into a corner and kisses you in earnest thanks, for getting an extra bead for him and for saving his bunk, the offerings, the messages, your love.

“I took in a new hive,” you whisper to him that night, cradled under the feather-soft down of his duvet. His knuckles brush over your scars, like five little Halfblood Hills blushed pink with dusk scraping at a star-freckled sky. “They make a habit of stinging. And then it gets itchy after.”

( You’d told him sheepishly during an Iris Message that you’d given up your own bunk to a little kid no older than four; he had just smiled sweetly, knowing you could never resist a child’s puppy eyes.

You can sleep in my bunk, Luke had told you, shimmering crystalline in the rainbow’s refraction, prismatic. It’s one way to make sure no one steals it. And when I get back, it won’t be so cold at night.

Didn’t realize you were such a flirt, Castellan.

You remember that he had winked, cheeky, like he was the male lead of some Hallmark romcom. It’s the natural Hermes charm, champ. )

-✦✦✦-

You’re tracing the soft pink outline of his scar when it hits you like a freight train. You realize then that he’s changed, gone through some kind of metamorphosis during his quest; it had been so subtle and overarching that it’d completely washed over you for a good couple of weeks; the occurrences had become so common, unremarkable and predictable like a flock of geese flying south for the winter that you hadn’t thought anything of it.

It’s not like you don’t understand that people change as time ticks on.

You know that your skin has started to prickle with cactus needles as your abilities grew with the increase in risk; Annabeth’s behavior is trending on the moody side with every new camper, waiting still for the day she can prove herself— she likes coffee now too; hell, even Clarisse calms down, temper dimming down to a low, simmering boil.

And Luke…. Call it intuition, hypothesis, whatever— you only know, a fact engraved so deep in your dermis that it punctures muscle and scrapes bone, that something’s wrong. But you trust, still, that you both will hang on, hold fast, brave the storm like all the heroes that came before you.

But the thing is, heroes don’t live happy. Perseus will turn himself to stone with the very weapon that bestowed upon him glory; Heracles will die deceived, betrayed by the unwitting hand of his lover; Achilles will perish in a ruined city, the indestructible man shattered by something so little and insignificant as a spear-pointed arrowhead.

Heroes don’t live happy, but Luke isn’t a hero.

You know this, a memory from the night he came back, woven in the dark warmness of the Hermes cabin, a tapestry of sleep-mussed mumbles.

You remember how he woke with a bare, rattling gasp, the raw and sandpaper-dry tremble of it reminding you of the sound that people make when they’re close to death.

“I failed,” he whispers into your skin when the rush of it ebbs, a sanctuary of truth. Luke swallows gasps between his words. “I wasn’t ready, wasn’t strong enough. He sent me to Hesperides, y’know? Told me about the apples, said that if I could get one for him, he’d share it with me.”

You hum in sympathy— a comforting hymn, balm against a bruise, kissing it better— thread your fingers through his hair and watch how the moonlight shines on the black strands. White and black, a sneer of ink on parchment by a careless hand.

“You wanted immortality from it?”

“No,” he says, quieter, a little wet sound wrenching from his throat, and you know, in a reminiscent daze, that this’ll be the last you see of him like this, vulnerable. “I just wanted to see if he’d still be proud of me.”

Luke isn’t a hero, and the whole of camp knows this, locks it away in their Pandora’s box of open secrets. But Luke isn’t happy either, so the habit you’ve grown of burning extra offerings never dies.

You think of it as a cumulative toast, of sorts, to the gods that never cared, hopes mixed into the divine ash like poison in wine.

-✦✦✦-

Luke disappears midway through the field trip to Olympus. Your fingertips are left cold in your coat pockets despite the crackling energy generated by Zeus’ domain, and it’s not until later in the elevator ride down do they warm up again.

He slips through the gaps to fill the one beside you, slides his hand into your pocket and twines your fingers together; you don’t miss how his sword-calloused palm pops with static at the contact with your skin. You ignore it and try not to flinch at the quick, needle-like pierce of pain.

“Sorry, I had to use the bathroom. Ate something bad at breakfast,” he murmurs, leaning into your side to kiss your cheek, curls brushing against your temple. Luke rests an arm along the horizon of your shoulders, slim fingers toying with your leather cord, watching how the seven beads— two more than his own— slide back and forth on the string.

“Do they even have toilets up there?” you whisper, amusement bleeding into the corners of your voice. “Ambrosia and nectar don’t really get digested normally, so I just assumed that gods never really needed to poop unless they did it on purpose.”

“You’re right,” he says between breathy laughs, wispy with the winded heaves of his chest, “Zeus probably wouldn’t look so high and mighty if everyone saw him hunched over in the middle of a shit. And to answer your question, the seats are solid gold.”

“Absolute insanity.”

-✦✦✦-

Percy Jackson is a sprightly boy of twelve, everything about him cool-toned in the way the sun shines and refracts under the sea’s waves. When Grover stumbles into camp dragging the demigod by the armpits, shouting of Minotaur horns and flipped cars and moms dissolving into clouds of ichor-hued dust, people obviously take interest. Especially Annabeth. And on a sourer note, Clarisse too.

Even Luke, who’d been in a deeply sullen mood, had turned his face up to the angle where the light played over his eyes just right, irises shining a liquid gold, amber and gilded, Midas-touched with something you’d only learned to identify as a revelation.

What kind, you weren’t sure, but it stung as badly as taking in a new hive, to know that your efforts to cheer him up were undermined by something as commonplace as a new arrival.

Though, you swear to yourself then that you don’t hate Percy for that. You get where he’s coming from, the sinking feeling of neglection because he’s unclaimed, the anger that comes with it; you know, too well, how it feels to think you’re unwanted. You’ve been in his shoes for your first year and a half at camp.

But then he gets claimed by Poseidon, and that summer, Luke leaves for good. It’s a flash of events, like a too-fast slideshow that you can’t take notes on or a seconds-long flipbook that took months to complete; you recognize the familiarity of an out-of-body experience when reminiscing about a memory you can’t really remember, the alien tang of it bitter on your tongue.

They talk of his betrayal for months, about how he had tried to kill Percy and his siding with the Titans; the gathering clouds draw close to Thalia’s tree, a promise of a storm and the coming war, a warning to the lightning thief.

You’ve accepted, another fact carved deep enough to shatter bone, pierce your heart, that Luke made a choice, the wrong one; you convince yourself that you made the right one by not blaming Percy for the stares and the whispers, the shoulder-checking and glares that scream about your suspiciousness.

Still, you keep his bed in Cabin 11, burn extra offerings in his place, check the Big House’s fountain for missed Iris Messages. Hope is a bitter thing, like poison in wine. You had swallowed it down anyways.

♫ — be sweet (make it up to me and know it’s better)

“Where do you go at night?” Luke asks, swathed in his red knit sweater. The weather’s gotten colder still, a far cry from the humidity that had rolled a suffocating blanket over Manhattan on the eighteenth of August— the day he came back to you. His fingers tap a song on the glass in his hands.

“What d’you mean by that?” you deflect, spine shaped gentle in a curve as you sit at the spinning wheel, wool slipstreaming between your deft fingers.

The device makes a soft sound, a shh shh that comes with each press of your foot on the pedal, like a mother hushing a child to sleep. It’s a calming song that he’s used to hearing in the in-betweens of the cottage.

( He doesn’t dream, hasn’t been able to since he woke up that day, but sometimes he thinks he can hear it in his sleep, the hush of wool, like the blades of a rippling meadow rubbing together under a blanket of sun or the friction of a cricket song in the quiet summer.

He thinks that once, you told him that you’d teach him how to spin and use a loom, that you’d weave a blanket together for someone special; as far as he knows, it’s only a figment of his imagination used to fill the blank spaces. )

His thumb strokes the glass arch of his mug’s handle, amber liquid trembling with every movement. “You come at sunrise to take care of your bees or spin yarn and tell me stories, bring me meals and sometimes Chiron comes, and then you leave. If this is meant to be your space, then where do you sleep when I use the bed? Are you being forced to sacrifice your time, caring for me?”

“No one’s forcing me to do anything,” you say quickly with no room for insinuation. Luke realizes the absence of the wheel’s shush, you having stopped to fully lend him attention. You sigh, and it’s heavy, a weight that pulls your chest downward with the exhale; he’s reminded of rain catching leaves and how they sink with each drop. “I sleep in Cabin Eleven. There’s someone I’m waiting on to return, and I’m saving a bunk for him.”

“Who?” he gathers the courage to ask. His chest pangs— is this how monsters feel when their physical essence is ripped apart by Celestial Bronze?

You smile, set down the unspun rove of wool, soft like the waking of dawn, bitter grief sewn into the gentle curl of your lip.

“You. I’m waiting for you, and I always have been.” And the pain ebbs away, assuaging the muscle in his ribbed cage of bone.

“You know,” he starts, staring down into the eddy of tea, swirling with sugar and the honey he had helped you make. The words waterfall from his lips, spilling, escaping like fluttering doves, and you listen patiently— that’s what he loves most about you, among other things. “That on the day I went with you to the cabins, I wandered off while you talked to the Apollo kids. There was this girl, tall with curly hair— she pushed me. And then a guy, he had blue eyes and four beads, helped me up.

“He told me that he forgave me, even though I made the wrong choice. He was with another girl, she had black and blonde braids, one was white— she said that I was a good brother, and to stay out of the inner camp until they get everything sorted out.”

“Clarisse, Percy, Annabeth,” you name them in an exhale, pulling your stool over. He thinks, briefly, of cradling you on the floor in the haze of a midwinter dawn. A dance of dust angels to a silent, harmonizing symphony. “That tracks.”

“What did I do to deserve this?” he mumbles, bringing the mug close to his eyeline. Stares from the glass lip into his warbled reflection, studies the scar he can’t remember getting, watches it twist with each watery ripple. Monstrous. “I can’t remember things for a reason— the gods took that away. I angered them, killed people or something, and they let me live at a cost.”

Your chin dips down in something he can only identify as a mix of shame, reluctance, and grief.

“You can’t dream because it’s how—” and then you fade for a moment like a rove spun so thin that the fibers starts to separate “—you were exploited for vulnerabilities. Your memories, the dreams, they’ve been sealed until Olympus stops seeing you as a threat.”

And then Luke looks down at himself; the pills of wool on his red sweater, how the knit cuffs of his sleeves peel away from each other; the thinned knees of his jeans, washed white with use; the striped socks that clad his feet and the scuffed, extremely creased house-shoes he’s shoved them in.

“I don’t see how I’m a threat.”

It makes you laugh in a huff. He nurses the mug, laps at the last residuals as you continue, maintaining sidelong eye contact.

“To start, Kronos visited your dreams and manipulated you into starting the Second Titan War.”

( You don’t even blink twice when Luke sputters into the glass. )

It’s not even the worst of it, because then you tell him, “You were also blackmailed into taking a bath in the River Styx, then you got possessed, almost revived the Titan King, and at the very end you stabbed yourself in the armpit and exorcised him and somehow, you didn’t die instantly so—” you pause to take a deep breath, winded “—they chose to save you and here we are.”

“You’re lying. There’s no way they’d lift a finger to help the same guy who tried to overthrow them.”

“I didn’t believe it either, but Percy was being serious. He vouched for you.”

“No way.”

You clamp your jaw, seal your mouth and give him a pointed look. It’s all raised brows and pursed lips, bunched shoulders and splayed, shrugging hands. And though he’s dyslexic, he can still read body language to know that your expression is telling him, it is what it is.

Luke makes a face regardless, cards a hand through his black hair, fingers catching on the singular white curl he has, like a smear of correction fluid. “Come on, champ, you really believe that the Olympians would bow down to some demigod?”

“I mean,” you manage, and there’s a faraway haze clouding your irises, reminiscent, scar freckled palms scraping his when you pull the empty mug away, “they did to Percy.”

You trace the lip of the glass absently as Luke folds his hands together, twines his fingers so that the pinkened Halfblood Hills of his knuckles form a pale little valley.

“Okay, okay. Say he did,” he sighs, cupping his face in his palms, the pads of his fingers pressing white into his eyes in the way he always does when he has headaches. “But if the ‘me’ before Kronos saw how much better camp is doing, I’d be less inclined to revenge.”

And then the beats click together, syncopation.

“You think, Castellan?”

“I don’t think, champ, I know.”

You smile, genuine this time, and he takes a moment to engrain that into his mind too, the way your mouth curls upward like the peel of an orange, how your eyes crinkle half-mast into little crescent moons, the lines that are drawn onto your face.

He thinks, that in a past life, you must’ve been a mortal that gods and poets and rulers fell for. His Penelope, Hyacinthus, Psyche, Adonis; your Odysseus, Apollo, Eros, lover.

And Luke says, a whisper that fills the space, gold seeping into the cracked clay of your soul, ichor from the veins of a sun, healing in a spiderweb of scars— kintsugi, “I think I loved you in a life before this.”

You hum, the note of it hanging in the air like a maestro’s hand before a symphony. The small faucet in the Mid-Sized Cottage rushes with life when you turn it on, spilling water into the empty glass, a riptide of bubbles like seafoam. You come back, flicking droplets from your hands, and he swears that he sees you reach into your pocket for something.

“You did— but Luke, you aren’t the same without your memories,” you tell him, voice low, and it feels like dying. “You might have loved me then, but do you now?”

He sinks into a moment of the in-betweens, thinks about honey and ichor-hued tea, the cottage, the loom and spinning wheel, how the hush of it quells the ugliness that rears its head on the bad days.

Remembers how his first seconds felt like eternities, how he’s already spent a lifetime and a half with you; he likes it, and the scar on his face burns with secret greed and shame for wanting.

It all echoes around him, some jubilee of the things he knows, remembers, daydreams about. The half-moon crinkle of your eyes, the strawberry fields at dawn, the cricket song on that late summer night when you stayed in the cottage for once, the silence of your foot lifting off the pedal to listen, and how he wishes to pour all this and more into a flask, get drunk on it every night and feel the high of your kisses.

You extend your hand to him, scars and old sting-marks freckling your skin like a constellation, an untold story that he wants to dive into and never leave.

Cradled in the bed of your palm are two leather cords. One with five beads, the paint flecking off at the edges, and the other blank like a piece of notebook paper ready to be scribbled on, a tale waiting to be written.

Luke folds the first around his wrist and loops the second over his head. He gets the feeling that he’s been here before.

“May I?” You nod and he reaches the pads of his fingers hesitantly to graze the cord that’s wrapped around the column of your neck, studies how the autumn rays overlay the eight beads warm and gilded. “I’m sorry for making you wait three years.”

“That’s alright, I’ve forgiven you already.”

He hates himself for the way your voice cracks easily, hooks the red sleeve of his sweater over his thumb to dab at the tears that gather in your eyes, pale flesh peeking through the soft wool stitches.

Luke promises to himself that though the action is just a smear of antibacterial honey on a gaping dagger-wound, he’ll spend his days patching it up if it meant your happiness.

His hands splays out, the fit of his rough palm against the side of your face like laser-cut puzzle pieces that compliment each other perfectly; he pulls you in gently, the guiding rope to a docking boat swathed in river mist, and presses a soft kiss to your temple.

Luke’s lips part, tongue clicking damp when he whispers into the sanctuary of truth that is your skin, “I think I’ll love you in this life too.”

“Yea,” you say, little more than a murmur carried slow in the eddy of air that surrounds the two of you, and you tuck yourself under the jut of his chin, letting the wandering point of your nose find true north again in the hollow of his collarbone. “I know the feeling.”

⤷ post-script; 8.5k words holy… i hope you enjoyed reading this as much as i enjoyed writing it!! if i do write more luke, i'm considering a collection (not series) that just focuses on these two and the in-betweens/before and afters, drawing inspo from jubilee ofc.... as always, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated, i give you permission to respectfully scream at me :)

⤷ taglist (open, pls send an ask to join); @novelizt

#🍊— jubilee #klineinie writes #luke castellan x reader #luke castellan #luke castellan fic #luke castellan x you #luke castellan imagine #luke castellan oneshot #pjo tv series #pjo x reader

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