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MASTERLIST
REQUESTS: OPEN
warning!! i don’t consistently update because of external factors, apologies!
summary: Your study partner asks a suspiciously innocent question about ovulation and suddenly the lesson becomes very… hands on.
pairings: pre-med student!art donaldson x pre-med afab student!reader
warnings: 6.8k words. mature themes. unprotected p in v. oral sex/cunnilingus. fingering. clitoral stimulation. nipple play (pinching). external ejaculation. overstimulation. multiple orgasms. marking (biting/hickeys). read responsibly.
note: another part of talking body!
The tutoring sessions with Art became a regular thing, and he didn't even have to ask to come over anymore. He's always the same quiet and shy guy who keeps his head down while he works, but you can tell he's trying hard not to look at you too much. You bought a small foldable table a few weeks ago specifically for him because he started coming over so often and you wanted him to be comfortable. That same table is set up in front of your bed right now as his laptop and iPad take up most of the space. A study playlist plays quietly from your speakers while you sit at your own desk across from him.
You're just wearing an oversized shirt and pajama pants since there are no classes today. Also, it's just Art who’s been here since the afternoon. The final examination is only a week away, and both of you are focusing on making detailed transes for the big day. These topics were already discussed in class, but you're going through everything again to make sure you can recall every detail for the reviewer. Art is tackling the entire reproductive system and all the various cycles while you handle the endocrine system and the different glands.
It's a lot of work to organize, but you're both typing away to finish the reviewers before the night ends. Art is sitting on the edge of your bed while he leans over the foldable table, and his stylus makes a soft scratching sound against the iPad screen. You're over at your own desk, which is right against the side of the mattress, as you try to organize your notes, but the room feels small with both of you squeezed together in this corner. There are empty coffee cups and finished energy drinks scattered across both of your workspaces since it's going to be a long all-nighter for both of you.
“I can’t believe we aren’t even halfway through all these chapters yet,” Art muttered while he rubbed his eyes with one hand. You look over your shoulder to see him hunched over the iPad, but he doesn't look up from his work. “We’ve still got so many transes to finish before morning if we want to cover the whole syllabus,” he complained as he tapped the screen using his stylus to highlight a specific section. You just nodded your head and turned back to your own monitor while the sound of typing from your laptop filled the quiet room.
“Are you planning on sending these notes to the rest of the guys in our block?” you asked while your fingers kept moving across the keyboard to copy information from the ebook. You didn't look up from the screen, but you could hear him take a sip of his energy drink before you could hear the can placed again at the foldable table with a thud. “I’ll share the parts I wrote myself, but I won’t send yours unless you tell me it’s okay,” Art replied, and he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “That’s fair of you, but I bet that one girl you’re always talking to would love a copy of my notes,” you teased while you turned in your chair to look at him.
He didn't have to move much to face you because of how close your desk is to his table at the end of the bed. You can see the way his neck turned a bit pink before he turned his attention back to the lesson. “Why would I care about what she wants when I’m right here with you?” Art muttered as he stared at his screen and tried to act like he wasn't affected by it. “I’m just asking because she’s always there with you whenever I see you guys at the library,” you said while you turned back to your computer and dismissed his comment with a shrug.
You didn't wait for him to explain himself further but focused on your screen while you started mumbling the lesson under your breath. It's just a way for you to memorize better, and Art knows by now that you aren't really talking to him when you do that. You kept your head down, but your eyes kept wandering over to the mattress every few minutes to watch his hands move across the screen. His fingers look good while he writes, and you find yourself staring at the way he grips the stylus. You feel hotter than usual even though the room temperature hasn't changed at all, and you just tell yourself it's because of the coffee and lack of sleep.
The clothes you’re wearing tonight feel uncomfortable against your skin for some unknown reason even though you always find this shirt and these pants to be your most comfortable pair. “What’s that gland in the mediastinum that helps with immune cells?” you suddenly asked while leaning your head on your hand to look at him. Art didn't even stop what he was doing before he gave you the answer. “That’s the thymus,” he answered while he finally looked up from his iPad to catch your eye. You rolled your eyes when he managed to answer quickly.
“Okay, my turn,” Art muttered as he scrolled through his notes to find something. “What do you call the funnel-shaped part of the tube that has those little finger-” he started to say, but you didn't let him finish. “Infundibulum,” you answered faster than him when you asked his question while you gave him a smug look from your desk. He just laughs and shakes his head at how eager you are. “It’s not supposed to work like that, you smartass,” he joked while he rested his elbows on his knees. “I already know this stuff anyway, so you’ll have to try harder than that,” you said before you turned back to your screen.
“Does it actually make you want sex more when you’re ovulating?” Art asked while he kept his eyes on the ebook, but his voice sounded a bit strained. He didn't look at you yet, but you could see him gripping the stylus tighter as he waited for you to say something. “Why would you even ask me something like that?” you questioned as you turned your chair to face him fully. You felt your face getting warm, and you wondered if he could tell how much the question was actually affecting you right now.
“I just want to understand the more what I’m reading instead of just looking at this,” Art replied before he finally glanced up at you. He looked away almost immediately and focused back on his notes, but his ears were still bright red. “It says the hormones spike during this part of the cycle, but I didn't know if women actually felt the difference,” he added as he shrugged his shoulders to act like it was just a normal curiosity. You just stared at him for a moment because you knew he was trying to be sneaky about the topic, but you didn't call him out on it.
“Go ask your other friends if you want to know about that so badly,” you said before you tsked and shook your head at him. You feel irritated because you are actually feeling that exact ‘spike’ he’s talking about in your body right now, but he doesn't have any idea. “Well, you’re the one here, and they’re not. You’re a woman, so I figured you would know best,” Art replied while he looked toward you with an innocent face as if he were trying to convince you that that is what it is. You just sighed and leaned back in your chair while your fingers tapped against the armrest and your eyes looked up at the ceiling.
“It's just how it works since hormones generally make women feel something more during that time of the month,” you answered, and you kept the details as vague as possible. “So does that mean it's harder for a person to focus on things… like studying when their body is acting like that?” Art asks, and he turned his head from the edge of the bed to look at you. He didn't know how much his sneaky question was making your skin crawl with the need to be touched. You just gripped the armrests of your chair and kept staring at the ceiling because you didn't want him to see how much you were struggling to stay focused on the lesson.
“I suppose it depends on the person, but I’m just trying to finish the work, so stop asking me weird things,” you muttered while you ignored the way your own body was reacting to his voice. “So what do you actually do when you experience that kind of stuff? Well, you know, since the book doesn't really explain the personal side of it,” Art added while he kept staring at you. He seemed to notice your growing annoyance but looked away because he’s been looking for too long. You can feel his gaze on you, and his question about how you handled being turned on makes you embarrassed for something he doesn’t even know.
“I don’t do anything because I am busy trying to pass this exam, unlike some people,” you snapped while you shoved your chair back close to the desk. The sudden movement made him flinch, but he still didn't look up from his spot on the mattress. Art just bit his lip to hide a small grin while he tapped the stylus against his chin. “I’m just saying it’s interesting how the body works when it want something,” he muttered before turning his head again to see your reaction, and he easily reached to grab the edge of your desk when he shifted a little closer to you.
Art stood up from the bed and walked over to stand right behind your chair. He leaned forward until his arms were on either side of you and his hands gripped the edge of the desk while he effectively trapped you in your seat. He lowered his head toward the side of your neck, and his chin almost touched your shoulder. You squeezed your thighs together and breathed heavily as the warmth from his chest pressed against your back. Art looked at your laptop screen as if he was just checking your progress, but he was way too close for you to read anything.
“Do you think guys can actually tell when a girl is ovulating, or is it all just some lucky guess?” he muttered while his breath fanned over your skin. He didn't look at you, but he moved his face a little closer until his lips were nearly touching your ear. You felt your heart hammer against your ribs while you tried to stay still and act like he wasn't making your head spin. “I wouldn't know, I’m not a mad, aren’t I? and I’m actually trying to pass this test,” you gasped while you kept your eyes fixed on the keyboard. He just let out a quiet laugh and stayed exactly where he was to keep you boxed in against the desk.
Art reached down and wrapped his fingers around your wrist to stop you from typing. He squeezed just enough to keep your hand still, but he didn't pull away. You felt your breath hitch as you stared at your fingers while his thumb brushed against your skin. “I told you that I need to finish these notes before the morning,” you whispered while you tried to ignore how fast your heart started beating. He didn't listen to your protest, but he kept his grip firm to keep you trapped in place. “The notes aren’t going anywhere, and you’ve been staring at the same line for ten minutes,” Art muttered while he leaned his chest closer to your back.
He finally let go of your wrist only to slide his hand down to the edge of your desk while he stayed right behind you. You bit your lip and looked away from the screen because you couldn’t focus on the endocrine system’s transes you’re making with him touching you like that. “I’m just tired from all the coffee,” you lied while you felt the heat from his body through your clothes. He let out a quiet laugh and moved his face even closer to your neck while he kept you boxed in. You reached up and covered the back of his hand while you started caressing his knuckles with your thumb.
Art went quiet as you suddenly shoved against the desk to spin your swivel chair around to face him. He didn't expect the move, and he stumbled back while he tried to keep his balance between your legs. “You’re the one who keeps bothering me, so don’t look so surprised,” you whispered while you stared up at him and kept your hand on his. Art let out a shaky breath and gripped the armrests of your chair to steady himself while he leaned over you. “I wasn’t expecting you to actually do anything about it,” he muttered as he looked down at your face and stayed trapped between your knees.
“I’m actually grateful that we’re studying together because I’m learning a lot more than I did alone,” you whispered while you reached up to touch his forearms as he gripped your armrests. You ran your hands over his brachioradialis and felt the heat of his skin against your palms. “I can finally remember the names now that I can feel them on you,” you teased while you slid your hands up to his shoulder where his deltoid muscles is. Art let out a ragged breath, but he didn't pull away as your fingers traced the shape of the muscle.
“It’s easier to accurately locate them when it’s not just in the picture,” you murmured while you felt the muscle tighten beneath your grip. Art leaned even further into your space while your hands moved to the pectoralis major at the front of his chest. You used your palms to feel the muscle while he hovered over you and his heart thumped against your fingertips. “This is a much better reference than the book… especially the biceps brachii,” you joked as you moved your touch to the muscle on his upper arm. Your fingers traced the muscle while your chair stayed trapped between his arms.
He just stared down at you and let out a quiet laugh while his grip on the armrests tightened. “I can’t believe you’re bringing that up after all these months,” Art muttered while he let out a dry laugh and finally let go of the armrests. He moved his hands to your waist and started caressing your sides while his thumbs hooked into the waistband of your pants. It felt like forever since he first showed you those muscles, but being in the medical field meant constant studying, so you just considered it part of your long-term recall.
“Well, we have to keep our knowledge fresh if we want to pass our clinicals,” you whispered while you leaned back against the chair and let him pull you closer to his chest. Art didn’t look away from your eyes as he kept his hands on you, but his face was closer now, and you could feel the heat of his skin. “You’re giving me way too much personal space right now,” you whispered sarcastically while your face stayed inches away from his. Art let out a quiet huff of air, and his hands tightened on your waist. “Then push me away or do something about it,” he challenged while his eyes dropped down to your mouth.
You didn’t wait for him to say anything else, but you leaned forward to close the gap between you. You kissed him hard while your fingers tangled into the hair at the back of his neck. He groaned into your mouth and shoved his tongue against yours while he pulled your body right against his chest. You wrapped your arms around his neck while your fingers played with the hair at the nape of his head. Art didn't stop kissing you, but he guided you to stand up as he kept his hands firmly on your waist.
He turned you around until your back was facing the bed while he took a few steps forward to keep you close. You felt the edge of the mattress hit the back of your knees, and you let out a soft breath against his lips. “Mmh- stop for a second,” you whispered while he sat you down on the blankets. He finally pulled away from the kiss, but he stayed standing right between your legs as he looked down at you. Art leaned down to kiss you again, but you put your hands on his chest and shoved him back just enough to create space.
“Art- The notes are still sitting on the desk, and I really have to finish that chapter before I can sleep,” you whispered while you looked up at him. He just let out a quiet laugh and brushed off your concern as he stepped even closer between your knees. “The notes can wait for an hour or two,” he muttered while he ignored your excuses. “I still have that upcoming quiz to worry about,” you argued as you tried to keep your voice steady. Art only hummed and leaned in to nuzzle your jaw while his hands stayed firm on your waist. “Yeah, I know. I’m in the same class, but we both know you’ve studied enough,” he murmured as his lips brushed against your skin.
“But I have a clinical practical in my other course too,” you countered while you felt your resolve weakening. He let out a low chuckle and moved his face closer to yours until your noses touched. “Yeah? You already studied for it though,” he teased before he nipped at your bottom lip. “And there are still all those activities I haven't submitted,” you whispered as a last attempt to stop him. Art just smiled against your mouth, and his grip on your hips tightened. “Those aren't going anywhere, and neither am I,” he promised as he finally silenced you with another kiss.
You lost your train of thought when his cold fingers touched the skin of your waist. “Do you actually want me to stop right now?” Art asked while he looked into your eyes and knew exactly what your answer was. He didn't wait for you to speak, but he slipped his hands under the hem of your shirt. You let out a shaky breath while he slowly pushed the fabric up your torso. He kept going until the shirt was bunched around your armpits and your bra was completely showing. “I didn't think so,” he whispered as he let his eyes wander over your chest before he moved his hands to the clasp.
“Go ahead then,” you whispered while you raised your arms so he could finish pulling the bunched shirt over your head. Art let go of the clasp for a second to grab the hem, and he yanked the fabric off before tossing it onto the floor. He moved his hands behind your back again and found the hooks of your bra while he remained inches away from you. You heard a small click as he unhooked it, and he slid the straps off your shoulders. Your bra fell away while you felt the cool air on your bare skin, but his gaze was locked on your chest.
“You’re so beautiful,” Art murmured while he brought his hands down from your back to the front of your waist. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your pajama pants, and his thumbs slipped under the elastic of your underwear too. You let out a quiet breath while he kept his touch there without yanking the clothes down yet. He just stared into your eyes while he waited for you to move first. You reached out to grab his wrists while your heart started beating faster against your ribs. Art used a bit of force to tug your pajama pants and underwear down until the fabric bunched around your knees.
“Don't look away from me,” he whispered while he watched your face for any sign of hesitation. You remained sitting on the edge of the mattress and watched him as he moved his hands down to your ankles. He pulled the clothes the rest of the way off your feet before he tossed them onto the pile with your shirt. He dropped down to kneel on the floor right between your thighs while he kept his gaze on you. “Mmh… You look so good for me,” Art groaned while he reached out to grip your knees and open your legs wider.
You braced your hands on the mattress behind you to keep your balance, but you didn't pull away from him. He leaned forward until his face was close to your lap while he stared directly at your wet cunt. He didn't touch you yet, but his eyes took in every inch of you while you waited for him to move. Art gripped your knees and spread your legs even wider as he remained kneeling between your thighs. “Come here,” he muttered while he placed one hand firmly on your ass to pull you even further over the edge of the mattress so his mouth could reach you better.
He used the fingers of his other hand to spread your folds apart so he could get a clear look at you. He licked his lips while he stared at your opening, and his thumb brushed against your skin. He leaned down and bit the inside of your thigh while you let out a small gasp. “Mmh… a-ahh,” you whimpered as he pulled away, but he didn't stop there. He gathered some saliva in his mouth and spat directly onto your clit. He pulled back a few inches so he could watch the spit dripping down over your folds and making you even wetter.
“You’re so soaked for me,” he groaned while he moved his hands from your folds and your ass back to your knees. Art hiked your legs up and draped them over his shoulders while he moved even closer to you. He leaned in until his nose was inches from your cunt, and he took a deep breath of your scent. “You smell so good,” he muttered while he slid his hands back down your thighs to grip your ass and hold you steady in his reach. He leaned the rest of the way in to lick your wet folds from bottom to top while you felt his tongue flicking against your clit.
“Nghh- A-art-” you moaned while you arched your back and braced your hands behind you for support. He started sucking on your clit while he used his tongue to lap at the spit and slick coating your skin. He slid his tongue deep between your folds and licked across your hole before he worked on your clit again with fast movements. “Fuh- more… please,” you whimpered while you watched him move between your thighs. Art let out a muffled growl against your cunt while he kept his tongue moving against you.
He didn't stop for a second while he watched your body shake from his mouth. Art kept flicking his tongue over your clit and sucking on the sensitive skin while you arched your back. He moved one hand away from your ass, but he kept the other one squeezed against your cheek to hold you in place. He brought his hand between your legs and slid one finger into your cunt while he watched your face. He pulled his mouth away from your skin for a second to look at you. “God, you’re so tight around me,” he groaned as he felt your walls squeeze his finger before he began to move it in and out of your hole.
“Mmph- r-right there,” you whimpered while you moved your hands from the mattress to his blonde hair. You gripped the strands tightly and pulled him back down as you began to grind your cunt against his face. He kept fingering you while his nose was buried against your clit, and he licked you again. He kept his tongue lapping at your clit and focused on the way you bucked your hips against his mouth. Art let out a muffled sound of approval while he worked his finger inside you and kept his tongue moving.
Art kept sucking on your clit while he moved his finger in and out of your cunt. Your heels dragged against the back of his shirt, but he didn't pull away from you. “P-please- I want you inside me,” you begged while your fingers tightened in his hair to pull his face harder against your pussy. He just shook his head against your thighs and kept his mouth busy with your clit. You let out a shaky breath as you felt him slide a second finger into your hole alongside the first one. “Not yet,” he mumbled against your skin while he spread your cunt wider with his two fingers.
He flicked his tongue over your clit again but ignored your pleas for his cock. You bucked your hips while your heels dug into his spine, but he held your ass firmly to keep you on the edge of the mattress. “N-ngh- need you…” you whined as he licked along your wet folds before he went back to sucking your clit. He kept moving his fingers inside you while he watched your body shake from the way he was using his mouth. “I-I’m so close-” you begged while your hips jerked against his face. You tried to push his shoulders away because the feeling was getting to be too much, but he didn't listen.
He kept his tongue licking your clit while he worked his fingers into your cunt. “Haaah- a-ahhnn- I'm cumming,” you gasped as your pussy squeezed hard around him. Your legs began to shake while you finally came all over his face. Art quickly pulled his fingers out of your cunt so he could use his mouth while you were still coming. He pressed his lips over your hole and started sucking on you as your cum leaked onto his tongue. “Nn- s-stop,” you whimpered while you tried to shove his head back from your pussy.
Art gripped your ass even harder to keep you from moving, but he kept eating everything you gave him. He didn't stop until you finally finished cumming and he pulled back to look at you. Art rose from his knees and retreated a few steps while he took his clothes off until he was naked. You hoisted yourself from the mattress and leaned over the bed as your hands gripped the sheets, but you kept your feet on the floor. Art watched you while he gripped his cock and started to stroke it. “You want it like this?” he asked while his eyes stayed on your ass.
“Nnnh- y-yes,” you whisper while you keep your head down. Art suddenly shoved you forward on your stomach, but he kept your legs off the bed. He grabbed a pillow and shoved it under your hips to prop you up for him. “Are you comfortable?” he asked while he stepped closer to your back. You felt his hard cock graze against your ass as he leaned over you. “Mhm,” you whimper while you brace yourself against the mattress. Art pushed your hair away from your neck as he helped you turn your head sideways so your face wasn't crushed into the bed.
“Better?” he muttered while he watched you nod against the sheets. “Mhm, yeah,” you hum while you begin to grind your ass back against his cock. He let out a breath while his hands moved from your head to grab both of your ass cheeks. Art pulled your cheeks apart while he guided his cock right between them. He didn't put it in, but he just slid his shaft forward to tease you with the head of his cock. “A-ahhnn- want it-” you whimper while you feel the tip of his cock bump against your asshole. He kept rubbing his length up and down while he held you open to watch how much you wanted it.
He let out a grunt as he slid it again just to make you beg for him to finally go inside. Art reached forward until his hand was in front of your face. “Spit on it,” he ordered while his fingers brushed against your lips. You did what he said before he pulled his hand back toward his own lap. He spat on his palm as well while he began to stroke his cock to get it wet. “Mmn, h-hurry,” you groan while your hands squeeze the bedsheets. Art gripped his cock and lined the head up with your pussy. He began to slide inside you slowly while he watched your back arch. “H-hah, f-fuck-” you gasp as he keeps pushing until he is fully inside your cunt. He stayed there for a second while he let you take all of him.
“Mm, it’s- big,” you whimper while you feel your walls stretch around his length. Art gripped your hips while he started thrusting his cock into your cunt. “You really think I can think about another woman when you’re this tight?” he grunted while he watched the way your skin grew hot under his touch. “Nn- faster,” you moan while you bury your face into the pillow. He let out a rough laugh as he realized you were actually jealous of that girl from the library. Art kept hitting your walls while he moved one hand from your hip to reach under your chest. He grabbed your tit and started to squeeze it hard as he kept his chest pressed firmly against your back.
“Mmn, a-ahhnn- r-right there!” you whine while you feel the air in the room get thick as his sweat drips onto your skin. He leaned down toward your ear as his fingers pinched your nipple. “Tell me you’re the only one I’m fucking,” he muttered while his cock buried itself to the base inside you. “M-me, ah-! only-” you gasp while your back arches under him. Art let out a low grunt as he kept his pace steady. “Yeah, you,” he whispered while he leaned closer to his skin. “And who’s the only one you’re ever going to let do this to you?” he asked while he drove his cock even deeper into your pussy. “Y-you- fuc- you,” you whimper while you grip the pillow beneath you.
“That’s right,” he muttered before he pulled away from your ear. Art leaned down and bit the skin near your shoulder blade while he started to suck a hickey onto your back. He let out a huff of air as he remembered all the excuses you made earlier to avoid being alone with him. “Funny how you had all those things to do, but you’re still taking me like this,” he teased while his hand moved to pinch your nipple again. “N-ngh- stop-” you cried out while your cunt clamped down around his shaft. He just laughed and kept thrusting as he watched your body react to his touch.
Art stood straight again while he kept his pace going. He put one hand on your back and held you down against the pillow under your stomach. “Mmn, w-wait,” you gasp while your body moves around from the friction. He started thrusting faster as he pinned you against the mattress. He just smirked like an asshole while he kept slamming his cock into your cunt. “You're acting like a total mess right now, but you look so good taking all of me,” Art muttered while he watched your back arch. “H-hngh- shut up,” you whine while you try to steady yourself against the mattress.
He didn't slow down, but he kept his hand on your back to keep you pinned. “Yes- k-keep doing that-” you moan while your pussy squeezes around him. He let out a grunt as he kept forcing his length into you until you couldn't take any more. Art grabbed your wrist to stop you from touching yourself before he pulled his cock out of your cunt. He gripped your waist and helped you climb fully onto the bed so you weren't standing on the floor anymore. “It’s so much better to see you like this,” he muttered while he watched you lie back against the sheets.
You watched him crawl over you before he grabbed the pillow and slid it under your ass to lift you up. Art positioned himself between your legs while he used the pillow to keep you open for him. He lined his cock up with your opening before he thrust all the way back inside you. “H-hahh so f-full- shi-” you gasp while you feel him hit your spot with the new angle. He let out a grunt as he began to shove his length into you again. “Mmn, f-fuck- you're so deep,” you whimper while your legs wrap around his waist to keep him close.
You reached for the back of Art’s neck and pulled him down until your lips met his. He groaned into your mouth while you shoved your tongue against his to start a deep kiss. “Mmf- a-ahhnn,” you moan while you feel his cock slide back into your pussy. He kept himself low over you as he began to move his hips at a steady pace. You wrapped your arms around his neck while you kept the kiss going. Art groped your breast as he used his tongue to explore your mouth. He squeezed your nipple hard, but he didn't break the kiss.
“Nn- m-mmh,” you whimper while his cock hits your spot. You felt your walls clench around him as he buried himself to the hilt. He let out a grunt while he increased the speed of his hips to make you gasp against his lips. Art pulled away from the kiss and propped himself on his knees so your chests weren't touching anymore. He placed his hand on your stomach and pushed down while he slammed his cock deep enough to hit the same spot. “Mnh… F-fuck, Art,” you moan while you place your hand over his.
Your nails dug into the back of his hand as you raised your hips to grind back against him. “Don't stop, p-please-” you whimper while you feel your cunt start to tighten around his length. You looked away toward the side of the bed and put a hand over your mouth to muffle your sounds as you started cumming. The mattress creaks under his weight while you shake and try to keep your voice down. Art reached out with his free hand and grabbed your jaw to turn your face back toward him. “Look at me,” he commanded while he watched your eyes roll back.
“Don't hide your face when you're taking me like this,” he muttered while he kept thrusting through your climax. You squeezed your eyes shut while you tried to hide the pleasure from your face. You felt embarrassed because you couldn't stop your eyes from rolling back while you panted for air. “Look at me while I’m inside you,” Art ordered while his thumb hooked over your bottom lip to pull it down. You shake your head as you try to keep your mouth closed, but the sensitivity is too much for you to handle.
The hallway is quiet, but you can hear the skin slapping each time he thrusts into your cunt and grinds his hips against yours. Art reached down and yanked your hand away from your mouth so your moans filled the room. “Stop trying to be quiet when you’re taking it this well,” he growled while he watched your jaw drop open. You let out a loud cry while you felt his cock hit your spot over and over again. “Ahh- Art- they’ll hear… S-stop,” you gasp while you grip his wrists. He didn't care about the people in the dorm building as he kept thrusting his length into you as hard as he could.
Art kept slamming his cock into your cunt while his hand pressed into your stomach to keep you pinned. His skin is damp with sweat while he picks up the pace. “Mnh- Art, ahh… d-don't stop,” you whimper while you wrap your legs around his waist to pull him closer. He let out a choked sound as he felt your walls clench around his shaft. You tried to lock your ankles behind his back, but he suddenly let go of your stomach to grab your knees. “Not inside,” Art grunted while he forced your legs out and wide against the mattress.
He pulled his cock out of you right before he was about to blow. “W-wait- ahh-” you cried out while you watched him stroke himself a few more times. He lets out a rough groan while he shoots his load all over your mound and clit. You watched the hot cum coat your skin before he lowered himself beside you to catch his breath. You propped yourself up while the wetness of his cum still coated your skin. You leaned down toward his lap and wrapped your fingers around his cock while it was still soft from finishing.
“I’m n-not done with you yet,” you whisper while you start to stroke him with a firm grip. He let out a long breath as he watched you through half-closed eyes. “Are you serious? I’m exhausted,” Art groaned while he felt your hand move over his length. Art is flat on his back while you keep moving your hand up and down his shaft. The lamp on the desk is still on and shows the way his chest moves while he tries to breathe. “Too bad,” you mutter while you lean closer to his face. Art let out a tired laugh, but he didn't pull away from your touch.
“You’re actually a brat,” he breathed while he felt his cock start to get hard in your palm again. You crawled on top of Art and straddled his lap while his cock was still hard between your legs. You look down at his messy blonde hair while you start to hump against him. “Wait… I-I just finished,” Art whimpered while he gripped your hips to slow you down. You ignored him and kept grinding your cunt against his shaft so he could feel how wet you were. “You’ve already come twice,” he breathed while his head hit the pillow.
“Too bad for you because I’m ovulating today,” you mutter while you lean down to look him in the eyes. His pupils are wide while he watches you move. “Mmh… If you weren't here, I’d just be using a pillow or my fingers anyway,” you gasp while you increase the pace of your hips. Art suddenly gripped your waist with both hands and held your hips down to stop you from moving. “Don't move,” he ordered while he tried to catch his breath. “I’m way too sensitive for you to be doing that right now,” he muttered while he held your hips still.
You tried to shift your weight to start grinding again, but Art’s grip tightened on your waist to keep you pinned. He is on the mattress while he stares up at you with a tired expression. You looked down at him and narrowed your eyes because you weren't ready to stop. “You used your tongue on my cunt until I came, and then you stuffed your cock in me right after,” you pointed out while your hands stayed on his chest. “I was sensitive too, but I didn't complain while you were busy taking your turn,” you whisper while you feel his fingers dig into your skin.
Art let out a short laugh while he braced his hands against your hips to make you sit still on his lap. He reaches up to brush a stray hair behind your ear while he looks at your face. “Shit- just give me a minute,” he groaned while he felt his cock pulsing between your thighs. You let out a small whine as he pulled your upper body down until you were lying right on top of him. “Don't look at me like that,” Art breathed while his lips brushed against your ear. “I'm going to fuck you until you're sore once I've had a second to breathe,” he promised while he tucked his head into the crook of your neck.
Luke is one of those heroes from legend, one of those boys that sits at the center of every myth. Just like Odysseus with all the women he charmed on his journey, you know immediately when Luke arrives with his crew.
The only problem is, he won’t eat the flowers. Not any of them. No matter how you coax him or purr at him or chirp at him, he won’t. He doesn’t eat the flowers or drink the pina coladas or suck the juice from the fruits that litter the beach. Luke isn’t like the rest of his crew—greedy and naive and eager. He’s measured and careful and… nice.
In your quest to get him all lazy and placid like the others, you keep trying. It’s your job, to get them to eat no matter what. It’s just never been this hard before.
It’s too blurry for you to put your finger on quite where the knife’s edge flipped from you convincing him, to him convincing you. It all sounds horrible, what Luke says. What his father does to him, what all the gods do. When his words start to scare you, he soothes you easily, eyes that you sink into until you’re suffocating, unable to hear or see anything but him. Luke tells you not to be scared. He’s gonna fix it, he’s gonna tear it all down and rebuild it to be perfect. You’re so grateful for him, for heroes like him.
You let him explore your body. As much as he wants, which is a lot. You’re only used to being around sailors that are droopy and sleepy and sprawled out all over the beach, but Luke’s not like that. He’s still sharp. He’s deft, and smooth, and good at what he does. Not one lotus flower passed his lips, so his appetite stuns you, how he manages to devour the way he does. Luke draws things out of you that you didn’t know you had, coaxing mewls and cries out of you with satisfaction, a drive that borders on mean.
You can’t imagine the trouble you’d get in if anyone found out what you were letting him do to you—how you were spread out on the beach, arched back for him in the shade, hidden by the wide leaves. The sound must carry, anyway, yours and his. Your shocked, breathless moans and pleads that Luke indulges in all of, mixing with his deep, slow groans. He obliges every “harder” “right there” “please, please don’t stop” that falls from your lips, giving it all to you like a spoiled brat that doesn’t know anything besides getting their way.
You feel guilty for just taking, and taking, and taking. That’s why no one ever leaves—they’re lazy, and they take. You don’t want to be one of them. Luke is kind, so he helps you. Luke shows you how to give back, how to return the favor. He feeds you his cock inch by inch, gently, and the sounds that fall from his lips as he passes yours make you dizzy. Suddenly, you feel like the greedy one all over again, especially when he lets out that breathy laugh and pulls you off of him, insisting that you need a break—your pretty mouth will get tired, just lay back and take a break, let Luke give you a break.
He’s a god himself. You’re sure of it. The way the sun glints off his skin, the tautness of his back, his arms, every muscle and curve and dip perfectly sculpted. Down to the scar across his cheek, the one you brush reverent fingers across when he sleeps. He doesn’t waver. He never seems unsure. Sometimes you see something glint in his eyes… something so deep and sorrowful you don’t think a mortal could ever shoulder it the way he does. And he’s still never tired. Never done with you, somehow, and you’re never done with him.
You sob like a child, face smushed into your cupped hands every time you think about him leaving. Because he has to. You can’t keep him there, he has to save the world. It would be selfish and childish of you to ask him.
Luke’s hands stroke your hair, your face, swiping your tears away with his fingertips and tasting them with a groan that comes from somewhere deep in his chest, in a way you haven’t heard except from when he’s inside you at the very end. He holds onto your waist and your thighs with soothing hands as he murmurs into the shell of your ear, telling you that he’ll come back… he’ll see you again… everything will be better… everything will be perfect. You can be together forever. All you have to do is tell him how to get off the island.
So you do. For him, and your future, and for the world. You can have Luke, have him completely, if he can just finish his quest. That’s the thing with heroes, right? Everyone knows that.
You tell Luke how to get his crew to stop indulging in the island’s food, and where his ship is, and he’s grateful. So grateful. He shows you how grateful he is for hours, painstakingly slowly and hungrily, and it can’t fully occur to you in your blissed out state that it almost seems final. Like he’s trying to memorize every inch of you, inside and out, with every inch of him, so he doesn’t forget.
You can feel the burning where his hands were. Everywhere, all over you, as you watch him sail away and disappear into the crashing blue. You would be punished for helping him escape. It would be worth it, for him. And when Luke came back, he’d make it all better. He’d make everything right again. Just like he said he would. Just like he promised.
The voice came in little bouts, whispering to you from the other room. The first time it happened was when you were reading a magazine on Luke’s bed, catching up with Half-Blood news. You weren’t naive. You knew Kronos was whispering your name.
But, you didn’t do Kronos’ bidding. Luke did.
And you did Luke’s.
The voice made itself known when Annabeth, Percy and Tyson escaped Luke’s grasp. It rasped in your head, calling you to do its bidding. To make sure Luke didn’t get off course. Kronos could sense his hesitation his empathy, controlling the demigod with callous questions of loyalty paired with unforgiving pain.
It was small at first. Sharp migraines when you were freshening up.
Coincidentally at the same time, Luke was having his doubts. You nibble on an ambrosia square which easily dispelled the pain. An excuse bubbled up in your head, not enough water or something or other.
Kronos knew all about you from Luke’s thoughts, his dreams. They were filled with you in his free time. The Titan needed his soldier utterly devoted to the cause, which meant complete focus.
You winced quietly. The pain more apparent as Luke returned to the room. Your ears rung in a high pitch. A hand flew to your head to relieve the pain. His eyes widened as soon as he saw you. He knew what was happening. He wasn’t naive not when Kronos did the same thing to prove his loyalty. He’d take it.
He’d take years worth of pain so as long as his girl was okay.
Kronos rasped in his head. This was the carrot on a stick and Luke had been starving for years. “I’m loyal!” He shouted. The thoughts of Thalia resurrecting with the Golden Fleece dissipated. “I’ loyal—I gave you everything…”
Cradling your head into his chest, Kronos denied his statement. If it had been everything, he would be completely detached from all and not question his intelligence. “Please…”
Your winces hurt. You were the only good left in his misfortunate life. A whimper escaped your lips, louder than before. The way your face twisted, the way you grabbed onto him.
“I’m loyal—she’s loyal!” Luke shouted into the wind. A sharp pain caught his skull as you relaxed. Your breaths labored.
“Prove it. The time for mercy is over.”
Luke grew distant, hardened. He moved you to a different room on the cruise ship. You understood why. Behind his steadfast demeanor was guilt. But, a room change wasn’t going to stop the Titan.
The Battle at Camp Half-Blood was rough and that’s putting it lightly. You were against the gods, that was a fact, but they had no domain over camp. Kronos didn’t either. Your head was his those. The Titan influenced Luke in the battleground, something that used to be in Luke’s complete control.
Luke had to kill the son of Poseidon.
Or you would bear his failure in agony.
Even with Kronos’ influx of help, Luke had failed.
The torment came quick as soon as the retreating army returned to the cruise ship. You barely made it to your room before collapsing. Luke was simmering in angry, disappointment and inadequacy. Kronos spoke one sentence and left his mind altogether. For now.
He knew and ran.
Her breath heavy as he reached your body. You were barely holding down ambrosia squares, tears slipping down your cheeks. Nothing helped the mental pain anguishing your soul. Luke knew nightmares would plague you for weeks until Kronos felt satisfied with Luke’s performance and atonement.
“I’m loyal.” He whispered, knowing the Titan was listening to his guilty thoughts.
He cradled you in his arms. Anything but you. Anything but your cries of agony. Pain for him was easier, seeing it on you whilst he watched helpless was torment. He held you tighter. “I’ll do anything—I’m doing anything for you!” Luke shouted into the nothingness. “I’ve sacrificed everything, just please.”
“Please…”
Weak. It would have to do.
No one had the time to sit back and lick their wounds. They had a war to win. The dull ache in your skull pushed through your agony, subsiding the torture. Luke held back a wince as a sharp pain grew in the back of his head.
A set back. A small punishment for his failure. There was no time to grovel and plead. Kronos needed his loyal commander, and if that meant hurting you to get him more motivated, the Titan would gladly do it ten times over.
oh mother i'm eating UPPP the ex!luke stuff i lowkey need more
texts with ex bf!luke castellan
if you ever need him, he'll come running
a/n: this is quite different from the usual ex bf!luke content, but i love it cause it truly shows how complex their relationship with each other really is. these two don't just run back to each other's arms for sex, but also because there is this emotionally deep and unmatched connection that only they have with each other. i hope u still enjoy it though! thank u so much for this req <33
Summary. There's no need to hide if you're into me ‘cause I'm into you quite intimately, and maybe one night could turn into three. Well, I’m down to see!
Notes. smau/irl + no kronos!au. best friends to lovers. Luke x Aphrodite!fem!reader. rating: t. unedited
Part I of II.
yn_ln | ♫ - Bless the Telephone by Labi Siffre
Liked by percyjcksn and 104 others
yn_ln 🌞🌞🌞 @/clarisselarueee
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grvrunderwood when are you getting back?
yn_ln @/grvrunderwood boarding the train soooon :)
yn_ln @/grvrunderwood answer my text!!
clarisselarueee 🌚🌚🌚 • ♥︎ by author
annabeth_chase eeeee I can’t wait to see you!! • ♥︎ by author
percyjcksn stay in greece‼️
yn_ln @/percyjcksn man😔💔wtf
grvrunderwood @/yn_ln he’s just mad bcuz he knows annabeth won’t want to hang out with him as much
yn_ln @/grvrunderwood OH??
percyjcksn @/grvrunderwood DUDE.
grverunderwood @/percyjcksn ijbol
castelluke cool flowers • ♥︎ by author
yn_ln @/castelluke thanks 😛
GC: “🤓🫵” (between Grover, Percy, & you)
yn_ln • 4hrs ago
iMESSAGE: “luke!!”
10:14 PM • Cabin 10
“I almost feel like you’ve been avoiding me.” Luke shrugs as his fingers twirl with one of his misplaced curls. “You know, since you’ve been back.”
Cabin 10 is bathed in golden light from a lamp, soft and forgiving in a way you find moonlight to not often be. It’s one of your favorite ways to see Luke—next to freshly woken up, or straight from the lake, or endlessly happy. You love him soft and unguarded, and (quite selfishly, or hopelessly, a difference you’ve never quite been able to tell) you find he often looks like it when he’s in your space.
Next to the posters of your favorite films and musicians, your knitted blanket pooled on his lap, his eyes fixed to you—it’s the most unguarded you’ve seen him in a while. Even if his words leave your stomach twisting and the bump of his knee (twice: once accidental, the next a firm insistence) brings heat to your face.
You struggle for a moment, but he waits you out. Finally: “I…I don’t know what you mean. I’ve only been back a week.”
“Yeah, but you’ve spent every night with Annabeth, Grover, and Percy.” He moves the weight of his knee from yours. The loss makes you feel cold, a shiver wracking down your frame. “You’ve hung out with Clarisse more than me, and she went to Greece with you!”
Fair point.
The silence after that is not one easily unbroken. What can you say? That you’re sorry; that he’s right? Worse, that there’s a reason for your obvious distance?
It’s your turn to shrug and at the fall of his face, you turn your own away. Your eyes land on your vanity. Tucked into the bottom corner, you know, is a picture of you and Luke. Your favorite picture—taken four summers ago, when the skip of your heart was less obvious and most songs didn’t remind you of him. His eyes on the camera; yours on him. A glare from the sun covers the top corner.
Memories of the past are easier to face than the present. You didn’t feel so dumb back then.
No—that’s wrong. You felt dumb: for crushing on the sweet guy who first introduced you to the camp that became home, who let you make unbecoming jokes about being the daughter of the Goddess of Love, who was your best friend. It hadn’t been like that at first, you would defend yourself if anyone had asked (they didn’t). For the first few years, you knew you did not like Luke Castellan like that.
He crept up on you, slow and careful, like low tide. One moment you were 13 and had a new best friend, the next you were 15 and felt a bubbly sort of stupid when he came in the room. Then you were 19–and nothing was that exciting anymore.
If these feelings came slow and careful, you can tell that the tide was changing. Every moment since he and Thalia got together (six awful months) you felt salt water clog your throat and sting your eyes.
“Clarisse is my best friend,” you say. Your hands spasm slightly on your lap in a motion like, what can I say? “I wouldn’t have wanted anyone else on that trip.”
He laughs, a rough scrape against his throat and past his lips. Your own grimace at the sound.
“Right.” He nods.
“Luke-”
“Why did you leave?”
“What?” You can hear the panic in your voice—the wrong tilt of the vowels as the word forces itself out.
“Why’d you leave?” His eyes are locked on yours now. There’s a seriousness to the clench of his jaw, the slight furrow between his eyebrows. It’s the type of expression he makes before a calculated move when he spars, one that says: oh, I got you. “You never really told me.”
Because I couldn’t stand your hands on her. The words almost come out, embarrassment curdling in your stomach. Your hands pluck at the hem of your top, feet tapping against the frame of your bed. There’s a restlessness in the humming of the air. Your mouth opens and then closes when you realize you can’t find any new ones.
Luke shifts closer after another beat. His touch, from the top of your shoulder to the juncture of your knee, is a brand.
He’s hot, is the thing. You remember the times in winter (seldom and crystallized) when one of you would visit the other. How his arms would keep you warm when the frigid air became too much. The days melting into a balmy haze only make it worse.
“Y/N,” he murmurs.
Your stomach twists. This—the heat of him, the unforgiving yield of his body to yours—is not reasonable. You feel unreasonable as your face heats and fingers twist in the hem of your shirt.
Luke has always been hot, but this is different. This is leaving you with a buzzing in your ears. The world around you static as his eyes move between your own, and then dip lower. You can feel the press and release of your chest as it quickens with each passing minute. Your breath leaving your mouth parted, your shoulder sweeping his.
“You and Thalia,” you trail off. This is not-
“We broke up. In June.”
“But you,” you force an exhale out when the words get stuck in your throat. It leaves shaky and too loud in the resounding silence. “You always wanted her.”
This, too, is true. Luke had wanted Thalia before you had even come into the picture. Years of surviving together; of becoming a family with Annabeth together. It was a type of wanting that was bone deep. It carved Luke—made him choose different personalities, his favorite songs, his most relived moments. Without Thalia, there would not be the Luke that sat at your bed today.
It had left you angry many times before. Now it just left you bereft.
You wanted to make that mark on Luke. To take his body between your hands and twist, or squeeze, or shake. To make him permanently different. For everyone to see it and think of you, and then think of how much you mattered to him for him to allow it to happen.
“She’ll always matter to me, Y/N.” When Luke shrugs, your body moves with him. It makes you both pause. “But I-we realized that our relationship was meant to be different. We weren’t it for each other.”
“Ah.”
You sound half-committal, half-there. It’s not that you think Luke is a liar, you just don’t believe him. That type of love is not something one can just dismiss as ‘not it.’ You can tell it leaves him unbalanced—the blatant dismissal. He flounders for a moment, his expression melting away into something more neutral.
The hum of cicadas break through the static of your head and you turn to face the open window without thinking. Luke is almost as fast as he reaches out to your face, thumb tucking itself firmly to the dip of your chin as he drags your gaze back.
“Thalia and I are over,” he repeats.
It’s unreasonable. Your stomach twists and dips and pulls at the space beyond your navel. Luke is a brand at your side, but now also a weight on your chin. His index finger a spark on the soft underside of your chin; his thumb a bruise as it pushes against your lower lip.
The buzzing comes back full-force and the space behind your eyes feels hot. You think if Silena came back into the cabin, joking that she really didn’t usher all of your siblings away so you could have a moment alone, you wouldn’t even notice.
“You talked today.”
“I’m still her oldest friend. She was upset.”
“You’ve always wanted-”
“I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anyone else.” This is said a breath away from your lips, from his thumb which pulls lightly at the skin. This is said a breath between the titling of his head and his next words. “I don’t know what the hell you’re doing to me.”
All of the air leaves your lungs. Your heart beats and skips along, bumping into the cage of your ribs with every painful thud. You feel like the tide has finally turned; like you’re drowning.
I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you.
“Luke,” you get out. It takes with it the rest of the air you had measly gotten back.
“Why’d you leave?”
For a moment, you think of praying to your mother. Of offering your silver necklace (an identical one placed delicately around Annabeth’s neck) to the soft flame of your candle, and asking for guidance. You think of your mother suddenly stepping into the cabin—eyes exactly like your father’s, hair pulled back and braided like Clarisse’s, smile carved like Luke’s. How she would look to the pair of you and hum knowingly, eyes caught on how hopelessly in love a daughter of hers is.
It is a thought gone by the next moment. As is every thought that you’ve held in your mind as Luke drags the side of his nose against your own.
Perhaps it is this that pulls the words out of your mouth: the remembrance of how soft and unguarded he always is around you. The way this touch is an echo of every other touch given to you by him.
“Because I’ve never wanted anyone…except for you. For me, it’s always you.”
An unbearable second and then: a soft press of lips, the quiet tick as they pull apart in a moment of shock. Before you can even think you are pushing back in.
It sort of falls into place after that.
Luke’s hands—his beautiful hands, of which you have memorized every line and scar and crevice of—card into your hair, take place at the root of it. His fingers tighten as you find a rhythm. The hold on the strands, the subsequent pull when he tilts his face, grounds you enough for your own to find the line of his jaw.
There, the years of stress and worry melt away as your thumb rubs against the clenched muscle. His mouth opens with your care, bottom lip slotting between yours.
It is unreasonable and then suddenly it is not. Suddenly it is his body finally yielding to yours, curving back until it rests against the wall, scooping you up as he does and pulling you onto his lap. Suddenly it is his hands everywhere—wrapped around the nape of your neck, pressing into the meat of your thighs, sneaking under your t-shirt and finding the delicate skin of your ribs.
The warm slide of his tongue spurns you on, gets your hands pushed into his curls and slipping beneath the collar of his shirt. You two stay like that for a long moment, rhythm falling and building and twisting.
Eventually, Luke leans back, placing a few open mouth kisses down your cheek and to the base of your throat.
Against the beat of your hummingbird pulse, he says, “I want to try…this. I want to see if we can do it.”
You run a hand through his curls once more and hear the way his tone has gone slightly begging. His hands clench around your waist at the silence, urging you to talk.
“I want to see, too.”
He leans away from the crook of your neck at the words, eyes connecting with your own. The happiness painted across his face, you know, is a twin to your own. It is suddenly easy to meet his lips with another kiss—to fall into this.
Luke knows it, too. It’s easy to fall in love with you.
⋆˙⟡ THANK YOU FOR READING <333 any likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated!!!
pairing: luke castellan x daughter of aphrodite!reader
synopsis: luke was already determined to bring the gods down, he only needs one last thing—you.
genre: angst (im sorry)
word count: 1.4k words
warnings: use of y/n, a lot of begging 🚬
a/n: my tears ricochet on repeat thats all i gotta say. based on this req.
you’re a sweetheart, everyone at camp knew that. as the daughter of aphrodite, you found loving much easier than breathing. it flowed naturally for you, that’s why it didn’t take much for you to fall for the son of hermes, luke castellan—known for his mischief, you grew to learn he was more.
known as the girl who everyone goes to when the world feels too sharp, you’re the one who remembers birthdays, who sits beside the homesick campers at the campfire, who knows exactly when to hand someone help without being asked.
you braid hair before battles, stitch torn sleeves of campers who came back from their quests, and you never fail to remind people to eat. there was even a time that chiron told you, “if camp ever survives another war, it’ll be because of people like you.” your heart swelled at that. so full it almost hurt. you wore that pride quietly, the way you wore everything else.
luke used to laugh whenever you rambled about beauty and kindness. “i mean, you are beautiful, that’s for sure,” he’d tease, half-smiling, or whenever you insisted that love could solve almost anything, he’d scoff. “love won’t save anyone,” he’d say, sword slung over his shoulder like a shield.
smiling back at him, you said, “it already has.” he never quite knew how to argue with you, because he knew that, in a way—you were right.
the change was slow, almost unnoticeable, but you felt it anyway. no one knew when he stopped sleeping in the hermes cabin, or when his smiles sharpened at the edges, or when his silences grew longer and heavier. no one noticed, except you.
you saw the way his gaze kept drifting toward the woods, like he was listening for something, or someone, calling his name. it settled in your chest like a quiet dread you couldn’t name.
then that one awful night happened, the night he decided that battle was way more important than love. you knew something was wrong; that’s why your feet led you to that one corner of the forest.
your heart fell apart as you heard him tell percy about his plans, “we’re gonna help kronos bring the golden age back.”
annabeth collapsed against you, and you caught her before she fell. “it’s okay,” you murmured, even though nothing was. after making sure she was steady, you stepped forward. “luke,” you said softly, “what did you do?”
he turned to you then, eyes finding yours, tears threatening to spill as he whispered your name. you took a breath that hurt. “please, stop this. we all know our parents aren’t perfect, but they’re trying—”
“my father never loved me,” he cut in, voice sharp with conviction. “the only person who ever truly loved me was you.” his voice broke on the last word, and it undid you completely.
no words came, no matter how hard you tried. percy stepped in, desperatly trying to reason with him. “that’s not true. i met your father and—”
your breath hitched. you squeezed your eyes shut, knowing exactly where this would go. no one had ever loathed hermes the way luke did.
when he raised his sword and pointed it at percy, instinct took over. you stepped in front of him without thinking, heart pounding. luke didn’t lower the blade, instead holding it steady, as if afraid you might attack. and that hurt worse than anything else.
there was nothing he could do that would ever make you hurt him. he should have known that.
“luke,” you whispered, “lower your sword.”
he shook his head.
he used to listen to you. he used do whatever you say—trust you. now, he felt like a stranger wearing the face of someone you love. “please,” you said, voice trembling, “we can still talk about this.”
he looked at you for a long moment, like he was weighing a choice that had already been made. “i don’t belong here anymore.” those were the last words you heard him say.
or so you thought.
the first time he came back, it was after midnight. you were wrapping up after the apollo kids when you heard soft boots against the infirmary floor. the sound of his steps was too familiar for it not to be him. “luke?” you whispered as he slowly unveiled himself from the shadows.
he stood at the entrance, as if waiting for your reaction so he’d know what to do. when you ran to wrap your arms around him, he was taken aback. not because he didn’t want you, but because he couldn’t believe you still did. he didn’t know you still wanted to see him after what he did.
“how did you… you shouldn’t be here,” you murmured without looking up as you buried your face against his chest. “everyone knows what you did.”
“i know,” he said, voice breaking, “but i couldn’t not see you.”
he kept coming, night after night, like love itself was a habit he couldn’t quit, something he couldn’t escape.
“come with me,” he started saying more often, sitting too close, hands trembling with anxiety.
“luke,” you’d warn softly, every time.
when he finally pushed, it was ugly and desperate. “kronos sees me!” he snapped, pacing. “he sees all the things the gods never did.”
you stood your ground. “and what happens to the people i love when your new world decides they’re weak?”
he stopped pacing then and grabbed your hands. “that’s why we need you. you could change it,” he insisted, eyes crazy. “they trust you, they love you, they would follow you anywhere.”
your throat tightened, “that’s exactly why i can’t come with you. i can’t betray them…” you hesitate before saying, “like you did.”
he dropped your hands. “they’ll bleed you dry,” he said, his voice dark, but still shaking. “the same way they did to me.”
you pressed your forehead against his. “you used to tell me i was brave whenever i put up a fight…” stepping back, putting distance between the two of you, “i just never knew that fight would be against you.”
the night before the attack, he didn’t sneak around. he came storming into your cabin. everyone froze in their place as he walked towards you. “this is it,” he said, grabbing your arms. “if you’re coming, it’s now. this is your last chance.”
your heart stuttered. it felt like it missed a beat or two. because for the first time, you wanted to say yes. you wanted to run into his arms, to choose him and betray everyone else. imagining love surviving even if the world fell apart. “i could keep you safe,” he whispered with conviction.
your hands shook as you tried to come up with an answer. your mind was puzzled, your stomach knotted, and your heart… it was all jumbled, making you confused.
never in your life had you thought you’d need to choose between love and duty, because all your life, love had been your duty.
that’s when it clicked. “safe isn’t the same as right.”
he dropped to his knees then, pride finally gone. “please,” luke begged, voice wrecked, “don’t make me do this without you.” you cried openly now. “i’m aphrodite’s daughter,” you sobbed, “and if i abandon love, there’s nothing left of me.”
luke stood slowly, devastation hollowing his heart out. “i thought you love me?! why wont you choose me?” his voice broke as he asked.
you reached for him, then stopped, hands shaking as you tried your best not to touch his face, not to run your hand along that beautiful scar of his. “i do, luke,” you whispered, “and that love will be the curse i’ll carry, forever.” avoiding his gaze, you didn’t say anything more.
he looked at you for the last time, hoping you would change your mind. gods, he wished he could do something to change it. but when no more words left your lips, that’s when he knew. he could go anywhere he wanted, lead his army wherever. but he could never come back home, to your arms.
when dawn came, campers gathered around you by instinct. “stay close,” you told them, voice steady despite the gaping ache in your chest.
across the battlefield, you could see luke’s figure. but he never once looked at you, not even a shot of quick glance. because he knew, even the best swordsman at camp was no stronger of a warrior against love.
𝑠𝑦𝑛𝑜𝑝𝑠𝑖𝑠 :: Luke doesn't let anyone boss him around, well, almost.
The deck of the Princess Andromeda was never truly quiet, Luke is always barking orders to everyone; he watched monsters recoil at the sound of his voice or the entire crew straightening when he stepped onto the deck.
He's not a man accustomed to kneeling and he is not a man who is softened by anyone’s presence.
Except for her.
The contradiction isn’t lost on him— the captain of the Princess Andromeda, feared and followed, sitting back against the bed with the weight of her settled against him. One of the legs is draped across his thigh, denim warm beneath his palm, angled just enough that she presses into him with lazy intimacy. She fits there as if the space had always been meant for her, as if his body had been designed to accommodate hers.
He doesn't move you away because he would never do it.
There is the heat of her presence, the way she looks down at him as if she has always known exactly where he would end up.
The lantern light caught in her hair, in the smooth skin... He thinks a lot about her— beautiful with nothing fragile about her presence and commanding without effort.
The perfect woman for him.
His hand rests on your thigh, broad and steady, thumb pressing absent arcs as his eyes look at your face. He’s aware, distantly, that this is how his crew would lose their minds if they ever saw it. Their captain allowing someone this close. Their unyielding leader letting a woman sit in his lap like she owns the place.
Well, the truth is worse.
This woman owns him.
Luke tilts his head slightly, his gaze tracing the curve of your leg where it rests against him, the softness of it undoing him more thoroughly than any blade ever could. He shifts pulling you against the matress, just enough to free one knee, and then deliberately slides both of you to the edge of the bed.
He kneels before you even though you're already touching his hair as if saying he doesn’t have to really do this.
The movement is unhurried. Your leg remains draped close, now higher against his shoulder. Luke’s hands follow, one settling at your ankle, the other bracing lightly at the calf, reverent as if he’s handling something sacred.
And maybe he is. After all you are his goddess.
He bows his head and presses a kiss to your leg— lingering and devotional.
Luke Castellan does not kneel easily to anyone but, for you, it isn't surrender! He has convinced himself this is more like alignment— maybe he's stepping into a role he was always meant to fill.
You tilt your head, amused and pleased.
“Oh, Luke,” you says lightly, knowingly. “Aren’t you such a good boy?”
The words don't diminish him. They crown him.
You know the man between your legs loves it.
Luke exhales through his nose, something like a smile pulling at his mouth as he lifts his gaze to you, eyes dark and utterly unashamed. There is no contradiction here— not between the captain and the man kneeling. For anyone else, he would bare his teeth. For you, he bares his throat.
“For you,” he says, voice low and unwavering, “I am.”
Luke remains where he is, kneeling, gaze lifted. The bed dips with you— the captain’s bed, the place where he plans and commands.
Your foot brushes lightly against his shoulder blade, a guiding touch rather than an order, and when you push back against the edge of the mattress, it’s with the certainty that screams you know you'll be followed. One hand rests on the bed, the other extends towards him, fingers curling in a beckoning motion.
He doesn’t even hesitate.
The man rises enough to follow the line you draw, settling closer, his knees finding the edge of the bed as you guide him in. That same hand comes to his shoulder, easing him forward until his position mirrors his attention— focused entirely on her goddess.
“Good,” you murmur, pleased.
Luke’s hands rest on your thighs, so broad and warm, his thumbs still, as if waiting for permission even when none is explicitly given. He looks at you like he looks at nothing else.
You tip his chin upward again to remind him who’s guiding at the moment. When you lean in, it’s achingly slow and Luke meets you halfway.
His kiss is slow, reverent to a fault. He’s honoring the privilege of being the one kissing you rather than indulging in it. He lingers there, his mouth against yours, and when he pulls back, it’s only far enough to press another kiss— to the jaw, cheek and corner of your mouth.
He loves giving you everything he has to offer and loves even more when you gift him pleased sounds.
💭 :: This thread has given me the strength to post it, so you should go check out the blogs of @slut4castellan & @loonaoffline if you guys are Luke-centric.
the one where half the school hates the football team. luke goes long and changes the course of your senior year / 5.6k
pairing ★ luke castellan x fem reader
tags ★ the annoyances 2 frenemies stage, inaccurate portrayals of marching band, vague smau, satirical football-band animosity
— i'm so sick of 17 masterlist
“Jesus fuck, you’re way too close,” Charles grinds out, large hands gripping your shoulder with a vengeance.
The jam of cars in zero-period parking traffic is bumper-to-bumper; you’re following the 2008 Corolla in front of you so closely that you can hardly catch a glare from the brake lights.
You hold eye contact with him as you slam the horn and leave it wailing for a good minute. The very familiar driver flips you off. Charles fails to rein you in as you jab the window switch, stick your head out, and snap, “Fucking go, Castellan!”
Luke Castellan’s curly head cranes out of his car, and he’s wide-eyed and frantic like he hasn’t been holding up the lot for the past, like, half hour (or something). “Yeah, I’m waiting to turn, idiot!”
“The gas pedal exists, dipshit, there’s literally no one in front of you—”
“Hey, Luke: look man, I am so sorry for my friend over here,” cuts Charles, yanking you back with one hand around your elbow and the other covering your mouth, still halfway through a string of insults, “but we don’t get onto the field now, there won’t be a drum major this year.”
Castellan rolls his eyes. Glares at you for a second longer—fucking obsessed—before wincing in apology. “Sorry, Beck.”
The gall to sound fucking polite. Your face wrinkles, despite the warning look Charles gives you as Castellan peels away and gets lost in the rows of jacked-up, parent-insured cars.
“Great going, major. The best start to senior year, cussing out our star wide receiver,” Charles mumbles. You huff and ease your foot onto the gas.
—
Opinion | VAPA fights for fair funds
Heralds Vol. 77, Issue 1
By Michael Yew
Marching season has officially kicked off, which means band members have to wrestle on a passed-down uniform with too-short sleeves while the football team gets brand new jerseys and equipment.
Zeus City’s VAPA groups have won more championships than the football team ever has. Last September, marching band took sweepstakes in nearly every round, placing first in regionals and fourth in state. Cheer, show choir and color guard also tend to take competitions by storm, establishing our school’s VAPA dominance.
However, their efforts aren’t as recognized as the football team’s, which has been middling around the lowest state division for over a decade. Meanwhile, performing arts struggle with the leftovers of the football team’s funding.
“It’s really unfair and discouraging,” freshman percussionist Percy Jackson said. “It’s my first year marching and I had to duct tape my broken snare harness because we don’t have money for new ones. My recycled uniform smells like [sic] and these ballers get custom practice jerseys—it’s totally wrong.”
Jackson’s sentiment is shared widely among the student body associated with VAPA. Students such as color guard junior Miranda Gardener feel that their passions are put aside for a sport that contributes close to nothing to the school community.
“Being in color guard is stressful, especially because a lot of us take hard classes, too,” said Gardener. “I love performing, but I’ve honestly thought about not trying out again. We deserve money too, and our football team just isn’t winning enough to warrant such an unequal funding gap.”
Though the administration office and athletic department have not reached out in response to inquiries, one thing is clear: it’s time for financial equality amongst all student groups.
—
It’s around that time of year where you could walk out of the classroom and see four people blowing their nose down the hall and one person pretending to use the bathroom but really just Googling the answers to a test.
Luke Castellan is one of them, wearing thrifted Japanese denim and a stupid sweater that makes him look like some trust fund kid—great. Your nails are tapping absently at the edge of the hall pass, a click against the plastic that echoes hollow in the hall.
It’s not like you hate Castellan. On a personal basis, you hardly know him, but just the inkling of his presence in the hallways is grounds for the knee-jerk, letterman-despising beliefs instilled by your predecessors in band.
You do know that he accidentally pushed you off the slide in third grade; he cracks the occasional joke in class, most of which are always half-unfunny; and he’s a jock with intelligence, making it a lot harder to shit on him because he can clap back for himself and the entire team.
Oh, and he’s a terribly slow driver. You’re still harboring a little soreness from The Incident—you know, the one from three weeks ago, on the first day of school.
You made it to the field with the bell snapping at your heels. Didn’t help that Travis Stoll had quipped, “Oh, shit, I just told the freshmen that you actually died last spring. Had a whole eulogy and tribute video.”
One of the freshmen had sadly nodded with a tissue crumpled in her hand.
You really regret making that little junior shit your apprentice drum major.
Castellan hears you coming, back curled in the position he’s taken over the water fountain. He gives you a cursory glance, goes back to drinking, and then looks at you again. You walk faster.
With the double-take, he stands upright, dabbing the droplets on his mouth with the cuff of his ridiculous sweater.
“Hey,” he says right as you cross tangent paths. He leans against the wall, pseudo-casual, hands stuck in the pockets of his jeans. Looks like he’s going to shoot you a snide remark, but then his eyes drift down, and his brows furrow. “I—your pass is a toilet seat?”
Your face burns, heat licking from your neck to forehead. Your eyes flick to a deflated rubber duck sitting atop the fountain’s porcelain edge, the tail of which is punched out and threaded with a tag that reads HALL PASS.
“And yours is a bath toy?”
Red blooms over the high of Castellan’s cheeks, and he snatches the duck off the fountain, hiding it behind his back.
“Whatever,” he grits, the bath toy making an airy sound in his tightening fingers. A sulky expression overtakes his face.
You trail your eyes over him, from the downward draw of his brown to the brutal set of his mouth. Nothing gives away what he’s confronting you for, so you take a shot in the dark.
“Is this about the football article?”
Castellan’s face shifts slightly—puzzlement to realization to irritation, exhale coming out from his nostrils in a hiss. His jaw feathers. “You… why not, I guess. You’re the opinion editor.”
“An opinion editor that respects free speech. Hermes thought Malcolm was pretty spot-on, though.”
You flash a well-meaning smile—well, the one you use to quell the displeasure of your counselor when she asks how you’re faring in the college application process.
Blinks coming quick, he sucks in a breath and says, “Well, tell Hermes that he doesn’t know what this team means to me.”
(Did Castellan fail his Economics class? Is he taking out that frustration on a newspaper Hermes has no part in, other than advising and making sure nobody sets the archives on fire?)
“Do you want that on or off the record?” Your mouth sharpens into something that could be classified as shit-eating.
Castellan grumbles and pushes off the wall, twisting his body so your shoulders don’t check. He’s really selling the letterman superiority complex.
He grouses and shakes his head to himself as he stalks down the hallway, muttering about quotes and deadlines. You scoff with your face twisted in confusion, watching his wound-up shoulders shrink in the distance.
He’s so fucking weird.
—
FROM: perciusjakcsn
(11:38) hey sarge do u know how to find annabeth
(11:39) i need her to explain the crab cycle. preferably before p5
TO: perciusjaksn
(12:34) * Major, not Sarge
(12:34) ** Krebs cycle
(12:35) This is Annabeth. To paraphrase Khan Academy, the Krebs cycle describes a chain of reactions in the mitochondria to produce energy in living cells through cellular respiration. I won’t go through the details because the reactants and products are not on the test, and neither is the order in which the reactions proceed. If you have any more questions, my username is ‘anniebethc’.
—
Annabeth stabs her spork into her bag of salad, the flimsy plastic warping and crinkling as she draws out another mouthful of lettuce.
“So,” you start, idly twirling your own spork as you read the message she sent through your phone, “giving hints about the test? That’s academic dishonesty.”
Her cheek dips, held captive between her teeth. “It’s nothing.”
You give her a suspicious look. “And when Connor asked you about glucose and you told him to fuck off, that was also nothing?”
The girl’s look is withering as she works through a chew. You hold up your hands in surrender, letting go of the topic. Kids these days are so defensive.
Annabeth’s gaze catches something behind you. You follow the line of her sight, tracing it across the cafeteria and landing on Castellan. He’s standing behind Percy in the lunch line, a giggle shaking in his shoulders and grinning wide at something Chris Rodriguez is telling him.
You whip your head back to see Annabeth’s annoyed expression fall into one with more admiring fuzz and sparkles.
“What?” she asks, noticing your twisted face.
“Nothing,” you huff. “But, uh—Castellan? Really?”
The girl squints, bewildered. “What—no! We’re neighbors, so it’s weird.”
Neighbors?
You’re shriller than you expect yourself to be, “We’re halfway through the semester and you’re telling me now that Public Enemy Number One lives next to you?”
“He’s only Public Enemy Number One to band.”
Emphatically, “Which you are a flutist of?”
A lunch tray clatters onto your table. Travis slides onto the bench and is joined by Charles. The Stoll cracks his wrists, the pop of air loud even over the chatter of the shelter.
Charles peels open his school lunch, cringing at the clumpy mac salad sitting in the bowl. He looks over at your food, eyes tracing the outline of the plastic cup and watching the steam escape over the lip.
“Where the hell did you get instant noodles from?” blurts Travis. You tap a half-empty thermos in the pocket of your backpack.
“Ask Clarisse nicely and her dad’ll get it from the teacher’s lounge.”
Travis gives you a narrow look. It would’ve been almost threatening if his eyes weren’t occasionally glancing at your noodles.
“How nicely?”
“Six dollars.”
He turns to Charles with irises overtaken by pupils, all glimmering and expectant—a poor attempt to make puppy eyes at your fellow drum major, because everyone knows how Travis can be. Still, Charles gives in with a sigh, fingers fishing a twenty out of his backpack.
“Ah,” he warns right as Travis reaches for the money. “Two noodles, one for each of us. And then you’ll go to the vending machine for Cheetos and a Sprite. No more, no less.”
Travis nods eagerly, snatching the bill and running off. You watch his back as he leaves; he nearly topples Castellan in his excited haste.
“Six dollars is such a scam.” Annabeth's voice brings you back to the current situation. She’s got her brows quirked as Charles shuts the lid to his mac salad.
“It’s better than this.” He holds up a bag of damp baby carrots and cringes. It is at this moment that you know what your next article will be about.
—
[IMAGE: A snapshot of Percy Jackson from an up-down angle with the zoom set to 0.5x. The flash is on, bathing his horrified expression in harsh light. The background is dark, save for a group of teens behind the curve of his cheek in orange centaur shirts and jeans in various states of distress.]
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perciusjakcsn SARGE WE MISS U BECKYS COOKING US 😨 | 📸 @.tysunposeidun
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majmajmaj u’ll be cooked xtra crispy if i get there n find u still cant count rests
↳ perciusjakcsn PLZ SARGE PLZ COME BACK FRM YBK
↳ majmajmaj drum MAJOR peter 🖕🖕🖕
↳ perciusjakcsn JUSTICE 4 PERCY 😞💔
groovewood did u srsly just replace me as cameraman DUDE 😭
beckygorf see major is merciful but yall always take her for granted till I host rehearsal....
—
The classroom is cold-hued, almost sterile under the cheap incandescent lights.
Everything is blueish, backlit by the evening as it rolls over the horizon. You sigh when the ligaments in your neck rub just right to pop the bubbles between your bones. The door creaks—a tall figure, sticky with shadows, steps in right before you try to crack your knuckles.
You almost don’t recognize him in that soft-looking cardigan—it's an upgrade from his trust-fund crew neck— and the pair of black frames slipping down the bridge of his nose. Castellan settles into the chair at the opposite ledge of the desk, the legs straining against the floor in an ear-itching scrape when he scoots closer.
“Hey there,” he says, borderline breathless, to which he earns a narrow look from you. He gives you a thin grin in return as he fumbles with his laptop; you catch a deep etch to his smile lines at the corners of his mouth before they disappear. “So, I’m just going to ask you a few questions about stuff like band, Heralds, school life.”
“This feels like an interrogation,” you tell him, running your thumb over your knuckles as you sweep your eyes around the empty room, “instead of a profile. Sure you aren’t trying to get me arrested? I have the right to remain silent.”
“No, it's only a yearbook thing. Purely professional, I swear.” A small laugh skips out of him, the sound of it rattling behind his ribs. It sends something spiraling down your stomach, like a marble run made with your intestines.
“So…”
“About last week, in the hallway” —Castellan interrupts; he looks rather guilt-stricken, twisting his mouth and avoiding your eyes— “I was actually going to ask you for an interview, but I kinda got caught up in...”
You swallow and wet your lips, falling quiet with an equal amount of guilt washing over you. “I know. I thought you were talking about the article until your dad talked to me.”
Frankly, you can’t quite put your finger on how they’re related. Your journalism advisor is nothing like his son, in personality and appearance. Just the thought of them sharing the same genes makes you frown.
Castellan pauses, working his tongue into the pocket of his cheek. “So, you know.”
“Yeah,” you scoff, with some amusement. “Pretty fucking weird that your dad is Hermes.”
“Yeah, I don’t really like asking him for favors, but—”
“Sources.”
“—they’re hard to come by,” he finishes, eyes flickering to yours. Castellan offers a wry, half-humored smile. “But anyways, it’s complicated, my dad and I.”
He slides his phone between the two of you, the glossy screen emblazoned with a red recording button waiting to be pressed. Castellan sweeps out his hand, palm up, in offering.
“I guess…it’s my bad for the parking lot thing. But everything’s complicated, right?” You click the button, the first waves of sound appearing on the pixels in zigzags.
“What is your name and your extracurriculars?” Castellan asks, even though he should know, because you’ve gone to the same school for years. You tell him, and he tests it in his mouth, feeling the weight of it around his tongue like it’s the first time he’s heard of it. The marble run of your insides starts to roll faster. “Cool. I’m Luke—football, volleyball, and obviously yearbook.”
“I know.”
It falls quiet for a moment, the snick of keys pressed into their beds being the only thing filling the silence. “Okay,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “How’s it like being a Heralder? Any notable experiences?”
You keep your answers short and sweet, leaving little room for misquotes and wrong context. “It’s a nice little community. We print every three weeks, so I have plenty of time to write and format the spreads.”
“And off the record?” he asks, tucking back the corners of his mouth like he’s trying not to laugh. The little shit-eater, stealing your lines.
“It’s peachy.”
He tuts, a snick of the tongue. The laptop he’s typing on is drenched in cold light too, the screen reflecting onto the lenses of his glasses, something blue-gray in the glassiness of them. “And what about band? In Malcolm’s article, which you oversaw, he said VAPA have a hard time balancing their schedules.”
“Malcolm didn’t write that,” you remind him, a lilt to your words. You sink a little deeper into the chair, bones loosening at the peace and quiet occupying the room. “It was a quote from Miranda Gardener.”
“But you agreed with her,” Castellan counters. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t have kept it in print”
Conceding, “The actual band period starts at seven-thirty during zero—we use that time to practice field drills—and after school, we all head into the music room for repertoire rehearsal from five to nine.”
“How do you have time to do homework?”
“I never said I didn’t have free time during Heralds.”
He snickers, the sound of it a little hollow with the way he’s fully concentrated on his note taking. “You didn’t. Okay, moving on—favorite snack?”
“Cup noodles from the teacher’s room.”
Castellan furrows his eyebrows, tips his head as he tries to puzzle out how the hell you manage to get stuff from the teacher’s room. “Uh, favorite class?”
“Uh…the lunch period.” There’s some stupid, uncontrollable smile dawning on you, though you thank the universe that it’s thin and within your repertoire of expressions reserved for non-friends.
He snorts, this time, mouth wrinkling to prevent the audio pollution that would come with a full-blown giggle. “Worst class?”
You think about it for a moment. “Calc.”
He grins with his eyes shaping into crescents. Of course he’d agree. He’s in your period, and you saw Dr. Medes pass back Castellan’s differentiation test with a fat, red 36/50 burned onto the paper. “First choice of college?”
“I’ll let you know once March comes.”
Castellan shakes his head, chuckling. He has almost imperceptible crow’s feet.
You wait for a minute, watching his screen go by through the surface of his glasses. Castellan’s eyelashes aren’t long, but they’re thick and dark. His eyes are a mid-toned brown, just shade muddier than hazel. Like fresh-turned dirt. Or milk chocolate brownies. Or—
He hasn’t asked anything in a while. You cough awkwardly. “Anything else?”
Castellan looks like there are words fighting on his tongue, fingers carding through his messy curls. His lips are blushed, almost a bruise with the way they’re so damn red. You think how Castellan had walked into the classroom breathless.
You know it’s bad journalism to assume, but you’re going to assume that there’s a girl waiting on him.
“Never mind, don’t answer that.” You make a show of checking your phone, retinas seared with the sudden brightness of the screen. Percy’s horrific selfie, born from the terrors of rehearsal led by the meticulous Charles Beckendorf, is your escape card. “Beck needs me in the room. Connor could be starting another riot with the saxes. Just...talk to your dad if you need another quote.”
“Yeah, sorry,” he says, clueless and almost apologetic for supposedly keeping you. He lowers the lid of his laptop with a suggestion of a genuine smile etched over his mouth, “good luck at practice.”
The eagerness to escape recedes as you reach the door. You turn back for a moment that stretches into what feels like eternity, and for the first time in ZCHS history, a drum major tells a jock: “Good luck at homecoming, too.”
—
[IMAGE: Luke Castellan in semi-formal dress, set in a dark classroom. The photo looks like it’s been taken on a digital camera, nostalgic and slightly grainy, with the telltale bright spot of a flash blooming at the center.
He is posed like he is about to stand up from his perch on a desk. His head is turned, showing his sharp side profile. Luke’s face is pensive, one hand in his pocket and the other at rest, fingers laid over his thigh.
He’s wearing a fitted white button up and a pair of neat, pressed slacks. His tie is black, rumpled, the knot loosened around his neck. Over his shoulders is a slouchy, muted orange cardigan with the equestrian mascot of ZCHS sewn into the breast. There are a pair of computer glasses sliding dangerously down his nose.]
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lukestellans we never go out of style
📸 @.luvvbeaus
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luvvbeaus 🔥🔥🔥
↳ tankadreww men who listen to tay >>
↳ conmanstole sent you this comment | bye ts so performative 🤣🤣
anniebethc You knotted your tie wrong.
↳ lukestellans ask ur dad to help me pls 🙏
—
You don’t get to write your article about how shitty the school lunch is. Instead, that little bitch of a sports editor, Ellis Wakefield (he’s a pro at defending the football team’s misgivings), managed to make Hermes strongarm you into picking up an assignment on the homecoming game.
So, now you’re scribbling out lede after mediocre lede onto the reporter’s notebook balanced in your palm, the paper of which scrubs uncomfortably against your cheap gloves.
But never mind that. You’re supposed to be marching out for the pregame warmups, but…
“Are we actually incapable” —the sections are in complete disarray; everyone is being jostled around; the noise of nearly a hundred mouths in motion is starting to grasp for an all-time high— “of lining the fuck up?”
Charles’ wide, orange-fitted frame sidles up next to you, a megaphone in hand. You shove the notebook into your jacket and take the device in silent thanks, switching it on and cringing at the feedback.
You raise the megaphone to your mouth. “Attention!”
It’s a mad dash into formation, teens in orange scrambling to their places. Someone yelps when a tuba swings in a wide arc above their head. A flutist trips over a saxophone. Drumline frantically assembles, sliding clumsily into harnesses and setting off at least two cymbal crashes.
“What a goddamn clown show.” Mr. D, absentee band director, walks up behind you and Charles, scowling at the mess. He takes a swig from the Coke can that’s practically glued to his hand before snatching the megaphone.
“PETER JOHNSON, YOUR HARNESS IS LOOSE. LEE VASQUEZ—IS AN OBOE A CLARINET? DIDN’T THINK SO. COLE STALIN, IF I HEAR CARELESS WHISPER ONE MORE TIME, I WILL THROTTLE—”
From the crowd, Connor Stoll’s face twists in pseudo-confusion, hands coming up to pat at his ears and shrugging. A laugh ripples through the ranks.
Mr. D looks like he’s going to have a stroke with the way his expression seizes, purpling like a raisin. His mouth crumples in on itself like the opening of a drawstring bag, beard bristling as he burns a narrow glare into the sax section.
You take the megaphone back gingerly, dialing back the volume with a grimace. “Alright, homecoming game, and we’re against our one-sided rivals, Jupiter Prep.”
The band groans. Mr. D wanders elsewhere.
You tighten your mouth with equal displeasure. “Yeah, I dunno why they always choose a team we’re definitely going to lose to, either.”
“For the glory?” one of the French horns suggests. Someone else blows a Donald Duck-esque raspberry; you think it’s Tyson, because he has a weird talent for impressions.
You shrug—probably. Though it’s not very glorious when you lose to the same guys for the last decade or so.
With a heavy sigh, you speed through your pregame laundry list, product-disclosure-in-commercials style. “Please do not boo if our team scores a touchdown. Don’t laugh if you hear something demeaning from the opposite stands. And clarinets: it is absolutely unacceptable to be bribed by your section leader and burst into Squidward’s theme mid-fight song.”
Said section leader, Travis—maybe you’re going to revoke his apprentice drum major status soon—lets out a squawk of indignation, the shriek of it echoing around the side of the field. Charles holds out his hand for the megaphone, which you pass over.
He clears his throat. “Thank you, major. Uh—Jupe Prep is always going to decimate us sports-wise, but we spank 'em pretty hard in academics and band comp. Please don’t tarnish our reputation as regional champions, I don’t think I can survive that.”
Short and sweet, he sets down the megaphone and gestures for the band to start marching around the track for warm-ups. You follow the path of the oval, feet tracing the white running lines, dust running over your shoe prints.
At the far side of the field is a giant inflatable centaur, the breakaway banner held between its feet. It’s a football thing for the players to run out at the beginning of the game. Except, you’re pretty sure that most schools do not run out under the legs of a stupidly expensive, balloon-ified mascot.
The football team is lazing behind the banner, hiding with the glossy-faced cheerleaders under the shadowed belly of the centaur, though they won’t need to for long. The sun has already begun to sink, slouching closer to the horizon as the floodlights flick on and the stands start to fill with stragglers.
Luke Castellan catches your eye over a cheerleader's shoulder. You recognize her curvy build and the curl to her honeyed hair, and most of all, the pom-poms in her hands. Charles stiffens from beside you, back going rod-like, chest puffing out.
Silena Beauregard turns, waving guilelessly like a good cheerleader as the formation passes. Your fellow drum major nearly stumbles, eyes going unbelievably wide.
“Do you think they’re dating?” Charles hisses, just as half the band gives Castellan a downturned thumb and a lot of deeply unimpressed head shaking when she turns away.
“Dunno,” you mumble, pumping the baton above your head to tempo. “But…he interviewed me a couple days ago. Looked like he came straight from a make out.”
Charles makes a sad, defeated little sound, grousing under his breath about god forbidding a band kid having a crush on a cheerleader, and the universe having to plant that slow driving, football playing Castellan into Silena’s life to pitch Charles into eternal misery.
Someone from the trombones plays a limp womp-womp meant for Castellan, but it’s just a beat off and awkwardly late for the humiliation ritual.
Charles heaves a rough sigh at the audible reminder of his cursed dedication to Beauregard’s beauty and grace.
Poor guy.
—
[VIDEO: A shaky clip from the lit-up bleachers at Zeus City High School’s football field. The camera pans over the heads of a sea of half-asleep marching band teens in garish, orange uniforms, instruments drooping with the nodding of their heads.
The spectators groan, the commentator remarking that Sherman Yang has missed yet another throw. Someone from the rival side hollers loudly—Zeus City? More like Zeus Shitty!—to which their lavender-hued cheerleaders titter, sending a ripple of amusement echoing through the opposite bleachers swathed in purple.
A majority of the ZCHS marching band heckle and jeer at that, too. The camera zooms in on the two drum majors standing upfront. You’re shaking your head and thumbing the space between your brows. Charles Beckendorf is avidly gesturing to the tied score.]
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travstole yikes….
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majmajmaj apprentice status officially revoked
↳ travstole ragebajted much??
↳ majmajmaj ok graecus scum who was the one who broke the no phone rule?
conmanstole poor becky d, no one’s listening to him 😢😢
↳ perciusjakcsn ‘poor becky d’ as if ur not the reason y he has premature wrinkles 🫵🤨
—
“This is probably the highest score I’ve seen on that board,” comments Charles, fiddling with the hem of his uniform, the seams of which are unraveling. “Another touchdown and we’d actually win our first homecoming game in ten years.”
“There are twelve seconds left,” you say, glancing at the clock. You’re starting to sound like Annabeth when you say, “We’re tied, on our last down, and haven’t moved. Sherman Yang also can’t throw for shit, so the likelihood of an actual win is so low that—”
The rest of your words are swallowed by the commentator.
AND THAT’S CASTELLAN GOING LONG, READY TO RECEIVE YANG’S PLAY—OH GOD, HE CAUGHT IT, HE’S RUNNING TO THE END ZONE AND NOT ONE JUPITER EAGLE CAN CATCH UP—A MIRACLE TOUCHDOWN TO WIN THE GAME!
You wince at the roar that engulfs your side of the bleachers, parents and students and alumni rising in a tidal wave of celebration.
The cheerleaders jump and scream, pep flags dancing in the air, pompoms glittering. People are embracing and cheering like they’ve just won the lottery. You even see a grandma shed tears and kiss a toddler she is literally not related to on the cheek.
FOR A DECADE, THE CENTAURS HAVE STARED AT THE BOTTOM OF THE BARREL. TONIGHT, THEY FLIP THEMSELVES RIGHT. A TRUE HOMECOMING FOR ZEUS CITY HIGH SCHOOL.
“What the fuck,” you spit, jaw refusing to completely close. Nevertheless, you’re obligated to turn and raise your hands, counting everyone in for the fight song.
It’s the worst rendition you’ve ever heard. The clarinets stumble on a run, and the trombones are way out of tune. Color guard dances in the stands too, and they’re flubbing their movements because your band is so incredibly off-beat with how their shocked fingers are slipping off the notes.
But nobody pays attention. They’re all fascinated with Luke Castellan. Star athlete Luke Castellan. Drenched in Gatorade Luke Castellan. Good for him. Fuck him.
He’s running a victory lap, zipping around the field in his ugly, soaked orange jersey, arms thrust skyward in celebration. You think that the big, taunting 11 painted on his back will haunt you for the rest of your days.
His pace peters out by the time the song ends and he reaches the stands, giving sweaty, full-bodied hugs to whoever’s closest to him in his conquest. You huff as he strolls along the track you’d marched on only hours before.
He’s all damp, curls plastered to his forehead and sweat beading over his brow. His breaths come out as icy puffs in the mid-October air. An exhausted blush blooms over his cheeks, eyes glassed over, lips bruised and chest straining for breaths.
Castellan points at nothing in particular, angling his finger at the bleachers with a winning grin. A number of girls titter—even color guard, Jesus Christ, they need anti-football reconditioning—and many pull out their phones to snap pictures of him.
He’s looking straight at you, though. Like he’s some puppy with something to prove, with crinkled eyes and a triumphant energy that makes your insides squirm. The floodlights are blinding, a glimmering sheen refracting off his Gatorade-slick skin.
This…this is Luke from yearbook. Not the Public Enemy Number One jock, but the guy who apologized for his bad mood and kind of made you laugh during your interview. The Castellan who (you loathe the admission so much that it burns) is...he’s not the worst, and pretty...chill.
You tip your hat, which should register to most of your bandmates as a simple adjustment to your uniform. Castellan offers a tiny wave that you definitely shouldn’t find a little endearing, and turns away.
And then, your journalism advisor comes up to Castellan with a dark-haired woman. He hugs his mom, but makes a bitter point of turning his back to Hermes.
Luke Castellan looks very much like his mother, with the same eye shape and fuller pout. Bony shoulders, defined face, straight and dark brows. He’s got the same arrow-like nose as Hermes, however, and that inky black hair.
He turns for one last look at the emptying stands. Behind you, your bandmates begin to pack up, carrying their instruments down the bleachers.
You throw him a bone—or an olive branch—letting the corner of your mouth quirk up, though you doubt he can see it from this far. Luke shrugs with a thin, furtive smile and you lose sight of him as he ducks out into the parking lot.
Slipping your hand into your jacket, you tug out your reporter’s notebook. You study the Herald’s logo, the scratched-out ‘grafs on shitty school lunch.
And then below, with fresh, scrawling ink—
School pride v. clique prejudice: can band, football coexist with rivalry?
You consider it with a hovering ballpoint and your jaw working. Would it really be so bad to dissect something like this?
“Major.” Charles bumps your shoulder, beaming so brightly that you’re afraid it’ll hurt. “Sections leaders are getting popcorn chicken from that Taiwanese grandma. You coming?”
“It’s ten,” you note, following with a staged yawn that billows in the cold air. You flip your notebook shut in a way that’s obviously not casual, but your fellow drum major doesn’t comment. “‘S also your turn to drive, so drop me home first and then catch up with everyone.”
With an eye roll, he starts pushing you toward the exit gate. As you hop off the bleachers, he says, “Y‘know—surprisingly—I’m actually hoping football does good for once.”
“Yeah.” You scuff your shoes against the asphalt, a few pebbles skittering away from your path. “And Castellan…not so bad, after all.”
“Yeah, except for the Silena thing.”
“O-kay, big guy, I’ll talk to him about that,” you say, with sardonic dryness.
“Seriously?”
“You kidding? No!”
notes: iss17 deluxe edition!! 2024-25 was such a weird time that i ended up deleting everything but new blog new me yay!!
can we talk about the use of the lighting in wake up dead man?? like the way they used the sun behind the clouds and then it shining again when jud and blanc were talking.
it was genius and I need to rewatch the movie to yap about that specific use of the sun more.
