vauxxy

[vauxxy]

luke castellan

“we know that no one ever seizes power with the intention of relinquishing it.”

- george orwell, 1984

#luke castellan #luke castellan pjo #pjo disney+ #pjo tv show #pjo #pjo spoilers #pjo fandom #pjo series #pjo fanart #fanart #percy series #percy jackson #percy jackon and the olympians #luke castellan angst

[vauxxy]

“omg all the moots are getting inspiration from ttpd”

realizing that the luke castellan x reader tag is about to be filled with gut-wrenching angst

[vauxxy]

this is the best thing since sliced bread.

part two immediately.

⋆· ༘* god, it's brutal out here !

pairing ★ jock!luke castellan x drum major!reader

synopsis ★ the one where the football team hasn’t won a game in a nearly a decade. luke castellan changes some things. (4k)

content ★ no pronouns used for reader, bad teenager humor, inaccuracies bc i am not a band kid, very vague smau, not proofread, best viewed on mobile

notes ★ when i tell u that i switched writing styles for this, jubi and iss17 r so different. pls enjoy the crack tho, bc frankly, i think im hilarious

series masterlist

Opinion | Football team reaps the rewards it does not deserve

Heralds Vol. 77, Issue 1

Zeus City High School’s VAPA groups have won more championships that the football team ever has. Just last school year, marching band took sweepstakes in nearly every round, placing first in regionals and second in nationals. Other groups such as cheer, choir, and color guard also took competitions by storm, setting the highest win rate in the history of the high school.

However, their efforts aren’t as recognized as the football team, even though ZCHS hasn’t won a single game in a decade. Meanwhile, performing arts struggles with the leftovers of the football team’s funding.

“It’s really unfair and discouraging,” freshman Percy Jackson provided in a statement. “It’s my first year in band and I had to duct tape my broken snare harness because we don’t have money for new ones. Look, the football team got new equipment and a locker room renovation. My recycled uniform smells like […] and they get custom practice jerseys.”

Jackson’s sentiment is shared widely among the student body associated with VAPA. Members such as junior Miranda Gardener feel that their passions are put aside for a sport that contributes nothing to the school other than spirit.

“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 because we work hard for nothing, and the people who barely work get everything.”

The administration office and football team have not reached out in response to inquiries.

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 searching up the answers to a test.

Luke Castellan is one of them. Your fingers are picking at the edge of the hall pass, a click click against the plastic that echoes hollow in the hall.

He hears you coming, back curled in the position he’s taken over the water fountain. Castellan gives you a cursory glance, goes back to drinking, and then looks at you again. You walk faster.

Double-take, his spine unfurls to stand upright, wrist wiping away the droplets on his mouth.

“So I read your article,” he says right as you cross tangent paths. He leans against the wall, pseudo-casual, hands stuck in the pockets of his jeans. “Just wanna let you know that football’s definitely gonna get a win this sea—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.

“Shut up,” he grits, the bath toy making an airy sound in his tightening fingers. “Who even let you write that article anyway?”

“I’m the editor-in-chief,” you say, smug-like, shrugging like it’s nothing. You take a look at his face, the downward draw of his brown and the brutal set of his mouth.

Castellan’s exhale comes out from his nostrils in a hiss, jaw feathering.

“We’ll win this season,” he says, low, quiet. He’s so close that you can almost see something wading in the dark, inky pool of his pupil. “I’m making sure of it.”

( How did you go from casual conversation to this? )

“Is that on or off the record?” Your grin could be classified as shit-eating, mouth splitting too wide and eyes curving too crescent. Castellan sneers and pushes off the wall, jostling his tense shoulder with yours.

“So fucking annoying,” you hear him hissing as he walks away. You laugh in a huff, watching his wound-up back shrink in the distance.

What an asshole.

[ IMAGE: A snapshot of Percy Jackson from an up-down angle with the zoom set to 0.5x. The flash is on, washing his skin, hair, and eyes pale. The background is dark, save for a group of teens behind the curve of his cheek in ugly orange band uniforms and black slacks. ]

Liked by majmajmaj and 35 others

perciusjakcsn not even cooked WE R GRILLED 😨 📸 @.travstole

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majmajmaj ur gna be well done xtra crispy if u forget to count those fucking rests again,,, 😒

↳ perciusjakcsn PLZ HAVE MERCY SARGE ↳ majmajmaj DRUM MAJOR NOT DRUM SARGEANT PETER 🖕🖕🖕 ↳ perciusjakcsn JUSTICE 4 PERCY 😞💔

groovewood did u srsly just replace me as cameraman DUDE 😭

“Are we actually incapable—” The band continues to push each other around, the noise of nearly a hundred mouths in motion reaching an all-time high. “—of lining the fuck up?”

Charles’ wide, orange-fitted frame sidles up next to you, a megaphone in hand. You 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 more than 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, WRONG SECTION. 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 pinches, sour. Mouth crumpled in on itself like the opening of a drawstring bag, eyes glaring narrow and beard bristling.

You take the megaphone back gingerly, dialing down the volume with a grimace. “Alright, first prelim game of the season, we’re against our one-sided rivals, Jupiter High.”

The band groans. Mr. D wanders off elsewhere.

“I’m not supposed to say this, but we are definitely losing. Even so, please do not boo if our team gets a touchdown. Don’t laugh if you hear something demeaning from the other team. And—clarinets—it is absolutely unacceptable to be bribed by Travis and burst into Squidward’s theme mid-play.”

Travis 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—Jupiter is one hundred percent going to decimate us sports-wise, but we’re better than them in VAPA and test scores. Please don’t tarnish our reputation as regional champions, I don’t think I can survive that.”

Short and sweet, he sets down the device 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 gathered behind the banner, hiding under the shadowed belly of the centaur. Some players are stretching, drinking water, closing their eyes. There are cheerleaders milling around, making small talk with glossy smiles.

Luke Castellan catches your eye over a girl’s shoulder. You recognize her, the slight of her build and the curl to her honeyed hair and most of all, the pep flags in her hands. Charles stiffens from beside you, back going rod-like, chest puffing out.

Silena Beauregard turns, waving cluelessly, innocently. Your fellow drum major nearly stumbles. You—and half the band—give Castellan an downturned thumb when she turns away. Someone from the trombones plays a limp womp-womp.

Castellan looks mortified, like he’s going to dig a hole for himself and die in it.

( If so, good riddance. )

[ VIDEO: A shaky clip from the lit-up bleachers at Zeus City High School’s football field. The camera pans over the heads of the seated marching band, a sea of half-asleep teens in orange, 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 cackle and jeer. 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 wears the face of saddened disappointment. ]

Liked by beckydwarf, majmajmaj, and 138 others

travstole 😬😬

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majmajmaj reporting this to d, no phones on the field tf??

↳ travstole snitch much?? ↳ majmajmaj what was it? ah, ‘die graecus scum’ - JHS octavian, most definitely

conmanstole poor becky d,,,

↳ perciusjakcsn ‘poor becky d’ as if ur not the reason y he has premature wrinkles 🫵🤨

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, stepping in right before you try to move on to cracking you knuckles.

You almost don’t recognize him in that soft-looking sweater, a pair of black frames propped over 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 you give him a narrow look. He gives you a quick 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, unimpressed, “instead of something for yearbook. Are you sure you aren’t trying to get me arrested? If so, I have the right to remain silent.”

“No, just yearbook. Purely professional.” The other boy laughs, the sound of it rattling behind his ribs. It sends something spiraling down your stomach, like a marble run made with your intestines. “About last week, in the hallway—I know it’s not an excuse, but I was going through some stuff. So, sorry about that.”

He slides his phone between the two of you, the glossy screen emblazoned with a red button waiting to be pressed. Castellan sweeps out his hand in offering, palm-up.

You click the button, the first waves of sound appearing on the pixels in zig-zags.

“What is your name and the extracurriculars you partake in?” 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, easy for damage control. “It’s basically a free period. We print every three weeks, so I have plenty of time to write and format the spreads.”

“And off the record?” he asks, a small grin sewn over his face. You think you have an idea of what he’s trying to do.

“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? I remember you wrote something about VAPA kids having a hard time with balancing their schedules.”

“I didn’t write that,” you remind him, a near snap to your words. “It was a quote from Miranda Gardener.”

“But you agreed with her,” Castellan counters. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have put it in your article.”

Conceding, “Fine. The actual band period start at seven-thirty during zero—we use that time to practice songs—and after school, we all head out to the field for drills from five to nine.”

“How do you have time to do homework?”

“I said Heralds was a free period, didn’t I?”

He laughs, the sound of it a little hollow with the way he’s fully concentrated on his laptop. “You did. Okay, moving on—favorite school snack?”

“Cup noodles from the teacher’s room.”

Castellan makes a confused face. “Uh, favorite class?”

“Obviously band.”

“Worst class?”

You think about it for a moment. “Stats.”

He smiles in agreement, eyes going crescent. “First choice of college?”

“Anything but an Ivy.”

Castellan shakes his head, chuckling.

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 heavy. His eyes are a mid-toned brown, just darker than hazel. Like fresh-turned dirt. Or milk chocolate brownies. Or—

He hasn’t asked anything in a while. You cough awkwardly. “Am I free to go?”

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 about Charles. And then Silena. How Castellan had walked into the classroom breathless.

You know that you shouldn’t assume, but you’re going to assume.

“Never mind, don’t answer that.” You make a show of checking your phone, retinas seared with the sudden brightness of the screen. “Mr. D needs me on the field. Connor might be starting another riot with the saxes.”

“Yea,” he says tightly, “go ahead.”

TO: becky d

(19:35) so. (19:35) not 100 percent sure but i think silena and castellan (19:36) yk what ill ask her during p1 tmrw

FROM: becky d

(21:58) NO?? (22:10) SARGE PLS TURN OFF DND 🙏 (22:11) not even cooked im deep fried 😭

TO: becky d

(08:45) so funny story i was on dnd until p1 and (08:46) LMAOO DID U REALLY JST CALL ME SARGE CHARLES 😐 (08:46) but srsly why didnt you yell at me during 0 we coulda avoided this,,,, (08:47) btw i didnt ask her she was talking to drew tanaka abt some other guy that def wasnt luke 👍

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 could be considered cheating.”

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 chews her lunch slowly. You hold up your hands in surrender, letting go of the topic.

Annabeth’s gaze catches something behind you. You follow the line of her sight, tracing it along the lunch shelter and landing on Castellan. He’s got a laugh tremoring in his shoulders, grinning at something a girl—Silena again—is telling him. You whip your head back to see Annabeth’s eyes go fuzzy and sparkling.

“What?” she asks, noticing your twisted face.

“Nothing,” you huff. “But, uh—Percy’s a good guy.”

The girl squints, bewildered. “What—I don’t like Luke. We’re neighbors, so it’s weird.”

Neighbors?

“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 sliding onto the bench and joined by Charles. The Stoll boy 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.”

The old Stoll turns to Charles, irises sparkling, wide, expectant—a poor attempt to make puppy eyes at your fellow drum major. Charles sighs, fingers digging through his backpack to return with a twenty.

“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 chips and a soda. No more, no less.”

Travis nods eagerly, snatching the bill and running off. You watch his back as he leaves; he nearly topples Luke Castellan in his excited haste.

“You know that’s a scam, right?” Annabeth's voice brings you back to the present. 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: Luke Castellan posing in semi-formal dress, standing in a dark classroom. The photo looks like it’s been taken on a digital camera, nostalgic and slightly grainy, bright spots blooming at the center. He’s got a fitted white button up and a pair of neat, pressed slacks on. His tie is black, rumpled, the knot loosened around his neck. Over his shoulders is a slouchy pastel orange cardigan with the equestrian mascot of ZCHS sewn into the breast.

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. There are a pair of computer glasses sliding dangerously down his nose. ]

Liked by anniebethc and 345 others

lukestellans ‘cause we never go out of style

📸 @.luvvbeaus

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luvvbeaus 🔥🔥🔥

↳ tankadreww men who listen to tay >> ↳ conmanstole @.majmajmaj aint no way ppl actually find him hot 🤣🤣

anniebethc You knotted your tie backwards, Luke.

↳ lukestellans ask ur dad to help me pls 🙏

You don’t get to write your article about how shitty the school lunch is. Instead, you get assigned to the homecoming game, scribbling out lede after mediocre lede onto the reporter’s notebook balanced in your palm, the paper of which scrubs uncomfortably against your gloves.

“This is probably the highest score I’ve seen on that board,” comments Charles, fiddling with the seam of his uniform. “Another touchdown and we’d actually win our first game in ten years.”

“There are six seconds left,” you say, glancing at the clock. You’re starting to sound like Annabeth when you say, “It’s pretty close too. The likelihood of an actual win is so low that—”

The rest of your words are swallowed by the commentator.

AND THAT’S LUKE CASTELLAN RUNNING INTO THE END ZONE, HE CATCHES THE BALL—TOUCHDOWN FOR ZEUS CITY!

You jump 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 hugging, cheering. You even see a grandma shed tears and kiss a toddler on the cheek.

“What the fuck.” Nevertheless, you’re compelled to turn and face the music, raising your hands and signaling for your bandmates to play the fight song.

Luke Castellan runs a victory lap, zipping around the field in his ugly, bright 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 he reaches the stands, giving sweaty, full-bodied hugs to whoever’s closest to him in his conquest. You frown when he strolls along the stands, helmet pulled off and hanging from his fingers.

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 blooming red over his cheeks, eyes glassed over, lips bruised and chest straining for air.

Castellan points at nothing in particular, angling his finger at the bleachers with a winning smile. A number of girls giggle—even color guard—and many pull out their phones to snap pictures of him.

He’s looking straight through you, though. Like he has something vengeful to prove. The floodlights are blinding, a glimmering sheen painted over the player.

You frown, brows drawing together furious, mouth pinched. Castellan sneers back and turns away.

And then, your journalism advisor comes up to Castellan with a dark-haired woman. The teen hugs the woman but ignores the man, bitter.

Frankly, you’ve never been able to put your finger on it until now, why Mr. Hermes had seemed so familiar to you. Now you can see it.

Luke Castellan looks very much like his mother, same eyes and lips. Bony shoulders, full face, straight and dark brows. He’s got the same arrow-like nose as Hermes, however, the same 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’re the one offering a sneer now, though you doubt he can see it from this far. Luke tilts his head with a furtive smile and you lose sight of him when he ducks out into the parking lot.

You look down at your reporter’s notebook, the scratched-out ledes and the Heralds logo printed at the top.

You’re fucked.

p.s. ★ i moved around some canon ages to better fit the story if ur wondering why luke is 17/18 while percabeth r like 13/14,,,, also—the inclusion of articles and social media was inspired by phanatics’ big reputations on ao3, aka one of my fav slash fics (pls note that there r some spicy scenes tho)!!

sharing is caring, so pls rb and also lmk ur thoughts ₍⑅ᐢ..ᐢ₎ ᡣ𐭩

luke tags (open); @melllinaa @amortencjja @niktwazny303 @arsonnaire @ma1dita @m00ng4z3r @saltair-and-palemoonlight @witch-lemon

© klineinie 2024 — do not plagiarize, translate, or use ANY works to train ai

#luke castellan x reader #pjo #percy jackson #i’m living for this #i can’t wait for part 2 #please now #the writing is so good #it’s perfect

[vauxxy]

୧ ׅ𖥔 ۫ oh he looks so cute, wrapped around my finger! ⋄ 𓍯

….IN WHICH: i made a fic based of espresso by sabrina carpenter/luke is WHIPPED.

tags/warnings: toothrotting fluff, luke & reader is mentioned to have exes, ‘she was like a shot of espresso,’ kinda short, not proofread, not in my usual format.

ೃauthor notes⁀➷ sorry for not feeding yall for awhile i been busy asl☠️☠️!!!! my sister lowkey got hit by a car

—“now he’s thinkin’ about me every night.”

luke tossed and turned in the cabin, clearly getting on the nerves of the younger campers. he couldn’t help it, though. luke was never one to be able to sit still when giddy with excitement. y/n l/n was basically the only thing on his mind.

of course she was, she was on everyone’s mind. luke didn’t know what spell she cast on the boys at camp half-blood to make them look at her like olympus lost a god. y/n was like a shot of espresso to luke, she could wake up him at any time of night. just like now.

“jesus, luke. go to bed,” a younger camper complained with a huff. he mumbled a small sorry in response, trying to meditate himself to sleep. he’d felt quiet jealous of hypnos’ kids. maybe then—he’d be able to sleep.

—“too bad your ex don’t do it for ya!”

you were better than anyone else he’d ever have. anybody else wouldn’t compare, not in the slightest. his other exes seemed almost incompetent with you in his life.

they didn’t hold him the way you did, didn’t have him wrapped around your pretty fingers like you do. luke looked at the past with sympathy for his past self. ignorance is bliss. ignorance being, obviously, that he didn’t have the pleasure to call you his.

he didn’t know what you’d put in his coffee to make him love you like you personally paint the sunsets every evening.

luke couldn’t imagine himself with anyone else even if he tried. and, truthfully, neither could you. you can’t even fathom that you let anyone other than luke wrap their arms around you.

mutual love. but, of course, to him you were everything. his one and only.

—“oh, he looks so cute wrapped around my finger!”

“there goes your wife.” “wait, what? really?”

chris just meant to taunt him. a little bit of teasing between friends. he didn’t expect luke to almost get whiplash from how quick he turned his head to even catch a glimpse. the camp counsellor clicked his tongue, lightly shoving chris’ shoulder.

“that isn’t funny.” “well, i’m sorry, loverboy.” chris rolled his eyes, crossing his arms. he wanted to tell luke he currently sees you. but he knew he’d be shoved again. so he kept silent, listening to luke rant about his shitty sleep since his mind was racing.

luke felt your lips press against his cheek, a quiet ‘mwah’ sound being heard. you giggled at seeing his shocked expression, putting a hand on where you kissed. luke got a loopy grin on his face, looking you up and down.

“hi, luke.” “hey, hun,” he greeted, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. he kissed your temple gently, smiling slightly into the kiss.

chris took notice to the fact that luke’s slumped shoulders looked relaxed, his pinched brows were raised. he acted like he just downed a redbull the second you came around.

[vauxxy]

my camp half blood oc ^_^

YALL SHES ADORABLE

her name is odette van schmidt and she’s a child of dionysus 😇

her story is actually rlly funny tbh. makes me crack up a bit. so here it is

basically dionysus met her mum (a rich socialite) at a party she was throwing for the opening of an art gallery, and it was getting late so everyone was going home. odettes mum looked over at dionysus and was like ‘omfg these old geezers r soooo boring. wanna hit the club?’ and dionysus was like ‘have my baby’ SO SHE DID.

9 months later she gave birth to odette van schmidt: the lying, unstable (possible future addict), drama queen JOY of dionysus.

by the time odette turned 14, her mum was like ‘right. this girl needs to get her ass to boarding school’ bc she could not stop CAUSING A RUCKUS. she was a menace during important parties and events- not because she wasn’t good at parties; but because they weren’t fun. while her mum agreed with her, she had grown out of her party girl phase and had to settle down.

well, odette didn’t fight her mums decision to send her to boarding school. after all, that’s where the craziest shit happens, doesn’t it? especially in new york.

so imagine this: odette van schmidt, the pretty girl with weird eyes and designer clothes CHOWING DOWN ON SPECIAL BROWNIES WITH HER ROOMMATE WHO LOOKS LIKE HOMELESS MAN IN A PRETTY GIRLS BODY.

odette could NOT stop getting into trouble. always sneaking off with her friends, partying her weekends away. by the age of 15 she had developed a pretty bad habit of taking a shot of vodka every sunday morning to get through the preachy ass mandatory services.

odettes mum had enough when she found out her daughter wasn’t taking her meds everyday at 8:00, and was instead lighting up at 4:20.

odettes mum had to call her baby daddy and tell him to pick her up for the summer. odette heard this call, and jumped to the conclusion she was getting sent to REHAB. so she ran.

she ran fast and fast and fast and fast. all the way from manhattan to queens.

ofc odette always saw weird shit. but she just always chalked it up to sleep deprivation, adhd, maladaptive daydreaming, and later in her teens: drug induced hallucinations.

after walking around new york aimlessly for 3 hours to escape rehab, her mum gave her a call.

“hey odette… can you come back home? bc ur lowkey a demigod and I WONT SEND YOU TO REHAB BABY IM SORRY I WONT ITS FINE YOU WERE ONLY SMOKING WEED ITS OKAY BABY-”

BOOM. hellhound right in the middle of the dingiest 7/11 in all of queens.

odette booked it- already terrified by what her mum said, and even more so by this terrifying dog thing.

she ran down at alleyway, hoping to escape the gross mangy dog, but she wasn’t fast or sharp enough to lose it or outsmart it. the hellhound attacked her from behind, ripping through the back of her shirt and leaving a scar that ran across the length of her back.

like that shit was BIG. like, from her neck down to her hipbone.

odette was vengeful thoguh. she was more angry than she was in pain, so she took out her pocketknife and started stabbing and punching that thing away. LIKE. HOW WOULD THAT EVEN PROTECT HER FROM A HELLHOUND??? but then the mutt started chasing its tail and howling like crazy, making it easier to put it down like an old dog.

and poof.

into thin air.

“alright what the fuck”

so there she lay- sitting and panting and wheezing in an alleyway, bleeding out. so she decided to pray,

“god i’m sorry for drinking on sundays! i’m sorry for using bible pages to roll! i’ll do anything to make it up to you!”

“girl, it’s fine.”

all of a sudden, there was this middle aged guy in front of her with the same eyes as her and the worst fashion sense she’d ever seen.

“i didn’t know jesus shopped at h&m…”

“jeez, you sound like ur mother.”

after 10 awkward seconds of silence, odette passed the fuck out. bc her back is a war zone. obviously.

when she woke up the next day, she was at the most rank hospital she’d ever been to. but all the doctors were cute. they were all blonde and spoke like poets and had such gentle hands. but they were wearing the most atrocious orange shirts.

good thing I’VE got STY-

odette looked down at herself. “are you fucking kidding me.”

orange was not her colour. it was purple.

after she got all healed up, two blonde 13 year olds who looked just like her arrived at the infirmary. “hiiiiii welcome to rehabbbbbbb”

“oh my god i’m actually going to kill myself”

castor and pollux eventually cleared up mostly everything about camp (after fucking around with their new older sister a bit more, of course), and proceeded to take her to get some food in her tall ass stomach.

she ate. and then she ate a bit more. and then she complained. and then she asked if her mum has her ‘crazy meds’. and then she asked for new clothes. and then she called her mummy and asked her for new clothes or perfume or anything. and then she walked over to the big house to complain about something again.

and as soon as she walked through the doors, screaming about how she can’t party with a torn up back- she was claimed.

“oh my gods odette. we have your stuff. its fine. it’s cool. you’re my daughter btw. and no drinking at camp.”

“… why would my mum fuck a guy who shops at h&m?”

“I DO NOT SHOP AT H&M, I AM A GOD-“

odette blanked. she wasnt really good at faces. much better with names. that’s what u get for being a history buff who can’t make eye contact i guess.

“… which one, sorry?”

“… dionysus?”

“oh. that checks out.”

#pjo #pjo oc #pjo ocs #percy jackson #pjo fandom #pjo series #dionysus #child of dionysus #dionysus kids #cabin 12 #cabin 12 oc #odette van schmidt #odette

[vauxxy]

the older and more wisened Chiron is portrayed, the funnier it will be when the party ponies show up and you find out Chiron was AFBAB (assigned frat boy at birth)

[vauxxy]

GIGGIDY GIGGIDY

pushover

luke castellan x dionysus!reader

a/n: usually you’re the one stitching Luke up but the one time he gets to do it for you, he knows you’re milking it. no trouble!verse tags, can be standalone -> she’s an ACTRESS okay? who tf wouldn’t want luke to kiss a booboo; this was a forgotten draft for my partners in crime series feel free to read

wc: 1.2k

“OWWWW!”

The sun shines again on Camp Half-Blood peeking through Luke’s dark curls as he towers over you, laughing from his position above. Your knee is scraped after cushioning your fall, or perhaps your attack, after Luke thought it’d be funny to push you again as he walked past.

Well, today’s been kind of boring, so might as well make the most of it right? 

As a daughter of Dionysus, you do love to put on a good show.

There’s a glimmer of mischief in your eye as you do your best to convince him that he’s maimed you but as his eyes fall to the slightly aggravated skin, Luke sighs at the way you look like a kicked puppy, lower lip jutting out as you squint up at him.

“Stop being so overdramatic. It wasn’t that serious.”

“YOU SHOVED ME INTO A BUSH!” 

The howl that leaves your throat catches the attention of other campers, who are familiar with your dramatics and your penchant for picking a fight with the son of Hermes. Luke sighs and runs his hands through his hair, groaning in embarrassment. 

Gods forbid he look like the bad guy.

“Seriously, trouble— you're acting like I pushed you off a cliff,” he grumbles finally crouching down to reach for your leg to check how serious it is. 

It’s not.

“You're a barbarian. Just because you think it's funny to push me around doesn't mean it actually is! Luke.... I can't walk! It feels like my bone is coming through. And I have so much work to do today, and now I'm gonna have to walk super slow…” you groan, still on the ground. Luke rolls his eyes and once he's checked the injury (the whole menacing palm-sized scrape) his expression softens the tiniest bit. He’s still kinda pissed off at you for being a drama queen though.

“Alright, it's not life-threatening so you're going to be fine. Look, I can carry you if I have to.”

Batting his hand away you roll your eyes, “Like I'd let you. You'd probably toss me into the lake again.” 

Luke smirks, “Probably, but I swear to the gods that I wouldn't do anything to maim you. Not on purpose at least.” It’s almost criminal how easy it is to get on your nerves—he thinks you’ve finally shut your trap until he watches you fake crawl away to get a reaction out of him. Quite frankly, it’s embarrassing to everyone watching so he scoops you into his arms like you weigh nothing. Luke chuckles softly, wrapping his arms tightly around your squirming frame so you won't fall as he begins walking.

“So difficult. I swear…”

“Me? Never!” you groan, flopping in his arms like a dead body. Your dead weight makes his arms strain a little but his muscles are fun to look at from any angle, so… 

You miss it when he starts speaking again, “You're too much, you know that?” A smirk grows upon your face, “And you can't get enough. The infirmary is the other way, Castellan....” Luke huffs as he turns 180 towards the infirmary, sighing softly at the way you are sprawled in his arms. But he keeps quiet because he knows how to pick and choose his battles. Something about the realization that he’d only do this for you makes him bite his lip in thought. But you think he’s trying to not laugh at you.

“What? You maim me and then you make fun of me? Haven't you done enough?” The words slip by as you peek at him through one open eye, his cheeks flushed and rosy. Hopefully, his brawn won’t expire on the short trek to the infirmary.

“You're lucky I don't drop you right now,” Luke jostles you with a lopsided grin he can’t hide anymore and it steadily gets bigger at the sound of your surprise.

“Don't you DARE, Luke Castellan!” 

Grabbing onto his mop of curls, the boy winces as his nose brushes against your wrist, and the shockwaves it sends through your system are enough to send you reeling. Maybe it’s the way you almost sway with each step he takes, smooth and steady like a sailboat even when he’s carrying you like this.

He ends up having to carry you inside the infirmary and the Apollo kids on shift stop and stare at their two best counselors in the doorway. Luke tries to ignore them, setting you down on an empty cot and getting the medical supplies he needs to treat your wound. He looks at you propped on the bed like a little princess, cross-legged and fluttering eyelashes waiting for him to clean you up. It's not serious enough for ambrosia, he thinks, so he grabs an alcohol wipe instead.

Luke looks like he's trying his hardest not to smirk as he grabs your leg and begins carefully cleaning the scrape.

“Ow! Gentle! When I patch you up after you spar I don't do it maliciously!”

“I am being gentle, stop wriggling!” Luke grits his teeth as he continues to wipe the drying blood away. He's trying to be careful, but he's clearly irritated that you're not making this easy for him.

Tossing your knee over his lap and getting closer, suddenly you go quiet at the proximity. There’s something intimate about being tended to so delicately in a room filled with people. A quiet in the chaos reserved for only the two of you.

“So what, you think I'm too good for ambrosia? Sending me off to heal like a mortal— what type of nurse are you?”

“You drunk on ambrosia for a scrape would definitely make your dad thrilled and have the both of us cleaning the stables for the rest of the week,” Luke lets out a brief snicker as he meets your gaze, rolling your eyes as you lean against the wall. His hand unconsciously rubs circles into the skin above your knee, featherlight yet firm at the same time. You try to ignore the goosebumps that rise in its wake.

Luke doesn't say anything about it while he continues to look at you. He realizes that you look quite pretty even with windswept hair and dirt on your cheek, but he can't let you see that he's noticed. Something shifts in the air of the infirmary, more overpowering than the smell of antiseptic and it bubbles in both of your chests, overflowing and seeping into the small space between you.

Not bad for a boring day, you suppose. You make him piggyback you for the rest of the day in an attempt to guilt-trip him. But the huge smile on his face has all of your campers thinking otherwise.

—

The next day, he sees you walking perfectly fine. In fact, with the way you’re rushing to scold a Hephaestus kid for almost setting the armory on fire, he’s not sure he’s ever seen you move that fast in your life.

Warmth settles on your cheeks as your eyes dart between the kid you’re yelling at and Luke’s narrowing eyes from afar, and you can’t quite tell if the rush of emotions is from what you’re doing versus who you’re really looking at.

Maybe the next time he pushes you around he’ll find out.

[vauxxy]

Ok, first, hello.

Second, I just read your post, hunter x reader imagines (enemies to lovers), and I must say I love it, I love the way you portray Hunter.

Therefore, I would like to request (if you are accepting requests) something about Hunter epilogue, I don't know what you could come up with, I'll leave it in your hands

hii!!!!

i’d love to but sadly i’m not in the owl house fandom any more and don’t remember anything abt the show 😭

also i wrote those fics when i was a minor n i’d feel uncomfortable writing for someone who is 15? 16? idk i forgot guys sorry 🔥

[vauxxy]

[vauxxy]

imagine daddy kronos’s deep n burly voice shaking the bed for y’all 😖‼️

slash j obviously. tf

people i know in real life follow me on tumblr. is this reblog reflective of how i wish to be perceived?

is the status of my digital footprint even relevant anymore? i’ve been extremely active online for over 8 years atp. surely it’s tarnished beyond repair.

i am never going to get a job. i need to take a step back and stop posting every thought i have. what will my future employer think of “kronos, the worst titan ever, shaking the bed for the mormon version of his protégé and his gf.”

idc actually. reblogged.

imagine christian!southern!luke and asking u abt soaking

anon this is so fucking insane LMAOOO

plz he's all "i heard it doesn't even count ☹️ " and he begs. literally on his knees begging, looking up at you with the saddest eyes and you fear for a split second there that he's going to press his hands together and squeeze his eyes closed and start speaking to you like you're his god. he's so adamant about it not counting, so desperate to get the slightest feel of the inside of you. he even says someone doesn't have to be there to shake the bed! he can just sit there inside of you and he'll have the strength to not move one centimeter (he absolutely does not have the strength).

[vauxxy]

THIS IS SOOO CRAYZ GUYS THIS IS SO CRAZY

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

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

there was something off about luke castellan. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“yes, you do.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“luke—“ 

“please leave me be.” 

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

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

“ i desire the things

that will destroy me

in the end ”

  — sylvia plath. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“why are you being like this?” 

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

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

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

INTERLUDE : JUDAS ISCARIOT ( A STUDY ) 

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

the son of perdition : the one doomed to destruction. 

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

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

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

“is it ever anybody else, luke?” 

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

there’s a pause, a deafening silence. 

“i miss you,” you speak again. 

luke’s nose crinkles, “uh-huh.” 

“i miss you, luke.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

that’s… normal, right? 

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

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

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

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

maybe you were, maybe luke was. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he finds himself panting against you, slowly pushing out. 

“you really should pray for forgiveness.” 

[vauxxy]

[vauxxy]

regulus’ last christmas with sirius

#marauders #all the young dudes #the marauders #atyd #atyd marauders #regulus black #sirius black #the black brothers #black brothers #the noble house of black #harry potter marauders #harry potter

[vauxxy]

REGULUS BLACK

“as i got older, i learned im a drinker.

sometimes a drink feels like family.”

#marauders #regulus black #all the young dudes #the marauders #atyd #atyd marauders

[vauxxy]

Hi! It’s so cute what you’ve written about Regulus. Could I request a blurb about Regulus being so smitten with reader that he pretty much forgets how to breathe and therefore never answers whenever she talks to him? Either with them already dating or just being classmates ☺️

Hope you have a lovely day!

sorry for the wait lovely, i hope you enjoy !! :)

— take my breath away

regulus black x reader ★ 1.1k words

Divination is shit. A complete load of dragon shit. There's no hard research behind it, no factual information, just conclusions based off of feelings. Regulus doesn't understand visions and wanting to know what's to come. He's has his future planned out for him, so what were tea leaves and crystal balls going to do for him?

Continue the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black family legacy, be the perfect son and the top student in every class. Easy enough for Regulus, except for being 3rd in Divination because he "lacked natural aptitude". How ridiculous. Lucky for him his parents were far more focused on him doing well in Charms and Potions than reading tarot cards and interpreting dreams.

The one thing he doesn't mind seeing during this period was you, someone he could never dream of having the pleasure to call his. You weren't born into a pureblood family, and weren't even close to rivaling him academically. He doesn't ever recall seeing you at a quidditch match either, at least not when Slytherin was playing. With your effortless beauty and blinding smile, he's confident he would have noticed you among the others in the stands.

Regulus doesn't know when he started to crush on you, it just kind of happened. One day he started to notice small things about you, from your baby blue nail polish to your lavender perfume that did everything but calm his heartrate. He would pass by your table on the way to his own and see you reading what he assumed to be muggle poetry. The quiet Slytherin would look for those same muggle poetry books in the library late at night. He liked it when the sun sometimes shone right on your face, your eyes squinting and nose scrunching adorably. You would often mumble haikus and villanelles to yourself during class, plush lips moving quietly as you stared out the window, in your own world.

Just like today, you hovered over your parchment, your quill moving in a way that it was obvious that you were not taking notes on the lecture being given. The professor noticed your distracted state, calling your name out. "Please tell us all what ovomancy is."

"It's.. erm.." you giggled nervously, your face flushing with embarrassment. "Sorry Professor, I wasn't paying attention."

Regulus held back a lovesick sigh, smiling to himself as you continued to doodle on your parchment as soon as the professor sighed and turned their back. As lucky as he wished he was, he wasnt daft enough to believe he was your only admirer.

Edgar Bones was a charming guy. Regulus wonders what was so funny about him that he had you giggling behind your hand, his knuckles turning white as he gripped his quill a little too tight. Every table was assigned a different method, so while he and his partner were busy taking notes on capnomancy, you and Bones were having fun with palmistry. The bitter Slytherin supposed the smoke he felt coming out of his ears meant jealousy, watching Edgar asking to hold your hand to see if he can read it that way.

"Merde, ça n'a rien à voir avec.." he hissed, his anger turning to yearning as he craved to be the one holding your hand.

Ah, less-- less bright

Are the stars of night

Than the eyes of the radiant girl!

And never a flake

That the vapor can make

With the moon-tints of purple and pearl,

Can vie with the modest Eulalie's

most unregarded curl-

Can compare with the bright-eyed Eulalie's

most humble and careless curl.

Regulus Black feels pathetic, writing love notes like a little schoolboy. Especially if his parents found out he was quoting muggle poetry. But there he was in the corner of the library, copying down yet another poem to leave on your table at the beginning of your next shared class.

He arrived early to Divination, quickly setting his folded parchment on your table and then sitting at his own. It's been weeks since he began to anonymously leave you poetry, too shy to talk to you face to face. You always read the letter and put it into your school bag, so hopefully you were keeping them and not tossing them out later when no one was watching. Regulus' knee bounced under the table as the other students started to file in, his eyes darting between the door and the folded parchment he left for you. He decided to get started on his next letter, hunching over his parchment to get the words just right.

Regulus was too distracted by perfecting his penmanship to notice you walk into the classroom and watch as he gently placed today's poem on your table. You smiled to yourself and went to your seat, tracing your beautifully written name with your finger. You had felt flattered when you first started receiving the letters, assuming that it had been your flirty class partner Edgar, but quickly realized that he wasn't the type to do such a thing.

"Your cursive letters weren't this perfect when you first started leaving me poetry, have you been practicing for me Regulus Black?"

Regulus gasps a little too fast, choking in surprise at your discovery. He turns away to cough into his sleeve like the proper boy he is. You grinned at the young heir, picking up his newest letter he had been working on.

His eyes widened and frantically waved his hands, trying to take the letter back but you held it behind you out of his reach. "You don't have to read th—"

"Shut up Regulus."

He placed his hands back in his lap, his ears burning red as you read his letter in front of him, the corners of your mouth turning upwards. Regulus felt himself holding his breath, knowing he had to say something now or sit there looking like a fool. He took a quick breath and kept his eyes on the parchment as he rushed his words out. "Perhaps, we could go to the library one day and read poetry together?"

He shouldn't have looked up because he felt himself lose oxygen again when he saw your enchanting self was smiling cheekily down at him.

"Or we could go down by the lake and you could read me some of your favorites?"

Regulus agrees with a shy nod and makes a mental note to use the Bubble-Head charm in case he forgets to breathe. He'll forget all about the charm later when your head is laying sleepily on his shoulder as he recites old poetry from his journal.

[vauxxy]

HOORAH!!!!!!!!!! YIPEEEE!!!!

is chris foreshadowing be so fr

jackie and wilson.

previous | next masterlist

pairing: luke castellan x unclaimed!reader

summary: you haven't been given a quest, but you have made it your personal mission to make luke castellan smile

word count: 5.3k

content: fluffff, loser!reader, happy!luke if you squint and a sprinkle of loser!luke, brief mentions of suicide but nothing heavy, we finally find out which state reader is from

notes: this is so cute i love them.

PART III — she’s gonna save me, call me ‘baby’, run her hands through my hair

Wading through a misty green lake with Luke Castellan was not on your camp bucket list — something you’d produced with a young girl called Silena who you’d met in the arts and crafts cabin — but alas, here you were; knee deep in pond water and ankle deep in whatever sludge lived at the bottom, hands searching blindly along the floor while you tried your best to keep your chin dry. 

You probably wouldn’t have been there if you were any good at Volleyball — which really doesn’t make much sense with the given context. 

Okay, here’s what happened. It was Saturday at camp halfblood — and while you had been there for a solid three days now, you were yet to experience the joy of the weekends. Not that you knew they were any different, not until Travis Stoll approached you after breakfast. 

“Heyyyy, uh...newbie.” He chuckled, sidling up beside you while you were occupied with deciding whether your camp shirt was better tucked into your shorts or left hanging over them. 

You turned to the boy with an amused smile, reminding him of your name. He snapped his fingers at you, “I knew that. I did. I just prefer newbie.”

“What’s up, Travis?”

He dropped his finger guns, rocking back and forth on his feet and looking at you sheepishly, “Well, me and a few friends were gonna chuck a ball around on the beach and we need an extra player to make it even. Now that Luke’s not an option.” 

He muttered that last bit low and under his breath, not in hopes that you wouldn’t hear but in hopes that Luke wouldn’t — there was no telling how far he was from you at any given moment, but he wasn’t going to tell you that, so he just put on his charming Stoll Smile and said, “So, wanna join us?” 

You didn’t have anything to do that day, and since you’d assumed you were in for another long eight hours of finding out what you were good at and failing, a friendly game of ball (which you were safe to assume was volley, per what Luke told you yesterday) seemed like a great idea. 

Only it wasn’t — friendly, that is. You wandered over to the net set up on the beach with Travis at your side and a taller girl with curly blonde hair narrowed her eyes at you in suspicion, “How good are you at this?” 

“Uh —“ You shrugged, shaking your head slightly, “I’ve never played. We don’t have many beaches where I’m from.” 

“You don’t need a beach to play volleyball, newbie.” Connor Stoll appeared out of nowhere, grinning at you, “But it’s easy to pick up. You can be on our team.”

Their team consisted of Connor, Chris, Poppy from the Demeter cabin, Evie and Evan (twins from the Ares cabin) and now, yourself. Apparently it was a lost cause whenever the Stolls were on the same team, so Travis was on the other side of the net with the blonde girl from earlier — who’s name you’d learnt was Sabine, and who’s godly parent was Nike, which did not decrease your nerves even a little bit. 

“It’s pretty simple once you get the hang of it.” Evie explained to you once she noticed your unsure eyes. “Just don’t hit the ball twice in a row, Sab’s a stickler for that rule.” 

“Other than that, we’re pretty lax.” Her brother tagged on, smirking at you, “This isn’t the Olympics.” 

“Tell her that.” You side eyed the blonde on the other side of the net, who was cracking her knuckles and discussing strategy with Travis and Brynn, an Athena kid with a bright blue buzzcut. 

The twins let out identical chuckles, sharing a look before patting your shoulders, “You’ll be fine.” 

You didn’t have time to quip that the pair of them talking at the same time was a little foreboding before the game was on, and a volleyball was heading straight for you. 

To be fair to you, you lasted longer than expected. Maybe it was your battle instincts kicking in, but you hadn’t missed the ball once — sure, your defence lacked any real strategy and was more you hitting the ball in whatever direction and hoping for the best, but it was working, so why complain? You wouldn’t qualify for varsity, but at least you were one upping a Stoll brother — the same couldn’t be said for most campers, you knew that much. 

You actually thought you were getting pretty good, too. Your team was up by a few points (no thanks to you, all thanks to Evan. Seriously, he was like six foot four) and Sabine was getting angry. Every now and then she’d turn and scowl at Rhea, one of her teammates, and the girl would just shrug in response before returning to her position. But then, just when you started to get confident with it, Travis got you. 

Hard, too. You were paying close attention to your feet, making sure you didn’t trip over any sand when you had to move, and unfortunately didn’t notice the ball coming at you until it clipped you in the face. You went down onto your ass, both hands flying to your nose and groaning when you felt a warm trickle of blood slide through your fingers and down your hands. 

“Holy shit, newbie.” Travis sped over, dropping to his knees next to his brother and hovering over you, “I am so sorry, are you okay?” 

Your speech was muffled and nasally when you replied with a swift, “No, asshole!”

“Shit.” He muttered, looking between Connor and Evie, “Uh, I can take you to the infirmary if you want —“

“I’ll take her.” Evan interrupted. He was crouched somewhere behind you, looking at your teammates over the top of your head. You felt his hands flatten on your back as he pushed you up to stand, the rest of the group joining him and wincing when some blood dripped onto the sand. 

“It’s okay, you don’t have to —“ You held out a hand in his direction now that you could see him, only to press it firmly back against your face when your nose simply started to gush once the pressure had been removed. 

“Yes,” He nodded, “I do. Let’s go.” 

You let him lead you, sending an apologetic look to the remaining teens on the sand — you were pretty sure it looked nothing like an apology since your hands were covering half of your face and there was blood seeping through your fingers, but it was the effort that counted. 

You didn’t receive as many looks as you thought you would’ve on the walk to the infirmary, although you assumed demigods had gotten worse injuries than a nosebleed before, so it wasn’t exactly odd. When you got there, you stopped on the porch and tried to speak to Evan as best you could without letting any more blood spill. 

“You can — you can go.” You said through your hands, “I got it from here.”

He looked a little unsure, but you nodded firmly and he turned back the way he came. It was pretty embarrassing, walking into the infirmary with a bloody nose on your third day at camp, but the Apollo kid who took care of you said it was only a matter of time before you shed first blood, and that you’d better thank the gods it was a volleyball and not a hellhound that did the damage. 

They stopped the bleeding with some sort of special gauze and told you to be a little more careful before sending you on your way — which was when you found Luke. 

You didn’t even see him at first, more focused on folding the gauze you’d been given into a perfect square while you stepped off the wooden porch. But then a voice muttered your name in slight shock and confusion, and you looked up to meet those baby brown eyes you couldn’t help but love. 

You grinned, “JoJo.”

Luke shook his head, “What were you doing in the infirmary?” His eyes tracked all over you, assessing for any visible injuries. When he found none, he turned his questioning gaze back to your face. 

You sucked in some air through your teeth, embarrassed, “I, uh, got hit in the face with a volleyball. Turns out, I’m awful at it.” You let out a weak chuckle, and Luke rolled his eyes in amusement. 

“Of course. I thought baseball was your thing?” 

“It is.” You nodded, “But there’s nobody out here to play with, so…” Then an idea sprung, and your face lit up so visibly that Luke took a tentative step back, “Hey, why don’t you come watch? We’re playing on the beach.”

“Oh.” The boy paused, eyes sliding to the beach and back to you, “I don’t think so…I, uh, tend to spend my weekends alone.”

“You spend your everything alone.” You pointed out with a raised pair of brows. He pursed his lips. You sighed, “Come on. You don’t have to play.”

He looked as if he was thinking about it, and your hopes were raised a little. You liked Luke, you wanted to know him better and one day consider him a friend rather than a guy you harassed every day. But you were very aware of his aversion for all things social — the comment Travis made about Luke not playing with them anymore saddened you, and it pained you to imagine Luke all alone while his brothers and friends still had fun around him. But then his face dropped, and so did yours, Luke shaking his head no. 

“I just…” He shrugged, “I don’t really…”

“It’s okay.” You interrupted before he could spout out his excuse. He didn’t need one. “We can do something else.”

“Oh, I —“ Another shake of the head, “You go back to them, don’t let me ruin it.”

“You aren’t ruining anything.” You said plainly, and you thought that those four words hit Luke a lot harder than expected, because he had this pensive look on his face that didn’t fade until you spoke again, “Listen, I know baseball isn’t exactly a camp sport, but I’ve got a ball. This place has gotta have bats — I mean, if it’s got swords, it’s got bats, right? So we grab them, we go off somewhere and take turns batting. I need to stay in practice anyway, if I’m gonna make varsity.”

You sent him your shiniest smile paired with some doughy eyes, and after squinting at you for a solid ten seconds, Luke agreed to your idea with a hesitant nod. You weren’t exactly expecting him to jump up and down in joy, so you took the liberty of doing that before asking him, very enthusiastically (because if you stayed positive, maybe it would rub off on him), to go look for a bat while you grabbed your ball. 

Chris caught you exiting the Hermes cabin while he was filling up his water bottle using the outdoor tap not far from the porch, asking you what you were doing with a baseball. You explained that volleyball was definitely not your thing and ignored his chuckle of agreement in favour of informing him that you would be teaching Luke how to become the next Babe Ruth. He raised a brow. 

“Really?”

“Uh, yeah.” You replied, a little put off by his reaction. “Is that a problem?” 

“No, no.” He backtracked quickly, hands raised and water sloshing around his bottle as the movement, “I just…I dunno. Luke’s been a little off recently. If I were you, I wouldn’t meddle in it.”

“Meddle?” You asked, shaking your head, “In what?”

“In his…” He puffed out his cheeks, trying to find the words, “His funk.” He shook his head then, eyes glossing over as he thought about it, “He failed his quest, he’s a little butthurt, but…he’ll get over it. Y’know?”

You didn’t know. 

“I just don’t think he needs babysitting.” He firmed, looking confident in his wording now that he’d found it, “He’s just gonna talk your ear off about how much he hates his life until you’re borderline suicidal. I wouldn’t bother, personally. He's a big boy, he can get over it.”

You rolled your lips over each other, staring blankly at Chris as he sent you a polite smile and walked back to the beach. Slowly, your eyes narrowed, and your brows pulled together. But you didn't say anything, you just turned around yourself and walked to where you’d asked Luke to meet you. 

He was tossing the bat between his hands when you got there, dropping it in his left when he spotted you and nodding, “Alright, where are we doing this?”

You stopped, snapped out of a stupor you didn’t even realise you were in and blinking at him. For the first time since you’d met, it seemed that he was more focused and lively than you were. It irked him a little bit, and he frowned, “Sunny?” 

“Sorry.” You responded immediately, shaking your head to rid yourself of your spiralling thoughts, “I just…uh, let’s go somewhere clear. We don’t wanna hit anyone with the ball.” 

Luke led you to a clearing in the woods, explaining that the wood nymphs would be able to help you if the ball got lost in the foliage, so there was no need to hold back the arm you’d been bragging about for the entire walk. You just smirked, raised the bat level, and nodded at him to serve. 

Yes, you were a thousand percent better at baseball than you were at volleyball. You knew that, of course, but it was nice to be reassured. Luke wasn’t half bad either, but you were also a really good runner, so you kept having to remind him that an average level fielder wouldn’t have a chance against his bats — you just so happened to be way above average. 

Plus the wood nymphs were very helpful — apparently they didn’t get to watch many demigod activities other than capture the flag so it was refreshing for them to see you two play, and to actually be able to help. 

All in all, you were having a great time. Which of course meant that you were long overdue for something going wrong. Of course. 

“I can’t find it.”

“What?” You asked breathlessly, staring at the tree nymph who shrugged at you plainly. 

“It rolled into a pond, I think.” He sniffed indignantly, “And I am not climbing into a pond.”

“Oh, and you expect us to?” 

And that, kids, is how you ended up knee deep in pond water and ankle deep in something else — with Luke Castellan right by your side. 

“This is so gross.” You whispered, grimacing as your hands ran over the murky bottom. You couldn’t see anything but your own reflection when you looked in, so you were replying on touch alone to help find your ball. “I can’t believe this. My lucky ball and it falls into a pond! Not so lucky anymore, huh? Yeah, lucky my ass.”

“Hey, Sunny?” A slosh of water rippled over you and you had to straighten up to avoid the tiny waves splashing in your face. They only increased at your movements, but you were too busy glaring at Luke to notice. He pressed his mouth together, holding in a chuckle, “You’re not being very sunny right now.” 

You huffed, flinging your arms out at your sides and wincing when you splashed water on yourself by doing so, “I —“ A huff, “I don’t feel very sunny, Castellan. I am wading in sludge.” 

He actually had the audacity to let a tiny grin slip through, “Wow, the last name? You’re acting like me right now. It’s weird.”

“I can’t believe this.” You repeated, narrowing your eyes at the boy, “I’ve been trying to cheer you up since the day I met you and when you finally do, it’s because you’re relishing in my pain? Fuck you.”

As if he was trying to piss you off, Luke laughed. He actually laughed, exactly like he had yesterday and if you weren’t so annoyed you’d be smiling at him for it. But you were annoyed, so all you did in response was send a wave of pond water at him and drench his front. 

He stopped laughing. You started laughing. 

“Okay, is that how you wanna play this?” He asked, stepping closer, “Is it?” 

You grinned, stepping back. The water moved when you did, and the paired struggle of your’s and Luke’s legs under the water just increased the waves that oscillated around your knees. It slid up to your thighs and threatened to wet the denim of your shorts, but you were too busy prying your foot out of whatever the hell lived at the bottom of the pond so you could escape Luke’s wrath. 

You shook your head, “You don’t wanna do this.”

He nodded mockingly, “I think I do.”

Then it was on. He lunged for you, and you dived to the left in a swift attempt to get around him. Water was splashing everywhere at this point but neither of you cared — especially when Luke’s hands were mere inches from your arms, waiting for your ankle to snag on some algae and pull you back so he could push you over. You were smarter than that though, so you did a swift one-eighty, dragging your hands under the water with you as you did — the wave that accumulated from the momentum doused Luke from head to toe, his curls sticking to his forehead. He wiped them away and blew hard from his mouth before forming a weak glare in your direction.   

Your jaw trembled as you held in what you knew would be some serious chortles — but it was silent. The only noise apparent was the settling of the waves now that you had both stopped moving and Luke’s heavy breathing in front of you. He shook his head, stepping forward slowly, and you braced yourself for what was about to come. 

“Hey!” 

You paused. You shared a look with Luke before looking confusedly at the form that had appeared suddenly between the two of you. It was a girl by the looks of it, only she was made entirely of the water the two of you were standing in. She glared between the pair of you, hands on her hips. 

“I don’t appreciate all this splashing.” You felt suddenly like you were being berated by a school teacher for talking too loud during class, “Are you trying to drain my pond? Are you?”

“N—No.” You responded, shaking your head, “We were just looking for — ”

The water nymph held up your ball with a stern expression, “This? Yeah, it looked like you were.” 

Her sarcasm was not lost on you, and you tried your best not to meet Luke’s eyes, knowing they would fail you the second you did. Instead you looked at the nymph before you and took the ball from her outstretched hand, “Thank you. And, um, sorry…about the splashing.”

She folded her arms, lifting her head and straightening her shoulders, “That’s okay. Now get out.”

You were both quick to exit the water, although not too quick that you made anymore of it splash onto the rocks. Once you were out, the nymph nodded in satisfaction and melted back into the pond, and you and Luke were finally able to breathe. Then, you both burst into laughter. 

“Oh my gods.” You huffed, shaking your head and looking down at yourself, “Did we just get into trouble?” 

“With a water nymph?” He finished, shrugging off his wet shirt and wringing it out, “Yeah. How embarrassing.”

Your mouth was suddenly very dry. You knew Luke was strong — he had to be to fight a dragon and come back alive. To be known as the Best Swordsman in Camp. To be trusted by so many campers despite his newfound, distanced demeanour. But damn. 

You blew out a long puff of air, hoping your reddened cheeks could be excused as some light sunburn. You weren’t as soaked as he was, but you still wafted your damp shirt from your body in hopes that it would dry — and also to give yourself something to do that wasn’t ogling at Luke’s lean figure. 

He spread his shirt out on a rock, ensuring the sun was hitting it right before lowering himself to the ground on the dry grass a few feet away. He leant back on his hands, face to the sky, and revelled in the warmth. You stayed standing, fiddling with the button on your shorts, staring at him. At the scar on his face, at the rest of them along his chest. 

He cracked one eye open, glancing at you, “What?”

“I, uh.” You licked your lips, “Nothing. Nothing.” You muttered, taking a seat beside him and crossing your legs. Your gaze stuck firmly to your lap and you waited for his to return to the sky. It didn’t. 

“You can ask me.” He said then, shrugging. 

“What happened on your quest?” You let slip, and when he stayed silent for a second too long, you realised that maybe that wasn't the question he was giving you permission to ask. “I’m sorry. I know it’s none of my business, it’s nobody’s really. But Chris told me before that you’re in a funk and that seemed like a gross understatement but then again I’ve known you for, what, three days? He’s known you for years, so surely he’s right. But you just seem like it’s more than a funk, and I don’t know what to believe because I don’t know what happened but I also don’t want to ask because it’s none of my business and it’s also very clearly a sore subject because of what happened with Dean. Not that I think you’re gonna fly off the handle or anything, but it’s definitely a touchy subject and I can’t just go demanding all the details just because I wanna be your friend and— ”

A hand over your mouth stopped you from continuing what Luke was sure to be a very long tangent. He looked at you, half in shock, half in amusement, and huffed out a laugh, “Sunny, you need to calm down.”

You couldn’t respond, but you did nod. He removed his hand slowly and you swallowed your embarrassment. Luke sat up fully, straightening his back and clearing his throat, “Uh, okay. Have you heard of that Hercules story? With the golden apples?” 

You nodded, afraid to speak in case you went off on a rant again. He nodded with you, “Yeah, well, my father sent me on that. The exact same quest…except I failed.”

That explained the scar, and the dragon story he’d mentioned very briefly yesterday. He started to go into a little more detail about his quest — and suddenly you were overcome with this…angry sort of sadness. 

Hermes sent Luke on a quest that had already been done. After hearing Clarisse yap your ear off about Kleos, you understood why he’d been a little bummed. Honestly, if it were you, you wouldn’t have even gone. What’s the point in doing a quest that’s already been done? But you didn’t say that to Luke, who seemed a little deep into his story. You just simmered in your irritation while he continued to explain his battle with Ladon, and his ultimate failure. 

“I refused to leave the infirmary for a week.” He chuckled, but it was a little sad. “I mean, I’m supposed to be a leader here, and I fail my first quest? Some demigod I turned out to be.” 

Without even thinking, you shook your head, “You didn’t fail.” Luke looked at you, confused, “You battled a dragon with a hundred heads and lived. That doesn’t sound like failure to me.”

“But I didn’t get the apples.” He explained. “I disappointed my father.”

“Your father…” You said slowly, unsure of how your next words would land, “Who I’m going to assume had never spoken to you until the day he gave you your quest?” Luke nodded after a brief pause and you took that as permission to continue, “So who cares if he’s disappointed? He clearly doesn’t care if you’re mauled by a dragon.” 

“Exactly.” Luke replied, brows pulled together in the way they had been when you’d first met. Angry, irritated. Disappointed. “Everyone keeps telling me to get over it. That demigods have failed quests before and it just means I need to try harder next time but…why should there be a next time? Really, if you sit and think about it for a second, why are we even here? To train, so we don’t die whenever monsters come and attack us? And who’s fault is that? Maybe if our parents were good people, there wouldn’t be any monsters trying to murder their kids. If they cared, even a little bit, they’d do more than just claim us and leave us to die!” 

He scoffed, looking in the direction where you knew the rest of the campers resided — playing games, building weapons, dedicating every waking hour to becoming the best of the best. And for what? For glory? For a pat on the back from a parent who can’t even be bothered to raise them? 

“They don’t get it.” He said then, turning back to you, “They think this is all okay. They’re too invested to realise that they’re just being used. They’re so focused on getting a shred of recognition from the gods that they don’t understand that it’s never gonna come.”

“So…” You finally spoke, your first words in a minute, “What do we do?”

Luke shrugged then, “I don’t know yet.” 

It was silent for a long time after that. Luke stayed staring at the floor and you led back to stare at the sky. He was right, wasn’t he? Sure, you’d only been in this for a little while, but you weren’t stupid. You knew the gods didn’t care — you’d figured out that much when you got to camp. A dumping ground for demigods. Demigod daycare, except mommy isn’t coming to pick you up at three o’clock. Luke deserved to be angry, he deserved to mope — they all did. 

But they wouldn’t. You could sit there and curse the gods for hours on end, but that was still half of you. And that, you thought, was probably the worst part of it all.  

You were so caught up in your feelings that when the tree that had been shading you phased into a nymph and walked away, you jumped halfway out of your skin, “Jeezum crow.”

You looked at Luke, expecting him to either share the same dumbfounded look on his face or be laughing at you — something he seemed to be doing a lot of today — but instead he was staring at you, slack-jawed and wide eyed. You blinked, “What?”

“You’re from Vermont.” 

Your mouth snapped shut, and his expanded into the grin you’d been hassling him for since you’d set your sights on him. You sighed, “Fuck.” 

He let out a disbelieving laugh, “You’re from Vermont! Holy shit. I should’ve known it when you called me a flatlander.” He threw his head back, and you shook yours at his dramatics. But he didn’t care, he just pointed at you, “You’re a fuckin’ woodchuck!” 

“Oh my gods.” You groaned into your hands, pulling yourself to your feet in hopes of escaping his sudden glee. “Is that so bad?” 

“No.” He laughed, following you, “I’m just amazed that I figured it out. I’m a genius!”

“Okay.” You sent him a blank look, but it only lasted a few seconds before your tiny smile was fighting through, “It’s not like you’ve discovered the meaning of life. Calm down.” 

“Never.” He shook his head, “This is my greatest achievement.”

“You fought a dragon.” 

“Screw the dragon!” He gripped your biceps, grinning at you, “You’re from Vermont!”

“You’re not funny.”

“And yet you’re laughing.”

“I am not.”

“You are.” 

“I’m not!” 

____________

“What’d you do to him?” 

You threw a piece of salmon into the fire, glancing at Chris, “I’m getting deja vu. Haven’t you asked me this already?” 

“Yeah, but…” The boy looked behind him, back at the Hermes table, where Luke was perched on the end and waiting patiently for you to come back from the hearth before digging into his food, “This time I mean it. I mean, he still isn’t talking to us, but he’s sitting on our side of the table again. You can be honest with me…” He sent you a grave look, “Did you give him a BJ?” 

“What? No!” You threw a pea at him. “I just listened to him.” You tried to be a little serious, but clearly Chris wasn’t getting the hint, so you relented, “And doused him in pond water.”

He laughed at that, nodding proudly. You turned back to the fire, asking Aphrodite to get rid of your split ends. You’d given up on praying to your father, deciding to go through every Olympian until one of them answered. So far, only Hera had responded — you assumed so, anyway, when a cuckoo woke you up from your afternoon nap. That wasn’t very helpful, but at least it was an answer. You didn’t suspect campers prayed to her often, so she probably appreciated the sentiment. 

“So…” Travis smirked, wiggling his eyebrows at you once you sat down. He sent this look around the group, but even Connor gave him a weirded out look in response. He huffed, “It’s team day tomorrow.”

A collective ohhh seemed to hum around the group, but you were still confused. You sent a questioning look to Luke who said, “For Capture the Flag. Tomorrow is when all the cabin counsellors gang up and decide on the two teams.”

“Then we have five days to strategise.” Travis continued on very dramatically, hands splayed on the table, “And on Friday…we battle.”

That seemed to lift the energy up a bit, the people around you sharing mischievous looks. They started to discuss amongst them who would be the best cabin to ally with, Lana turning to Chris, “Who are you gonna pick?” 

Chris went to speak, but paused. He seemed to think about something, looking slightly scared but still turning to the boy across from him anyway, “I thought maybe…Luke would like to reinstate himself as team captain this month.”

Right, you’d completely forgotten. During your spear lessons with Clarisse, you’d asked her why it was so important that you be amazing at fighting quickly if monsters couldn’t get into camp. She’d then explained the whole situation that was Capture the Flag — how it was a bigger deal than the super bowl around here — before briefly mentioning that Luke had always been Hermes team captain, but stepped down for the last game because his scar was still healing from his quest. Chris had taken over for him, and based off of the looks the people around you were sporting, you assumed they weren’t expecting him to give up his title so quickly. 

You couldn’t blame them. Luke hadn’t exactly expressed much desire to captain this time — he hasn’t expressed much desire for anything these days apparently. You were all waiting for him to let Chris down easy, but instead he looked up from his plate with an indifferent nod and said, “Yeah, sure.” 

Nobody said anything. Except Chris who, when Luke stood to rack up his empty plate, looked at you gravely and asked, “Was it a handjob?”

🏷️ @katherines-imagines @lovingjasontoddmakemewanttocry @jennapancake @cobaltskiez @loveryoushouldcomeoverr @m00ng4z3r @mischiefmoons @woodlandwrites @theo-notts-doll @iammightsadyall @fennecswife @csifandom @tsireyasgf (just ask to be removed/added!)

[vauxxy]

why are some tumblr writers so fucking entitled?💀 like why are basically forcing people to reblog your work? Talking about "Only likes will be blocked" just don't post your shit at this point lmaooo 😭😭

(more in the tags!)