Spinning These Around In The Washing Machine That Is My Brain

I am so very in love with these.

tweets with pjo characters (iv.)

content summary: same deal as last time idk. persassy, grover being a cutie pie, reader fighting for their life, percy and luke beef, chris being a himbo!

note: gonna have to make a masterlist for these lmfaoooo. finally finished exams guys new semester starts next, week, my free time is clears i'm so back. also charlie bushnell is so so pretty i could stare at him for days let's talk about it.

part one / part two / part three

Dead Poets Society (1989) dir. Peter Weir

PARAMOUR

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pairing: college!luke castellan x fem!reader

summary: three times luke was there for you instead of your current boyfriend and the last time you let your boyfriend treat you like shit

warnings: cursing, jealous, bad bf behavior, unsolicited actions, boxing, bad bf gets shit rocked, cheating, alluding of reader cheating (they aren’t), kissing, fluff

a/n: wanted to take a break from requests and ffy to write this, still debating on rewriting feigning for ya’

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I. TIME MANAGEMENT & SUPPORT

You knew dating the president of a fraternity would render him busy, most of the time. More often than not you’d get texts of excuses your boyfriend, Nate McCormick, explaining why he couldn’t make it to events and shows you planned.

It was a given and you didn’t want to blame Nate for his lack of presence. Being a fraternity president was time consuming with fundraisers and parties and…other things. You weren’t too involved in Greek life.

Even the off chance Nate did show up, he never showed out. Sure, he’s a little tired from planning events and he tells you he’s proud, but he never stays for long, not really caring.

It was like your things were a bother to him, but when you didn’t show up to one frat event—he’d get all pissy.

Luke was on speed dial for this exact reason.

For example, the students in the business course had a mock competition with each other to prepare for future competitions. Your group earned third place amongst twenty-five other groups.

The professors held an award ceremony with trophies and certificates. Nate met you after the ceremony and gave you a side hug.

“Hey, baby—you did good! It’s good.” He didn’t get the event to well. A call pulled him away, eventually causing him to leave the event entirely. He seemed almost happy.

You watched his shoulders sag in relief as he walked away with some quick excuse. You thought him whisper into his phone “perfect timing, dude.”

And now, you stood alone; staring at your boyfriend’s text.

Loml<3

Had to go, some fuckwads fucked everything up.

3m ago

Busy.

Always goddamn busy when your things came up.

You weren’t alone for long, thankfully, when Luke walked over; away from his conversation with Silena and Clarisse (it was like he was waiting for the perfect moment to talk to you).

You invited Luke to the ceremony and he showed out (at least someone did). He presented you a small bouquet for your achievement despite his protests on your group receiving third instead of first.

“Listen!” Luke held up a red solo cup during the after party. No one listened, too busy dancing and getting drunks from their accomplishments.

“What are you doing?” You hid a laugh behind your hand, trying to get him to back down from his toast.

“No, no—I must!” Luke smirked. Your small group of friends paying attention. “You should’ve won first and you will win first at nationals! I, for one, am very proud!”

His chocolate brown curls bounced back as he finished off whatever was swirling in the red solo cup. Clarisse, Silena, Chris and you raise your cups and copied his movements.

A small blush rose to your neck and cheeks (because of the alcohol, mhm). You smiled at Luke. “We will win first and I’ll dedicate the win to you.” You joked.

“You better!” Luke ruffled your hair.

Ding!

Loml<3

Otw home, goodnight baby

See you tomorrow, champ

Now

You ignored the texts as you celebrated with Luke’s arm wrapped around your shoulder, singing “Party Rock Anthem” by LMFAO with Clarisse and Silena, and celebrating a mock completion. You didn’t want support later, it was better in the moment.

II. ADVANTAGE

“Listen, baby—this doesn’t concern. It’s—it’s frat stuff.” Nate gave you a small smile and squeezed your thigh under the table. The guy was engrossed in a conversation with his friends. It was like he was on a date with his friends.

You wouldn’t be surprised.

“Just sit there and look pretty, alright?”

That hit an already tight nerve.

You see—when Nate invited you out to dinner, you idiotically thought that it would just be you and him.

Y’know, to make up for the times he’s bailed out of your school events—or left you stranded at dinner dates (which meant you had to pay for both of your dinners). But, hey! You didn’t mind Nate’s friends joining you for dinner.

Nope. Not at all.

And all this shit kept building and building up. Honestly, when was he ever going to really make it up to you.

You picked at the salad he ordered you—when everything blew up. His hand inched higher and higher on your thigh, beneath your denim skirt. The nerve of him.

Nate and his friends were startled when you stood up, slamming your utensils on the table and gave them a curt excuse to use the bathroom.

So, here you were, leaning against the black marble sink, calling Luke to bail you out of here. He was on speed dial. The lavender incense soothed your frustration.

“Hey, what’s up?” He picked up after two rings. His voice slightly raspy, but it was smooth like a vinyl record.

“Are you busy?”

“Kinda—I’m out with Chris and the Stoll brothers right now.”

“Okay then, nevermind—”

“No—no! Do you need something? What is it?”

“It’s fine, I can call Clarisse instead—”

“Y/N. Are you okay?”

You took a deep breath. It felt like too much to ask for him to come pick you up when he was hanging out with friends.

“Are you okay?” You paused, weighing your decisions silently. Go back to Nate with him getting handsy in front of his friends or go back to your dorm and sleep in comfortable clothes. The latter felt like the better option.

“Can you come pick me up? I do not want to be here right now.”

“Yeah—yeah, I’ll be there soon.”

The line disconnects and you send Luke your location. Nate was too preoccupied with his friends to notice you leaving the restaurant, not so discreetly (you ran into a waiter). Yet, you somehow made it to Luke’s car.

“Are you okay?” He asked. His eyebrows knit with concern as his fingers drum against the steering wheel.

“Just drive—drive, drive!”

Luke almost hit another car listening to your urgent commands. The honking horns from the car behind you stopped eventually, after the driver flipped you off and shouted a spew of curse words. Luke and you look at each other. A pause of silence, before you burst out in giggles and laughs.

“Icecream?”

“Icecream.”

Nate<3

Venmo me $10 for the salad

10:29 pm

Absolutely fucking not.

III. JEALOUSY

So, your boyfriend apparently did have eyes. Not for the effort you put into your appearance or your appreciation for him, but in other men.

Not in a romantic way, but in a jealous way.

Yeah, yeah.

He hardly paid attention to you and even if he did—he always wanted something. Sex, money, the list goes on and on. You’re sure, as of late, he could give a rat’s ass where you’ve been.

Yet, when Nate showed up, unannounced, while you were having a movie night with the girls and Luke (he begged to do face masks with everyone) jealousy was the most prominent thing on his face and not those hideous eyebrows.

You remembered predicting his thoughts. “Why is she hanging out with another guy?” “Bastard wants my girl?” “I’m the only guy she needs.”

So, this is how you found yourself in an off-campus gym with Silena because Nate had to prove he was better than your best friend.

Interrupting girls night.

Nate slipped on boxing gloves whilst Luke leaning against the ropes. Your boyfriend has never boxed before, but he could fight. Your cheeks pink with embarrassment. It was stupid—this was stupid. You are not doing anything romantic with Luke.

Nate should’ve tried to give more a shit in the relationship if he didn’t want you hanging out with your best friend all the time.

“Baby, can you do this?” Nate pouted and displayed the velcro strap on his boxer.

You sucked it up and strapped the Velcro strip. Nate looked at you like he was expecting something else. A good luck kiss.

With the shit he’s pulling. No.

“His fragile masculinity is bruised.” Silena commented quietly, hiding a giggle behind her hand.

“It’s stupid.” You mumbled irritated. Silena and you found some vacant chairs to sit in. “He has to drag me here when he knows I have plans. I’m sorry we can’t go to the flea market now—”

“It’s okay.” Silena reassured quickly. “I’ve been waiting for your boyfriend to realize he’s an idiot.”

(Spoiler alert. He will never)

Nate was really insistent on no head gear. It had something to do with messing up his hair. A gym employee was refereeing the match. He blew the small silver whistle for it to start.

Nate spewing phrases similar to “you think you can just take my girl?” or “she wants me, bro.” Shit like that. Silena watch you hide behind your purse in embarrassment, because what the fuck?!

Neither guys wanted to throw the first punch, that was until Luke mentioned where his gloves were positioned.

“Hey man, you really should keep your arms up near your head.” A helpful tip.

Then—then Nate threw the first punch.

“You keep your arms up!” Nate mocked in a baby voice.

It was sloppy, had no form, and swung in anger. You observed as Luke dodged it with ease; isolating his torso in a way that it felt like a dance.

Compared to Luke, Nate kept his hands guarding his chest. He’s shifting weight foot to foot, breathing like a bull who saw red. Your boyfriend threw another punch, aiming for Luke’s face. Luke responded with protecting his face—taking the brute of the attack on his forearms.

Luke’s body moved fluidly like water when he retailed with his own punch. He isn’t swinging recklessly like Nate did. His movements are processed. Outputting a certain ton of his strength.

The tips of your ears heat up, turning pink underneath your hair. You’ll admit, your eyes are following Luke the whole time.

Since when did Luke box?

Luke is steady on his feet, keeping a rhythm with his punches. Nate could barely block them, getting hit a few times. You watch his torso shift to dodge and advance. The black compression shirt Luke wore was doing things—like the fabric was made to twist with his body.

You’re taken out of your stupor as you watch the bright red boxing glove collide with Nate’s cheek. Your boyfriend was thrown off his balance and landed on his ass. You winced knowing it stung despite the padding. The whistle blew, calling quits to the the match. Luke won.

“No harm, no foul. You okay?” Luke asked, silently giving the “I told you so” look about protecting his head. The curly haired boxer took off a glove to offer a hand an help Nate up.

Nate didn’t take it. In a millisecond, you watched your boyfriend throw his whole body weight into the punch.

The punch colliding with his face, hitting Luke’s eye, nose and cheek at the same time.

“What the fuck, Nate!?” You shouted in disbelief, standing up to enter the ring.

The employee blowed his whistle again, pointing Nate towards the doors. “Bitch.” Nate spat and you pushed him. He was out of his mind, but he looked at you like you were the crazy one.

“What the hell, babe!?”

“The fight was over. That was uncalled for!” You told your boyfriend firmly as he was getting pulled out of the ring and kicked out.

“Why are you defending him?” Nate scoffed and held onto the ropes just to argue. “I got hit too! I got hit and you’re defending this dickwad?”

“You hit him when he was trying to help you!” You argued and left the ring to make him see his wrongful actions.

“He mocked me—hurt my face and you only care for him.” Nate accused. “What? Are you sucking his dick?”

The fact he mentioned something so lewd and outlandish had steam blowing out of your ears. “Cool off, Nate. Control that fucking temper.” You demanded. “You know I would never cheat.”

“You’re with him all the time, babe! I wouldn’t be surprised.” He was actively being pushed out by employees. “I’m your boyfriend! I’m your fucking boyfriend!”

“Sure, don’t act like it.” You grumbled.

The bell on the door rung. Nate was kicked out. You swiveled on your heels and found Luke nursing a bloody nose. Silena handed him her some paper towels.

Apologies were on the tip of your tongue waiting to come out. Luke watched your face go from frustration to guilt. “Don’t worry.” Luke reassured with a grin. There was blood in his teeth. His left eye was tearing up due to the contact of the boxing glove.

“Luke, that wasn’t right for Nate to do.” You mumbled and crossed your arms.

“No.” You could hear the ‘but’ in his tone. “But, it was partly my fault. I was riling him up.”

“By telling him to protect his head?”

“Yeah. Men like him hate being told what to do, but I was concerned for his safety. Honest!”

Silena deadpanned and grabbed her purse and yours. “Green is not a good color on your boyfriend.” Silena mentioned and you sighed.

Luke grabbed your hand, squeezing it to get your attention. He still had that charming smile you’ve grown to love. “Besides, he hit like a girl. He just got lucky and popped a blood vessel.”

IV. THE FINAL STRAW

Out of sight, out of mind.

The quote from Euphoria resonated with you well. It was ironic you were dating a Nate too.

Your boyfriend and you were playing hopscotch on the line of a messy breakup. Lately, arguments were the only thing happening when you saw him. You wanted him to apologize for the accusations he made. His ego too big for him to stoop down to that level.

So, the girls and Luke took you out partying to distract you from relationship troubles. Luke insisted and begged that you let him come because he had nothing to do. It was a lie.

He just liked hanging out with Silena, you, Clarisse and Thalia because of the vibes.

You could feel the bass of the music in your chest when you and the others walk up to the house. Pretty much, you’re thrown into dancing, drinking and games.

Nate is the furthest thing from your mind.

It’s an Alpha Ki party, which meant no Nate tonight or at least that’s what you thought.

You were dancing with Clarisse. The body heat in the room making a thin layer of sweat gloss over your skin. Alcohol buzzed in your veins. It made you feel good, but now you were thirsty.

You had a clear enough head to decided water for your next drink instead of your usual alcohol. “I’m going to get water!” You yelled at Clarisse over the loud music and wormed your way through the crowd.

Digging through the cooler, beneath the beer bottles, cans and chunks of ice, you found your treasure. You’ve never been more relieved to feel and drink cold water.

You took a break to drink your water before leaving the kitchen to join Clarisse again when you saw him.

He was in your sight, which meant he was in your mind.

The worse thing about it was he was shoving his tongue down another girl’s throat, grabbing her ass. What was he even doing at another frat party when he was supposed to be monitoring his own?

Angry, heartbreak and devastation consumed your beating heart. After everything…everything—you did for Nate. From being a supportive girlfriend to dressing up more for him to paying for his dinners to reassuring him about his frat events to—everything, everything you did. All the one sided bullshit you did blew up.

Your body moved without a second thought. Hands moving to unscrew the water bottle cap and suddenly, Nate was soaked (you tried to avoid the girl as much as possible). His clothes wet. So weird, wow.

“You bitch!” Nate exclaimed in irritation, shaking his hands of water droplets. He looked at you like you killed his mom.

You shook your head. He didn’t get to be angry—he cheated, not you. “You are a cheating fuckwad, Nate!” Putting it into words he understood.

“You’re paying for my clothes. You ruined them!” Nate stepped closer to you, pushing the girl he was making out with aside.

“Start paying for your own shit! I’m not your mom, I was your girlfriend” You threw the empty water bottle at him and stormed out of the party.

Your heart was being squeezed so tightly you couldn’t breathe. Tears stinging your eyes, no doubt ruining your mascara.

It’s stupid. You shouldn’t be crying over your, now, ex-boyfriend. He treated you like shit.

You couldn’t help it. You loved him. You had to of. You made excuses for the shitty things he did and never broke up with him. It hurt to see him kiss another girl. The icing on the cake.

He used you because that’s what men like him do.

You barely recognize another pair of footsteps behind you, so angry with yourself for crying. Was it normal to cry over someone so shitty?

“Hey. Hey…” The familiar voice soothes you and soon your met with his eyes. Twinkling like the stars. His arms wrap around you, comforting you. Luke was always around when you needed it. Which made him the perfect boyfriend.

“I should’ve known. I should’ve known he would do that!” You reprimanded yourself. Words muffled in Luke’s shoulder.

Luke frowned at that. Love can make someone do crazy things, including blinding one’s faults. “God, he was such a dick!”

“Yeah, almost all the letters are in his last name.” Luke quipped and pulled back from the hug to wipe away your tears. “Just missing the ‘d’, god, sex with him must’ve been horrible if he was missing the ‘d’.”

You laughed through your blurry vision at his corny joke; his attempt to make you feel better. The whole cheating fiasco sobered you up and now, you noticed how close Luke was to you. “Listen, he’s going to regret treating a beautiful girl like shit, okay?” Luke reassured.

Your heart beat a little faster. “You think I’m beautiful?”

“Always, sweetheart. Every damn day.” Luke admitted sheepishly with a grin and kissed your forehead.

Your ear turned pink beneath your hair. Was it right? To be so close to your best friend, to think about him in that way when you had a break up minutes ago.

You stare at him, not saying anything. No words were desperately trying to claw its way out of her mouth. Then, your eyes slowly shift to his lips: pink, thin, kissable.

It’s a bad idea, right?”

But, this is the most sober you have been all night. “You…” You knit your eyebrows, finding words to say. “You’ve always been there for me. Like nobody else, saved me countless of times for my ex…”

You want to cry, expressing this after the whole Nate situation. You cupped his cheeks with your hands. “You’re so handsome and—and…I think I’ve been thinking this for a long time.”

“God, how awful of me.”

Luke gave you a sympathetic look and put his hands on your wrists. He leaned over to press a soft kiss to your pulse point that caused even more pink to bloom across your cheeks. “I will…I will do everything McCormick couldn’t do for you.” Luke promised, and tucked a piece of hair back.

“You already have.” You whispered and pressed your lips to his. They were like magnets itching to connect. Luke’s hands slid down to your hips, rubbing tiny circles into the bone. You hands pressed against his chest.

This, this was what a kiss was supposed to feel like. Nothing dull or quick—but thought out with sparks flying everywhere.

“I…I’ve liked you, for a really—really long time.” Luke admitted blushing slightly. “I mean since the first day we met, I’m sure.”

“I don’t want you to think this is a rebound thing.” You mumbled and he kissed you sweetly, dispelling the thought right out of your head.

“I know it’s not. You’re just finally realizing your feeling for me because I’m so awesome.” Luke joked, but it made you waiver your doubts in an instance. “I promise you, sweetheart, I’ll be a better boyfriend than him.”

“You already are. You already have…” You repeated and kissed him again. It was true, Luke had practically been your boyfriend on the side when dates with Nate weren’t working out. He cheered you up, brought flowers to your event, and made you feel less guilty about the boxing match.

The two of you parted after a little bit. Foreheads resting on one another. “How about…we ditch this party, get the others and have another movie night?” Luke suggested.

“You just want to do more face masks.” You accused jokingly.

“I do not!” You could feel hit grin, so close to your face. Luke wrapped a strong arm around your waist and guided you back to the party. He was going to retrieve your friends.

“Do too.” You retorted and pointed at his smile.

“Okay, maybe I do. Can we do them?” Luke pouted and faced you.

“Fine.”

Luke’s grin widened. He celebrated walking back inside to retrieve your friends. He wanted you to time him. A motivation thing, you guessed.

The timer stopped at ten minutes and fifty one seconds when he came out of your house with Clarisse, Silena and Thalia.

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NEWSIES

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FLICKERING LIGHTS - racetrack higgins x reader

SPIDERS AND THREAD - racetrack higgins x reader

MY BONNIE - racetrack higgins x reader

HOPELESSLY IN LOVE - racetrack higgins x reader

RUBS RIGHT OFF - newsies x platonic!reader

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levii's jeans | art donaldson x reader

warnings: SMUT 18+, cursing, mention of death, other than that pure fluff! this is an au!!

listen while you read! cowboy carter masterlist

The front door creaked open with a heavy groan, hinges warped just enough by time and South Carolina summers. It was nearly seven, the sun starting to melt behind the hills, and the smell of baked peaches and browned butter still clung to the air. You didn’t turn around at first—you knew that sound, knew the lazy thud of boots on hardwood, the way it was always followed by a deeper, familiar exhale.

"Hey, pretty girl."

That voice. Rough with exhaustion, low with affection. You grinned into the sink as you rinsed the last plate, suds clinging to your wrist.

"Hey, sexy," you shot back, glancing over your shoulder.

There he was—sweaty, sun-kissed, a walking southern daydream. Art Donaldson leaned in the doorway like he hadn’t just spent nine hours mending the southern pasture fence. Shirt half-buttoned, jeans hanging low on his hips, hair matted down by his cowboy hat. Lord, he looked good. And he knew it.

He set his gloves on the table, walked over slow, like he had all the time in the world. You felt his eyes sweep over you, the soft hum of appreciation under his breath.

"What’s that smell?" he asked, nudging your shoulder with his nose, his hands already at your waist.

"Peach cobbler. Still warm," you murmured, leaning back into him. "And don’t try to distract me with your hands in my back pocket again, Mr. Donaldson."

He chuckled against your neck, voice all gravel and syrup. "Can’t help it. These jeans were made for my hands."

You elbowed him playfully, but he just held you tighter, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. Outside, the kids yelled something about the sprinkler, laughter echoing off the barn walls. Inside, it was just you, him, and the scent of something sweet.

You glanced toward the window. "We should call 'em in before they track mud everywhere."

"They’ll come in when they smell supper," Art murmured, spinning you gently to face him. His hands found your waist again, pulling you close with a soft insistence that made your breath catch. "Right now, I’m busy."

"Oh, you’re busy, huh?" you teased, letting your arms drape around his neck.

He didn’t answer with words. Just slid his hands into the back pockets of your jeans, pulling you flush against him as he kissed you slow, deliberate—like the whole day had been leading to this moment. The kind of kiss that made you forget the dishes, the sprinkler, the porch light you’d meant to fix.

And then—

"Ew! Moooom, Daaaad!"

You broke apart with a laugh, forehead pressed to Art’s as the kids barreled in, barefoot and soaking wet, each dragging a towel behind them.

"Told you they’d come in," Art grinned, pressing one last quick kiss to your cheek.

"Go wash up! Supper’s ready," you called, still flushed and smiling.

As they darted down the hall, Art leaned in close one more time, whispering, "I'll get you later. Trust me."

You swatted him with a dish towel. He just winked, sauntering off to set the table like the smug, lovesick cowboy he was.

It still feels like a dream, some days. That this is your life now—boots by the door, cobbler in the oven, laughter echoing through the halls of the house Art had once only known through childhood summers. Every July, without fail, Granny Donaldson would bring him here. She’d plop him in the porch rocker with a popsicle or sweet tea, let him chase fireflies until he collapsed into her lap—half-asleep, sticky with sunshine, a gap-toothed grin still ghosting his face.

She’d been the kind of woman who ran the ranch with a firm hand and a warm heart. She smelled like lemon balm and old books. She called him her golden boy and taught him how to ride, how to tend tomatoes, how to tell the weather by the sky. When she passed—just after he turned pro—Art hadn’t cried. Not at first. But when the letter came saying the ranch was his now, he spent three hours alone in a locker room, staring at the tile floor until it blurred.

It was only natural for him to end up here when he finally retired. Tennis had taken so much—his shoulder, his fire, his sense of peace. And he gave it willingly, until there was nothing left but a name in a bracket and a body that ached in the mornings. But it had also brought him the two greatest things in his life: Tashi, his old coach and lifelong friend (now very happily with Patrick, which still made Art smirk), and you—his wife, the only person who made him feel like more than what he’d won.

The ranch isn’t just a home. It was a return to softness. To something earned, not chased. And every day that begins and ends with you? That’s the real trophy.

Dinner is a little chaotic—just the way you like it. Art’s already got one kid slung under his arm like a sack of potatoes, spinning them in slow circles while they shriek with laughter. The other clings to his leg dramatically, demanding equal attention, and he obliges with a tickle attack that ends in a pile of giggles on the kitchen floor. The kids bounce around the table, hair still damp from the sprinkler, cheeks flushed from sun rays and childhood. Eventually, he wrangles them both into chairs, brushing flour off one forehead and plucking a wild dandelion from the other’s curls. He sets the plates down with a mock flourish, tossing you a wink when the cobbler gets an audible gasp from your youngest.

You scoop mashed potatoes with one hand and tap a napkin under your daughter’s chin with the other. Across from you, Art is dramatically cutting the kids’ chicken into cartoonishly small bites, complete with sound effects and mock chef commentary that makes both children giggle so hard they almost forget to eat. Art slips into the seat across from you, that easy smile on his face as he passes the butter for the rolls like it’s the most important task he'll ever do.

"Daddy, why do your arms look like tree trunks?" your son blurts, halfway through his cornbread.

Art raises an eyebrow, flexes—just a little—and leans in. "Because I wrestled an alligator for that fence today."

The kids shriek with laughter. You roll your eyes. "He fixed a post and scared off a chicken. Don’t let him fool you."

Art shrugs, smug. "Still counts."

The table rocks with warmth—forks clinking, stories swapping, feet nudging under the table. You catch Art watching you more than once, chin resting in his hand, his gaze soft and full of something weighty. Something content.

He doesn’t say it out loud, but you know what he’s thinking.

This. Right here.

This is the life he never knew how much he needed.

"Who wants some vanilla bean with their cobbler?" you ask, already reaching for the ice cream scooper.

Two voices chorus, "Me! Me! Me!" as the kids bounce in their seats, bowls clutched in eager little hands.

A few minutes later, they’re curled up on the porch swing and an old quilt, cobbler bowls in their laps, bare feet swinging just above the floorboards. Fireflies flicker at the edges of the yard, and the sky is fading lavender, dusk giving way to the velvet hush of night.

You and Art settle into the rocking chairs side by side, plates balanced on your thighs, each holding a generous scoop of cobbler crowned with slowly melting vanilla. The whiskey glasses clink softly between you, golden liquid catching the last threads of light.

Art exhales, low and content, boots crossed at the ankles as his chair creaks back. He leans just enough to nudge your shoulder.

"You really outdid yourself with that crust," he says, voice warm and a little raspy.

You hum, licking cobbler from your spoon. "You say that every time."

"Because it’s true every time."

The breeze slips through the screens, carrying the scent of honeysuckle and cooling earth. One of the kids lets out a sleepy giggle. You glance over to see your daughter bump her brother with her elbow, both of them sticky and happy.

Art watches them too, then looks back at you. That same look from dinner—like everything in the world could stop, and he’d still be right here.

And for a moment, you let it all be quiet.

Just the chairs rocking. Just the cobbler cooling. Just the love lingering in the air like smoke and the essence of promise.

Eventually, the kids are carried off to bed—sleepy and syrup-smeared, full of stories and sun. You wipe the last of the cobbler from your son’s chin and braid your daughter’s damp curls as she yawns in your lap. Art reads the bedtime book tonight, his voice deep and slow as the kids cuddle into your sides. You sing their goodnight song softly—one passed down from your own mother—and tuck in blankets with whispered kisses to soft foreheads. When your son insists on 'just one more hug,' you oblige, pulling him in tight, while Art straightens the stuffed animals along the windowsill.

You close the door with the practiced hush of parents who’ve done this a hundred times and hope to do it a hundred more.

Back in the kitchen, it’s just the two of you again. The plates are stacked in the sink, the cobbler dish nearly empty, the last of the whiskey poured. You stand at the counter, sleeves pushed up, warm water running. Art takes the towel without asking, drying beside you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

"Thinking about calling Mr. Sutter next week," he says. "That north field’s about ready for leasing. We could run that hay crop deal we talked about."

You nod, handing over a plate. "Might be time to start writing out some numbers. You want me to look over it tomorrow?"

He hums his approval. "You always catch what I miss."

You glance sideways, smile tugging at your mouth. "Damn right I do."

He laughs—low and boyish—and sets the last plate down with a thunk. His hand grazes your lower back, slow and lingering. You don’t have to look to know what’s coming next.

"You think the kids are really asleep?"

"I think they’re out cold," you murmur, turning to face him.

He steps closer, hands skimming your hips, eyes dipped in amber and mischief.

"Then c’mere, pretty girl. Been thinking about you all day."

And when he kisses you this time—without an audience, without the interruption of sticky hands or squealing laughter—it’s deep and unhurried. Like every quiet thing you’ve built together. Like the kind of love that grows slow and steady and pulls you under just the same.

He backs you up against the counter, mouth still on yours, one hand slipping beneath your shirt, the other tugging you close. You hum into him, fingers curling into the fabric of his tee, and let yourself be kissed like that. Warm. Wanting. Home.

Eventually, you're tugging him down the hallway by the collar of his shirt, both of you muffling laughter like teenagers about to get caught. The bedroom is dark except for the moonlight pouring in through the sheer curtains, and the air smells faintly of cedar and sun-warmed linen.

Art closes the door behind him, and when he turns, his eyes are hungry in that soft, familiar way. Not greedy—just full of you.

"Think I should get you out of those jeans," he murmurs, brushing a thumb under the hem of your shirt. "You know, before I do somethin’ irresponsible."

"Pretty sure we passed 'responsible' an hour ago," you grin, already reaching for his belt. He laughs, kisses your cheek, your jaw, your collarbone.

Clothes come off between kisses, tossed somewhere near the foot of the bed. The mattress dips beneath you both, and he settles between your legs like it’s the only place he’s ever meant to be.

It’s fun, and messy, and filled with the kind of intimacy that only grows from years of loving someone deeply and daily. He makes you laugh when he nearly knocks his knee on the nightstand, and you whisper a soft “bless your heart” into his neck as he groans dramatically.

His hands roam slow—callused palms skating down your sides, thumbs brushing over your hips like a prayer. Your back arches under him as he kisses down your stomach, his name a breathy sigh against the pillow.

"Want me to take care of you?" he asks, voice low and velvet-smooth.

You nod, dizzy and already undone. "Always."

He does—patiently at first, tongue tracing soft, devastating circles that have your thighs tightening around his shoulders. His fingers find their rhythm next, slow and purposeful, curling just right until you’re gasping his name like a benediction. You fist the sheets, hips rising to meet every glide, every press, every flick of his tongue that turns you molten. He doesn’t stop until you’re trembling, crying out with your head thrown back and your voice wrecked with gratitude.

You’re still breathless when he crawls back up beside you, and you drag the back of your hand across your damp forehead, grinning like a fool. You press a kiss to his jaw and murmur, "I would’ve suggested we move down here a lot earlier if I’d known you were so passionate about cowgirls."

Art blinks, then grins, teeth catching the light. "Oh, you know exactly how I feel about cowgirl."

And before you can laugh again, he flips you with practiced ease, hands already trailing down your sides. His mouth finds your neck as you settle into his lap, and you’re both breathless with laughter and heat all over again.

You brace your hands on his chest, rocking your hips just enough to tease him as you sink down, slow and steady, watching his eyes flutter shut and his jaw clench. He leans up to press a line of kisses along your collarbone, then latches onto your chest with a low groan, tongue swirling, teeth scraping just enough to make your breath hitch. He murmurs something hot against your skin—“so damn soft”—before sucking again, then pulls back just long enough to say, “drives me crazy when you ride me like this.” His hands guide your rhythm while his mouth keeps alternating—suck, praise, kiss, filth. He worships every inch he can reach—your breasts, your sternum, the space just below your throat—like he can’t decide which part of you he needs most. Each word falls between kisses, between gasps, until your name is all he can say, all he can taste.

"Jesus," he breathes, hands gripping your hips like he’s hanging on for dear life.

You start to pace yourself now, slow and deliberate, grinding your hips in lazy circles that make his grip tighten and his mouth fall open. He leans in again between bounces, mouth latching onto your breast mid-movement, sucking you in deep before pulling back with a pop and whispering something filthy right against your skin—only to repeat the cycle all over again. Praise, suction, gasped-out adoration. One moment his mouth is dragging over your nipple with aching focus, the next it’s murmuring "you’re unreal, baby, fuck, just like that" into the curve of your chest. Every time you rise and fall, he meets you halfway, a soft grunt escaping him each time you take him deeper.

He’s a mess beneath you, flushed and panting, eyes locked on where your bodies meet. His mouth is far from quiet—he keeps talking, filthy and sweet in the same breath. Telling you how good you feel, how perfect you look like this, riding him like you were made for it. Every time you grind down, he gasps, eyes flickering up to yours with raw need.

"You’re gonna kill me," he groans, voice wrecked.

You lean forward, hands on either side of his head, and whisper, "What a way to go."

He laughs, breathless, but it catches midway when you clench around him. "Just like that, baby," he groans, hands guiding your hips into a deeper grind. "You’re so fuckin’ beautiful—look at you. You’re gonna ruin me." And when you lean down, pressing your mouth to his, he doesn’t stop. Even between kisses, he’s murmuring praise, coaxing your name, losing himself in the heat and rhythm of you. You ride him harder now, bouncing and grinding, letting your name fall from his lips like a prayer.

You feel it building in him before you’re even close—his hips stuttering, his head falling back into the pillow, a low moan breaking in his throat. You watch the tension coil in his body, watch the way he tries to hold off, tries to wait for you.

But you know him. You know that look.

"Let go," you whisper, hips rolling just right, your hand splayed over his chest. "I want to feel you."

And he does—with a strangled groan and a shudder that rocks through him, his hands seizing at your hips as he spills into you, mouth parted in awe.

You don’t stop. You keep going, slower now, chasing the rhythm that still curls in your belly. He’s still hard enough to keep going, to keep thrusting up into you with trembling effort, trying to give you what you need.

You grind against him, one hand slipping between your legs, and he watches—absolutely wrecked—as you take yourself over the edge. The sound you make is soft but guttural, head thrown back, muscles tightening around him until he gasps again from the overstimulation.

You finally sink down against him, chests sticky, breath tangled. He wraps his arms around you, and neither of you says a word for a long, perfect moment.

You collapse onto his chest, hearts racing in sync, bodies flushed and sated.

For a while, it’s just the sound of your breathing, the slow stroke of his hand across your back, the cool brush of the sheets as you both shift into something softer. You press your cheek against his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart under your skin.

He finally breaks the silence with a low murmur. "You’re unbelievable."

You grin against his collarbone. "Takes one to know one."

He kisses your hair. "We should do this more often."

"What, have incredible sex while the kids are asleep and the house is clean? Groundbreaking."

He chuckles, deep and warm. "Okay, yeah—but also just... this. You and me. Like this."

You lift your head, meet his eyes in the dark. "You know we’ve got it good, right? Like really good."

His expression softens. "I know. I think about it every day."

You lay there a while longer, curled into each other, letting the silence stretch. Not empty—never empty. Just full of peace.

Eventually, he shifts to reach for the blanket, tugging it over both of you with a satisfied sigh. You nestle closer, nose brushing his shoulder.

After a few quiet beats, you murmur, "I know you miss her."

Art doesn’t answer right away. His hand is still moving gently across your spine, slow and thoughtful.

"Every day," he finally says. "She’d love this. The kids. The way you bake like it’s a sacred ritual. The porch. The damn cows. All of it."

You tilt your head to look up at him. "She’d be proud of you, you know. You turned this place into something really beautiful."

He nods once, eyes a little glassy but steady. "I hope so. Sometimes I think I hear her voice out by the tomatoes. Or smell her tea on the breeze. I don’t know if it’s real or just memory playing tricks. But it’s comforting either way."

You press a kiss to his chest. "It’s real enough."

He breathes out, a quiet laugh. "She always said I needed to slow down. I guess she got her wish."

"Yeah," you whisper, closing your eyes again. "And look at everything you made when you finally did.

Art’s quiet for a second, then grins. You feel it more than see it—the slow curve of his mouth against your temple.

"How about we make some more?" he whispers, pulling you gently by the hips, shifting beneath you just enough to suggest exactly what he means.

You laugh softly, lips brushing his as you murmur, "You’re insatiable."

"You love me."

"Unfortunately," you whisper back, already kissing him again.

The covers shift. A soft rustle, a giggle, a breath caught between lips. His hands are already moving again—lazy, warm, familiar—and your laughter is muffled against his mouth as he flips you over for the second time that night. The rhythm starts up again, slow and teasing, and somewhere beneath the hush of crickets and the creak of the headboard, one of you says something ridiculous that makes the other laugh so hard you both nearly lose the moment.

But not quite.

Because even in the dark, even between gasps and jokes and tangled sheets, it’s all still love. All still home.

-----

tagging: @kimmyneutron @babyspiderling @queensunshinee @hanneh69 @jamespotteraliveversion @glennussy @awaywithtime @artstennisracket @blastzachilles @jordiemeow @soulxinxthexsky @voidsuites @elsieblogs @deeninadream @nozhdyved @asheepinfrance

hii hope you’re having a good time i was wondering if you were okay with a luke castellan x reader request where she has him try all the different flavors of her lipglosses until he finds his favorite please

◟𖥻 gloss taste test : luke castellan

▰▰ pairing: luke castellan x fem!reader

luke trying his girlfriend's lipglosses until he finds his favorite— except he just likes the kisses.

"Next"

Luke's voice is almost lazy, as he leans back on his elbows with a smug, amused smile on his face.

It had all started when Luke saw her collection of lip glosses and he dared to question it, "Why would you have so many if they're basically the same?"

And from that, he'd ended up here, sprawled on her bed, surrounded by her plushies, while she sat cross-legged in front of him, a bunch of glosses scattered over the covers.

"I swear you're not even trying." She shakes her head while applying the next one.

Luke shrugs, eyes fixed on her lips. "It just wasn't a strong contender." His hand suddenly shots up to her waist to pull her close. "Now, come here."

Before she can even drop the tube, he crashes his lips against hers. A soft, breathless giggle leaving her lips.

"That one's good, but not my favorite." he says against her lips before fully pulling back. "Next."

"You didn’t even let me tell you the flavor." She blinks at him, still stunned.

He smiles smugly. "Strawberry, love, I can taste it."

She rolls her eyes fondly, grabbing the next gloss, a soft, shiny pink. "This one's called Pink lemonade sorbet."

Luke raises an eyebrow. "That's surely not a real flavor."

"Try it yourself." She challenges playfully after applying it.

Of course, Luke is immediately leaning in to kiss her. When he pulls back, he hums thoughtfully. "Interesting. But not the one."

"Not even trying." She repeats, amused.

This goes on for a while. Peach candy? Good, but not great. Cotton candy? Sweet. Birthday cake? Absolutely not. Vanilla is too bland, But mint too tingly. Ginger snap? Gods, no. Chocolate—

"I like that." He hums, smiling against her lips. "But there’s gotta be a better one."

"You're doing this on purpose." She narrows her eyes, her cheeks already warm.

"I'm just taking my job very serious." he replies as she reaches for another tube of gloss.

It's a new one. She has barely used this one. It's mauve, with glittery shimmer, labeled dragon fruit. She swipes it on carefully, Luke's eyes following every movement.

And when she kisses him again, it's different. This time, there's no immediate next. Instead, he kisses deliberately slow, and she can totally feel him smiling against her lips. He doesn’t pull away, not until he absolutely has to when air is finally needed.

Even then, his hand slids up to her jaw and he presses breathless, short kisses to her mouth, lip-gloss quickly gone.

"So, what did you think?" She asks, giggling between kisses.

He doesn’t answer this time. Instead his hand tugs on her waist until he has her sitting closer, then he takes the gloss from her hands. He uncaps it and gently reapplies it to her lips himself.

Then he leans in again, lips curving into a grin as they brush hers once more.

"Mhm" he hums between kisses, hand holding her cheek. "Where do you buy this? I'll make sure you never run out of it."

After that, she uses the same lip gloss almost every day.

And almost every day, it's quickly gone once Luke starts kissing her.

FEIGNING FOR YA

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CHAPTER 5

pairing: luke castellan x fem!reader

summary: exam season is over and an overwhelming amount of emotions come out

warnings: luke’s pov! not proofread! slow burn, college au, smau, fake dating to dating, cursing, aged up! pjo charcters, parental expectations

a/n: no smau this chapter! kind of decided it wasn’t appropriate with the events going on

series list | next

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What is it that people say?

Love is a fickle thing?

Love was not fickle. It was torturous in all the right ways and the wrong ways. Luke has fallen victim to love, under its binding curse for so long now. He doesn’t know if he can keep up the act of being your fake boyfriend. It’s worse than just being your friend, because now he can hold your hand, but he knows, he knows deep in his heart—you won’t be his.

You’re best friends. Nothing more, nothing less

Even if his heart ached for more.

At first thought, he believed he was in love with Nancy Thompson. A sophomore in his freshman English class. Nancy sat on the opposite side of the room: the corner desk. She was just…so cool and collected.

He’d rave about how Nancy was the love of his life to you and how the light hit her just right or when she have this little quirk while thinking like the stupid teenage boy he was.

Luke asked Nancy to homecoming and was rejected. He wasn’t as butt hurt as he thought he’d be—especially not with you around to cheer him up.

He hadn’t noticed until the night of homecoming how pretty you looked. Your dress was nothing short of perfect for you and the way your eyes shined in the cheap school lighting. He was lucky to have a best friend like you.

It was sophomore year when Luke realized, he was staring at you his whole freshman year. You were right in his line of vision: just before that corner desk. Why he thought he liked Nancy? He had no idea.

But, you were his bestfriend since…forever.

And just like ever cheesy Hallmark movie and horrible limited TV series, he kept quiet. Content with being your buddy old pal and admiring the little things you do and aiding in your troubles. As. A. Friend.

Luke thought it would go away when he first realized his feelings. He thought it would go away a few months later. He thought it would go away when he had his first kiss with someone else. He even (foolishly) thought it would go away when you and him started college.

It didn’t.

This warm feeling in his chest never went away. It tortured him like the electric chair would shock him everytime you were near: reminding him what he couldn’t have, what he could ruin if he confessed.

The gods must’ve hated his guts, or found his suffering amusing. What was he thinking? Suggesting he be your fake boyfriend?

He was a fool.

He had accepted that long ago.

But, he made a bigger fool of himself tonight than he ever did before.

“Exams are over!” Clarisse whooped as she got in the backseat of Luke’s car.

“Time to drink the night away!” You grinned, slipping into the passenger seat.

Luke gave you a pointed look when he saw the stolen shot bottles, courtesy of Chris’ sticky hands.“C’mon Lukey-poo! A little pre-game didn’t kill anyone.”

“You are so wrong about that.”

“You are not drinking those right now.” Luke spoke sternly. He was stuck with being DD tonight—though he could hold his alcohol better than his friends. “I’m not dealing with your drunk asses before we get to the club.”

“You’re no fun!”

“Someone’s being responsible.”

“Leave him be.” You gave him an apologetic smile and cranked up the radio. Luke mustered up the courage to place his hands over yours—

—to keep up the fake relationship narrative. Yup. Mhm.

Besides you didn’t push him away.

The club was more crowded than usual, but that was expected. Every college student and their mother was there tonight. The floors were sticky. It smelt of BO and musk. The perfect night to wash away stress and worries. And there was no way of telling what time it was without your phone.

Luke left you for a moment to get another drink for himself and for you? Water. You were a lightweight, there was no denying it. He came back to find you with your arms wrapped around some dude.

He wasn’t jealous. He wasn’t. He swears.

He was more concerned with you being drunk and taken advantage of. Which is why he handled it so cool-headed and nonchalant of him.

“Back off.” Luke wrapped an arm around your waist. His temper boiling beneath the seams.

“Woah, man!” The guy held his hands up in mock surrender. “Didn’t know she was your girl—”

He missed the last part guiding you away. “Lukey!” You exclaimed in a pout, poking at his cheek. Your cheeks pink from the alcohol. “Are you mad? I can see you’re mad. You are mad!”

“I’m not.”

“You are! We’re just friends in my Calc class!”

“I’m not mad—I just…” Luke looked for an excuse. “Let’s dance.” He nodded and grabbed your hands, pulling you to the dance floor.

“Okay!” You happily obliged, forgetting about the incident.

Maybe it was the alcohol stirring something in Luke’s veins. He had been dancing on the sticky club floor for more than an hour, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop: even when his feet ached, even when the smell of sweat got to much—your smile was worth it.

You’d make him twirl, dip and hold you as the music changed. Gods, did it feel nice to have you in his arms for this long—his heart ached more and more as the night went on.

Soon enough, you trudged your tired body and aching legs to a cushioned arm chair in the corner of the club. “You okay?” Luke asked, sitting on the coffee table in front of you. He flagged down a waiter for two glasses of water

“Yeah, my feet are killing me.” Your eyes wandered over him, his outfit for tonight. A short sleeved black button up and khaki wrangler pants. It was a good look on him. He looked…good.

Luke wrote that off as a drunken thought when he heard you mutter about how “good” he looked: ignoring the burning in his cheeks and ears.

“Y’know…” Your voice slurred.

Luke shut off his phone after quickly checking where Clarisse and Chris were. “We could break up now…”

His heart dropped.

“What?” He croaked.

Had he been to enveloped in playing pretend for you? He knew this day would come, but why now? Why after he introduced you to his mother again? Why after he saw you experience life with your own feelings forward instead of your parents? Why now?

“We should break up now.” You reaffirmed and looked at him. Maybe it’s the alcohol talking. “The guy from my Calc class is kinda cute—and your chick magnet will restore to its glory.”

It’s stupid he’s upset at this arrangement ending.

It’s stupid that he wants to cry.

You raise your eyebrows in surprise seeing your best friend so quiet and the upset furrow in his eyebrow. Isn’t he happy?

Luke stormed out of the club before he can do anything brash or cry.

You sober up quickly and chase him outside. Luke is walking to his car. “Hey! What the hell is this about?” You asked confused.

“Nothing—I’m going home. Tired.” He doesn’t even look at you.

“Are you mad? Over me ending this? You said it yourself I was dampening your chick magnet.” Anger bubbled up in your chest. You don’t know why. Maybe the alcohol is still talking.

Luke doesn’t answer.

“Seriously…this fake relationship didn’t really matter much to you.—” Gods, you were being such an asshole.

“It mattered to me!” Luke shouted. Years of holding back his feelings finally came spilling out as if a volcano erupted. “It mattered to me.”

He turned to you. Your heart broke seeing the emotions on his face: heartbreak, agony, shame. “You’re so—gods…I have known you for so long and I never knew you could be this dense until now.” He dryly laughed.

“Wha…”

“It mattered to me because I love you. I’ve been in love with you since highschool—and I’m such a goddamn lovesick idiot that I couldn’t get over you.” He explained, avoiding your eyes.

You’re silent, shocked at the confession. You sober up completely.

“This fake relationship—I accepted because…yes, I did want to fuck with your parents and help you live your life without them looking over your head, but I knew it was the closest thing I can get to being yours.”

Luke feels like a fool.

Shouting his pent up confession for all of Rowan Ave. to hear.

Way to go on not ruining your and his friendship. Luke did great at maintaining that.

“Luke…” You reached out to comfort him when Chris and Clarisse stumble out of the club, drunk.

“Holy shit—that last shot got me going.” Chris laughed as he leaned on Clarisse. You hesitate to help them, still stuck on Luke’s confession. You couldn’t process it when you still sobering.

Ultimately, you help them back into Luke’s car.

No words are shared between you two. The car is almost silent, save for the giggles and drunken words of Chris and Clarisse.

“It mattered to me.” Echoed over and over in your head. Your heartbeat quickened. Gods…you were the fool.

—– ٠ ✤ ٠ —–· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • · —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —–

taglist:

@happy-mushrooms @m00ng4z3r @justanotherkpopstanlol @2hiigh2cry @celluifleur @yuminako @pookiebear16 @mxtokko @cxcillia @kai-islost @kidkrowk @iluvpjo @sofiacblair @cherryynovaa @dracoslovergirl @lalloronaisreal @jennapancake @urbanflorals @sweetstime @cherr-y-eji @thatbird-fromrio @itzlilywelch @annispamz @unseriousgirl @hanankhan8 @rinisfruity14

just finished reading/re reading all your Luke fics!!! love them all mwuah mwuah 💋💋💋

thank you!! I appreciate all the support!!

“i can fix her, i can fix him, i can fix them”

i think we need to work on you first.

really honored to be on your rec list!!! thank you!!

loba’s 1k celebration! 𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩

guys thank you so much for 1k (almost 2k by the time this is out!) props to you guys for putting up with my shitposts cause i yap a lot and post nonsense half the time loll. i’m so so grateful and thankful xx 💖

anyways this post will consist of some of my favourite pjo (mostly luke castellan) works i’ve read so far (in order from the first to most recent ones i’ve read) because i think they deserve so much love and recognition! <3 make sure to check them out and reblog!!

ps! some of the work is nfsw so please respect the author and don’t interact if you are a minor!!

back to navigation. masterlist.

༊*·˚ luke castellan

i hate you by @chaussetteblanche

sly swordsman by @krkiiz

lovers lake by @balletfilmss

a place with you by @supercutszns

something out of my dreams by @celesterayel

the olive theory by @neo-nomatrix

daylight by @tangledinlove

all the stars by @initialchains

how to get a girl’s attention by @scwheeler

deception by @chaussetteblanche

this blurb with child of poseidon!reader by @birdiewriteslit

rotten to the touch series by @supercutszns

bleedin’ me dry by @atlabeth

head over heels by @sayoneee smau!

i won’t say (i’m in love) by @calliopeslyrics

lavender roses by @breadbrobin

parent trap by @sayoneee

where you are by @murdrdocs smut!

one year with luke castellan series by @tangledinlove

you’re beautiful by @ilycosy

rearrange your dreams by @murdrdocs smut!

a wish your heart makes by @mischiefmoons

always an angel, never a god by @cobrakaisb

ghost in the wind by @amoreva

this blurb by @apollos-calliope

this blurb about a bet with luke by @murdrdocs smut!

nobody's business by @voguesriot smau!

you don't know me by @kestisvrse

luke as your mom's friend's son by @too-deviant smut!