EIGHT OUT OF NINE LIVES

A SAD SONG

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pairing: luke castellan x daughter of apollo!reader

summary: in which the gods and goddesses were hungry for something new.

warnings: not proofread! tlt/tlo spoilers! major character, death, angst

a/n: inspired by @basicrese post!! i did use some hadestown lyrics/lines from the show, so credit to anaïs mitchell & Rachel chavkin.

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The seeds of doubt sprouted: grasping at his mind, tangling itself through his hope. The Fates whispered in his ears, step after step. It was cold and dark. He never felt more alone.

Where is she?

Where is she now?

Orpheus gripped his guitar tighter. Every step he made felt like he was getting further and further from the surface. He chastised himself at every turn.

Why would he let me win?

Why would he let her go?

Why am I to think that he wouldn’t device me just to make me leave alone?

Where is she?

Where is she now?

Eurydice’s words fell on deaf ears. She was desperate to let Orpheus know she was here. Right behind him. She’d always been. She kept staring at the back of his head. It brought immense comfort as they walked and walked out of the Underworld.

They were so close. Eurydice could taste the surface, until she saw the contours of his face and his warm eyes filled with affection. A soft gasp fell from her lips.

“It’s you.” Relief filled his heavy heart when Orpheus saw her. His love. What had he done?

“It’s me.” She committed his face to memory, the warmth of his gaze comforting her. “Orpheus—” Helplessly she reached out, hoping to embrace her love once more. Instead of the warmth she wanted, cold hands grasped her arms, dragging her back to the Underworld.

“Eurydice.” His voice cracked. Frozen, staring at the place where she was.

Thus ended the tragedy of Orpheus and Eurydice. Hermes told tales to entertain Olympus, but the gods and goddesses were growing tired of the same old tales: the same old tragedies. They craved something new.

Hermes gave a small smile and shook his head to the stars. He gave them what they wanted as a new tale formed in his head. It was a sad tale, but he was going to tell it anyway, even if it involved his own son.

Luke Castellan was a hungry young boy. A runaway from everywhere he’d been. He was no stranger to the world. No stranger to the wind.

The daughter of Apollo was a poor girl, but she had a gift to give. She could make you see how the world could be. In spite of the way that it is.

Yet, the son of Hermes had seen how the world was. When he fell, he fell in spite of himself…

In love with the daughter of Apollo.

It was the height of spring when Luke and you fell in love. He was scorned and pitied after failing his quest. Feelings of abandonment, fury and betrayal simmered below his lighthearted jokes and his composed smiles. He learned he could only fend for himself. To hell with the rest.

Until he met you, your sole being made him feel alive and when he fell—he fell hard. He was enamored your bright smile and optimistic personality. You’d caress his hair gently while singing a small tune. He learned to lean on your shoulder when nightmares passed, hoping your light was enough to shine through the darkness that overtook his head, plagued his sleep.

It wasn’t enough.

You awoke to the sound of shuffling. Blinking the sleep from your eyes, Luke was sitting on the edge of his bunk. His shoulders tensed as he held his head in his hands. “Luke…?” Your voice hoarse.

He turned his head towards you. An apologetic smile graced his lips. “Hey…” His voice low, raspy from underuse. He stretched over to give you a kiss on the forehead, keeping you from sitting up.

“You okay?” Your arms wrapped around him. He melted, burying his head in your neck, hiding his turmoil.

“Mhm.” And for a night, your light clouded the promises the deep voice in his dreams offered. It was a temporary distraction, one that wouldn’t last long—one he couldn’t keep relying on.

You should’ve known. Blinded by your ignorance and his empty reassuring words of his health, Luke disappeared from camp. Hit with the reality, you did everything in your power to find him.

But, he did not want to be found. Not by you. He knew if he saw you again, your eyes, your smile—your light would melt his purpose, his mission, leaving him putty in your arms (he missed it.)

Your original camp songs disappeared from the nightly bonfires. Your light faded ever so slightly. Regret, worry and guilt simmering beneath your smiles.

You swore you’d catch glimpses of his curls or his broad frame when you were in the city. You were chasing a ghost—holding onto the love you had for him. The restless nights plagued you, but instead of Kronos’ words, music notes coaxed you to stay up and write.

The sheets of music hidden beneath your bunk. The song for your and Luke’s hearts only. You were holding onto something you should’ve let go.

But, like the tragedy tale of Orpheus and Eurydice you met once again, but not under joyous circumstances.

The Battle of Olympus was treacherous. You kept catching glimpse of Luke—but instead golden eyes replaced the ones filled with affection you used to know.

You saw how the world could be, no longer naive to the truth. Your siblings perished in the battle. Cabin Seven went from being the largest cabin to the third smallest in the span of—gods knew how long. In spite of it all, you saw the beauty after it ended.

A bright light flashed. Exhausted from fighting hellhounds, empousas, telkhines, etc, you trudged your body to the Hall of Gods. Bone collided with the marble floor.

After all these years, you saw your love. Without the golden eyes or scorned look in his face, albeit bleeding, it was him. Your eyes filled with relief and warmth when you saw him, finally.

A soft gasp fell from his lips. He expected hatred, frustration—but found nothing but affection from you.

“It’s you.” You whispered, cupping his face with your battle-worn hands.

Luke leaned in, knowing it was the last time he would feel your touch, your light, your love. He committed your face to memory, so that when he goes—he goes remembering your face forever.

“It’s me.” He reassured, turning his head to kiss the palm of your hand.

So many words were on the tip of your tongue, but they kept themselves from forming properly. All you could do was stare at Luke, at last, after so long. Tears blurred your vision. Luke reached up to caressed your cheeks. Remembering your face with his eyes wasn’t enough.

“My love.” His voice so soft, gentle like he was admiring your light again: getting lost in your songs, melting in your arms and loving like the Underworld was shining.

Luke knew you had a lot to say. Words laced with frustration, concern, confusion, but all meant to be said with love.

“Luke.” You whispered as if your heart wasn’t breaking into a million pieces. Communicating in a silent stare, he felt your words, taking them to heart.

You couldn’t leave him with that and so you hummed.

The familiar notes that plagued your nights emitted from your lips. Luke’s hand dropped form your face with a thud. He shut his eyes and smiled as he listened. And for a moment, just for a moment, it felt like you and him were back at Camp. His head in your lap as you caressed his hair. The sounds of the forest accompanying your singing.

His breath stilled. The cold hands of the Fates grabbed him after you said your goodbyes, but his dead body held your warmth, your light. He remembered your face long after he made it to River Styx.

And you?

You sang your private song again for the world to hear. To keep him alive and you were going to sing it again with your love so full for the runaway.

Thus ended the tragedy of the son of Hermes and the daughter of Apollo. The gods were throughly entertained asking to hear it again and again. Until, it was an old song and they craved something new.

Hermes shook his head up to the stars. Heart stricken with grief and sympathy. It was a sad tale. A tragedy. And he was going to tell it again. The gods and goddesses of Olympus knew how it ended, but they were going to listen again and again as if it might turn out this time.

See, the daughter of Apollo was a poor girl, but she had a gift to give. She could make you see how the world could be. In spite of the way it is.

And the son of Hermes was a hungry young boy. A runaway from everywhere he’d been. He was no stranger to the world. No stranger to the wind.

Yet, the son of Hermes had seen how the world was. When he fell, he fell in spite of himself…

In love with the daughter of Apollo.

It was the height of spring when Luke and you fell in love.

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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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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.

Dead Poets Society (1989) dir. Peter Weir

i will admit, i’m on the art donaldson train rn

Spontaneous.

Art Donaldson x Reader

oops. it’s gonna be a series. i’m developing Lore. let me know what you think and where to go next.

warnings: 18+ please, drug use mention, drinking (underage), kinda sexual content.

Fancy parties were loathsome. [Y/N] thought so, at least. She hated being told to stop calling them fancy parties and shindigs and to call them by their proper names: galas, benefits, balls, whatever. It was exhausting. Her feet weren’t meant to be elegantly jammed into spike heels. [Y/N] liked the height she was, thank you very much.

Did supporting charitable causes have to feel so degrading?

Capitalism at its finest.

[Y/N] had been attending these things since she was a little girl. Seven or eight years old. So young, in fact, that she now can’t remember what demographic or ailment-research, or political party this goddamn yearly spring shindig was for. Mr. and Mrs. Zweig were always nice to her when she was a child. She wasn’t just a family-friend, she (and her parents) felt like friends that were family.

What made the lavish Zweig parties tolerable was Patrick Zweig. She had known Patrick as long as there had been parties to get dressed up for. He had scraped her off a marbled staircase step as a little girl when her polished pleather mary janes didn’t have the traction to keep her upright. She had cried when she fell. He had said: “you’re really loud, you know that?” And she had laughed. So they were doomed to spend eternity hiding in coat rooms and getting tipsy together at these things.

Patrick was never one of those boys that felt the need to turn his back on [Y/N] during the cooties years, or the so-she’s-your-girlfriend? years. The pair of them always managed to be simply themselves and that was enough. He was merciless and unapologetic, but he made a hell of a best friend.

[Y/N] was two months older than Patrick, and had been taller for their first two years of friendship. When his shift in stature occurred, it happened fast.

Patrick went away to boarding school and came back a gangly beast. [Y/N], though they hadn’t spent every waking moment (weekends and school days) together since he had left her for a racket and a tennis ball, was always pleased to see Patrick was still himself every time he came home. Louder and stupider each time, but still Patrick.

Though, one spring break was different. Eleventh grade, if [Y/N] recalled correctly. Patrick came home, tall and stupid as ever, toting a boy named Art Donaldson.

Art Donaldson was considerably smaller, and debatably less stupid than Patrick Zweig. [Y/N] understood that day why all the girls in her grade giggled about boys. [Y/N] could never tell Patrick that. He would have been insufferable about it.

Actually, [Y/N] felt jealous. That was also a secret. Because Art, unlike she and Patrick, was nice. Everybody liked him. Nobody ever talked shit about him. Adults loved him and his small-town boy manners. He actually was a rambunctious little jerk, but nobody else saw that. Everyone else got yes sir, yes ma’am, I’m well, how are you? He could turn that charm on and off like a faucet. Infuriating, right?

[Y/N] was also jealous because it was clear she had been replaced.

Patrick lit up like a Christmas tree when he was with Art. He never looked at her like that. Art must have been a better friend to him then she was. Patrick called her once a week to talk for years, but Art slept, like, six feet away from him. It simply wasn’t fair.

Because of that, [Y/N] remembers spring break was really hard. [Y/N] was acutely aware she had lost something she didn’t know she could lose to the human version of a fucking beagle.

[Y/N] couldn’t remember the grade they were in exactly, but she did remember the dress she wore to the Zweigs’ party that year. It was light green and had spaghetti straps. It was longer and more form-fitting than what she was used. Most of the girls her age had settled for lots of tulle and cheetah-print so [Y/N] looked more mature by comparison. It was the first time [Y/N] remembered feeling grown up at all.

To think she thought that all her excitement and contentment was wasted. [Y/N] sat in a plastic pool chair in the backyard curled up with her cork wedge platforms resting dangerously close to the water. She nursed a bottle of vodka she had swiped two months ago from her parents liquor cabinet to surprise Patrick. Meticulously, she had waited for them to be out of town and found the key to the liquor cabinet. A whole bottle just for [Y/N] and her best friend. [Y/N] had barely managed to keep it a secret that she had taken it. She had been so proud of herself and thought Patrick would be too.

Now, she was the only one around to drink it.

Patrick had put his warm, familiar hands on her shoulders and told [Y/N] to wait right there and that he and Art would be back in a sec. The two boys had vanished upstairs presumably to Patrick’s room with laughter spilling from their mouths. [Y/N] sat at the base of the stairs alone for twenty minutes.

According to the garish clock on the wall, at twenty-one minutes, [Y/N] disappeared to the pool. She officially hated Patrick too. He had left her alone at parties plenty of times, and she him. They’d dance with others, or sneak off for a makeout session with a pretty stranger. It had never been a big deal either way. This felt like deliberate abandonment for no good reason. That was a first.

“Whoa, save some for the rest of us.” A reedy voice called out. Art Donaldson. [Y/N]’s head glanced over her shoulder so fast at the sound that she almost made herself dizzy. It took little time to realize there was no Patrick with him.

[Y/N] pulled the bottle closer. “That was a really long one sec,” She replied. She planned to say that eventually in the wasted minutes she waited, but it sounded less cool now than it did in her head. [Y/N] sounded plain mopey and that was a shame. “What’d you guys do anyway? Where’s Patrick?”

Art shrugged and walked further into view. He looked a bit sheepish. “Being Patrick,” He didn’t answer the first question she asked. There was a half-smile tugging at his lips. Art looked nice. Brown dress shoes, navy jacket, white shirt. No tie. She could have sworn that had been a tie at some point earlier. His shaggy blonde hair was mussed, but she had yet to observe it being neat. It was fustrating how effortlessly nice he looked. [Y/N] thought that everyday from day one. “It’s getting kinda cold. You wanna head back inside? I was looking for you—“

“I’m alright here, but thanks,” she slurred slightly. “You head in. I’m not here to ruin your fun.” It had sounded bitter. She hadn’t meant for it to.

Art sighed and glanced away from her. He paused a moment and sighed. “I’m not here to ruin yours either, y’know.”

“You don’t have to make this into a thing. It’s fine.”

“Well, too late. Patrick’s being an ass. I don’t want you out here feeling like I’m some homewrecker. I’ve been on the receiving end of shit like this from him, too. He’s not trying to be nasty to you, ‘promise. Come on, I’m not gonna let you freeze out here.” Art said, stepping in a bit. The glow from the pool left green and white wiggly lines across his cheeks.

“It’s spring, It’ll warm up. Get back up to that party, man. Patrick’s waiting for you.”

“You’re being impossible.”

[Y/N] set the half-empty bottle down beneath her chair. “Nuh-uh.”

“Jesus… if you’re gonna be a jerk about it, at least take this.” Art frowned, shrugging out of his suit jacket. He seemed disappointed.

“Oh, Art, please—“

“No, no! You made your choice. Don’t let me spoil your fun with you and the… the vodka,” Art said, making a show of taking the jacket off and throwing it over to [Y/N]. The balled up lump of fabric landed in her lap with a soft thud. Her stomach churned. “All hunky dory now,” He said, holding his hands out to show he was no threat. Art’s brows were lowered protectively close to his eyes in what [Y/N] thought was an effort to mask slight hurt or rejection. He turned to walk away as [Y/N] clutched the fabric of his jacket between her fingers. Art turned back to to look at her for a moment. [Y/N] didn’t know what that expression was meant to mean. “Be careful, okay? For what it’s worth, you—you look lovely tonight. It would be a shame for such a, uh, such a pretty girl in a pretty dress to end up face down, stuck in the pool drain. ‘Night [Y/N].”

[Y/N] was glad for the dark because she felt her face heat up and dopey smile start to form at the compliment. Maybe she was drunk, but that had to be flirting. In the most fucked up way possible, but still. Why? Art Donaldson didn’t even like her.

Art had only managed to take a few steps into the dewy grass when [Y/N] begrudgingly called out: “Art, wait!”

She hated that she liked the smirk on his face when he turned around. He could tell what she wanted by her tone. What kind of fucker takes no for answer happily and still sets himself up for a yes in the end. “Yes?” He asked, trying not to smile.

“Listen, you’re right—“ [Y/N] stood up confidently, sliding Art’s jacket around her shoulders. And she stood up too fast and knocked her sandals into the pool. “Shit!” She cursed. She was still an age where cursing felt cool and unfamiliar. [Y/N] stood on her unsteady feet and watched her sandals bob out to the middle of the pool, propelled by her kick. She was embarrassed now as well. The stakes of everything felt so much higher than sandals in the pool of her best friend’s backyard. Booze will do that to the sanest of folks. [Y/N] dropped her face heavily into her hands. Great.

Quickly, Art cut his eyes between her and the shoes and back again. “Where do they keep the pool net?” Art asked calmly, without missing a beat.

“The shed.” [Y/N] said miserably and pointed a few feet away. Art bounded across the pavement around the pool to the shed. He tugged once, then twice.

“Fuck,” he said under his breath. “It’s locked,” He reported to [Y/N] from practically halfway in the pruned hedges. Art started the walk back to her. Once he was beside her, Art placed a hand gently at her elbow. “Come back inside with me. Please. Patrick may be able to get us a key and we can…”

But [Y/N] looked so sad from behind her hands. Even though all of this was so childish. She was also wearing Art’s jacket now and that did things to his brain. Her dress wasn’t not low cut and he froze for a second. All he could do was stare.

“Just do what I would do,” Patrick said. “It’ll be fine, man. She’s already into you, I can tell.”

“Well, if she’s into me, why would I do what you would do? That’s an awful suggestion, Patrick.” Art protested.

Patrick spun around in his desk chair to face Art as he rolled a joint. “I’ve known her since before I knew you. Just, like, be spontaneous. That’s what I mean. Spontaneous. She’s into that because she’s like that too. And she’s… wicked mean, so don’t start shit. She’ll surprise you, but like, in a good way. What I said before makes me sound like a jackass,” Patrick paused to laugh. “Be in the moment. Don’t get in your head about it. Which you’re doing right now— I can tell, Arthur…” Patrick drew out Art’s full name (which he hated) to get under his skin.

Art stood up from the floor in frustration. He glanced at his watch. Too much time had passed. The window was metaphorically closing. Hastily, Art dashed to the door. “I’m going down there. Poor girl’s been waiting all this time because you, my friend, are a shitty advice-giver.”

“Spontaneous!” Patrick called after him with a grin.

Art stared at [Y/N]. Then he blinked. Then tilted his head to the side. Spontaneous. Before he knew it, he was tugging his shoes and socks off and diving into the pool. Art had been right, it was getting decisively cold and the pool water reflected that. Art swam out to where the wedges had floated too, which had actually been fairly far. He wasn’t sure if the net would have gotten them that easily. Art nicked the shoes by the ankle straps and shook his wet hair out of his face. As he paddled back, he glanced at [Y/N]’s expression. She smiled wide with joy and surprise at Art’s sacrifice.

“Art! Thank you so much!” She said when he flopped the waterlogged shoes onto the concrete. Art looked up at her from the water and he only looked up her skirt a little bit.

“It’s no trouble. Repayment’s in order, though.”

“Repayment…? What do you—“

Art wrapped his wet, callused hands around both of [Y/N] ankles and flipped her into the pool. She screamed as she splashed into the pool. Then laughed hard. Art wanted to hear that laugh for the rest of his life.

“Wait, fuck, you can swim, right?”

Fortunately, [Y/N] could, and that’s the move that won Art Donaldson his wife.

—

“Honey, you have to get up so you can get ready…” Art’s mouth moved against the shell of [Y/N]’s left ear. His arm was tossed over her middle. Normally, it was Art that dreaded getting out of bed, but clearly they enjoyed switching roles once in a while.

A nap had turned into two-and-a-half hours of [Y/N]’s soft snores while Art held her. He couldn’t sleep much, but luckily he had something beautiful to look at. She ripped into him about his staring problem all the time. Art couldn’t be bothered to give a damn. “No.” She mumbled.

“Please…” Art’s hand trailed under her shirt and climbed up, up, up.

“No,” she sighed. Art’s hands groped her left breast and [Y/N] didn’t particularly mind. She shivered at the contact. Art had known every inch of her body over years. Neither was bored yet, though.

“It’s one night. One party. We don’t have to stay all night… He’s not going to be there, Lenora told me when I RSVP’d.”

They had an unspoken rule. They did not name Patrick in conversation when sober. The wound was too fresh still.

“Don’t talk about him, or his fucking mom when you’re touching me like that,” [Y/N] all but moaned as Art’s left thumb circled her nipple. “‘Thought we had to get up…”

Art smirked. “We do. At least you’re awake now.” He teasingly withdrew his hand entirely from out of her shirt and scampered out of bed in one agile zip of a motion.

“Art!”

She groaned. Rolling on her back to look at the ceiling, she glanced over at Art walking through the master bathroom doorway in his briefs. What an incredible ass that man has. “Motivation to leave the party early.” Art said and popped off into the shower.

Maybe it was selfish. Patrick and [Y/N] and Art hadn’t spoken in almost a year. It was no surprise to the Donaldsons that Patrick was an addict. He had been addicted to almost everything and everyone that crossed his path. What they hadn’t expected was him becoming so out of control that he missed the wedding of his two best friends and was sent into rehab once he was declared medically stable. The one person that both Donaldsons had fought to have in their own personal half of the wedding party. And he wasn’t there. And the wedding was expensive enough to go through with it amid all the bad feelings over Patrick.

Still, they were invited to the Zweig family’s charity or whatever gala. They would go like they always had, too. But it would be their first time alone, so to speak.

[Y/N] regretfully got out of bed while Art showered. She moved to the closet and unzipped her paper thin dress bag. The gown itself was beautiful, but not all too expensive. The year had been tight in terms of money. The wedding and the honeymoon were pricey enough before you added in rackets and competition entry fees and coaching. Art was an expensive husband to have. He made up for it. He was playing at his best too, so [Y/N] hardly cared. Who could put a price on seeing Art smile like that?

[Y/N] cringed if she had to pay more than two-hundred dollars for shoes or a dress anyway.

The dress was green. She’d worn a lot of green since she met Art. [Y/N] dreaded wiggling into shapewear and spending too long on her hair. Art had it easy. A tie, a jacket and trading his nasty watch for his nicer one. It wasn’t fair. It never was with Art.

She got ready all the same. The straps rested on her shoulders, thicker than the early 2000s straps she had been dumped into the pool in. It was longer than that dress. Almost floor length instead of mid calf. It was elegant for its price tag.

Once the dress was on, [Y/N] tumbled into the bathroom to do her makeup. The shared counter was way too small for both of their shit to sit nicely on. She would complain about that when there was more money in the bank account to do something about it. Art was taking longer than normal in the shower. Boner, [Y/N] thought.

As she started to put her face on, she could see Art’s face in the foggy mirror behind her. The sound of the water stopping and the shower curtain being tossed back had gone unnoticed. He was smiling slightly. “You look nice.” He said softly. Art toweled off his shaggy hair harshly behind her. He kept looking at her.

This is how Art was. He made these remarkable heart eyes at her every time he saw her. [Y/N] could be wearing a potato sack and she would feel beautiful. That look, that staring problem, was worse a hundredfold when she was dressed up. He kept glancing at her. She could see him in the mirror. He wanted [Y/N] to see. The blue and brown of his eyes cast further and further down her body.

“Staring.” [Y/N] said simply. She didn’t even look away from her own face in the mirror.

“Yeah. And?” Art smiled cheekily. His face was bright red not from the warm shower water. He wrapped his towel around his slim waist. [Y/N] applied too much concealer and less blush. “I, of all people, am allowed.”

“Idiot.” [Y/N] said. Art dried his hands profusely on his towel, knowing she would squawk at him if he left wet handprints behind on her dress.

Art’s hands wrapped around her waist. Great pains were taken to prevent other wet spots from splopping up her dress. So, so gently, he kissed the left side of her neck from behind. “I was thinking—” Art was always gentle in his own way.

“Ooh, dangerous.”

“Shut up. Y’know, this is the first Zweig party where your placecard is going to say Donaldson on it…”

[Y/N] nodded softly. “Huh. Yeah. That’s true.” She said, smiling a bit.

“I’m really, really excited about that. On the seating chart, we’re the Donaldsons. Isn’t that so crazy…?” Art whispered into her plush skin. “Plural. Two of us.”

Teasingly, she nudged him back with her elbow. The smile was still wide on her lips. “You’re being such a girl about it.”

Art didn’t let go or relent. He pressed feather-light kisses between [Y/N]’s ear and collarbone. “Am I? Hadn’t noticed.”

“We’re going to be late to this thing you want to go to so bad, Mr. Donaldson, if you don’t stop.” [Y/N] whispered, incapable of doing more. She did set down her makeup sponge and pot of foundation with a clack.

“Would that be such a bad thing? Only a couple minutes, right? We could-we could cut out some of the boring small talk and…” Art said, daring boldly to drag his tongue up her throat as the steamed up mirror cleared some. He never finished his sentence verbally.

[Y/N] gasped at the feeling. That was a brave move for Art. “You drag me out of bed early so we can be late anyway. You don’t make any s-sense, babe.”

He huffed impishly. Art spun [Y/N] around to face him. His face and shoulders were damp from the water collected in his hair, which desperately needed a trim. Carefully, Art brushed [Y/N]’s hair away from her face. “You’re right… I’m sorry. Please let me make it up to you?”

“How?”

Then, Art’s mouth quirked into that crooked smile she loved so much.

“Please.” Art said in a hushed voice and boosted [Y/N] smoothly onto their rickety counter. “Give me ten minutes.”

“You can do better than ten.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Clock’s ticking.” When she said it, she heard Art’s knees hit the tile in front of her.

INTRODUCTORY

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VIDA, she/her, 18, relatively new writer!!

—– cinema/theatre. percy jackson, newsies, west side story, panic, challengers, the outsiders, sinners, hadestown, guys n dolls, singin in the rain, summer of 84, the binge, a haunting in venice, 10 things I hate about you, back to the future, gypsy, cabaret, anastasia, mighty ducks, anything goes

—– misc. snoopy, paintings, books (ask me what book i’m currently reading!), digital camera photos, cowboys, dance, musicals, french vanilla, fruit, polaroids, the beach, coastal towns, travel, baking, hibiscus, chai lattes

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MASTERLIST

REQUESTS: OPEN

warning!! i don’t consistently update because of external factors, apologies!

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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.

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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

☆ I WANNA BE YOUR MAN

“his band is playing tonight, at seven,” annabeth reminds you, with the knowing air of someone far wiser, and far older, “you should go.” (1.7k)

contains: loser older brother luke castellan x fem! reader. mortal au. pt 2 of parent trap but can be read standalone ish. guest appearances! rock / metal music references.

kashaf’s note: i think i can call myself a melomaniac now

LUKE CASTELLAN HAS always occupied that in-between space, the no-man’s-land between something and nothing — his indecipherable gaze as his cold, black, and blued knuckles grazed your cheek when he tucked a lock of your hair behind your ear swims around your mind endlessly. despite how each thought, each expression, each breath is as familiar to you as your own, you have never quite known where you stand with him, regardless of how quickly he seemed to inhabit a piece of your soul.

the familiar weight of the mixtape that luke made you feels unusually burdensome in your hands, mirroring the heft of the songs on it that you have painstakingly committed to memory, each sleepless night’s offerings of tossing and turning becoming a reoccurring ritual. 

you had popped the tape in your walkman immediately after luke had handed it to you, incognizant of the way his eyes softened as you concentrated on the music, trying to identify the first song. 

“this is that band you like — l.a. guns, right?”

“you’re a regular sherlock,” luke had said, smiling and sarcastic, twisting his silver rings.

“shut up, no i know this song,” you say, tilting your head and snapping your fingers. “its — um — i wanna be yours? nono, don’t make that face at me, asshole, hold on… i wanna be your man?”

hues of pink crept up his cheeks, and you basked in the warmth of his answering crooked grin, the feeling wrapping around you like the caress of a summer night. 

you uselessly stirred the spoon in your now stone-cold cup of chai, leaning across the kitchen table with your head propped up in your other hand. the phone taunts you from its corner on the counter, sitting just by the clear jar of blue cookies, its black hue a beacon among the sea of greens (the cabinets, the tiles — you liked to tell sally that she should try her hand at interior design one of these days) — as of late, the jacksons’ kitchen has become somewhat of a refuge for you. 

you set a steaming china cup down in front of him, listening to the sounds of percy, annabeth, and grover in the living room, pulling out the chair in front of him with a slight creak on the slightly worn wooden floors, and watching him as he taps his fingers along to bob marley’s soft crooning, “little darlin’, stir it up”, lost in his own world.  

“luke,” you say, breaking him out of his revelry.

luke sits up straight, meeting your amused gaze, “yeah?” he asks, reaching for his chai, and mumbling a quiet thanks as he sips it.

“you look kinda stupid when you think,” you say, watching him blink before taking the bait, and hiding your smile of satisfaction behind your cup.

“y’know, this is why you have a black hole for a heart,” he says, grinning crookedly, filling you with an indescribable longing to reach out and trace his grin. 

“what?” you laugh, “what does that even mean?”

“just that you’re mean,” luke says, and the afternoon sun chooses that specific moment to encompass him in its glow, like a kiss from apollo. “and that you’re emo.”

“you literally say this every time, oh my god, i’m not mean or emo.”

“because i’m literally right?”

“you like him,” annabeth says, sympathetically, standing in the doorway, arms folded across her chest, her braids resting across her shoulders, glancing from your untouched cup to your face, an expression of pity gracing her features. her presence caught you so off guard that you don’t even question where percy ran off to, who was usually attached to annabeth like a conjoined twin. 

“i know,” you say, shivering slightly, the revelation feeling strangely empty, although you suppose the same part of your soul that recognized him had always known, a small inkling reappearing with every argument, and every nudge. 

“he likes you,” annabeth adds matter-of-factly, interrupting your stream of consciousness. 

“i know,” you repeat, picking at the lint on your sweater, and while this revelation is supposed to be shocking, it is also hollow, as you suppose your soul also knew this with every hushed conversation in the dead of night, and the slips of silence that only spoke volumes around him.

“his band is playing tonight, at seven,” annabeth reminds you, with the knowing air of someone far wiser, and far older, “you should go.” she turned and stalked back toward the living room.

you sat still for a minute or so, before sighing and putting luke’s mixtape (even in your misery, he is somehow always there) in your walkman, putting your headphones on as axl rose trilled, ‘i said, baby you been lookin' real good’ in his voice that took a while to get used to — something luke gave you a heads up on.

you sighed, conceding to annabeth’s attempts to rewrite whatever fate had pushed the two of you apart, from the hours-long phone calls that dwindled into short, clipped conversations, you can’t necessarily blame annabeth for trying to fashion a phoenix from the ashes of your friendship. 

you stood up, grabbed your jacket off the back of the chair you were sitting upon, and walked into the living room, pausing for a few minutes to watch the scooby doo episode on the screen along with percy, grover, and annabeth, who were currently sprawled across the softly carpeted floor, arguing over monopoly.

“you’re literally cheating,” percy was saying.

“i’m the banker, i’m supposed to be innocent,” annabeth argued back.

“percy, i saw you steal a couple dollars behind annabeth’s back,” grover added, rolling the dice.

“guys,” you said, interrupting their three-way argument, “put on your jackets and shoes, we’re going to the fair in five minutes.”

you ignored the way the troublesome trio exchanged glances, walking through the hallway covered in framed photos of percy and sally, going to wait by the door for them.

“so,” percy says, all-too-innocently, “why the sudden change of plans?” once the four of you are a couple of blocks away from his apartment.

“no reason, just wanted to see what was so hot about the fair,” you say, digging your hands in the pockets of your jacket. once more, you ignore the glances the trio exchange. 

“so it doesn’t have anything to do with a certain curly-haired individual that we’re currently seeing less and less of?”

you keep walking, trying to feign ignorance, although the question was so pointed even you were concerned with percy’s audacity, “what’re you talking about?”

“oh, nothing,” percy smiles. “just the way —”

“— the two of you —”

“— were inseparable —”

“— for a disgustingly long time —”

“— and now you’re not —”

“— but we’re going to the fair because —”

“— his band is playing —”

“— and you’re going to try and fix —”

“— your troubles in paradise.”

you blinked slowly, as the three of them did jazz hands, matching shit-eating grins on all of their faces, “how long did it take for you guys to rehearse that?”

“a week, give or take,” grover says, and annabeth shoots him a glare.

“not the point, the point is, we support you.”

“gee, thanks, all i really needed was the support of three twelve-year-olds.”

“three twelve-year-olds that know you’re stupidly in love with luke castellan,” percy points out.

“okay, y’know what…” you trail off, frowning.

annabeth nudged percy, “not the point here, again.”

“fine, fine, fine,” you huff, as the four of you approach the brightly illuminated fair, looking for the ticket-selling booth, “i’ll buy you guys tickets so you can go hang out on the rides and i’ll go to the concert.”

the three of them nodded happily, making a beeline for the cotton candy stand a few feet away. you shook your head before pushing through the bustling crowd to look for the concert stage. when you finally do find it, after three excuse me’s and four sorry’s, the concert is already in full swing, with what looks like a mini moshpit already forming somewhere near the center.

once you’ve pushed your way to the absolute front, the darkening night sky serving as a backdrop, the harsh lights illuminate all five individuals on the stage, with a gorgeous girl with shaggily-cut hair and a raspy voice singing as lead (thalia? you think you remember luke telling you on the phone late at night once). however, your gaze almost immediately fixed on luke, who was playing a riff on his electric guitar, looking as hot as ever, his crooked grin on full display.

the band is covering l.a. guns’ ‘i wanna be your man’ at the moment, and you’re suddenly very grateful to annabeth for her unsubtle nudges, because you would’ve missed out on this sight of luke castellan, the view of his muscled arms bulging out of his band tee is permanently seared into your memory.

you’re almost sad when the show is over though, finally realizing why luke liked concerts so much, from the crowd surfing to the drumstick tricks during solos (beckendorf, you think the drummer’s name was — luke had mentioned him before) to the lead’s insane vocals, to the girl with long curly hair that stood next to you for most of the concert (probably the band’s most enthusiastic fan), you savored every minute of it. however, you’re glad for the chance to corner luke afterwards, climbing onto the stage as the crowd begins to disperse in waves, and realizing the curly-haired girl was already among the band members packing up their instruments, helping the curly-haired bassist pack his things. 

luke barely looks up at your sudden arrival. “what’re you doing here?” he asks, packing away his guitar.

“i’m here to see you,” you say, trying to drive the hint home.

“i told you that you didn’t have to come see the band if you were busy,” luke says, uncomprehendingly, making eye-contact with you. 

“i like you,” you say insistently.

“c’mon, let’s not kid ourselves right now, you said we’re friends so you don’t have to try to make me feel better,” luke says, shrugging and looking away from your face, rubbing the back of his neck.

“i listen to your dumb mixtape every night, luke castellan. does a person who’s not into you do that?”

there is something so raw about the way he looks right now, with his expression stilling as his cheeks are colored in swathes of red. 

smiling at his dumbstruck expression, you surged forward to kiss him, ignoring all the wolf whistles and “get some, castellan” enveloping the two of you, tangling your fingers into his hair, his hands coming to rest upon your hips.

© sayoneee on tumblr. do not repost, plagiarize, translate or claim any of my works as your own.

West Side Story