SEND LUKE REQS WOOF WOOF WOOF

SEND LUKE REQS WOOF WOOF WOOF

too busy being an academic weapon i’ll post a fic this weekend maybe idk no promises

I wasn't sure about Jordan shifting to masc before kissing Marie (I've been burned by shows wanting to stick to heteronormativity so many times that I get defensive a bit too fast). But!! It just hit me, the scene when Jordan was asking Marie to tell the truth about how they fought Golden Boy. At first Jordan was confronting her in femme mode, but when they started pleading with her, no more anger or accusations just genuine earnest vulnerability, they shifted to masc. And the kiss scene same thing, when they were flirting/bantering, they were femme, but when it came to kissing her, taking a genuine risk, they shifted to masc. Considering that their masc form has the invulnerable power, that was Jordan bracing for rejection in their strongest form. Whenever they feel vulnerable, they shift to their strongest form. And after finding out in ep3 that they were amab, I now love that their masc form is when they have the invulnerable power. Their femme form is them coming out, and has the most outwardly power (those super badass waves they send out). And their masc form is the form in which they've had to be the strongest and brace against expectations and rejection so that's how their power manifested. It's so fascinating I love Jordan Li so much!

THROWING UP.

FOOLISH LOVERS. luke castellan

description. luke castellan has betrayed camp half blood. luke castellan has made an enemy out of those around you. and unfortunately, luke castellan has always held a place in your heart that you can't close off. at least, not until you meet with him one final time.

includes. SMUT 18+, fem!reader, daughter of hypnos reader, oral (f and m receiving), brief anal rimming (f receiving), implied p n v, dreamscape sex again, angst galore, some arguing, references to pjo ep 8. inspo from wicked game by chris isaak

wc: 5.8k+

a/n: a dreamcatcher: daughter of the god of dreams installment.

Before you can realize the change, you’re standing on a hill. 

It takes you a second to notice, but the area is much like your dreamscape. Low, waving blades of grass that travel through the air with the wind brushing against your bare ankles. The ocean is loud and to your right, down beneath a steep cliff. From just a quick glance, you see a storm brewing off into the distance. The water swirls angrily as if it’s ready to disrupt anything that dares to come into its path. 

You can’t help but think about the betrayed son of the sea god back in reality who surely feels the same. 

When you take your eyes away from the entrancing scenery of the ocean, you notice a cabin directly in front of you. It’s small, and made from long wooden logs, although there isn’t a forest nearby to identify the source of the frame. The exterior is slightly shabby, appearing manmade with a few imperfections. 

It’s not on a comparable scale to the cabins back at Camp Half-Blood, but something about it feels cozy. It gives implications of a simpler life. Maybe what summer camp could have been if you weren’t the offspring of a god. 

That and the clouds rumbling with warnings of an approaching storm is what encourages you to seek refuge in the four walls. 

Step by step, you don’t fail to notice how a focus subject has yet to appear. 

Your hand wraps around the doorknob and you push the slab of wood open as you wonder who’s dream you could have been pulled into tonight. 

You haven’t even stepped foot over the threshold, you have started to convince yourself that this is the dream of the son of the sea god, and then someone speaks. 

“Hey.” 

You stop. 

Your foot hovers for a second before you place it back beside the other. 

That voice. You hadn’t heard it for months now, but you know it. Day after day, you lay at night with your eyes closed, cementing the memory of the way he spoke and how he sounded as he laughed at your jokes into your mind. Forcing yourself to recall the inflections in his tone as he teased you, and how his words flattened out and got hard when he gave orders to yourself and others. And then, completely involuntarily, you would force yourself to pick through every single intonation and word that you could remember, attempting to find signs. Any hints or clues that Luke Castellan wasn’t the person he made himself out to be. 

Each night, you grapple with the fact that you couldn’t find any clues. You tried to reconcile with your blindness, all while telling yourself that you could have attempted to prevent it all. 

But hearing his voice now, none of that returns. Unexpectedly, your body floods with warmth. 

Luke sits on a small loveseat. The shape of it is a bit of a blur at first, but you blink and it cleans up to present a busy patterned textile couch. It’s well loved, there are a few tears in the bottom of the fabric at the back, and if you’re smelling it correctly, there’s a slight waft of cigarette smoke. 

Strangely enough, it’s inviting. 

You hate to admit it to yourself, but the boy sitting at one end of it makes it even more inviting. 

You step into the cabin and close the door behind you. 

“Hey, Luke.” 

He turns around to face you at the sound of your voice. You sound stronger than you expected. More casual, too. 

You realize that he’d been looking out a large set of windows before facing you. There’s only two but they take up most of the small wall. Outside is a perfect view of the land you’d just come from; bright green grass in the foreground and deep blue salt water off into the distance. 

Luke stares at you. 

The cabin is a little dark—there’s a lamp in the far corner that illuminates the room, washing out the otherwise blue light from outside—but you think his eyes are shining. As if there’s unshed tears barely held within them.

He smiles at you. It’s soft and almost mournful. 

You should leave. 

You shouldn’t be fraternizing with Luke at all, even if it is within a dreamscape. You couldn’t trust yourself in a room with him, especially with the things the two of you used to do when you were in dreamscapes alone. 

Just looking at him reminds you of all of those times. Sweat sticking his hair to his forehead. The feeling of his muscles beneath your inquisitive hands. The deep and smooth sound of his voice. The way everything felt so real and so tangible as he rocked into you, and then as euphoria swept over your bodies you felt so infinite and surreal. 

Your teeth find your lower lip. Your body urges you to get closer to Luke. Stubbornly, you stay in your spot. 

“What’d you think?” He lifts a finger and circles it around in the air. Your eyes lift and you finally take in the rest of the cabin. 

The main room is spacious, but comfortable. Lightly furnished with hardwood floors. Though almost every surface is covered in some sort of rug, most of them persian. There’s a small kitchen to your left, and then the living area that Luke sits in on the right. There’s a few bookshelves but there aren’t many books on them, and there’s a fireplace that looks to have never been used before. A few picture frames sit on the mantle of the fireplace, but from afar they just appear to be showcasing blobs of people without any distinctive features to identify and identity. 

Admittedly, for this to be the created dreamscape of the son of a messenger, it’s impressive. 

You tell him as such. 

This time, Luke’s smile is appreciative. 

“Means a lot coming from you. Especially with the things you can create.” 

Your skin heats up and you block the memories out of your head before they can firmly cement themselves once more. 

“You might have me beat, Castellan. Giving me a run for my money.” 

You don’t know why you decide to fall into the old routine with him. Maybe it’s because you can’t push Luke away for the life of you. He was once your friend and so much more at the same time. It’s impossible for you to completely forget the times you shared together. 

Maybe it’s the home making you feel this way. 

How comfortable it feels. How protective it is. 

You’ve spent weeks pulled into unfortunate dreams. Nightmares have plagued even the toughest minds of Camp Half Blood as of late, and you’ve been unable to fortify your own mind enough to prevent slipping into the mind of others. Which has left you to fight against unbeatable monsters, fortify the barriers of Camp only to have them knocked down by Zeus over and over again, watch those you love die in horrible battles, and much much more. 

In comparison, there is the possibility of a simple conversation with Luke Castellan giving you what you’d been desperately missing even if you wouldn’t admit it to yourself: Luke’s company. 

It’s how you reason with yourself whenever you take a seat atop the cushion of the couch. Instantly, it feels as if you’ve never truly known comfort before. This couch conforms to the curves of your body. You lean back against it, pull your feet up with you, and you quickly decide to stay a little while longer. 

Up close, Luke looks even prettier than you remember. Dark curly hair a little more grown out, unruly and hanging over his forehead like low hanging fruit, begging for you to latch onto it. His face looks a little slimmer as if he’s lost weight, and the angular planes of his cheekbones and jawline accentuates the dark shadow he has along his chin. The mark of facial hair that was previously present. Beneath his clothes—a faded black, almost gray hoodie, and black sweatpants—he appears larger. His shoulders wider, his neck thicker, his wrist and hands veiner. 

(Compared to his covered body, you feel bare in nothing but long socks, and a matching shorts and tank top set.)

He looks virtually the same, but his aura is different. There’s more confidence in him, a larger ego, glory even, that wasn’t there the last time you’d seen him. You know what has caused the change, and it should be something you despise. But his new glory makes him more attractive. It dries out your tongue and lodges something in your throat, pushing it further down until it sits heavy in your stomach. 

“Thought this could be our new spot.” Luke speaks softly, almost in a scared whisper, as if he fears that you’ll reject him. 

(You don’t know if you could ever reject Luke)

Your eyebrows furrow. “Our spot?” Confusion drips off of your words. 

Luke nods once. He licks over his lips and you’re quick to peel your eyes away from the sight and back to his eyes. That’s not helping you much either so you instead try to figure out what books are on the shelves afar. 

Since the little amount of time that has passed, there have been a few more added. From the ones that have already been there, the titles are too far away, too dream disoriented, and your dyslexia hasn’t escaped this dream, but you think you find novels on Seeing. Guides on how to decipher the visions that come to humans, or how to channel them. 

You focus back on Luke. 

“Yeah. Like the old bedroom. But a little more …” he hesitates to find the word then lands on, “Casual.” 

The bedroom. 

Your lower stomach stirs at the mention of it. The large bed, how warm it always was in there, the cold leather of the couch, the things the two of you did to each other on all surfaces. 

This spot is definitely a lot more casual. You’re not instantly compelled to straddle Luke here, although you do have a few thoughts about throwing your legs over his right now and reconnecting in ways you’ve missed since he left. 

So badly do you want to agree. This could be the one place where you get to experience what you’ve been missing without anyone else knowing. This is the only place where you can see Luke without anyone else knowing. 

But it’s wrong. 

He’s the cause of all of this. He’s caused the nightmares you’ve been pulled into. He has betrayed everyone on levels you could have never imagined. And who’s to say that he won’t betray you again. 

“We won’t need a ‘spot’, Luke.” Briefly, his eyes flash as if he’s hurt but in your eyes, Luke has proven himself to be a formidable actor as of late so you ignore it. “This is a one time thing.” 

A moment passes. And then another. 

You turn to watch the sea out in the distance. It appears as if the ocean has lulled for the time being. The sky is still dark, but it has yet to deepen in color. 

Luke takes a breath and you give him your attention again. 

“Why won’t you join me?” 

His eyes flash betrayal, his lips twist into something sorrowful. 

Your answer comes easy. The same one you’ve told yourself over and over again, night by night when you considered reaching out to him. 

“Because it’s not right, Luke.”

When he stands, his newfound power becomes even more clear. It leaks from his pores, spews from his mouth with his words. 

“How could it be ‘wrong’ when you feel the same. All that time you spent telling me about your father. How neglected you felt. What happened to that?” 

Your head shakes. You stand, too, evening out the field for both of you. 

“This is not what I meant. I–” The words don’t find you. Luke takes notice. 

“You what? Love your father? Love the gods? After how they treat you. How they treat us.” 

“Don’t say ‘us’. We aren’t together, Luke.” 

That same look flashes in his eyes once more. He takes a step forward, you take one back. 

He doesn’t say anything. You watch his hand reach behind his back. 

“What, are you gonna fight me like you did with Percy?” 

His head shakes. His eyes harden. He pulls his hand back and it comes up empty. 

“He attacked first.” 

Your voice starts to rise. “And you tried to kill him, Luke. He’s twelve. What don’t you understand about that? ” 

“Twelve and a forbidden child. In the grand scheme of things, his age doesn’t matter. He’s powerful. More powerful than both of us combined.” 

“So is that why you tried to kill him? Because he’s a threat?” 

“I don’t want to have this conversation with you. Not here. Not now.” 

“Yeah? Well then when? And where? Because this is the last time you’ll be seeing me, Luke.” 

“Okay.” 

Your eyebrows raise. Disbelief paints over your features. You’d expected more of a fight. For Luke to disagree or attempt to convince you to return to him a few more times after this. Maybe that’s what you wanted. Maybe you wanted him to convince you that you needed him. Maybe you wanted to hear him tell you that he needed you. 

Either way, your reply is the same as his. 

“Okay.” You turn and take the few steps it takes to get to the door. 

Your chest heaves with large gulps of air in and small breaths of letting them out. Your body is buzzing, the same feeling you would get before sparring with Luke. The same feeling you would get before your bodies joined together. 

You tell yourself to reach out for the door handle. You tell yourself to lift your arm, connect your hand with the metal, and pull it open. You tell yourself to return to your own dreamscape, maybe even reality, and forget any of this ever happened. 

Maybe you would’ve done it if Luke hadn’t spoken. 

“You can walk out that door but that won’t change how you truly feel.” 

He doesn’t add on. You don’t move. 

“And how do I feel?” 

The adrenaline is overwhelming you. You need to expel it out of your body somehow. 

As Luke is speaking, you’re already approaching him. 

“I’m sure I don’t need to answer that for you.”

When he speaks, it’s with arrogance. His confidence is heavily laced in his words, overflowing until it drips out into the air and lodges in your chest. Running through your body and down to your fingertips. It annoys you, makes you want to battle it out with him in a fight you’re sure to lose. 

Your feet thud against the floor with each step until you’re close enough to cup his cheeks in both of your hands and pull his face down to yours. 

There’s no hesitation in the kiss from either side. As if both of you were expecting it to happen eventually. 

Luke kisses you back vehemently, his lips messily sliding against yours as he presses into the center of your back, accentuating the curve and drawing your chest into his. His free hand glides down your side to your hips. He circles to your back, dragging his palm down to rest over the curve of your ass. He grips the flesh through the soft fabric of your shorts, digging his blunt nails in before continuing his hand—open palmed—down to grip the back of your thigh. 

His other hand mirrors his previous actions until he has a hand on either thigh. He tugs once, and you collaborate to wrap your legs around his waist and hook your ankles behind his back. Your hands dig into his hair, and your core tightens as you prepare to continue holding yourself up. But Luke takes most of the load. 

He places his hands on your bottom to keep you lifted. You expect him to walk you back to the couch, or maybe pin you to a wall. But he doesn’t. 

He holds you against him in the center of the living room, kissing you like he’ll never get to kiss you again. You don’t fail to realize how he likely won’t. 

His tongue slides against yours, your teeth knock together at least twice, both of you refuse to pull away to breathe which results in heavy exhales through your noses against the skin of the other cheek. 

While it may be uncoordinated, it’s not primal. 

There’s copious amounts of longing beneath each pass of your tongues against each other. There’s human emotion behind the way you tug on his hair and how he uses one hand to pull your hips closer to him. There’s raw longing in the soft sighs and gasps you both let out into the other’s mouth, taking it in and replicating the noises over and over again. 

When you finally do part, it’s with a wet, pronounced smack. 

“Luke,” you gasp his name before you can realize it’s happening. One of your hands moves from his hair to hold his cheek. Your fingers spread around his ear and your thumb probes into his jaw. 

He hums, his eyes still shut. 

“I want you,” you admit. 

You watch the smile spread across his lips, his eyes flickering open to look into your soul. 

“Took you long enough to admit it.” 

You suck your teeth and roll your eyes. Your other hand, previously resting on his shoulder, slaps his bicep. 

“Don’t be an asshole about it.” 

He laughs as he apologizes, knocking his forehead against yours. “Sorry, pretty girl.” 

He takes a moment.

When he speaks, his eyes are nothing but earnest. His words are slow and careful, despite how simple they are. They fill your chest with warmth. They comfort you, possibly in slight delusion as you instantly believe him without caring about what repercussions his promise could come with. 

“You have me. Always have. Always will.” 

You’re quick to surge forward. 

Luke is quick to reciprocate. 

This time, he walks you back to the couch. He settles you on it carefully, not lifting his hands from your bottom until you’re seated securely along the loveseat and pulled to the edge by his hands hooked under your knees. 

His own knees dig into the rug beneath the furniture. His head is tipped up to continue kissing you, this one lacking the over enthusiasm from before. Now, he takes his time, having confessed his desire to be with you as long as you’ll let him. 

It’s not long until he pulls away and trails his lips down, kissing along your decollete, not stopping when he comes in contact with the fabric of your small shirt. He presses his lips into the fabric firmly, as if he’s trying to reach your skin beneath the layer.

You feel the pressure he has beneath each kiss as he trails down, and you arch into his touch, excitement spreading through your lower half whenever Luke digs his fingers into the elastic of your shorts and pulls them off of your legs before he even reaches there. 

You’re quick to leave your legs open, even going as far as to spread them a little more to give Luke more room. 

His wide shoulders fill the space. They nudge against your knees and instead of letting you spread your legs even more, he throws them over his shoulders, effectively caging himself in with your limbs. 

If the small smile on his face is anything to go by, he’s happy about his position. 

You’re still wearing your panties. Your hands trail down to get rid of them, but Luke stops you with a hand on your lower abdomen. 

“Let me,” he tells you, voice soft and light. 

You remove your hands and do as told. It’s a simple system you have worked out, Luke slowly but surely working his way down to where you want him. He's eager, and you know he wants himself there as much as you do. 

It’s strange what desire could make you do. 

You’ve never been anything but loyal to Camp Half-Blood. To both of your parents. And in normal circumstances, you wouldn’t allow yourself to do this.

 But you’ll simply have a final time with Luke. That’s it. Sharing your body with him, and having his body shared with you, won’t make you forget his transgressions. 

As your panties are pulled off of your legs, and your skin is once again placed above the thick fabric on the shoulders of his sweatshirt, you tell yourself that this won’t change anything. 

You’ll never be able to forget what he has done. What he’s planning to do. 

Except, perhaps, you can push it aside for as long as you’ll have to while you let yourself get lost in his touch. 

The first pass of his tongue is a long stripe between your folds. He spreads you open with his thumbs, pulling at the skin on either side to expose your center. Then he flattens his tongue and licks up from your entrance to your clit. 

He puckers his lips, sucking twice before flicking his tongue against the bud. 

Your hands card through his hair, ignoring the way your fingers get stuck on a few stubborn curls that refuse to separate in favor of grounding yourself. It feels too good, and you haven’t been in this position for too long. There’s nothing you fear more right now than getting too lost and waking up in the real world before you’re even satisfied. 

Luke brings his attention back down to your entrance where he laps up what you’ve been leaking. He groans, peeling his mouth away and you stare down at him, entranced by how grateful he looks. 

Eyes closed, face completely relaxed, his scar laid flat against his cheek, his pink lips parted and glistening. 

He looks ethereal. The sight is addicting. 

“Missed this so much,” he admits, tongue flickering out to lick the remnants of your arousal off of his lips. 

You feel the same, but you refuse to tell him that. Instead, you scrape your nails at his scalp lightly and shuffle your hips, hoping that alone is enough to capture Luke’s attention again. 

Either he catches the memo or he had the same idea as you because his lips are right back between your legs.

You’d expected him to behave like a man starved, licking and sucking your cunt like you would disappear any moment. Instead, he takes his time with you. He utilizes the best part about being in a dreamscape: the lack of concrete time. 

He savors the taste of your cunt, and the little sounds you make. His fingers press into the tops of your thighs as he holds them down against his shoulders to prevent you from squirming. His nose nudges against your clit and digs into the short hair you have on your mound. 

He presses his tongue everywhere that he can, sometimes even sliding further down to rim areas still unexplored. Each time, you would tense up just a little less, until eventually you were trying to subtly urge his head further down for him to do it just one more time. 

And when he does, that’s when the coil in your lower belly gets as tight as it could get, just before snapping from the tension. You would have warned him. Or, maybe you did. You were so focused on getting there that any words that came out of your mouth weren’t even considered. You weren’t aware of anything other than your mouth moving at the same speed as your hips as you dragged your cunt against Luke’s face, using him to guide your orgasm to full completion. 

As soon as your hips stop twitching you swing your legs off of his shoulders and slide to the floor beside him. You pull your shirt off, then do the same for Luke, throwing both of your tops off to the side. 

Unsurprisingly, he’s not wearing another layer beneath the sweatshirt, allowing you to run your palms down his chest, feeling the familiar definition along his abdomen. 

You sit in front of him with your legs folded underneath you, and since he’s on his haunches, he towers over you just a bit. You have to tilt your head up to kiss at his jaw and neck, your hands busying themselves with urging his sweatpants off of his hips. 

Luke does the rest of the job for you, hesitantly pulling away from your touch to stand and slide his sweatpants off of his legs himself. You’re left on the ground, hands politely resting in your lap while you stare up at Luke with wide eyes. 

He slowly reveals more and more of his legs until he’s wearing nothing but his briefs. They hug him well, like they always have. A prominent outline of the muscle definition in his thighs, elastic waistband hanging low enough on his hips for you to see the ‘V’ that connects his hips and abdomen. And of course, the tight material reveals the prominent boner confined within the crotch of his briefs. 

You want to reach up and palm him. You want to pull the final layer off of him. You want to take his cock into your mouth and relax with the heavy and warm feeling of him against your tongue. 

But you decide to be patient. And it’s worth it. 

Luke slides his briefs off himself, never breaking eye contact with you as he throws them to join the rest of your clothing. His stare is strong and heavy as he spits into his hand and puts his dick into the same place, wrapping his palm around the center of it and stroking a few times. 

There’s the prettiest, most picturesque bead of precum at the tip and you’re practically salivating just looking at it, praying deep down that Luke doesn’t run his hand over it so you can have it for yourself. 

As if sensing your inner turmoil, Luke takes a step closer, holding the base of his cock right in front of your face, allowing you to get the perfect view of how his tip is a light pink around the almost clear drop of precum. 

“You want?” he asks you simply, smiling a bit when you nod eagerly. “Then open.” 

You’re quick to do as told, lacking any shame whenever you open your mouth and stick your tongue out. As soon as Luke presses his tip to your muscle, you wrap your lips around him and eagerly suck him clean. 

Another good thing about the dreamscape is that everything either tastes like absolutely nothing, or like pure honey. And when you’re with Luke, things are usually the latter. 

You start to get lost in it, enthusiastically beginning to suck Luke off even though you were only meant to be getting a taste. 

You can see that Luke is close to commenting on it. His eyes shine like they do before he has something to say, but just when his lips part and he takes a breath to speak, you hollow your cheeks and sink as far down him as you can and any words he could have conjured up are suddenly gone. 

He lets you do what you want, eyes fluttering shut and one large hand cupping the back of your head as you continue to suck him off. He lets out the smallest noises, pretty grunts and groans and sighs. 

Luke was clearly just as wound up as you were. Within a couple of minutes he’s already starting to spew out praises like he does when he’s close. Some of them are fragments, broken words strung together in incomplete sentences. 

“So … doing so .. you’re–” when you swirl your tongue at the tip and tease his balls just a bit. 

“Gods, you’re so good at this,” when you jerk the majority of his dick with one hand and focus your mouth on his tip with the other. 

“Close. So close. Almost there, dove” when you take all of him into your mouth once more, throat molding around the definite shape of him. 

And when he cums down your throat, you’re so satisfied that you can’t help but moan unabashedly along with him. 

You’ve only just swallowed his cum before his cock is pulled out of your mouth and he’s back on his knees in front of you. 

His arms wrap around your waist, he pulls you into his lap, laying his head on your chest and just letting himself be. 

Just existing. 

After a couple of minutes, you stop expecting him to speak and decide to just exist too. Your breathing eventually matches up, in and out, in and out, over and over again in tandem. Outside, rain starts to thud against the roof of the small home. Distantly, there’s the faint sound of thunder, and you’re sure the ocean is swirling angrily. 

None of that matters, though. You’ll be left to decipher the metaphorical meanings of it all later, when you aren’t coexisting in the shared warmth from you and Luke. 

When he isn’t kissing the tops of your breasts and holding you securely in his arms. 

Eventually, Luke does break the silence. His voice is low when he does, both in volume and tone. 

“Can I have you? Just one final time?” 

He talks into your skin without looking directly at you. But as you start to respond, you cup his cheeks and force him to look at you. 

The entire time, you’ve been fighting this battle. Knowing you wanted Luke, knowing you wanted to be with Luke, but also knowing it was wrong. All of it was wrong. 

But right here, right now, you let go. You nod unashamedly. You kiss his forehead then the tip of his nose then his lips, before landing on the bottom end of his scar. 

You tell him, “Yes. Of course, Luke”, as if he didn’t even have to ask in the first place. 

And truthfully, you don’t think he did. 

‎

“I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.” 

Luke is in the middle of pulling his sweatshirt back over his head when you speak. There’s a second where the fabric is hiding his face, slowly revealing the curls at the top of his head, then his dark eyebrows, and finally his eyes. They look as they have the entire time: despondent. 

“I know you didn’t. Neither did I.” You have a feeling that neither of you are speaking about the same specific thing, but the overlap in your conditions is so wide that you don’t bother correcting him. 

He reaches behind his back once more and when he pulls his hand back around, he has his camp necklace dangling from his fingers. He undoes the knot, and holds it open, waiting, until finally you turn around and let him delicately tie it around your neck. 

Your hand touches the beads. You want to thank him, but it doesn’t feel right. 

Instead, your lips twist into what you hope comes off as a thankful smile when you turn around. When Luke replicates it, you feel a little better. 

There’s a moment, just a brief moment there where you’re both staring at each other and the memory of Luke’s hands and lips and tongue and his everything engrossing you, taking your everything and combining them together, is still fresh on your mind. The warmth of his eyes and the warmth of his camp necklace around your throat heals you. And you consider that your feelings for Luke were stronger than you ever forced yourself to acknowledge. 

He was more than a close friend to you. More than someone you looked up to. More than someone you shared your body with in the dreamscape. 

He was more. 

It feels unfair for you to have these emotions. The wrongness of it all—your feelings for Luke Castellan, how he’d turned out—has rage fueling deep in your gut. With no one else to blame it on, you can’t help but briefly curse the gods. 

For they were the ones to cause this. To instill deep hatred into Luke’s chest. To prevent either of you from ever having a normal life where you could live and breathe and love without the burdens placed upon you both. 

A life where you wouldn’t have to love and lose someone like Luke. 

But there’s nothing for you to do about it now. 

You don’t want to leave. But your time together is up. You should’ve left a long time ago, and your choice to stay before resulted in something you could never take back. 

You turn and walk to the door. And once more, Luke speaking causes you to stop. 

“You are the only one who could make me change my mind.” He says it in a small whisper, as if he doesn’t want to admit it even to himself. As if he shouldn’t be admitting it at all.

‘Are’. His feelings for you still haven’t changed. You don’t know if they ever will. 

Either way, you’re forced to change yours.  

You don’t know what to say. So you don’t say anything. Your hand reaches for the doorknob. You take it in your palm, gripping and turning at the same time until the latch is undone. 

The door opens and fills the room with the sound of rain falling. It’s loud and fills the empty space. Up until Luke speaks and the baritone of his voice joins it. 

“This is it?” 

You nod once. Luke’s scoff sounds painful. It’s bitter with an edge of hatred. Maybe disbelief. 

It makes tears brim at your eyes. Your nose stings. Your throat feels as if it’s constricting with the effort to hold your tears back. 

Luke takes a breath. You step one foot out of the door. 

“Dreamcatcher,” he calls to get your attention, the nickname giving you that fuzzy feeling you used to get from just seeing him around camp. “We’ll be seeing each other again.” 

And then your foot lands on the dry green grass of your own dreamscape. 

Just a few hours later, you rise with the morning sun, sneaking off to the showers before everyone else to get rid of the stickiness between your thighs. 

The dream might not have been real, but the evidence between your legs certainly was. Strangely enough, that and the additional chord of beads around your neck. You only notice it when you’ve undressed and stepped beneath the shower head, scrubbing at your skin and running into additional jewelry you hadn’t expected to have been there. 

You take it off and slip it with the rest of your clothes as a keepsake, carrying it around in your pocket for only you to know about.

e. lockhart, author that you are

drabble!! | no warnings | 📼 — uiscefhuaraithe; hozier

thinking about luke’s little things, the everyday mundanities of him;

he ties his laces tighter around his toes than his ankles because he runs fast and doesn’t want his shoes falling off, but he also likes being able to slip them on and off conveniently.

his favorite socks are gifts from you, worn for so long that they've gone thin, grey, and soft around the soles—they’re white, yellow around the toes and heels, and have a badtz-maru pattern at the ankles. the knit underside of them have been inexpertly darned over and over again, blue and black and grey and orange thread crisscrossing over each other like a mismatched tapestry—his very own theseus' paradox. he only wears them on saturdays, his favorite part of the week.

luke loves cheeseburgers, especially the ones that camp serves on tuesdays, even though he gets stuck in the latrines for an hour because his stomach can’t handle dairy. he eats mandarins at breakfast for vitamin c but forgets that acidic foods on an empty stomach also make him need to take a shit.

he knows exactly three mandarin phrases (ni hao, xie xie, bing qi ling), is bad at spanish because chris talks too fast and can’t teach, and only knows that ‘aishiteru’ means ‘i love you’ in japanese because it’s what his mom always repeated when he was a kid.

luke walks with a little tilt to his shoulders, his right side heavier than the left by just a hair's breadth; it's because he holds your hand on that side more often. he can't sleep without caging you in his arms, and you struggle to get out of his bed for the bathroom at the eggshell crack of dawn because he holds on so tight.

he says that he only listens to alt/indie, but if you asked him to name a song off the top of his head, he'd say something like 'olivia rodrigo'. he knows hamilton's 'non-stop' bar for bar, can rap and sing all the lyrics by heart but slightly off-beat. he thinks that the musical itself is a stupidly inaccurate portrayal of hermes' favorite son, and oftentimes wishes that his father would stop posing as lin manuel miranda.

luke has a mottled scar on his right palm, just under the first joint of his thumb, from when he'd burned his hand fighting the dragon ladon; he had picked up his sword, skin still blistering, and cut a claw from the beast. when he cups your face, you tend to turn your head and kiss it softly.

his skin is a canvas with a constellation of freckles and scars, many of which are either raised or concave, and silver-like stretch marks arching like lightning. he tells you that the most vulnerable part of a swordsman's body is his back but doesn't say anything when you trace your hand down the indents and dimples of his spine, fingertips bumping over the thirty three juts of bone.

luke takes off his shirt often because he gets hot easily, but sometimes he does it just to see you avert your eyes in shyness. he likes it when you connect his freckles to his moles to his pockmarked scars with the barest brush of your nail, how the tingle of it jitters through his nervous system when you reach the base of his neck.

he tells you that he loves you in the morning, at noon, after curfew hits, and any time in between—just in case something happens, you can have peace, knowing that he loves you. he kisses you soft and sweet like a longing fulfilled every time you part ways, even if you'll see him again in an hour; you always have something to look forward to.

so yea, luke's little things. how he loves, the foods he likes and the worn-out socks he wears and the way he laces his shoes, the stories folded into the star-spun, white gold stretch of his skin and the way his spinal cord juts out when he lays stomach-down on the bed.

p.s; umm procrastinating on jubi but i’m still thinking abt luke. sorry for being a freak about him it will absolutely happen again...also- the part about 'aishteru' meaning ily is bc google says that charlie's mom is half japanese so i thought it'd be cool to include that as part of luke's character :) + star dividers from a post by @/driaswrld

comments, asks, and reblogs are greatly appreciated!!

luke tags (open); @melllinaa @amortencjja @niktwazny303 @arsonnaire @mischiefmoons