#JAZZ HANDDSS

[absolutekillswitch]

no alarms and no surprises (please)

pairing: luke castellan x thanatos!reader

tw: major TLO spoilers (honestly tho if u haven’t read it yet, begone), major character death, discussions of blood and death, Luke was reader’s first kiss, mentions of past manipulation, lots of crying, and also i made [REDACTED] take way too long to die for the sake of dialogue. Sorry. Also! she/her pronouns are used, but I tried to steer clear of descriptors outside of that so this SHOULD be woc friendly

word count: 3.4k

It was cruel, this end he was facing. Y/N had felt it long before she’d seen it, that deep intrinsic tug within her, that sixth sense that had begun to go haywire since New York had fallen asleep, since the final countdown for western civilization had officially started running. The tug that alerted her to a new death in her vicinity. The curse bore by the children of death, the chained god, to feel the string of fate being cut, to sense lost souls being carried to the underworld by their father. To mourn, but not to see. She’d never felt it as frequently as she did now, feeling like threads tugging her in countless directions, so much so that her aim with her sword was affected. She’d been coined the best swordsman back at camp, after the previous titleholder had vacated the position, but now, it was like she was jittery, like a newborn zebra with a sword in their grasp, trying to learn how to stand and fight all at once, her battle senses being overridden by the unavoidable emotional pain of the fact that every tug she was feeling, was the feeling of a fellow demigod dying.

But then she’d felt that one.

The strength of this particular tug wasn’t lost on her. It was stronger than any she’d faced yet— stronger than the tugs of those she’d slain herself, and stronger than the tugs of those who had been close to her, when they were alive. It was so strong that the metaphysical tug had felt like a real, physical one, like she was physically being pulled in its direction. The proof of it is the crude slash on her forearm, where the kid she’d been fighting back had gotten a lucky shot on her due to her presently distracted nature.

It had to have been him.

She wasn’t sure just who she’d been fighting, and in the end, she doesn’t think it really mattered all that much, if they were a former camper; a demigod, or if they were an armored monster, as with a wave of her hand, the ground rumbles, opening up under their feet, boney, decayed hands dragging them into the earth, only for the ground to close up on them halfway through their forced descent. Y/N didn’t even notice, nor did she really care. All she knew was that she’d put an end to her own fight, allowing her feet to carry her to his side, numbness flooding her body, with a whispered command to her undead soldiers,

“Protect them.”

She’s not even sure how she found him, exactly. She’d just always been able to find him like that. Now seemed to be no exception to the rule, as she followed what she would consider to be the string of fate to his side. The sight she sees when she does is an unwelcome one, however. There’s three of them— she sees Percy and Annabeth crowded around a figure on the ground. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out who it is.

“Oh, Gods,” Y/N whispers, hesitating to get closer. She doesn’t know if she can. At the sound of her voice, Percy turns. He looks pale, eyes ringed in red. It looks like he’d been crying, exhausted, eyes wide, as if he were afraid he’d collapse if he even blinked. Y/N wouldn’t blame him, if he did.

“Y/N—“ He hesitates to speak, to try and explain, but Y/N doesn’t let him. She’s already marching over, ignoring the dread building in her gut, the tears in her eyes. And that’s when she sees him.

“Luke,” She whispers, the single word bordering on a gasp. Internally, she’s vaguely aware that this is the first time she’d used his name in years, preferring to call him by his last name, or traitor, at best, or whatever random curse she could think of at the time, at worst. She’d gotten pretty good at it, honestly— the coming up with insults to hurl at him every time they’d crossed paths since his betrayal. But now, all of that is gone. It seems that at that moment, Annabeth and Percy disappeared. It’s just them as she crumbles, falling to her knees before he can even protest. It’s him, not Kronos, she knows. They’d all learned how to tell the difference between the two, when Kronos had taken Luke’s face. Kronos had a colder air about him, eyes golden. Just pure evil that seeped into your bones, that seemed to change even the people around you. But this? This was Luke Castellan. Soft, soulful brown eyes, and a welcoming air about him. This was the guy who had been like all of Camp Half-Blood’s big brother. This was the guy Y/N had been in love with ever since she’d arrived at camp, even if she realized it far too late. Even if he was currently trying to get Percy to make her leave, not wanting her to see him like this. Never like this. Her eyes take stock of his appearance against her will. He looked just as bad as Percy did— worse, actually, given he was bleeding, Annabeth’s knife clattering from his hand to the marble below him. It makes her heart ache, the picture in front of her painted so clearly, even if she hadn’t been present to see it herself.

A hero’s soul, cursed blade shall reap.

They’d realized what the prophecy meant, clearly. Luke had to be the one to take Kronos— and to an extent, himself— out. And when Luke had done it, when he’d touched his own Achilles heel, Kronos had run. So now, Luke Castellan was dying. Alone.

Well— not alone.

She was still here. She always would be, even if he’d insist otherwise. He hated how she always had made him want to be a better person. Even now, as he lay dying, covered in sweat, blood, and ash. If she tries hard enough, she can almost pretend that they’re back at camp, that they’d had an extremely rough day playing capture the flag, that the pair of them are in the infirmary, making up ridiculous stories for the scars they’ll have as a result of their adventure, shedding tears from their short lived pain in the name of glory but laughing anyway as they stitched each other up, letting the Apollo kids deal with those who didn’t have someone to back them up like Y/N and Luke did— someone to dote on them, and someone to dote on in return. But it gets hard, keeping up this fantasy. They’re both far too battle-worn, both with eyes that had seen far too much, faces years older than they were the last time they’d seen each other. And in spite of it all, all she can find herself thinking is,

‘Oh, love, you grew up without me’.

“You shouldn’t be here.” Luke tells her plainly, his brown eyes fighting to focus on her through his tears that he’s fighting to push back. Had they always done that?

“Yet I’m here anyway. Deal.” She responds, brows furrowing, focusing on the wound in his side. Prophecies be damned, she won’t let him die. He sits up straighter, slumped uncomfortably against a marble wall at the sudden pressure to his side, the daughter of Thanatos trying to staunch the blood flow, trying to give him more time, tears clouding her own vision, hands shaking. She knows deep down that it’s all in vain, but she won’t let him go. Not like this. She’ll fight her father back herself, if she had to.

“Y/N…” He whispers uncomfortably, hating how blood spurts past his lips, onto his chin, as he utters her name. He’s going to die, he knows, he can almost feel the fates beginning to prepare to cut his thread, but there’s some things he can’t leave unsaid. “My— my heart, it was always yours. You know that, right?” He notices how she flinches, expression troubled. “Take care of it, for me. I know you’ll do better with it than I ever had.” It’s true— his entire time at camp, since she’d arrived, he’d stupidly ignored it. He let hate and anger and jealousy cloud his mind for so long, he never really appreciated what was in front of him. It was just unfortunate it was taking his death to realize that.

“Don’t— don’t say that, not to me,” she sobs, shaking hands still covering his wound, stupidly, naively, believing she could still save him. “Don’t make it sound like you’re dying. You’re not dying, damn it,” she still sounds determined, one hand leaving his wound to touch his face, holding his cheek, accidentally staining it with his own blood. “Don’t— don’t leave me here, please, I just got you back,” she pleads, glassy eyes blurring with tears. She thinks, honestly, that this is the first time she’s talking to just Luke, free of Kronos’ influence, since he’d stolen that lightning bolt from Olympus years ago. It’s the Luke she remembers, the one she so sorely missed.

He laughed quietly, reaching up to touch her fingers. Even now, as she was sobbing over him, unable to look him in the eye, she’s the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Her lips were so plump — as if made to be kissed, even in this moment of peril. “The gods might not want me, but I’m glad they’ve given you to me,” he whispered, squeezing her hand in his again. “I’m dying, Y/N. You can’t save me.” This makes her squeeze her eyes closed, shaking her head lightly, as if she isn’t listening. She isn’t, not really.

“No, nononono— stop that,” She cries, her eyes squinting shut in an effort to banish her tears, but it doesn’t work. “I’m— I’m the daughter of Thanatos, damn it, what good am I if I can’t do this? If I can’t keep just one person alive?” She seems to be talking mostly to herself, not giving up her mission on keeping him with her. Not after everything that’s been said, not with everything that’s being left unsaid. “I know this isn’t what I do, that I’m not a fucking sunshiney Apollo kid who can heal someone on a whim. But this is kinda my thing, is it not? Just… Just one. Please, let me save just this one. I’ll never ask for anything again.” She’s looking up at the sky— praying, it looked like, while blinking away her own tears. She couldn’t remember the last time she prayed to the gods for anything, but she was now. To anyone who would listen, though Luke gets the sneaking suspicion she’s talking to her father. The one she blamed, for being unable to save anyone. She couldn’t heal, the best she could do was sit by and watch.

Luke laughed again, but it’s humorless— and it was so cruel, to die when he could feel his heartbeat quickening as Y/N was so close, her lips so near to his, her eyes so lovely. He wished he could kiss her right now, in this moment, on the marble floor, with blood running over his fingers and the dagger still next to them.

“Y/N, promise me one thing?”

“Anything,” Y/N nods softly, her attention turning back to him. She hates how the simple act of saying her name still affected her so much, after all this time. Her tears were cutting through the grime on her face from a hard fought battle, covered in her own and the blood of others, trembling. Still, she finds it in her to make a promise to the dying boy she loved. “Anything. Just—“ she drifts off, nodding, knowing they don’t have time. Luke took a breath, his eyes fluttering shut. For the first time in his life, he genuinely felt like a young man. A teenage boy, holding his girlfriend's hand and wanting nothing but her to keep safe. For a moment, he can pretend. But only for a moment. His breath hitched, and slowly, he felt the life fading from his body — as if it was being drawn from him like water in a cup. He hesitates to speak, but knows he’s running out of time. He can feel it, being sapped from his bones. But in spite of that, he’s not… afraid. He isn’t angry. He almost isn’t even in pain. He thinks it’s her, that it’s Y/N’s aura as a daughter of Thanatos, that no one in her vicinity will feel pain, a divine remainder of her father’s power flowing in her veins, the guide to the underworld, before they’d meet the ferryman. A walking shot of morphine. He’s heard stories from his spies, about how when Camp would lose a camper during their fight with Kronos— with him—, Y/N would stay with them until they passed, holding their hand, telling stories, bringing them peace, so they would go out with a kind face. Much like she was doing now, for him. The Thanatos of the waking world, the guiding light to death. It’s much more than he deserves, and he knows it.

"Promise me.... you'll meet me again... at the River Styx," He whispered.

“I’ll find you in Elysium.” She promises softly through sniffles, brushing his hair out of his face, a forced soft smile on her own face. She wants him to go out peacefully, wants to remember her smiling, even if she wants to scream at the sky and cry until she couldn’t breathe anymore. She’d been pretty good at it, feigning calmness and serenity with the campers they lost on their own side. It made their passing easier. But this? With him? She doesn’t know if it does. He’d always been far too good at reading her, for that. “I swear it, on the Styx, that I’ll find you in Elysium.” She sounds sure of herself, that even after everything he’d done, he’d earned a hero’s afterlife. That’s what the prophecy said, after all, right? Somehow, she knows she, too, will find herself with a hero’s death. Life wouldn’t be so kind to allow her to die of old age. She’d die hard, with a sword in her hand, and anger in her heart. Luke's eyes flickered open to meet the softness of hers, of lips he wanted to taste, of skin he wanted to cover with kisses. For a moment, he allowed himself the luxury of mourning the future he could’ve had with this girl, if he hadn’t been so hellbent on his never ending quest for glory.

Kleos. The word feels like poison, now. Maybe it always had been.

"No —" He whispered, head shaking lightly, "I won't be in Elysium. I’ll go to Asphodel—" He choked. That's where he'd likely be, being punished for his treason. It’s the least he deserved, after everything he’d done. "— and then the Fields of Punishment. But promise me... that you will wait for me, at the River."

“No,” Y/N shakes her head, adamant. He should probably take her word for it— she’s the daughter of the god of death, after all. She had a sense for these things. “Elysium. I’m sure of it. You’ve earned it.” She promises, tone soft. She doesn’t mention how she’d never let her father live it down if anything else took place. She’d tear Hades apart herself, find his soul and bring him back, somehow. Like Orpheus and Eurydice, except she’d succeed. “Regardless— it doesn’t matter. I’ll always find you. No matter where you are, I’ll find you. I swear it.”

He laughed, and it was a sad one. He was so weak, so very weak, his eyes flickering once more, his hand squeezing hers as tightly as he could, wanting to burn her imprint into his flesh. "You are so stubborn, you know that? You always have been," he whispered. Images flash through his mind against his will— her face, always her face. When she’d learned of his betrayal, then later when he’d attempted to sway her to his side. When they would train together in the arena— camp’s two best swordsmen. When she’d have nightmares, constant images of the dead trying to use her, both for her powers and as revenge on her father, who they felt claimed them from the mortal plane far too soon, to crawl their way back to the world of the living, and how, terrified of closing her eyes again, she’d crawl into his bed with him, the only place she felt safe enough to fall back asleep. When she’d kissed him for the first time, on her seventeenth birthday. Because ‘most demigods don’t get to make it to seventeen, so I’m making seventeen count’, as she’d put it. Then, later that night, after his surprise wore off, when he had kissed her. It pains him to think about how he’d only been manipulating her, back then. Had he loved her? Sure, but his mission always seemed more important at the time. He’d do it for them, he’d told himself. The gods would regret every unclaimed child, and every claimed child resigned to the Hermes cabin because they weren’t born with the luxury of having a parent that had a throne on Olympus, one of the big twelve. For kids like Y/N. His hand slipped from hers, and he couldn't bring himself to close his eyes. Instead, he'd watch her, as if he could lock her into his memory. "Will you... will you stay here with me, until my life..." He couldn't finish the sentence.

“Until the very end.” She promises softly, her voice cracking with the effort not to cry. She’d almost given up on trying to staunch the bleeding, one hand resting on his face, brushing languidly, lovingly, over his cheek, just around the edge of his scar. She’s not sure what possessed her in that moment, as she leans down, placing a soft, chaste, yet romantic kiss to his lips. After all, he’d been her first kiss, it felt fitting that she would also be his last. As she pulls away, she whispers against his lips, “I love you, Luke Castellan.”

He was breathless, the kiss like a dagger to the chest, biting deeper than the blade that will end up taking his life. In a matter of minutes, his heartbeat would skip its last beat, and her face will be the last he sees, the last thought on his mind. His hand came up to the back of her neck, holding her as he whispered in return, "... I love you too." He managed only that, before his heart failed him. He was gone, and he didn't make a sound.

Gone with a whimper, not a bang.

The blood that fell from his wound was now staining the pristine marble flooring beneath them, the last remnants of life and love, of devotion and betrayal. Y/N hoped that it would stain forever, a constant reminder of his sacrifice.

Y/N felt his final breath fan across her face, and she knew he was gone. Her eyes remained closed, steady tears rolling down her face, their foreheads pressed together. She can feel him growing cold as she sobs. “No,” She whimpers, his hands, now gone limp, still in hers. “No, please no—“ Vaguely, she’s aware of the rumbling of the ground under her feet, a telltale sign of her powers coming out to play, a throng of undead soldiers aching to burst past the earth’s mantle, to await her command. Her face screws up into an expression of anguish, though she forces the feeling down, knowing that if she didn’t reel in her own emotion, her legion of death wouldn’t hesitate to grab every demigod in her vicinity and drag them into the earth, to take their place in the afterlife. Maybe they’d take her, too. Maybe she hoped they would.

The thing about being the daughter of death, was that when a soul left a body and you were near enough to it, you could feel them leaving the mortal plane, accompanied by her father to the underworld. She could feel it, feel him, Luke’s soul leaving his body. She always did, with the campers they lost during the war, but this one hits too close to home. It’s a startling, chilling, terrifying feeling, that only makes her sob harder, knowing the boy she loved was now in her father’s hands, and out of her own. This was always the hardest part. “Take care of him for me, pops,” she whispers, voice trembling, knowing her father was with Luke’s soul right now, the pair watching over her mourning over Luke’s body. As that realization passes over her, she sits up straight, a ragged scream of mourning threatening to tear her vocal cords apart. In the background, she’s vaguely aware of the voice of Percy Jackson speaking,

“We need a shroud. A shroud for the son of Hermes.”

Notes: and with that, we’re done. This was super fun! I feel like I could go on forever about Luke x Grim Reader (I’m calling them deadwings/grimwings), and if there’s enough of a demand, I just might. Feedback is obviously appreciated !! Drink some water, hug a friend, and don’t forget to pirate PJO 🫶

#JAZZ HANDDSS #happy Friday have some soul shattering angst #and for my next trick I’ll disappear into obscurity never to be heard from again #jk #unless??? #pjo x reader #luke castellan x reader #luke castellan imagine #luke castellan angst #luke castellan x you #PJO angst #x reader #PJO imagine