ma1dita

[ma1dita]

◦˚~ ANIMATED STARS DIVIDERS by enchanthings ~˚◦

Info: these were all drawn & animated by me. please reblog/like if use!

[ma1dita]

this was a lie i am now fully recovered and brain fog is gone so getting back to my routine has been ass but im writing again!!! missed you tumblr!!

ive run out of queued posts

im alive 😃👋🏼

unfortunately

yap if you dare while i try to be productive today!! missed yall heehee not in a brain fog anymore 🤝

[ma1dita]

going insane

[ma1dita]

[ma1dita]

been holding off on this bc i dont wanna let go of luke and jubi LOL

there's something so intricate in loving an antagonist that you're able to put into words. its always difficult to show the humanity in a person who's been doomed by the narrative but the way you've created this story and given luke the justice and love that he deserves is both fulfilling and not overstated---its both a HEA but also does not diminish his wrongdoings. anyways yap over

“Why do I get to live and they don’t?” he continues, then pauses for a breath, checks that he’s actually breathing. “Sometimes I wish I ended up in Tartarus instead of here.” “You can’t change any of it now,” you tell him finally, face obscured in the pillows like a half moon. You blink again, studying him, fingertips slicing delicate along his hairline. He’d let you take him apart if you wanted, slice his chest open and see the bloody, bloody mess of his heart. Showing you his secrets feels a lot easier than telling you. “I used to wish you were dead, too.”

heartwrenching. survivors guilt go HARD and i treat this universe as canon if he lived i swear to GOD!! the honesty and complexity of their relationship is so tender and deep-set within my heart that i can't comprehend how one can be loved like that. don't we all. sometimes there are no words that can fix what has happened, and we still keep pushing

He lets the blood trickle from his mouth with a punched-out groan before croaking, “I’m sorry about Silena.” Clarisse’s fingers pull him up by the collar hard, eyes murderous, red, and wet. Tears run a well-eroded path down her face. Her mouth twitches in a near sneer before she drops her grip; Luke falls limp, boneless to the ground.

ngl i cried when i read this LMAOOOOOO!!!! LOVE ME A GOOD TRAGEDY!!!! clarisse dont have to like him but the resolve she has in talking to luke after everything (and debatable how it wasn't his fault yet he took part in what killed her? yeah. im not okay). and he just takes it because that's all he can offer as a resolution to the deaths that happened under his watch. life as a demigod must be so unfair broooooOOOOOOO they were KIDS. i could write ESSAYS ABOUT THIS

You bring up your knotted hands to your face, press your lips gently against the back of his hand. “How could I regret you?” It sounds less of a question than a statement of fact, and it’s enough for Luke to know he’d do it all over again if it meant he could have this little oasis of peace you’ve created for yourselves.

jubi as his solace and reprieve from the reality they live in is so!!!! jubi is what can heal him, heart body and soul im so emotional---HE"D DO IT ALL OVER AGAIN JUST TO KNOW THAT EVERYTHING ENDS UP OKAY---regrets and all...whew. through all that pain sometimes it is all worth it in the end

( What’s one more time? ) Oh. It blooms in his chest, unfurls between his lungs. So this is what you meant by New York not really being home; he could curl into your gentle pool of sun-lit warmth every day and never want to go back. You smile against his mouth, lips curling, something jubilant pulsing through his veins, and Luke just knows that everything will be okay.

THEY GOT THEIR NEW ROME ENDING I WAS SCREAMING!!! this is so fitting for them to start fresh because sometimes home cannot be home anymore after all of that---home grows and moves with him and its the space that jubi takes up---everything will be okay as long as they're together im DERANGED THEO DOCTOR DOLITTLE SAVE ME I AM SO SOFT

the complexity and genuine emotion this series brings me will never fail to make me smile. thank you for taking up space in my mind

SO BE GOOD (SWEET) TO ME —

⤷ he couldn't ever regret you. he'd do it all over again if you asked / luke castellan x (gn + child of aristaeus) reader

⤷ wc; 2.7k | minor survivor's guilt, hoo spoilers, end of an era im sobbing, happy ending we go!! + tracklist: slide tackle, be sweet - japanese breakfast

⤷ the jubilee recollection ( masterlist )

♫ — an ache i meet to desire living (tackling this void)

Luke turns in the bed at night, shifts around to lay on his spine, ceiling spinning dizzy above him. He knows he’s been quiet lately, a silent shadow lingering at the back of everyone’s mind; he lets out a breath, heavy and forlorn, his entire body sinking with the departure of it.

A sleep-heavy rasp, fatigued, “I keep dreaming about them.”

You mumble something unintelligible, burrowing closer and tucking your knees behind his. Luke loves the way your stress lines and scars seem to melt away under the moonlight, thinks that a person like him doesn’t deserve an angel in his bed.

“Who?” The word melts into a little puff of condensation on his jaw.

“Dead people. I—” he takes a moment to will away the lump in his throat. “Most of the time, I think Silena or Ethan’ll turn the corner before I remember that I killed them.

“Why do I get to live and they don’t?” he continues, then pauses for a breath, checks that he’s actually breathing. “Sometimes I wish I ended up in Tartarus instead of here.”

Your fingers trace the line of his jaw, and he’s compelled by the gravity of them to turn his head, eyes meeting yours. There’s something heavy swimming in the dark pools of your pupils, glimmering faint with the dim moon.

( Nose-to-nose, sharing breaths, a sun in orbit. )

You blink, slow, lashes fluttering. He feels your breath straining against your ribs in a sigh and digs his fingers tighter against your waist like you’ll turn to mist if he doesn’t hold you close enough.

“You can’t change any of it now,” you tell him finally, face obscured in the pillows like a half moon. You blink again, studying him, fingertips slicing delicate along his hairline. He’d let you take him apart if you wanted, slice his chest open and see the bloody, bloody mess of his heart. Showing you his secrets feels a lot easier than telling you. “I used to wish you were dead, too.”

“But it’d be harder, wouldn’t it?” He manages a small grin, almost quicksilver with the way it leaves as quick as it comes, like a small, injured bird in flight. “Restless ghosts aren’t ever fun.”

You smile back soft, wrinkles arrowing at the corners of your lips, fingers running down to rest on his cupid’s bow. “No, they aren’t.” And then, “I glad you’re alive, Luke.”

He just kisses your skin, salt and honey and citrus, brings his own hand from the sheets to press his thumb into your palm, reading the scars by touch like a story he’ll always know.

“Me too.”

You hum, breaths already deepening. His exhales come a little easier, then.

♫ — so be good (don’t mind me)

It’s on sight with Clarisse La Rue. One moment he’s strolling through a battle-ready camp and the next he’s getting a mouthful of dirt. His sight goes dark for a second as a weight settles above him—he regains his vision just as the daughter of Ares raises her fist and sinks her knuckles into his cheek.

Luke feels the bruise blooming under his skin as she hisses, “I’ve been waiting for this, Castellan,” and punches him again. Something splinters in his chest, sharp glass spattering into his lungs.

The worst he does is claw at the weeds, letting the girl pour her rage into his beaten face. He thinks it’s raining until he realizes that her blows have slowed, weakened, arm falling limp to thump against his chest. Her fingers twist in his camp shirt, knuckles ruddy, blooming reddish like Half-Blood Hill in the sunset.

He lets the blood trickle from his mouth with a punched-out groan before croaking, “I’m sorry about Silena.”

Clarisse’s fingers pull him up by the collar hard, eyes murderous, red, and wet. Tears run a well-eroded path down her face. Her mouth twitches in a near sneer before she drops her grip; Luke falls limp, boneless to the ground.

“Clean up,” she spits, jaw straining. “Full outfit after dinner, you’re part of my team.”

Luke lays there long after she trudges away, listening to the faint crunch of feet on dirt. Your head eclipses the sun a few minutes later, outline haloed in gold. The upward curve to his mouth is small, a little bloody, and you pull him up, shoulder a crutch as you hobble back to the cottage.

You sit him down on a stool, sliding away to grab a first aid kit while he works his dusty shirt over his shoulders then head, rough fabric stinging at his face. He takes the cup of water you hold out to him, swishing it in his mouth and swallowing, the tang of blood dissipating.

The kit clicks as you flips it open. “Clarisse?” you ask, even though you already know.

“It was about Silena.”

You hum, cotton swab tracing over the split skin of his cheek, fingers cold as you tilt his head gently. “Figures. She really—”

“—loved her, yea,” he tacks on, lips tingling numb. Your lips pinch a moment, an almost-smile, something bitter and sad sewn into the crease of your mouth. “I didn’t fight back.”

“I know,” you say, prodding at the bruise around his eye. You rip a few pieces of medical adhesive and lay them gentle over his cuts. “If you did, you wouldn’t look this bad.”

“Still handsome?” Luke mumbles the question out, tongue feeling swollen and cardboard-like in his mouth as your fingers find his bare sternum. His heart pulls like a magnet to your touch.

You laugh softly and his lungs jump, giddy. “Obviously.”

You wipe the remaining dirt off his face with a damp towel, tossing it to the side when you’re done so you can clamber above his knees. His nape tingles when your knuckles find his spine, a mountain range of divots fitting into you.

Luke’s nose seeks the juncture of your neck like the wandering point of a compass, thumb tracing your side like a cartographer mapping out a shore. You relax in his hold, frame melting to fill the spaces he’s carved into his posture for you—the fit is ridge for ridge, complementary halves meeting in a whole.

“You’re too good to me, honey,” he says, words muffled honest into your skin. You kiss the plane of his temple, fingers twining into his curls. He wonders what he tastes like to you, if his skin has taken on the smudgy blend of citrus and honey of yours.

You laugh softly, and he presses his lips tender to your collarbone. His bruises don’t hurt as bad now that the soothing warmth of you is wrapped against him.

♫ — i’ve turned back running for you

The battle goes by too quickly for him to process. Luke can only catch onto snippets of things, like a movie played for background noise, pieces of it snagging on his attention but not really staying long enough to be memorable.

It’s long, it’s bloody, and by the time Luke gets his clarity back, he’s standing knee-deep in monster dust, a gash running bloody along his thigh and blade chipping at the edge. Then, he passes out right as a shrieking ragdoll in a toga (what the fuck) collides with a mass of churning dirt mid-air; the explosion blooms behind his shuttering eyes and paints bright, persimmon-hued spots in his darkened vision.

Later, he’ll wake up in the cottage, dawn burgeoning through the windows, the heavens veined in each clear ray, and he’ll see your frame slouched over the dinner table. The vat of sharp-scented honey at your side has yet to be jarred and a crate worth of bandages pillow your temple; you look so at peace with the world that Luke can’t find the will to wake you despite the heavy weight of his cardboard tongue.

Well, he won’t need to. You groan, no doubt from the chinks in your nape making themselves known, palms pressing into your eyes and fingertips crusted with honey.

You listen to the silence for a moment. “Morning,” you eke out, the syllables running together in a sleepy slur.

“G’morn’g.” Luke thinks it comes out intelligible, but by the bedraggled furrow in your brow, he knows it’s just a jumble.

“How’s the leg going?” you ask, question petering off to a sigh when you pop your spine just right. The crack of air between your bones lets out a clear ring in the cottage, a bell of wakefulness. The sink rushes over your hands, fingers flecking off droplets; you continue to stretch, neck rolling while you wave your hands above the basin.

Truth be told, Luke can’t feel any of his injuries at all, something that should be concerning to a mortal, but he’s a demigod. So he just smiles, soft, the crease of his smile lines making an appearance as the sun weaves him gold, Midas-touched.

“I don’t know. Could you kiss it better?”

He knows he’s pushing his luck because you pause in your movements, a slow in the pull of your tendons and bones. Gingerly turning to face him, he’s greeted by an expression on your face that vaguely resembles the mouth of a closed drawstring bag with the way your eyes are narrowing, brows furrowing, mouth curled and set in faux disgust.

The grin that he give you this time is short-lived, quick, an apologetic up-down and out. “Sorry.”

You make a sound, a snick of the tongue. “Did I miss a spot?” you question, moving closer to him, thumb sketching a sensitive line along his cupid’s bow. A brushstroke of pain sings through his nerves.

“Nah, just nicked myself shaving.” Like this, you both can pretend that you’re normal, that you haven’t survived a brutal war and just lived through another. Like this, Luke can pretend that he never left you.

You say nothing about it, mouth creasing humorously. A breath passes, a stillness threading the air. Luke wants to fill the silence with something but finds that your thumb is holding his chapped lips down.

“Do you ever regret it?” you ask, tired eyes glassing over, daybreak refracting in them. “Having tea with me?”

That’s a hard question. You have tea every day with him, once in the morning and again at night, the sun perpetually kissing the horizon either way.

But oh, you’re talking about the first time he had tea with you, Annabeth seven and slumped over the Big House table, his camp shirt new and necklace empty. He recalls vaguely that the chamomile had set a line of comfortable fire burning all the way along his throat, honey coming to kiss it better as it went down. Your thumbprint moves along the soft edge of his lip until it rests at the corner of his mouth.

“Do you?” he responds, hand coming to twine his fingers with yours; the smooth, whittled edge of the dragon’s claw ring imprints an echo into his skin. His own rests against his sternum, warmed by the heat of his still beating heart; Luke wonders, briefly, if you’d ever marry him.

You bring up your knotted hands to your face, press your lips gently against the back of his hand. “How could I regret you?”

It sounds less of a question than a statement of fact, and it’s enough for Luke to know he’d do it all over again if it meant he could have this little oasis of peace you’ve created for yourselves.

♫ — be sweet to me, baby (reprise)

The last of the boxes hits the ground with a jangle. Luke rubs at the ache in his palm, the crease of it reddened, dark. His knees are burning, ankles loose, back nearly about to give out.

“Why did there have to be so many stairs?” he complains, propping his knuckles against his lower back and arching, every ligament popping in sequence. You brush past him, fingers trailing against the high point of his hip. The touch leaves a fuzzy heat trailing in its wake, the ache in his bones ebbing away.

( You must be the moon and he the tide. Or maybe, you’re the sun, and he every celestial body drawn to the dip of your weight in spacetime. )

“It’s a nice view, that’s why,” you tell him, opening a window—the breeze that filters in is clear, almost sparkling. “There’s an elevator, though. Don’t know why you didn’t take that. I got more boxes up in the time it took you to get one.”

“It’s the fifth floor. How was I supposed to know that there were like—five flights between each story?”

“Go figure.”

He makes a whiney sound in his throat, stumbling loose-boned over to you, arms coming around your waist and neck craned to prop his chin at the juncture of your neck.

Below him, New Rome sprawls beyond the sill, a patchwork of cobblestone streets and new and old buildings, brick-walled stores and marble-columned offices and intricately domed structures. In a far-off distance, the forum and its collection of sun-drenched gardens glitters, gemstones sewn into every babbling fountain, vines snaking around the glassy haze of brilliantly white sculptures.

He kisses you soft behind your ear. “You homesick for New York yet?”

There’s something glassy in your eyes again, half nostalgia and half determined conviction. You hum, fingers tracing the painted edge of the windowsill. “It’s not really home anymore. I’ll miss Annabeth and everyone, but….”

Luke wounds his arms tighter, like you’re going to float away. You lean your head against his, cheek-to-cheek, lightning arching under his skin and over his nerves. It’s a wonder he hasn’t been electrocuted with the way his system erupts into tingle-mode every time you touch.

“I think,” you say, the forum glimmering in your irises, gardens and fountains and statues and all, “I want to have a normal life here. No monsters. No more war. Are you okay with that?”

He dips his head to press his mouth reassuringly under your jaw, mumbles, “Only if you feel safe here. And if not, we can pack up whenever and get the hell out.”

“Okay,” you turn, kiss his cheek sweetly, “okay.” You’re significantly less wound-up with his words, shoulders coming down and scar-freckled palms coming up to cradle his face.

Luke grins, eyes going crescent, a half moon smile lit by the gentle sun of your joy. He pats your side, hands careworn, palms callused, the fit of your wait familiar to the push-pull of the ligaments and tendons in his fingers.

Urgently, but not entirely, “We’re gonna be late to pick up our books.”

Now it’s your turn to whine and go loose-boned in his arms. He dips down again to nose at your throat, and you dissolve into giggles.

“I’m scared,” you say, looking anything but with your tickled smile, “what if I’m bad at college?”

“You?” Luke chuckles, incredulous. “Camp Half-Blood’s Doctor Doolittle? Failing at being a vet? Oh, please.”

“Shut up, it only applies to bees.”

“Save me, Doctor Doolittle, save me!”

“You’re such a fucking weirdo.” You say this in a laugh, the sound rattling behind your ribs, the seat of your hand slapping weakly at his chest. Luke catches your wrist, pulls you in for a kiss, re-etches the fit of your frame against his even though he’s done it every day.

( What’s one more time? )

Oh. It blooms in his chest, unfurls between his lungs. So this is what you meant by New York not really being home; he could curl into your gentle pool of sun-lit warmth every day and never want to go back. You smile against his mouth, lips curling, something jubilant pulsing through his veins, and Luke just knows that everything will be okay.

closing thoughts ; short and sweet finale, i feel like its a really fitting ending for my ride or dies. anyways, life since OIAR dropped in december feels like a fever dream, like wdym i actually pushed through my commitment issues and completed my first ever series?? thank u everyone who's been following along, whether ur new or have been here since day one, i appreciate ygs sososo much and im so glad to close this chapter with everyone's love <3 stay tuned for more tho im not done with pjo!!

replies and reblogs do wonders for the algorithm!! feel free to share ur thoughts w asks too!!

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

#luke castellan x reader #˚₊‧꒰ა ma1dita’s hall of fame! ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

[ma1dita]

so about love me dry,,, i cant even go thru it again to find quotes thats how bad it got me, i dont think ill ever process fully without going completely batshit insane. im literally inconsolable seeing u rb on my dash, like literally shinji in a chair meme to the end of days. 10/10 im giving u a big kiss even tho u shattered my mental health

(its theo btw i changed the user for my main)

LMFAOOOOO THEOOO MWAH take care of yourself it put me out of commission and sent me into a spiral so im writing happy parts to console myself

#mooties: theo ! (˶ ˘ ³˘)ˆᵕ ˆ˶) #જ⁀➴ jo answers !

[ma1dita]

https://www.instagram.com/reel/C6W5Q22OX-k/?igsh=MWYzNHZkdG1yd29xdQ== enjoy

im ngl the random link scared me i almost didnt open this LOLLL

HOW YALL FINDING CHARLIE BUSHNELL'S GRAD CEREMONY AND MAKING EDITS PLEASE I CANT.... seeing as i graduated college last year, seeing this guy at his hs ceremony kinda startled me...it reminds me that he's mainly a figment of my imagination

link

#yapping w nonnies #જ⁀➴ jo answers !

[ma1dita]

Taylor's new song "But Daddy I Love Him" Foi insiIt was inspired by Problem Verse, and there's nothing that can get it out of my head

Too high a horse For a simple girl to rise above it They slammed the door on my whole world The one thing I wanted

I'm telling him to floor it through the fences No, I'm not coming to my senses I know he's crazy but he's the one I want

Dutiful daughter, all my plans were laid Tendrils tucked into a woven braid Growing up precocious sometimes means not growing up at all He was chaos, he was revelry Bedroom eyes like a remedy

favorite excerpts from the song for sure bc i totally agree anon!!!! im literally telling yall TTPD in its entirety is so me coded IRL and perfect for trouble and luke BAHAHAH i love songs that make you feel like you're clawing at the walls of a psych ward

#yapping w nonnies #જ⁀➴ jo answers !

[ma1dita]

fighting demons trying to finish this trouble!verse installment bro... my new meds been making me eepy.... cant work at peak witching hours anymore

#shut up jo!

[ma1dita]

Me, writing something at 1 am: Omg I'm literally a genius this words sound amazing I ate totally whith this one omfg

The writing:

[ma1dita]

rattling at the bars of my enclosure thank you for your words of kindness AHHHH i missed you saf!!!

didn't get too specific with the references but i played around with the idea of trouble being compliant to luke's downfall and further actions (erm which will bite me in the ass and hurt me for the the next chronological installment) but continuing with that idea with how lady macbeth enabled her husband's actions and then also couldn't be rid of the guilt which will be a present theme

there's a mention of 'all your yesterdays'

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, To the last syllable of recorded time; And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, And then is heard no more. It is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing.

which reminded me of this except told by macbeth showing how everything we've experienced in our past leads to death due to fate :)))))

and scene

thanks for reading love <3

love me dry

a 'partners in crime' installment - luke castellan x dionysus!reader

words: 4.5k

summary: (post-TLT) The one where he meets you at his mother’s house, though both of you didn’t expect the other to be there. A glimpse into May Castellan’s perfect day (Luke Castellan x fem!Dionysus!reader)

a/n: sorry for the hiatus! been on the study grind and didn’t even notice, but i’ve been working on this for a bit! macbeth references (comment if you catch them/or ask and i’ll yap) and slight suggestive stuff under the cut—but anyways let’s just say the prophecy by taylor swift came out at the right time.

(posted 4/19/24, semi-edited)

—

The drive to Westport has become almost an afterthought in these past few years— in the way you unconsciously reach for your favorite hoodie on the way out the door or tuck in your chair before you leave a table, almost automatic but ingrained with a touch of care. With letters to May Castellan occupying your passenger seat instead of the boy who wrote them, you’d make the drive multiple times but stop short just before the property line. It took months of parking at the bottom of the hill and just watching the sun set on the little house, so clearly being able to imagine a smaller version of him running around and wreaking havoc. 

Little Luke, with bandaged knees and feet that move as fast as his motor mouth, amber eyes glinting like windchimes in the summer breeze. His mom must’ve watched him play by himself through the bay window before calling him home when the clouds covered the horizon, wispy tendrils stretching over the rain gutter like how lovers hold hands. It must’ve reminded her a lot of his father, leaving nothing but the open air in his wake. Still, all of this was familiar to you too—despite having never stepped foot in the white house.

But knowing Luke meant knowing his home like it was a part of you.

The old hatchback’s engine gently rumbled against the quiet of the property each time you visited, and May would wait for you to come near— waiting for you to be ready to walk into a mausoleum of the boy you both once knew. You were familiar to her too, even as a blurry figure hunched over the steering wheel. She’s seen your face in the small glimpses between the shattering earth of her reality and the hazy foresight she lets herself succumb to remember what her son looks like. In every vision of him since he’s left, you’ve been there; and something about that quells the pain and anguish that it brings to her body when she sees it. But May Castellan is ever an observant woman, gift of prophecy aside. A mother always knows.

It also turns out that she makes excellent conversation over a plate of slightly singed chocolate chip cookies.

—

Luke Castellan is years older than the version of him that last sat at this kitchen table. He doesn’t know if he’s any wiser for it—wondering if he’s made a mistake in coming back here after all this time as he watches his mom hustle around the kitchen that’s suspiciously sparkling clean. A silver spoon clinks against the glass pitcher that May stirs mixed berry Kool-Aid in, his favorite, he remembers, and it makes him squint against the light that filters through the gauzy curtains of the windowpane above the sink. Luke could’ve sworn that there used to be badly patched rips in the fabric, but he attributes it to the dark corner of his memory he still hides away like a secret. Sitting there and taking it all in, he wonders what it would’ve been like to actually grow up here—to stay, for once. 

But that’s something he doesn’t have the privilege of knowing. When his mom turns to hand him a glass with her shaking hands, wrinkles and laugh lines are mapped across the expanse of her face. He’ll never know how they got there. The wooden chair creaks under him, groaning under the weight that he carries and Luke once again feels uncomfortable in a place he once called home. 

“Knew you’d come back. A mother always knows,” May mutters, voice disembodied like she’s floating just out of reach. Her hands clasped over his, rubbing her thumbs over the veins as if she’s checking his pulse (or the possibility of him being an apparition) and the crack in her smile mirrors his. But this isn’t the home he remembers—his frontal lobe was underdeveloped back then and the only plan it could form was the one to get him the hell out of Westport, there’s something different in the details. Tiny things, like the patio swing chain reattached to its post, a mended table leg, and ceramic tiles on the countertop unbroken and smooth. This is a home and a mother he once longed for as a kid, along with the feeling of comfort and safety you can only attribute to a place like this. Calculating eyes scan the perimeter of the kitchen, but no one knows he’s made the trip to Westport, not even his own crew. Surely nothing could mess this up for him, not here. This was his last step before his quest for redemption eats away at his physical body, and then it will all be out of his hands. 

There’s not much left for me here, he thinks— there’s not much of me left here, either.

Then Luke hears you before he sees you—the sound of you humming under your breath mixed with the jingle of keys turning in the front door. With bags of groceries leaving marks on your arms and a soft smile he hasn’t seen you wear in ages, for once you look lighter again. For a moment, the thought crosses his mind that this must be what you look like when he’s not around. Nonetheless, he breathes easier when you’re near. Of course, you’re here, and the irony grips him by the neck almost as if to make it known why his home feels like home again.

“Yeah hon, I’ll have to call you back,” you laugh into your headphones before tapping them with one free finger to end the call. In a split second, your eyes meet. Staggering back at the sight of him sitting at the table and the absolute grin on May’s face, you decide to continue into the space ahead and start putting the groceries away like nothing is out of sorts. 

“I see you have a visitor, Miss May. Is he staying long?”

Luke sips at his glass, juice extra tart just how he likes it. His lips pucker at the taste it leaves in his mouth and when he opens his mouth there’s a hint of blue. You try not to look too long.

“For the night,” he answers, even if you weren’t talking to him, but it makes May so vibrant with the notion of him not running again that she instantly hops to her feet and rushes to make the bed in his old room. “I won’t be in your way,” he swallows. You gravitate towards him like a moth to a flame, but move around his chair without touching him—further proving that Luke is, in fact, an obstacle you must overcome. He’s a stranger in his own home and you’ve found yourself at ease in it. You wonder if any of that will make a difference in the long run.

“She’s…”

“More peaceful. I’ve been practicing with my dad, so I do what I can to ease her fits but I’m not exactly equipped to lift a curse from Hades,” you mutter through a bitten lip. Luke stares at you but it feels nostalgic, like someone on the outside looking in. Well, shit. He’s been leading demigods to their deaths every summer and you’ve been trying to cure his mentally ill mother in the time you don’t spend trying to stop him.

“I don’t think I even remember the last time she made sense while talking to me,” he laughs hollowly. You purse your lips and shrug, “I visit her every two weeks. She still has her triggers, and she gets confused but she’s not in pain. Your letters helped.”

“Is that why you came here then?”

“Don’t shoot the messenger,” you joke feebly. It falls flat and yet he still smiles, even when you say, “They weren’t for me.”

“They were about you. All of them were.”

You know that too. May makes you read them to her before bedtime as you stroke her hair and send her off to Hypnos. You’ve relived your relationship with Luke a million little times, and he’s written about you and all of your yesterdays like it was the only glimpse of Elysium he’d ever reach. In those letters, you get to remember the good parts of being in love—laughing in the empty amphitheater, holding hands under the dining table, sneaking kisses in the strawberry fields. 

You used to understand each other so well: every dream, every feeling. But there is nothing you understand about the man sitting across from you now. The both of you sit at the kitchen table and there is nothing more to say.

Luke doesn’t have to stay. While you were at the supermarket, he spent an hour trying to explain to his mother that he needed her blessing to swim in the River Styx. Through nuances and veiled simplicity in the words he weaved to convince her, there wasn’t much opposition in her half-empty, half-prophetic mind. May always knew that Luke loved to swim when she took him to the beach, and that was that.

There was nothing more to say.

—

He knows it’s too good to be true when moments later May’s screams carry through the halls of the little house, down the stairway you’re currently clambering up to reach her. By the time his boots reach the second landing, he finds the two women he loves most in a huddle against the linen closet, his mother’s glowing green eyes and empty groans rattling him to the bone. If he were any smaller, he’d be shaking. Even now he doesn’t know what to do— feet frozen as he watches you brush her curls away from her face and lull her to solace.

“Can’t find Luke’s sheets—he needs the Toy Story ones…” May mutters as she rocks on her heels, “My boy needs to be home…He’s meant to be home!” Her fingernails are cutting into your wrists and then she silences with a wave of your hand.

“He’s home, Miss May. He’s right there,” you whisper. When your eyes look at Luke, you watch him crumble—the cracks in his fortitude tumbling like fallen rocks at the sight of the two of you and then you see him. The boy you met at 14 who was angry at the world for making him run away from his mother and the hands of fate until it crept up to snuff him out for the sake of a prophecy foretold by deities who will never understand what it’s like to be human. But there are no second chances, and there is nowhere left to run. “He’s here for you. I’ll take care of him, don’t worry.”

“I see it, the two of you together. The worst will be over soon, and then it’ll all make sense,” she says breathily, licking her lips and straightening herself like nothing happened. Even after you send her off to prepare a basket for the beach, Luke doesn’t move when his mother pats his arm and walks around his body and towards the stairs. Neither of you speak until your fingers touch his jaw lightly, and Luke doesn’t know if you’re trying to help him or inspect him. He tilts down to look at you anyway.

“She thinks we’re still together.”

He blinks. Somehow that’s the most shocking thing he’s heard today. Fate is most definitely cruel and fucked up because he never expected it to be like this—once upon a time he hoped he could take you home to meet his mother when everything was said and done; no shackles from Titans or pressure from the gods. It was supposed to be different.

“The letters probably didn’t help as much as you thought they would then,” he mumbles, calloused hands guiding your hands over to his swiftly beating heart. You scoff, “Neither does bringing up my boyfriend. She thinks it’s you.” He’d believe anyone who’d say they watched you yank his heart out of his chest with that statement, everything bloody in your hands. It’s still yours, even if you don’t want it.

“Kit?”

You shake your head and shrug, “That was forever ago. But he treats me well.”

Luke wants to ask more but by the tension in your shoulders, he knows not to push. He’s not entitled to know anything more than what you give him. It’s not his place anymore. So his brow furrows at your next suggestion.

“Just pretend, Luke. For the day, so your mom doesn’t get agitated. I’m not asking for much here.”

It’s a terrible, terrible idea—even you know that. But you both have always been good pretenders. Liars, a voice corrects in the back of your mind. You reason that it’s for May and insist upon that fact, even if the heartbroken girl you left at Camp Half-Blood is raging at you from deep inside the recesses of your mind that you hide her in. What’s one day with him compared to the many you’ve gone without? You don’t need to know the rest of why he’s here, or what more he’s going to do— and you don’t ask. 

Not knowing has always hurt less.

—

You’ve forgotten how good Luke is at playing the part of a good boyfriend. He offers to drive to the beach, carries the picnic basket and blanket for you all to sit on, and listens intently when May asks about your college classes. There’s no discomfort in the way he holds your hand as you walk in the sand or dusts your feet off before laying them across his lap. It’s easy to laugh at his bad jokes, it’s easy to act like the boyfriend you describe is anything like him (even if he’s the complete opposite), and it’s too damn easy to fall into the familiar rhythm that is you and Luke. The three of you lay down as the spring breeze covers you from the rest of reality, hiding away from the truth of a broken woman and two ex-lovers. By late afternoon, you find yourself enjoying it, and it’s cruel how the guilt isn’t rolling off you in waves, instead longing for him to follow you anywhere. 

He meets you by the shoreline with both of you waist-deep in the water. May’s collecting seashells but she turns to look at you two every so often like she’s framing this memory in her fragile mind. Without saying it out loud, the both of you hope it will hold. 

“She always talks about you, you know? Even without trying,” you mutter as saltwater pours from your fingers to the valleys made by the veins in his forearms. It’s like initiating touch without the consequences of actually doing it, and he immerses himself in the feeling as it spills over him, feet rocking against the tide. 

“I do too. Can’t help it.”

When the sea ripples once more pushing you against the wall of his body, you end up holding on, and he doesn’t let go. You both smell like salt and sunshine, pressed together and nothing has made more sense. The silence goes on for a beat too long—he whispers, “You still talk about me? Your boyfriend must hate that.”

“Why wouldn’t I want to talk about you? For anyone to get to know me, they have to know you.”

Your shirt is stuck to your skin in the surf and Luke’s hands brush over the waistline of your underwear, daring to reacquaint himself with your touch and spur a reaction from you. You may be the best actress he’s ever known but anything is better than watching you be complacent with the false niceties of the day.

“There isn’t much worth knowing.”

“I’d never say that, Luke,” jaw tensing, you let out a breath when his hands encircle your hips, hidden in plain sight in the deep of the ocean. He chuckles and the sound tickles your brain to remind you it's the type of laugh he spits out when he’s hiding his anger, “There’s a lot we’re both not saying.” Your name slips past his lips, sneaking past your defenses and hitting you head-on like a bullet.

“Why?”

Why are you doing this? Why are you helping his mother, why aren’t you actively fighting and turning him in, why are you letting him hold you if he’s only going to leave again—there are too many questions and only one clear answer.

“Because it’s out of our hands, isn’t it, Luke? You love your mother but you wouldn’t have come here unless it’s too late. Annie told me you went to see her in San Francisco.”

He was never here to make amends or save face. There was no version of him that was going to ask you to run away with him because he knows you deserve more than always running from fate. He’d do it all over again as long as you got this— the life you’re living with your college degree, your boyfriend, and your happy family— and Luke has no place in that.

A dry laugh bubbles from his throat, sticking like seafoam when he says, “You hate San Francisco.” 

You wouldn’t have come. 

—

By the time you get home for dinner, your skin is sensitive and tingly from the heat of the sun. May’s tracing circles into the back of your hand as she leads you up the patio steps. There’s a sinking feeling in your stomach that makes you sway against the doorway.

“Too much time having fun,” she mumbles, patting your cheek, “Take a cold shower dear. Join us when you’re ready?” Luke’s eyes follow you all the way up the stairs and then again, he’s left to his own devices.

Most of the said shower was spent thinking about what your friends would say about you for playing house with the enemy. The guilt felt like ice along your spine, paralyzing you for wanting to be selfish, to choose what makes you happy even if it fucks the rest of the world. But looking in the mirror afterward was scarier—you recognized the girl that stared back at you as someone you thought you’d never see again. A version you left behind years ago, with her head held high and so sure of herself with your Luke by your side. 

Surely, there’s no harm in indulging in this vice for the rest of the night. Not when you haven’t felt this relaxed in years.

Dinner is being served by the time you make your way back downstairs. It’s a simple dish you taught Luke how to make back at camp when you raided the kitchens at midnight. Nothing special, reminding you of your own home—but the fact that he remembered makes your smile widen as you take a seat and promise to wash the dishes. Luke chuckles the type that makes his eyes crinkle in mirth once he watches you dig into your meal, knees brushing under the table like old times. 

Everything feels easier after that.

“Today was the best day,” his mother mutters as you tuck the covers under her chin. May kisses both of your cheeks before she shuts her eyes and you gently fold the letter she chose tonight back into her nightstand for safekeeping. This time, you read her the story of your first kiss with Luke sitting at the foot of her bed in the dim light of her room. It’s less scary here than he remembers, but maybe it’s because this time there’s no screaming and him running to hide in the closet. Your voice is much more pleasant than those suppressed memories, immersing you all in a more pleasant one— the both of you in the amphitheater kissing on the stage with his hands in your belt loops. Luke could recite every word on that page if it meant he could go back in time, not with Backbiter but with you, just to live through that moment again. I think I’m falling in love with her, is how the letter ended but by then he already knew. Writing it down to tell his mother always made it real. 

This, you, right here—everything is real.

He’s silent even as he watches you smoke through the cracked window of his childhood bedroom, and you’re surprised when he steals a puff. His hands are shaking under the moonlight and suddenly it’s clear that he’s scared. Everyone feels fear, but in all the years that you’ve known him, Luke Castellan has never let you see it.

“Those things will kill you one day,” you mumble, watching him lean against the windowpane. It’s what he used to always tell you so that you’d quit, but old habits die screaming. It’s another vice you refuse to let go of.

“Wanted to try something new before I…” his voice drops off. 

Lose myself. 

Lose you. 

Luke coughs as the smoke enters his lungs, a momentary rush hitting him brought by the nicotine. Your hands go to cup his jaw as you set your forehead against his, a silent plea for him to just be honest if there’s truly nothing left to lose.

“I’m out of time, trouble. It’s out of my hands.”

Shuddering at the feeling of him tracing every ridge of your spine, you think the way he says your nickname sounds like the way he used to say I love you. It’s raining outside now, the harsh pitter-patter of wet drops drowning out the sound of your voice, “What can I do? Is there anything left for me to do?” When his head shakes, your noses brush, and your breaths intermingle, almost magnetic. Perhaps the rain is getting in from the open window and you feel it hitting your cheek until you see the shine of his eyes.

“You think I did this because of you. I know you do, but you need to know I did all of this for you, trouble. I choose you and me. Every time,” Luke gasps, intertwining his fingers with yours, the both of you pushing and pulling in this embrace like the moon with the tide.

“Luke…” 

You’re pressing yourself against him, face hidden in his shirt as your brain catches up to your heart, hasty breaths and every atom of your being screaming to be held together by him and then you’re on him, through tears and clenched fists tumbling towards the tiny twin bed. The only way he likens himself to his father is his yearning to be a true traveler, but what he knows best out of anything in this entire world is you. He knew this body once too— every birthmark, scar, and dimple. Who else has had the privilege to navigate the ridges of your spine, to know the pressure of your kiss? A tattoo peeks out to say hello at your hip bone. There are new stories and new marks, there are parts of you unknown to him now. Luke thinks that must be what hurts most about each time he leaves you. 

But then why does this feel so good?

Warm palms caress your waist, nudging your shirt up in the hopes that this will be enough compensation for all his misdoings—the tears you’ve cried, the anger you’ve felt, the things you had to do and will have to do because of him. Luke is someone who’s gotten comfortable with manipulating time, but time has manipulated him and all of his plans for the both of you. Sleepy setback bedroom eyes meet his own that glow in the gentle light of the lamp on the nightstand. Maybe if you pretend again his childhood bedroom can turn into the star-speckled darkness of cabin 12. You can just lay down and tuck underneath his arms waiting for him to fall asleep. But he stays up this time, making you hiss at the feeling of his lips against your neck.

 “We can’t… Angelface,” you say breathily, still leaning into the trail he marks across the valley of your collarbone, “We’re not together anymore.” 

A kiss is placed on your pulsepoint, knocking against the cord of your necklace.

“We shouldn’t… I have a boyfriend.”

Another kiss rests against the warmth of your forehead.

“We’re on opposite sides of a war… You’re my enemy.”

Finally, his lips meet yours, for a moment as if to test the waters.

“Not tonight,” he says, and there is no other option but to agree. There is a lifetime to make up for in a night, and fuck it—they’ll crucify you anyway. You were never meant to be a hero, that’s what he always wanted. You just wanted him. Your head hits the pillow and he looms over you until you’re pulling him in for more than what’s necessary to accept an apology.

There’s nothing left to lose.

—

Before your mind can wake up dreading the consequences of last night, your socked feet take you to the kitchen to clean up the mess you’ve both left behind. The old floorboards creak underfoot and there’s a method in the way you’re washing the dishes, hot water and soap starting to seep through your shirt sleeve but you choose not to notice. Scrubbing at the dirt and grime left behind on the porcelain until your fingers start to prune, a lump forms in your throat before you can stop it. Maybe if you scrub hard enough at the glass that Luke drank out of last night it can eventually be clean. But it’s taking you longer than you thought, jaw tensing and fingers turning white at how hard you’re holding on. May appears behind you, guiding your hands away from the scalding water, and though you resist— the glass drops into the sink and shatters with a loud crack.

“Damn spot wouldn’t get out,” you sniff, turning away to look out the window and think of anything but him, but he’s everywhere even when he’s not here, so much so that it suffocates you. Guilt lines every shaking breath you take until lavender eyes meet amber at the sensation of her clasping your red and raw palms with a dishtowel. 

You see him in her too.

“His fate is greater than the cards he’s been dealt with. You know that.” 

It’s the clearest and most sensible May’s spoken in days. Perhaps when it comes to Luke, she’ll always know better. Eyes darting elsewhere to fight the tears that brim at your lash line, you look down at your swollen hands, palm up towards the heavens almost imploring, “Why couldn’t it be me?” 

The question’s direction is unclear and you don’t expect to get an answer, turning away to grab some ice from the freezer and she remains standing there—staring at the windowsill at a compass that’s now found its home next to the faded picture of a man who’s left more times than there are reasons to stay. Just like his father, she thinks, a small smile quirking at the side of her lip where a scar would meet her son’s. Clicking it open delicately like how she used to hold his hand, there’s a photo of you and Luke resting against the cover ripped away from a memory frozen in time.

“It is you,” May says quietly, though you’ve already left the room.

A mother always knows, after all.

—

“Aphrodite,” I pleaded to the moon-drenched night sky. “Tell me; if love is meant to heal, then why does it destroy those who choose it?” From somewhere beyond the clouds, I heard the Goddess laugh. And I knew. -Nikita Gill

#feedback that made jo scream #thank you for reading my love ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

[ma1dita]

ELLE GREENAWAY in CRIMINAL MINDS S01E12 — "What Fresh Hell?"

#zoo wee mama #elle greenaway the woman you are

[ma1dita]

🫢

#what a SLUT. #SO BABY GIRL

[ma1dita]

i'm a simple woman i see angst as a warning and i click read more

[ma1dita]

debatable

love me dry

a 'partners in crime' installment - luke castellan x dionysus!reader

words: 4.5k

summary: (post-TLT) The one where he meets you at his mother’s house, though both of you didn’t expect the other to be there. A glimpse into May Castellan’s perfect day (Luke Castellan x fem!Dionysus!reader)

a/n: sorry for the hiatus! been on the study grind and didn’t even notice, but i’ve been working on this for a bit! macbeth references (comment if you catch them/or ask and i’ll yap) and slight suggestive stuff under the cut—but anyways let’s just say the prophecy by taylor swift came out at the right time.

(posted 4/19/24, semi-edited)

—

The drive to Westport has become almost an afterthought in these past few years— in the way you unconsciously reach for your favorite hoodie on the way out the door or tuck in your chair before you leave a table, almost automatic but ingrained with a touch of care. With letters to May Castellan occupying your passenger seat instead of the boy who wrote them, you’d make the drive multiple times but stop short just before the property line. It took months of parking at the bottom of the hill and just watching the sun set on the little house, so clearly being able to imagine a smaller version of him running around and wreaking havoc. 

Little Luke, with bandaged knees and feet that move as fast as his motor mouth, amber eyes glinting like windchimes in the summer breeze. His mom must’ve watched him play by himself through the bay window before calling him home when the clouds covered the horizon, wispy tendrils stretching over the rain gutter like how lovers hold hands. It must’ve reminded her a lot of his father, leaving nothing but the open air in his wake. Still, all of this was familiar to you too—despite having never stepped foot in the white house.

But knowing Luke meant knowing his home like it was a part of you.

The old hatchback’s engine gently rumbled against the quiet of the property each time you visited, and May would wait for you to come near— waiting for you to be ready to walk into a mausoleum of the boy you both once knew. You were familiar to her too, even as a blurry figure hunched over the steering wheel. She’s seen your face in the small glimpses between the shattering earth of her reality and the hazy foresight she lets herself succumb to remember what her son looks like. In every vision of him since he’s left, you’ve been there; and something about that quells the pain and anguish that it brings to her body when she sees it. But May Castellan is ever an observant woman, gift of prophecy aside. A mother always knows.

It also turns out that she makes excellent conversation over a plate of slightly singed chocolate chip cookies.

—

Luke Castellan is years older than the version of him that last sat at this kitchen table. He doesn’t know if he’s any wiser for it—wondering if he’s made a mistake in coming back here after all this time as he watches his mom hustle around the kitchen that’s suspiciously sparkling clean. A silver spoon clinks against the glass pitcher that May stirs mixed berry Kool-Aid in, his favorite, he remembers, and it makes him squint against the light that filters through the gauzy curtains of the windowpane above the sink. Luke could’ve sworn that there used to be badly patched rips in the fabric, but he attributes it to the dark corner of his memory he still hides away like a secret. Sitting there and taking it all in, he wonders what it would’ve been like to actually grow up here—to stay, for once. 

But that’s something he doesn’t have the privilege of knowing. When his mom turns to hand him a glass with her shaking hands, wrinkles and laugh lines are mapped across the expanse of her face. He’ll never know how they got there. The wooden chair creaks under him, groaning under the weight that he carries and Luke once again feels uncomfortable in a place he once called home. 

“Knew you’d come back. A mother always knows,” May mutters, voice disembodied like she’s floating just out of reach. Her hands clasped over his, rubbing her thumbs over the veins as if she’s checking his pulse (or the possibility of him being an apparition) and the crack in her smile mirrors his. But this isn’t the home he remembers—his frontal lobe was underdeveloped back then and the only plan it could form was the one to get him the hell out of Westport, there’s something different in the details. Tiny things, like the patio swing chain reattached to its post, a mended table leg, and ceramic tiles on the countertop unbroken and smooth. This is a home and a mother he once longed for as a kid, along with the feeling of comfort and safety you can only attribute to a place like this. Calculating eyes scan the perimeter of the kitchen, but no one knows he’s made the trip to Westport, not even his own crew. Surely nothing could mess this up for him, not here. This was his last step before his quest for redemption eats away at his physical body, and then it will all be out of his hands. 

There’s not much left for me here, he thinks— there’s not much of me left here, either.

Then Luke hears you before he sees you—the sound of you humming under your breath mixed with the jingle of keys turning in the front door. With bags of groceries leaving marks on your arms and a soft smile he hasn’t seen you wear in ages, for once you look lighter again. For a moment, the thought crosses his mind that this must be what you look like when he’s not around. Nonetheless, he breathes easier when you’re near. Of course, you’re here, and the irony grips him by the neck almost as if to make it known why his home feels like home again.

“Yeah hon, I’ll have to call you back,” you laugh into your headphones before tapping them with one free finger to end the call. In a split second, your eyes meet. Staggering back at the sight of him sitting at the table and the absolute grin on May’s face, you decide to continue into the space ahead and start putting the groceries away like nothing is out of sorts. 

“I see you have a visitor, Miss May. Is he staying long?”

Luke sips at his glass, juice extra tart just how he likes it. His lips pucker at the taste it leaves in his mouth and when he opens his mouth there’s a hint of blue. You try not to look too long.

“For the night,” he answers, even if you weren’t talking to him, but it makes May so vibrant with the notion of him not running again that she instantly hops to her feet and rushes to make the bed in his old room. “I won’t be in your way,” he swallows. You gravitate towards him like a moth to a flame, but move around his chair without touching him—further proving that Luke is, in fact, an obstacle you must overcome. He’s a stranger in his own home and you’ve found yourself at ease in it. You wonder if any of that will make a difference in the long run.

“She’s…”

“More peaceful. I’ve been practicing with my dad, so I do what I can to ease her fits but I’m not exactly equipped to lift a curse from Hades,” you mutter through a bitten lip. Luke stares at you but it feels nostalgic, like someone on the outside looking in. Well, shit. He’s been leading demigods to their deaths every summer and you’ve been trying to cure his mentally ill mother in the time you don’t spend trying to stop him.

“I don’t think I even remember the last time she made sense while talking to me,” he laughs hollowly. You purse your lips and shrug, “I visit her every two weeks. She still has her triggers, and she gets confused but she’s not in pain. Your letters helped.”

“Is that why you came here then?”

“Don’t shoot the messenger,” you joke feebly. It falls flat and yet he still smiles, even when you say, “They weren’t for me.”

“They were about you. All of them were.”

You know that too. May makes you read them to her before bedtime as you stroke her hair and send her off to Hypnos. You’ve relived your relationship with Luke a million little times, and he’s written about you and all of your yesterdays like it was the only glimpse of Elysium he’d ever reach. In those letters, you get to remember the good parts of being in love—laughing in the empty amphitheater, holding hands under the dining table, sneaking kisses in the strawberry fields. 

You used to understand each other so well: every dream, every feeling. But there is nothing you understand about the man sitting across from you now. The both of you sit at the kitchen table and there is nothing more to say.

Luke doesn’t have to stay. While you were at the supermarket, he spent an hour trying to explain to his mother that he needed her blessing to swim in the River Styx. Through nuances and veiled simplicity in the words he weaved to convince her, there wasn’t much opposition in her half-empty, half-prophetic mind. May always knew that Luke loved to swim when she took him to the beach, and that was that.

There was nothing more to say.

—

He knows it’s too good to be true when moments later May’s screams carry through the halls of the little house, down the stairway you’re currently clambering up to reach her. By the time his boots reach the second landing, he finds the two women he loves most in a huddle against the linen closet, his mother’s glowing green eyes and empty groans rattling him to the bone. If he were any smaller, he’d be shaking. Even now he doesn’t know what to do— feet frozen as he watches you brush her curls away from her face and lull her to solace.

“Can’t find Luke’s sheets—he needs the Toy Story ones…” May mutters as she rocks on her heels, “My boy needs to be home…He’s meant to be home!” Her fingernails are cutting into your wrists and then she silences with a wave of your hand.

“He’s home, Miss May. He’s right there,” you whisper. When your eyes look at Luke, you watch him crumble—the cracks in his fortitude tumbling like fallen rocks at the sight of the two of you and then you see him. The boy you met at 14 who was angry at the world for making him run away from his mother and the hands of fate until it crept up to snuff him out for the sake of a prophecy foretold by deities who will never understand what it’s like to be human. But there are no second chances, and there is nowhere left to run. “He’s here for you. I’ll take care of him, don’t worry.”

“I see it, the two of you together. The worst will be over soon, and then it’ll all make sense,” she says breathily, licking her lips and straightening herself like nothing happened. Even after you send her off to prepare a basket for the beach, Luke doesn’t move when his mother pats his arm and walks around his body and towards the stairs. Neither of you speak until your fingers touch his jaw lightly, and Luke doesn’t know if you’re trying to help him or inspect him. He tilts down to look at you anyway.

“She thinks we’re still together.”

He blinks. Somehow that’s the most shocking thing he’s heard today. Fate is most definitely cruel and fucked up because he never expected it to be like this—once upon a time he hoped he could take you home to meet his mother when everything was said and done; no shackles from Titans or pressure from the gods. It was supposed to be different.

“The letters probably didn’t help as much as you thought they would then,” he mumbles, calloused hands guiding your hands over to his swiftly beating heart. You scoff, “Neither does bringing up my boyfriend. She thinks it’s you.” He’d believe anyone who’d say they watched you yank his heart out of his chest with that statement, everything bloody in your hands. It’s still yours, even if you don’t want it.

“Kit?”

You shake your head and shrug, “That was forever ago. But he treats me well.”

Luke wants to ask more but by the tension in your shoulders, he knows not to push. He’s not entitled to know anything more than what you give him. It’s not his place anymore. So his brow furrows at your next suggestion.

“Just pretend, Luke. For the day, so your mom doesn’t get agitated. I’m not asking for much here.”

It’s a terrible, terrible idea—even you know that. But you both have always been good pretenders. Liars, a voice corrects in the back of your mind. You reason that it’s for May and insist upon that fact, even if the heartbroken girl you left at Camp Half-Blood is raging at you from deep inside the recesses of your mind that you hide her in. What’s one day with him compared to the many you’ve gone without? You don’t need to know the rest of why he’s here, or what more he’s going to do— and you don’t ask. 

Not knowing has always hurt less.

—

You’ve forgotten how good Luke is at playing the part of a good boyfriend. He offers to drive to the beach, carries the picnic basket and blanket for you all to sit on, and listens intently when May asks about your college classes. There’s no discomfort in the way he holds your hand as you walk in the sand or dusts your feet off before laying them across his lap. It’s easy to laugh at his bad jokes, it’s easy to act like the boyfriend you describe is anything like him (even if he’s the complete opposite), and it’s too damn easy to fall into the familiar rhythm that is you and Luke. The three of you lay down as the spring breeze covers you from the rest of reality, hiding away from the truth of a broken woman and two ex-lovers. By late afternoon, you find yourself enjoying it, and it’s cruel how the guilt isn’t rolling off you in waves, instead longing for him to follow you anywhere. 

He meets you by the shoreline with both of you waist-deep in the water. May’s collecting seashells but she turns to look at you two every so often like she’s framing this memory in her fragile mind. Without saying it out loud, the both of you hope it will hold. 

“She always talks about you, you know? Even without trying,” you mutter as saltwater pours from your fingers to the valleys made by the veins in his forearms. It’s like initiating touch without the consequences of actually doing it, and he immerses himself in the feeling as it spills over him, feet rocking against the tide. 

“I do too. Can’t help it.”

When the sea ripples once more pushing you against the wall of his body, you end up holding on, and he doesn’t let go. You both smell like salt and sunshine, pressed together and nothing has made more sense. The silence goes on for a beat too long—he whispers, “You still talk about me? Your boyfriend must hate that.”

“Why wouldn’t I want to talk about you? For anyone to get to know me, they have to know you.”

Your shirt is stuck to your skin in the surf and Luke’s hands brush over the waistline of your underwear, daring to reacquaint himself with your touch and spur a reaction from you. You may be the best actress he’s ever known but anything is better than watching you be complacent with the false niceties of the day.

“There isn’t much worth knowing.”

“I’d never say that, Luke,” jaw tensing, you let out a breath when his hands encircle your hips, hidden in plain sight in the deep of the ocean. He chuckles and the sound tickles your brain to remind you it's the type of laugh he spits out when he’s hiding his anger, “There’s a lot we’re both not saying.” Your name slips past his lips, sneaking past your defenses and hitting you head-on like a bullet.

“Why?”

Why are you doing this? Why are you helping his mother, why aren’t you actively fighting and turning him in, why are you letting him hold you if he’s only going to leave again—there are too many questions and only one clear answer.

“Because it’s out of our hands, isn’t it, Luke? You love your mother but you wouldn’t have come here unless it’s too late. Annie told me you went to see her in San Francisco.”

He was never here to make amends or save face. There was no version of him that was going to ask you to run away with him because he knows you deserve more than always running from fate. He’d do it all over again as long as you got this— the life you’re living with your college degree, your boyfriend, and your happy family— and Luke has no place in that.

A dry laugh bubbles from his throat, sticking like seafoam when he says, “You hate San Francisco.” 

You wouldn’t have come. 

—

By the time you get home for dinner, your skin is sensitive and tingly from the heat of the sun. May’s tracing circles into the back of your hand as she leads you up the patio steps. There’s a sinking feeling in your stomach that makes you sway against the doorway.

“Too much time having fun,” she mumbles, patting your cheek, “Take a cold shower dear. Join us when you’re ready?” Luke’s eyes follow you all the way up the stairs and then again, he’s left to his own devices.

Most of the said shower was spent thinking about what your friends would say about you for playing house with the enemy. The guilt felt like ice along your spine, paralyzing you for wanting to be selfish, to choose what makes you happy even if it fucks the rest of the world. But looking in the mirror afterward was scarier—you recognized the girl that stared back at you as someone you thought you’d never see again. A version you left behind years ago, with her head held high and so sure of herself with your Luke by your side. 

Surely, there’s no harm in indulging in this vice for the rest of the night. Not when you haven’t felt this relaxed in years.

Dinner is being served by the time you make your way back downstairs. It’s a simple dish you taught Luke how to make back at camp when you raided the kitchens at midnight. Nothing special, reminding you of your own home—but the fact that he remembered makes your smile widen as you take a seat and promise to wash the dishes. Luke chuckles the type that makes his eyes crinkle in mirth once he watches you dig into your meal, knees brushing under the table like old times. 

Everything feels easier after that.

“Today was the best day,” his mother mutters as you tuck the covers under her chin. May kisses both of your cheeks before she shuts her eyes and you gently fold the letter she chose tonight back into her nightstand for safekeeping. This time, you read her the story of your first kiss with Luke sitting at the foot of her bed in the dim light of her room. It’s less scary here than he remembers, but maybe it’s because this time there’s no screaming and him running to hide in the closet. Your voice is much more pleasant than those suppressed memories, immersing you all in a more pleasant one— the both of you in the amphitheater kissing on the stage with his hands in your belt loops. Luke could recite every word on that page if it meant he could go back in time, not with Backbiter but with you, just to live through that moment again. I think I’m falling in love with her, is how the letter ended but by then he already knew. Writing it down to tell his mother always made it real. 

This, you, right here—everything is real.

He’s silent even as he watches you smoke through the cracked window of his childhood bedroom, and you’re surprised when he steals a puff. His hands are shaking under the moonlight and suddenly it’s clear that he’s scared. Everyone feels fear, but in all the years that you’ve known him, Luke Castellan has never let you see it.

“Those things will kill you one day,” you mumble, watching him lean against the windowpane. It’s what he used to always tell you so that you’d quit, but old habits die screaming. It’s another vice you refuse to let go of.

“Wanted to try something new before I…” his voice drops off. 

Lose myself. 

Lose you. 

Luke coughs as the smoke enters his lungs, a momentary rush hitting him brought by the nicotine. Your hands go to cup his jaw as you set your forehead against his, a silent plea for him to just be honest if there’s truly nothing left to lose.

“I’m out of time, trouble. It’s out of my hands.”

Shuddering at the feeling of him tracing every ridge of your spine, you think the way he says your nickname sounds like the way he used to say I love you. It’s raining outside now, the harsh pitter-patter of wet drops drowning out the sound of your voice, “What can I do? Is there anything left for me to do?” When his head shakes, your noses brush, and your breaths intermingle, almost magnetic. Perhaps the rain is getting in from the open window and you feel it hitting your cheek until you see the shine of his eyes.

“You think I did this because of you. I know you do, but you need to know I did all of this for you, trouble. I choose you and me. Every time,” Luke gasps, intertwining his fingers with yours, the both of you pushing and pulling in this embrace like the moon with the tide.

“Luke…” 

You’re pressing yourself against him, face hidden in his shirt as your brain catches up to your heart, hasty breaths and every atom of your being screaming to be held together by him and then you’re on him, through tears and clenched fists tumbling towards the tiny twin bed. The only way he likens himself to his father is his yearning to be a true traveler, but what he knows best out of anything in this entire world is you. He knew this body once too— every birthmark, scar, and dimple. Who else has had the privilege to navigate the ridges of your spine, to know the pressure of your kiss? A tattoo peeks out to say hello at your hip bone. There are new stories and new marks, there are parts of you unknown to him now. Luke thinks that must be what hurts most about each time he leaves you. 

But then why does this feel so good?

Warm palms caress your waist, nudging your shirt up in the hopes that this will be enough compensation for all his misdoings—the tears you’ve cried, the anger you’ve felt, the things you had to do and will have to do because of him. Luke is someone who’s gotten comfortable with manipulating time, but time has manipulated him and all of his plans for the both of you. Sleepy setback bedroom eyes meet his own that glow in the gentle light of the lamp on the nightstand. Maybe if you pretend again his childhood bedroom can turn into the star-speckled darkness of cabin 12. You can just lay down and tuck underneath his arms waiting for him to fall asleep. But he stays up this time, making you hiss at the feeling of his lips against your neck.

 “We can’t… Angelface,” you say breathily, still leaning into the trail he marks across the valley of your collarbone, “We’re not together anymore.” 

A kiss is placed on your pulsepoint, knocking against the cord of your necklace.

“We shouldn’t… I have a boyfriend.”

Another kiss rests against the warmth of your forehead.

“We’re on opposite sides of a war… You’re my enemy.”

Finally, his lips meet yours, for a moment as if to test the waters.

“Not tonight,” he says, and there is no other option but to agree. There is a lifetime to make up for in a night, and fuck it—they’ll crucify you anyway. You were never meant to be a hero, that’s what he always wanted. You just wanted him. Your head hits the pillow and he looms over you until you’re pulling him in for more than what’s necessary to accept an apology.

There’s nothing left to lose.

—

Before your mind can wake up dreading the consequences of last night, your socked feet take you to the kitchen to clean up the mess you’ve both left behind. The old floorboards creak underfoot and there’s a method in the way you’re washing the dishes, hot water and soap starting to seep through your shirt sleeve but you choose not to notice. Scrubbing at the dirt and grime left behind on the porcelain until your fingers start to prune, a lump forms in your throat before you can stop it. Maybe if you scrub hard enough at the glass that Luke drank out of last night it can eventually be clean. But it’s taking you longer than you thought, jaw tensing and fingers turning white at how hard you’re holding on. May appears behind you, guiding your hands away from the scalding water, and though you resist— the glass drops into the sink and shatters with a loud crack.

“Damn spot wouldn’t get out,” you sniff, turning away to look out the window and think of anything but him, but he’s everywhere even when he’s not here, so much so that it suffocates you. Guilt lines every shaking breath you take until lavender eyes meet amber at the sensation of her clasping your red and raw palms with a dishtowel. 

You see him in her too.

“His fate is greater than the cards he’s been dealt with. You know that.” 

It’s the clearest and most sensible May’s spoken in days. Perhaps when it comes to Luke, she’ll always know better. Eyes darting elsewhere to fight the tears that brim at your lash line, you look down at your swollen hands, palm up towards the heavens almost imploring, “Why couldn’t it be me?” 

The question’s direction is unclear and you don’t expect to get an answer, turning away to grab some ice from the freezer and she remains standing there—staring at the windowsill at a compass that’s now found its home next to the faded picture of a man who’s left more times than there are reasons to stay. Just like his father, she thinks, a small smile quirking at the side of her lip where a scar would meet her son’s. Clicking it open delicately like how she used to hold his hand, there’s a photo of you and Luke resting against the cover ripped away from a memory frozen in time.

“It is you,” May says quietly, though you’ve already left the room.

A mother always knows, after all.

—

“Aphrodite,” I pleaded to the moon-drenched night sky. “Tell me; if love is meant to heal, then why does it destroy those who choose it?” From somewhere beyond the clouds, I heard the Goddess laugh. And I knew. -Nikita Gill

#thank you for reading my love ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

[ma1dita]

saw something about how my venus in the 7th house means i'll meet someone through a friend of a friend or someone already in a relationship.

so you're telling me my social network is doing me dirty and everyones praying on my downfall. perfect!

#shut up jo!

[ma1dita]

someone asked for my reasons for choosing the paintings!

The Sacrifice of Isaac, Giovanni Battista Piazzetta -> I found similarities between the story of Isaac and Abraham when thinking about Hermes and Luke; Abraham is chosen by God to sacrifice his only son that he had waited years to have for a greater purpose and to bless the Earth, whereas Hermes had to be compliant to a prophecy that was chosen for Luke to die as an eventual hero. Even if it wasn't portrayed as such, Luke is Hermes' pride and joy and he did truly love his son (he was just shit at showing it knowing there's nothing in his godly power that could change his destiny).

The Fall of Icarus, René Milot -> Luke has a lot of similarities to Icarus who is a boy who did not heed his father's warnings and flew to close to the sun. In some interpretations his wax wings melted, or he was badly burned, falling to his death due to his ambition and overconfidence. This is an act of self-sabotage, and the reality of it is that Icarus himself was a child who could not be tamed. Luke is similar because he had the makings of being a perfect demigod but was blinded by the coersion of Kronos and the idea of glory, which became his downfall.

Ivan the Terrible and His Son Ivan, by Ilya Repin -> Another reference for Hermes and Luke are Ivan the Terrible was a dictator and tsar of Russia who mortally wounded his own son in a fit of rage and arrogance. I think this is a good reference because of how Hermes, a god portrayed to be all-knowing and powerful does not realize how his actions affect Luke until it's too late

this analysis made me sad again but wtv

[CHARACTER STUDY: luke castellan]

son of Hermes, fighter, friend, traitor, human vessel of Kronos, prisoner of time— hero of the prophecy, doomed by the narrative...

[Ask Polly: Help, I'm The Loneliest Person In The World!, Heather Havrilesky; The Sacrifice of Isaac, Giovanni Battista Piazzetta; The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath, Sylvia Plath; Dear Boy, Emily Berry; Herakles, Euripedes; The Fall of Icarus, René Milot; The Letting, Cathrine Goldstein; The Burning/Oculus, Venetta Octavia; Ivan the Terrible and His Son Ivan, by Ilya Repin; Phaedra’s Love, Sarah Kane; On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous, Ocean Vuong]

(guys i fear this was so fun to make)