“Philokalist (noun) — a person who loves, seeks out, and appreciates beauty in all its forms.”
eli ౨ৎ she/her, eighteen 𓆩♡𓆪 anything purple. winter. stormy weather. oceans at midnight. fog in the trees. dahlias. beauty in the dramatic. music before anything else — borderline religious about it. reads everything. chronic overthinker. professional yapper. feminist.
— archive
“being young and dipped in folly, I fell in love with melancholy.”
heyy i don't know if you are taking requests! But if you are
One with Clarisse being completely puppy in love with Reader who would rather die then be near the "scary" daughter of Ares, and since Clarisse doesn't know how to flirt she just comes off as mean even though she thinks she is an amazing flirt, maybe from Clarisse' pov!
fluff ‘An Unfortunate Method’
summary :: Clarisse fought monsters, survived quests, and intimidated half of Camp without breaking a sweat, honestly. Flirting, apparently, is another matter entirely. Clarisse is pretty sure she’s being charming.
Unfortunately, the person she’s trying to impress seems convinced Clarisse is moments away from murdering her. Clarisse is pretty sure she’s being charming.
wc :: 3205 tws :: none
— Clarisse La Rue & fem!reader
author’s note :: Ty for the requesttttt! Sorry for posting it so late but I’ve been far too busy with school recently! It’s also my first attempt at writing from Clarisse’s POV or any first person POV, actually, so I hope I did a decent job, at least!! 🫶🫶
CLARISSE’S POV
I slammed my sword into the training dummy hard enough to send its head flying clean off. Again. That was the third one this week, and Chiron was gonna give me that look-the one where his nostrils flare like he’s trying real hard not to turn me into a lesson on anger management. Whatever.
Across the arena, you were leaning against one of the pillars, arms crossed, watching the new Hermes kids trip over their own feet during sword drills. The way your stupidly perfect mouth curled into a smirk made my stomach do this dumb flip-flop thing. Annoying. You were annoying.
"You’re staring," Chris said, appearing beside me like some kinda ghost. I nearly punched him on reflex.
"I’m observing," I growled, wiping sweat off my forehead with the back of my hand. "Those Hermes brats are gonna get themselves killed if they keep holding swords like they’re allergic to ‘em."
Chris snorted, tossing a dagger between his hands like he wasn’t afraid of losing a finger. “Observing,” he repeated, smug. “Right. And I’m Aphrodite’s secret love child.” I scowled, but before I could shove him into the nearest pile of hay, your voice cut through the air like a blade-way too damn confident for someone who wasn’t even holding a weapon.
“If you’re done terrorizing straw men, maybe you could actually teach them something useful?” You nodded toward the Hermes kids, who were now attempting to spar with the enthusiasm of wet noodles.
The way you raised one eyebrow-like you’d already won some argument I didn’t even know we were having-made my fingers twitch toward my sword hilt. Not because I wanted to fight you. Okay, maybe I did. But not like that.
I stomped over, ignoring Chris’s muttered “Subtle.” The Hermes campers froze like deer in headlights when I loomed over them. “Swords aren’t fucking teddy bears,” I barked, snatching one out of a kid’s limp grip. “Hold it like you mean it, or I’ll use you as a training dummy.” They scrambled to adjust their stances, wide-eyed. Good. Fear was step one of not dying.
Behind me, you sighed-this long, exaggerated sound. “Wow. Inspirational. Truly, we are blessed by your gentle guidance.” I turned just in time to catch your eye roll, and gods, it should not have made my chest feel tight. You were mocking me. Again. Which was fine. Great, even. I liked a challenge.
I clenched my fists so hard my knuckles popped. "You wanna say that to my face?" I stalked toward you, fully aware the Hermes kids were now edging away like we were about to detonate. Smart of them.
You didn't flinch. Just tilted your head, that infuriating smirk still playing on your lips. "Oh no," you deadpanned, pressing a hand to your chest like you were scandalized. "The big bad Ares girl's gonna yell at me. However will I survive?"
Chris choked on a laugh behind me. I shot him a glare that promised pain later, but he just shrugged, grinning. Traitor.
I loomed over you-close enough that I could see the flecks in your stupidly pretty eyes, close enough to catch the faint scent of…peaches? Where the fuck did you even get peaches? from your shampoo. Wait, no. I wasn't supposed to notice that. I cleared my throat. "You think you could do better, princess?"
You blinked up at me, all wide-eyed innocence that I knew was a complete fucking lie. "Me? Teach swordplay?" You pressed a finger to your chin like you were actually considering it, then grinned. "Nah. But I do know how not to terrify children into pissing themselves, so there's that."
One of the Hermes kids snorted. I whipped my head toward them, and they instantly paled, stammering something about allergies before bolting toward the safety of the Apollo cabin. Cowards.
Chris chose that exact moment to clap his hands together. "Welp. This has been fun. I'm gonna go... not be here." He gave me a salute and sauntered off before I could strangle him.
That left just you and me-standing way too close, the air between us crackling like a live wire. Your smirk hadn't faded. If anything, it deepened, like you knew exactly how much you were getting under my skin. Which was bullshit. No one got under my skin.
“Bullshit,” I muttered before I could stop myself. Your eyebrow arched higher-if that was even possible-and suddenly I was acutely aware of how dry my mouth was.
“Excuse me?” You leaned in, close enough that I could see the faint freckles dusting your nose. “Did the mighty Clarisse La Rue just admit I’ve got her rattled? Ohhh!”
My fingers twitched at my sides. I should’ve walked away. Should’ve shoved past you and gone back to hacking dummies to splinters. But your stupid, cocky grin was like a challenge-one I couldn’t resist. “You wish,” I growled, stepping even closer until the toes of our boots nearly touched. “I just don’t like smartasses who talk big but can’t back it up.”
Your laugh was short, sharp, and infuriating. “Oh, I can back it up.” You reached past me-ignoring the way I tensed-and plucked a practice sword from the rack like it weighed nothing. “But you’d have to actually ask nicely to find out.”
My jaw locked so tight I heard my teeth grind. "Ask nicely?" I repeated, voice dripping with sarcasm. "You want me to ask?"
You twirled the sword between your fingers-showy, unnecessary, and gods damn it, unfairly graceful-before stopping it dead with a flick of your wrist. "Mmhm." The hum was smug, lilting. "Try it with a 'please' this time."
I should've walked away. Should've called you a brat and stormed off to find something-someone-else to punch. But the way you were looking at me, with that fucking smirk, stirred something had nothing to do with anger.
"Fine." I yanked my own sword from the dirt where I'd stabbed it earlier. "Please," I ground out, "get your ass in the ring so I can wipe that grin off your face."
You didn’t even hesitate. Just sauntered past me toward the sparring ring, swinging the practice sword like it was an extension of your arm. "Careful, La Rue," you called over your shoulder, voice dripping with amusement. "I’d hate for you to embarrass yourself in front of an audience."
I glanced around. Half the arena had stopped to watch-Hermes kids peeking out from behind hay bales, Apollo campers perched on the bleachers like vultures waiting for a fight. Even a few Aphrodite girls had wandered over, whispering behind their hands. Great. Just what I needed.
I rolled my shoulders and followed you into the ring, the packed dirt crunching under my boots. "Only one of us is gonna be embarrassed," I shot back, hefting my sword. "And it ain’t me."
You spun to face me, already falling into a stance that was-annoyingly-perfect. Loose knees, shoulders relaxed, sword held at just the right angle to deflect or strike. Where the hell had you learned that?
I didn’t have time to wonder where you’d picked up swordplay-not when you lunged first, your practice blade whistling toward my ribs. I barely got my sword up in time to block, the impact jarring my teeth. Your grin widened. “Aw, you do pay attention to me.”
I shoved you back with a snarl, but you just danced out of reach, light on your feet like you were floating. It was pissing me off. Worse-it was impressive. “Shut up and fight,” I growled, swinging hard enough to cleave a tree in half. You sidestepped like it was nothing, and my blade hit empty air.
The crowd oohed. My face burned.
“You swing like you’re trying to murder the wind,” you quipped, tapping my shoulder with the flat of your sword-a mock strike that didn’t hurt but made my pride sting. “Cute.”
I bared my teeth, not even bothering with words-just twisted my grip and came at you again, this time aiming low to sweep your legs. You saw it coming, of course, flipping backward with that stupid grace of yours like you'd been practicing acrobatics instead of swordplay. The crowd gasped. Someone-probably Chris-whistled. My blood roared in my ears.
"Getting frustrated, La Rue?" You landed in a crouch, sword still loose in your hand like this was all some joke. "I thought Ares kids loved a challenge."
"Shut up," I snapped, but my next swing was already telegraphing-I could see it the second your eyes flicked to my shoulder, anticipating the arc. You ducked under it like it was slow motion, and before I could recover, you moved—not away, but in, so close I could feel the heat of your breath against my neck as you spun behind me.
The flat of your blade smacked against my ass with a loud thwack.
The sound echoed across the arena-sharp, unmistakable, humiliating.
The silence that followed was worse than any explosion-the kind of quiet where you could hear a fucking pin drop in the middle of a hurricane. My face burned hotter than Hephaestus’s forge. Behind me, you cleared your throat-deliberately, obnoxiously-and I could hear the smirk in your voice without even turning around.
“That,” you said, slow and syrupy-sweet, “was a love tap.”
The arena erupted. Hermes kids howled like hyenas, Apollo campers clapped like seals, and the Aphrodite girls? They were screaming. Chris was bent double, wheezing into his knees like he’d just witnessed the funniest thing in his miserable life. I wanted to murder every single one of them. Starting with you.
I whirled around, sword raised, but you were already gone-vanished into the crowd like some kind of smug, infuriating ghost.
All that was left was the imprint of your sword on my ass and the echo of your laughter ringing in my ears.
That should’ve been the end of it. I should’ve stormed off, cursed your name to the stars, and pretended you didn’t exist. But the gods hate me.
Because after that day, I started seeing shit.
Like the way you always tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear when you were concentrating-which happened a lot, because you were constantly reading something, like a nerd. Or how your nose scrunched up when you laughed at your own jokes-which was often, because you thought you were hilarious. Or the way you’d bite your bottom lip when you were thinking, leaving it pink and slightly swollen, and-fuck, why was I noticing -that?
It was everywhere. You were everywhere. In the training arena, lounging on the climbing wall like some kind of lazy panther. At the campfire, stealing s’mores from the Apollo kids with that devil-may-care grin. Even in my dreams, for Hades’ sake-which was completely unfair, because you’d started showing up shirtless in those, and my subconscious was not helping.
I was losing it. Clearly. Because today, I was actually standing outside your cabin-
I was actually standing outside your cabin.
Your godsdamn cabin.
At night.
Like a creep.
I shifted my weight from one boot to the other, staring at the door like it might explode if I knocked too hard. My hands were sweaty. Which was stupid. I fought monsters. I’d punched a drakon in the face once. And yet somehow this was making my stomach feel like it had swallowed a nest of harpies.
“Get it together,” I muttered under my breath.
Inside, I heard movement. A chair scraping. Your voice humming something off-key. My heart immediately tried to punch its way out of my chest.
Great. Fantastic. Perfect timing, Clarisse. Just stand out here like a total idiot while you’re inside being… whatever the hell you usually are.
I raised my hand.
Lowered it.
Raised it again.
Before I could talk myself out of it for the fiftieth time, I knocked. Hard. Because apparently my brain only had two settings: punch things or panic.
There was a pause.
Then the door creaked open.
And there you were.
Barefoot, hair a little messy like you’d been running your hands through it, wearing an oversized camp shirt that hung off one shoulder. You blinked at me like I’d just materialized out of thin air.
“La Rue?” you said slowly. “Did you get lost?”
My mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
You leaned against the doorframe, smirk already forming. “Wow. This must be serious. The big scary daughter of Ares has come all the way to my humble doorstep.” You tilted your head. “You here to fight me again?”
“Shut up,” I blurted.
Your grin widened.
“Wow,” you said softly. “Very romantic opening.”
I scrubbed a hand down my face. “Gods, you’re insufferable.”
“And yet you’re here.”
I hated that you were right.
The silence stretched, awkward and heavy, and for once you didn’t fill it with teasing. You just watched me, curious now, the smugness fading into something quieter.
“…You gonna say something?” you asked.
My fingers curled into fists at my sides.
“Yeah,” I muttered. “Yeah, I am.”
You waited.
I looked anywhere except your face. The doorframe. The dirt. The stupid carved initials on the cabin wall.
“Ever since that stupid sparring match,” I started, “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.”
Your eyebrows shot up.
I ignored that and barreled on before my courage could evaporate.
“You’re annoying. And smug. And you think you’re way funnier than you actually are.” I jabbed a finger vaguely in your direction. “And that stupid sword trick you did was bullshit, by the way.”
Your lips twitched.
“But,” I continued quickly, voice rougher now, “you’re also… really good. And you’re stupid. And you don’t look at me like everyone else does.”
That part slipped out quieter.
You went still.
I swallowed hard.
“And it’s driving me insane,” I finished. “Because every time I see you, my brain stops working and I either want to punch you or kiss you.”
Your eyes widened.
“And apparently,” I muttered, gesturing vaguely between us, “I already tried both.”
A beat passed.
Then another.
And suddenly you started laughing.
Not mean laughter. Not the teasing kind.
The warm, surprised kind.
I scowled. “Oh, that’s great. Glad my emotional suffering is hilarious.”
You shook your head, stepping forward onto the porch. “Clarisse,” you said, still smiling, “you’re unbelievable.”
“I know,” I grumbled.
“No,” you said, softer now. “I mean that in a good way.”
Before I could respond, you reached out and grabbed the front of my shirt, tugging me closer.
My brain immediately short-circuited.
“You came all the way here,” you said, eyes searching mine, “just to tell me you like me?”
I huffed. “Yeah. Well. Don’t get used to it.”
Your smile turned impossibly soft.
“That might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” you said.
I blinked. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
Then you leaned in and kissed me.
This one was slow. Careful. Like you were savoring it.
My hands came up automatically, grabbing your waist to steady both of us, and for a second the world went completely quiet.
When we pulled apart, you were still smiling at me.
Gods, I was doomed.
“You know,” you murmured, “for someone who thinks she’s terrible at flirting…”
“I am terrible,” I interrupted.
“…you’re doing pretty good.”
I rolled my eyes, but my grip on your waist tightened a little.
“Don’t make me regret this,” I muttered.
You leaned your forehead against mine, warm and laughing softly.
“Too late,” you said.
And yeah.
Maybe getting hit in the ass with a practice sword had been worth it after all.
Not that I was gonna admit that out loud.
You were still smiling at me, like I didn’t just blurt out the messiest confession in Camp Half-Blood history. Your hands were still hooked in my shirt, holding me close like you weren’t planning on letting go anytime soon.
Which was… new.
I shifted awkwardly. “What are you looking at?”
You huffed a quiet laugh. “You.”
“Yeah, well-stop.”
“Why?”
I scowled, because obviously the correct answer was because I said so, but the words stuck in my throat. Your thumb brushed absentmindedly over the hem of my shirt where it was bunched in your fist, and my brain short-circuited again.
Gods. I was doomed.
“You’re staring,” I muttered.
You tilted your head. “So are you.”
“I’m not.”
“You absolutely are.”
“I’m observing,” I grumbled.
Your grin went wide. “Wow. That sounds familiar.”
I groaned and dropped my forehead against your shoulder. “Don’t start.”
You froze for half a second, clearly not expecting that, and then your arms came up slowly, cautiously, wrapping around my back like you were testing whether I’d bolt.
I didn’t.
Which meant now I was standing on your stupid porch, hugging you like some kind of lovesick puppy. Yuck.
Fantastic.
“You know,” you said softly, fingers tracing lazy circles between my shoulder blades, “for someone who punches monsters for fun, you’re surprisingly cuddly.”
“I am not cuddly.”
“You’re currently glued to me.”
“That’s because you grabbed my shirt.”
“You leaned in first.”
“…Shut up.”
You laughed into my hair, and I felt it all the way down to my toes.
Gods.
I tightened my arms around you before I could think better of it, pulling you closer until your chin bumped my shoulder. You made a soft noise of surprise.
“Don’t,” I warned gruffly.
“Don’t what?”
“Make a big deal out of it.”
Your voice turned suspiciously gentle. “Out of what?”
“This,” I muttered, gesturing vaguely between us even though you couldn’t see it.
You hummed like you were considering something very important.
“Clarisse?”
“What.”
“You’re kinda doing the puppy thing right now.”
My head snapped up. “The what.”
“You know.” You wiggled your fingers in the air like that explained anything. “The big scary guard dog that suddenly turns into a giant soft idiot when it likes someone.”
“I am not a puppy.”
You raised an eyebrow.
I realized my arms were still wrapped around your waist.
“…Shut up.”
You snorted.
But instead of teasing me again, you reached up and brushed a strand of hair out of my face, fingers gentle against my temple.
And suddenly all the fight drained out of me.
“You’re cute,” you said quietly.
I nearly choked.
“Don’t say that,” I snapped automatically.
“Why?”
“Because I will literally die.”
Your smile softened again-that same stupid one that made my chest feel weird.
“Too late,” you said.
Before I could argue, you leaned up and kissed me again.
And this time I didn’t hesitate.
My hands slid up your back, pulling you closer like my life depended on it, and somewhere in the back of my head I realized Chris was never going to let me live this down.
Worth it.
Definitely worth it.
When we finally pulled apart, you were still smiling like you’d just discovered something wonderful.
“What?” I demanded.
You poked my cheek.
“You wag,” you said.
“I do not wag.”
“You absolutely wag.”
“I swear to the gods-”
You kissed me again before I could finish threatening you.
And yeah.
Maybe I was a bit of a puppy. Maybe. But I’d rather die than admit it.
HEYYYY QUEEENNNNN!!! I’m lit. OBSESSEDDDDDD with your fics! Can you maybe write a fic about reader being Lilith’s daughter and meeting Clarisse?? (yes, THE Lilith. I LAUVVVV the idea. Track maye Lilith by Saint Avangeline?? THANKSSS! I LOVV UUU!!
fluff ‘The Shape Of Temptation’
summary :: Daughter of Ares meets daughter of Lilith. Clarisse has fought everything, literally. But she’s never fought temptation that comes in the form of her future girlfriend.
wc :: 2246 tws :: none
— Clarisse La Rue & fem!reader
— track :: Lilith - Saint Avangeline
author’s note :: Ty for the request! I loved writing this. Also, peak song choice. I hope you like it! Also, I haven’t had any motivation to write lately, which is why this was posted so late! 😭
“You gonna fight me or just stand there staring like an idiot?”
Clarisse’s voice was rough, edged with the kind of challenge that made people either back down or swing first.
She stood in the middle of the sparring ring, sweat already gleaming along the tight muscles of her arms, her dark braids pulled back tight against her scalp.
The usual crowd had gathered-campers who knew better than to get in her way but couldn’t resist watching when she picked a fight.
Except this time, the person across from her didn’t flinch.
You leaned against the wooden railing, arms crossed, one eyebrow arched. “Staring’s free. Fighting costs energy. You really think you’re worth the effort?”
A few snickers rippled through the crowd. Clarisse’s smirk deepened. Nobody talked to her like that-not unless they wanted their teeth rattled.
“Guess we’ll find out.” She rolled her shoulders, knuckles cracking as she flexed her hands. “Unless you’re scared.”
You pushed off the railing, stepping into the ring with the kind of lazy confidence that didn’t match the tension in the air. “Scared? Nah. Just selective.”
The crowd went quiet. Nobody had ever seen someone walk into Clarisse’s space like they owned it.
Up close, she could see the details she’d missed before-the way your lips curled at the corners, not quite a smile, not quite a taunt.
The way your eyes held something darker than the usual defiance she faced.
It wasn’t the beauty of Aphrodite’s kids.
This was something else. Something that made the back of her neck prickle.
Clarisse shifted her stance, grip tightening on her spear. “Who the hell are you, anyway?”
You tilted your head, considering her like she was the one who needed to prove something. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
The first strike came fast-Clarisse lunged, spear cutting through the air. You dodged, barely moving.
The second swing followed, and this time you caught the shaft mid-air, stopping it cold.
The crowd gasped.
Clarisse’s pulse kicked up. Nobody blocked her like that.
You smirked. “Cute.”
She yanked the spear back, teeth bared. “Funny. You’re gonna regret that.”
“Doubt it.”
The fight unfolded-Clarisse aggressive, relentless, every move calculated to overwhelm. You moved differently. Not defensive, not evasive, just… unhurried. Like you had all the time in the world and she was the one playing catch-up.
It pissed her off.
She feinted left, then swung hard right-only for you to sidestep, catching her wrist and twisting just enough to make her stumble. Your breath ghosted against her ear. “Getting sloppy.”
Clarisse snarled, wrenching free. Her chest heaved, not from exertion but from something else, something hot and unfamiliar curling low in her gut.
This wasn’t just a fight.
And that-that was dangerous.
You stepped back, brushing imaginary dirt off your sleeve. “Had enough?”
Clarisse glared. “Not even close.”
But the words came out rougher than she intended.
And you smiled.
It was the first real smile she’d seen from you—sharp, knowing, like you’d already won something she hadn’t realized was up for grabs.
Clarisse hated losing.
She hated wanting something even more.
The crowd was silent, watching, waiting.
You turned like you were done, like the fight was over-then paused, glancing back over your shoulder. “Next time, try harder.”
Clarisse’s grip on her spear turned white-knuckled.
Oh, there’d be a next time.
Whether it was a fight or something else, she hadn’t decided yet.
Clarisse wasn’t stupid. She noticed things-especially when they didn’t add up. Like how you didn’t flinch when a viper slithered across your path during archery practice, how you’d just crouched, murmured something too low for anyone else to hear, and watched it coil obediently around your wrist before flicking its tongue and disappearing into the grass.
No charmspeak, no magic-just silence, and the kind that made her spine prickle. Hecate’s kids needed incantations, smoke, theatrics.
You didn’t.
Then there was the fire.
It happened late one night near the campfire pit, long after curfew. Clarisse had been stalking the woods-officially to patrol, unofficially because she’d caught a glimpse of you slipping into the trees and her feet moved before her brain could argue.
She saw you kneel, bare hands pressing into the dirt, and the embers in the dead firepit flared back to life without a spark, without a whisper. Not like control. Like asking. Like something answered.
Clarisse’s breath hitched.
You stood, dusting off your knees, and called into the dark without turning around. “You gonna lurk all night, La Rue, or come get a proper look?”
She stepped out of the shadows, jaw tight. “What the hell was that?”
You shrugged. “Fire. You’ve seen it before.”
“Not like that.”
Your smile was slow, deliberate. “Maybe you haven’t been paying attention.”
She had. Too much. That was the problem.
It got worse. She caught you humming under your breath at breakfast, and the flies buzzing over the nectar pitcher dropped dead mid-flight. Watched you trail fingers along the canoe lake’s edge, and the water rippled backward. Every time, you met her stare like you were waiting for her to flinch.
She never did.
But she started dreaming about it-about your hands, the way they moved like they knew secrets the rest of the world had forgotten. About the way your voice dropped when you spoke to things that shouldn’t listen.
One afternoon, she cornered you in the armory. “Who’s your godly parent?”
You didn’t look up from sharpening a dagger. “Guess.”
“Hecate,” she tried.
You snorted. “Try again.”
“Not Nemesis. You don’t got the vengeance vibe.”
“Warmer.” You tested the blade’s edge with your thumb. A bead of blood welled up. You licked it away, grinning at her frozen stare. “What? Never seen a girl taste her own blood before?”
Clarisse’s throat went dry. “You’re fucking creepy.”
You leaned in. “And you’re still here.”
She should’ve walked away. Should’ve punched you. Should’ve done anything except stand there, close enough to catch the scent of your skin-something sweet, like pomegranates left to rot in the sun.
Instead, she grabbed your wrist, forcing your palm up between you. “Tell me.”
Your pulse jumped under her grip. But your voice didn’t. “Lilith.”
The name landed like a punch between her ribs.
Clarisse knew myths. Knew the stories whispered about the first woman. Precisely, the one who refused to kneel and obey.
She dropped your hand like it burned.
You laughed, low and knowing. “That’s new. Usually people run before I tell them.”
Clarisse bared her teeth. “I don’t run.”
“No,” you agreed, stepping closer. “You just keep watching.”
Her next breath came ragged. “What if I do?”
You traced her collarbone with the tip of the dagger-not hard enough to break skin, just enough to make her shiver. “Then I’ll keep giving you a show.”
The blade clattered to the floor.
Neither of them reached for it.
And yeah, maybe you were weird. Mostly because you did shit other demigods didn’t even dream of doing. Like the way you’d pluck spiders from their webs just to watch them scramble across your knuckles before setting them gently back in place. Or how you’d lie flat on your back in the middle of the woods at midnight, whispering to the owls until they swooped low enough to brush your fingertips with their wings. Normal demigods didn’t do that. Normal demigods didn’t lick their own blood with a smirk.
But Clarisse wasn’t normal either.
And that was the problem.
She noticed. Even when she pretended not to, even when she snarled and shoved you against the armory wall for “being a fucking creep,” she noticed.
The way your laughter curled like smoke when you knocked her spear aside in sparring. The way your shadow didn’t quite match your movements sometimes, stretching too long or too sharp under the midday sun. Little things, stupid things-things that would’ve sent most campers sprinting to Chiron with wild eyes and half-baked warnings about monsters in human skin.
Clarisse just gritted her teeth and watched harder.
It was infuriating.
And intoxicating.
And-
Fuck.
It was a Tuesday afternoon when she finally cracked. You were straddling the porch railing of the Big House, peeling an apple with your fingernail in one long, unbroken spiral. The peel coiled in your lap like a lazy serpent, and Clarisse, who’d been stomping past on her way to the Ares cabin, stopped dead.
“What,” she growled, “are you doing?”
You didn’t look up. “Apple.”
“I can see that.”
“Then why’d you ask?” You bit into the fruit, juice glistening on your lower lip.
Clarisse’s hands clenched. She should’ve kept walking. Should’ve flipped you off and vanished into the woods to punch a tree until her knuckles split. Instead, she grabbed the railing on either side of your thighs, caging you in. “Stop that.”
You swallowed, slow. “Stop what?”
“Being-” She gestured violently at your mouth, the apple, the fucking peel draped over your knee like it was lounging. “-you.”
You grinned. “Aw, La Rue. You’re gonna have to be more specific.”
Her nostrils flared. She could smell the apple on your breath, tart and sweet, mixed with something else underneath-the scent of crushed juniper berries, of damp earth after a storm. Lilith’s daughter. The first woman who said no. The one who walked away.
Clarisse’s grip tightened on the railing.
You leaned in, close enough that your knees brushed her thighs. “Or,” you murmured, “you could just admit you like it.”
Her pulse pounded in her ears.
She should’ve walked away.
Instead, she kissed you.
Hard.
It wasn’t soft, wasn’t sweet-it was all teeth-the kind of kiss that felt like a fight neither of you wanted to lose. You made a noise against her mouth, half-laugh, half-moan, and your fingers twisted in her shirt, pulling her closer. The apple thudded to the ground, forgotten.
When she finally wrenched back, breathing ragged, you were smiling that sharp, knowing smile again. Like you’d expected this. Like you’d won.
Clarisse wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Shut up.”
You arched a brow. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking it.”
Clarisse expected you to gloat. Expected the smirk, the sarcastic comment, the way you’d lean back like you’d known this was coming all along-like she was just another predictable demigod falling at your feet. But you didn’t.
You just looked at her, gaze unreadable, fingers still tangled in the fabric of her shirt where you’d dragged her closer. The silence stretched too long, too heavy, and for the first time in her life, Clarisse La Rue felt the urge to flee.
"You kissed me," you said finally, voice low. Not a question. Not even an accusation. Just a fact, laid bare.
Clarisse’s jaw worked. "Yeah. So?"
"So," you repeated, tilting your head. "You gonna do it again, or was that a one-time stupidity?"
Her pulse wasn’t how it was supposed to go. She was supposed to shove you away, call you a creep, storm off like none of it mattered. Instead, she was standing there like an idiot, your knees still brushing her thighs, your breath still warm against her lips.
"You’re insufferable," she muttered.
You grinned. "And yet."
And yet.
Clarisse growled, grabbed your face in both hands, and kissed you again-slower this time, deliberate, like she was mapping the shape of your mouth, the way your breath hitched when she bit your lower lip. You let her, fingers sliding up to grip her wrists, not pushing her away, not pulling her closer. Just holding on.
When she pulled back, your lips were red, your eyes half-lidded. "That a confession, La Rue?"
She should’ve denied it. Should’ve spat some insult and vanished. But the words clawed their way out of her throat anyway. "Yeah. Fuck you."
You laughed suddenly, and Clarisse hated how it made her chest tighten. "Romantic."
"Shut up." She scowled, but her hands were still cradling your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones like you were something fragile. It pissed her off.
You weren’t fragile. You were the kind of beautiful that made her want to bite back.
"You like me," you teased, voice singsong.
Clarisse wanted to strangle you. Wanted to kiss you again. Wanted to-
"Yeah," she gritted out. "So what?"
You blinked. For once, you looked thrown.
Clarisse barreled on, reckless. "You heard me. Yeah, I fucking like you. You’re annoyingly beautiful, fucking creepy and weird and I don’t know why the hell I-" She cut herself off, nostrils flaring. "There. Happy?"
You stared at her. Then, slowly, your smirk returned. "Ecstatic."
She groaned. "I hate you."
"Liar." You leaned in, lips brushing hers as you whispered, "Say it again."
Clarisse swallowed. "I like you."
You kissed her this time-soft, lingering, nothing like the bruising intensity before. When you pulled away, your voice was quieter than she’d ever heard it. "Good. Because I like you too. Even when you’re being a stubborn ass."
Clarisse’s chest did something stupid and warm. She covered it with a scoff. "Wow. Real poetic."
You nipped her jaw. "I’ll work on my sonnets."
She should’ve shoved you off the railing. Instead, she yanked you closer, forehead resting against yours. "You’re the worst."
"And you’re stuck with me."
Clarisse’s breath caught. Stuck with you. The idea didn’t sound half bad.
"Fine," she muttered. "But if you tell anyone I said any of this shit, I’ll feed you to the harpies."
You laughed, bright and unrepentant, and kissed her again.
summary :: Thalia has seen gods. None of them looked like you.
wc :: 1721 tws :: none
— Thalia Grace & fem!reader
— track :: Caribbean Blue - Enya
author’s note :: Just a little something until I can post more. I’ve been so sick for the past week, I literally have the immune system of a victorian child, but I’m somewhat better now, so I’ll finish up some drafts and post more!
"Tell me again," Thalia said, fingers drumming against the hilt of her knife. "Exactly how you ended up with a god's sandal in your mouth."
The girl across from her-her girl, though neither of you had said it yet-just smirked, tossing the offending leather strap into the campfire between them.
"I didn't end up with it," she corrected, tilting her chin up. "I took it."
Thalia blinked. Gods didn’t lose things. Not unless someone made them.
You stretched, slow and deliberate, the firelight painting gold along the bare skin of your arms. Thalia’s gaze snagged on the movement-not because she meant to stare, but because you were the kind of person who demanded it.
Not pretty, not in the way poets wasted ink on. You were the sharp edge of a storm rolling in, the split-second before lightning cracks. Magnetic. Impossible to ignore.
"So," you said, voice lazy, "you gonna scold me, Grace? Or are we finally admitting you like me better when I’m trouble?"
Thalia didn’t answer, because the truth was obvious: she liked you best exactly like this-unapologetic, reckless, alive.
But she wasn’t about to say it. Not yet.
Thalia exhaled through her nose, like she was counting down from ten in her head.
You watched the way her jaw worked-the tension there, the way her fingers twitched like she wanted to reach for something. Not her knife this time. Something else.
"You're going to get yourself killed," she said finally, but there was no heat in it. Just the ghost of a threat.
You grinned, all teeth. "Doubt it." Leaning forward, you plucked a stray ember from the edge of the fire, rolling it between your fingers until it died. "Gods don’t scare me."
"That’s the problem," Thalia shot back, but her voice cracked on the last word.
She hated that. Hated the way you unraveled her, stitch by careful stitch.
The silence stretched, thick with things neither of you would say. The nymphs had gone quiet. Even the fire seemed to hold its breath.
Then-
"You still haven’t told me why," Thalia muttered.
You arched a brow. "Why what?"
"Why you took it." She gestured at the blackened remains of the sandal, now little more than ash. "You don’t just steal from gods for fun."
"Don’t I?"
Thalia’s eyes narrowed. "Try again."
You sighed, stretching your legs out until your foot brushed against hers. She didn’t pull away. "Fine. It was a trade."
"A trade."
"Mm." You tilted your head, considering her. "He wanted something. I wanted something else."
Thalia’s pulse jumped in her throat. She could feel it-a traitorous, hammering thing. "And what did you want?"
You smiled, slow and knowing. "Wouldn’t you like to know."
Thalia scowled. "You’re impossible."
"Funny," you mused, tracing idle patterns in the dirt with your fingertip. "I was just thinking the same about you."
Another pause.
Then you moved suddenly, closing the space between you in one smooth motion.
Thalia’s breath hitched as your fingers curled into the fabric of her jacket, tugging her forward until your foreheads nearly touched.
"Here’s a hint," you murmured, your voice dropping into something sweet. "It wasn’t the sandal I was after."
Thalia’s heart stuttered. She should push you away. Should say something sharp, something cutting.
Instead, her hands found your hips, gripping hard enough to bruise.
"Cheater," she accused, but there was no bite to it.
You laughed, victorious. "Only when it counts."
And then-because you’d never been one to wait, not for anything-you kissed her.
Thalia’s thoughts scattered like leaves in a storm.
When you finally pulled back, her lips were tingling. You smirked, thumb brushing the corner of her mouth. "Still wanna scold me?"
Thalia swallowed.
Thalia’s fingers tightened on your hips, but she didn’t push you away-didn’t even try.
The firelight caught the edges of your face, and for the first time, she let herself look.
Not the quick, guilty glances she’d stolen before. Not the way her gaze would snag on you mid-battle, distracted by the way you moved. No, this was different. This was reckless.
You were beautiful. Not in the way the Aphrodite kids were.
You were beautiful like a cliffside at midnight, beautiful like the moment before a knife finds its mark. Your eyes weren’t just blue-they were the kind of blue that drowned sailors, the kind poets wrote about and then burned the pages because no words ever did it justice.
Your mouth was still smirking, but Thalia could see the way your pulse jumped in your throat, betraying you. You weren’t invincible. Not really.
"You’re staring," you murmured, but there was no tease in it now. Just a quiet, breathless thing.
Thalia’s throat went dry. "Yeah." No point lying. Not when you were close enough to feel the way her breath shook.
Thalia had seen gods. Real ones.
None of them looked like you. None of them felt like you.
She’d met Aphrodite once, but even that hadn’t punched the air out of her lungs the way you did just by existing.
Your fingers were still tangled in her jacket, knuckles brushing the hollow of her throat. Thalia could feel the heat of your skin through the fabric, could count every freckle dusted across your collarbones like constellations she wanted to map with her tongue. Up close, your eyelashes were darker than she’d realized-not black, but a deep, fathomless blue, the same shade as the ocean at midnight. Armies drowned in less.
"You’re staring," you repeated, softer this time, but Thalia didn’t flinch.
"Yeah," she said again, because what else was there? The truth was: you were the most terrifying thing she’d ever seen.
Not because you were dangerous (you were) or because you stole from gods like it was nothing (you did), but because looking at you felt like staring into the sun-blinding, inevitable, ruinous.
You huffed a laugh, but it came out uneven. "You’re supposed to say something clever now."
Thalia’s grip on your hips tightened. "I’m not clever."
"Liar." Your thumb traced the curve of her lower lip, slow, deliberate. "You’re the cleverest person I know."
Thalia’s heart was a wild, thrashing thing, but she didn’t look away. Couldn’t. Not when you were this close, not when your breath was warm against her mouth and your eyes were that fucking blue-
"You’re beautiful," she said, raw and simple, like it was the only truth left in the world.
You went still. Actually still, for the first time since she’d met you, like the words had knocked the wind out of you. Your smirk faltered. "What?"
Thalia didn’t blink. "You heard me."
"You don’t-" You swallowed, and Thalia watched the way your throat moved, watched the pulse there jump. "You don’t just say that."
"I just did."
"You’re Thalia Grace," you muttered, like that explained anything.
"And you’re you," she shot back. "Which is worse."
You laughed-really laughed, startled-and Thalia felt it everywhere, like lightning under her skin. "Worse?"
"Worse," she confirmed, and then, because she’d never been good at half-measures, she kissed you again.
Harder this time, teeth and hunger and no room for doubt. You made a noise against her mouth-something between a gasp and a curse-and then your hands were in her hair, pulling her closer.
When you broke apart, breathless, your lips were swollen. Thalia’s chest ached.
"Cheater," you whispered, but your voice was wrecked.
Thalia smirked. "Only when it counts."
You stared at her for a long moment, something unreadable flickering in your eyes. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, you leaned in until your lips brushed the shell of her ear.
"Say it again," you murmured.
Thalia shivered. "What?"
"Say it."
She didn’t hesitate. "You’re beautiful."
You pulled back just enough to meet her gaze, and Thalia realized, with a jolt, that you were blushing.
Actual, honest-to-gods blushing, the color high on your cheeks, your lashes fluttering like you didn’t know what to do with the compliment. It was the most disarmed she’d ever seen you.
"Say it again," you demanded, voice cracking.
Thalia grinned. "Make me."
You laughed-actually laughed-and then you were kissing her again.
The fire had burned down by the time you pulled away again, but Thalia couldn’t feel the cold.
Not with the way you were looking at her-like she’d hung the stars herself, like you’d drown in her if she let you.
It should’ve been terrifying. Instead, it felt like coming home.
"You’re staring again." you murmured, but your voice was soft now.
Thalia could see the way your fingers trembled where they rested against her jaw, the way your breath hitched when she brushed her thumb over the pulse point in your wrist.
"Can’t help it," Thalia admitted, and the honesty of it burned worse than any god’s wrath. "You’re-“
"Don’t." You pressed a finger to her lips, but there was no force behind it. Just a quiet plea. "Don’t say it like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you mean it."
Thalia caught your wrist, turning it so she could press her mouth to your palm. She felt you shudder. "I do mean it."
You made a sound-half laugh, half sob-and let your forehead drop to her shoulder. "You’re going to ruin me."
"Too late."
You lifted your head, and Thalia was struck all over again by the sheer you of you-the way your eyes caught the dying light, how your lips parted like you were about to say something.
Instead, you just sighed, slow and shuddering, and whispered, "Say it properly."
Thalia didn’t ask what you meant. She knew.
"I love you," she said, simple as that.
You went utterly still. Then, with a trembling breath, you curled your fingers into the fabric of her shirt and whispered back, "Say it like you’re not afraid."
Thalia laughed-startled-and cupped your face in her hands. "I love you," she repeated, louder this time, grinning when you flushed darker. "I love you, you impossible, reckless, gorgeous-“
You kissed her to shut her up, but Thalia could feel the way you smiled against her mouth. When you finally broke apart, you were both breathless.
"Say it again," you demanded, voice rough.
Thalia nipped at your lower lip. "I love you."
"Again."
"I love you."
"Again-“
Thalia kissed you until you stopped talking. When she finally pulled back, your lips were kiss-swollen, your eyes hazy.
summary :: In which Thalia hates when others touch her — but she leans into you like she needs it to breathe.
wc :: 1860 tws :: none
— Thalia grace & fem!reader
The first time Thalia touched you, you thought she’d stab you. Not metaphorically-her fingers dug into your wrist like she was checking for a pulse, or maybe like she was deciding whether to break the bone.
You froze. Everyone knew better than to get close to her unless they wanted a boot to the ribs or a switchblade pulled on them in the alley behind the diner.
"You gonna keep staring at my hand or what?" Thalia's voice was all annoyance, but her fingers didn’t let go-if anything, they tightened.
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting her cheekbones in a sickly glow. Up close, you could see the split in her bottom lip, the faded bruise along her jawline. She smelled like motor oil and spearmint gum.
You didn’t answer. Instead, you watched the way her thumb moved-not threateningly, but absently, tracing the thin blue veins under your skin. Like she was mapping them.
The jukebox in the corner skipped tracks, and someone laughed too loud at the counter. Thalia’s eyes flicked up to yours, and for a second, there was something raw there, something that didn’t fit with the stories people told about her. Then she blinked, and it was gone. "Don’t get used to this," she muttered, but she didn’t pull away.
Later, you’d realize that was the moment everything tilted. Not when she finally let go, or when she shoved past you to light a cigarette outside, but right then-her calloused fingers still wrapped around your wrist, her breathing too steady, like she was holding something back. You didn’t know it yet, but she was already yours. And you were already hers.
The second time Thalia touched you, it was raining. Not the soft kind-the kind that came down like nails, turning the parking lot into a slick black mirror. You were smoking under the diner’s awning, shoulders hunched against the cold, when she appeared beside you like a shadow.
No warning. Just Thalia, her knuckles brushing yours as she reached for your cigarette. You let her take it. Her lips wrapped around the filter, and you watched the ember flare between her fingers.
“You’re gonna get sick,” you said, nodding at her soaked leather jacket.
She exhaled smoke through her nose, grinning around it. “You offering to keep me warm?”
You should’ve laughed. Should’ve rolled your eyes. Instead, you reached out and flicked a raindrop off her collarbone. Your fingertip lingered. Thalia went still-not like she was about to bolt, but like she was waiting to see how far you’d go. The cigarette burned between you, forgotten.
Later, in the backseat of your shitty car, she’d press you into the upholstery with the heel of her hand and bite your neck hard enough to bruise. You’d gasp, and she’d freeze, like she’d shocked herself. “Tell me to stop,” she’d demand. You wouldn’t.
But that was later.
Now, under the awning, her breath hitched when you tucked a wet strand of hair behind her ear. Thunder rolled overhead. The diner’s neon sign buzzed, painting her cheekbones in pink and blue.
“You’re gonna get sick,” she echoed, but her hand was already sliding up your sleeve, fingers finding your pulse point again.
You leaned in.
She didn’t pull away.
The third time Thalia touched you, it wasn’t accidental. She didn’t pretend she was reaching for something else or blame it on the cramped backseat of your car. She just looked at you-really looked-and then dragged her palm up your thigh like she was daring you to flinch. Her nails were bitten down to the quick, but they still left indents in your skin through the fabric of your jeans. You didn’t move.
Outside, the rain hammered the roof like it was trying to get in. Thalia’s mouth was a hard line, her breathing too controlled. You knew better than to speak. Instead, you traced the scar above her eyebrow-a thin white line she’d never explained-and watched her pupils dilate. Her knee jerked involuntarily, knocking against the gearshift.
“Stop looking at me like that,” she muttered, but her hand curled tighter around your leg, pulling you closer until your hips slotted together.
You could feel her heartbeat where your chests pressed, frantic and uneven. Up close, her eyelashes were clumped together from the rain, and her lower lip trembled-just once-before she caught it between her teeth.
She kissed you like she was trying to lose a fight.
All teeth , her fingers twisting in your hair hard enough to hurt. You let her. Let her push you back against the door, let her hitch your leg over her hip, let her bite your tongue when you made a sound she didn’t like.
The windows fogged up around you, sealing you in with the smell of wet leather and the salt-tang of her sweat.
When she finally broke away, her lips were swollen and her cheeks flushed. You expected her to bolt. Instead, she rested her forehead against yours, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts. “Fuck,” she whispered, like it was a confession.
You kissed her again, slower this time.
The fourth time Thalia touched you, it was dawn. Not the golden kind, the kind that crept in gray and hesitant. You were sprawled across the backseat, her leather jacket balled under your head, the scent of her clinging to your skin.
She sat on the hood of the car, smoking, her silhouette sharp against the fading dark. You watched the way her shoulders moved when she breathed, the way her fingers tapped restlessly against her thigh. Like she was counting down to something.
You slid out of the car barefoot, the asphalt cold under your soles. Thalia didn’t turn, but her spine straightened when you leaned against the fender beside her. Close enough that your arms brushed. She exhaled smoke through her nose, her jaw tight. “You should go,” she said, but her fingers curled into a fist against her leg, like she was holding onto the words.
You didn’t answer. Just plucked the cigarette from her lips and took a drag, watching her throat work when she swallowed.
The silence stretched, taut and fragile. Somewhere, a bird started singing-off-key and relentless. Thalia’s knuckles whitened.
Then, all at once, she cracked. Her hand shot out, gripping the front of your shirt, hauling you in until your noses almost touched. “Say it,” she demanded. “Say you’re gonna leave.”
You could’ve lied. Could’ve told her what she wanted to hear.
Instead, you crushed the cigarette under your heel and cupped her face, your thumbs smoothing over the hollows under her eyes. She shuddered. “I’m not going anywhere,” you said, simple as a fact.
Thalia made a sound-half a sob, half a laugh-and then her mouth was on yours, desperate and messy. Her hands fisted in your hair, your shirt, like she was trying to fuse you together. When she finally pulled back, her lips were red, her cheeks wet. You didn’t ask. Just wiped the tears away with your thumbs and pressed your forehead to hers.
She let out a shaky breath. “Fuck,” she whispered again.
The fifth time Thalia touched you, it was deliberate-not with the hunger of before, but slow, like she was memorizing the shape of your palm. Dawn had bled into morning, the diner’s neon sign flickering off as the sun climbed. She held your hand between hers, callouses catching on your skin, and said, voice rough, “I don’t know how to do this.” Not can’t. Don’t know how. Like it was a skill she could learn, if you’d teach her.
You turned her hand over, pressed your lips to the scar across her knuckles-the one she’d gotten punching through a window when she was sixteen. Her breath stuttered. “You’re doing it right now,” you said against her skin.
She made a noise like a wounded animal, fingers twitching in yours. “No one’s ever-” She cut herself off, jaw working. The admission hung between you, sharp as a blade.
Thalia looked away, throat bobbing. “I want to.” Three words, and it cost her. You could see it in the way her shoulders tensed, like she was bracing for a blow. “Fuck. I want to.” Louder this time. You didn’t smile. Didn’t tease. Just squeezed her hand and said, “Then we’re dating.” Simple. Fact.
She laughed-a startled, punched-out sound-and dragged you in by the collar. Her kiss was less teeth this time, more lips, hesitant and achingly soft. When she pulled back, her eyes were bright, pupils blown wide. “Yeah,” she rasped. “Okay.” Like it was that easy. Maybe it was.
Thalia didn’t say I love you first. She said, “I think about you when I’m not with you,” like it was an accusation, her voice scraping raw over the words. You were in the diner’s back booth, her boot hooked around your ankle under the table, the cracked vinyl squeaking every time she shifted. She wouldn’t look at you-just stabbed her fork into her pancakes like they’d wronged her. “It’s fucking stupid,” she muttered, syrup soaking into the cuts on her knuckles.
You reached over, slow, and wiped it away with your thumb. Her breath caught. “It’s not,” you said. Simple. Fact.
She dropped the fork. It clattered against the plate loud enough to make the waitress glance over. Thalia’s fingers flexed, then curled into fists. “I don’t-” She stopped, swallowed. Tried again. “I don’t know how to be soft.” The admission came out jagged, like she’d ripped it from somewhere deep. Outside, a truck rumbled past, shaking the windows.
You didn’t touch her. Didn’t push. Just waited.
Thalia’s throat worked. Then, all at once, she slumped forward, her forehead thumping against your shoulder. “Teach me,” she mumbled into your shirt, her voice so quiet you almost missed it. Her hands hovered at your sides, trembling. “Please.”
Your heart cracked open. You lifted a hand to her hair-hesitant, giving her space to bolt-but she only exhaled sharply, her body going pliant under your touch. “Okay,” you whispered, threading your fingers through her dark strands. “Yeah. Okay.”
She lifted her head just enough to glare at you, eyes wet. “Are we-?” She couldn’t finish, but the question hung between you.
You kissed her then, right there in the booth, her syrup-sticky hands clutching your shirt. She made a noise against your lips-half relief, half terror-and then she was kissing you back, clumsy and desperate. When you pulled away, her cheeks were flushed, her lips bitten red. “We’re dating,” you told her, wiping a smear of syrup off her chin.
The waitress dropped the check with a pointed cough. Thalia flipped her off without looking, but her fingers tangled with yours under the table, holding on like she’d never let go.
Outside, the sun was too bright. Thalia squinted against it, her free hand shoved deep in her pocket. “So,” she said, kicking a pebble. “What now?”
You squeezed her hand. “Whatever you want.”
She looked at you-really looked-and for the first time, she didn’t hide the hope in her eyes. “Everything,” she said. Simple. Fact.
summary :: War forged her. Love claimed her. Ares never meant for his daughter to have a soulmate.
wc :: 1306 tws :: none
— Clarisse La Rue & fem!reader
“You're meant for war," Ares said, his voice like the scrape of a whetstone against steel.
Clarisse spat blood onto the dirt, smearing the back of her hand across her split lip. The training yard smelled of sweat and iron, the kind of stink that clung to her skin long after she'd scrubbed it raw.
She didn't answer him. Gods didn't like it when you talked back…unless you won. And she hadn't won yet.
The sword felt like an extension of her arm, heavy and familiar, but her ribs ached where the hilt of his dagger had cracked against them.
Ares circled her, boots kicking up dust. "War doesn't care if you're tired," he said, and lunged.
She barely blocked in time, the impact shuddering up her bones. You didn't get nice words from the God of War.
You got bruises, broken fingers, the taste of your own teeth. That was how he…loved. That was how he made sure you survived.
Somewhere beyond the sparring ring, a laugh cut through the grunts and clashing metal. Bright, careless.
The kind of sound that didn't belong here. Clarisse's head turned-just for a second-but a second was all Ares needed. His fist connected with her temple, sending her sprawling.
"Pay attention," he growled.
She rolled to her feet, jaw set. The laughter came again, and this time, she saw you.
Leaning against a column, sunlight catching in your hair like you'd stolen a piece of it for yourself. You shouldn't have been there.
No one came to watch Ares' daughter train, especially when she trained with him.
Clarisse tightened her grip on her sword. War didn't leave room for distractions.
But then you smiled.
And for the first time in her life, she hesitated.
Ares' boot caught her in the stomach before she could blink. Clarisse folded around the impact, air punching out of her lungs as she hit the ground hard enough to taste dirt.
"Pathetic," he snarled, looming over her. She knew that tone, it meant he'd break something if she didn't get up fast.
But her eyes flicked past him, drawn like a moth to flame. You were still watching. Not smirking at her failure, not flinching at the violence.
Just... looking. Like you saw something worth seeing in the mess of her sweat and blood.
Clarisse shoved herself upright, fingers digging into the dirt for purchase. "Again," she rasped, sword already rising.
Ares struck like a storm, relentless, but her blocks came slower this time. Distracted. That unfamiliar warmth curled low in her gut, treacherous as a blade between the ribs.
She barely registered the next blow splitting her eyebrow open-because you'd stepped closer. Close enough she could see the freckles dusting your nose, the way your bottom lip caught between your teeth when she staggered.
"Who let you in here?" Clarisse growled between panting breaths, wiping blood from her eye. You should've flinched at the venom in her voice. Should've run.
You didn't.
"You did," you said, simple as that, like it was already written somewhere.
Ares' laugh was a serrated thing. "Oh, this is rich." He yanked Clarisse up by her hair, forcing her to meet his burning gaze. "You think you can afford pretty distractions?" His grip tightened. "I'll show you what happens to weak things."
Clarisse felt it before she saw it-the shift in his stance, the predatory gleam as he turned toward you.
Her body moved before her mind caught up.
Clarisse’s sword was halfway to Ares’ throat before she’d even decided to swing. The blade sang through the air, not to kill-never to kill him-but to intercept, to stop. Metal screeched as her sword met his, the force rattling her teeth.
Ares didn’t look surprised. He looked pleased. “Finally,” he sneered, shoving her back. “Some fucking attitude.”
But Clarisse wasn’t looking at him. She was staring at you, at the way you hadn’t so much as stepped back, like you’d known she’d move. Like you trusted her to.
Blood dripped from her split brow, painting her vision red, but all she could see was the way your fingers twitched at your sides-not in fear, but like you were stopping yourself from reaching for her.
Then she saw it. A thin, glowing thread, crimson as fresh blood, looping from her pinky to yours. It pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat.
Clarisse’s breath caught. She knew what it was. Every demigod did. The Fates didn’t make mistakes-but apparently, Ares had.
“No,” he snarled, following her gaze. The thread shimmered defiantly between you, undeniable. His face twisted. “No.” He lunged, not for her this time, but for you.
Clarisse moved faster. She dropped her sword and grabbed you, yanking you against her chest just as Ares’ blade whistled past, slicing air where your throat had been.
Your body was warm against hers, your pulse rabbit-quick where her hand pressed against your collarbone. Too close. Not close enough.
You tilted your head up. There was blood on her mouth. You licked your own lips anyway. “Took you long enough,” you murmured, and then you kissed her.
Clarisse had been hit harder, but never felt it like this. Your mouth was soft, insistent, and she kissed you back like a drowning woman finding air.
The thread around their fingers burned brighter, tightening, as if pulling them together.
Ares roared. The ground trembled. Clarisse didn’t care. She broke the kiss only to press her forehead to yours, breathing hard. “You’re gonna get us both killed,” she rasped.
You grinned. Your nose brushed hers. “Worth it.”
Behind them, Ares’ voice dripped with disgust. “Sentiment,” he spat, like it was a curse. But when Clarisse turned, still holding you tight, his sword was lowered.
His eyes flicked to the thread. He looked, for the first time in her life, uncertain.
Clarisse tightened her grip on you. War had forged her. But maybe…just maybe, love would claim her anyway.
The thread between them was tangible now, where it wrapped around their joined fingers. Clarisse could feel it pulsing in time with her heartbeat-or was it yours?
She couldn’t tell anymore, and that should’ve terrified her. But your mouth was still against hers, warm and insistent, and all she could think was more.
"You’re insane," she muttered against your lips, her voice rough with blood and something else entirely. Her thumb brushed your jaw, smearing red where she’d gripped you too hard. "Walking into a god’s training yard like you own the place."
You nipped at her bottom lip, sharp enough to sting. "You let me," you said, like it was that simple.
Maybe it was. The thread glowed brighter, winding tighter around them both, and Clarisse realized, with a jolt that she had.
Somewhere between the first laugh and the first kiss, she’d carved out a space for you.
Ares’ snarl cut through the moment. "You think this changes anything?" His sword scraped against the ground as he dragged it forward, but the fire in his eyes had banked "The Fates weave threads. I cut them.
Clarisse shoved you behind her, her free hand already reaching for her discarded blade.
But you caught her wrist, fingers slotting between hers like you’d done it a thousand times before.
“No," you said. Not to her. To him. "You don’t get to decide this." The thread flared crimson between you.
And for the first time in her life, Clarisse saw Ares hesitate.
"You don’t know what you’re throwing away, girl," he growled, but the words lacked their usual bite.
Clarisse exhaled, long and slow. The weight of her sword felt familiar in her grip, but the warmth of your hand in hers was something new.
Something hers. "Yeah," she said, turning her head just enough to catch your gaze. The corner of her mouth lifted-half smirk, half surrender. "I really fucking do."
summary :: Clarisse doesn’t understand love, but she tries for you. She learns gentleness.
wc :: 1058 tws :: none
— Clarisse La Rue & fem!reader
— track :: Bad At Love - Halsey
Clarisse's hands weren't made for holding. You noticed that first-knuckles permanently split from fights she wouldn't talk about, fingers curled like they were still waiting to wrap around her spear.
She peeled oranges with her teeth because using a knife was too easy, and when she handed you the segments, the pulp was always crushed.
"Stop staring," she grunted the third time you caught her wiping blood off her cheekbone in the reflection of a cafeteria tray.
You didn't.
The scar above her left eyebrow was newer than the others, jagged where the rest were clean. She caught you tracing it with your eyes and exhaled through her nose like a bull about to charge. "What?"
"Nothing," you lied.
Clarisse's boot kicked your chair leg hard enough to make the whole table rattle. "Say it," she demanded. You watched her throat work-she swallowed words the way other people swallowed fear.
You shrugged and stole a segment of her ruined orange, fingers brushing hers just to feel the way she jerked back like you'd burned her. "Would you believe me if I said I like your face?”
Her scoff was half a laugh, the kind that got stuck between her ribs. "Try again."
The truth was simple: you liked the way she held herself like every scar was a challenge, not a weakness.
You told her that. Her hands flexed against the tabletop like she was deciding whether to break something or hold onto it.
Clarisse's nostrils flared like you'd just declared war instead of paying her a compliment.
The orange segment you'd stolen turned to pulp between your fingers, sticky-sweet and staining your skin. She leaned in, close enough that you could count the flecks of gold in her dark eyes, close enough that the heat rolling off her smelled like iron and the cheap strawberry shampoo she'd never admit to using. "You're fucking stupid," she said, but her voice cracked on the last word, and that…that was interesting.
Clarisse’s breath hitched when you wiped the orange juice from your fingers onto her sleeve-deliberate, slow, like you were daring her to react.
She didn’t move, didn’t blink, just stared at the stain spreading across the fabric . "You’re gonna regret that," she muttered, but her throat sounded dry.
You leaned forward until your forehead almost touched hers, close enough to see the way her pulse jumped under the scar at her jaw. "Prove it," you said, and her hands-those wrecked, beautiful hands-twitched like she was calculating how much damage she could do without actually hurting you.
Clarisse moved first-not toward you, but away, shoving back from the table with enough force to send her chair skidding across the floor. "Outside," she growled, already halfway to the door before you realized she expected you to follow.
The campers at the next table ducked their heads like they'd seen this before, like they knew better than to get between her and whatever violence she had planned.
You found her by the armory, shoulders tight against the wall like she was bracing for impact.
The late afternoon sun turned the fresh scar above her eyebrow into a molten line, and when she saw you, her jaw worked like she was chewing on something bitter. "You shouldn't-" she started, then cut herself off with a sharp shake of her head.
The air between you smelled like sweat and weapon oil, and you wondered if she'd brought you here because it was the only place she knew how to just…breathe. Clarisse's fingers tapped a restless rhythm against the hilt of a discarded dagger, but when you stepped closer, her hand stilled. "You're gonna get yourself killed," she said, quieter now, like it was a confession instead of a threat.
You reached for the dagger-not to take it, just to brush your fingers over hers where they gripped the leather wrap. Her breath caught, sharp, and for the first time since you'd met her, Clarisse looked like she didn't know whether to fight or run.
Clarisse's fingers twitched under yours, the dagger's hilt creaking under her grip. The noise was small, almost lost in the distant clang of swords from the training grounds, but it made your pulse jumpAshe was holding back, and that was more terrifying than any blade she could've pressed to your throat.
"Say it again," she demanded, voice rough like gravel under boots. "What you said inside."
You didn't hesitate. "I like your scars." Your thumb traced the ridge of her knuckle, the split skin warm and alive under your touch. "…I like how you wear them."
Something in her chest shuddered-you felt it in the way her shoulders dropped half an inch, the way her next breath came out uneven. Clarisse's free hand lifted, hovered near your cheek like she was mapping a strike, then curled into a fist and dropped. "Fuck," she muttered, and it sounded helpless.
The dagger clattered to the dirt between you. When she grabbed your wrist, it wasn't to throw you-it was to press your palm flat against the newest scar, the one still pink at the edges. Her pulse thundered under your fingers, and for once, she didn't flinch.
Clarisse’s breath hitched when your fingers lingered over the scar, her calloused palm pressing yours harder against her skin like she was trying to fuse your touch into her.
You didn’t. Instead, you curled your fingers into hers, squeezing until her grip loosened, until her hand turned in yours like a reluctant surrender. "Yeah," you said, thumb brushing the ridge of her knuckles again. "And so’s the way you peel oranges, but I still eat them." Her snort was startled, almost a laugh, and the sound was worth more than any compliment.
She didn’t let go of your hand. Not when the dinner bell rang, not when a group of campers jogged past the armory, not even when one of them whistled and she flipped them off with her free hand.
Clarisse’s fingers were rough and warm, and when she finally tugged you toward the cabins, it wasn’t with her usual violence.
You followed, and for the first time, her steps were slower, uneven, like she was learning the something new. The setting sun stretched your shadows long across the grass, tangled together where your hands still met, and neither of you mentioned it.
summary :: Thalia and you reject the gods entirely. Divinity doesn’t decide love.
wc :: 915 tws :: none
— Thalia grace & fem!reader
"Fuck Olympus," Thalia said, flicking her cigarette into the campfire. "All that divine bureaucracy, and for what? A bunch of narcissists playing chess with our lives."
You didn't answer right away, just watched the way the firelight caught.
She had that look again, the one where her jaw tightened like she was chewing glass, fingers drumming restless against her thigh. The kind of anger that didn't boil over but sat low and simmering.
"Remember when Apollo claimed that kid last summer?" you said instead, picking at the frayed edge of your hoodie sleeve. "The one who just wanted to play guitar. Turned him into a damn jukebox for hymns." The memory tasted bitter, like burnt toast no amount of scraping could fix.
Thalia snorted, leaning back on her elbows. The shadows under her eyes looked darker in the flickering light. "Yeah, well. Zeus turned my mom into a fucking cautionary tale." Her voice didn't shake. It never did. That was the worst part. "So pardon me if I'm not lining up to kiss his robe."
The silence between you wasn't comfortable, but it wasn't awkward either.
It was the quiet of two people who'd already dug their fingers into the same wound. You reached over without thinking, your pinky brushing hers in the dirt. She didn't pull away.
Thalia's fingers twitched against yours, her calloused skin rough but warm. "You ever think about just walking away?" she asked, her voice quieter now, almost lost in the crackle of the fire. Not from the monsters or the shitty prophecies…just from them. Their rules, their temples, their fucking egos."
You didn’t hesitate. "Every damn day." The admission felt like pulling a knife from your ribs-painful, but easier once it was out. "But where do we go? They don’t exactly let you quit."
She smirked, but it didn’t reach her eyes. "Maybe we don’t ask permission." The way she said it wasn’t reckless; it was calculated, like she’d been running the numbers in her head for years. Her thumb traced the back of your hand. "Maybe we make our own rules."
The fire popped, sending a shower of sparks into the dark. You held onto her hand like it was the only thing keeping you from drowning. "Yeah," you said, your voice steady for the first time all night. "Let’s burn it down."
Thalia's grip tightened around yours, her nails digging into your skin.
Not enough to draw blood just enough to remind you that this wasn't some half-baked fantasy cooked up by the Fates. "First rule," she said, her voice raw. “No more offerings. No more kneeling." The firelight caught the defiance in her eyes.
You laughed, because what else could you do? The sound startled an owl from the trees-probably Athena's spy, but fuck her too. "Second rule," you countered, knocking your boot against Thalia's. "We don't pray." The words tasted like freedom.
She tilted her head, considering you. Then, she leaned in-close enough that you could count the freckles dusting her nose. "Third rule," she murmured, her breath warm against your lips. "We don't apologize."
Somewhere beyond the trees, thunder rumbled. Thalia grinned like she'd already won. "Let them try to stop us."
The thunder rolled again, closer this time-Zeus flexing his muscles like some petty gym rat. Thalia didn’t flinch. Her grin just got sharper, her fingers still tangled with yours. "Fourth rule," she said, voice pitched low. "We don't look back."
You knew what that meant. No turning toward Olympus when the lightning struck. No second-guessing when the Fates snipped their threads. You squeezed her hand harder, feeling the bones grind together in a silent promise. "Fifth rule," you shot back. "We steal their fire." Because fuck Prometheus for thinking he had a monopoly on rebellion.
The first raindrops hit like cold needles, but Thalia didn’t move. Neither did you. Her eyes were bright with something, something raw and reckless that made your pulse stutter. "Sixth rule," she whispered, her mouth so close now you could taste her. "We don't fucking stop."
And then the sky split open…but it didn’t matter. Not when her lips crashed into yours, fierce and unapologetic, a middle finger aimed at heaven. The rain came down in sheets, drowning the fire, the camp.
Thalia’s teeth catching your lower lip just hard enough to leave a mark, no healing needed, just something to remember this by. The rain plastered her dark hair to her forehead, her jacket sticking to her shoulders as she pulled you closer, her hands fisting in the fabric of your hoodie like she was afraid you’d vanish if she let go.
You wouldn’t. Not now. Not ever.
Somewhere above, lightning cracked the sky in half, the thunder shaking the ground beneath your knees.
Thalia laughed against your mouth, breathless and wild, her fingers tracing the line of your jaw like she was memorizing it. “Fuck,” she muttered, her voice raw with something between awe and defiance. “They’re really pissed.”
You didn’t look up. Didn’t need to. The gods could throw their tantrums all they wanted-you were done flinching.
Instead, you pressed your forehead to hers, rain dripping between you. “Let them be pissed,” you said, your voice steady despite the storm. “We’re not theirs anymore.”
Thalia’s grin was all edges, no mercy. She kissed you again, quick and biting, before pulling back just far enough to meet your eyes. “Seventh rule,” she said, her thumb brushing over your rain-slick cheek. “We don’t ever let go.”
summary :: You're immune to electricity for unexplained reasons, and Thalia can't stop touching you just to see if the lightning will finally hurt you.
wc :: 708 tws :: none
— Thalia Grace & fem!reader
"Stop flinching," you muttered, catching Thalia's wrist for the third time in five minutes.
Her fingers crackled with sparks that skittered harmlessly across your skin like water off a duck's back.
She didn’t pull away. Instead, her grin widened. "Still nothing?"
Her thumb pressed deliberately against your pulse point, as if testing for weakness. The scent of ozone clung to her.
You exhaled through your nose. "I told you. It doesn’t work on me."
The admission felt too loud in the quiet of the empty training yard, like dropping a stone into still water.
Thalia's eyes flickered-not with disappointment, but something else. "Bullshit," she said softly.
The air between you crackled, static lifting the hairs on your arms, but the pain never came.
Instead, your skin drank it in like sunlight, warmth spreading up your veins. You watched realization dawn in her gaze, the way her pupils dilated.
"You're enjoying this," you accused, voice rough. Her fingers tightened around your wrist, pressing harder against bone.
Thalia leaned in, close enough that her breath ghosted over your lips-ozone and wintergreen. "Aren't you?" she whispered, and the lightning coiled around her knuckles flared brighter, casting jagged shadows across her face.
You should've shoved her away. Instead, your free hand found the collar of her jacket, twisting the fabric tight.
The current leapt between you, but all you felt was the heat of her body, the hammer of your own heartbeat where her thigh pressed against yours.
Her laugh was low. "Guess I'll just have to try harder."
You bared your teeth. "Or you could admit you like being wrong."
The first raindrops hit as she surged forward, her mouth crashing into yours, electricity arcing between your lips like a live wire finally finding its ground.
Her teeth scraped your lower lip, sending a shudder down your spine that had nothing to do with the voltage dancing across your skin.
The downpour came sudden and brutal, plastering her leather jacket to your chest, but neither of you moved.
She pulled back just enough to watch rainwater sizzle against your collarbone where her fingers still burned bright with current. "Still nothing?" she breathed, thumb tracing the path of a droplet.
You tightened your grip on her jacket and yanked her back in. Let the storm come.
“You’re not supposed to be able to do that,” she said, voice low. “Most people can’t even get this close.”
“Guess I’m special,” you shot back, though your heart was beating even faster now.
Her mouth twitched. “Yeah,” she said. “I noticed.”
Her knee slid between your thighs, pinning you against the training dummy behind you-wood groaned under the pressure.
Sparks licked up her arms, casting fractured light across the raindrops clinging to her lashes. You wondered if she could feel it too-the way your pulse jumped not from the lightning, but from the way she bit down like she wanted to draw blood.
"Admit it," you gasped when she pulled away again, voice barely audible over the downpour. Your thumb brushed the live wire of her lower lip. "You're obsessed."
Thalia's grin was all teeth. She caught your thumb between them, biting just hard enough to sting before releasing it with a pop.
“You wish," she said, but the way her fingers dug into your hips told a different story, but all you heard was the ragged hitch of her breath when you dragged her closer by the belt loops.
The training dummy behind you splintered under the force-splinters biting into your back, rain washing the sting away as fast as it came. Thalia didn't seem to notice.
Or maybe she did, because her hands slid under your soaked shirt, nails scraping up your ribs like she wanted to map every place the lightning couldn't reach.
"Still think I'm the obsessed one?" she taunted, but her voice broke when you rolled your hips against hers.
The answering shock she sent through you should've dropped a mortal-instead, it just made you arch into her, rainwater steaming where your bodies met.
Thalia's laugh was half a snarl as she fisted a hand in your hair. "Fuck," she breathed against your mouth, and for once, there was none of her usual composure in it. "You're gonna be trouble."
summary :: Thalia refuses Artemis' offer-again-but this time it's because of you. Immortality means nothing if it means leaving you behind.
wc :: 1361 tws :: none
— Thalia Grace & fem!reader
“You're seriously considering this?" Thalia's grip tightened around the hilt of her spear, knuckles whitening. The scent of damp earth and pine needles clung to the air, thick with tension as Artemis watched her.
Thalia swallowed hard. She'd dreamed of this moment since she was twelve. A place among the Hunters, a lifetime of purpose, freedom from the curse of growing up, it was everything she'd ever wanted. Or at least, it used to be.
Her gaze flickered sideways, just for a second, to where you stood half-hidden behind a tree. The way your fingers nervously twisted the hem of your shirt, the way you'd bitten your lip raw ever since Artemis appeared. Thalia could still taste the campfire smoke on her tongue from last night, could still hear your laugh when she'd mockingly challenged you to a s'more-eating contest.
Artemis's voice cut through the silence like a blade. "You hesitate," she observed, not unkindly. Thalia exhaled, slow and deliberate, feeling the weight of centuries pressing down on her shoulders. She'd always been good at running - from monsters, from Luke, from her own fucking feelings. But this? This wasn't something she could outpace.
Your sneaker scuffed against a root, the sound absurdly loud in the stillness. Thalia didn't need to look at you to know your expression - that stupid, hopeful tilt to your chin that always made her chest ache. Last summer's storm flashed in her memory - your hands, your whispered "I've got you".
The goddess tilted her head, moonlight glinting off her circlet. "She will grow old," she said simply. Thalia's stomach dropped. She knew that. Of course she fucking knew that. But hearing it aloud, the inevitability of watching your hair turn gray made her spear clatter to the forest floor.
Somewhere beyond the trees, a twig snapped. Thalia's fingers twitched instinctively toward her weapon before curling into fists. The Hunters were close. Waiting. She could almost hear their breathing, could almost feel Zoë's disappointed glare burning into her back. But when she finally met Artemis's eyes again, it wasn't hesitation she saw reflected there…it was recognition. The goddess knew. They both did.
"You're afraid," Artemis murmured, and it wasn't an accusation.
The wind shifted, carrying the scent of your shampoo, something cheap and citrusy that shouldn't have made Thalia's throat tighten.
She remembered the exact moment she'd realized: that afternoon by the canoe lake when you'd shoved her shoulder laughing, and she'd wanted to bite you. Not in anger. Not even in hunger. Just to see if you'd taste as good as you smelled.
Artemis took a step forward, her sandal crushing a cluster of blueberries underfoot. "She will leave you," she said, softer now. "Or you will leave her. Mortals always do."
Thalia's pulse pounded in her ears. She thought of her mother's vacant stare, of Luke's smile twisting-into something cruel.
But then you coughed-just a small, nervous sound-and she remembered the way you'd pressed your forehead to hers after Capture the Flag.
Thalia bent to retrieve her spear.
When she straightened, she didn't look at Artemis. Didn't look at the Hunters.
She looked at you, really looked, and saw the exact moment you understood.
Your inhale was sharp. And when Thalia spoke, her voice didn't shake. "Some things are worth the inevitable."
Artemis went perfectly still. The forest itself seemed to hold its breath. Then, impossibly, the goddess smiled—not kindly, not cruelly, but with something ancient and knowing. "You will regret this," she said, and it wasn't a threat. Just a fact.
Your fingers found Thalia's wrist, warm against her pulse point. She turned her hand over, letting your fingers slot between hers.
Artemis's gaze dropped to your joined hands, and for the first time, Thalia saw something like pity in her eyes.
"Run," the goddess said finally, turning away. "Run while you still can." The Hunters disappeared into the shadows as Thalia's grip tightened around your hand. You didn't ask where you were going. You just ran.
Behind you, leaves rustled. Thalia knew that sound. The Hunters weren't letting her go easily. Your sneakers skidded on pine needles as she jerked you sideways, ducking beneath low-hanging branches that clawed at your clothes.
At the creek, Thalia spun you around, chest heaving. Moonlight caught in her eyes. "Last chance," she gasped. "If I turn now-“ You kissed her. Hard. Her teeth scraped your lip, and when she groaned against your mouth, you tasted copper and something sweeter.
Somewhere upstream, a silver arrow whizzed past, embedding itself in an oak. Thalia laughed-that reckless, dizzy sound you'd loved since you were fifteen-and tugged you deeper into the dark. "Fuck immortality," she whispered, breath hot against your ear.
The forest floor sloped sharply downward, roots snaking across the path like tripwires. Thalia's knee scraped raw against granite as she hauled you over a fallen log, but neither of you slowed. You could hear them now-the rhythmic whisper of Hunters' feet through ferns, the creak of bowstrings being drawn.
When the tree line broke, you almost screamed. The cliff dropped fifty feet to water. Thalia's fingers dug into your waist. "Trust me?" she asked, already stepping backward into empty air. You saw her pupils dilate, saw the exact moment gravity took hold-and jumped.
Cold swallowed you whole. Underwater, Thalia's hands found your ribs, your hips, pressing you into the current until your lungs burned. When you surfaced gasping, she was grinning, riverweed tangled in her hair. Somewhere above, arrows peppered the surface.
You barely had time to cough before she dragged you downstream, her laughter echoing. The Hunters wouldn't follow-Artemis never crossed running water-but Thalia ran anyway, bare feet slipping on moss-slick rocks. Her thumb kept rubbing circles on your wrist, as if checking you were still there.
Dawn found you shivering under a highway bridge, her jacket smelling of ozone and wet dog. She was tracing the scar on your collarbone-the one from the attack-when you caught her wrist. "Still worth it?" you asked, voice raw.
Thalia's smile faltered. For a heartbeat, you saw the decision stretching before her, empty.
Then she headbutted you gently, forehead to forehead. "Shut up," she muttered, but her hands were trembling.
You pressed your palm over her racing heart and understood: immortality wasn't the sacrifice. You were.
Thalia exhaled sharply through her nose, nose, then yanked you closer by your belt loops. "I'm gonna kiss you now," she warned, and it wasn't romantic-it was desperate, like pulling an arrow from a wound. Her teeth caught your lower lip, and you tasted iron and river water and the burnt sugar of stolen s'mores.
When she finally pulled back, her voice cracked. "I don't know how to do this." Her thumb swiped roughly under your eye-you hadn't realized you were crying. "I don't know how to watch you-“ The words choked off. You kissed her again, slow this time, memorizing the way she shuddered when your fingers tangled in her damp hair.
Thalia rested her forehead against yours, breathing hard. "We're gonna be okay," she lied, and you let her, because the truth-that love was just another kind of falling-was written in the way she wouldn't let go of your hand.
Her confession came out sideways, like always. "I kept your fucking hair tie," she muttered, pulling the elastic from her pocket-the one you'd lost months ago during Capture the Flag, frayed from where she'd been twisting it around her fingers. "Like some pathetic lovestruck teenager."
You laughed, and Thalia scowled, but her hands cradled your face.
The kiss that followed wasn't like before. This one was slow, deliberate, the kind of kiss that made promises neither of you could keep.
Thalia's fingers trembled against your jaw when she pulled back. "I'm not good at this," she admitted, and you kissed her again just to prove to her that you understood.
She exhaled sharply through her nose when your fingers found the scar on her ribs-the one from the Chimera. "We're so fucked," she murmured against your mouth, but she was grinning when she said it.
And…you saw that she kept the hair tie wrapped around her wrist even after it snapped.
summary :: Clarisse needed someone to yell at, something to punch. She didn’t expect to fall for a statue-literally. Turns out stone hearts aren’t as cold as they look. She wasn’t supposed to love you. You weren’t supposed to wake up.
wc :: 1429 tws :: none
— Clarisse La Rue & fem!reader
“You shall love and be loved, yet touch shall never meet.
You shall speak, yet be unheard.
Your heart will ache, your eyes will weep, your lips will whisper-
And no one shall answer.
Stone shall hold you, memory shall keep you,
until one chooses you freely, without fear, without command.
Only a love given willingly, unshackled by debt or divine whim,
may return you to flesh.”
You were a demigod who lived at Camp Half-Blood approximately ~200 years before the canon timeline, and you fell in love with a girl at Camp long before Clarisse’s time. You refused to beg Aphrodite for blessing or forgivenes. And at one moment, you’d said something like: “If love only exists when it’s approved, then it’s not love worth keeping.”
Aphrodite did not like that. So she cursed you.
You were turned into a statue. Unable to move. Unable to age. Fully conscious. Trapped where Camp Half-Blood would eventually rise around you.
Love could look at you. Love could talk to you. But love could never choose you.
Until Clarisse.
The statue had no right being that beautiful. That was Clarisse’s first thought when she stumbled into the clearing, her knuckles still stinging from punching a tree.
The marble figure stood half-hidden by ivy, its face tilted toward the sky like it was waiting for something - or someone.
"Oh, well you’re not creepy at all," Clarisse muttered sarcastically, wiping sweat from her brow. She circled the statue, kicking aside a tangle of roots. The craftsmanship was too good - the curve of its lips, the way its hair fell in wild waves. It looked alive. Almost. "Who the hell carves a statue in the middle of the woods?"
She hesitated, then jabbed a finger at its chest. "And why do you look like you’re judging me?" The statue didn’t answer, of course, but the longer Clarisse stared, the less it felt like stone. Its expression wasn’t smug or pitying - just… sad. Like it knew something she didn’t.
"Whatever," Clarisse grumbled, but she didn’t leave. Instead, she slumped against the statue’s base, her shoulder brushing cold marble. "Gods, I’m losing it. Talking to a rock." She tipped her head back, exhaling sharply. "Wish you could talk back. Bet you’d have better shit to say than anyone at camp."
The statue stayed silent, obviously.
Something at the base of the statue caught her eye. She crouched, brushing aside dirt and vines, fingers tracing carved letters worn down by time. Ancient Greek. Old-school. Not the neat kind Chiron liked. She traced a finger over the vine-choked inscription at its feet, the ancient Greek letters worn but legible: “Love may gaze, but never stay." Clarisse scoffed. "Always gotta make it poetic."
Days bled into weeks, and Clarisse kept returning - sometimes to rant about Jackson’s latest bullshit, sometimes just to sit. One evening, as fireflies flickered between them, she muttered, "Can’t believe I’m into a statue. Fuckin’ ridiculous." Her thumb brushed the statue’s cheek, rough with lichen. "Wish you were real."
When her lips met the statue’s - just a reckless, impulsive press - the marble cracked. Then…
A gasp tore from the stone, and suddenly, the statue’s chest was rising, its fingers twitching. Clarisse stumbled back, her spear half-raised, as the figure shuddered to life, its eyes wide and very, very alive.
"You," the statue - no, you - breathed, voice rough from centuries of disuse. Your hand flew to your throat, feeling the pulse hammering there. "You kissed me." The vines around you withered instantly, their green fading to dust as the curse unraveled.
Clarisse’s grip on her spear tightened. "The fuck?" she snarled, but her voice wavered. "You-you were never supposed to-" The realization hit like a warhammer: Aphrodite’s curse. "Love may gaze, but never stay," she echoed, the words sour on her tongue.
You stumbled forward, legs buckling - 200 years of stillness made you clumsy - but Clarisse caught you instinctively. Her hands burned against your skin, alive and warm in a way you’d forgotten. "You’re real," she breathed, but her eyes narrowed. "Who cursed you?"
"Does it matter?" You laughed, the sound cracking like old parchment. "You broke it." Your fingers curled into her shirt-fabric, actual fabric and the scent of sweat and pine flooded your senses. You inhaled sharply. "Gods, you smell like-"
"Shut up," Clarisse growled, but she didn’t pull away. Her thumb brushed your wrist, tracing the pulse point like she was confirming you weren’t a hallucination. "This is so godsdamned stupid," she muttered, but her grip tightened. "You better not vanish on me."
The forest air hummed with the weight of broken curses and dumbfounded silence. You flexed your fingers, and grinned. "Wouldn’t dream of it," you rasped, leaning into her space just to watch her scowl deepen. "Not when you’re the first person who’s looked at me like I’m worth it in centuries."
Clarisse’s breath hitched. "You heard all that?" she demanded, voice rough. "All my-fuck." Her ears burned crimson. "All my stupid venting?" You just smirked, and she shoved you half-heartedly. "I’m killing you. Properly this time."
But when you wobbled, her arms shot out again, steadying you with a grumble. "Useless," she muttered, but the way her hands lingered on your waist said otherwise.
The curse was gone, but the way she looked at you-like you were something to fight for, not just stare at-made you wonder if Aphrodite had lost after all.
"You don’t know who I am…” a pause “Or who Jackson is," Clarisse repeated slowly, grip tightening on your arms. "Or Chiron. Or-" Her nose scrunched. "Fuck, how old are you?" The question wasn’t cruel, just baffled. You swallowed, throat dry as the centuries between you settled like dust.
"Last I checked? Nineteen," you admitted, and her scoff was half-relief, half-disbelief. You hesitated, fingers brushing the fading ivy marks on your wrists.
Clarisse’s gaze followed the motion, then snapped back up. "You-hold on." She frowned. "You heard me bitch about my dad, didn’t you?" The horror in her voice was undercut by the way her palm still pressed against your ribs, counting breaths like you might stop.
You grinned. "Ares’ daughter? Yep. Loud and clear." She looked ready to murder you again, so you added, "For what it’s worth? He’s an asshole."
The laugh that punched out of her was startled, real-and suddenly her forehead was against yours. "Shut the fuck up," she muttered. Her thumb traced the curve of your jaw. "Goddamn cursed statue." The words came out strangled. "Should’ve left you in the dirt." But her grip said otherwise.
You finally told her the truth after a pause. "Aphrodite cursed me because I told her love wasn’t hers to control," you added, quieter. The memory still stung. "…Said if it needed her blessing to exist, it wasn’t real."
Clarisse’s laugh was sharp, startled. "No wonder she turned you into a fucking lawn ornament." But her thumb traced your knuckles, calloused and careful. "Stupid," she muttered, and then her mouth was on yours again-this time deliberate.
When she pulled back, her breathing was uneven, and she didn’t let go of your wrists. "You’re still an idiot," she growled. "But you’re my idiot." The words were rough, but the way she said them made your chest ache.
She finally told you the truth with a scoff. "I thought I was losing my mind," Clarisse admitted, fingers tightening around yours. "Talking to a goddamn statue. Thinking about you when I should’ve been training." Her laugh was short and self-deprecating. "Fuckin’ pathetic."
But the way she kissed you again said otherwise. "Welcome back," she murmured against your lips, and for the first time in centuries, you felt like you were home.
Clarisse pulled back just enough to glare at you, her usual scowl marred by the flush creeping up her neck. "You're gonna tell me everything," she demanded, fingers digging into your waist like she thought you might disappear. "Starting with why the hell you thought pissing off Aphrodite was a good idea."
You grinned, dizzy with the novelty of movement, of touch, of her. “Would you believe me if I said she started it?"
Clarisse snorted, but the corner of her mouth twitched. "Try me." Her thumb brushed your hip carefully, and something in her expression softened. "And don't leave anything out. Especially not the part where you heard me calling you pretty like some lovesick idiot."
Then, she was serious again, but there was a flicker of something softer in her eyes. "Now, you’re gonna have a lot of explaining to do," she grumbled, but her voice lacked its usual edge.
You opened your mouth to respond, but she cut you off with a sharp shake of her head. "And don't even think about giving me some half-assed answer. I want the whole story."
You reached up, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead, and she stiffened but didn't pull away. "I'll tell you everything," you promised. "But first, I need you to know one thing."
Clarisse arched an eyebrow, her grip on your waist tightening imperceptibly. "What?" she demanded, her tone daring you to say something sappy.
You smirked, leaning in until your lips brushed her ear. "I heard you call me pretty," you murmured, and the way her face flushed crimson was worth every second. "And I definitely want to hear more about that."
Clarisse's groan was half-hearted as she shoved you,, grumbling as she began walking away.
She noticed you weren’t following, and crossed her arms. “So…you coming or what?”
You were surprised, but quickly followed. Time to see camp again.
summary :: Reyna thought she’d left it all behind. The letters say otherwise.
wc :: 875 tws :: none
— Reyna Ramirez Arellano & fem!reader
— track :: Liability - Lorde
The envelope was stained with something dark-maybe coffee, maybe tears.
Reyna almost stepped on it as she pushed open the closet door, its hinges groaning like an old man waking up.
“Who keeps letters in a shoebox?” she muttered, shaking it. The weight was wrong. Too light for shoes, too heavy for nothing.
“Only someone afraid of facing the truth would hide it like this,” she thought.
Her fingers brushed against paper edges, uneven and worn.
The first one had her name on it. Just hers. No address, no stamp.
She knew the handwriting. Yours.
“You kept these,” she said to the empty room. Her throat tightened. The date on the envelope was three days before everything fell apart.
Reyna’s jaw clenched. She remembered the tension in the air then.
She turned the envelope over, tracing the jagged tear where someone-you-had started to open it and stopped.
The paper felt thin between her fingers, like it might dissolve if she breathed too hard.
Inside, a single sheet, folded twice with sharp creases. The kind of fold that came from hesitation, from hands that kept changing their mind.
The first line hit like a punch: “I think you hate me now.”
Reyna’s vision blurred. She could see you hunched over this page, writing fast before you lost the nerve.
The ink splotches weren’t just from the pressure-they were wet. You’d cried on this.
She pressed a knuckle to her own mouth, hard, because she couldn’t let herself cry. Not here. Not now.
She didn’t want to read the rest. But her hands moved anyway, unfolding the page further.
Your words spilled out messy, full of things you’d never said aloud.
Apologies, accusations, all of it so painfully you-stubborn and too proud to admit either until it was too late.
Reyna’s chest tightened. Her training had taught her to control her breathing, to stay calm, to compartmentalize-but none of that mattered here.
The last paragraph stopped mid-sentence. Just… nothing. Like you’d thrown the pen down or been interrupted.
Reyna’s chest ached. She reached for the next envelope without thinking, already bracing for whatever wreckage she’d find in there too.
Her fingers remembered before her brain did-the cold tile under her knees, the way she’d screamed, “Go then!” so loud her throat burned for days.
The way you’d flinched like she’d slapped you. She wished she had. At least then the mark would’ve faded by now.
The second letter was dated that same night. Your handwriting slanted wildly, as if you’d written this in the dark or on a moving horse. “You were right about one thing,” it began, and Reyna’s stomach dropped.
Because she remembered exactly what she’d said right before you left: “You’re just like your father.” The cruelest thing she could think of. And you’d believed her.
She pressed the paper to her forehead, breathing through the dizzying wave of guilt.
The ink smelled faintly of salt. You’d packed these up after all-every unsent confession, every unfinished fight-and left them behind like a landmine for her to find.
Her fingers trembled slightly, but she straightened. She didn’t break down. Not usually. Not in front of anyone.
And yet, there was a weight in her chest that no Praetor training could teach her to deflect. She thought of all the times she’d tried to protect Camp Jupiter, all the decisions that demanded strength and composure. And yet here, a paper confession shredded that like it was nothing.
“You always hide your heart behind duty,” she realized bitterly. Maybe we’re the same.
The third envelope wasn’t folded-it was crumpled, like you’d balled it up and smoothed it out a dozen times. Reyna’s hands shook as she peeled it open.
The date was a week after you’d left, and the first line was just your name, written over and over in shaky letters, like you’d been trying to remind yourself who you were.
“Reyna, Reyna, Reyna-” and then, scribbled so hard the paper tore: “I tried to come back last night.”
Her breath stopped. That was the night of the storm.
The night she’d stood at her window, watching, and thought she’d seen a shadow by the gates. She’d told herself it was just the wind.
The rest of the letter was a mess of crossed-out words and ink smears, but one phrase burned clear: “I got as far as the gate before I remembered you’d rather see me dead.”
And underneath, in tiny, cramped letters like you’d run out of room-or courage: “You were right.”
Reyna made a sound she didn’t recognize, something between a gasp and a sob.
The paper slipped from her fingers as she doubled over, her ribs caving in like the guilt had finally hollowed her out.
She could see it too clearly now-you standing in the rain, turning away. The way she’d let you.
And yet, she clenched her fists, nails biting into her palms. “I can’t undo this. I won’t pretend it didn’t happen. But I will learn from it. I always do.”
Still, part of her ached. That night, she had learned a truth she couldn’t ignore: even the strongest bleed…or, well, in this case, cry.
And maybe, just maybe, this time, it was okay to let herself feel it.
I’m not sure if you do Percy fics but I still thought to give it a try!! Basically, a fic in which it’s basically Percy. Just Percy, without the whole expectation/hero stuff???
‘Not The Hero Part’
Percy Jackson x Fem!Reader
A quiet moment where Percy Jackson is allowed to be just a boy.
Track: Youth - Daughter
Percy Jackson is worse at resting than fighting.
He’s stretched out on the dock like he belongs there, hands folded behind his head, staring at the sky like it personally wronged him. The lake laps softly against the wood. Everything is calm in a way that feels unfamiliar on him.
Blond curls fall into his eyes when he turns his head to look at you.
“Hey,” he says. Casual. Like he hasn’t saved the world more times than he can count.
You sit beside him anyway.
He doesn’t joke right away. That’s how you know he’s tired.
People forget that part - that Percy’s hero thing isn’t bravado, it’s instinct. He steps in because he can’t stand not to. And then everyone claps and expects him to keep going.
You don’t.
You sit. You watch the water. You let the quiet stretch.
Percy exhales. Long. Heavy.
“I hate when they look at me like that,” he admits suddenly.
“Like what?”
“Like I’m supposed to know what I’m doing.” He lets out a breathless laugh. “Or like I’m not allowed to mess up.”
You glance at him. His blue eyes are softer than usual, tired in a way jokes can’t cover. There’s a faint crease between his brows he doesn’t know is there.
“You don’t owe anyone perfection,” you say.
He hums. Not convinced.
“They keep calling me a hero,” he mutters. “But that’s not… all of me.”
You tilt your head. “What’s the rest, then?”
Percy turns onto his side, propping his head up with one arm. He studies you like he’s deciding whether it’s safe to answer honestly.
“I’m just a guy who misses his mom,” he says quietly. “Who gets scared. Who wants things to be normal sometimes.”
The lake ripples. Somewhere behind you, campers laugh. Life goes on.
“You don’t have to be brave here,” you tell him. “You don’t have to be anything.”
That finally does it.
Percy’s shoulders drop. Just a little. Like he’s been holding something up and finally sets it down.
“I like it when you don’t look at me like I’m breakable or legendary,” he says. “Just… me.”
You smile. “That’s because that’s who you are.”
He scoffs softly. “You’re terrible at hype speeches.”
“Good.”
Silence settles again.
Percy reaches out without thinking, fingers brushing yours. Not asking for anything more than contact.
“Stay?” he says, quieter now.
You stay.
And for a while, Percy Jackson isn’t a hero or a symbol or a prophecy waiting to happen.
He’s just a boy with blond curls and blue eyes, watching the water, grateful that someone finally loves the part of him that never asked to save the world.
Annabeth builds futures without meaning to. You’re in all of them.
Track: Motion Sickness - Phoebe Bridgers
Annabeth doesn’t notice when it starts.
That’s the thing about habits - they don’t announce themselves.
It’s just a map at first. A hypothetical. A thought experiment scribbled into the margins of a notebook she’s already half-filled.
Exit routes. Supply points. A place to regroup if things go wrong.
She writes two beds without thinking about it.
She pauses, pencil hovering.
Erases nothing.
Later, it’s a different plan. Longer-term. Less dangerous. A city this time. She sketches rooftops, stairwells, angles of sunlight. The way she always does when she lets herself imagine something stable.
She adds a note in the corner.
Close to the train.
Because you hate driving.
Annabeth blinks at the page.
“That’s weird,” she mutters to herself.
She flips the notebook closed. Shoves it under her arm. Doesn’t examine the feeling too closely.
She’s learned what happens when she does that.
You find out weeks later.
Not because she tells you. Annabeth doesn’t make declarations. She makes structures. She assumes if something is solid, it doesn’t need explaining.
You’re sitting beside her, legs stretched out, shoulder brushing hers. She’s distracted - not distant, just deep in thought. You recognize the look. The one where she’s three steps ahead of everyone else.
You glance down at the open notebook on her lap.
There it is.
Again.
Plans that don’t say your name, but curve around you anyway. Notes that account for your schedule. Your preferences. Your limits.
You don’t say anything at first.
“Annabeth,” you say eventually, gently.
“Mm?”
“You plan like I’m staying.”
Her pencil stills.
She doesn’t look at you right away.
“I plan like that with everyone,” she says automatically.
You tilt your head. “No, you don’t.”
Silence.
She looks down at the page like it betrayed her.
“I didn’t mean to,” she says. “I just - when I think ahead, you’re there. I don’t put you there on purpose.”
“That’s worse,” you say softly.
She winces. “How is that worse?”
“Because it means you’re not protecting yourself from it.”
Annabeth finally looks at you.
There’s something unsettled in her expression. Not fear exactly. More like vertigo. Like she’s realized she’s been standing near an edge without noticing.
“I get motion sick,” she says suddenly. “When things move too fast. When I don’t know where I’m going.”
You wait. Let her connect it herself.
“My whole life,” she continues, quieter, “I’ve planned so I wouldn’t feel like that. If I know the outcome, I don’t panic.”
“And now?” you ask.
“And now every future I sketch feels… personal.”
She swallows.
“You’re not a variable,” she admits. “You’re a constant. And that scares me.”
You reach out, resting your hand over hers. Not stopping her. Just steadying.
“You don’t have to know how it ends,” you say. “You just have to know I’m choosing to be here now.
Annabeth’s grip tightens around the pencil.
“I hate not knowing,” she says.
“I know.”
She exhales. Long. Slow.
Then, carefully, she writes something new at the top of the page.
Together.
No diagrams. No arrows.
Just the word.
She closes the notebook after that. Leans into you, forehead resting briefly against your shoulder.
‘Is This About The Blue-Haired Girl Whose Picture You Keep In Your Wallet?’
Thalia Grace x Fem!Blue-Haired!Reader
Thalia denies everything - except the blue-haired girl in her wallet.
Track: Blue Jeans - Lana Del Rey
Thalia doesn’t mean to keep it there.
That’s the thing she’ll never admit.
It’s just habit. Muscle memory. The wallet goes in her back pocket. The photo stays tucked behind her ID, edges worn soft from being taken out and put back too many times.
She never looks at it for long.
Just enough.
So when someone notices, it’s annoying.
It happens after training. Everyone’s sweaty and loud and leaning on their weapons like they’re props instead of lifelines. Thalia’s digging through her bag, looking for her gloves, when her wallet slips out and hits the ground.
Someone picks it up before she can.
“Yo,” they say, flipping it open without thinking. “Since when do you carry pictures?”
Thalia straightens. “Give it back.”
They pause, squinting. “Wait. Is this about the blue-haired girl whose picture you keep in your wallet?”
Silence.
Thalia feels it like a punch to the ribs.
“That’s none of your business,” she snaps, snatching it back.
But it’s too late. They saw it. The way the photo’s creased at the corners. The way it’s clearly not new. The way she didn’t laugh it off.
Someone whistles. “Didn’t know you were sentimental.”
She glares. “I’m not.”
They grin. “Sure looks like it.”
Thalia doesn’t respond. She just stuffs the wallet back where it belongs and walks off before she says something that gets her benched.
Later, you find her sitting alone, back against a tree, boots dug into the dirt. She’s calmer now. Still tense, though.
You sit beside her without asking.
She notices immediately.
“They say something stupid?” you ask.
She scoffs. “Always.”
You wait.
“They saw the picture,” she admits, eyes fixed straight ahead. “Asked if it was about the blue-haired girl I keep in my wallet.”
Your heart stutters. “Oh.”
She finally looks at you. There’s a challenge there. Not angry. Defensive.
“I didn’t tell them anything,” she says. “Didn’t deny it either.”
You smile despite yourself. “You don’t deny much.”
“Yeah, well.” She shrugs. “Didn’t feel like lying.”
You nudge her shoulder lightly. “You know you don’t have to keep it there.”
She huffs a laugh. “I know.”
A beat.
“I want to.”
You go quiet at that.
Thalia rubs the back of her neck, suddenly awkward in a way that looks wrong on her but somehow fits anyway.
“I don’t look at it when things are good,” she says. “It’s more for when they’re not. Reminds me there’s something that isn’t camp. Or monsters. Or gods.”
You glance at her pocket. “So I’m a reminder now.”
She snorts. “Don’t get cocky.”
Then, softer, “Yeah. You are.”
You lean your head against her shoulder. She stiffens for half a second, then relaxes.
Can you do something for Reyna or Zoe?? No preferences!! I just don’t see a lot of fics with them and I love your style!!
‘Work Song’
Reyna Ramírez-Arellano x Fem!Reader
No matter how far she falls, Reyna would crawl home to you.
Track: Work Song - Hozier
A/N: Ty for the request!! I’m definitely going to write more for them in the future as well since I have some drafts waiting to be posted too!
Reyna does not believe in promises made in comfort.
She believes in the ones made after.
After the fight. After the loss. After the long walk back with blood drying on her armor and the dust still in her throat. After the world has proven, again, that it will take whatever it wants.
That’s when choices count.
She finds you at the edge of camp, sitting where the light is low. You’re quiet. You always are when she comes back from something she hasn’t talked about yet.
She stops a few steps away, like she’s giving you space to decide.
“You’re late,” you say.
“I’m here,” she answers.
That’s her apology. Her reassurance. Her truth.
She sinks down beside you, heavy with exhaustion. For a moment, she just breathes. Lets the ground remind her that she’s still standing on it.
“You ever think,” she says slowly, “about how people keep going even when they’re empty?”
You glance at her. “All the time.”
She nods. “Boys workin’ on empty,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “Feels like that sometimes.”
She doesn’t elaborate. She doesn’t need to. You’ve seen the way command hollows her out. The way leadership takes and takes and never asks what’s left.
Reyna shifts, then leans into you. Just enough that her shoulder rests against yours.
“I don’t think about glory when it’s bad,” she admits. “I think about getting back.”
“Back to camp?”
She shakes her head. Turns to you.
“Back to you.”
Your chest tightens.
“I just think about my baby,” she says, quieter now, like the words surprise her. “I get so full of love it’s hard to breathe.”
You laugh softly, disbelieving. “You’re terrible at talking like this.”
“I know,” she says. “Don’t interrupt it.”
She looks out at the dark, jaw tight, voice steady.
“When my time comes around,” she says, “lay me gently in the cold dark earth.” A pause. Then, her tone shifts. This time, completely certain - “No grave can hold my body down.”
You turn fully toward her.
She meets your eyes.
“I don’t care what it costs,” Reyna says. “I don’t care how far I fall. I’ll crawl home to you if I have to.”
The words land heavy. Devastating in how calm they are.
You reach for her hand. She laces her fingers with yours immediately, like she was waiting for permission.
“I don’t need you to be unbreakable,” you say. “I just need you to come back.”
She squeezes your hand once. Hard.
You lean your forehead against hers.
“If the gods don’t forgive me,” she continues, voice rough but unwavering, “I’d still have you. And that would be enough.”
For a long moment, neither of you move.
Reyna closes her eyes.
Here, in the low light, with her armor half-off and her guard finally down, she feels it - the freedom she never names. The place she always returns to.
Not Rome. Not power. Not duty.
You.
And no grave - no distance, no war, no crown - could ever hold her away from that.
Annabeth wonders what she’s worth when she isn’t solving something.
Annabeth doesn’t realize she’s doing it until you say her name twice.
“Annabeth.”
She keeps talking.
“Annabeth.”
She stops mid-sentence, eyes still sharp, still somewhere else. The map on the table is half-covered in notes. Her pencil is worn down to nothing. Again.
“Sorry,” she says automatically. “I was just thinking.”
You nod. You don’t say about what. You already know.
Plans. Paths. Contingencies. Futures that don’t include rest.
She pushes her hair back and looks at you properly then. The intensity fades a notch. Not gone. Just redirected.
“What’s up?” she asks.
You hesitate.
That’s what finally tips her off.
Annabeth sits back, studying you the way she studies problems that don’t have obvious answers.
“You’re quiet,” she says. “That’s not nothing.”
You exhale. “Do you ever get tired of being the smartest person in the room?”
She blinks.
That wasn’t the question she expected.
Her mouth opens. Closes. She lets out a short breath through her nose.
“I don’t know how to be anything else,” she says finally. Honest. Flat. “So no. I guess not.”
You shake your head. “That’s not what I meant.”
She frowns. “Then what did you mean?”
You pick at the edge of the table. “Do you ever wonder if that’s the only reason people stay?”
The room goes very still.
Annabeth doesn’t react right away. She’s good at that. She learned early how to keep her face neutral when something hits too close.
“They stay because I help,” she says carefully. “Because I’m useful.”
The word sits between you. Heavy. Wrong.
“Annabeth,” you say, softly, “you’re not a tool.”
Her jaw tightens.
“I know that.”
But her voice doesn’t match.
You step closer. Not invading her space. Just existing in it.
“You don’t have to solve things to be wanted,” you say. “You don’t have to earn it by being right.”
She looks away.
For a moment, she looks younger. Tired in a way that has nothing to do with lack of sleep.
“I don’t know how to turn it off,” she admits. “Every time I stop thinking, it feels like something bad will happen. Like I’ll miss it.”
“You don’t miss me,” you say quietly.
That gets her.
She looks back at you, really looks. The intensity shifts again - not sharp now, but searching.
“You think I see you as a problem to manage,” she says.
“I think you’re afraid that if you’re not brilliant all the time, you’ll disappear.
Her throat works. Once.
“That’s not fair,” she says.
“No,” you agree. “It’s not.”
Silence stretches. Not uncomfortable. Just real.
Finally, Annabeth reaches out and takes your hand. Her grip is firm, grounding. Familiar.
“I don’t want you because you’re easy,” she says. “Or because you fit into a plan.”
You squeeze her hand back. “Then why?”
She swallows.
“Because when everything goes quiet,” she says, voice lower now, “you don’t expect me to fill the space.”
You step closer until your forehead rests against hers. No rush. No urgency.
“I love how your mind works,” you tell her. “I love watching you think. But that’s not all you are.”
Her breath shudders. Just a little.
“You don’t get bored of me when I stop talking,” she says. It’s not a question.
“No,” you say. “That’s when I feel closest.
Annabeth closes her eyes.
For once, she doesn’t reach for a pencil. Doesn’t look for a solution.
She just stays.
And for the first time in a long time, being brilliant isn’t the thing holding her together - it’s you.
