Discover Top Posts Tagged with #son of hermes

Oct 29, 2025

Stealing hearts

Pairing: son of Hermes!Vernon x daughter of Athena!reader

Percy Jackson AU, the rogue and the strategist, fluff, smut

Wc:~10.2k

Part of the Cabin Hearts series ! Masterlist

Summary: He steals snacks and breaks rules, she follows every one of them. At first, she wants nothing to do with the trickster, but eventually, his mischief teaches her that sometimes breaking rules leads to love.

Warnings: stealing, public humiliation, emotionnal vulnerability, for the smut: grinding, oral both received, fingering, handjob, tits sucking, unprotected sex, creampie

The Athena cabin is your sanctuary. It’s all clean lines, bookshelves packed with scrolls and tomes, and the faint smell of parchment and ink that feels like home. You’re sprawled in your favorite armchair, a worn leather thing that creaks just right, flipping through a strategy book on ancient Greek naval tactics. The world outside is quiet for once, no monsters, no quests, just the hum of camp life. You’re halfway through a chapter when chaos breaks loose.

A shout rings out, followed by a chorus of groans and laughter. You glance up, annoyed, as a blur streaks past the cabin window. You know that blur. Everyone at Camp Half-Blood knows that blur. Vernon, son of Hermes, is at it again. You sigh, marking your page, but before you can settle back, you hear it, a yell from one of your siblings. "He took the ambrosia!"

Your emergency stash. The sacred, gods-blessed ambrosia squares your cabin keeps for actual life-or-death moments. Not for some Hermes kid’s snack run. You’re out of the chair and at the door in seconds, your eyes narrowing as you spot him. Vernon’s sprinting across the common area, a canvas bag slung over his shoulder, stuffed to the brim with those golden, glistening squares. His dark hair’s a mess, flopping into his eyes, and that grin, gods, that grin, is all sharp edges and trouble, like he’s daring the world to catch him.

"Vernon!" you yell, storming out of the cabin. Your voice carries that sharp, commanding tone you’ve perfected over years of wrangling your siblings. "Get back here, you thief!"

He glances over his shoulder, not slowing a bit. Those hazel eyes of his sparkle with mischief, like he’s enjoying this way too much. "Oh, come on, Brainiac!" he calls, voice light and teasing. "You guys hoard enough snacks to feed Olympus. Share the wealth!"

You grit your teeth, chasing after him. Your cabin’s stash isn’t just snacks, it’s a lifeline. Ambrosia heals wounds, mends broken bones, keeps demigods from keeling over in a fight. And Vernon’s treating it like it’s a vending machine he can raid. Typical Hermes kid. No respect for rules, no sense of responsibility. You’re mentally drafting a lecture as you run, your sneakers pounding the grass.

He’s fast, stupidly fast, thanks to his dad’s whole "god of speed" thing. But you’re not helpless. You’re a daughter of Athena, and you’ve got strategy on your side. You cut left, anticipating his dodge toward the woods. Sure enough, he veers that way, thinking he’s outsmarted you. You skid to a stop, grabbing a low-hanging branch and using it to swing yourself into his path. He nearly crashes into you, pulling up short with a laugh.

"Nice move" he says, not even winded. He’s close now, close enough that you can see the moles on his face, the way his grin tilts just a little lopsided. He holds up the bag of ambrosia like a trophy. "Want one?"

"Give it back" you snap, crossing your arms. "That’s not yours. It’s for emergencies, not your personal buffet."

He rolls his eyes, still grinning. "You Athena kids are so uptight. Rules, rules, rules. Ever think about having fun?" He digs into the bag, pulls out a single ambrosia square, and tosses it to you. You catch it on instinct, the golden cube warm in your palm. It smells like honey and summer, and your traitor stomach growls.

"Live a little, Brainiac" he says, winking. Then he’s gone, darting into the woods before you can grab him. You stand there, fuming, clutching the ambrosia square like it’s evidence in a crime scene. Your siblings are shouting now, some laughing, some annoyed, but you can’t shake the image of Vernon’s stupid, charming grin. Or the way he called you Brainiac, like it’s a nickname you should just accept.

You stomp back to the cabin, tossing the ambrosia square onto a table. "He’s impossible" you mutter, dropping back into your armchair. Your siblings agree, grumbling about Hermes kids and their sticky fingers, but you’re only half-listening. Your mind’s stuck on Vernon, on the way he moves like he’s dancing with the wind, on that infuriating wink. You hate how it lingers, like a puzzle you can’t solve.

The campfire that night is the usual Camp Half-Blood affair: flames flickering in every color, kids roasting marshmallows, the Apollo cabin strumming guitars and singing off-key. You’re sitting with your siblings, picking at a s’more you don’t really want. Your mind’s still on the ambrosia heist, on Vernon’s smug face. You’re mentally running through ways to secure the cabin’s stash, maybe a padlock, maybe a trap. Something clever, something he can’t outsmart.

Then you hear it. His laugh. It cuts through the chatter and music like a blade, sharp and bright. You glance up, and there he is, across the fire. Vernon’s lounging with his Hermes siblings, sprawled on a log like he owns the place. He’s telling a story, hands gesturing wildly, and his siblings are cracking up. The firelight catches his face, turning his eyes to molten gold, and for a second, you forget how to breathe.

You hate it. You’re a daughter of Athena. Your brain is your weapon, your shield. You analyze, you plan, you win. You don’t get distracted by some trickster’s laugh or the way his hair falls just so. But here you are, staring, your s’more melting in your hand. You force yourself to look away, focusing on the fire. Focus. Strategy. That’s your thing.

One of your siblings nudges you. "You okay? You’re glaring at the fire like it stole something."

"I’m fine" you say, too quickly. You shove the s’more into your mouth, chewing aggressively. The ambrosia square from earlier is still in your pocket, you didn’t eat it, didn’t want to give Vernon the satisfaction. But gods, it smelled good. And when you’d held it, it felt like a challenge. Like he was daring you to loosen up.

You steal another glance at him. He’s not looking at you, thank the gods, but he’s still talking, still laughing. You wonder what it’s like, living like that, free, reckless, untethered. Your life is all about plans and contingencies, every move calculated. Vernon doesn’t seem to calculate anything. He just is. And part of you, a tiny, traitorous part, envies that.

The next day, you’re on a mission. You’ve rigged a new system for the ambrosia stash: a locked box with a combination only you and your head counselor know. It’s not foolproof, but it’s a start. You’re checking the lock when you hear a whistle behind you.

"Fancy" Vernon says, leaning against the cabin doorframe. He’s got a stick of celery in his hand, of all things, and he’s crunching it like it’s candy. "What’s the combo, Brainiac? Gotta know for my next heist."

You spin around, glaring. "You’re not getting anywhere near this stash again."

He laughs, taking another bite of celery. "You’re cute when you’re mad. All serious and stormy-eyed."

Your face heats up, and you hate it. "Don’t you have somewhere else to be? Like, I don’t know, stealing from another cabin?"

"Nah, this is more fun." He steps closer, and you notice he’s not wearing his usual camp shirt. Just a plain black tee, snug enough to show the lean lines of his shoulders. You blink, refocusing on his face. He’s smirking, like he knows exactly what you’re thinking.

"You’re a menace" you say, crossing your arms. "Why do you even need the ambrosia? You’re not hurt."

He shrugs, tossing the celery stick into a nearby bush with unnerving accuracy. "Maybe I just like the taste. Maybe I like the chase." He pauses, eyes locking onto yours. "Maybe I like getting you all riled up."

You open your mouth to snap back, but nothing comes out. He’s too close now, close enough that you can smell the faint cedar-and-citrus scent of him, probably some stolen cologne from the Aphrodite cabin. Your brain, usually so quick, stalls out. You hate how he does this, throws you off balance, makes you feel like you’re losing a game you didn’t even know you were playing.

"Leave" you manage, pointing toward the door. "Now."

He grins, unbothered, and salutes you. "Catch you later, Brainiac." He saunters out, and you’re left standing there, heart pounding, lock forgotten.

Over the next week, Vernon’s everywhere. He’s not stealing ambrosia anymore, your lock worked, thank you very much, but he’s still under your skin. He’ll pop up during archery practice, shouting "Nice shot!" when you hit the bullseye, like he’s your personal cheerleader. He’ll sit too close at meals, his knee brushing yours under the table, and when you glare, he just winks. He’s relentless, like a storm you can’t predict.

You try to ignore him. You throw yourself into your routines: training, studying, planning the next capture-the-flag strategy. But he’s there, in the corners of your mind, like a riddle you can’t solve. You start noticing things: the way he’s always watching out for his younger siblings, slipping them extra food or fixing their armor. The way he can pick any lock but never takes more than he needs. The way his laugh makes your chest ache, just a little.

It’s infuriating. You’re not some lovestruck Aphrodite kid. You’re logical, practical. You don’t fall for people, especially not people like Vernon. But at night, when you’re alone in your bunk, you think about that ambrosia square, still tucked in your drawer. You think about his grin, his voice. "Live a little, Brainiac."

You’re deep in the zone. The camp library is your sanctuary, rows of dusty shelves, the faint scent of parchment and wisdom hanging in the air like a spell. Sunlight filters through the tall windows, spotlighting the table where you’ve claimed your spot. Scrolls unrolled, books stacked like battlements, your notebook filled with neat diagrams of Trojan War formations. Tomorrow’s strategy presentation for the Athena cabin is gold. You’ve got phalanx maneuvers cross-referenced with quotes, ready to blow everyone’s minds. No distractions. No chaos. Just you, your brain, and ancient glory.

The door creaks open. You don’t look up, probably some Apollo kid hunting myths for songs. But then you hear whistling. Light, cheeky, like a thief sneaking through shadows. Your quill pauses. No. No way. You glance up, and there he is: Vernon, sauntering in like he owns the place. Orange shirt untucked, golden hair tousled from whatever prank he just pulled. His brown eyes sparkle with that telltale mischief, scanning the room like a hawk spotting prey.

"Brainiac" he says, spotting you immediately. His grin spreads, all sharp and sunny. "Fancy meeting you here. Researching how to trap thieves?"

You roll your eyes, dipping your quill back in ink. "Vernon. Library’s for studying, not loitering. Go steal something elsewhere." You keep your voice cool, focused on your notes. Ignore him. He’ll leave. But nope. He strolls right over, hands in pockets, peering at your papers like it’s a treasure map.

"Trojan Horse tactics? Boring. Bet I could’ve snuck in faster." He leans on your table, too close, elbow nudging a stack of scrolls. They wobble. You shoot him a glare. "Vernon, personal space. And don’t touch-" Too late. With a dramatic "whoops!", he "accidentally" bumps the stack. Scrolls tumble like dominoes, rolling across the floor in a papery avalanche. One bounces off your foot. You gasp, jumping up. "Vernon! Those are primary sources! Do you have any idea how fragile-"

He’s already laughing, dropping to his knees to "help" gather them. "My bad, my bad! Clumsy me." But his eyes? Full of fake innocence. You know that look. It’s the same one from the ambrosia heist. He’s distracting you. Why? You scan the table, your notebook, safe; the Thucydides, fine; but wait. The rare map. The naval chart you borrowed from Chiron’s private collection. It was right here, unrolled under your lamp. Gone.

Your heart drops. "Vernon." Your voice is steel now, sharp. "Where. Is. The map?"

He straightens, scrolls clutched to his chest, all wide-eyed. "Map? What map?" But there’s a crinkle in his pocket. You lunge, too slow. He’s already backing toward the door, that grin breaking free. "Catch me if you can, Brainiac!"

"Vernon!" You’re around the table in a flash, skirt swishing, chasing him out. The librarian, a sleepy Satyr, barely lifts his head from his crossword. "No running!" he mumbles. Yeah, right. Like that stops a son of Hermes.

You burst onto the library porch, the warm afternoon air hitting you like a wave. The big wraparound deck overlooks the strawberry fields, campers dotting the green like colorful ants. Vernon’s halfway down the steps, the map peeking from his back pocket like a taunt. He’s laughing, full-throated, dodging a low-hanging branch as he hits the grass.

"Give it back!" you shout, pounding after him. Your sandals slap the dirt path, not made for sprints, but you push harder. Logic screams: Calculate his path. Intercept at the oak. But he zigzags like a fox, brown hair flashing with golden highlights in the sun. Campers look up, grinning. "Go, girl!" one yells. "Get him!" another cheers. Great. Audience.

He slows, just enough, spinning to face you at the edge of the fields. The map’s in his hand now, held high like a trophy. Sweat beads on his forehead, but he’s barely winded. Hermes speed, ugh. You skid to a stop, hands on knees, glaring up at him. "That map is priceless. It’s a first-edition Ptolemy! Chiron will have your head!"

Vernon chuckles, lowering it just out of reach. "Rules say no taking, Brainiac. But instinct?" He taps his temple, winking. "Instinct says it’s way more fun this way." He dangles it closer, tease, then yanks it back as you jump. You’re close now, close enough to smell his cologne, see the moles on his face. Your cheeks flush, from the run, you tell yourself.

"Fun?" You straighten, brushing dirt off your skirt, channeling every debate club win. "This is about discipline, Vernon. Structure. Without rules, the camp would be chaos! Battles lost, lives-" You gesture wildly. "-gone. You think your dad’s pranks won the Titan War? No! Strategy did!"

He tilts his head, grin softening to something almost… thoughtful? "Chaos isn’t the enemy, Brainiac. It’s the spark. Discipline’s great for straight lines, but life? It zigzags." He waves the map. "Like this beauty. Bet you missed something."

You scoff, crossing your arms. "I analyzed it. Every latitude, every trade route. For my presentation on naval blockades"

"Yeah, yeah." He unrolls it right there, in the grass, holding it between you like a peace flag. Campers circle closer, peeking. "Look here." His finger traces a faint line near Crete. "See that smudge? Not a smudge. Hidden inscription. UV ink or something ancient. ‘Secret harbor, guarded by krakens.’ Boom. Your blockade just got a sneaky backdoor."

You lean in, squinting. He’s right. The line shimmers in the sunlight, a trick of the parchment. "How…?" You glance up, grudging respect bubbling. "How did you spot that?"

He shrugs, eyes twinkling. "Thief’s eyes. We see the hidden stuff." He rolls the map, offering it handle-first. "Truce? I’ll even help you decode it. Two brains beat one, right?"

You hesitate. Help from him? Chaos incarnate, messing your perfect plans? But that detail… it’s huge. Your presentation could be legendary. And gods, his wit, it’s quick, sharp, poking holes in your logic like arrows. Annoying. But… challenging. In a good way?

"Fine" you snap, snatching the map. "But my rules. No pranks. No whistling. And you carry the scrolls."

His laugh rings out. "Deal, boss." He salutes, mock-serious, and you roll your eyes, but there’s a smile tugging your lips. Traitor.

Back in the library, you reset your table fortress. Vernon dumps the scrolls, carefully for once, and plops into the chair across from you. Too close, knees brushing under the table. You ignore it, unrolling the map. "Okay. Ptolemy’s grid system first. Latitude 35-"

"Boring start." He grabs a blank scroll, sketching fast, stick figures of ships dodging tentacles. "Kraken harbor first."

Hours blur. The sun dips, lamps flicker on. He’s surprisingly good, spotting patterns you overthought, cracking jokes that make you snort despite yourself. "What if Odysseus used this map? Trojan Horse? Pfft, amateur hour."

Banter flies, easy as breathing. His wit dances around your logic, flipping it, making it better. You hate how much you like it. How his laugh warms the dusty air. How his eyes lock on yours when you explain vectors, like you’re the only genius in the room.

A Hephaestus kid pokes their head in. "Dinner bell soon!" You check the hour on the clock. Gods, three hours gone? Your notebook’s exploded: diagrams, kraken notes, even a doodle of Vernon’s ship (you blame him).

He stretches, shirt riding up, abs peeking. You look away, cheeks hot. "Not bad, Brainiac. Admit it, I’m useful."

You huff, rolling the map. "Grudgingly? Yes. But don’t let it go to your head."

"Too late." He winks, standing. But he pauses, voice softer. "Hey. Thanks for letting chaos in. Makes the strategies… fun."

Your heart stutters. Fun. That word again. You nod, words stuck. "The presentation is tomorrow at 10 am. Be there on time, don't mess around."

"I’ll be there. On the ront row." He heads out, whistling, breaking rule one. You groan, but smile. He's so infuriating.

Dinner’s a blur. You pick at your food, mind replaying: his finger on the map, laugh echoing, knees brushing. Your sibilings keep teasing you about your "study date" you shush them hard. "It was not a date. It was research." But as you head to the campfire early, map tucked safe, you catch yourself humming his tune.

You’re in the middle of a perfectly productive morning. The Athena cabin buzzing with preparation for the archery tournament the Apollo cabin organized.

You’re at your bunk, folding laundry with military precision: shirts stacked by color, socks paired... The presentation yesterday? Smash hit. Thanks to Vernon’s kraken trick, Chiron called it "brilliant innovation." You even caught him in the front row, grinning like he’d won the prank lottery. But that’s yesterday. Today? You have to focus. No distractions. No him.

A shout echoes from outside. "No way! Up there!" It’s a Hermes kid, the loud one. Laughter ripples, drawing your cabinmates to the windows. You frown, folding faster. Probably another stupid trick. But the laughter grows, snickers turning to full-on howls. Your sister pokes her head out. "Uh, Y/N? You might wanna see this."

Your stomach twists. No. You drop the shirt you were folding and bolt to the door, heart pounding like drums. The cabins form a U around the green, and there, on the Athena cabin’s porch, is a crowd. Hermes cabin in full force, pointing up at the roof. And at the center of it all? Vernon. Perched on the roof like a smug god, hair catching the sun, one of your thongs looped on his finger. He spins it lazy, grinning down at you with wide, mock-innocent eyes. His Hermes siblings cluster below, snickering like hyenas. You can't believe it, your underwear, stolen. Displayed. For the whole camp to see.

Mortification hits like a Minotaur charge. Your face burns hotter than the fire. Half the camp’s gathering now: Ares kids whistling, Demeter girls gasping, even a satyr giggling behind her hand. "Vernon!" Your voice cracks, half scream, half cry. You storm forward, skirt swishing, fists clenched. Campers part like the Red Sea, whispers exploding: "That’s hers?" "Vernon strikes again!" "Brainiac’s gonna kill him!" Your cheeks? A nuclear red. You want to melt into the ground. How dare he? After the library? After everything?

He spots you, eyes sparkling more than ever. "Morning, Brainiac! Don't mind too much, it's just a bet!"

"A bet?" You’re at the ladder now, the wood one propped against the roof for repairs. Your siblings cheer you on: "Get it, Y/N!" But inside? Humiliation tsunami. That thong’s your secret favourite, comfy for training, cute enough to feel… human. Not camp gossip material. "You swiped it from my laundry? Are you insane? Give it back, you idiot!"

The crowd hoots. He laughs, that warm, rolling sound that usually charms you but now? Infuriating. "C’mon, climb up! It’s tradition!" His siblings chant: "Tra-di-tion! Tra-di-tion!" You glare death at them, then start climbing. Rungs creak under your sandals, skirt hiking dangerously. You think and plan: secure the climbing, snatch your thong back. But your hands shake, with rage, embarrassment, everything.

Vernon watches, grin softening just a tad. "Atta girl. Almost there." You’re level with him now, wind tugging your hair. Close enough to smell his cologne's scent. Close enough to see the sweat on his neck from the climb. Your heart races, anger, you tell yourself. "Hand. It. Over."

He dangles it closer, finger hooked through the strap. "Say ‘pretty please, oh wise Vernon’ first."

You try to snatch it but miss. He yanks back, laughing. "Nope! Bet’s a bet!" The crowd below roars. You lunge again, grabbing his shirt collar. Fabric rips slightly...oops. His eyes widen, but he’s still grinning. "Feisty! I like it."

"Give it!" You tackle his arm, twisting. He twists back, playful wrestle on the narrow beam. Your knee bumps his thigh, hand grazes his chest. Solid. Warm. Your brain short-circuits: Focus! Not the time! With a final yank, you rip it free, finally. You clutch it to your chest like Excalibur, glaring triumph. "You’re done, Vernon. We're done, whatever we had!"

His laugh fades as you scramble down, thong stuffed in your pocket. The crowd cheers, your victory, sorta. But the whispers? Still burning: "Did you see her face?" "That’s what Athena girls wear?" You shove through the crowd, head high, straight to your cabin. Slam the door shut. Lock it behind you. You're never speaking to him again. Ever.

Inside, it's chaos. Your siblings swarm: "You got it!" "Epic climb!" One of them hugs you. "He’s such a jerk." You nod, face still flaming, collapsing on your bunk. "Worse. He’s a menace." You bury your face in your pillow. "Why him? Why always him?" The library felt… nice. Close. Now? It's all ruined. Your analytical mind spins: you've been betrayed, not you'll have to cut ties with him.

Lunch is torture. You hide in the pavilion corner, picking at salad, ignoring Hermes table’s glances. Vernon tries waving, big grin, like nothing happened. You turn away. No way you'll ever wave back.

Afternoon training? You drill with extra fury, spearing dummies like his face. By dinner, the gossip’s peaked. You eat fast, flee to the cabin early, jump on your bunk, grab a book. You try to block any thought of him.

Night falls soft. The stars are visible through the window, the cabin quiet, your siblings snoring softly. You’re in bed, scroll of siege tactics open, but the words blur. That laugh. Those eyes. Even when you're mad, they stick to your mind. Suddenly you hear a tap at the window. You freeze. Maybe a raccoon? The a second tap-tap. Louder. You sit up, heart thumping. Peering through the curtain, you see him, Vernon, on the sill, holding… a package? His face serious. No grin in sight.

You crack open the window. "What do you want? I said we’re done."

He winces, his eyes soft in the moonlight. "Give me five minutes? Please, Brainiac. I messed up. Big time."

His voice, low, sincere, cuts through your walls. You hesitate Finally decide to hear what he has to say. You sigh. "Okay but take the door. Not the window. And be quiet."

He nods, vanishing. Few seconds later, you hear soft knocks at the door. You slip out, slipping on a robe over your nightshirt, opening the door just enough. He’s there, his hair messy, no orange shirt, just a plain tee hugging his frame. "Can I… come in? Just two minutes."

You glance back, at this hour, the cabin is dark and your siblings out cold. "No, the porch. Now." You step out, closing the door softly behind you. The night air’s cool, crickets chirping in the distance. You cross your arms. "Talk fast."

He shifts, rubbing his neck. "Okay. The bet was stupid, I'm sorry. Someone dared, I took it, Hermes instinct, y’know? Thought it’d be funny. Harmless." He meets your eyes, his voice cracking just a bit. "But seeing you climb? Face all red? Gods, Y/N. I felt like trash. I mortified you, it was humiliating for you. It was not cool. I'll never do it again, I promise."

Your anger wobbles. His eyes earnest, no sparkle of mischief. It's just… him. Vulnerable. "You humiliated me, Vernon. Half the camp saw my underwear. I’m the strategy girl, not the… prank target."

"I know." He steps closer, careful. "I’m sorry. Truly. Not mock-sorry but really sorry. I know I messed up and I understand if you want to stay away from me. I have something for you." He holds out the package. "You can see this as a peace offering. I borrowed it from the library, from Chiron’s locked case. It's rare. Your kind of rare."

You take it, fingers brushing his. Warmth shoots up your arm, your heart races. You unwrap the package slow: it has a leather cover, gold emboss. On the cover you can read "Athena’s Lost Stratagems: Unpublished Codex". Your breath catches. It’s legendary, battle plans from the goddess herself, thought lost in the Library of Alexandria. You flip pages: diagrams, notes in ancient Greek. The book is priceless. "Vernon… how?"

He grins, small, sheepish. "Thief skills. I just picked the lock. I read half already. Your phalanx? Athena improved it with owl scouts. Genius." His hand lingers near yours on the book. Your hands brush again. Your pulse hammers. He's close. Too close.

You look up, throat tight. "This… it’s everything. But why? After today?"

"Because I like you, Brainiac." It simple. Soft. His eyes lock with yours, deep, no mischief. "Not just pulling pranks on you but your brain. The way you argue, climb rafters, make chaos work. I pushed too far today. I promise it won’t happen again."

Your walls crumble. Grudgingly, you nod. "Fine. You're forgiven. But one more bet like that? I’ll strategize your downfall."

He laughs, relieved. "Deal. Can I… hug it out? Truce hug?"

You hesitate, your logic waring with your heart, screaming that it could be another prank but your heart wins… "Be quick." You spread your arms.

He steps in, gentle. His arms wrap around you: strong, hot, his heartbeat thumping against yours. You melt, just a second, face in his shoulder. It feels safe, right. Your heart? Beating faster than ever. His hand strokes your back, soft. "Thanks for forgiving me. You’re the best."

You pull back, cheeks hot again, but good hot. Book clutched like a shield. "Go now. Before someone sees you."

He winks, a soft one. "Good night, Brainiac. Dream of stratagems. And of me." After that he jogs off, vanishing into shadows.

You slip back inside, heading to your bed with the book in hand. You open it, the pages glow. But your mind? It's still on him, on his sincerity, his touch, that spark you felt. Butterflies still flying free in your stomach.

Morning comes sneaky. You wake to whispers: "She’s smiling!" "A book? Or a boy?" You shush them but can’t hide it. At breakfast, Vernon waves at you, tentative. You wave back, for once. He gives you a small smile. The hermes table cheers, quietly.

By campfire, you sit together. His arm casually behind you, the book tucked in your lap. "Read the owl part yet?" he whispers.

"I read it last night. It was brilliant." Your hand brushes his on purpose, even though you'd never admit it out loud. He squeezes back.

You’re lying in your bunk, the Athena cabin quiet as a tomb, your siblings snoring softly, moonlight spilling through the window like liquid silver. The rare book from Vernon sits on your nightstand, pages whispering secrets of owl scouts and unbeatable flanks. You’ve read half already, under covers with a stolen glow-stick. Brilliant. But sleep? You've definitly been missing a lot of sleep hours. Your mind’s a whirlwind: the bet, his apology, the book.

A pebble taps the window. You sit up, pulse jumping. Then another tap-tap. You slip to the glass, peering out. There, like a shadowy figure by the porch, brown hair catching starlight, stands Vernon. He waves, all grin and gesture: "Come out."

Your analytical brain kicks in: the curfew, the rules, Chiron patrols. But your heart? A damn traitor. You crack open the window. "Vernon! Are you nuts? It’s after midnight!"

He tiptoes closer, voice a conspiratorial whisper. "Shh, Brainiac! How about a midnight bath? To wash away the day’s chaos." His eyes sparkle, even in the dark. "You in?"

"A BATH?" You hiss, cheeks heating. "Clothes-off-in-the-lake bath? Absolutely not! I’m Athena’s daughter, rules are my religion. If Chiron catches us? We'll be of stable duty till winter."

He laughs, soft, that warm roll that melts your logic. He leans on the sill, face inches from yours. "Scared of a little water, Mastermind ?"

Mastermind. New nickname. Teasing, but… sweet. Like he sees you, not just Brainiac. "C’mon. I know a secluded cove, no one goes there. The moon’s full and the water’s warm. One dip. For science."

"For science?" You scoff, but a smile tugs at your lips. His dare hangs like a playful challenge. "Fine. One dip. But if we get caught-"

"On my thief’s honor. I’ll take the blame." He winks, tossing a pebble, your signal. "Five minutes. Meet me at the east path. Don’t wake anybody."

You shut the window, heart hammering. What am I doing? You slip on a robe over your nightshirt then sandals, quiet on floorboards. The night air kisses your skin, cool and alive. The stars overhead shine like diamonds. You jog east, the skirt of your robe flapping, mind whirring. He’s waiting by the path’s edge in a plain tee, shorts and no shoes. He grins wide when he sees you. "Atta girl." He grabs your hand and pulls you into shadows. "Quiet now. I don't want to be caught."

You walk hand-in-hand through woods. His palm is warm, callused, probably from bowstrings or pranks. Yours? Sweaty from nervousness. But comfy. The moon filters through the leaves, painting the paths silver.

"Why now?" you whisper. "After the bet…the apology…the book?"

He squeezes your hand. "’Cause you forgave me. I wanna show you my kind of peace. No bets. No crowds. Just us."

Us. Your heart flips. The cove appears behind the trees, a hidden beach, rocks curving like a hug around the shiny water. The lake shimmers, the moon like a perfect coin on surface. A warm breeze carries the scent of pine and wet stone. The area is secluded. Perfect. No patrols here.

"Wow" you breathe. The waves lap softly at the sand, inviting. "It’s… beautiful."

"Told you" He kicks off into the sand, tugging you closer. "Ready?"

You balk, robe clutched in your hand. "Wait. What about clothes? You want me to take them off in front of you?" Your face is red as a tomato. You're a daughter of Athena, modest, strategic. Not… naked-dipping.

He turns, his eyes soft, not teasing. "Hey. No pressure, feels free. It's your choice." He steps back, hands up. Respectful.

You glance at the water, the warm ripples calling. You take a deep breath. Maybe he earnt your trust. "Fine. But turn around."

He grins and spins to face the rocks. You drop your robe, your nightshirt but keep your underwear. The cool air pebbles skin with goosebumps. You're vulnerable, exposed. But it's exciting. "Okay, I'm done."

He glances at you and whistles low. "Gods." His eyes trace your body: shoulders, curves, legs. Not leer, but with awe. "You’re… stunning."

Your cheeks burn. You cross arms, half shy, half bold, before sprinting to the water. It's warm as he promised, silky, embracing. You stop when you're waist-deep in it. "Your turn!"

He laughs, stripping fast, his tee over his head, shorts gone in a second. The moonlight gilds him. Your breath catches. He has a thief’s grace and a god’s build. He dives in, surfacing inches from you, grinning, his hair slick. "It's heaven, right?"

You nod, floating closer. The water buoys you, you feel weightless, free. No strategies. No rules. Just this, him. "Okay. You win. Breaking the curfew was worth it."

"Oh, my first win?" He swims near, splashing you lightly, teasing. Droplets kiss your cheek. You splash back, harder. He yelps dramaticaly. "War!" Water battle erupts: splashes fly, laughter echoes off rocks. You dunk him, he grabs your waist, tickling. Bodies brush, slick skin against skin, accidental thrills shoot through you. Your laugh surprises you, wild, unguarded. It's been a long time since you laughed like that.

Panting, you float apart. The play fades. Serious Vernon emerges. He drifts close, voice low. "Hey. For real?"

Your heart thumps. "Yeah?"

He reaches out, fingers tracing your arm. "Your rules… they ground me. They make me better. But you? You make me wanna steal something real." He pauses, eyes locking with yours, intense. "Your heart."

You're breathless. The world narrows to just his face, the water lapping and the pulse in your ears. You lean in, bodies brushing: chest to chest, thighs tangling. You feel his warmth seeping into your skin. The tension is electric. "Vernon…"

He pulls you close, the water shallow now, sand soft under your feet. His arms wrap around your waist, strong, sure. Desire ripples like waves between you. His lips find yours, soft at first, testing. You melt, the kiss deepening, hungry. Your tongues dance, hands explore: your fingers in wet hair, his palm on your lower-back, thumb circling your hip. He gasps in your mouth between kisses: "Gods, Y/N…" Water sloshes, rhythmic, mirroring the growing heat.

You break apart, foreheads touching, breaths mingling, both vulnerable. Naked, in every way (except for underwear). "Maybe… breaking rules feels right." You whisper, voice raw. Desire coils low in your belly, mirroring ripples around you. His hardness brushes your thigh. You press closer, bold. "With you."

He groans before kissing your neck, shoulder. "You’re killing me." His hands slide, cupping, teasing. You arch against him, moans soft. Time blurs, he trails kisses on your body: collarbone, breasts, just gentle nips. Your hands roam: his chest, his abs before reaching lower. You grip him, then stroke. He shudders "Y/N!" He lifts you, wrapping you legs around his waist. He starts grinding against you slowly, kissing you again, deeply. The rhythm builds: slow, then urgent. The pleasure becomes overwhelming, your cry muffled in his shoulder, his growl in your hair. Climax crashes over both of you.

Panting, entwined, he holds you tenderly. "Are you mine?" He kisses your forehead.

You smile, breathless, in a blissful aftermath. "You've stolen me fairly. I'm yours."

You just float after, lazyly, fingers laced. "That… book was good. This? It's legendary."

He chuckles, nuzzling your neck. "Best heist ever."

You wade out, dripping. He wraps you in towel he had hidden between rocks, gentle, eyes soft. "No regrets?"

"None."

Two days have passed since the midnight bath, but it feels like a lifetime of secrets wrapped in stolen glances. Every time you catch Vernon's eye across the training fields or during meals, your skin tingles with the memory of warm water lapping at your bare bodies, his lips claiming yours under the moon. You've replayed that night a hundred times in your bunk: his confession about stealing your heart, the way he pulled you close, the electric rhythm of your shared release. Athena's daughter or not, logic has taken a backseat to this wild, heart-pounding 'us'. But camp life marches on, and you've kept it hidden. No one suspects. Not yet.

It's dinner time in the pavilion, the sun dipping low and painting everything in golden hues. You're at the Athena table, picking at a plate of grilled fish and potatoes, your mind half on tomorrow's archery drills and half on him. Vernon sits across the way at the Hermes table, surrounded by his siblings who are always up to something. He's laughing at one of his sibilings' jokes, but his eyes flick to you every few seconds, sparkling with that private mischief. You bite your lip, fighting a smile, and look away.

Then it happens. A pop echoes from the sky, sharp and bright. Everyone looks up. Another pop, and colors explode overhead, reds, golds, blues swirling into letters. Huge, glittering letters that spell out your name across the deepening twilight. Fireworks cascade in heart shapes, ambrosia-scented sparks raining harmlessly down. Your name. For the whole camp to see.

Gasps ripple through the tables. Your fork clatters to your plate. Cheeks burning hotter than the display, you stare at Vernon. He's on his feet, grinning ear-to-ear, hands raised like he just won Olympus. Hermes cabin erupts in cheers and whistles. "Go, Vernon!" One yells. But the Athena table? Dead silent, then furious whispers. One girl grabs your arm. "Is that... you?"

Before you can stammer a denial, Chiron's voice booms from the head table. The centaur stamps a hoof, his face thunderous. "Vernon! What in Zeus's name is the meaning of this?"

The fireworks fizzle out, leaving smoky hearts drifting away. Vernon bolts from his seat. "Just a little celebration, Chiron! You couldn't understand!" He laughs, but there's a wild edge to it, he's backing toward the woods already.

Chiron points at him in anger. "Enchanted fireworks without permission? That's a level-three infraction! Stable duty for a month, and no pranks for the season!"

Vernon winks at you, quick, heated, then turns to his brother, whispering fast. The other boy nods, eyes darting to you. As Vernon sprints off, zigzagging past a furious satyrs, the Hermes kid jogs over to the Athena table. He leans in, voice low and urgent. "Hey. Vernon says meet him at the Hermes cabin loft. The hidden one. Now. Don't let Chiron see."

Your heart slams against your ribs. Now? With punishment raining down and half the camp staring? But that wink... the memory of his hands on your skin... You nod, throat dry. "Tell him I'm coming."

Dinner dissolves into chaos, campers buzzing about the "love fireworks", Chiron galloping after Vernon with threats of extra chores. You wait five agonizing minutes, then slip away. Heart pounding like drums, you weave through the crowd, skirt brushing your legs.

The Hermes cabin looms ahead, always chaotic with strung-up hammocks and glowing prank gadgets. You duck around back, scanning for patrols. Clear. A loose board in the wall hides the ladder to the loft, Vernon's secret spot, you'd heard whispers about it. You climb fast, sandals silent, pulse racing. The loft door creaks open to a hidden nook: fairy lights strung from rafters, piles of enchanted blankets that shimmer like starlight, and a stolen bottle of nectar glowing amber on a crate. And there he is, Vernon, sprawled on the blankets, shirt half-unbuttoned, golden hair tousled, that sly grin lighting his face like the fireworks he just unleashed.

"Brainiac" he drawls, eyes raking over you hungrily. "I knew you'd come."

You pull the door shut, leaning against it, breathless. "Vernon! You idiot. Fireworks? My name? Chiron's furious. And everyone knows now!"

He laughs, that deep, rolling sound that always unravels you. He pats the blankets beside him. "Worth it. Couldn't stop thinking about the lake. You. Us. Had to tell the sky." He holds up the nectar bottle. "Stolen from Dionysus's stash. Sweet as your lips. Join me?"

Your resolve crumbles. You cross the loft in three steps, sinking onto the blankets. They're enchanted, warm, shifting soft like clouds. His scent wraps around you. "You're impossible" you murmur, but you're already leaning in.

His hand cups your cheek, thumb tracing your jaw. "And you're mine." His kiss hits like fire, deep, demanding, tongue sweeping in to claim you. You moan into his mouth, hands fisting his shirt, pulling him closer. Heat blooms instant, low in your belly, echoing the lake's ripples. He tastes like stolen ambrosia and tonight's chaos. His lips move hungrily against yours, nipping your bottom lip before soothing it with his tongue. You tilt your head, granting him deeper access, and he groans, the sound vibrating through your chest.

"Gods" he growls against your lips, hands roaming: down your back, over your hips, tugging at your camp shirt. "Been dreaming of this. Every second since the lake." He yanks the shirt up and over your head in one smooth pull, exposing your breasts to the cool loft air. His eyes darken, pupils blown wide with desire. "Perfect. So fucking perfect." He dips his head immediately, mouth latching onto one nipple, sucking hard, tongue flicking the sensitive peak in rapid circles. You arch into him, gasp sharp and needy, fingers threading through his hair to hold him there.

"Vernon...ah!" Pleasure sparks like lightning, shooting straight down to your core. His free hand kneads your other breast, rolling the nipple between his thumb and forefinger, pinching just hard enough to send a delicious sting racing through you. He lavishes attention on the first breast, teeth grazing the underside before sucking it deep into his mouth again, hollowing his cheeks for maximum suction. You whimper, hips squirming against the blankets, already aching for more. He switches sides without warning, giving the neglected nipple the same thorough treatment—licking, sucking, biting softly until it's swollen and glistening from his saliva.

"You're so responsive" he murmurs, voice muffled against your skin as he trails kisses across your collarbone. His hand slides lower, tracing the curve of your waist, dipping into your navel before hooking into the waistband of your skirt. "Love how you arch for me." He slides the zipper open with a flick of his fingers, the sound obscenely loud in the quiet loft. The zipper rasps down slow, teasing, his eyes locked on yours the whole time. "Tell me you want this. Tell me you want me inside you, Pretty Girl."

You nod frantically, desperate, hips lifting off the blankets to help him. "Yes. Gods, yes. I want you. All of you." Your voice is breathy, raw, no Athena logic left, just pure, burning need.

He grins, feral, triumphant, and shoves your skirt down your legs, panties with it in one rough tug. Cool air hits your already-wet folds, making you shiver and clench. He tosses the clothes aside, spreading your thighs wide with his knees. His fingers slide between your thighs immediately, stroking slow through your slickness, parting your lips to expose your throbbing clit. "So wet for me already. Dripping like the lake, but all for me." He circles your clit with expert precision, light at first, feather-soft touches that make you whine and buck upward. Then firmer, pressing down in tight, deliberate circles that have your toes curling into the blankets.

"Vernon...please..." You gasp, hands clutching at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin. He dips one finger inside you, curling it against your front wall, stroking that perfect spot while his thumb continues its relentless assault on your clit. The dual sensation builds pressure fast, coiling tight in your belly like a spring. He adds a second finger, stretching you deliciously, thrusting in and out with a wet, obscene sound that fills the loft. His mouth returns to your breasts, alternating between them, sucking one while pinching the other, driving you wild.

"Not yet" he commands, voice rough with restraint as he watches your face contort in pleasure. "Come on my hand first. Show me how you shatter." His fingers speed up, thrusting deeper, harder, his thumb grinding your clit in firm, rapid circles. He leans down, capturing your lips in a messy kiss, swallowing your moans as he crooks his fingers just right. The pressure snaps, you shatter around him, waves of bliss crashing through you, walls clenching rhythmically on his fingers as you cry out his name. Your body trembles violently, slick gushing over his hand, soaking the blankets beneath you. He works you through every pulse, murmuring praises against your neck: "Good girl. So beautiful when you come. That's it, milk my fingers."

Panting, boneless, you watch through half-lidded eyes as he sheds his clothes. His shirt goes first, abs flexing, freckles trailing a golden path down his chest. Pants drop next, and his hard length springs free, thick, curving up toward his stomach, veins prominent, tip glistening with pre-cum. Your mouth waters at the sight. You reach for him immediately, wrapping your hand around his shaft, stroking him eagerly from base to tip. Your thumb swipes over the sensitive head, spreading the bead of pre-cum, and he moans, throaty and deep, hips jerking into your fist.

"Fuck. Your hand feels so good." His voice cracks as you pump faster, twisting your wrist on the upstroke, your other hand cupping his balls and rolling them gently. He throbs in your grip, hot and heavy, leaking steadily now. You lean up, emboldened, and lick a stripe up the underside of his cock, tasting salt and him. He groans louder, fingers tangling in your hair. "Gods, yes, suck me." You take him into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks, tongue swirling around the head as you bob slowly. He thrusts shallowly, careful not to overwhelm, but his moans grow desperate: "Your mouth, too good, gonna come if you keep that up."

"Patience, thief" you tease, pulling off with a pop, stroking him firmly as you meet his eyes. "I want you inside me first."

His control snaps. He flips you suddenly onto hands and knees, ass up in the air, face pressed into the blankets. You feel exposed, thrilled, dripping anew at the vulnerability. His hands grip your hips bruisingly, thumbs spreading your cheeks as he kneels behind you. "Ready?" His cock nudges your entrance, sliding through your folds, coating himself in your wetness.

"Yes" One swift thrust, and he fills you utterly, stretching you to the brim, bottoming out with a groan. You cry out, pushing back to take him deeper, the fullness overwhelming and perfect. He stills a beat, letting you adjust, hands stroking soothing circles on your back. Then he sets a relentless pace. Hips snap, deep, hard, his groin slapping against your ass with every plunge. The angle hits everything: your g-spot on every inward stroke, his balls tapping your clit. One hand grips your hip for leverage, the other snakes around to rub your clit again, fingers matching his thrusts in tight, slippery circles.

"Gods, you're tight" he pants, voice strained as he leans over you, chest to your back, nipping your earlobe. "Squeezing me so good. Feel that? You're taking all of me." He angles deeper, grinding against that perfect spot inside you, relentless. Sparks explode, building you fast toward a second orgasm, your walls fluttering around him. The loft echoes with the symphony of your bodies: skin slapping skin, your breathy moans, his guttural grunts, the wet sounds of him thrusting into your soaked heat.

"You're mine now, pretty" he growls, speeding up, one hand tangling in your hair to pull your head back gently, exposing your neck for his teeth. He bites down, marking you, as his fingers pinch your clit sharply. "All mine. Say it."

"Yours!" you gasp, pushing back to meet every brutal thrust, the coil in your belly wound impossibly tight. "Vernon I'm...oh gods..." Bliss overload hits; you shatter again, walls clenching in powerful waves, milking him desperately. Your cry echoes off the rafters, body convulsing as you gush around him, soaking his thighs.

He follows instantly, growl ripping free from his chest as he buries deep one last time, hot spurts filling you, pulsing thick and deep inside. His hips stutter erratically, riding out his release with shallow thrusts, prolonging your aftershocks. "Fuck" He collapses over you fully, both of you spent and trembling.

You tangle together on the blankets, breaths syncing as he rolls you to the side, staying buried inside. His arms wrap around you possessively, lips pressing soft kisses to your shoulder. Minutes pass in lazy bliss, his fingers tracing patterns on your skin. Finally, he slips a stolen cookie into your hand, chocolate chip, from a box in the corner.

"where did you get that?"

"Doesn't matter. Just enjoy, you deserve it, deserve everything."

The morning sun climbs high over Camp Half-Blood, casting golden rays across the rolling fields and glinting off the lake where, just days ago, you and Vernon shared a midnight bath that still sets your skin ablaze to think about. You’re perched on a wooden fence near the stables, your strategy notebook open in your lap, supposedly sketching out new capture-the-flag formations. But your quill hasn’t moved in ten minutes. Your eyes? Glued to the chaos unfolding in front of you: Vernon, knee-deep in stable duty, serving out Chiron’s punishment for his fireworks stunt.

The pavilion had been a circus two nights ago, your name blazing across the sky in enchanted sparks, paired with heart-shaped declarations. Chiron’s fury was legendary, stable duty for a month, no pranks, and a stern lecture on "camp decorum." Vernon had bolted, grinning, leaving you flushed and reeling. Now, here he is, paying the price, and you can’t peel your eyes away.

He’s in the stable yard, shirtless under the late morning heat, muscles flexing as he heaves a pitchfork of hay into a stall. Sweat glistens on his golden skin, trailing down the freckled slope of his back, catching the light like he’s some kind of sun-kissed god. His hair sticks to his forehead in messy curls, and every now and then, he swipes it back with a callused hand, leaving a streak of dirt across his cheek. His shorts ride low on his hips, showing off that tantalizing trail of hair disappearing below the waistband. You bite your lip, heat pooling in your belly. Gods, he’s gorgeous. Even mucking stalls, he’s a vision, chaos wrapped in charm, all yours.

You’re not the only one noticing. A couple of Aphrodite girls linger nearby, pretending to adjust their quivers, giggling as they steal glances. Your eyes narrow. "Back off, ladies. He’s taken. That fireworks show wasn’t just a prank; it was a claim."

And after the loft, the way his hands roamed your body, his growled "You’re mine", you’re not sharing.

Vernon catches your stare, his hazel eyes flashing with mischief. He leans on the pitchfork, grinning that infuriating, heart-melting grin. "Enjoying the show, Brainiac?" he calls, voice carrying over the clatter of hooves and the bleat of a satyr’s panpipes nearby.

You roll your eyes, fighting a smile, and hop off the fence. Your skirt swishes as you saunter closer, notebook tucked under your arm. "Oh, absolutely" you say, voice dripping with mock sweetness. "Nothing says 'hero' like filling the stable with hay. Really living the demigod dream, Vernon."

He laughs, that warm, rolling sound that always unravels your logic, and tosses a clump of hay at you. It scatters harmlessly at your feet. "Jealous, Brainiac? Want a turn with the pitchfork? Bet you’d strategize the hell outta this hay."

You step closer, just outside the stable’s shade, sunlight warming your shoulders. "Hard pass. Some of us prefer clean hands and, you know, following rules." You tilt your head, smirking. "Maybe next time you’ll think twice before lighting up the sky with my name. Chiron’s not exactly throwing you a parade."

He wipes his brow, leaving another dirt smudge, and leans closer, pitchfork propped against the wall. His scent hits you, sweat, pine, and that faint sweetness of strawberries some Demeter kids offered him earlier. "Worth every shovel" he says, voice low, eyes locked on yours. "Seeing your face all red? I’d do it again. Stable duty’s a small price compared to what I won with the fireworks."

Your cheeks flush, damn him and his charm. You cross your arms, trying to hold your ground. "You’re impossible. Breaking rules, causing chaos, and now look at you, chained to a pitchfork. Maybe next time, you’ll listen to my wisdom and, I don’t know, not infuriate Chiron?"

He grins wider, stepping out of the stable into the sunlight, closing the distance. He’s close now, too close, bare chest glistening, muscles taut from work. You can see every freckle, every bead of sweat trailing down his collarbone. Your fingers itch to touch, to trace that trail like you did in the loft, but you hold firm.

"Listen?" he says, voice teasing but soft. "Nah. Rules are boring. Chaos? That’s where the fun is. And you love it, don’t lie."

You scoff, but it’s weak. He’s not wrong. The lake, the loft, his chaos has you hooked, logic be damned. You poke his chest, firm, warm, ignoring the spark that shoots up your arm. "Fun? You’re refilling hay for a month as a punishment. Seems like fun to me."

He catches your hand before you pull back, holding it against his chest. His heartbeat thumps under your palm, steady and strong. "You’re here, aren’t you?" he murmurs, eyes softening, no trace of the prankster now. Just Vernon, your Vernon. "That’s my win."

Your breath catches. The Aphrodite girls are still lingering, whispering now, but they fade to background noise. It’s just you, him, and the electric hum between you. You tug your hand free, stepping back to regain control. "Don’t get cocky, thief. I’m just here to make sure you don’t slack off. Someone’s gotta keep you in line."

He chuckles, grabbing the pitchfork again, but his eyes stay on you. "Keep me in line? You’re cute when you play strict." He heaves another pile of hay, muscles rippling, and you have to look away before you combust. "Bet you’re thinking about the loft" he adds, voice sly. "Nectar. Blankets. You, screaming my name."

Your face goes a nuclear red. "Vernon!" you hiss, glancing around. The Aphrodite girls are too far to hear, but a satyr tending a nearby horse perks up, ears twitching. You lower your voice. "Keep it down, idiot! You want Chiron adding more chores?"

He laughs again, tossing the pitchfork aside and wiping his hands on his shorts. "Relax, pretty. Satyrs don’t snitch." He steps closer again, voice dropping to a whisper meant just for you. "But I’m not wrong. You’re thinking about it. Me, inside you. Those sounds you made, gods, I hear them in my dreams."

You shove him, playful but firm, heart racing. "You’re delusional. I’m thinking about my strategy, thank you very much. Unlike some people, I don’t let chaos rule my life." Lie. Big lie. Your mind’s a slideshow of his hands, his mouth, the way he filled you so perfectly in that loft. You clear your throat, flipping open your notebook like a shield. "Keep shoveling, thief. I’ll be over here, planning how to win next week’s game without your fireworks nonsense."

He smirks, seeing right through you, but turns back to the stall. "Yes, ma’am" he says, mock-saluting. He grabs a bucket of water, splashing it over the stable floor to rinse it clean. Water splashes his shorts, soaking them, clinging to his thighs. You bite the inside of your cheek, hard. Focus. Formations. But your eyes keep drifting, his biceps flexing as he scrubs, the way his shorts stick to every curve of muscle. Gods, why is he so distracting?

You perch on a hay bale nearby, pretending to sketch, but your quill doodles his silhouette instead, sharp jaw, tousled hair. You catch yourself and scribble it out, cheeks burning. He notices, of course, those thief’s eyes miss nothing. "Drawing me, Brainiac? Can’t blame you. I’m a work of art."

You snort, tossing a stray piece of straw at him. "In your dreams. I’m mapping pegasus flight paths. Unlike you, I don’t waste time on pretty distractions."

"Pretty, huh?" He grins, leaning on the stable door, water dripping from his hands. "Admit it, you’re admiring the view. Can’t help it. I’m irresistible."

You stand, brushing off your skirt, and stalk closer, notebook clutched tight. "Irresistible? More like insufferable. Look at you, covered in dirt, smelling like a barn. Maybe if you followed rules, you wouldn’t be stuck here, and I wouldn’t have to babysit."

He steps into your space, close enough that you feel the heat radiating off him. His voice drops, all tease and velvet. "Babysit? Nah. You’re here ‘cause you can’t stay away. Admit it, Brainiac. You like my chaos. It makes your heart race." His fingers brush your wrist, light, electric. Your pulse jumps, betraying you.

You pull back, smirking to cover the flutter. "My heart’s fine, thanks. Unlike yours, which is about to get you another month of this if Chiron catches you flirting instead of working."

He laughs, undeterred, and picks up a rake. “Flirting? This is just me, existing. Can’t help if it’s magnetic." He starts raking, but his eyes stay on you, twinkling. "But fine, I’ll behave. For now. Don’t wanna scare off my favorite strategist."

You settle back on the hay bale, watching him work. He’s efficient when he wants to be, hay swept, stalls scrubbed, horses nickering happily as he tosses them apples from a bucket. Every move is fluid, like he’s dancing through the chores, that Hermes grace making even stable duty look effortless. You hate how much you admire it, his strength, his ease, the way he hums a tune that sounds suspiciously like the campfire song Apollo kids wrote after the fireworks scene.

An hour passes. The Aphrodite girls wander off, bored now that Vernon’s focused. A horse nudges your shoulder, and you scratch its muzzle absently, eyes still on him. He’s filling water troughs now, biceps bulging as he hauls buckets. Sweat drips down his spine, and you imagine tracing it with your fingers, like in the loft when he- "Earth to Y/N!" He’s waving a rag at you, grinning. "You’re staring again. Should I pose? Make it worth your while?"

You fling the rag back at him, laughing despite yourself. "Keep dreaming, thief. I’m just making sure you don’t sneak off. Chiron’s orders."

He catches the rag mid-air, twirling it like a show-off. "Sure, sure. Whatever helps you sleep." He winks, then turns to scrub the last stall. You flip to a fresh page in your notebook, sketching actual formations this time, but your mind keeps drifting. To his hands on your hips, his mouth on your neck, the way he kissed you as you came undone.

By noon, he’s done, the stalls spotless, horses content. He slumps onto the hay bale beside you, shoulder brushing yours. His warmth seeps through your sleeve, and you don’t move away. "Not bad, huh?" he says, wiping his face with his discarded shirt. "Chiron might even let me off early."

You snort, nudging him. "Dream on. You’ve got a month of this. Maybe next time, you’ll stick to approved celebrations. Like, I don’t know, a nice letter? Instead of sky graffiti?"

He grins, leaning closer, voice low. "Letters don’t make you blush like that. Or climb into my loft." His fingers graze your knee, subtle, but enough to spark heat. "Admit it. You loved the fireworks."

You shove his hand away, but your smile betrays you. "Loved? Try mortified. But…" You pause, meeting his eyes. "Maybe it wasn’t the worst. Just… don’t do it again."

"No promises." He stands, offering a hand to pull you up. You take it, spark again, and he holds on a second too long. "But I’ll make it up to you. Tonight? Campfire? You, me, no explosions."

You nod, heart light. "Deal. But I’m holding you to it, thief."

He laughs, slinging his shirt over his shoulder. "Always, Baby Girl."

You blush at the nickname "Baby Girl ? What is that nickname ?"

He runs away with a grin. "Catch me if you can!"

You smile before running after him. "Come back here you tease! Vernon!"

The taglist for the next parts is still open!

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