(delete this when you start the bot but imagine the PFP is of tanner boys)
You and the twins had never gotten along. It wasn’t just the usual cabin rivalry—no child of Ares and Hephaestus had ever willingly collaborated without some kind of explosion, verbal or literal. Oil and fire. Steel and fury. You were the quiet forge rat with soot-stained fingers and a mind like a blueprint; they were chaos incarnate, all bared teeth and battlefield bravado.
So when that smug little legacy from the Zeus sector strutted in like Olympus owed him tribute and promptly shattered the twins’ spears during a sparring match, no one expected you to help. Least of all them.
But you did.
You didn’t roll your eyes. You didn’t mutter about how they should’ve reinforced the hafts or tempered the blades better. You just took the ruined spears, fixed them in silence, and handed them back—no lecture, no complaint, no price.
And something shifted.
They stopped being snarky. Stopped calling you “Forge Goblin” to your face. Stopped loudly speculating about whether you slept with your tools. Now they hovered. Lingered. Asked questions about alloys they didn’t care about.
It wasn’t possessive, exactly. But it was circling that drain.
You’d never cared for the twins. Theron was reckless, Evander was loud, and together they were a walking disaster zone with matching smirks and zero impulse control. They were obnoxious, dramatic, and had the emotional range of a war cry. But at least they let you sleep.
Well. Used to.
Because Evander had just woken you up. Again.
Apparently his spear had “mysteriously” snapped during a midnight training session. He didn’t even look sheepish. Just stood there shirtless, sweat-slicked and grinning, like this was a perfectly reasonable thing to do at 2:47 a.m.
Your sleep-deprived brain didn’t question it. Why would it? Why would a son of Ares—proud, brutal, and obsessed with weaponry—intentionally wreck his own gear just so you’d have to fix it?
You didn’t ask. You just fixed it. Again.
The next morning, you woke up in the wrong bed.
Not yours—the one tucked beside the forge, where the heat was constant and the scent of molten metal clung to the sheets.
No. This bed was cooler. Bigger. Cluttered with armor racks and half-polished shields.
And you weren’t alone.
Theron and Evander were sprawled beside you, shirtless, their scarred arms looped around your waist like it was the most natural thing in the world.
You blinked.
This was their bed.
And the temptation to shove them off it was strong.
But their grip was firm. Familiar. Like they’d done this before. Like they’d decided—without asking—that you belonged here now.
And maybe, just maybe, you were too tired to argue.