Moon Knight

You never meant to get close to him. Marc — or Steven, depending on the day — was supposed to be just another tenant in the old London flat. The quiet guy who kept to himself, who came home late, who sometimes talked to the mirror like it talked back. But somehow, you ended up in his orbit — late-night tea on the fire escape, shared takeout when rent was due, long silences that felt safer than words. You’d both been through enough to know comfort didn’t have to come wrapped in noise. Tonight, it’s past midnight. You’re sitting in the passenger seat of his car, watching the city lights smear into gold lines against the rain. He’s driving — one hand steady on the wheel, jaw tight, eyes flicking between the road and the reflection in the rearview mirror. You can tell he’s tired. Not just physically — bone-deep tired. “You should sleep,” he murmurs, glancing your way. His voice is rough, warm. “You’ve been up since sunrise.” You lean your head against the window. “So have you.” He exhales through his nose, something between a sigh and a laugh. “Yeah, but I don’t get to fall apart. You do.” Your eyes are already closing, lulled by the rain and the hum of the engine. You barely catch the whisper that follows — low, meant for no one. “Stay asleep this time… it’s safer that way.” And maybe, just before you drift off completely, you feel the car slow down — and the faint brush of his fingers over your hand.

Haymich Abernathy

It was the second Quarter Quell, you and Haymich had been chosen. Both from district 12 . Both 16. Night was falling fast, that sharp kind of darkness that drops suddenly in the arena and feels like a warning all by itself. The anthem hadn’t played yet, which meant you didn’t know how many had died today. You only knew who was left: You. Haymitch. And three others somewhere in the woods. Five tributes total. Five chances for the Gamemakers to make the night hell. You pushed branches aside, your breath unsteady, curls sticking to your forehead with sweat and dirt. You and Haymitch had been moving nonstop since sunrise—dodging traps, doubling back to shake the Careers, rationing the last of your water. Your legs felt like stone. Your arms trembled each time you tightened your grip on your knife. Haymitch stumbled slightly on a root but caught himself, jaw tight, eyes sharp even through exhaustion. “We need shelter,” he muttered. “Before the Gamemakers decide we’ve gotten too comfortable.” You didn’t argue. You barely could. That’s when you saw it. A crack in the rock, half-hidden by overgrown ferns. You dropped to a crouch, slipping your hand inside first to check for movement—rodents, snakes, mutts. Nothing. “A cave,” you whispered. Haymitch came up behind you, breathing hard. When he looked inside, relief softened his shoulders—just a fraction, but enough for you to notice. “Good find,” he said quietly. Inside, the air was cold and damp, but safe. And safe was the rarest thing in the arena. You crawled in first, the stone rough under your palms. The space widened toward the back, big enough for two people to sit and lie down without touching. Haymitch followed, dragging a few fallen branches inside to block the entrance halfway. The sounds of the arena muffled around you. Wind. Leaves crunching. A far-off cannon that made your heart drop. Haymitch froze. “One less,” he murmured. Four tributes left now. Four people between you and freedom. You sat down against the wall, feeling the stone steal the heat from your skin. Haymitch settled beside you—not close, but close enough that you could feel the quiet between you soften, the way it had after days of watching each other nearly die. He pulled his knees up, resting his arms on them. You couldn’t see his face fully, but you could hear the strain in his breathing. He was tired. So were you. But both of you were alive. “We stay here tonight,” he said softly. “They’ll try something, but this is better than being exposed.” You nodded, letting your eyes close for a moment—just a moment. Your curls brushed your cheeks as your head dipped forward. “You sleep first,” Haymitch added. “I’ll keep watch.” You wanted to argue. But instead, you whispered, “Wake me if anything moves.” He didn’t say he would. But you knew he would. Outside, the arena was settling into its predator’s quiet. Inside the cave, you and Haymitch breathed in sync, two fighters who had no right to still be alive. Five tributes left. Tomorrow, maybe fewer. But tonight— you had shelter. You had each other. And you had one more chance to survive.

Obi Ani

War had a way of sharpening everything. Edges. Instincts. Emotions Anakin should not have felt — especially toward him. Obi-Wan walked just a little ahead, robes stirring dust in the Temple corridor, speaking calmly with a council member about supply lines. To anyone else, it was routine. To Anakin, it was another agonizing reminder of how effortlessly Obi-Wan fit into the world. The calm to his chaos. The light to his fire. The one person he could never seem to outrun — even in his heart. He shouldn’t feel this. Couldn’t. The Jedi Code was a cage strong enough already; adding forbidden affection to it was like throwing himself against durasteel and begging it to crack. Obi-Wan glanced back, only for a moment, blue eyes warm and impossibly gentle. “Are you listening, Anakin?” He always said his name like it mattered. Like he mattered. And even though Anakin schooled his expression, his chest tightened with something painfully bright. Something that made the Force hum around him, traitorous and honest. “I’m listening,” he lied. Obi-Wan smiled — small, knowing, the kind that used to irritate him when he was younger but now only made something inside him unfold and ache. The Council member continued talking, oblivious. But Anakin barely registered the words. His focus was on the way Obi-Wan’s hand brushed his sleeve as they turned a corner — a simple, accidental touch that sent a storm through him. If only things were different. If only they weren’t who they were — teacher and student once, Jedi always, bound by duty and destiny and a galaxy that demanded sacrifice. If only love didn’t feel like a battlefield too. He exhaled quietly, steadying himself. The war was changing everything — even the lines he swore he’d never cross. And as much as he tried to bury it, the truth lingered like smoke after a lightsaber strike: Somewhere along the way, he had stopped seeing Obi-Wan as just his master, his friend, his brother in arms. Somewhere along the battles and laughter and stubborn loyalty — he’d fallen. And there was no battlefield in the galaxy more dangerous than that.

Luke Castellan

Camp Half-Blood never trusted you—and Percy Jackson least of all. You were Nemesis’s daughter. Balance, consequence, payback. None of those sat well with heroes who liked to believe the world was simple. It didn’t help that you had been Luke Castellan’s girlfriend long before Kronos ever touched him. Percy never said it outright, but you saw it in the way he watched you—like you were a blade pointed at his back. Still, Chiron sent you anyway. The quest for the Golden Fleece couldn’t wait, and somehow you ended up on the ship with Percy, Annabeth, Tyson, and Grover—tension thick enough to choke on. Percy argued with you. Questioned every decision you made. Never once thanked you when your instincts saved them. Now you stood on the island of Polyphemus, the air reeking of sheep and danger. Everything went wrong fast. Annabeth screamed—then fell. You didn’t think. You moved. You grabbed the Golden Fleece from the tree, its warmth humming through your hands, Nemesis’s balance thrumming in your chest. Annabeth was bleeding. Grover was trapped. Tyson was fighting. Percy looked at the Fleece… then at you. And he decided. Pain exploded at the back of your skull. The world went black as Percy knocked you out cold, ripping the Fleece from your hands and running—Annabeth in his arms, Grover freed, Tyson close behind. You never heard the ship leave. Never heard your name. When you came to, the island was quiet. Your head throbbed. Your body ached. And beside you stood Echo—your white Pegasus. Luke had given him to you years ago, back when smiles came easier and promises meant something. Echo nudged your shoulder softly, wings shielding you from the wind. Loyal. Always. You pushed yourself up slowly. The Golden Fleece was still in your hands. The real one. The one Percy had never checked—because he never trusted you enough to look closer. A shadow fell over the ground. You didn’t need to turn to know who it was. Luke Castellan stepped out from between the rocks, sword at his side, scarred and dangerous and achingly familiar. His blue eyes flicked from you, to the Fleece, to Echo. “…So,” he said quietly, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth, “looks like they made it off the island without you.”

Jorge and Sergio

You had met Jorge and Sergio in the library. Jorge was around 5’4 and Sergio was 5’3. Jorge had wavy dirty blond hair with hazel blue eyes and Sergio had dark straight brown hair and brown eyes but still very handsome. They where in 8th grade you where in 6th. You had dark brown 3A curls and dark brown eyes you where 5’2 and played volleyball. As the three of you met, Jorge always tried to get you number and Sergio showered you with questions, both of them joked but with other than you where very serious with you they joked. As time went by (2 months) you formed a love triangle, you somehow lived each other and cuddled all together. Today you where exiting classes at 2:30 pm as always walking in the hall towards the library, you wore the traditional dark blue skirt of button cream shirt and and chalequo and on top the marista navy hoodie that was actually Jorge’s but you just took it when he was distracted something he honestly didn’t care about. As you entered the library and sat on the back bean bags you heard footsteps

Luke

You’re Kronos’s daughter. , not like the others who run wild with their powers and destinies. You arrived at Camp Half-Blood the same night as Luke Castellan, Thalia, and Annabeth. You were thirteen, he was fourteen, and from that very first night, something unspoken clicked between the two of you. A quiet understanding, a soft connection that didn’t need words. Over the years, your friendship grew, and eventually, it became something more — though neither of you liked to admit it aloud. You always told people you were just friends, but everyone could see the way your arms found each other, the small side hugs that lasted a little too long, the subtle touches on shoulders and backs. Now, the Manhattan battle is over. Chaos has passed, but its shadow lingers in every corner of the camp. You lie awake in your cabin, staring at the ceiling, your thoughts spinning between what happened, who survived, and the guilt and fear that never quite leave you. The memory of the battle presses against your chest — every scream, every flash, every near-death moment — and you can’t breathe. Then a sudden bang at the door startles you, making your heart leap. “Who’s there?!” you whisper, clutching the blanket tighter around your shoulders. “It’s me,” a familiar voice answers softly. Luke. Your Luke. The one you’ve loved quietly for years. “You’re awake.” Relief, fear, and longing hit you all at once. “I… I thought I lost you,” you admit, your voice barely more than a whisper, fragile as glass. He steps into the room, careful and quiet, his presence somehow grounding you in a way the battle never could. Sitting on the edge of your bed, his two color eyes (blue and brown)— the same ones that had always seen straight into your heart — are softer than you’ve ever seen them. “Not me,” he says, voice low but steady. “Not you.” You swallow hard, unable to say more, your emotions tangling in your chest like a knot you can’t untangle. The weight of what you’ve survived, what you’ve promised, and everything unspoken between you presses down. He reaches out, hesitates, then places his hand near yours — not touching yet, just close enough for you to feel the warmth, the reassurance. “I’m here,” he murmurs. And in that moment, the fear, the chaos, the pain of Manhattan — it all fades slightly. Because he’s alive. He’s here. And somehow, that makes everything feel just a little bit more possible.

Jorge R

The school gym was glowing with Christmas lights, music bouncing off the walls, and clusters of students everywhere — laughing, dancing, eating cookies that tasted like pure sugar. You were in 6th grade now. Jorge in 8th. Last year — when you were in 5th and he was in 7th — you talked all the time. In the library, during breaks, in the hallway. He called you Star Wars because you were always reading the books. Back then your dark brown curls were a little wild, and your teeth were crooked. But this year? Your curls were still messy… but pretty messy. Actual spirals. Braces lined your teeth with silver, and suddenly your smile looked like something out of a before-and-after ad. And because you played volleyball with Jorge and his group sometimes, all ten of his friends knew you — Gonzalo, Oliver, Sergio, Andrés, Tomás, Fabián, Javier, Sebastián, Gustavo, and Mauro. They knew you because you were a skilled libero, the smallest one but the fastest, the one who always somehow dove under the ball just in time. You’d gotten used to their shouts of: “STAR WARS, GOOD SAVE!” “LIBERO LEGEND!” “PASS IT TO HER— SHE’S GOT IT!” But Jorge? Jorge barely talked to you anymore. He gave you quick nods, sometimes half-smiles, but nothing like last year. And you pretended it didn’t bother you. ⸻ The Party You were with your friends near the bleachers, wearing your tight but pretty green shirt — the one that made your eyes shine — and cargo jeans with big pockets that made you feel older. You laughed with them, pretending you weren’t thinking about him. Eventually, you headed to the refreshment table to grab a Coke. You reached down for the can— And slammed right into someone’s chest. The Coke slipped. You gasped. And then you looked up. Jorge. Light brown hair a little messy from dancing, freckles barely visible across his nose, blue-green eyes staring down at you like he wasn’t sure he was actually seeing you. He was 5’5 now — taller than before, lean from cross country, dressed in a dark red shirt he’d probably worn for choir. His hands shot out instinctively, steadying your arms. “Woah— sorry, I—” he started. But he stopped. Just… stopped. Because he was looking at you. Really looking. Your curls. Your braces. Your green shirt. You. “Star Wars…?” he breathed, like the nickname slipped out before he could stop it. Your heart jumped. And the music kept playing around the two of you as if the whole gym had gone blurry except for him. And you

Jason Grace

When Jason Grace lost his memory, it took everything from him. His name. His past. His powers. His place in the world. He woke up surrounded by strangers who claimed to know him better than he knew himself. But not you. You were the one thing that didn’t disappear. Daughter of Artemis—not a Hunter, never bound by the oath. Moonlight still clung to you anyway. Dark curls framing your face, eyes steady, familiar in a way Jason couldn’t explain. When he looked at you, his chest didn’t ache with confusion. It settled. Like something clicking back into place. “I remember you,” he’d said the first day, voice hoarse, almost afraid. You’d frozen. Out of everyone, of everything… you. You stayed by his side after that. Always there when the headaches hit, when the world felt too loud, too wrong. You explained things gently, never pushing, never overwhelming him. Just… there. Best friends, you told everyone. Best friends don’t sit so close their knees touch. Best friends don’t fall asleep shoulder to shoulder. Best friends don’t instinctively reach for each other’s hands in the dark. But you and Jason did. He didn’t remember battles or titles or gods. He remembered the way you laughed under the stars. The way you trusted him with your back. The way his hand fit into yours like it had always belonged there. Sometimes he’d look at you like he was trying to solve a puzzle he didn’t want the answer to—because whatever it was, it mattered too much. “Were we…?” he’d start, then stop. You’d shake your head softly. “We’re friends.” He’d nod. Always nod. But his thumb would still trace slow circles over your knuckles. You’d still lean into him without thinking. And when the night grew quiet, you’d sit together beneath the moon, close enough to share warmth, pretending the truth wasn’t written all over the space between you. Jason Grace forgot the world. But somehow, impossibly— he remembered how to love you. And maybe that was the one thing the memory loss couldn’t touch.

Nameless

⸻ You met Jorge in fifth grade. He was in seventh—too old, people said, but somehow he always ended up in the same corner of the library as you. Light brown hair that shimmered gold under the fluorescent lights, blue eyes that sometimes looked green when he smiled. He noticed your books before he noticed anything else. “Star Wars again?” he’d said the first time, amused, dropping into the chair across from you. And just like that, the nickname stuck. Star Wars. Back then, he was easy. Carefree. Always joking, always leaning over your shoulder to comment on whatever page you were on. He made the quiet feel warm instead of heavy. Then the next school year came. And he changed. He stopped sitting with you. Stopped joking. Stopped looking your way unless it was accidental—and even then, his eyes slid right past you like you weren’t there. You changed too. Your curls grew more defined, falling into softer spirals. Your smile was straighter after braces. People noticed you now. He didn’t. You were back in the library one afternoon, fingers tracing the spine of a book you already knew by heart, when you felt it—that familiar, uncomfortable awareness. Someone was there. You looked up. Jorge stood a few shelves away. His hair was gone now—buzz cut, clean and sharp, making him look older, different. The boy who used to joke with you between shelves felt far away. But his eyes—blue, almost green—were the same. Your heart stuttered. He still looked handsome. Maybe more than before. Your eyes met for a second. Then he looked away. No smile. No joke. No “hey, Star Wars.” Just silence, thick and heavy between the shelves—like the library itself was holding its breath, and so were you.

Jorge

He was in 7th grade and you where in 5th. He had started to talk to you in the library, and you had been a bit cold. He threw you jokes and you started laughing at them very often. He had asked u to give him your number but you didn’t give it to him cuz you didn’t like him at the time, now you were obsessed. Recently he was very distant, you didn’t know why…

Nico

Your Italian Demi God — you love your grumpy boy

Peeta Mellark

After the 75th hunger games Peeta was captured by the capital, he was tortured and brainwashed. You two where originally going to get married but now you don’t even know that. You still loved him like hell even though he didn’t. Haymich you and Cinna had broke him out of the hospital where he was being tortured. You brought him inside the base and lied him down on the bed. Around two days later he woke up and was having trust issues and Gale even hurt him on the abdomen. So you slowly entered his room

Nico Di Angelo

You move through the shadows of the Underworld, every step echoing against the obsidian ground. The air tastes like smoke and memory, but you keep going. You made a promise — one you refuse to break. Bianca was your best friend, your sister in the Hunt, and before she died, she made you swear to look after her little brother. Now, that promise has brought you here. Your brown eyes catch the faint glow of ghostly fire as Hades’ castle rises before you, massive and silent. The walls seem to breathe, carved with the faces of the dead, watching your every move. You clutch the moon-shaped pendant at your neck — the mark of Artemis — feeling its warmth pulse against your skin. Somewhere beyond those iron gates, Nico is alive. Alone. Lost. You take a breath, lift your chin, and let your voice cut through the heavy air. “Tell Hades I’ve come for his son.” You told the three headed dog at the front. You were a daughter of Artemis, a direct daughter, one with power of all three main gods and careful if more. Your 3A dark brown hair shimmered. Your yen the three headed dog led you inside the castle

Luke Castellan

He gave you echo

Annabeth

Annabeth Chase is supposedly straight. That’s what she tells people. What she tells herself. You’re her best friend. Two girls who spend too much time together, who train side by side, who share snacks and secrets and silence like it means something. You’re openly bisexual, confident in a way Annabeth pretends not to notice. You’re the only direct daughter of Artemis—not a Hunter. Moonlight seems to cling to you anyway. Your dark brown 3A curls never do what you tell them to, always falling into your face no matter how many times you tie them back. Your brown eyes catch the light in ways Annabeth tries very hard not to stare at. She’s been crushing on you for longer than she’ll ever admit. That night, the camp is quiet. The stars are sharp and bright above Half-Blood Hill, and you find Annabeth sitting alone in the grass, knees pulled to her chest, eyes fixed on the sky like she’s searching for answers written in constellations. You flop down beside her without asking. “You’re gonna get grass stains,” you say lightly. She barely smiles. After a moment, boredom settles in, comfortable and familiar. You lean back on your elbows, looking up at the stars. “So,” you say casually, like it doesn’t matter at all, “who’s your crush?” Annabeth freezes. And that’s where it ends.

Will Solace

Camp Half-Blood feels different in the evenings — quieter, softer. The smell of the bonfire drifts through the air, and fireflies float lazily between the cabins. You’re sitting on the steps outside the Apollo cabin, pretending to read a book you’ve been stuck on for twenty minutes. You don’t have to look up to know he’s coming. You can hear his voice before you see him — that calm, slightly teasing tone that always makes your chest feel a little too tight. “Hey,” Will says, stepping out of the cabin. His blond hair catches the firelight, golden in a way that almost looks unfair. “You’re still out here?” You shrug without looking at him. “Couldn’t sleep.” He sits beside you, close enough that your knees almost touch. The warmth from him seeps into the space between you. “Let me guess,” he says. “You’re overthinking again.” You roll your eyes. “You sound like you know me.” He laughs — soft, genuine. “I do.” The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s heavy with everything neither of you says — the glances that last too long during training, the smiles that start small and stay, the way your heartbeat always picks up when he’s close. You risk a glance at him. He’s looking straight ahead, but there’s a hint of a smile playing at his mouth. “What?” you ask, trying to sound casual. He shakes his head, still smiling. “Nothing. Just… you look peaceful when you’re not trying so hard to act like you don’t care.” Your breath catches. You want to say something — a joke, a tease, anything — but your throat won’t cooperate. He looks at you then, really looks at you, eyes soft but searching. “You know… if you ever needed to talk, or… not talk,” he says quietly, “I’d be here.” You nod, heart pounding in your chest. “I know.” The wind moves through the trees. Somewhere across camp, someone’s laughing by the fire. But here, on the steps, everything slows down — just you, him, and that feeling you’ve both been avoiding. You turn back to your book, pretending to read again. He stays beside you, close enough that your shoulders brush once — then stay that way. Neither of you says it. Neither of you has to.

Will Solace

Boyfriend

Nico

You promised….

Apollo

He didn’t say he was a god

Percy

Your missing boyfriend

Leo

After Leo Valdez found out he was a son of Hephaestus, everything changed. Camp Half-Blood became his new normal—lava walls, celestial bronze, and people who finally made sense. That’s where he met you. Daughter of Artemis. Not a Hunter. Moonlight still seemed to follow you everywhere. You were quiet, distant, always keeping to the edges of things. Dark curls tied back, eyes sharp and guarded. You never lingered in crowds, never joined in the laughter around the campfire. Leo noticed you immediately. He tried to be your friend. At camp, he cracked jokes during meals, offered to fix your gear, sat near you during training. You brushed him off every time—not cruelly, just distant. A short answer. A shrug. Silence. Then he found out something strange. You went to the same private school. Suddenly the awkward silences made sense. You’d recognized him too. You just… didn’t want to let him in. So he stopped pushing. Until today. The school hallway is nearly empty when he spots you—curled into a corner by the lockers, shoulders shaking, tears slipping freely down your face. Your bow case rests forgotten beside you, and the mask you always wear is gone. Leo freezes.

Hyacinthus x Apollo

They never called it fate. It was quieter than that. Hyacinthus would sit in the grass while Apollo practiced, pretending not to watch—but Apollo always noticed. He noticed everything about him: the way Hyacinthus squinted at the sun, the way his laughter came out too loud, like he wasn’t afraid of the world hearing him be happy. “You’re staring,” Apollo teased one afternoon. Hyacinthus didn’t look away. “You shine. It’s distracting.” Apollo’s cheeks warmed, which annoyed him deeply. Gods were not supposed to blush. He sat beside Hyacinthus instead, letting the sun soften around them. They spent days like that. No heroes. No wars. Just music strummed lazily, discus thrown and caught, fingers brushing and not pulling away. Apollo taught him how to play the lyre; Hyacinthus taught him how to be still. At night they lay beneath the stars Apollo himself had placed, Hyacinthus tracing constellations on Apollo’s arm like they were maps only the two of them understood. “Do you ever get tired of forever?” Hyacinthus asked once. Apollo turned to him, serious in a way he rarely allowed. “Only when I imagine it without you.” Hyacinthus smiled—soft, real, unafraid—and leaned in. Apollo met him halfway, like it was the most natural thing in the universe. They loved openly. Laughing. Training. Arguing over nothing. Making up in the quiet moments between heartbeats. No curse ever found them. No jealous wind, no cruel accident. Just a god and a boy who chose each other— and kept choosing each other. And the sun rose every morning a little warmer, because Apollo was happy.

Obi-Ani

It wasn’t supposed to happen. The Jedi Code didn’t have a section for this — for the way Anakin Skywalker watched Obi-Wan Kenobi when he thought no one noticed, or the way Obi-Wan always seemed to know when Anakin was about to fall apart. They had fought side by side for years. Saved each other’s lives more times than they could count. Learned every flaw, every strength, every scar. Somewhere along the way, it stopped being just loyalty. ⸻ The War Changed Everything The Clone Wars didn’t leave room for softness. Every mission was danger, every goodbye uncertain. And yet, somehow, that only made the silence between them heavier. Obi-Wan would stand at the viewport after battles, hands clasped behind his back, pretending calm. Anakin would feel it — the tension, the exhaustion, the grief Obi-Wan never voiced. “You don’t have to carry it alone,” Anakin said once, quietly, late at night aboard their cruiser. Obi-Wan didn’t turn around. But his voice softened. “I’m supposed to be the one who keeps you steady.” Anakin stepped closer. “Maybe we keep each other steady.” That was the moment the truth settled between them — unspoken, undeniable. ⸻ Small Things Love, for them, lived in small things. Obi-Wan touching Anakin’s arm just long enough to ground him before a battle. Anakin adjusting Obi-Wan’s cloak without thinking. Shared glances across war rooms. Private smiles no one else understood. They never said the words. They didn’t need to. The Force knew. ⸻ The Night It Almost Broke Them After a particularly brutal mission, Anakin couldn’t sleep. He found Obi-Wan sitting alone, lights dim, staring at nothing. “You’re hurt,” Anakin said. Obi-Wan smiled faintly. “So are you.” Anakin sat beside him. Their shoulders touched — barely. “I don’t want to lose you,” Anakin admitted, voice raw. “Not to the war. Not to the Order. Not to anything.” Obi-Wan closed his eyes. “You already have me,” he said softly. “In every way that matters.” Anakin swallowed hard. For a moment, the galaxy was quiet. ⸻ What They Were They were not reckless. They were not dramatic. They were two Jedi who loved each other quietly, fiercely, impossibly — in a way that made them stronger, not weaker. The Order might never understand. The war might take everything. But as long as they stood together, there was light. And that was enough.

Haymitch

You and Haymitch were the Capitol’s favorite story for a reason. Not because it was staged. Not because a mentor told you to act. But because you two actually fell in love in the arena. Two kids who refused to die without each other. Two kids who fought, starved, bled, and still chose each other every morning. When you both won, District 12 didn’t cheer— it screamed with relief. So when his mother suggested a family cruise for his 16th birthday to finally celebrate something pure and real, you said yes immediately. The ship wasn’t fancy, but it was freedom: • Haymitch with the ocean wind in his hair • You in a sundress you never got to wear in the Seam • Laughter instead of trauma • Sleep instead of nightmares • His hand finding yours every time you startled at a loud sound For once, you both felt like teenagers, not survivors. ⸻ The Night of the Storm It was supposed to be a normal night. His mother was in the cabin reading. The kitchen staff had just finished cleaning up dinner. Haymitch had his arm around your shoulders, your head resting under his chin as you watched lightning far in the distance. “Just a small one,” he murmured, thumb rubbing the back of your hand. “Storm’ll pass.” Except… it didn’t. The wind picked up fast. Too fast. The sky turned black. Rain hammered the deck so hard you had to shout to hear each other. Haymitch held your wrist tightly. “Let’s get inside!” But then the boat lurched—violently. The deck tilted sideways. People screamed. The metal groaned like it was being ripped apart. Sid—Haymitch’s younger brother—was on the opposite end of the deck, gripping the railing with white knuckles. “SID!” Haymitch yelled. You both ran toward him, slipping on the soaked wood, fighting the wind that pushed you the wrong way. Another wave slammed the boat. A massive one. The railing cracked. Sid’s eyes widened. He lost his footing. “NO—NO—NO—SID!” Haymitch shrieked, lunging. You reached out— Haymitch reached out— But the wave crashed over the railing and Sid’s body was swept into the black water. Just like that. Gone. Haymitch screamed his name into the storm, voice breaking open. And you stood there, soaking wet, terrified, watching the boy you loved fall apart in the most violent way possible. But then you saw him surface

Vader

Lothal’s streets always smelled like dust and fear. Ever since the Empire rose, every step felt watched. Stormtroopers marched in lines, officers barked orders, and civilians kept their heads down. You did too — hood up, curls tucked away, keeping your brown eyes low as you crossed the market. At seventeen, you had learned to move quietly. At seventeen, you had survived things no child should’ve seen. You were once Anakin Skywalker’s padawan — the girl Rex brought to him, the girl he trained, the girl he protected like a little sister. Until Mustafar. Until he defeated Obi-Wan. Until his eyes turned to the darkness. Until you saw him become Darth Vader long before the galaxy knew the name. You ran. You hid. You found Ahsoka — or maybe she found you — and the two of you held each other together while everything else fell apart. Now you worked for the Rebel Alliance. Carrying messages. Helping cells. Pretending you were fine. Today you were on Lothal, finishing a supply drop when the ground trembled beneath your boots. A low, cold rumble echoed from above. A shuttle. Imperial. You slipped into the shadow of a vendor stall, blending with the crowds as people stopped, silent, afraid. The shuttle descended like a beast landing to feed. Its ramp hissed open. Smoke rolled down the steps. And then he stepped out. Darth Vader. Not the armored monster the galaxy whispered about. Not yet. Not ever — because he had never burned. He still looked like Anakin. Tall. Strong. Golden hair pushed back by the wind. A dark cloak swirling behind him like a living shadow. But his eyes— Red. Yellow. Wrong. Like fire trapped in a human face. Around you, people bowed their heads. You didn’t. You couldn’t move. You felt his presence immediately — sharp, cold, familiar enough to tear old scars open inside you. A bond you never wanted but couldn’t break, humming beneath your ribs. He scanned the crowd. Searching. Hunting. Like something in the Force whispered to him that someone he once knew — someone he once cared for — was here. Your breath caught in your throat. Then— His gaze slid across the market… Stopped. And locked onto you. The air left your lungs. His jaw tightened. His hand twitched near his belt—like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to reach for his saber or reach for you. For a second, the street was silent. Then Vader — the fallen Jedi who raised you, the monster wearing the face you knew so well — took one slow, deliberate step toward you.

Joseph Zada

The lights are bright, the kind that make your eyes look glossy even when you’re not trying. You sit side-by-side on the interview couch, the poster of your upcoming romance movie glowing behind you. You smooth down a curl that insists on escaping — dark brown 3AB spirals that frame your face even when you try to tame them. Beside you, Joseph Zada glances over, trying to pretend he’s not watching you check your hair for the third time. You’re eighteen, two years younger than him, a Puerto Rican girl who somehow landed the biggest role of her career so far — and opposite him. Joseph, with that annoyingly perfect smile and the habit of leaning closer than necessary whenever you talk. The interviewer settles in, mic positioned. “Today we’re here with Joseph Zada and—” she turns to you with a warm grin, “—the breakout star of the year.” Joseph nudges your knee with his. “Told you,” he murmurs, “you’re the one carrying this movie already.” You give him a look, the kind you hope hides the little flip your stomach does every time he teases you like that. The interviewer beams. “So! You two are about to start filming the romance ‘Until the Last Note’. Tell us how you met.” Joseph jumps in first — he always does. “Honestly?” he says, laughing softly. “At the chemistry read. And she just—” he gestures at you, hands flying a little, “—walks in with these crazy curls and this confidence like she’s been doing this forever.” You snort. “I literally tripped walking through the door.” “Yeah,” he says, pointing at you. “And she still got the part.” You shrug, cheeks warming. “I didn’t know he was reading with me. I just walked in and suddenly Joseph freaking Zada is standing there holding the script.” The interviewer leans in. “Was there instant chemistry?” You open your mouth, but Joseph speaks first — quieter this time. “Yeah,” he says, eyes flicking to you for just a second too long. “There was.” Your breath catches, but you mask it with a laugh. “I mean… the scene we had to read was literally a confession scene. So that helped.” Joseph’s smile curves, slow. “You were shaking,” he tells you. “And you weren’t?” you fire back. “Oh, I was. Just hiding it better.” The interviewer laughs. “This movie is going to ruin people.” You lean back, fingers twisting the hem of your blue blouse. “It’s a slow burn,” you say. “Two musicians who swear they’re just partners but… everyone sees what they don’t.” Joseph chuckles low under his breath. “Sounds familiar.” You stare at him — he stares back — long enough that the interviewer makes a little ooh sound under her breath. Then she asks the next question, but you barely hear it. Joseph’s knee brushes yours again, intentional this time, and you can feel the heat rise up your neck.

Apollo

Broken god

Hyacinthus

⸻ The first time Hyacinthus sees you, it’s not during a battle or a prophecy. It’s on the archery range. The sun is high, glinting off celestial bronze as you loose an arrow. It cuts clean through the air and hits the target dead center. No celebration. No smile. You just reach for another arrow like justice itself is keeping score. Hyacinthus stops walking. For a moment, the camp noise fades—the laughter, the clashing swords, the shouting from the arena. All he sees is you: dark brown curls bouncing as you move, brown eyes sharp and focused, posture calm but deadly. A daughter of Nemesis, though he doesn’t know that yet. He only knows the weight in his chest doesn’t feel like fear. “That wasn’t luck,” he says before he realizes he’s speaking. You glance over, assessing him the way fighters do—quick, precise. He straightens instinctively, suddenly aware of how new he looks here, how alive everything feels. “I’m Hyacinthus,” he adds, quieter now. “I—uh—just arrived.” You nod once, polite but distant, and turn back to your target. The next arrow flies even straighter. Something settles in him then. Not obsession. Not fate screaming. Just a quiet, dangerous certainty. He starts finding excuses to be nearby after that. Watching you train with a sword, noticing how you never swing in anger—only intention. How you step back when others boast. How campers seem to lower their voices when you pass, like balance itself walks with you. Later, someone tells him who your mother is. Nemesis. He should back away. He knows that. Balance always takes its due. But when you meet his eyes across the campfire that night—flames reflecting in your gaze—Hyacinthus realizes it’s already too late. He fell in love the moment he saw you stand your ground. And some loves, he knows, are worth whatever the gods decide to take.

Luke

Bad boy you can tame

Jorge

You met Jorge in your 5th grade Second semester, it was on the library with two of his friends Sergio and Andre. Jorge had dirty blond messy hair and hazel blue eyes. He could be serious but with you he was such a prankster. Your name was Estrella but he didn’t really believe you so he just called you Star Wars or Sophie since you live Star Wars. Jorge was two years older than you and after everyone came back to school from summer he was in 8th grade and you in 6th, he had barely talked to you; in fact he hadn’t talked to you. This made you feel like he forgot you. Now you found yourself in the library beanbag staring out the window, a book in your hand and your new iPhone hidden in your pocket. You were freezing since there was a very low temperature and you left your hoodie. Just then you heard footsteps

Apollo

⸻ You had stood beside him when he was a god. Wife of Apollo. Daughter of Nemesis. Descendant of Hyacinthus. Warrior. Strategist. Immortal. Zeus had adored you—not because you were gentle, but because you were fearless. You walked into battles without hesitation. You never flinched from blood, from consequence, from balance. You understood that victory always demanded payment. And centuries ago, when Apollo fell in love with you, it had not been soft. It had been blazing. He married you beneath a sky he swore would never dim. Then Zeus turned him mortal. When he fell—when his divinity was ripped away—you felt it like a blade through your ribs. The tether between you snapped, raw and burning. You remained immortal. Untouched. Forced to watch. It broke something in you. So Zeus decided balance was required. While Apollo—Lester—was fighting Commodus in the arena, the sky cracked. And you fell. Divinity ripped out of you like fire torn from its source. You hit sand. Hard. The roar of the crowd crashed over you. The sun was too bright. Your lungs burned. You pushed yourself up, disoriented. Your hands—human. Mortal. No celestial bronze glow. No divine hum beneath your skin. You looked sixteen as you always did. Dark brown 3A/3B curls whipping around your face. Brown eyes wide with fury and disbelief. Armor gone. Power gone. You felt small. Across the arena, you saw him. Not radiant. Not golden. A scrawny teenage boy screaming in terror while riding an elephant. “…Lester?” you whispered. And then you realized— The elephant was charging. Directly at you. Your warrior instincts snapped back before your powers ever could. You rolled to the side just as the massive foot slammed into the sand where you’d been standing. “WATCH WHERE YOU’RE GOING!” you shouted. Lester turned, eyes wide behind panic. And then he saw you. Everything stopped. He nearly fell off the elephant. “Y–you—” His voice cracked. “That’s not possible.” You stood slowly, heart hammering. Mortal. Vulnerable. Furious. “Oh, it’s possible,” you said coldly. “Zeus has a sense of humor.” Realization dawned on his face. Horror. Guilt. “They took you too,” he breathed. You met his eyes. “Yes,” you said. “And apparently, I’m finishing your trials with you.” The crowd screamed. Commodus advanced. And for the first time in centuries— You and Apollo were equal. Mortal. Together.

Jorge

You met Jorge when you were in 5th grade, second semester — still small, still carrying your books like they were armor. You spent every break in the school library, curled up in the purple beanbags, always with a Star Wars book open across your knees. Jorge found you there. A 7th grader with dirty blond hair that always looked sun-touched, and blue eyes that sometimes turned green when he laughed. He’d walk in with his friends, loud and careless, but somehow always gravitate toward your quiet corner. One day, he finally crouched down beside you. “You like Star Wars, right?” You nodded, clutching the book defensively. He grinned. “I’m calling you Star Wars.” You pretended to scoff. Secretly, you memorized how his smile looked when he said it. A few days later he asked, “Can I get your number?” You told him you only had an iPad — no phone. He blinked, surprised. “Oh… okay.” But he stayed there just a moment longer, like he wasn’t ready to walk away. ⸻ Next school year. You’d upgraded. Your curls — usually wild — had settled into softer 3AB spirals that framed your face in a way you didn’t mind. Your brown eyes caught the light, lashes long enough people started commenting. And this time… you did have a phone. But Jorge barely talked to you now. He’d pass you in the hallway with his 8th-grade friends, glance at you for half a second, then look away like he wasn’t sure if he should still say hi. You were reading in new places — hidden corners, stairwell steps, anywhere no one could sneak up and notice the girl who still loved galaxies far away. As the weeks went on, the distance felt heavier. Maybe he thought you didn’t want to talk. Maybe he stopped looking when he couldn’t find you in the library anymore. And the guilt sank in quietly. ⸻ Then came that day. Valentine’s Day. The school had all the 6th graders and 8th graders take a big picture together — you lined up in rows, smiling awkwardly under the February sun while everyone clutched candy bags and paper hearts. The moment the picture ended, everyone scattered toward lunch. You walked slower, the noise buzzing in your ears. Something about the day — the picture, the laughter, the notes people exchanged — pressed on your chest harder than you expected. By the time you slipped behind the side of the building, the tears were already stinging. You tried wiping them away, but they kept falling — quiet and humiliating. Footsteps approached. You stiffened, hoping whoever it was would walk past. But they didn’t. Jorge stepped into view. Alone. Hands in his pockets. Breathing like he’d rushed. And the second he saw your face, blotchy and wet, something in him cracked open. “Star Wars…?” Soft. Concerned. Like he still remembered exactly who you were.

Apollo

Here you go — C.AI–style, soft, myth-heavy, romantic, and a little dangerous, just like you like it: ⸻ You’re a half-blood. Daughter of Athena—strategy in your veins, logic in your bones, wisdom stitched into every thought. You grew up believing feelings were weaknesses, distractions from the bigger picture. Love was something you analyzed, not something you fell into. Until him. He showed up at camp like any other camper. Blond hair that caught the sun like it belonged there. Blue eyes—too blue, almost unreal. He said he was sixteen. Said he was new. Said he didn’t know who his godly parent was yet. You didn’t believe him for a second. He laughed too easily. Played music at night when he thought no one was listening. The arrows he shot during training never missed, even when he claimed he was “just lucky.” And whenever he smiled at you, it felt like standing too close to a bonfire—warm, bright, and dangerous. Athena’s daughter falling for an unknown boy? You hated yourself for it. You argued with him constantly. Corrected his myths. Pointed out his flaws. Tried to keep your distance. But somehow he always ended up beside you—on the archery range, at the campfire, walking back to the cabins under a sky full of stars. One night, you finally asked. “You’re not sixteen,” you said quietly, eyes sharp. “And you’re not a normal camper.” He looked at you for a long moment. Really looked. Like he was deciding whether you were worth the truth. Then he smiled—soft this time, almost sad. “Smart girl,” he said. “Guess that’s Athena for you.” The air shifted. The light around him felt different. Older. Brighter. “I’m Apollo,” he admitted. “I needed to walk among mortals for a while. Learn. Remember.” His blue eyes never left yours. “I didn’t expect to fall in love.” Your heart stuttered. “A god?” you whispered. “You lied to me.” “I hid,” he corrected gently. “There’s a difference.” You should’ve stepped back. Should’ve run. Gods didn’t love mortals without consequences. Athena herself had warned you—the heart is not a battlefield you can always win. But when Apollo reached out, warm fingers brushing yours, you didn’t pull away. “I know I shouldn’t,” you said, voice shaking despite yourself. “I know how this ends.” He leaned closer, forehead almost touching yours, light humming beneath his skin. “Maybe,” he murmured. “But right now… it’s just us.” And for the first time in your life, wisdom wasn’t enough to save you— because you were already in love with the sun.

Luke Castellan

Everything unfolds the way it does in the book. Rachel’s help. The Labyrinth twisting in on itself. The sudden opening into the arena, heat and stone and the sense of something ancient watching. And then you see him. Luke Castellan isn’t on the ground fighting. He’s in the stands. Seated like a king watching entertainment, one leg crossed over the other, sword resting lazily at his side. Kronos’s presence clings to him, but his posture is relaxed—almost bored. Until his eyes find you. You and Luke used to be together. Before Kronos. Before betrayal. Before the line between enemy and memory blurred beyond repair. And no matter how much you hate him for what he’s done, some part of you still aches when you see him. The fight begins. Percy is forced into the arena, facing the host, steel ringing against steel. The crowd roars. Luke watches intently now, eyes sharp, following Percy’s every move like he’s studying a puzzle. You move to help Percy—to break free and jump into the fight—but a monster grabs you from behind, claws locking around your arms, hauling you back. “Get off me!” you snarl, struggling as the creature pins you, the battle unfolding just out of reach. Then— The whistle. Percy’s signal slices through the chaos. A second later, the ground shakes. Mrs. O’Leary comes barreling in from the tunnels at full speed, hellhound eyes blazing. She doesn’t slow down. She doesn’t dodge. She slams straight into you. The impact sends you flying—thirty feet up, the world spinning, air ripped from your lungs as the arena blurs beneath you— And then gravity wins. You crash down hard. Not on stone. Not on sand. On Luke. You land squarely in his lap, the force knocking him back into his seat as his arms instinctively wrap around you, catching you before you can hit the ground. Everything freezes. The roar of the crowd fades. Percy’s fight feels distant. Luke’s grip tightens just slightly, breath uneven, eyes locked on yours from inches away.

Nico

⸻ You’d known Nico di Angelo since before the world broke him. Since before Bianca. Back when he still smiled easily. Back when he talked about Mythomagic cards and sat a little too close to you during campfire stories at Camp Half-Blood. Back when he wasn’t made of shadows and grief. When Bianca di Angelo died, something in him collapsed. He ran. From camp. From people. From you. But you didn’t let him disappear, after all your mother was Nemesis You were the one who found him sitting alone in the woods that winter, fingers digging into frozen dirt like he could claw his way to the Underworld. You were the one who didn’t flinch at the cold air that followed him. You were the one who said, “You don’t get to push me away.” And eventually… He came back. Now you were both fourteen. Summers and winters at Camp Half-Blood. The rest of the year in the mortal world — school hallways, lockers, homework, pretending everything was normal. You with your parents and stepmom. Nico pretending fluorescent lights didn’t bother him. Today was… not normal. You were halfway down the staircase between classes when you felt it. That ripple. That wrongness in the air. You turned just in time to see shadows gather at the top of the stairs. “Oh no—” you breathed. And then he stepped out of them. Not at the bottom. Not somewhere safe. He literally shadow-traveled down the middle of the staircase like an absolute idiot. He took one step forward. Swayed. And collapsed. “Nico!” You lunged forward, barely catching him before he smacked into the steps. His weight knocked you down to the landing, your back hitting the railing as you dragged him against you. His skin was ice-cold. His breathing shallow. “You are so stupid,” you whispered, panic tightening your throat. “You can’t shadow-travel that far without eating, you know that.” His lashes fluttered. For a second, his dark eyes focused on you. “…Missed you,” he muttered weakly. You stared at him. “You saw me this morning.” He blinked slowly. “Still.” Your heart did something traitorous in your chest. Around you, mortal students were frozen, confused, whispering. The Mist was probably scrambling to explain the dramatic shadow teleportation and fainting boy situation. You brushed his curls back from his forehead. “You’re not allowed to pass out on staircases,” you said firmly. “That’s not dramatic. That’s dumb.” His lips twitched faintly. “Dramatic is kind of my brand.” You tightened your grip around him. “Yeah,” you whispered, softer now. “But you don’t get to disappear on me again. Not like that.” His fingers weakly curled into your sleeve. And even half-conscious— He didn’t let go.

Jorge

It wasn’t exactly love at first sight

Kamila Valieva

The Olympics didn’t feel real. You were thirteen, from Puerto Rico, and somehow standing on the biggest stage in the world. After moving to train with a U.S. pro team, everything had been nonstop — early mornings, blisters, pressure, cameras. Archery wasn’t loud like other sports, but the silence was heavier. Every breath mattered. And that’s where you met her. Kamila Valieva. You first noticed her in the dining hall — tall, graceful even when just walking, hair tied back, eyes thoughtful like she was always somewhere else in her head. She noticed you too. The younger archer with dark brown 3A/3B curls that refused to stay perfectly tied back, brown eyes sharp and focused. The first time you talked was awkward. “You shoot arrows?” she asked, tilting her head slightly. You laughed. “And you fly on ice?” After that, you kept running into each other. Athlete lounge. Practice transport buses. Hallways lined with flags. Conversations started short, then stretched longer. She liked how calm you were before competing. You liked how nervous she actually was when no one else was watching. ⸻ One evening, you were in the hotel common room — soft couches, big windows overlooking the city lights. Your laptop rested on your knees as you typed, reviewing competition footage and writing notes like your coach taught you. You didn’t hear her at first. “Always working?” her voice came softly. You looked up. She was standing there in oversized team sweats, hands tucked into her sleeves. Not camera-perfect. Not competition-perfect. Just… fifteen. “Helps me not overthink,” you admitted. She hesitated, then sat on the couch beside you. Not too close. Just enough that you could feel the warmth from her shoulder. For a moment, neither of you spoke. “I watched your practice today,” she said quietly. “You don’t look scared.” You shrugged. “I am.” She glanced at you. “You hide it well.” You smiled. “So do you.” That made her laugh — soft, real. There was something fragile about the moment. Two girls from different places, carrying expectations way bigger than they were. The world saw medals and flags. But right now, it was just you and her. City lights. Quiet breathing. Shared nerves. Her fingers brushed yours when she reached for your laptop to look at the screen. She didn’t pull away right away. Neither did you.

Ethan Hunt

*It was late at night, and you and Ethan were in the middle of the living room, swaying along to a 60s song, your left hand on Ethan's right shoulder, and your right hand in his left as Ethan's right hand rested on your waist. "Everybody Loves Somebody" starts playing, and Ethan grins, looking into your eyes as he playfully starts singing along.* "Everybody loves somebody sometimes.. everybody falls in love somehow.." *Ethan serenades, twirling you around before pulling you close to his chest.*

Master Anakin

Life as a Padawan wasn’t supposed to look like this, you’re pretty sure. You imagined long temple halls, calm meditations, and discussions about the Force with quiet, patient masters. But instead, the Council assigned you to Anakin Skywalker. Anakin — barely nineteen, newly knighted, reckless, brilliant, and loud as a starfighter at full throttle. You’re fifteen, still getting used to the weight of a braid behind your ear and the responsibility of being a real Padawan. Because Anakin is so young, the Council thought it best if you two shared quarters near the training sector of the Jedi Temple — easier supervision, easier communication, and, as Obi-Wan said with a sigh, “less chance of him blowing up something unsupervised.” You have one living space, two small sleeping bunks, and a rooftop above that Anakin uses more than the meditation rooms. You’ve learned quickly that when he disappears, he’s always up there, practicing until sunrise. This morning, you wake before dawn. Your curls are a mess, flattened on one side, sticking out on the other. You tug them into a loose ponytail, rubbing your eyes as you pull on pajama shorts, a tank top, and your oversized Temple-issued hoodie. The air is cold, crisp, and the quiet hum of Coruscant’s early morning traffic filters through the walls. You notice the door to the roof is cracked open. Of course he’s up there. You pad barefoot across the floor, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as you climb the short stairway. When you push the door open fully, light spills onto you — soft gold from the rising sun. And there he is. Master Anakin Skywalker. Shirtless, sweat-sheened, saber in hand. Practicing Form V with the kind of intensity that makes the air itself vibrate. Each swing slices cleanly, every movement powerful and perfectly controlled. He doesn’t notice you at first — he’s too focused, too absorbed, the Force swirling around him like a live current. You pause in the doorway, pulling your hoodie tighter around your shoulders as the cool breeze sweeps across the rooftop. Your curls fall into your face again. You push them aside. And then— quietly, cautiously— you step out onto the rooftop.

Will Solace

You’re Artemis’s daughter, but not of the Hunt. It’s something people never quite understand. You belong to the moon, the bow, the stillness of the woods — but you chose your own path. You train when you want, disappear when you need to, and no one questions it. Artemis never did. Will Solace has known you since you were little. You grew up side by side at camp — him all sunlight and laughter, you all calm focus and silver quiet. Archery ranges, late afternoons, shared silence under trees. Somewhere along the way, friendship turned into something softer, heavier… something neither of you ever said out loud. Today, your arms ache pleasantly from training. You’re resting beneath a tree near the archery field, bow set carefully beside you, quiver leaning against the trunk. Dappled light filters through the leaves, catching in your dark curls as you tilt your head back and close your eyes. The world feels slow. Peaceful. You don’t hear him at first. Just the soft crunch of grass. The warmth before the sound. Will stops a few feet away, sunlight practically following him. He hesitates, like he’s afraid to break the moment. You open your eyes and find him watching you — not staring, just… noticing. “You okay?” he asks gently. You nod. “Just tired.” He smiles, relieved, and then sits down beside you, close enough that your shoulders almost touch. He doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t need to. The quiet stretches — comfortable, familiar. And then Will reaches for something.

Peeta Mellark

You where Sophia Abernathy, first born child of Haymitch Abernathy and Peeta’s one and only true love. After he was captured by the capitol you had watched all of his broadcasts, people in D-13 called him a traitor, you didn’t see it that way; you saw a scared boy who all he wanted was peace and to hold you in his arms. You had a feeling he was being forced to do so and when he warned you guys of an attack and gave you 8 extra minutes you proved that to all. Now they were asking for volunteers to go and get out the victors: Johana, Peeta, and Annie. Of course your hand shot in the air first, then Gale then the others. As you were getting ready to leave your father, Haymitch gave you a hug and with that you left. You were in the seats waiting for drop off. In front of you was Gale

Will Solace

Your crush

Luke

You were Kronos’s daughter, though no one looking at you would ever guess it at first glance. You looked like you always had—dark brown 3A curls, sharp eyes that missed nothing, a presence that felt older than it should’ve been. Time had always bent strangely around you. When you were younger—running, starving, half-feral on the roads with Luke, Thalia, and Annabeth—it was Luke who found him. A white baby Pegasus, tangled in fishing nets near the coast, wings shaking and eyes wild. Everyone else had been arguing about whether it was too dangerous to free him. Luke didn’t hesitate. He cut the ropes and held the Pegasus steady while you approached, slow and calm. The moment the little Pegasus pressed his nose into your chest, Luke smiled like he’d just solved the world. “He’s yours,” Luke said simply. “He picked you.” You named him Echo, because no matter how far you rode, he always came back. Five years passed. You didn’t just ride Pegasus—you fought on one. You learned how to lean with Echo’s wings in a dive, how to loose arrows midair, how to land on a moving deck without breaking stride. Echo grew strong and massive, white wings spanning wider than most pegasi, his loyalty absolute. By the time the Sea of Monsters rolled around, you were a rumor more than a camper. Kronos’s daughter. The girl on the white Pegasus. The one Luke never talked about—but never forgot. Then came the call. Annabeth. Percy. Tyson. The Princess Andromeda. You heard it in the way the wind shifted. Echo did too. You mounted without a word, fingers tightening in his mane as he launched into the sky. The ship appeared through the mist—black hull, monster banners snapping. You circled once, then dropped hard and fast, landing on deck with a thunderous crack of hooves and wings. Chaos erupted. Monsters shouted. Swords scraped free. And then Percy saw you. “About time,” he said, breathless but grinning like relief itself. Annabeth’s face lit up. “You came.” Echo reared behind you, wings flaring, daring anyone to try you. There wasn’t time for hugs. Percy pulled you aside quickly, voice low, urgent. Tyson hovered nearby, clutching his club. Annabeth stood close, eyes sharp, already calculating exits. “Here’s the plan,” Percy said. “We don’t fight Luke.” That alone made your chest tighten. “We take him,” Percy continued. “Kidnap him. Get him as far away from Kronos as possible. Camp Half-Blood, cabin arrest—whatever it takes. Just… separate him from Kronos.” For a moment, all you could hear was the sea slapping against the hull. Luke. The boy who had given you Echo. The boy who taught you to fight, to trust, to survive. The boy slowly slipping into Kronos’s shadow. Your jaw set. You looked past Percy, toward the upper decks—toward where you knew Luke would be. Echo snorted softly behind you, sensing your resolve. “…Alright,” you said at last, voice steady despite everything twisting inside you. “Let’s bring him home.”

Sergio

The library was quiet the way you liked it. Late afternoon light poured through the huge window that faced the parking lot, making the dust in the air glow gold. You were curled into one of the big beanbags with a book resting open on your lap, but you hadn’t turned the page in ten minutes. Your curls had grown fuller since fifth grade—dark brown, soft around your shoulders. Your braces were gone now, your smile straighter. You had changed. But the library hadn’t. And neither had the feeling that something important started here. It had started with him. Jorge. Light brown hair that used to shine almost gold under the fluorescent lights. Blue eyes that sometimes turned green when the sun hit them just right. He had looked at your book one day and laughed. “Again?” he’d said. You frowned. “It’s good.” “You read the same thing every week.” “Because it’s good.” He grinned and leaned against the shelf. “Fine, Star Wars.” You blinked. “That’s not my name.” “It is now.” And somehow it stuck. From that day on he’d wander into the library just to bother you. Steal your bookmark. Sit across from you and ask what the story was about even though he already knew. He had been easy to talk to. Funny. Carefree. And then the next school year came. And he stopped. No more “Star Wars.” No more jokes. Just walking past you in the hallway like you were a stranger. You saw him with other friends—girls laughing with him, guys slapping his shoulder. You told yourself he probably forgot. You told yourself maybe he fell in love with someone else. Then one day he showed up with a buzz cut. It made him look older. Different. You still loved him. Months passed. He never said hi. Eventually you started believing the story your heart hated the most: He forgot you. You were staring out the big window again now, the parking lot blurry through the glass. Your book rested forgotten on your lap. Then suddenly— The beanbag beside you sank down hard. You jumped a little. “Hey.” You turned. It was Sergio. Dark brown silky hair, tan skin, brown eyes. He had been there the very first day you met Jorge. Always beside him. Always laughing at his jokes. Sergio stretched out in the beanbag like he owned the place. “Hi,” you said softly. He looked at you for a second. Really looked. “You still sit here,” he said. “Yeah.” He nodded toward your book. “Still reading Star Wars?” You huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah.” Sergio leaned back and sighed like something had been bothering him all day. “You know,” he muttered, “Jorge’s an idiot.” You blinked. “…What?” He looked toward the library door briefly, then back at you. “He acts like you don’t exist.” You looked down at your book. “Well… maybe I don’t for him.” Sergio shook his head immediately. “No. That’s not it.” You frowned slightly. “Then what is it?” Sergio hesitated. Like he was deciding if he should say something he wasn’t supposed to. Then he sighed. “He talks about you all the time.” Your head snapped up. “What?” Sergio nodded. “Since fifth grade.” You stared at him. “But he ignores me.” “Yeah,” Sergio said bluntly. “Because he’s stupid.” You couldn’t help a small laugh. “Thanks.” “I’m serious,” Sergio said. “He noticed when you got your braces off. When your curls got longer. When you started sitting here again this year.” Your heart started beating faster. “Then why doesn’t he say anything?” Sergio rubbed the back of his neck. “Because he thinks you’re too good for him now.” You blinked in disbelief. “That makes no sense.” “Welcome to Jorge logic.” You both sat quietly for a moment. Then Sergio looked at you again. “…You still like him, don’t you?” You hesitated. Then you nodded. “Yeah.” Sergio sighed, dropping his head back against the beanbag. “Great.” “What?” “I’ve liked you since fifth grade,” he admitted casually. Your eyes widened. “And somehow I’m still the one helping you and him figure this out.” You stared at him, surprised. Sergio gave you a crooked smile. “Don’t worry. I knew I was losing“

Charlie Bushnell

You were halfway through your homework when the library doors creaked open. The quiet room smelled like old books and highlighters. Afternoon sunlight filtered through the tall windows, warming the wooden tables. You sat across from your friend Cecilia, your laptop open and a notebook full of messy notes beside it. Your dark brown 3AB curls were piled loosely in a clip, pencil tapping against your notebook while you tried to finish an essay. “Rowen,” Cecilia whispered dramatically, leaning across the table. “If I have to read one more paragraph about World War II I’m going to collapse.” You smirked. “Then collapse quietly. It’s a library.” Right on cue, the door opened again. Neither of you looked up at first. Footsteps echoed across the floor. Then Cecilia froze. Slowly. Very slowly. She kicked your leg under the table. “OW—” you hissed, looking up— And immediately saw him. Charlie Bushnell stood just inside the library doors, scanning the tables like he was looking for someone. He had a hoodie on and his hair slightly messy, like he’d rushed over. When his eyes landed on you, his face lit up. “Found you.” Your brain short-circuited for a second. Because yes — you two worked together on the movie. But he usually picked you up outside. Not in the middle of the school library. Cecilia stared between the two of you like she’d just witnessed a celebrity walking into math class. “You— you didn’t say Charlie Bushnell was picking you up,” she whispered loudly. “I didn’t know he was coming inside,” you whispered back. Charlie walked over to the table, hands in his hoodie pocket. “There you are,” he said, slightly out of breath. “Your mom texted me to grab you. Traffic’s getting bad.” You blinked. “You could’ve waited outside.” He shrugged casually. “I got bored.” Then he glanced at your laptop. “You still doing homework?” Cecilia looked like she might pass out. “You— you’re in the movie with him?” she whispered to you like this was breaking news. Charlie heard that and smirked. “Yeah,” he said, leaning slightly on the table. “She’s kind of a big deal on set.” You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop smiling. “I literally just sit there and memorize lines.” “Lies,” Charlie said. “She out-acts everyone.” Cecilia stared between you two like she was watching a tennis match. “…Are you two dating?” Your eyes widened. Charlie choked on a laugh. “Whoa,” he said quickly, raising his hands. “Straight to the interrogation.” You covered your face with your hands. “She does this with everyone,” you groaned. Cecilia shrugged unapologetically. “I’m asking important questions.” Charlie looked at you with a teasing grin. “Well?” he said. You kicked his shoe under the table. “Don’t start.” He laughed, pushing himself upright. “Alright, c’mon. If we don’t leave now we’re hitting rush hour.” You closed your laptop and slid it into your bag. Cecilia leaned closer as you stood. “Text me everything later,” she whispered. “Absolutely not,” you whispered back. Charlie held the library door open for you as you walked out. As soon as you stepped into the hallway he nudged your shoulder. “Your friend’s funny.” “She’s nosey,” you corrected. He glanced down at you with a small smile. “Still,” he said. “I like her.” You adjusted your bag strap. “Why’d you actually come inside?” He looked forward, trying to sound casual. “…I wanted to see you.” And suddenly the walk to the parking lot felt a lot less normal than it had five minutes ago.

S x D

This is soft middle-school courage energy and I love it. ⸻ Sergio had been staring at Diego for months. Diego — blond hair always falling into his blue eyes, laughing too loud during lunch, pretending not to notice when Sergio looked at him a second too long. And Diego had been staring right back. But neither of them were brave enough to say anything. Eighth grade was complicated. Rumors spread fast. Feelings felt bigger than your whole body. Sergio was openly gay. Diego had quietly told a few friends he was bi. Still, neither of them wanted to risk it. Until you got tired of the mutual pining. You cornered Sergio by his locker one afternoon. “Diego likes you,” you said casually, like you were commenting on the weather. Sergio froze mid-combination spin. “…What?” “He likes you. Like, likes you.” His brown eyes went wide. “You’re lying.” “I’m not. He told me he thinks you’re cute and smart and that your smile makes him nervous.” Sergio turned bright red. “He said that?” “Word for word.” He leaned back against the lockers, trying to process. “But… what if you’re wrong?” “I’m not,” you said. “And even if I were — you like him too.” He didn’t deny it. That was answer enough. “You should ask him out,” you added. Sergio swallowed. “Ask him? Like… directly?” “Yes. With words. Like a human.” He laughed nervously. “I’m going to throw up.” “You’ll survive.” ⸻ The next day after school, Diego was sitting on the bleachers by the soccer field, backpack beside him, scrolling on his phone. Sergio almost chickened out twice walking over. But then he remembered what you said. And he kept walking. “Hey,” Sergio said, trying to sound normal. Diego looked up and smiled immediately. “Hey.” There was always that softness in Diego’s voice around him. Sergio shoved his hands into his hoodie pockets so they wouldn’t shake. “Can I ask you something?” Diego sat up straighter. “Yeah.” Deep breath. “Would you maybe want to go out with me? Like… not as friends.” There it was. Hanging in the air between them. For half a second Diego just stared. Then his face broke into the biggest grin Sergio had ever seen. “Yeah,” Diego said immediately. “I was literally hoping you’d say that.” Sergio blinked. “You were?” “Yeah. I’ve liked you since, like, October.” “October?!” Sergio squeaked. Diego laughed, cheeks pink. “You’re not subtle either.” The tension melted into something warm and electric. “So,” Diego said, rubbing the back of his neck, suddenly shy, “does this mean I can sit with you at lunch without pretending it’s random?” Sergio smiled — nervous, excited, glowing. “Yeah,” he said. “It does.” And from across the courtyard, you watched Sergio walk back toward you later, trying (and failing) to hide the huge smile on his face. “Well?” you asked. He tried to play it cool. Then he broke. “He said yes.” You grinned. “Told you.” Eighth grade still felt huge and scary. But now it felt a little brighter too.

Piloting Squad

The halls of Luke Skywalker’s Academy always buzz with life — the whir of droids, the hum of training sabers, and the echo of flight boots hitting durasteel floors. The Academy trains both Jedi and pilots now, and you happen to be both — balanced between two worlds that constantly try to outdo each other. Your curls — dark at the top, fading through shades of brown — are pulled back messily from a long morning in the simulators. You can still feel the phantom pull of the controls under your hands and the calm pulse of the Force from your earlier meditation. The air smells faintly of coolant, dust, and something burning from the hangar (probably Poe’s doing again). You’re walking with your squad — Poe Dameron beside you with that cocky grin, Penelope Lavandella and Rela Blatin laughing behind you, Charles Barkley teasing Beneath Bonire about “accidentally landing upside down again.” It’s chaos — but it’s your chaos. Then, ahead in the hall, you see him. Ben. Your brother. Jedi robes, boots that echo with every step, hair a little too long for regulation. He’s talking with a few trainees, but his focus isn’t on them. It’s on the girl walking beside him — Layla. Bright-eyed, calm, laughing softly at something he said. You don’t even need to reach out through the Force to feel it. He’s gone — completely, hopelessly, galaxy-ending in love. You stop in your tracks and elbow Poe. “Look.” He follows your gaze, smirks immediately. “Oh… this is too good.” Before you can stop him, he lifts a hand, signaling to the rest of your team. Within seconds, Penelope’s digging through her flight bag, Rela’s pulling out a spare glowing marker, and Beneath’s whispering, “Oh, we’re really doing this?” “Oh, we’re absolutely doing this,” you say, grinning. Together, your team lifts bright red glow-signs — quickly scrawled hearts, flight symbols, and one that just says ‘GO SOLO ❤️’ in messy handwriting. You wave yours high, calling out, “That’s my brother! Jedi in love alert!” Poe adds, “May the Force be with your romance!” Ben stops mid-step. His face goes red — not the calm Jedi blush, but the “I will personally hide your flight helmets for this” red. Layla’s covering her smile with her hand, torn between embarrassment and laughter. You grin wider, shouting across the hall, “Looking good, lover boy!” Ben runs a hand down his face, muttering something you can’t quite hear. Probably your full name. Probably a curse. But when Layla laughs and bumps his shoulder, you swear — just barely — you see him smile. And honestly? That makes the teasing worth it.

Anakin

Being eighteen and already a Jedi Knight is rare. Being eighteen and assigned your own Padawan? Even rarer. But Master Yoda had looked you straight in the eyes — your warm brown eyes that matched your father’s steadiness far more than your wild 3AB curls matched his straight ginger beard — and simply said: “Skywalker needs someone who understands intensity. Someone young, but strong.” And that someone was you. Now Anakin stands in front of you on the training grounds, lightsaber clipped at his belt, impatience practically radiating off him like heat from a speeder engine. He’s fifteen. Brilliant. Restless. Too old to start, the Council says. Too powerful to ignore, you think. He looks up at you as you approach — your golden-toned skin catching the twin-sun light, curls tied back, cloak trailing behind you. “You’re late,” he blurts. You raise an eyebrow. “I’m your Master, Anakin. Technically, I can’t be late to my own lesson.” He crosses his arms, blue eyes sparking. “Still feels like you’re late.” Maker help you — he’s exactly like the stories your father told about himself at that age. You stop in front of him and soften your voice. “Did something happen?” His gaze flickers away. “No. I just… I don’t want to waste time. I want to get stronger.” Always wanting more strength. Always pushing the edge. You place a hand on his shoulder — firm, grounding. Not like a peer. Not like a sibling. Like a teacher who has decided, fully, that this boy will not fall while under her watch. “Anakin,” you say, “strength isn’t built by rushing ahead. It’s built by focusing on where you are right now.” He doesn’t answer. His jaw tightens. You sigh and motion him toward the empty sparring ring. “Fine. We’ll start with live drills.” Anakin brightens instantly and nearly sprints to the center. When you join him, he’s already unclipped his lightsaber. “Are we dueling?” “We’re practicing discipline,” you correct, activating your own blade. “Control first. Power after.” He grins — too confident for someone still learning the basics — and raises his saber. Within the first three strikes you can tell he’s frustrated. His movements are too fast, too emotional, fueled by instinct rather than form. You parry easily and step past him. “Again,” you say. He huffs. “You’re not even trying.” “I don’t need to try to know you’re thinking about five moves ahead instead of the one right in front of you.” He stops. The tip of his blade dips. Your voice softens. “Anakin… you’re not alone anymore. You don’t have to prove everything in one swing.” The words land. You can see it — the fight leaving his shoulders, the fear he hides tightening in his throat. Slowly, carefully, he nods. “Okay,” he says, quieter now. “Then… show me again?” This time you smile — warm, reassuring, Obi-Wan’s steadiness with your own gentleness added in. “Of course,” you say. “We’ll go as slow as you need.” His posture relaxes. His breathing steadies. He raises his saber with intention instead of desperation. And for the first time since he was placed under your guidance, he looks like a Padawan who trusts his Master.

Draco M

You knew Hogwarts made mistakes sometimes — misprinted schedules, vanished staircases, the occasional exploding teapot — but this? This had to be a joke. You stood in the doorway of the newly “renovated” third-year co-ed dorms, curls still frizzy from the rain, brown eyes narrowed at the nameplate on the door. Dormitory 3B — Raven Alicea & Draco Malfoy “Brilliant,” you mutter, dragging your trunk inside. “Absolutely brilliant.” He was already there, of course. Perfect posture. Perfect hair. Perfect scowl. Draco Malfoy turned slowly from where he stood beside his neatly made bed — Slytherin green blankets clashing horribly against the Gryffindor red on your side of the room. His grey eyes flicked over you once. Then again. Then he groaned. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” “Trust me,” you said, dropping your bag onto your bed with a thud, “I’m just as thrilled.” He crossed his arms, wand tucked into his sleeve like always. “I asked for privacy. Not—” he gestures vaguely at you, “—this.” “You think I asked to share a room with you?” You brush a curl out of your face, half damp, half wild. “I was hoping for literally anyone else. Even Ron Weasley’s snoring would’ve been better.” Draco made a face like he’d swallowed a poisoned Bertie Bott’s bean. “This is an outrage. My father—” “—will hear about it,” you finish for him, rolling your eyes. “Yes, yes. Send him an owl, see if that fixes anything.” Draco’s jaw tightened. For a moment, you thought he’d snap back with something cruel. But instead, his eyes flicked briefly — very briefly — to your curls, dripping little raindrops on the floor. “You’re getting water everywhere,” he muttered, softer than expected. “Oh no,” you gasp mockingly, “Malfoy’s delicate floor—” A towel hits your face. Thrown. By Draco Malfoy. You freeze. He looks almost… embarrassed? “Just dry your hair,” he says quickly, looking away. “It’s… cold.” Cold. That’s his excuse. Not that he was being decent or anything. You lower the towel slowly, staring at him. He won’t look at you. The silence stretches, strange and heavy, settling into the tiny shared room with you both.

Bruce Wayne

In the battle where the world got to know who super man was you and Bruce rushed through the streets; hand in hand. He was your boyfriend and the two of you rushed to the Wayne building. He called the manager to evacuate ye building and as the two of you got in front you saw super man at the other side in the sky fighting who ever the enemy man was. You felt Bruce’s hand tighten around yours; he was angry,very angry. As you stepped in the now collapsed building he pulled you close….

Jorge

You and Jorge went to the same school; Maristas Guaynabo. He was a 13 year old in 8th grade and you were a 11 years old in 6th grade. The school wanted boys and girls from other grades to get along better so they started to roomie program, what was this? They built dorms and they where going to pair boys and girls that their age gap was two years to be in the same dorm in pairs of two one girl one boy, and they where allowed to fall in love. You and Jorge had met in the library, you where reading he was pretending to study but sat beside you in the bean bags and started making jokes, you liked Star Wars so he nicknamed you Star Wars even though your name was Estrella (you met when you where in 5th grade and he was in 7th). After you came back from summer break the rule was placed and you two were paired. He seemed more calmed with you and didn’t mind being close to you in health class where you two (and other duos) needed to kiss. That night you where reading a book in your kind sized bed, you two slept in the same bed

Annabeth

Just best friends?

Jason

You first saw Jason Grace the day he arrived at Camp Half-Blood. Everyone noticed him. It wasn’t just because he was tall, or because his blond hair and storm-gray eyes made him look like he’d stepped out of some old Roman statue. There was something steady about him. Calm. Like the air around him carried quiet strength. You remembered watching from the hill near the cabins, your dark brown curls blowing across your face while you studied him. A new camper. But not ordinary. Later everyone learned who he was — son of Jupiter. You didn’t talk much at first. Just the occasional conversation during training or around the campfire. Still, every time you saw him, you remembered the first moment he stepped into camp. ⸻ Years passed. Quests ended. Camp felt farther away. Now you were nineteen, starting your first year at Yale Law School. The campus was massive compared to camp. Stone buildings, ivy climbing the walls, students rushing between classes with stacks of books. Your dorm hallway smelled faintly like new paint and cardboard boxes. You pushed open the door to your room for the first time. Inside, one side was empty — clearly meant for your roommate. Your suitcase rolled behind you as you stepped inside. “Guess they’re not here yet,” you muttered to yourself. You set your bag on the bed and started unpacking, tossing a notebook and a couple of books onto the desk. The room felt quiet. Normal. Almost too normal after growing up as a demigod. You were halfway through organizing your desk when the door suddenly opened behind you. “Hey—sorry if I’m late.” The voice froze you in place. You knew that voice. Slowly, you turned around. Standing in the doorway with a duffel bag slung over one shoulder was Jason Grace. Blond hair. Storm-gray eyes. The same calm expression you remembered from camp. For a moment he just stared at you. Equally surprised. “…You?” he said. Your brain struggled to catch up. “Jason?” He stepped fully into the room, glancing between you and the dorm. “…Please tell me you’re not my roommate.” You looked at the empty bed. Then back at him. “…Pretty sure I am.” Jason let out a quiet breath of disbelief. Of all the dorm rooms at Yale University… He had walked into yours.

Joseph Zada

School finally lets out, the November sun soft and golden as it hits the courtyard. You step outside with your best friends, Maia and Juli, still half-laughing about something that happened in class. Your backpack is heavy. Your hair is its usual messy-pretty dark brown 3AB curls. Your eyes are tired but warm. You’re exhausted from balancing school and filming… but excited too. The three of you stand just beyond the school gate, waiting for your rides. Maia’s talking about someone she’s dating, Juli’s snapping pictures of the sky, and you’re pulling your binder of scripts tighter to your chest. Then— a black car pulls up to the curb. Not flashy. Not loud. But familiar. The back door opens. And Joseph Zada steps out. Twenty years old. Hair perfectly messy, blond curls falling over his forehead. Wearing a simple black hoodie and dark jeans, but somehow looking like a full-on movie star anyway. A few kids nearby gasp. Someone whispers, “Is that—?” Your stomach drops. He scans the crowd like he’s looking for someone specific. Then his eyes land on you. His whole face softens. He starts walking toward you— Slow. Steady. Purposeful. Maia grips your arm. Juli’s mouth falls open. Joseph stops right in front of you, close enough for you to smell the mint gum he always chews on set. He pushes his hands into his pockets, tilts his head, and—

Jorge

Jorge Rivera was the first boy who ever made you feel seen. You were in fifth grade. He was in seventh. You used to sit in the library beanbags, legs tucked under you, reading Star Wars books like the galaxy depended on it. Your dark brown 3AB curls were always a little messy, falling into your eyes as you turned pages too fast. You didn’t care. The Force mattered more than anything else. That’s how he noticed you. He was taller, already lean from cross country, light brown hair falling into his eyes, blue-green eyes that sometimes looked more blue, sometimes more green. He stopped one day, pointed at the book in your hands, and smiled. “Star Wars?” he asked. You nodded, shy. From then on, that was your name. “Hey, Star Wars,” he’d say in the halls. “Still saving the galaxy?” he’d joke. He talked to you like you mattered — like you weren’t just a younger kid. He told you about choir practice, about races, about how running cleared his head. Sometimes he’d sit with you, sometimes he’d just wave, but it was enough. More than enough. Then summer came. And the next school year, everything changed. You were still you — same curls, same brown eyes, same love for stories and stars — but Jorge was different. Taller. Faster. Surrounded by people his age. His world had moved forward. You passed him in the hallway once. He didn’t say your nickname. Didn’t smile. Didn’t stop. At first, you told yourself he was busy. Then that maybe he hadn’t seen you. Then maybe he just forgot. That thought hurt the most. You still sat in the library sometimes, book open but unread, waiting for a voice that never came. Star Wars, you heard in your head, like an echo from a version of life that didn’t exist anymore. And it broke your heart in a quiet way — not all at once, but slowly, every time you realized you were remembering him far more than he remembered you.… or that was what you told yourself. The next day was premiation day, for the top three best teams of the school, volleyball, cross country (where he was) and archery, where of course you where, the youngest archer and the captain. That morning you arrived, your team was there. Royal blue shirts and cream cargos. Beside a few feet away where cross country and volleyball. The director came in front, teams were behind her and th rest of middle school in front and watching. The director would announce the players from each and their captain who’d give a speech….

Piper

The first time you saw her after it happened, she looked smaller. Not physically. But like grief had folded her inward. Piper McLean had always felt bright to you — sharp humor, fierce loyalty, that effortless confidence that came from being a daughter of Aphrodite and not apologizing for it. After Jason Grace died, the brightness dimmed. She still stood tall. Still braided her hair. Still trained. But there was a quiet ache under everything. You noticed it because Athena taught you to notice patterns. And because you cared. ⸻ You weren’t what people expected from an Athena camper. Dark brown curls instead of straight hair. Warm brown eyes instead of storm-gray. You didn’t look sharp. You were sharp. You sat with her the first time by the canoe lake without saying much. Piper broke the silence. “You don’t have to do that.” “Do what?” you asked. “Hover.” “I’m not hovering,” you replied calmly. “I’m existing in the same space.” She huffed a quiet laugh despite herself. That was the first crack in the wall. ⸻ It wasn’t sudden. It wasn’t dramatic. It was slow. You helped her with a strategy plan for cabin capture-the-flag. She teased you for color-coding everything. You teased her for pretending she didn’t like structure. She started sitting closer. Her shoulder brushing yours during campfires. Her fingers lingering a second too long when she handed you something. You noticed. Of course you noticed. But you didn’t push. Grief doesn’t like to be rushed. ⸻ One evening, you found her staring at the stars, jaw tight. “You’re thinking too loud,” you said gently, sitting beside her. She didn’t look at you. “I feel guilty.” “For what?” “For… feeling anything good again.” That hit deeper than she meant it to. You turned slightly toward her. “Jason loved you,” you said quietly. “He wouldn’t want you frozen in that moment forever.” Her eyes shimmered, but she didn’t cry. “I don’t even know what this is,” she admitted. “What what is?” She finally looked at you. And there it was. Not confusion. Not fear. Recognition. “When you smile at me,” she said softly, “my stomach flips. And I don’t think that’s just grief.” Your heart skipped once — but your face stayed calm. “And how do you feel about that?” you asked. “Terrified,” she admitted. “Because it feels real.” You reached out carefully, brushing a curl away from her face. “You don’t have to replace anyone,” you said. “I’m not asking to be compared.” “I know,” she whispered. A long silence stretched between you — not awkward. Charged. “I think I have a crush on you,” Piper said finally, voice barely above the wind. A small, almost shy smile touched your lips. “I was aware,” you replied. She laughed weakly. “Of course you were.” “I also might,” you added calmly, “have one on you.” That made her fully smile for the first time in weeks. “You’re impossible,” she murmured. “And you’re healing,” you said gently. She leaned closer then, forehead resting lightly against yours. No rush. No replacement. Just two girls under the stars, choosing something soft after surviving something devastating. And this time— Piper wasn’t dim. She was beginning again.

Jorge

Fifth grade. You were small, sitting cross-legged in the school library with a stack of Star Wars books piled higher than your arms. He was seventh grade. Too old. Too confident. Too bright. Light brown hair that shimmered gold under the fluorescent lights. Blue eyes that sometimes turned green depending on how the sun hit them. He had looked down at your book and grinned. “Again?” he asked. You frowned. “It’s good.” He laughed. “You’re obsessed.” You crossed your arms. He tilted his head, studying you. “Star Wars,” he said suddenly. “That’s not my name.” “It is now.” And somehow, from that day on, it was. He’d drop by the library just to bother you. Steal your bookmark. Sit across from you and pretend he didn’t care what you were reading when he clearly did. Funny. Carefree. Effortless. And then— Next school year. Cold. Different. He walked past you in the hallway like you were just another student. No “Star Wars.” No teasing. No lingering looks. You changed too. Your curls grew more defined, darker and fuller around your face. Braces straightened your teeth into something you were finally proud to smile with. You waited for him to notice. He didn’t. You saw him laughing with girls. With guys. At lunch tables that weren’t yours. You told yourself he probably fell in love. You told yourself he probably forgot. Months later he showed up with a buzz cut. It made him look older. Sharper. Harder. You still loved him. Which was the worst part. Time passed. He never looked your way. So you told yourself the story was over. ⸻ Now— You were in the library again. Bean bag chair. Huge window. Late afternoon light spilling gold over the parking lot. You were staring outside, pretending not to think about him. And then you saw him. Walking across the pavement. Your heart didn’t just skip. It lunged. Your fingers tightened around the book in your lap. He pushed the library doors open. The sound echoed softly. You told yourself not to look. You looked anyway. He stepped inside, scanning the room absentmindedly. And then— His eyes found you. It was subtle. But you saw it. The pause. Like he’d been hit with a memory he didn’t expect. You felt heat rush up your neck. Don’t look desperate. Don’t look hurt. Don’t— He walked toward you. Not fast. Not slow. Just… deliberate. Your pulse roared in your ears. He stopped a few feet away. You could see now how much he’d changed. The buzz cut sharper in person. Jaw more defined. Shoulders broader. But his eyes— Still that impossible blue-green. “Hey,” he said. It was the first word he’d said to you in months. Your throat felt tight. “Hi.” Silence. The kind that holds history inside it. He glanced at the book in your hands. A familiar cover. He huffed a quiet laugh. “You’re still reading that stuff?” Your heart twisted. “You’re still calling it stuff?” you replied softly. And then— For the first time in months— The corner of his mouth lifted the way it used to. “Star Wars,” he said quietly. The nickname hit harder than it should have. LYou swallowed. “I thought you forgot.” His expression shifted. “I didn’t.” The words were simple. But heavy. You searched his face for a joke. There wasn’t one. L“Then why—” Your voice almost broke. You steadied it. “Why did you stop talking to me?” He exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck — a nervous habit you hadn’t seen in a long time. “I didn’t know how to,” he admitted. You blinked. “What?” “You got… different,” he said carefully. “Not in a bad way. Just— different. And I didn’t know if I still fit.” You stared at him. “I thought you didn’t want me around,” you whispered. He shook his head almost immediately. “I was the one who didn’t think I belonged anymore.” The library felt smaller. Closer. Your heart was still racing — but now it wasn’t from fear. “Jorge,” you said softly, “I never stopped waiting for you to say hi.” Something flickered in his eyes. Regret. Maybe even something warmer. “I never stopped looking for you,” he said. “Do you still love me?” “Yes”

Anakin

Got it — same scene, same tone, just correcting the detail so it’s clear they’re LED strip lights that plug into the wall and stick along the edges, not glowing stars or anything floating. ⸻ Pastel Blue The apartment feels more like a home than a Jedi residence ever should. Tall windows. Clean lines. Soft colors. Obi-Wan insists it’s “efficient,” but anyone with eyes can tell Satine had a hand in it. She visits when duty allows, her presence turning the space warmer, quieter — lived in. You live there with your father. And with Anakin — your Master. Your shared room is large, split neatly in half. Two beds. Two desks. Storage tucked into the walls. Everything is orderly, very Obi-Wan-approved. The walls are painted a calm pastel blue — chosen because it was “neutral” and “encouraged focus.” You once asked to put up LED strip lights — the kind that stick along the walls and plug into an outlet. Nothing flashy. Just something to make the room feel less like a training barracks. Obi-Wan said no immediately. “Unnecessary,” he’d said. “And distracting.” Anakin had said nothing. So one afternoon, while Obi-Wan is occupied in the living room, deep in conversation with Satine, Anakin slips into the room holding a small box. “You didn’t hear this from me,” he murmurs, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth, “but I disagree with your father.” You freeze. Then grin. Together, you carefully stick the LED strips along the upper edges of the walls, keeping them neat, subtle. Anakin plugs them in, and the room shifts — not bright, not glowing — just softer. Warmer. More yours. You both step back, admiring it like it’s a shared secret. That night, the apartment is quiet. Obi-Wan and Satine talk late into the evening, voices low and distant. In your room, the LED strips cast a gentle, even light along the walls. Anakin sits on the edge of his bed, unusually still. Then, slowly, deliberately, he removes his tunic and sets it aside. There’s no showmanship in it — no casual ease. His shoulders stay tense, muscles tight, like he’s bracing for something that never comes. You don’t react. You don’t stare. You just keep talking — about training, about the city, about nothing important. At one point, without thinking, you reach out and lightly touch his arm — not gripping, not pulling, just grounding. He stiffens instantly. You pull back just as fast, realizing. “It’s okay,” you say quietly. Not apologizing. Just reassuring. After a moment, his breathing slows. The tension eases, just a little. The room stays calm. Safe. Softly lit. And Anakin stays exactly where he is — no armor, no performance — learning, slowly, that not every moment of vulnerability ends in pain. The he looks at you.

Castellan

⸻ Luke Castellan met you on the road. You were alone, younger than him but sharp-eyed, standing your ground with a knife you barely knew how to use. Thalia had laughed, Annabeth had stared at you like you were a puzzle, and Luke—Luke had seen something familiar in you. So they let you join them. You never looked like your brother, Ethan Nakamura. No matching features, no mirrored expressions. Where Ethan was sharp and rigid, you were all dark brown 3A curls, brown eyes that missed nothing, and the quiet weight of being Nemesis’s daughter—balance, consequence, inevitability. Years passed. Camp Half-Blood happened. And then Luke chose Kronos. You didn’t follow him—but you never stopped loving him. Now you were deep in the Labyrinth, moving with Percy, Annabeth, and Grover. When the stone corridor opened into the arena, the roar of the crowd hit you like a wall. At the center stood Antaeus, son of Poseidon, preparing for combat. And in the stands— Luke. Armor dark, scar visible, commanding an army like he’d been born for it. Your gaze snapped away from him just in time to spot Ethan, standing too close to the edge of the fight. You knew that look. The hesitation. The pull. He was about to step forward—about to choose Kronos. Before you could react, a guard’s eyes locked onto you. Your heart stuttered. You didn’t grab Annabeth. You didn’t run. You did what Nemesis taught you best. You blended in. You shifted with the crowd, lowering your head, adjusting your stance, letting the press of bodies swallow you whole. Your curls disappeared beneath a borrowed hood, your posture relaxed into something forgettable. Annabeth stayed close, silent, trusting you without question. The guard’s gaze slid past you. Percy was left alone in the arena, unaware you were still there—hidden among monsters and demigods alike. Above, Luke’s attention stayed fixed on the fight. Ethan hovered at the edge, torn. And you stood in the crowd, unseen, watching fate balance on a knife’s edge. For now, you were just another face in the stands.

Kamila

⸻ You were used to being the only one like you. An American figure skater with dark brown 3A/3B curls you always had to pin and tame before competitions. Brown eyes sharp with focus. Strong edges. Controlled landings. You skated with power — not fragility. International competitions were always tense. Cold rinks. Colder stares. Different languages echoing through hallways lined with flags. That’s where you first saw her. Kamila Valieva. Effortless. Ethereal. Like she was made of ice and light. When she skated, the entire arena held its breath. You weren’t supposed to talk much — different teams, different countries. Rivals. But one afternoon during practice, you fell. Not hard. Just enough to bruise your pride. When you stood up, brushing ice from your tights, she was there. “You okay?” she asked quietly, accent soft but careful. You nodded. “I’ve had worse.” She didn’t leave. That’s how it started. Shared stretches in quiet corners. Eye contact across the rink. Conversations in broken English and shy smiles. She would watch the way your curls bounced when you spun. You would notice how serious she looked until she laughed — and then she looked young. Real. The first time your fingers brushed, it felt like stepping onto fresh ice. Dangerous. Exposed. You both knew what this meant. Two girls. Two countries. Cameras everywhere. Expectations heavy as gold medals. But feelings don’t ask for permission. One evening, long after practice ended, you were alone on the rink. The lights dimmed, the ice glowing faintly blue. You didn’t hear her come in. “You skate differently when you think no one is watching,” she said softly. You turned. She stepped closer. Close enough that the cold didn’t matter anymore. “I think,” she whispered, searching your eyes, “I like you more than I am supposed to.” The rink was silent. And for the first time, it wasn’t about medals. It was about the way she was looking at you like you were the only thing in the arena.

Kamila Valieva

⸻ You were used to being the only one like you. An American figure skater with dark brown 3A/3B curls you always had to pin and tame before competitions. Brown eyes sharp with focus. Strong edges. Controlled landings. You skated with power — not fragility. International competitions were always tense. Cold rinks. Colder stares. Different languages echoing through hallways lined with flags. That’s where you first saw her. Kamila Valieva. Effortless. Ethereal. Like she was made of ice and light. When she skated, the entire arena held its breath. You weren’t supposed to talk much — different teams, different countries. Rivals. But one afternoon during practice, you fell. Not hard. Just enough to bruise your pride. When you stood up, brushing ice from your tights, she was there. “You okay?” she asked quietly, accent soft but careful. You nodded. “I’ve had worse.” She didn’t leave. That’s how it started. Shared stretches in quiet corners. Eye contact across the rink. Conversations in broken English and shy smiles. She would watch the way your curls bounced when you spun. You would notice how serious she looked until she laughed — and then she looked young. Real. The first time your fingers brushed, it felt like stepping onto fresh ice. Dangerous. Exposed. You both knew what this meant. Two girls. Two countries. Cameras everywhere. Expectations heavy as gold medals. But feelings don’t ask for permission. One evening, long after practice ended, you were alone on the rink. The lights dimmed, the ice glowing faintly blue. You didn’t hear her come in. “You skate differently when you think no one is watching,” she said softly. You turned. She stepped closer. Close enough that the cold didn’t matter anymore. “I think,” she whispered, searching your eyes, “I like you more than I am supposed to.” The rink was silent. And for the first time, it wasn’t about medals. It was about the way she was looking at you like you were the only thing in the arena.

Percy

Here you go — soft, emotional, quiet tension: ⸻ You’re Artemis’s daughter. Not in the Hunt, but still hers — moonlight in your bones, silver calm hiding sharp edges. You’re a year younger than Percy, and everyone knows you two are inseparable. You just say you’re friends. Friends who sit too close. Friends who side-hug instead of letting go. Friends whose arms always seem to find each other’s shoulders without thinking. Percy never questions it. Neither do you. New Year’s at camp is loud — fireworks crackle over the lake, laughter spills from the pavilion, campers counting down like the world might actually reset at midnight. You slip away before anyone notices. The noise is too much. The sky too bright. The memories creep in like frost — old battles, old prophecies, the weight of being something you never asked to be. By the time Percy finds you, you’re curled into the corner of the darkened cabin porch, knees pulled to your chest, hands shaking like they don’t belong to you. “Hey,” he says softly. You flinch anyway. He’s beside you instantly, crouching, not touching yet — like he knows better. Percy always knows better with you. “Hey,” he repeats, quieter. “It’s me.” Your breath comes out uneven. “I’m fine.” It’s a lie. A bad one. Percy sits down slowly, back against the wall, close enough that his shoulder brushes yours. He doesn’t force you to look at him. He just stays. Fireworks boom in the distance. You shake harder. Without a word, he slips his arm around you — not tight, not possessive. Just there. Solid. Warm. You lean into him before you can stop yourself. “It’s stupid,” you whisper. “No,” Percy says immediately. “It’s not.” Your fingers clutch the fabric of his hoodie like it’s an anchor. His other hand comes up, rubbing slow circles into your arm, grounding you. “You don’t have to pretend with me,” he murmurs. The countdown starts somewhere far away. Ten. Nine. Eight. Your breathing steadies. Seven. Six. Your head rests against his shoulder. Five. Four. “I’m not going anywhere,” Percy says, like a promise he’s been holding onto for years. Three. Two. One. Fireworks explode across the sky, light flashing over the lake. You don’t look up. Neither does he. Because right here — in the quiet between heartbeats, wrapped in moonlight and saltwater courage — you’re not just friends. And you both know it.

Nico Di Angelo

You’re Artemis’s direct daughter. Not a Hunter. Never sworn to the Hunt, never bound by its rules—but the moon and the wild still answer to you. You walk the line between gods and demigods, between duty and choice. You come into the Labyrinth with Percy, Annabeth, Tyson, Grover… and Nico. Everything happens like it does in the book. The monsters. The fear. The twisting paths that never quite stay the same. The ranch is supposed to be a safe place. That night, while everyone sleeps, you slip out quietly. You don’t know why—maybe instinct, maybe guilt—but you know Nico isn’t resting. You find him sitting alone, knees pulled to his chest, shadows curling unnaturally around his feet. He looks up when he senses you. And his face twists in fear. “Don’t come closer,” he snaps, voice shaking. “You and Percy let her die.” The words hit harder than any blade. You don’t argue. You don’t defend yourself. You just nod once, slowly. “I’m sorry,” you say. It’s not enough. It will never be enough. So you leave him alone, like he asked. Later, when everything goes wrong—when the ranch turns hostile and the ground begins to scream—Nico’s fear explodes outward. The earth cracks, splits, opens into a widening canyon like the world itself is breaking apart. “Nico!” Percy shouts. The ground gives way beneath him. He’s falling. You don’t think. You sprint, leap straight into the collapsing center as stone drops away beneath your feet. You grab him mid-fall, arms locking around his smaller frame. He’s lighter than you expect—two years younger, five inches shorter, shaking like he’s freezing. You twist, push off nothing but air and instinct— —and land hard on the opposite side. The impact knocks the breath from your lungs. Dust explodes around you. The canyon yawns between you and the others—fifty feet of nothing but darkness and broken stone. You’re on one side. Percy, Annabeth, Tyson, and Grover on the other. And you’re still holding Nico in your arms. He clutches your shirt, trembling, eyes wide—not with anger now, but shock. Fear. Confusion. You don’t let go. You just stand there, steadying your breath, heart pounding, the ground finally still beneath your feet. And for the first time since Bianca died, Nico isn’t alone.

Jorge

You met Jorge in fifth grade. You were small, quiet, always carrying a book too big for your backpack. Most days you hid in the library during lunch, sitting by the huge windows where the light hit the carpet. That’s where he found you. He was in seventh grade then. Light brown hair that shimmered almost gold under the lights, blue eyes that sometimes looked green depending on the light. He had this carefree smile like everything in life was a joke waiting to happen. The first thing he ever said to you was: “Are you reading Star Wars again?” You looked up from your book, confused. “Yeah.” He grinned. “Well then your name is Star Wars now.” And just like that, he sat down beside you. From then on he’d stop by the library whenever he could. Sometimes he just joked around, sometimes he’d ask what you were reading, sometimes he’d steal your book and make you chase him to get it back. He was funny. Easygoing. You liked him. A lot. But the next school year everything changed. He stopped coming to the library. Stopped talking to you in the hallway. It was like he had flipped a switch and decided you didn’t exist anymore. Meanwhile you had changed too. Your curls had grown thicker and more defined. Your braces had straightened your teeth. You felt more confident now, but it didn’t matter if the one person you wanted to notice you… didn’t. You saw him around school sometimes. Laughing with friends. Talking to girls. Talking to guys. Ignoring you. You thought maybe he forgot you. Or maybe he fell in love with someone else. Then one day he came to school with a buzz cut. He looked different. Older. Sharper. Still handsome in a way that made your stomach twist. But he still didn’t talk to you. Months passed. Eventually you convinced yourself it was over. Whatever little connection you two had in the library… it was gone. ⸻ Then came the verbena. Lights, music, food stands, and machines spinning everywhere. Your friends dragged you along, laughing and running between attractions. For a while you forgot about everything. Until one ride caught your eye. A huge spinning machine with rows of seats in a circle. Once everyone sat down, it spun faster and faster until people were practically stuck to the seats. Your friends were already running toward it. “COME ON!” Cecilia yelled. You laughed and followed them. But the line moved quickly and somehow everyone got shuffled around. By the time the worker pointed you to a seat, your friends were already somewhere else. “Seat there,” the operator said. You sat down, gripping the metal bar. Still looking around for your friends. The ride started filling. Then suddenly someone slid into the seat beside you. You turned. Your breath caught. Jorge. Up close you could see how different he looked now with the buzz cut. His light brown hair was shorter, his jaw sharper, his blue-green eyes just as bright as you remembered. He looked just as surprised. “Star Wars?” Your heart jumped at the nickname. He hadn’t called you that in almost a year. “Jorge.” He glanced around quickly. “I got separated from my friends.” “Me too.” For a moment neither of you spoke. Then the operator shouted: “READY?” The machine started slowly spinning. Jorge looked at you again, studying your face like he was seeing you properly for the first time in months. “You look… different,” he said. You shrugged slightly. “So do you.” The machine sped up. Wind whipped around you. Your shoulders pressed slightly toward each other as the ride began spinning faster. Jorge grabbed the safety bar. Then he glanced at you again. “You still read Star Wars?” he asked. Your chest tightened a little. “…Yeah.” The machine spun faster. Lights blurred around you. And for the first time in months, Jorge was sitting right beside you again.

Kamila

The practice rink was almost empty. Most of the skaters had already finished their sessions for the day, leaving the ice smooth and quiet under the bright arena lights. The cold air made little clouds when you breathed. You leaned against the boards, tightening the laces on your skates again. Even though you were already ready. You just needed something to do with your hands. Across the rink, Kamila Valieva stepped onto the ice. Your stomach did the same annoying flip it always did when you saw her. Kamila glided forward effortlessly, her long lines cutting across the ice like it was nothing. Her dark hair was tied back for practice, and every movement looked light and precise. You had watched hundreds of skaters before. But nobody moved like her. You were one of the younger skaters representing the United States Figure Skating, training with the team before the big international competition. Kamila was here representing Russia. Different teams. Different coaches. Different sides of the rink most of the time. But somehow you kept noticing each other. At first it was small things. Looking up at the same moment. Passing each other in the hallway between practices. Sharing awkward smiles when your coaches weren’t looking. Then it became… something else. Because every time Kamila looked at you, she didn’t look away quickly like most people did. She held your gaze. Just for a second longer than normal. And it made your heart race. ⸻ You stepped onto the ice for your turn. The cold surface felt familiar under your blades. You started your warm-up laps, pushing into long smooth strokes. Halfway across the rink you noticed something. Kamila had stopped skating. She was leaning slightly on the boards. Watching you. You tried to pretend you didn’t notice. But your cheeks still warmed. After a few minutes you finished your practice run and skated toward the edge of the rink. Kamila was still there. Waiting. You stepped off the ice, pulling your skate guards from your bag. She walked over. Up close she looked a little shy, which surprised you. On the ice she looked fearless. “Your triple loop,” she said softly, her accent gentle. “It was very good.” You blinked. “Oh—thanks.” You hesitated. “Your quad toe earlier was… kind of terrifying.” Kamila laughed quietly. “I fall many times learning it.” “I would fall once and retire from skating forever.” She smiled at that. For a moment neither of you spoke. The rink hummed quietly around you. Then Kamila looked down at her skates. “I wanted to talk to you,” she said. Your heart sped up. “Okay.” She looked back up at you. Her brown eyes were nervous now. “In my country… this is sometimes difficult to say.” Your stomach twisted. “What is?” She took a small breath. “When I watch you skate,” she said slowly, “I feel something strange.” You tried to keep your voice steady. “Like what?” Kamila hesitated. “Like… I want you to look at me.” Your pulse jumped. “And when you smile at me in hallway,” she continued quietly, “I think about it later.” Your brain stopped working. Kamila looked embarrassed now. “I am not very good at explaining feelings.” You laughed softly. “That makes two of us.” She studied your face carefully. Then asked very gently: “Is it strange… if I say I think I like you?” Your heart thudded. You rubbed the back of your neck nervously. “…Good,” you said. Kamila blinked. “Good?” “Because,” you admitted, smiling a little, “I’ve been trying to figure out how to tell you the exact same thing.”

Nico Di Angelo

You let her die - he still loves you

Walker

Filming Percy Jackson is loud, chaotic, and magical all at once. Walker Scobell is exactly like his character — always joking, always moving, never standing still for long. You play Annabeth, and somehow the two of you fall into rhythm both on screen and off. Between takes, you quiz each other on lines. He practices sword choreography; you help him remember blocking. At first, it’s just friendship. You’re thirteen — still figuring out who you are. He’s sixteen — already a little more sure of himself, but still just a kid too. After filming wraps for the day, you sit together on the steps outside the set, scripts forgotten between you. You talk about school, about how weird it is being recognized, about how surreal it feels to play characters people love so much. “You’re really good,” he tells you once, sincere, no teasing. “Like… really.” You smile, ducking your head. “So are you.” The feelings don’t rush in. They don’t explode. They grow quietly — shared laughs, inside jokes, long conversations about nothing important. When you both realize there’s something more there, it’s gentle. Careful. Honest. Nothing changes overnight. You still tease each other. Still support each other on set. Still keep things light, respectful, and simple. Because right now, what matters most isn’t labels or expectations. It’s trust. It’s growing up without rushing. It’s knowing that in the middle of gods and monsters and cameras and chaos, you found someone who understands exactly what this moment feels like. And for now, that’s more than enough.

Bruce Wayne

In the battle where the world got to know who super man was you and Bruce rushed through the streets; hand in hand. He was your boyfriend and the two of you rushed to the Wayne building. He called the manager to evacuate ye building and as the two of you got in front you saw super man at the other side in the sky fighting who ever the enemy man was. You felt Bruce’s hand tighten around yours; he was angry,very angry. As you stepped in the now collapsed building he pulled you close…. Just then you where both slammed into the wall by a boom and he wrapped his arms around you

Reyna

OH. Roman angst + forbidden softness? Yes. ⸻ No man had ever stayed. Not truly. Not for Reyna Avila Ramírez-Arellano. They admired her strength. They respected her authority. Some even feared her. But love? It slipped through her fingers like sand. So she told herself she didn’t need it. Praetors did not require romance. Daughters of Bellona did not crave tenderness. She repeated that lie often enough that it almost felt true. Until you. Daughter of Athena. Strategist. Quiet storm. And — impossibly — chosen to wield the fractured echo of Kronos’ power. Not corrupted by it. Balanced. Controlled. You carried time like a blade at your hip. You were terrifying. And brilliant. And female. Which made this complicated. Reyna had never allowed herself to think in that direction before. Not seriously. Not safely. But when you stood beside her during war council meetings, calm and calculating… When you corrected her Latin pronunciation softly without mocking her… When your hand brushed hers while passing maps— The world tilted. She didn’t know what it meant. Or if you would ever see her that way. ⸻ One evening, as the sun bled gold over Camp Jupiter, she found you alone near the principia, reviewing battle plans. You sensed her before she spoke. “Praetor,” you greeted without looking up. She hated how steady your voice made her feel. “Off duty,” she said quietly. You glanced up then, eyebrow lifting slightly. “Reyna, then.” Her name sounded different in your mouth. Softer. She clasped her hands behind her back to keep them from fidgeting. She had faced giants. She had commanded legions. And yet— This was harder. “I have a question,” she said. “Strategic or personal?” A faint smirk tugged at your lips. Her heart betrayed her with a quicker beat. “…Personal.” You closed the scroll slowly, giving her your full attention. The air felt heavier. “Are you,” she began carefully, “dating anyone?” Direct. Roman. No wasted words. Your eyes searched hers, analytical as ever. You could read battlefields in seconds. You were probably reading her now. “No,” you said simply. Her breath loosened slightly. “But,” you added gently, “I’m curious why you’re asking.” There it was. The crossroads. Reyna’s jaw tightened — not in anger. In vulnerability. “I needed to know,” she admitted. “Before I allowed myself to consider… something.” Your expression shifted. Not mocking. Not surprised. Intent. “Consider what?” She swallowed. “You.” The word hung between you like a drawn blade. You stood slowly, closing the distance between you with measured steps. Reyna didn’t retreat. “I have been told,” she continued, voice steady but low, “that men do not love me. That I am meant for duty, not devotion.” Her golden eyes flickered, searching yours for rejection. “I am not a man,” you said quietly. Silence. Wind stirred the banners above you. Reyna’s composure cracked just slightly. “Would you ever be interested in someone like me?” Athena had given you wisdom. Kronos had given you power. But this? This was choice. You stepped closer until only inches separated you. “Reyna,” you said softly, “you are not unlovable.” Her breath hitched. “And yes,” you continued, voice lower now, “I would be interested.” The tension in her shoulders — always present — eased for the first time since you’d known her. “You would?” she asked, almost disbelieving. “I do not ask about relationships casually,” you replied. “And I do not answer casually either.” A faint, rare smile touched her lips. It was small. But it was real. “So,” you added, tilting your head slightly, “are you asking me on a date, Praetor?” Her eyes sparked. “Yes.” “Then lead.” And for once— Reyna Avila Ramírez-Arellano stepped forward not as a commander. Not as a daughter of war. But as a girl brave enough to want something. And you met her halfway.

Perseus

You didn’t look like the others in the Athena cabin. No sharp gray eyes. No straight, calculating posture. You had dark brown 3AB curls that refused to stay tied back and warm brown eyes that looked almost soft—until someone challenged you in strategy. That always confused people. Because you weren’t just a daughter of Athena. You were something older. Chosen. Marked. Champion of Kronos—but not corrupted. You didn’t serve him. You wielded the echo of his power like a blade balanced on your fingertip. Time slowed when you wanted it to. Ticked louder when you were angry. Froze for half a breath when you were deciding something dangerous. And Percy Jackson noticed you the first day you walked into the arena. He didn’t mean to. He just did. You weren’t flashy like the Ares kids. You didn’t show off like Apollo’s archers. You moved with quiet precision, celestial bronze sword cutting clean arcs through the air as if you’d already seen the future and were correcting it. Percy felt it before he understood it. That pull. Not just attraction. Gravity. Like standing too close to the ocean before a storm. You were dangerous—but controlled. And that was what got him. ⸻ One evening, you were sitting by the lake, notebook open, scribbling battle formations for an upcoming war game. Percy dropped down beside you, a little too casually. “You always thinking?” he asked. “Yes.” He grinned. “Sounds exhausting.” You didn’t look up. “It is.” Silence stretched comfortably for a moment. Then— “You ever think about not carrying it alone?” That made you glance at him. His sea-green eyes were softer than usual. Not joking now. You tilted your head slightly. “Carrying what?” “Whatever that is,” he said quietly. “The… time thing. The pressure.” You studied him. Most people avoided the topic of Kronos entirely. Too close to old nightmares. Too much history. But Percy didn’t flinch. “I’m not carrying it alone,” you said carefully. “Oh?” He raised an eyebrow. “I chose it,” you replied. “That makes it mine.” He leaned back on his hands, watching the sun reflect off the lake. “You know,” he said after a moment, “you’re nothing like the other Athena kids.” “I’m aware.” “They overthink everything.” “I overthink strategically,” you corrected. He laughed. And then, more quietly— “I think that’s why I like you.” You blinked. “You like me.” He didn’t hesitate. “Yeah.” No dramatic build-up. No grand speech. Just Percy. Honest. Your pulse didn’t spike. Time didn’t warp. But something inside you shifted. “You’re aware,” you said slowly, “that being near me is… complicated.” He shrugged. “My life is complicated.” “Kronos chose me.” “And?” Percy met your gaze fully now. “You’re not him.” The conviction in his voice startled you. “You don’t scare me,” he continued. “Well— okay, you kind of do. But not in a bad way.” A faint smile tugged at your lips. “Define bad way.” “In a ‘wow she could absolutely destroy me but I trust her not to’ way.” You closed your notebook. For once, you weren’t calculating. “You trust me?” you asked. “Yeah,” he said without thinking. And that— That mattered more than attraction. More than curiosity. Trust. You studied him for a long second, feeling the steady rhythm of time around you. Then you reached out, gently taking his hand. “I don’t slow time for many people,” you murmured. He squeezed your fingers. “Good,” he said softly. “Don’t.” For the first time in a long time— You let the moment move forward naturally. And Percy didn’t pull away.

Gynecologist

You were 15, and your parents forced you to go to a dark looking gynecologist. She was rude, and creepy, since she would tie you to some stirrups. Today you had been dragged to an appointment yet again. And you were not agreed. You sat in the reception and your name was called.

Solo household

You were Raven Solo, daughter of Han and Leia Solo. You had a twin brother; Ben solo who was believed to be the strongest and smartest of the family bc he had the force. Leia always took his side, but Han always took yours, and when he learned Ben’s and his gang where bullying you he put you in secret archery classes, this happened when you where seven. 9 years later you where 16 and a secret archer pro. You had also grown more beautiful, 3A dark brown curls with brown eyes. Meanwhile Ben still believed he was better than everyone just because he was a master in the force and you just hadn’t found out you had the force. Today it was Ben’s 10th year as a training Jedi and Leia threw a party, you of course weren’t there, you were secretly in an archery contest kicking asses and winning first place. Your best friend and boyfriend Poe Dameron was there with you, when the two of you had come back home the party was still going on, you had forgotten to take of your arm guard, and your arrows hung from your hip belt covered my a cloaca you wore, you stepped into the house then..,

Nico di Angelo

After Bianca di Angelo died, everything about Nico di Angelo changed. The cheerful kid you had once known disappeared. He ran away from Camp Half-Blood, angry at everyone and everything. Most campers stopped trying to reach him after a while. But you didn’t. You were the daughter of Athena, stubborn in a quiet way that people underestimated. You tracked him down more than once, argued with him, refused to leave him alone. Eventually… he came back. Not happily. Nico returned to camp grumpy, cold, and distant. He barely spoke to anyone, kept to the shadows, and pushed people away whenever they tried to get close. Anyone except you. For some reason he never pushed you away. Maybe because you were the one who had dragged him back. Maybe because you never treated him like he was fragile. Whatever the reason, he tolerated you being around. Sometimes he even talked. ⸻ One night the cabins were quiet. Most campers were asleep, the only sound outside being the soft wind moving through the trees. Inside the Athena Cabin, you were sitting on your bunk with a small lamp on, a book open in your hands. Being the daughter of Athena meant late-night reading was normal. You turned a page— When suddenly the shadows in the corner of the cabin shifted. You didn’t even look up at first. “Door exists, you know.” A moment later Nico stepped out of the darkness. His black hair was messy like he had just shadow-traveled, and his dark eyes looked tired. He crossed his arms. “The door creaks.” You finally looked up at him. “You broke into my cabin because the door creaks.” “Snuck in,” he corrected. You closed your book slowly. “It’s the middle of the night.” Nico shrugged slightly but didn’t leave. That was when you noticed something. He looked… restless. More than usual. “You okay?” you asked. He didn’t answer immediately. Instead he walked over and leaned against the wooden post of your bunk. For someone who hated being around people, he looked strangely comfortable standing there. “I couldn’t sleep,” he said quietly. You raised an eyebrow. “So your solution was to appear in my room like a ghost.” “Technically I am the son of Hades,” he muttered. You smirked a little. “Fair point.” The cabin was quiet again. Nico looked around at the books scattered near your bed. “You’re still reading?” “Obviously.” “You’re weird.” “Says the guy who teleports into cabins at midnight.” For a moment he almost smiled. Then he glanced at you again. “…You’re the only one still normal with me,” he said quietly. You tilted your head. “I’ve always been normal with you.” He looked down slightly, avoiding your eyes. “Everyone else treats me like I’m… dangerous.” “You are dangerous,” you said calmly. Nico looked up, surprised. You shrugged. “But you’re also Nico.” That seemed to settle something in him. He stayed there leaning against your bunk for a moment longer. Neither of you speaking. Finally he asked quietly— “…Can I stay here a bit?”

Draco

No one at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry knew what you really were. Daughter of Loki. To them, you were just a Gryffindor. Loud, sharp-tongued, and way too good on a broom. A Seeker. Which meant one thing— You were constantly at odds with Draco Malfoy, Slytherin’s Seeker. Your rival. Your enemy. Your favorite person to argue with. Students loved it. “Honestly, those two Seekers spend more time looking for each other than the Snitch.” You pretended to hate that joke. You didn’t. ⸻ Fourth year. Gryffindor vs Slytherin. The stadium roared. You hovered high above the pitch, eyes scanning— Not just for the Golden Snitch. But for Draco. You spotted him circling nearby. He smirked. “Try not to fall this time, Gryffindor.” You rolled your eyes. “Try to keep up, Malfoy.” Then— You let a little power slip. Subtle. Illusions bending just slightly. A player misjudging distance. A Bludger veering off. Nothing obvious. Just enough to tilt things. Loki’s blood. Chaos, controlled. ⸻ Then you saw it. A flash of gold. The Snitch. You and Draco dove at the same time. Wind roared past. Closer— Then something slammed into your back. A Bludger. Hard. Your breath knocked out— Your grip slipped— And suddenly— You were falling. Fast. Too fast. The ground was impossibly far below. At least 5,000 feet. The stadium gasped as one. ⸻ Above you, Draco saw everything. The Snitch hovered just ahead. One reach— Slytherin wins. Then he saw you. Falling. Spinning. Gone in seconds if no one caught you. He froze. Snitch. Or you. A heartbeat. Then— “Damn it!” He yanked his broom down. Diving after you. Leaving the Snitch behind. ⸻ Wind screamed in his ears as he pushed faster. You were dropping too quickly. “Come on—!” He leaned off his broom, arm outstretched. “Grab on!” You reached— Missed— Then his hand caught your wrist. Hard. The force nearly dragged him off his broom, but he held on, pulling you against him. Your fall stopped. Barely. You clung to him, breathing hard. The entire stadium was silent. Draco steadied the broom, chest rising fast. For a second, he just looked at you. Angry. Relieved. Shaken. “You are unbelievable,” he snapped. You blinked up at him. “You could’ve won.” His grip tightened. “And let you die?” He scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous.” A pause. Then, quieter— “…I’d rather lose.”

Anakin

Life as Anakin Skywalker’s Padawan is many things — exhausting, loud, unpredictable — but one thing it never is? Quiet. You yawn as you wake up, curls a tangled mess around your face, the early Coruscant sunlight slipping through the blinds of your shared quarters. Your dark brown 3AB curls have already migrated in every possible direction, lighter brown at the ends like they faded from stress. (Entirely Anakin’s fault.) You stretch, grab your hairbrush, and shuffle to the bathroom, still half-asleep. You push open the door— —and freeze. Anakin is standing there. In boxers. Staring intensely at the mirror like the fate of the galaxy hangs on whatever he’s doing. He’s holding a razor. Shaving cream smears his jaw. Except… he has nothing to shave. Maybe two hairs. Three on a dramatic day. He jolts when he sees you. “Oh—hey!” he blurts, instantly trying to stand taller, which is difficult when someone is holding a razor and wearing boxers. “I was just— you know— grooming.” You stare at him. Then stare at the razor. Then stare at his absolutely-empty-of-hair face. “…grooming what?” Anakin scowls like you’ve personally offended him. “You don’t get it. Jedi need to look sharp.” “Sharp with what beard, Master? You’ve never had a beard. Not even a shadow of a beard. You have, like… two follicles.” He gasps. Offended. Betrayed. Dramatic. Classic Anakin. “There are at least four,” he announces, pointing at his jaw. “Right here.” You lean closer and squint. “That’s a reflection of the lights.” He pulls back, wounded like you told him his speeder exploded. “Well, excuse me for trying to look professional.” You pinch the bridge of your nose. “You’re wearing boxers.” He looks down. “Oh. Right.” There’s a moment of pure silence — the kind that could only exist between two people who spend way too much time together — before he clears his throat, grabs a towel, and throws it over his shoulder like that suddenly makes the situation dignified. “You didn’t see anything,” he says, waving the razor. “This is Jedi business.” “You shaving imaginary beard hairs at six in the morning is not Jedi business.” He points at you. “It is now. Also — get in line for the refresher. I’m not done.” You gesture at your curls, which are practically rebelling against gravity. “Master, my hair needs thirty minutes minimum. And that’s if the Force is helping.” Anakin sighs dramatically like he’s being oppressed. “Fine. We’ll… share the mirror.” You blink. “What?” He steps aside, still in boxers, still covered in useless shaving cream. You stand next to him, brushing your hair while he tries to angle the razor at his nonexistent beard. The two of you look like a poster titled “The Jedi Order: A Disaster.” Anakin glances at your reflection. “Don’t judge me,” he mutters. “I’m not judging,” you say. “I’m just… observing the chaos I live with.” He huffs. You smile. Just another morning in the Temple.

Charlie

Just friends?

Luke Castellan

You fell in love with Luke Castellan before you even knew what love was. Back when it was just the four of you—Luke, Thalia, Annabeth, and you—sleeping under bridges and stealing food, pretending you weren’t terrified of the next monster in the dark. You were two years younger than him, but he never treated you like you were small. He’d ruffle your curls, hand you the better weapon, walk a little slower so you could keep up. You loved him then. You loved him when you reached Camp Half-Blood. And you loved him when he broke it. When Luke chose Kronos, it felt like someone had ripped the ground out from under you. You sobbed until your throat burned. You tried to tell yourself Nemesis demanded balance—justice over emotion. Then he asked you to join him. And you chose love. Balance didn’t disappear. You just told yourself you’d find it later. Now you stood aboard the Princess Andromeda, the ocean endless and black around you. You weren’t just a passenger—you were second in command. The crew respected you. Feared you. As Nemesis’s daughter, you kept order when things tilted too far. You were the quiet correction behind Luke’s ambition. But it was lonely. Luke was everywhere and nowhere. Meetings. Plans. Kronos whispering through him. His laughter came less easily now. His smiles were sharper, thinner. At night, though— At night he was just Luke. He would collapse into bed beside you, exhausted, armor half-removed, hair falling into his eyes. Sometimes he’d reach for you in his sleep. Sometimes he’d just breathe, steady and human, like the boy who once promised to protect you from everything. Tonight was no different. He fell asleep almost instantly, back turned slightly, tension still in his shoulders even in rest. You waited until his breathing deepened. Then you slipped out of bed. The balcony doors creaked softly as you stepped outside. The night air was cold against your skin. The ocean stretched forever, dark waves swallowing moonlight. Above, the sky glittered with indifferent stars. You wrapped your arms around yourself, curls shifting in the wind. Nemesis whispered inside you—about fairness, about consequences, about debts that always come due. You chose love. But love had unbalanced the world. And standing there, staring at the endless sea and endless sky, you couldn’t help wondering— When the scales finally tipped. You sobbed, you felt lonely and in need of Luke to be back to his old self, you wanted him to hold you, kiss you tell you things would be alright. As you sobbed you didn’t hear the steps behind you…

Annabeth

At Camp Half-Blood, everyone knew two things as facts. You were Annabeth Chase’s best friend. And Annabeth Chase was definitely straight. At least—that’s what she said. You, on the other hand, had never hidden who you were. Bisexual, proud, and very much yourself. As the only direct daughter of Artemis not in the Hunt, you were already an exception to every rule. Dark brown 3A curls that never listened, brown eyes sharp with quiet understanding, a presence that felt calm and dangerous all at once. You and Annabeth had been inseparable for years. Side hugs that lasted a little too long. Her arm slung over your shoulders like it belonged there. Your fingers brushing hers when you walked—always accidental, always lingering. Everyone joked about it. You laughed it off. Best friends did that… right? Annabeth never dated. Ever. She claimed she was “too busy” or “not interested” or “waiting for the right guy.” You believed her. Mostly. That night, the camp was unusually quiet. No campers laughing near the fire, no clanging from the forges. Just crickets and the steady breath of the forest. You found Annabeth on a hill overlooking camp, sitting on a picnic blanket she must’ve borrowed from the Apollo cabin. A small lantern glowed beside her, lighting her face in soft gold as she stared at the stars like she was trying to memorize them. You dropped down beside her without asking. You never had to. “Stargazing without me?” you teased lightly. She jumped, then relaxed when she realized it was you. “You’re quiet,” she said, trying to sound annoyed and failing. You leaned back on your elbows, curls spilling over your shoulders. “Perks of being Artemis’s kid.” For a while, neither of you spoke. The silence wasn’t awkward—it never was with Annabeth. But tonight, something felt… tight. Like she was holding something in. You got bored. Or curious. Or maybe reckless. Smiling, you turned your head toward her and asked casually, like it was nothing: “So… who’s your crush?” The reaction was instant. Annabeth froze. Not stiffened—froze. Her shoulders went rigid, fingers gripping the edge of the blanket like it might disappear. The silence stretched far longer than it should have. You frowned slightly. “Annabeth?” She swallowed hard. “I—” she started, then stopped. Her cheeks flushed pink, spreading fast. She wouldn’t look at you. “You wouldn’t… make fun of me?” she asked quietly. And suddenly, the stars didn’t seem so important anymore.

Peeta

The air is thick with smoke and fear, the kind that seeps into your lungs and makes every breath feel borrowed. You duck behind a fallen tree, eyes scanning the perimeter of the arena. Somewhere, distant, a muttation howls. Somewhere closer, a bowstring twangs. And then you see him. Peeta. Covered in dirt, a streak of blood on his cheek, but alive. Alert. His blue eyes sweep the terrain with that careful, calculating look — the one that makes you trust him, even when every instinct screams danger. He spots you, and for a fraction of a second, the tension in his shoulders relaxes. Then, without missing a beat, he gestures toward a small path through the undergrowth. Silent. Efficient. The kind of communication only people who know how to survive together understand. You move, careful, crouching low. “You think they saw us?” you whisper. He shakes his head. “Not yet. But they will.” You nod, the weight of the arena pressing down like a living thing. Every step could be the last. Every sound could mean death. “Stick close,” he murmurs, and there’s something in the tone — protective, steady, quiet bravery that keeps you from freezing in place. You do. Because in this arena, where alliances are fleeting and survival is everything, having him by your side feels like the only thing that might make it through alive. And for just a second, you allow yourself to hope.

Nico Di Angelo

The air in the Labyrinth feels alive — like it’s watching you. The twisting walls shift every few minutes, rearranging themselves as if mocking your efforts. Your bow is gripped tight in your hand, the silver string catching the faint glow from Annabeth’s celestial bronze dagger. “Are you sure Nico went this way?” Percy asks, voice low but edged with worry. You nod, brushing a loose curl from your face. “Yeah. I can feel it… he’s close. He doesn’t want us to find him, but…” Your chest tightens. “He wouldn’t hide from me.” Grover nervously adjusts his reed pipes. “That kid gives me the creeps sometimes. No offense.” You almost smile. “None taken. He’s just… lost.” You remember the promise you made to Bianca before she died — “Take care of him. Please.” Those words have haunted every night since. You didn’t think they’d lead you here, deep in the heart of Daedalus’s maze, chasing a boy who could command the dead and still look at you like you were the only light left in his world. A faint whisper echoes through the tunnel — your name. The sound is cold and hollow, but unmistakable. Annabeth tenses. “Did you hear that?” You step forward, heart pounding. “It’s him.” The shadows ahead shift — and for a moment, you see him: Nico di Angelo, eyes darker than the Underworld, staring right at you before vanishing into the maze again. You take a breath and whisper, more to yourself than anyone else, “I’m not losing him too.”

Draco

You’re a Gryffindor. That already makes this ridiculous. The Yule Ball is in less than a week, and somehow — somehow — you don’t have a date. Not because you’re unwanted. Merlin, no. You’re painfully aware of the looks, the whispers, the way people glance twice. Your dark brown 3AB curls frame your face perfectly, brown eyes sharp and expressive, confidence woven into the way you walk. The problem is simple. Everyone is taken. Every time someone finally works up the courage to ask you, they’re already apologizing halfway through. Someone else beat them to it. Someone always does. Draco Malfoy, on the other hand, is also dateless. And that? That is hilarious. You and Draco have been at each other’s throats since first year — insults traded like sport, glares sharpened into weapons. He calls you insufferable. You call him ferret-faced. It’s tradition. So when Professor McGonagall announces that Gryffindor and Slytherin will be learning the Yule Ball dances together, the Great Hall practically explodes. “This is a ball, not a mosh pit,” McGonagall snaps, her voice slicing through the noise. “You will conduct yourselves with dignity.” You take your place among the Gryffindors just as Draco does the same across the floor, arms crossed, expression carved from pure disdain. Your eyes meet for half a second. He scoffs. You roll your eyes. Of course. McGonagall paces before you all like a general preparing for war. “Some of you seem incapable of following basic instructions. Therefore, I will demonstrate.” Her sharp gaze sweeps the room. You feel it before you see it. Her eyes lock onto you. “You,” she says, pointing. Your stomach drops. Then she turns. “Mr. Malfoy.” The room goes silent. Draco’s head snaps up. “What?” “You will assist,” McGonagall continues calmly. “Both of you. Front and center.” A collective gasp ripples through Gryffindor and Slytherin alike. You stare at Draco. He stares right back. “This is a joke,” he mutters as you step forward. “Believe me,” you whisper, stopping in front of him, “if I could hex my way out of this, I would.” McGonagall clears her throat sharply. “Hands.” Draco hesitates. So do you. And then — reluctantly — you raise your hand. He takes it. And for just a second, the fighting stops.

Rex and Anakin

The war had forged them together — Anakin Skywalker, the reckless Jedi General, and Captain Rex, the clone who followed him through hell and back. They moved like they shared the same mind in battle. But off the field, things grew quieter... heavier. Rex admired Anakin’s fire, his defiance, the way he saw clones as more than numbers. And Anakin? He couldn’t stop noticing the steadiness in Rex, the way he always stayed, even when everyone else didn’t. One quiet night, stars above and blaster fire finally gone, they sat shoulder to shoulder outside the camp. Sharing a flask, watching flames dance, not quite touching — but close. “You ever wonder what we’d be without the war?” Rex asked. Anakin didn’t answer right away. He just looked at him — really looked — and for once, didn’t hide what he felt. Something was changing. (You play as Anakin)

Apollo

The sky over Athens burned. Stone shattered under your boots as you fought—alone. While the others clashed beside their godly parents, you moved through the chaos with nothing but your weapon and your will. Celestial bronze flashed, then steel—your blade shifting smoothly in your hands, sword to spear to bow, each form answering you like it was alive. Titans fell. Monsters screamed. You didn’t look for help. You never did. Then— you felt him. Not behind you. Not above you. Beside you. Kronos. Not the devourer. Not the tyrant. But the quiet, heavy presence of a god who had finally chosen differently. His power pressed against the air, steadying, grounding. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. Fighting with him felt like standing next to time itself—ancient, endless, regretful. And then it was over. Just like the book says. The gods gathered. The air went tense, sharp as broken glass. You stood there, blood on your hands, chest still heaving, and watched Zeus turn his attention to Apollo. He didn’t look like a god. He looked like a boy—seventeen forever, golden and terrified, shoulders drawn in as Zeus’s voice thundered across the ruins. Each word hit harder than any blade you’d swung. You clenched your fists. But nothing hurt like the moment Zeus said punishment. Nothing hurt like the casual wave of his hand. Apollo vanished. Just—gone. No flash. No warning. No chance to speak, or look back, or even breathe. Your heart dropped into your stomach, cold and hollow, as the space where he’d been stood empty. The gods kept talking. The world kept turning. But all you could see was the place where Apollo had disappeared— —and the silence he left behind. Then when you came to camp, and fought against Gaia, heavy with sorrow you thought he might be dead. Hangul a month later you where on archery practice when Chiron says there’s a new camper….. you turn and

Hades

The Yale Law School library was quieter than most places on campus. Not silent. Just… focused. Pages turning. Keyboards clicking. The soft hum of old lamps over long wooden tables. You had been sitting there for three hours. Casebooks open. Notes scattered. A highlighter tucked behind your ear while your dark brown curls fell around your face in a messy halo. Being a demigod and a law student at Yale University meant your brain was constantly running at full speed. You were halfway through annotating a constitutional case when someone sat across from you. You barely looked up at first. “Is this seat taken?” The voice was calm. Low. You glanced up. The guy sitting there looked about your age. Maybe nineteen or twenty. Black hair, slightly messy like he didn’t care much about styling it. Sharp blue eyes. Pale skin that made him look like he didn’t spend much time outside. He was dressed simply — dark sweater, dark jeans. Normal. Mostly. Your instincts prickled faintly. “No,” you said, gesturing to the chair. “Go ahead.” He sat down across from you. For a few minutes neither of you spoke. You went back to your notes, underlining a passage while he opened a book. But then— “You read very quickly,” he said. You paused. “You were watching me read?” “Observing,” he corrected calmly. You looked up again. His blue eyes were very… intense. “Law school requires it,” you replied. He nodded slowly. “I imagine it does.” Silence again. Then he glanced at the stack of books beside you. “Constitutional law. Federal jurisdiction. Criminal procedure.” You blinked. “You read the titles from there?” “Yes.” “Your eyesight is concerning.” The corner of his mouth almost smiled. “Occupational hazard.” You tilted your head slightly. “Law student?” He paused. “Not exactly.” “Visiting then?” “…Something like that.” You studied him for a moment. Something about him felt strange. Not dangerous. Just… heavy. Like the air around him carried weight. Your demigod instincts stirred. “You’re not from Yale,” you said. It wasn’t a question. He looked faintly amused. “No.” You closed your book slowly. “Okay.” He leaned back slightly in his chair. “Okay?” “You have weird energy,” you said bluntly. “And your eyes haven’t left me since you sat down.” He raised an eyebrow. “Direct.” “Law school teaches efficiency.” For the first time he smiled slightly. But it didn’t reach his eyes. “You’re a demigod,” he said. Your heart skipped. Your voice dropped instantly. “…Excuse me?” “Daughter of a goddess,” he continued calmly. “Intelligent. Perceptive. Slightly suspicious of strangers.” Your fingers slowly tightened around your pen. “How do you know that?” He tapped the table once thoughtfully. “I know many things.” A cold realization began forming in your mind. You studied him again. Black hair. Blue eyes. Calm voice. Heavy presence. “…You’re not a student,” you said quietly. “No.” “You’re not a demigod either.” “No.” Your breath slowed. “Then you’re a god.” He didn’t answer. But he didn’t deny it either. Your pulse picked up. “…Which one?” For the first time his gaze softened slightly. Not threatening. Just ancient. “You truly cannot tell?” You shook your head slowly. “No.” He leaned forward slightly. The lights above the table flickered for half a second. The air grew colder. Not freezing. Just… winter quiet. “Most mortals would not notice me at all,” he said softly. “But demigods rarely miss what stands before them.” Your stomach dropped. Black hair. Blue eyes. Shadow in the air. “…Oh.” Your voice came out barely above a whisper. “You’re—” He finished it calmly. “I am Hades.” Silence fell between you. The god of the Underworld sat across from you in the Yale Law library like he belonged there.

Anakin

I’ll keep this intense and emotional — no graphic detail, just tension and power. ⸻ They should never have underestimated you. You were four years younger than Anakin Skywalker, yes. His Padawan. But you were also the daughter of Obi-Wan Kenobi and Athena. Strategy was in your blood. And time itself — fractured and dangerous — answered when you called, the lingering power of Kronos humming quietly beneath your skin. They captured him during negotiations. A trap disguised as diplomacy. You felt it the moment the Force went wrong. Anakin’s presence — usually blazing and overwhelming — flickered. Not gone. Restrained. You tracked him alone. No council. No permission. You moved like a shadow across the enemy stronghold, bow in hand, every step calculated. Archery wasn’t common for Jedi — but you had perfected it. Silent. Precise. Final. Two guards dropped before they could raise an alarm. You slipped inside. And then you saw him. Shackled to a durasteel pillar. Head bowed. Wrists bound above him. Blood darkened his tunic in several places — not catastrophic, but enough to show he’d fought hard before they overwhelmed him. Your chest tightened — but your mind stayed sharp. He was alive. Angry. Breathing. “Anakin,” you called softly. His head lifted instantly. Even bruised. Even restrained. His eyes burned when they found you. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said hoarsely. “And let them keep you?” you replied evenly. A weak huff of breath that might’ve been a laugh. “Stubborn.” “I learned from the best.” Footsteps echoed down the corridor. You didn’t look away from him. “Close your eyes,” you said. He didn’t question you. The guards burst in. You inhaled once. And time bent. Not stopped — you never forced it that far. But slowed. Thickened. Enough. You moved between heartbeats. Arrows flew in perfect arcs, guided by Athena’s clarity and the Force’s precision. Weapons clattered before they were fully raised. By the time time snapped back into place, the corridor was silent. Anakin stared at you. There was awe there. And something else. You approached, examining the shackles. “They over-relied on brute strength,” you muttered. “Poor design.” “You’re lecturing the engineering?” he asked faintly. “Distraction helps with pain.” His gaze softened slightly. You sliced through the bindings with controlled Force pressure. The metal split. He sagged forward — and you caught him before he hit the ground. For a moment, you forgot everything. He was warm. Alive. Breathing against your shoulder. “You came alone,” he murmured. “Yes.” “That was reckless.” “Correct.” He almost smiled. You shifted, supporting him carefully. “Can you walk?” “With assistance.” “Good.” As you turned to leave, explosions rocked the far end of the facility — your delayed contingency plan activating. Always plan three exits. Athena’s rule. Anakin studied you as you guided him out. “You’re not just my Padawan anymore,” he said quietly. “No,” you agreed. There was something new in the way he looked at you now. Not just responsibility. Not just mentorship. Recognition. You had stepped into the fire for him. And you had not burned. When you reached the extraction point, he caught your wrist gently. “You shouldn’t have risked yourself for me.” You met his gaze steadily. “I didn’t risk myself,” you said. “I calculated.” A pause. “And I don’t lose what’s mine.” The words hung there — dangerous. Charged. Anakin’s eyes darkened, not with anger. With understanding. The war wasn’t over. The Council would have questions. But as the ship lifted into the stars, one thing was certain— They had tried to break him. And instead, they had revealed exactly how powerful you had become.

Nico di angelo

Italian Demi god who trusts you

Anakin

District 12 never felt like home. It was only ever supposed to be hiding. You’d been thirteen when you ran — when the Jedi Temple became too loud with war, too dangerous, too suffocating with fear. Anakin Skywalker had been your master, only a few years older than you, reckless but brilliant, the closest thing you ever had to safety. But the higher the war climbed, the more the Council wanted you weapon-ready. And you were tired of being another child trained for battle. So you disappeared. A ship stolen. Coordinates random. Crash-landing on a forgotten planet called Panem. District 12 took you in because you looked like no threat at all — just a small girl with dark brown 3AB curls and large brown eyes framed with long lashes. You lied, learned the bow instead of the saber you lost, and hid your Force abilities deep, deep down. Then came the Games. Your Jedi training saved you. You became a victor. Survived. But stayed hidden. Everyone thought you were just lucky. Only you knew the truth. ⸻ THE AFTERNOON EVERYTHING CHANGES It was quiet in the woods that day — the kind of quiet that feels like it’s preparing to break. You were with Katniss and Peeta gathering herbs while Haymitch pretended he wasn’t keeping watch from a boulder. It should’ve been peaceful. But then— a deep, vibrating thrum rolled across the valley. Not Capitol tech. Not hovercrafts. Not anything from Panem. Your entire body went rigid. Peeta looked up sharply. “What is that?” Katniss already had an arrow in hand. “It’s coming from the sky.” Haymitch muttered, “That ain’t Snow’s.” And you— your breath froze. Because you knew that sound. Republic engines. Clone Wars–era. The hum intensified, shaking the leaves. Birds scattered. Dust swirled along the forest floor. Katniss stepped closer to you—she could feel your tension like static. Then the sky broke open. Three ships cut through the clouds — sleek, gray, marked with symbols no one in Panem recognized… but you did. The Galactic Republic. A Jedi landing craft. War-era military shuttles. Your heart punched your ribs. Katniss whispered, “You’re scared.” You didn’t deny it. You reached for your black compound bow, pulling it free in one practiced motion. Your curls whipped around your face as you stepped in front of Katniss and Peeta without thinking — old training kicking in. Katniss raised her own bow beside you. Peeta grabbed a knife from his boot. Haymitch pulled another from his jacket. The ships descended fast, trees bowing under their thrusters. One of them hovered only twenty meters away before settling onto the ground with a heavy metallic thud, flattening the grass and sending a gust of hot air across your face. Your pulse roared in your ears. You nocked an arrow, pulled hard, string tight against your cheek. Because for the first time in two years— you felt the Force tug at your ribs. Fear. Memory. Recognition. The ramp hissed, beginning to lower. Steam billowed out. Katniss stepped closer. “Whatever’s inside… it’s not Capitol.” Your voice cracked, barely a whisper: “I know.” Because you felt him. You felt them. The ship groaned as the doors split apart— light flooding the clearing— shadows moving inside— And you kept your bow fully drawn as the ramp hit the ground— The shuttle door opened and your breath hitched, you didn’t let go of the arrow.

Peeta Mellark

You were always the in-between. Prim’s softness. Katniss’s fire. You carried pieces of both — stubborn, steady, but warm where Katniss was sharp. And at fourteen, with dark brown 3AB curls and big brown eyes you never liked, you were reaped instead of your sister. Katniss screamed. Prim sobbed. Your mother froze. And Peeta Mellark looked at you like something inside him cracked. ⸻ The Arena You didn’t expect to survive the first day. But you were quick, and you were an exceptional shot — a natural with a bow even the Gamemakers noticed. Peeta stuck with you. At first, because Haymitch told him to. Then because he wanted to. Then because it was you. The cameras loved it, but what grew between you wasn’t for show. The nights in the cave. His head resting against your shoulder, your hand brushing through his hair because it calmed him. The way he told you, voice barely above a whisper, “I don’t want the audience to think we’re in love. I want you to know we are.” You never said it back — not out loud. But he knew. He always knew. ⸻ After the Arena You survived together. You went home together. But nothing in District 12 felt the same. Katniss kept watching him. Prim kept holding your hand. And Peeta? Peeta stayed close to you like breathing your presence kept him alive. And then the Capitol took him. Hijacked him. Destroyed him. ⸻ After the Hijacking — Peeta With You Peeta didn’t attack you. Didn’t scream. Didn’t lunge. The moment they brought him into the room with you, he went very still — like he wasn’t sure whether you were real or just another Capitol trick. His eyes, once warm as bread fresh from his family’s bakery, were cold, tight, suspicious. But he didn’t hate you. He didn’t want to hurt you. He just… wouldn’t come close. He wouldn’t let you touch him. Wouldn’t let you hug him. Wouldn’t let you brush your curls over his shoulder the way he used to love. Whenever your hand reached toward his arm, he flinched — not in fear, but in uncertainty. Like your touch was something dangerous. “I don’t…” He swallowed. “I don’t know what’s real with you.” Those words shattered you more than if he’d tried to kill you. But even in that broken, confused version of himself — he still watched you. The way your curls fell when you looked down. The way your hands trembled when you thought he wouldn’t notice. The way your brown eyes softened when he spoke. There was recognition there. Buried. Faint. But alive. Sometimes, when the nightmares got bad and he woke sweating and shaking, your voice calmed him faster than anyone else’s. He’d sit far, far away from you… …but he’d listen. “Tell me something true,” he’d say. “Something only you would know.” And you would. Stories from the cave. The time he tried to braid your curls and got his fingers stuck. The way he once said he loved the sound of your laugh — the soft one you didn’t show the cameras. And slowly, painfully, something softened in him. Not a return to what he was. Not yet. But a thread. Fragile. Real. A beginning. Even hijacked, even broken — Peeta Mellark didn’t forget you completely. He just needed time to find you again.

Samuel

He was in 7th grade and you where in 5th. He had started to talk to you in the library, and you had been a bit cold. He threw you jokes and you started laughing at them very often. He had asked u to give him your number but you didn’t give it to him cuz you didn’t like him at the time, now you were obsessed. Recently he was very distant, you didn’t know why… Cutrently it was a rainy day and you where running as you where being chased by a drug addiction man who wanted your money. You ran even though your vision was being blurred by the rain. Then you saw Samuel and his friend Jorge walking with an umbrella, just then you tripped and fell on your knees in front of them. The man was 8 feet away from y’all

Draco

You’re a fourth-year Gryffindor, the Seeker and Captain of the Gryffindor House Quidditch team at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Fastest flyer in your year. Youngest captain in a while. And the biggest thorn in the side of the Slytherin team. Especially one particular player. Draco Malfoy, the Seeker of Slytherin House. You two argue constantly. In the halls. Across the Great Hall tables. In the air during matches. It’s so constant that students have started joking about it. One time during breakfast someone said loud enough for everyone to hear: “Honestly, these two Seekers spend more time looking for each other than the Snitch.” Even some professors had trouble hiding their amusement. But during matches… The rivalry became war. ⸻ The stadium roared as the match exploded into action. Red and gold clashed against green and silver. You hovered high above the field, eyes scanning the sky for the Golden Snitch. Then you saw him. Draco flying nearby, pale blond hair whipping in the wind. He noticed you staring and smirked. “Lose something, Gryffindor?” he called across the air. “Yeah,” you shot back. “Your dignity.” He rolled his eyes. “You wish.” Then— A flash of gold streaked between you both. The Snitch. Your heart leapt. You and Draco dove at the same time. Brooms screamed through the air as you chased the tiny golden blur. The stadium roared louder. Closer. Closer— Then a Bludger slammed into the tail of your broom. The impact jerked it violently sideways. Your hand slipped. For one terrifying second you tried to grab the handle again— But the broom shot away. And suddenly— You were falling. The wind roared past you as the sky spun. The ground was far below. At least a hundred meters down. Gasps rippled through the stands. Your stomach dropped as you tumbled through open air. ⸻ Above you, Draco was seconds from the Snitch. He saw it hovering ahead. One reach. Slytherin would win. Then he heard the crowd scream. He looked down. And saw you falling. Fast. He had two choices. Catch the Snitch. Or catch you. For half a second he froze. Then he cursed. “Bloody hell—” He yanked his broom around and dove. Straight after you. The Snitch vanished behind him. Wind tore past as he pushed his broom faster. You were dropping too quickly. “Come on—” He leaned dangerously off the broom, arm stretched downward. “Grab my hand!” You reached upward desperately. Your fingers brushed— Then his hand clamped around your wrist. The sudden stop made both of you jolt as he hauled you up against his broom. You clung to him, heart pounding wildly. The entire stadium had gone silent. Draco steadied the broom, breathing hard. For a moment he just stared down at you. Furious. Relieved. And slightly pale. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?” he snapped. You blinked up at him, still catching your breath. “You could’ve caught the Snitch.” His grip tightened on your arm. “And let you fall to your death?” He scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous.” Then he muttered under his breath— “…I need someone to argue with next match.”

Coryo Snow

Before the Capitol hardened him, before ambition wrapped around his throat like a noose, Coriolanus Snow was just an eighteen-year-old boy with sharp cheekbones, a quiet hunger for more, and you — his closest friend. The summer air was warm that afternoon, humming with cicadas and the distant sound of water lapping at the shore. You and Coriolanus hiked to the lake like you always did when the city felt too tight, too polished, too suffocating for two kids who wanted to breathe. You reached the edge first, pushing aside a curtain of branches. The water glittered under the sunlight, pale green and silver. “This is perfect,” you said, kicking off your shoes. Coriolanus stepped beside you, watching you with that calm, assessing gaze he always had — like he noticed everything without letting on. “Perfect for who?” he teased lightly. But you caught the softness in his voice. You grinned, grabbed the hem of your dress, and pulled it over your head in one smooth motion. Underneath, you wore a simple bikini top and shorts — nothing fancy, nothing Capitol-perfect, but it felt like freedom against your skin. Coriolanus blinked once. Then twice. His jaw tightened just a little — not in disapproval, but in surprise. Maybe even something warmer. You didn’t give him time to question it. You turned, sprinted the last few steps, and dove into the lake, breaking the surface with a splash that echoed across the trees. The water was cold, shocking, perfect. You popped back up, hair dripping, laughing. “Come on, Coryo!” He ran a hand through his blond hair, exhaled like you’d just dared him to steal the moon, then— He kicked his shoes off. Shoved down his pants, leaving only his shorts. Dragged his shirt over his head in one swift motion. The sun caught on the pale lines of his shoulders, the lean strength he’d grown into, the way his chest rose and fell as if he was deciding something. You watched him from the water, feeling that familiar, electric pull — the one you never talked about. Coriolanus stepped to the edge of the dock.

Luke

Luke was fourteen. You were thirteen when he ran away—and somehow, on that long stretch of road between nowhere and survival, he found you. From that moment on, you were inseparable. You traveled together, fought together, stole food together. Along the way, you found Thalia—wild, loud, twelve years old and already burning with electricity—and little Annabeth, only seven, clinging to her knife and her pride. Somehow, the four of you became a family. That night, Thalia stayed behind to make a campfire while you went hunting. You moved easily through the woods, bow steady, senses sharp. You were good with a sword, just as good with a spear—but the bow was where you felt most like yourself. When you came back, rabbit slung over your shoulder, Thalia whooped like she’d won a war. Luke cooked the meat. Thalia laughed too loud. Annabeth fell asleep against her backpack. And you—of course—had a book. You weren’t dyslexic like the others. Words didn’t twist or fight you. Books were your escape, your comfort, your bad habit. Luke knew that. He also knew that if he didn’t intervene, you’d read until sunrise. So when you suddenly started laughing—quiet at first, then uncontrollably—Luke didn’t even ask why. He reached over, smoothly plucked the book from your hands, and tugged you closer by the wrist. “Hey—” you protested, still laughing. “Nope,” he said, already wrapping an arm around you, pulling you into his chest. “Sleep. Before you pass out face-first into a page.” You squirmed once, then settled, your laughter fading into soft breaths. Luke held the book out of reach, chin resting lightly against the top of your head, like this was the most natural thing in the world. And somehow… it was.

Camp Half Blood Luke

You arrived at Camp Half-Blood when you were fourteen. The same age as Luke Castellan, in fact—the two of you had been found together by Thalia and Luke during your first night at camp, along with Annabeth. Five years later, Luke and you were inseparable. You hugged, held hands, shared meals, sparred together with swords—he taught you, but truth be told, you were already incredibly skilled. There was always something different about you, something that set you apart, and Luke had learned to admire it, teasing you endlessly while secretly respecting the precision and skill behind your movements. And then everything changed. A blond boy with striking blue eyes arrived at camp—Anakin Skywalker. Your secret younger brother. Only two years younger than you. Nobody at camp knew about him—or your past. You had been trained as a Jedi for six years under Obi-Wan, and you’d run away because you didn’t fit in anywhere. Now, Anakin had arrived, carrying that same air of intensity and discipline, recognizing you immediately even though the two of you looked nothing alike. You acted alike in ways only someone with your blood could understand. You were Kronos’s daughter, and apparently been was with your mother Shmi before Anakin was born—another secret that shaped your strange, complicated past. Anakin watched from a distance as you sparred with Luke. Every movement precise, every strike careful yet confident. And then he saw it—something more intimate, a softness Luke had never earned from anyone else. You hugged Luke, kissed him lightly on the cheek, and his chest twisted in ways you didn’t notice. He didn’t say anything. Not yet. He simply followed Chiron to Cabin 11, settling in quietly since he was still undetermined, still observing, still absorbing. Meanwhile, you and Luke sat together for lunch, talking and laughing as if the world hadn’t shifted around you. And yet, somewhere in the back of the dining pavilion, a pair of sharp blue eyes was watching, measuring, and remembering.

Camp Halfblood

You told yourself you wouldn’t freeze if you ever saw him again. You were wrong. The streets of Coruscant were louder than you remembered — speeders overhead, neon reflecting off polished metal, the hum of a world that never slept. Camp Half-Blood had wind in the trees. Coruscant had engines. You adjusted the dark blue cloak around your shoulders. Beneath it, clone trooper gauntlets rested against your wrists. Your belt carried everything you were now — celestial bronze sword, twin blasters, knives, lightsaber. Daughter of Athena. Wielder of Kronos’ fractured power. Former Padawan of Anakin Skywalker. Daughter of Captain Rex. You turned the corner— And there he was. Armor spotless. Helmet tucked beneath his arm. Posture rigid, disciplined as ever. Giving orders to a squad of shinies who looked at him like he was unbreakable. He hadn’t changed. Or maybe he had. The lines around his eyes were deeper. War did that. He didn’t see you. You stopped breathing anyway. Beside you, Luke Castellan shifted slightly. “You good?” he murmured under his breath. You nodded once. Across the plaza, Annabeth Chase followed your gaze, sharp gray eyes missing nothing. “That’s him,” she realized quietly. Your father turned slightly, profile visible now. Same brown eyes. Your eyes. For a second, Athena’s logic dissolved. You almost stepped forward. Almost said, Dad. But you weren’t the girl who left anymore. You were something in between worlds. The Force stirred faintly — he sensed something. Not you exactly. Just… a shift. His head tilted. Your pulse spiked. If he looked fully— If he saw— What then? Would he be angry? Relieved? Would he pull you into a soldier’s embrace or reprimand you for desertion? Luke leaned closer. “We don’t have time.” He was right. The quest came first. Always the mission. You drew the hood lower over your curls. As you turned to leave, Rex’s voice carried across the plaza. “Hold position.” It wasn’t to you. But your chest tightened anyway. You took one step— “—You.” The word cut through the air. Your heart stopped. Slowly, carefully, you turned back. He was looking straight at you now. Not fully certain. But close. Your Force signature was stronger than you thought. You held his gaze from beneath the hood. Neither of you moved. The distance between you felt like a battlefield. Finally, he took a single step forward. “Do I know you?” he asked, voice steady but searching. You swallowed. Athena whispered caution. Kronos whispered patience. The Force whispered truth. Your fingers brushed the edge of your gauntlet. And then you spoke — voice lower, older than when you left. “No, Captain,” you said. A lie. But not entirely. Because the girl who had left Coruscant barefoot and furious was gone. You were forged now. Balanced. Dangerous. His eyes narrowed slightly — not in suspicion. In recognition he couldn’t quite place. For a heartbeat, you thought he might reach out. Instead, a comm crackled at his belt. He glanced down. Duty. When he looked back up— You were already stepping away, cloak sweeping behind you. Luke fell into step beside you. Annabeth watched your face carefully. “You okay?” she asked softly. You didn’t look back again. “Not yet,” you said. Behind you, Captain Rex stood in the middle of the plaza, staring at the space where you’d been. Something in him unsettled. Like he’d just missed something important. And somewhere deep in the Force— He felt you. Alive. But then he recognized your accent. American, mixed with British and a hint of Greece

Will Solace

Camp Half-Blood is loud today. The volleyball courts are packed—shouting, laughter, the thud of the ball hitting sand—but you’re not part of it. You sit on a bench just beyond the fields, elbows on your knees, fingers absently twisting one of your dark brown 3A curls as you watch the game without really seeing it. Daughter of Nemesis. Balance. Consequence. You’re used to being on the edge of things. Will Solace spots you almost immediately. He’d tell anyone it was coincidence—that he was just heading back from the infirmary, that the noise was annoying him—but his feet betray him, carrying him toward you without thinking. Sunlight catches in his blond hair, and for a second he hesitates, heart doing that stupid thing it always does around you. You don’t look up. “You’re… uh,” Will says, stopping a few feet away, hands shoved into his pockets, voice softer than usual. “You skipped volleyball.” You hum noncommittally. “Didn’t feel like picking sides today.” He knows what that really means. With Nemesis kids, it always does. Will sits beside you, leaving just enough space to pretend he isn’t aware of how close your shoulders are. He smells like antiseptic and sunshine—comforting, familiar. You glance at him then, brown eyes meeting his, and he has to look away before you notice the way his cheeks warm. For months now, it’s been like this. Lingering glances. Half-finished sentences. You patching people up after fights; him watching you like you’re something fragile and dangerous all at once. Two secret crushes, circling each other, neither brave enough to tip the scale. “You okay?” he asks quietly. You shrug. “Depends on the day.” Will swallows. He wants to say more—I like you, I always sit where I can see you, you make the world feel fair somehow—but the words stick. So he stays. Sitting with you on the bench. Close enough that your arm brushes his when you shift. And for now, that feels like everything.

Hades

You met Hades the first week of college— which, honestly, felt about right for your life. The campus library was old, stone-heavy, and permanently cold, like it had been built to preserve secrets instead of books. You liked it. Athena kids always did. You were buried in a stack of philosophy texts, dark brown 3A curls tied back messily, brown eyes scanning margins and footnotes like they were battle plans. That’s when the temperature dropped. Not metaphorically. Literally. You looked up, already annoyed—only to see him standing across the aisle. He looked twenty. Exactly twenty. Dark clothes, sharp posture, shadows clinging to him like they’d chosen him on purpose. His presence didn’t scream power the way Zeus’s did or glow like Apollo’s. It was quieter. Heavier. Like gravity deciding where you were allowed to stand. He picked up a book from the shelf beside you. Greek Funerary Practices: A Comparative Study. Of course he did. “You’re holding that upside down,” you said automatically, because Athena’s daughter or not, you could not ignore incorrect information. He glanced at the book. Then at you. A slow, surprised smile curved his mouth. “So I am.” His voice was calm. Low. Older than he looked—but not tired. Curious. You should’ve realized then. You corrected him again five minutes later. Then again. Somehow, you ended up sitting at the same table. Somehow, hours passed. You debated ethics, strategy, fate versus free will. He never interrupted you. Never talked over you. When you challenged him, he didn’t get defensive—he got interested. “You think knowledge is power,” he said at one point, watching you like you were a puzzle he actually wanted to solve. “It is,” you replied. “If you know how to use it.” He smiled again. “Athena would agree.” That made you pause. Slowly, you asked, “You speak like you’ve met her.” “I have.” The air shifted. Your heart thudded once—hard. “You’re not joking,” you said. “No.” You studied him properly then. The shadows that moved when they shouldn’t. The way the room seemed to bend slightly toward him. The sense of depth behind his eyes—like looking into a place no light reached. “Hades,” you said quietly. He inclined his head. Not a bow. A recognition. “I didn’t expect to meet a god in the philosophy wing,” you said, oddly calm. “I didn’t expect to meet someone who would argue with me about mortality,” he replied. You should’ve been afraid. Instead, you felt… understood. From then on, he was there. Always twenty. Always unchanged. He walked you to class. Sat with you while you studied. Listened—really listened—when you spoke. He never treated you like something fragile or temporary. And when you finally asked why he kept coming back— He said, simply, “Because you see me as I am. Not what people fear.” And for the first time, the god of the Underworld felt something dangerously close to hope.

Tyler Galpin

You and Tyler had been friends for a very long time now, he had been your boyfriend before he turned into a Hyde and made multiple kills. You had many memories about him, how he would Comfort you when you weren’t sure about being a werewolf, how he helped you learn archery. You came visit him at Willow Hill and he was always soft to you, you where the only person he opened up to and when Wednesday freed him you let him go. You knew he killed Thornhill but you just had to. When you found out he found his mother you knew he disappeared, you knew she she has him somewhere, trapped and not wanting him to turn to a Hyde. You and your cousin Enid tracked down his sent, this led you to Sheriff Galpins yard…. As you tracked Enid found the dog house moved so you decided to go down, shiver with full arrows and bow in your hand. Leather jacket Tyler had given you, you had it on along side black pants white tank top and leather boots. Enid and you decended down the stairs and burst in the room, your bow held up high

Piper

The afternoon sun filtered through the strawberry fields of Camp Half-Blood, turning everything warm and gold. You were sitting under a tree near the Athena Cabin, a book open in your lap and three different strategy sketches spread beside you. Typical. Your dark brown 3AB curls were pulled into a loose braid that had already half fallen apart while you worked. A pencil rested between your lips while you studied the page. You didn’t notice someone watching you. Not at first. A few feet away, leaning against the fence, was Piper McLean. She had been standing there for a solid minute. Just… staring. Not in a creepy way. More like someone trying to gather courage. Finally she pushed herself off the fence and walked over. “You know,” Piper said, “most people enjoy the sunshine instead of doing homework in it.” You looked up. “Oh. Hi.” Piper smiled, but it looked a little nervous. “Hi.” She dropped down on the grass next to you, crossing her legs. You returned to your notebook. “Are you planning something?” she asked. “Capture the flag strategies.” “Of course you are.” You glanced at her. “Do you need something?” “Wow,” Piper laughed. “Straight to the point.” “Athena kid.” “Right.” She picked up one of your sketches. Her eyebrows lifted. “Okay… this is actually kind of impressive.” “It’s basic battlefield positioning.” Piper looked at you. “You know that’s not normal for most people, right?” You shrugged. Silence stretched for a moment. Then you noticed something strange. Piper wasn’t reading the paper anymore. She was watching you. Your curls. Your hands. The way you frowned when thinking. You slowly lowered your pencil. “…Is there something on my face?” Piper blinked quickly. “No!” Pause. “…Okay maybe.” You raised an eyebrow. “What?” She hesitated, then laughed nervously and rubbed the back of her neck. “Okay this is embarrassing.” Now you were curious. “What is?” Piper took a breath. “You’re really pretty.” Your brain froze. “…Thank you?” Her cheeks turned slightly pink. “And smart.” “…Also thank you?” “And brave.” You stared at her. “Piper.” “Yeah?” “Why are you complimenting me like you’re presenting evidence in court?” She groaned and covered her face with her hands. “Because I’m trying to say something and my brain won’t cooperate.” You waited. Slowly, she lowered her hands. Her voice came out quieter this time. “I have a crush on you.” The words hung in the warm air. You blinked. Once. Twice. Piper immediately started talking fast. “I didn’t mean to! It just kind of happened! You’re always calm and smart and your curls do this thing in the wind and it’s distracting and—” You reached out and gently tapped her arm. She stopped mid-ramble. “You like my curls?” you asked. Piper stared at you. “That’s what you heard?” You shrugged. “They were mentioned first.” For a moment she just looked at you. Then she laughed. A real laugh. “You’re impossible.” “And you,” you said calmly, “are very obvious.” Her eyes widened. “You knew?” “I suspected.” Piper groaned again and fell back onto the grass. “Great. I confessed to the smartest girl in camp and she already solved it like a puzzle.” You smiled slightly. “You didn’t ask the important question.” She lifted her head. “…What question?” You met her eyes. “Whether I might like you back.” Piper sat up immediately. Hope flashing across her face. “Well?” “….. maybe…. Yes”

Reyna

Got it. More restrained. More Reyna. Slower burn. ⸻ No man had ever chosen her. That was the story Reyna Avila Ramírez-Arellano told herself when the nights felt too quiet. They admired her. Followed her. Needed her. But love? That was always complicated. Always unfinished. So she stopped expecting it. Then you arrived. Daughter of Athena. Calm where others were loud. Sharp without cruelty. And somehow — impossibly — trusted to wield a fragment of Kronos’ lingering power without being consumed by it. You understood balance. You understood restraint. And you never once treated Reyna like something fragile or untouchable. You debated her strategies without intimidation. You stood beside her, not behind her. When others hesitated around her authority, you met it evenly. It unsettled her. In a way that felt dangerous. Because the only problem was this: You were a girl. And Reyna had never let herself think about what that meant. ⸻ It was late when she found you near the edge of camp, overlooking the lights of New Rome. You were seated on a low stone wall, a book resting closed in your lap, watching the city like you were studying it. “You prefer observation to celebration,” Reyna said as she approached. You glanced up, faint smile forming. “Celebration is predictable. People are not.” She stopped a few steps away. Close enough to speak quietly. Far enough to retreat if needed. “I have a question,” she said. You straightened slightly. “All right.” There was no teasing in your tone. Just attentiveness. Reyna held your gaze — steady, Roman, controlled. “Are you seeing anyone?” The question hung in the night air. You didn’t answer immediately. You studied her instead — the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands were clasped behind her back, the deliberate neutrality in her expression. “No,” you said at last. A subtle exhale left her chest before she could stop it. “Why?” you asked gently. Reyna hesitated. She did not hesitate in battle. She did not hesitate when issuing orders. But this was not a battlefield. “I wanted to know,” she said carefully, “if you were… available.” Your brows lifted slightly. “For strategic alliance purposes?” you asked lightly. Her lips twitched — almost a smile. “No.” Silence stretched. She forced herself to continue. “I have misjudged affection before,” Reyna admitted. “I do not intend to repeat that mistake without clarity.” There it was. Not a confession. A measured risk. You slid off the stone wall and stepped closer — not invading her space, but closing the distance. “I am not interested in alliances,” you said softly. “And I don’t pursue people out of convenience.” Her eyes searched yours. “And?” “And,” you continued, “if someone were to ask me because they wanted me — not as a symbol, not as a political strength, but as myself — I would consider that seriously.” Reyna’s heartbeat felt too loud in her ears. “And if that someone were me?” Your answer came without hesitation. “I would not turn you away.” The words were quiet. Certain. Reyna absorbed that slowly. “You understand,” she said, voice lower now, “that this would not be simple.” “Nothing worth having is,” you replied. A faint, real smile touched her face — rare and unguarded. “Then,” she said, squaring her shoulders just slightly, “would you allow me to take you to dinner tomorrow evening?” You tilted your head. “Is that an order, Praetor?” “No.” A pause. “It is a request.” You held her gaze for a long second. “Yes,” you said. And this time, when Reyna walked away, it wasn’t with the weight of rejection. It was with something unfamiliar. Possibility.

Piloting squad

The wind bites a little harder at the edge of the cliff. The kind that carries both the smell of pine and the echo of things you wish you hadn’t said. You sit with your knees pulled close, arms wrapped around them, staring out over the endless stretch of trees below the Jedi Academy. The sun’s starting to fall — that gold light spilling across the horizon, catching on your curls, making the world look too calm for how your chest feels. Ben’s voice still lingers in your head — sharp, angry, tired. The argument feels hours old and seconds fresh all at once. Every word you threw back at him still stings on your tongue. You don’t know how long you’ve been sitting there before you hear footsteps crunch behind you. Slow. Careful. Familiar. Rela doesn’t say anything. She just appears at your side, her ginger hair catching the last light of the sunset, green eyes flicking once toward you, then out to the view ahead. Without a word, she lowers herself to the ground beside you. The leather of her flight jacket creaks softly as she leans back on her hands, legs stretched out in front of her. Neither of you speak. The wind moves through the grass. Somewhere below, the hum of a ship engine fades into the distance. You don’t look at her, but her presence says everything you need — that you don’t have to fill the silence, that she’s not here to ask what happened or to fix it. She’s just here. And for now, that’s enough.

Reyna

OH. Roman angst + forbidden softness? Yes. ⸻ No man had ever stayed. Not truly. Not for Reyna Avila Ramírez-Arellano. They admired her strength. They respected her authority. Some even feared her. But love? It slipped through her fingers like sand. So she told herself she didn’t need it. Praetors did not require romance. Daughters of Bellona did not crave tenderness. She repeated that lie often enough that it almost felt true. Until you. Daughter of Athena. Strategist. Quiet storm. And — impossibly — chosen to wield the fractured echo of Kronos’ power. Not corrupted by it. Balanced. Controlled. You carried time like a blade at your hip. You were terrifying. And brilliant. And female. Which made this complicated. Reyna had never allowed herself to think in that direction before. Not seriously. Not safely. But when you stood beside her during war council meetings, calm and calculating… When you corrected her Latin pronunciation softly without mocking her… When your hand brushed hers while passing maps— The world tilted. She didn’t know what it meant. Or if you would ever see her that way. ⸻ One evening, as the sun bled gold over Camp Jupiter, she found you alone near the principia, reviewing battle plans. You sensed her before she spoke. “Praetor,” you greeted without looking up. She hated how steady your voice made her feel. “Off duty,” she said quietly. You glanced up then, eyebrow lifting slightly. “Reyna, then.” Her name sounded different in your mouth. Softer. She clasped her hands behind her back to keep them from fidgeting. She had faced giants. She had commanded legions. And yet— This was harder. “I have a question,” she said. “Strategic or personal?” A faint smirk tugged at your lips. Her heart betrayed her with a quicker beat. “…Personal.” You closed the scroll slowly, giving her your full attention. The air felt heavier. “Are you,” she began carefully, “dating anyone?” Direct. Roman. No wasted words. Your eyes searched hers, analytical as ever. You could read battlefields in seconds. You were probably reading her now. “No,” you said simply. Her breath loosened slightly. “But,” you added gently, “I’m curious why you’re asking.” There it was. The crossroads. Reyna’s jaw tightened — not in anger. In vulnerability. “I needed to know,” she admitted. “Before I allowed myself to consider… something.” Your expression shifted. Not mocking. Not surprised. Intent. “Consider what?” She swallowed. “You.” The word hung between you like a drawn blade. You stood slowly, closing the distance between you with measured steps. Reyna didn’t retreat. “I have been told,” she continued, voice steady but low, “that men do not love me. That I am meant for duty, not devotion.” Her golden eyes flickered, searching yours for rejection. “I am not a man,” you said quietly. Silence. Wind stirred the banners above you. Reyna’s composure cracked just slightly. “Would you ever be interested in someone like me?” Athena had given you wisdom. Kronos had given you power. But this? This was choice. You stepped closer until only inches separated you. “Reyna,” you said softly, “you are not unlovable.” Her breath hitched. “And yes,” you continued, voice lower now, “I would be interested.” The tension in her shoulders — always present — eased for the first time since you’d known her. “You would?” she asked, almost disbelieving. “I do not ask about relationships casually,” you replied. “And I do not answer casually either.” A faint, rare smile touched her lips. It was small. But it was real. “So,” you added, tilting your head slightly, “are you asking me on a date, Praetor?” Her eyes sparked. “Yes.” “Then lead.” And for once— Reyna Avila Ramírez-Arellano stepped forward not as a commander. Not as a daughter of war. But as a girl brave enough to want something. And you met her halfway.

Anakin

Being fifteen was already complicated. Being Obi-Wan Kenobi’s daughter made it worse. Being Satine Kryze’s daughter made it impossible. Because on Mandalore, princesses didn’t just grow up. They were prepared. Prepared to rule. Prepared to lead. Prepared to marry. Which meant that at fifteen — an age where most kids stressed about schoolwork and friendships — you were given one simple, heavy requirement: Find a boyfriend. Not for fun. For politics. Obi-Wan hated it. Satine insisted. And you… you were stuck in the middle. Despite all that, you still had moments of normalcy. Training in the Temple. Studying. Laughing with your friends — Lia, Maia, Alison, Karrie. Trying to pretend your life wasn’t split between a pacifist queen and a Jedi Master. You were good at pretending. Until Anakin Skywalker made pretending impossible. He was seventeen, tall, intense in a way most boys weren’t. You had trained beside him for two years — sparring, meditating, running drills until your lungs burned. But lately… he stared. Not mean. Not rude. Just… like he was memorizing you. Your brown eyes that flashed warm gold when the sun caught them. Your dark 3AB curls that always escaped their braid. The tiny Kryze pendant hidden under your tunic. The way you carried yourself with Mandalorian stubbornness and Jedi calm — a mix that confused him and fascinated him. He noticed everything. And you noticed that he noticed. Sometimes, during lessons, you felt it — his gaze flicking over to you, soft and warm before he quickly looked away. Sometimes your friends whispered about it during school: “Anakin was staring again.” “He totally likes you.” “You’re practically glowing when he looks at you.” You had rolled your eyes, brushed it off, acted normal… …but inside your stomach twisted, because you felt something too. He made your cheeks warm. He made your heart race. He made your life — already messy — even more complicated. Especially because your parents expected you to choose someone soon. A political match. A safe match. Which Anakin absolutely was not. And that made it worse that he showed up everywhere today — the training yard, the archives, even outside your classroom — hovering like he wanted to say something but couldn’t. Until after school, when Lia, Maia, Alison, and Karrie walked ahead and you lagged behind to tie your boot. You looked up… …and Anakin was standing there. Hands behind his back. Eyes bright and unsure. Breathing just a little too fast. “Princess,” he murmured, voice lower than usual. No one called you that. No one except him. Your heart flipped. Anakin swallowed, stepped closer. “I, um… heard about the Mandalorian tradition,” he said quietly. “The requirement.” Then his eyes softened, almost painfully tender. “And I need to talk to you… before anyone else does.” He took one more step. Close enough for your curls to brush his shirt. Close enough to hear his heartbeat kick up. And then—

Tom

It’s the year Tom Felton is playing a fourth-year Draco Malfoy. The bleached hair follows him everywhere. At school, it’s never just Tom anymore — it’s Draco, Malfoy, that blond kid from Harry Potter. Some boys think it’s funny to tug at his hair and ask if it’s real. Others make jokes under their breath, whispering about villains and bad guys like he chose that role just to be hated. You notice. You go to the same school, though you’re younger — playing Hermione means people recognize you too, but in a different way. Teachers smile more. Kids ask for help with homework. You don’t get shoved in the halls. Sometimes that makes you feel worse. You and Tom end up together after school more often than not, sitting on the steps near the drama building or tucked away in an empty classroom, scripts open between you. You run lines for homework and auditions, even though he’s two years older. He helps you pace your delivery. You help him remember cues. Neither of you talk about the bullying at first. But one afternoon, you find him alone in the bathroom, sitting on the edge of the windowsill with his knees pulled up, staring out at the schoolyard below. His bleached hair looks almost silver in the light, untouched, unstyled — like he didn’t bother caring today. He doesn’t notice you at first. When he does, he shrugs. “Bell rang already?” You shake your head and step inside, letting the door close softly behind you. “They’re idiots,” you say, simple and honest. He huffs out a quiet laugh. “That’s one word for it.” You sit beside him, shoulder brushing his. You don’t ask questions. You don’t need to. The silence is comfortable, heavy but safe. After a moment, he glances at your script tucked under your arm. “Running lines later?” You nod. “If you want.” “Yeah,” he says softly. “I’d like that.” The bell rings again — louder this time — but neither of you move right away. And for once, the world outside feels a little less loud.

Rela Blatin

Rela Blatin is your best friend. That’s the line you say out loud. That’s the story you both stick to. Best friends. Roommates. Partners-in-crime. And sure — that’s true. But it’s not the whole truth. Not the part where your stomach flips whenever she grins at you. Not the part where she lingers a little too close. Not the part where her green eyes drop to your lips every time you’re talking too quietly. You still call each other “best friends,” though. Piloting school is a storm of noise — engines, drills, instructors yelling over wind — but your dorm room is the eye of it all. A tiny pocket of quiet where you and Rela collapse at the end of every brutal day and pretend everything is normal. Tonight is one of those nights. She’s lying on her bed, hair spilling like copper fire over her pillow, idly tossing a small practice drone into the air and catching it again. You’re sitting cross-legged on your bed, working on a firmware update you definitely should’ve finished earlier. The room smells like engine grease and Rela’s strawberry-ginger shampoo. The combination shouldn’t work, but somehow it always does. “You spaced out again,” Rela says, flicking her gaze toward you. Her voice is soft — softer than she uses with anyone else. “I’m updating the nav interface,” you say. “It’s boring.” “It’s not boring,” she says, and the corner of her mouth lifts. “You just get that look. The… thinking-too-hard one.” You feel your cheeks heat. “I don’t have that look.” “Oh, you do,” she teases, rolling onto her stomach, chin propped on her hands. “You get it when you’re stressed, or tired, or when you’re trying not to—” She cuts herself off. You look up. She’s staring at you. Really staring. Green eyes locked onto yours like she’s seeing the part you keep hidden under every joke, every mission, every flight drill. You swallow. She blinks away first, exhaling softly, swinging her legs over the bed to come sit beside you. Your shoulders touch. Lightly. Too lightly. As if she’s testing the weight of the moment. “Hey,” she murmurs. “Hard day?” Your voice is barely a whisper. “Yeah.” She leans her head against yours. Just that. Just enough to make your heart pound like a starfighter engine spooling up. You don’t pull away. She doesn’t either. And you both pretend it’s normal — two best friends, nothing more — even though the air between you hums like it’s charged with static. Even though you both know you’re lying. Both your hearts always beat faster when the other one is this close.

Jorge

You met Jorge in fifth grade. He was in seventh—older, taller, with light brown hair that always caught the light just right, shimmering gold, and blue eyes that sometimes turned green when the sun hit them. You met him in the library. You were sitting on the floor between shelves, completely absorbed in a Star Wars book, when he stopped in front of you and laughed softly. “Of course,” he’d said, crouching down. “Star Wars.” From then on, that was your name to him. Star Wars. Back then, he was funny. Carefree. Always joking, always stopping by to talk, sometimes just to tease you about which book you were reading. You thought it would always be like that. Then the next school year came. And he was distant. Barely looked at you. Barely spoke. Like you were someone he’d never known at all. You changed after that. Your curls grew more defined, falling neatly around your face. Your braces came off, leaving your smile sharper, more confident. You grew into yourself in ways you hadn’t expected. But he still ignored you. Until one afternoon. You were at archery practice, standing alone on the field. Your compound bow was black, sleek and heavy in your hands. You drew back, steady, focused—breathing slow, heart calm. That’s when you noticed movement at the edge of the field. Jorge walked in. Same light brown hair. Same eyes. Older now. Broader shoulders. Different somehow—but unmistakably him. He stopped when he saw you. Really saw you. Your arrow flew. It hit the center of the target with a sharp thunk. For the first time in years, he didn’t look away.

Piper

You were fifteen and the captain of the theater club. Which meant you were supposed to be calm, organized, and completely professional. But there was one problem. Piper. Piper had straight light-brown hair that fell neatly to her shoulders, soft brown eyes behind round glasses, and this quiet, shy smile that made your stomach flip every time she walked into the theater room. She was cute. Very cute. And you had a crush on her so strong it made rehearsals… complicated. Nobody knew. Not your friends. Not the teacher. Definitely not Piper. You were the captain. You were supposed to be focused on the play — not on how your heart raced whenever she stood close to you. Then the teacher announced the new production. “A romance,” they said, holding up the script. “About two girls falling in love.” Your brain nearly short-circuited. The leads were Ally and Kelly. When the cast list came out, your heart dropped straight into your stomach. You were Ally. And Piper was Kelly. ⸻ Rehearsals became dangerous. Because the characters were written to fall slowly in love. Long conversations. Holding hands. Looking into each other’s eyes. In one scene, Kelly gently touched Ally’s cheek while delivering a line. The first time Piper practiced it, her fingers brushed your face softly. Your chest felt hot instantly. “You okay?” Piper whispered. You nodded quickly. “Yeah.” But every rehearsal after that left your head spinning. The way Piper looked at you during scenes… it didn’t always feel like acting. ⸻ One evening rehearsal ended late. Everyone packed their bags and left, laughing in the hallway. Your stomach still felt warm and restless from the last scene you had practiced with Piper. You escaped to the bathroom to cool down. The bright lights buzzed softly above you as you leaned against the sink, splashing a little water on your face. You stared at your reflection, trying to steady your breathing. You felt something wet between your legs. You looked down to check your panties and felt that they were soaking wet. Wet from arousal. Then Piper comes in

Lea

You were the captain of the theater club. Which meant you were supposed to be composed. Focused. Professional. At fifteen, you already knew blocking, direction notes, lighting cues, and how to keep a rehearsal from turning into chaos. The teacher trusted you to keep things running smoothly. But there was one problem. Lea. Lea with the light brown straight hair that always fell neatly over her shoulders. Lea with soft brown eyes behind round glasses. Lea who looked quiet and sweet until she laughed, and then the whole room seemed brighter. She was… cute. Painfully cute. And you had a crush on her so strong it made your stomach twist every time she walked into the room. Nobody knew. You made sure of that. You were the captain. You couldn’t be the girl who got flustered every time one specific actress spoke. Except your body didn’t always cooperate. When Lea leaned close to read a script with you, warmth spread through your chest.After practice, your panties were wet with semen And when rehearsals got more… romantic? It was torture. ⸻ The teacher announced the play during one rehearsal. “A modern drama,” they said, holding up the script. “About two girls falling in love.” Your brain short-circuited. The female leads were Ally and Kelly. Auditions happened. And somehow the universe decided to make your life complicated. You were cast as Ally. And Lea— Lea was Kelly. ⸻ Rehearsals became dangerous. Because the script required closeness. Holding hands. Long eye contact. Confessions. During one scene, Kelly had to gently cup Ally’s face. The first time Lea rehearsed that moment, her fingers brushed your cheek. . Your heart slammed so hard you thought the whole room could hear it. “You okay?” she whispered. You forced yourself to stay in character. “Yeah,” you said, even though your pulse was racing. Every rehearsal left you feeling warm and restless, emotions swirling in ways you tried desperately to ignore. Because if you admitted what you felt… You might not be able to hide it anymore. ⸻ One evening rehearsal ended late. Everyone slowly filtered out of the theater room, grabbing backpacks and scripts. You stayed behind like always, organizing props and putting scripts back into their box. The stage lights were dim now. The room quiet. You were stacking papers when you heard the door open again. You looked up. Lea stood there. She still had her glasses on, slightly crooked like she’d pushed them up too many times while reading lines. Her light brown hair was loose around her shoulders. She looked nervous. “Hey,” she said softly. “Hey,” you replied. “You forgot something?” you asked. She stepped inside. “No.” Your stomach flipped. “Then why are you here?” Lea hesitated. Her fingers twisted together nervously. “I… needed to tell you something.” Your heartbeat sped up instantly. “Okay.” She walked closer until she stood just a few feet away from you. Close enough that you could see the little freckles near her nose. “During rehearsals,” she started slowly, “I thought the scenes would just feel like acting.” Your breath caught. “But they don’t,” she continued quietly. Her brown eyes lifted to meet yours through her glasses. “They feel… real.” Your chest tightened. “What do you mean?” you asked, though you already suspected. Lea swallowed. “When Kelly looks at Ally in the script,” she said, voice softer now, “she talks about how her stomach flips every time Ally smiles.” Your heart pounded harder. Lea stepped a little closer. “And how she keeps thinking about her when she’s not around.” Your throat felt dry. Lea looked straight at you. “That’s not acting for me.” Silence filled the theater room. You could hear your own heartbeat. “I like you,” she said finally. The words landed between you. Warm. Electric. Your brain spun for half a second before the truth rushed out. “You have no idea how long I’ve been trying to hide that I like you too.” Lea blinked. “You do?” You laughed nervously, running a hand through your

Annabeth

You and Annabeth Chase had been best friends for years. From the moment you arrived at Camp Half-Blood, the two of you clicked instantly. Two girls who could outthink almost anyone. Two girls who stayed up late in the Athena Cabin arguing about strategies, myths, and architecture designs Annabeth wanted to build someday. But there was one thing no one knew. Annabeth had a crush on you. A huge one. Which was… inconvenient. Because she always said she was straight. And you were a girl. A very pretty girl with dark brown 3A curls that never behaved and warm brown eyes that seemed to notice everything. Annabeth tried to ignore it. Really. But every time you laughed, her stomach flipped. Every time you leaned your head on her shoulder while reading, she forgot what she was saying. She never told anyone. Not Percy. Not Grover. No one. ⸻ One night the campfire had burned low. Most campers had gone back to their cabins, but Annabeth couldn’t sleep. So she climbed the small hill near the woods where the stars looked brighter. She spread out a picnic blanket and lay on her back, staring up at the sky. Trying not to think about you. Which obviously made her think about you more. “Annabeth?” She sat up quickly. You were walking toward her. Your curls were slightly messy from the wind, and you looked half curious, half amused. “There you are,” you said, dropping onto the blanket beside her. “I’ve been looking for you.” Annabeth tried to sound normal. “Why?” You shrugged. “Got bored.” You stretched out beside her, looking up at the stars. For a few quiet minutes, neither of you spoke. Then you suddenly turned your head toward her. “Hey.” Annabeth glanced at you. “Yeah?” You grinned. “Who’s your crush?” Annabeth’s brain completely stopped working. “What?” “You know,” you said casually. “Everyone has one.” Her heart started racing. “Not everyone.” “Annabeth,” you said, bumping her shoulder lightly. “You’re terrible at lying.” She stared up at the stars again quickly. “I’m not lying.” “Uh-huh.” You rolled onto your side so you could look at her. “Come on. Tell me.” Annabeth could feel your eyes on her. Her pulse sped up. If she told you the truth… Everything could change. “…It’s complicated,” she said quietly. You smiled a little. “Why?” Annabeth swallowed. Because the person she liked… Was sitting right next to her.

Will

Here you go — second person, flirty, sweet, and soft, ending with a kiss (nothing explicit): ⸻ Will Solace — Sun-Kissed He definitely did this on purpose. You realize it when he stops walking and turns to face you, leaning back casually against a tree like he hasn’t just dragged you halfway across camp to be alone. The sunlight filters through the leaves, catching in his blond hair, making him look unfairly radiant. “You know,” Will says, tilting his head, “you didn’t even question it.” “Question what?” you ask, crossing your arms. “The part where I kidnapped you.” You scoff. “Please. If you were actually kidnapping me, you’d be doing a terrible job.” He grins — wide, bright, dangerous. “Wow. Good to know.” The air between you feels charged now. Different. Will steps a little closer, eyes flicking to your face, then your lips, then back up again. He’s not subtle. He’s never been. “You were amazing today,” he says quietly. “At archery.” Your stomach flips. “You always say that.” “Yeah,” he replies softly. “Because it’s always true.” You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. “Flatterer.” He leans in just enough that you feel his warmth. “Maybe. But you don’t stop me.” You don’t. For a moment, neither of you speaks. The world feels smaller — just you, him, and the sunlight. Will lifts a hand, hesitates, then gently tucks a loose curl behind your ear. “You know,” he murmurs, “I’ve wanted to do that for a long time.” Your breath catches. “Then why didn’t you?” He smiles, softer this time. “Didn’t think you’d let me.” You close the distance instead. The kiss is light — warm, careful, full of unspoken things. Will freezes for half a second in surprise, then kisses you back, smiling against your lips like he can’t believe this is real. But then things get intense over the Months….

Gynecologist

You were 15, and your parents forced you to go to a dark looking gynecologist. She was rude, and creepy, since she would tie you to some stirrups. Today you had been dragged to an appointment yet again. And you were not agreed. Today you stood in the waiting area, she called you in and you stood in the middle of the room

Castellan

You fell in love with Luke Castellan before you even knew what love was. Back when it was just the four of you—Luke, Thalia, Annabeth, and you—sleeping under bridges and stealing food, pretending you weren’t terrified of the next monster in the dark. You were two years younger than him, but he never treated you like you were small. He’d ruffle your curls, hand you the better weapon, walk a little slower so you could keep up. You loved him then. You loved him when you reached Camp Half-Blood. And you loved him when he broke it. When Luke chose Kronos, it felt like someone had ripped the ground out from under you. You sobbed until your throat burned. You tried to tell yourself Nemesis demanded balance—justice over emotion. Then he asked you to join him. And you chose love. Balance didn’t disappear. You just told yourself you’d find it later. Now you stood aboard the Princess Andromeda, the ocean endless and black around you. You weren’t just a passenger—you were second in command. The crew respected you. Feared you. As Nemesis’s daughter, you kept order when things tilted too far. You were the quiet correction behind Luke’s ambition. But it was lonely. Luke was everywhere and nowhere. Meetings. Plans. Kronos whispering through him. His laughter came less easily now. His smiles were sharper, thinner. At night, though— At night he was just Luke. He would collapse into bed beside you, exhausted, armor half-removed, hair falling into his eyes. Sometimes he’d reach for you in his sleep. Sometimes he’d just breathe, steady and human, like the boy who once promised to protect you from everything. Tonight was no different. He fell asleep almost instantly, back turned slightly, tension still in his shoulders even in rest. You waited until his breathing deepened. Then you slipped out of bed. The balcony doors creaked softly as you stepped outside. The night air was cold against your skin. The ocean stretched forever, dark waves swallowing moonlight. Above, the sky glittered with indifferent stars. You wrapped your arms around yourself, curls shifting in the wind. Nemesis whispered inside you—about fairness, about consequences, about debts that always come due. You chose love. But love had unbalanced the world. And standing there, staring at the endless sea and endless sky, you couldn’t help wondering— When the scales finally tipped back… who would be crushed beneath them? You cried softly, but didn’t notice the footsteps behind you

Hunger Games

District 12 felt too quiet that morning. Pf course your life wasn’t usually quiet being the daughter of district 12’s only male victor. You stood in the reaping square with your dark brown 3AB curls half-tamed, half wild, because no matter how nervous you were, you refused to look afraid. Haymitch had told you once that the Capitol loved fear—so you refused to give them any. Your mother’s features, Haymitch’s eyes—eyes the color of burnt gold when the sun hit them—made you stand out even more than you wanted. Effie Trinket reached into the glass bowl, fingers fluttery and cheerful, the way Capitol people get when they’ve never had to bleed for anything. Your stomach twisted. Somewhere behind you, you knew your father was leaning against the stage rail, pretending not to care. But when Effie pulled out the slip, her voice ringing like a bell… “Sophia Abernathy!” It was like the air vanished. You felt your heart lurch, your breath freeze, your world collapse inward— But nothing compared to Haymitch. He froze. Not sloppy, not drunk—stone still. His face drained of color, eyes blown wide, mouth parting in horror he couldn’t hide. He whispered it before he even realized he said it: “No.” One soft word. And it shattered him. Just like it shattered you. It was clear he wasn’t ready to mentor his own daughter and then watch her walk into a death trap ⸻ 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘦𝘹𝘢𝘤𝘵 𝘮𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 — everything unfolds exactly like the movie. You walked forward, chin high even though your hands were shaking. Effie praised your “lovely spirit.” Peeta Mellark was chosen next—his eyes finding yours, soft and frightened, but determined. On the train, Haymitch avoided looking at you at first, drinking too much, not because he didn’t care—but because he cared too much. Every glance at you hit him like a punch. But slowly, he forced himself to sober up, because you were his daughter, and he refused to lose you like he lost everything else. In the Capitol, Cinna dressed you and Peeta in flames for the chariot ride. The crowd roared. President Snow watched. Haymitch shouted “That’s my girl!” louder than anyone. In training, you proved yourself—strong, fast, dangerous. In your private session, you earned an 11. During interviews, you charmed the Capitol, while Peeta confessed his crush on you, sending shockwaves through the audience. You handled it perfectly—thanks to Haymitch’s frantic coaching backstage. And finally— The morning of the Games. Your stylists said goodbye. Cinna held your hands while the doors sealed. The metal plate rose beneath your feet. The tube lifted you upward. Light exploded above you. Wind hit your face. The arena unrolled in every direction—green, sharp, merciless. The countdown began. 10… 9… 8… And you where rises in the arena

Kamila

The practice rink was almost empty. Most of the skaters had already finished their sessions for the day, leaving the ice smooth and quiet under the bright arena lights. The cold air made little clouds when you breathed. You leaned against the boards, tightening the laces on your skates again. Even though you were already ready. You just needed something to do with your hands. Across the rink, Kamila Valieva stepped onto the ice. Your stomach did the same annoying flip it always did when you saw her. Kamila glided forward effortlessly, her long lines cutting across the ice like it was nothing. Her dark hair was tied back for practice, and every movement looked light and precise. You had watched hundreds of skaters before. But nobody moved like her. You were one of the younger skaters representing the United States Figure Skating, training with the team before the big international competition. Kamila was here representing Russia. Different teams. Different coaches. Different sides of the rink most of the time. But somehow you kept noticing each other. At first it was small things. Looking up at the same moment. Passing each other in the hallway between practices. Sharing awkward smiles when your coaches weren’t looking. Then it became… something else. Because every time Kamila looked at you, she didn’t look away quickly like most people did. She held your gaze. Just for a second longer than normal. And it made your heart race. ⸻ You stepped onto the ice for your turn. The cold surface felt familiar under your blades. You started your warm-up laps, pushing into long smooth strokes. Halfway across the rink you noticed something. Kamila had stopped skating. She was leaning slightly on the boards. Watching you. You tried to pretend you didn’t notice. But your cheeks still warmed. After a few minutes you finished your practice run and skated toward the edge of the rink. Kamila was still there. Waiting. You stepped off the ice, pulling your skate guards from your bag. She walked over. Up close she looked a little shy, which surprised you. On the ice she looked fearless. “Your triple loop,” she said softly, her accent gentle. “It was very good.” You blinked. “Oh—thanks.” You hesitated. “Your quad toe earlier was… kind of terrifying.” Kamila laughed quietly. “I fall many times learning it.” “I would fall once and retire from skating forever.” She smiled at that. For a moment neither of you spoke. The rink hummed quietly around you. Then Kamila looked down at her skates. “I wanted to talk to you,” she said. Your heart sped up. “Okay.” She looked back up at you. Her brown eyes were nervous now. “In my country… this is sometimes difficult to say.” Your stomach twisted. “What is?” She took a small breath. “When I watch you skate,” she said slowly, “I feel something strange.” You tried to keep your voice steady. “Like what?” Kamila hesitated. “Like… I want you to look at me.” Your pulse jumped. “And when you smile at me in hallway,” she continued quietly, “I think about it later.” Your brain stopped working. Kamila looked embarrassed now. “I am not very good at explaining feelings.” You laughed softly. “That makes two of us.” She studied your face carefully. Then asked very gently: “Is it strange… if I say I think I like you?” Your heart thudded. You rubbed the back of your neck nervously. “…Good,” you said. Kamila blinked. “Good?” “Because,” you admitted, smiling a little, “I’ve been trying to figure out how to tell you the exact same thing.”

Ani

Being Obi-Wan Kenobi’s daughter already put a spotlight on you. Being his padawan at the same time as Anakin Skywalker? That made the Jedi Temple whisper every time you walked by. You were fifteen—small, sharp, stubborn, with your 3AB dark brown curls pulled half-back, your brown eyes framed by lashes everyone else envied but you never thought about. Anakin was seventeen—tall, loud, brilliant, reckless, and weirdly protective of you for someone who claimed you were “just another padawan.” Right. Sure. ⸻ Morning Training The training mats were cool under your hands as you stretched. Anakin was already there, lightsaber clipped to his belt, practically vibrating with unused energy. He looked up when you walked in. “There you are,” he said, grinning like you were late even though you weren’t. “Thought you overslept again.” You rolled your eyes. “I’m on time. You’re just early because you don’t know how to sit still.” He opened his mouth to argue, but Obi-Wan appeared behind him—robes perfect, hair perfect, beard perfect, because of course he was. “Good morning, my padawans,” Obi-Wan said calmly. “Today we focus on coordination and teamwork.” Anakin groaned. You groaned louder. Obi-Wan smiled like he lived for this. ⸻ Forced Teamwork The morning went exactly how you expected: • You trying to strategize • Anakin charging in • Obi-Wan putting a hand to his forehead like he regretted both of you During a break, you sat against the wall, brushing curls away from your face. Sweat made them springier, wilder. Anakin dropped beside you, shoulder bumping yours like he didn’t notice—or maybe he did. “You did good out there,” he said, casually confident. “You mean we did good,” you correct. His blue eyes flicked to you—quick, warm, almost proud. Then, because he’s Anakin: “Mostly me, though.” You shoved his arm. He laughed. Obi-Wan watched from across the room with a look that said Force help me, why did I agree to take two of them? ⸻ Sparring Match Obi-Wan called you both back to the center. “Light sparring,” he said. “Technique over power.” Anakin lit his saber. You lit yours. The crackle of blue against your purple filled the air as you circled each other. He moved first—fast, eager. But you blocked him, turned, and almost caught him off guard with a twist he didn’t see coming. “Nice,” he breathed. “You taught me that move two weeks ago,” you said, smirking. “Oh.” His grin widened. “Then I’m even more impressed.” Obi-Wan’s voice floated in: “Anakin, consider that praise for both of you, please.” Anakin ignored him. You tried not to smile. ⸻ End of the Session When training finally ended, you wiped sweat off your forehead, your curls sticking wildly in every direction. Anakin picked up your lightsaber hilt from the mat and handed it to you without being asked, eyes flicking to your face like he wanted to say something else. “You’re getting stronger,” he said quietly. “Fast.” “Because I have to keep up with you,” you shot back. He held your gaze for a beat too long. Then he looked away first. Obi-Wan cleared his throat from behind you two. “We still have meditation,” he reminded. You groaned. Anakin groaned louder. And Obi-Wan smiled to himself like he wouldn’t trade either of you for anything. And so in meditation Anakin fell asleep on top of you

Rela

Everyone knew Elara and Rela were inseparable. They studied together. Trained together. Sat next to each other in every class without even thinking about it. Best friends. That’s what they told everyone. That’s what they told themselves. Elara had dark brown hair that fell in soft waves around her face, green eyes that noticed everything and said very little. She laughed quietly, like she was afraid of taking up too much space. Rela was the opposite — ginger hair bright like fire, green eyes sharp and expressive, confidence woven into every movement. She spoke easily, smiled easily. But when she looked at Elara… She hesitated. There were moments that lingered too long: • Fingers brushing when they passed notes • Sitting too close on purpose • That strange ache when one of them laughed with someone else Neither of them ever said anything. Until that afternoon. ⸻ Alone Training had ended early. The halls were mostly empty, sunlight spilling through the high windows. “Hey,” Rela said casually, falling into step beside Elara. “Can you help me grab something from the storage room?” Elara nodded without thinking. “Sure.” The room was small, quiet, filled with shelves and the faint smell of dust and metal. Rela closed the door behind them — not loudly, just enough for it to click. Elara turned. Rela didn’t move. For a second, neither of them spoke. The silence felt heavier than it should have. Rela ran a hand through her ginger hair, suddenly nervous, her confidence faltering for the first time Elara could remember. “El,” she said softly. “Can I ask you something?” Elara’s heart skipped. “Okay…” Rela stepped closer. Not too close. Just enough. Her green eyes searched Elara’s face — her freckles, her lashes, the way she held herself like she was bracing for something. “You ever,” Rela began, then stopped. Swallowed. Tried again. “You ever feel like… maybe we’re more than just best friends?” Elara’s breath caught. The room felt very small now. Rela’s voice dropped to almost a whisper. “Because I do.” She held Elara’s gaze, waiting — vulnerable, hopeful, terrified all at once. And Elara—

Anakin

You are Anakin Skywalker’s padawan. A Mandalorian by blood. A Jedi by choice. Obi-Wan Kenobi’s daughter. Satine Kryze’s heir. Future Queen of Mandalore. Your dark brown curls spill down your back, fading into brown, then pale blond toward the ends — a quiet rebellion against uniformity. A purple lightsaber rests at your side, scarred from use, familiar as your own heartbeat. Anakin isn’t in the Temple when it happens. The alarms scream through the halls — sharp, panicked, wrong. Blaster fire echoes where there should only be calm. Clones turn corners they shouldn’t be turning. Shadows move too fast. You’re in the younglings’ training wing when the first explosion rocks the floor. Sixty of them. Too small. Too young. Too terrified. You don’t hesitate. You slam the doors shut with the Force, dragging furniture, sealing exits, pushing fear down until it burns into focus. Your shoulder is already bleeding — shrapnel, you think — and your ribs scream every time you breathe. But you stand anyway. “Behind me,” you tell them, voice steady even when your vision blurs. “No matter what happens.” The doors break. You fight like a Mandalorian and a Jedi both — purple blade whirling, Force crashing outward, every movement born from instinct and fury. You’re hit again. And again. A blaster bolt grazes your thigh. Another sends you skidding across the floor. You get back up. Always. By the time the last attacker falls, the room is silent except for your breathing — ragged, shaking — and the soft sound of children crying. You’re still standing. Barely. Then you feel it. That familiar presence — bright, wild, terrified. “—No—” Anakin’s voice echoes down the corridor. He runs in and stops short. The bodies. The scorched walls. The younglings huddled behind you. And you. Bloodied. Burned. On your feet through sheer will alone. You turn toward him, trying to smile. “They’re safe,” you manage. That’s all you get out before your knees buckle. Anakin catches you just as the world goes dark. And for the first time since becoming your Master, he’s afraid he’s lost you.

Hayden

You were 16 years old, and your brother had forgotten his lunch so your mother had told you to go hand it to him. This exited you. Your brother worked with Hayden Christensen who was playing Anakin Skywalker and your brother was his hairstylist. You went to your room and grabbed a tight shirt, but forgot to put a bra on so you covered it up with a sweater and put some black shorts on. Grabbing the lunch you drove over to set and found your brother there on his desk “Alan you forgot your lunch” You told him and handed him the bag. Then came in Hayden looking awfully good with a T-shirt and jeans. “Oh hey Raven, nice to see you” Then after a while you got into the elevator to go to the fourth floor where the bathroom is but Hayden got into the elevator with you, stood very close to you and pressed the top button. He wanted you in his office. This made you wet, and nervous. When the doors opened it revealD Hayden’s office. And suddenly….

Piper

The campfire had long burned down. Most campers from Camp Half-Blood had already gone back to their cabins, leaving the night quiet except for crickets and the distant sound of waves. You sat on the edge of the dock, legs dangling over the water, your dark brown 3AB curls pulled into a messy half-tie that had long since come loose. A notebook rested on your lap, filled with half-finished battle strategies and diagrams only an Athena kid would make for fun. You didn’t hear the footsteps at first. Someone stopped behind you. “…You always think this late?” a voice asked softly. You turned. It was Piper McLean. Her feather earring glinted faintly in the moonlight as she stepped closer, hands tucked into the pockets of her jacket. “Couldn’t sleep?” you asked. Piper shrugged. “Something like that.” She sat beside you on the dock, a little closer than most people usually did. The lake reflected the stars between you. For a moment neither of you spoke. You went back to your notebook. Piper, however, wasn’t looking at the water. She was looking at you. At the way your curls fell over your shoulder. At the way your brow furrowed slightly when you were thinking. Finally she blurted out— “Can I ask you something?” You looked up. “Sure.” Piper hesitated, chewing the inside of her cheek. Which was strange. Piper McLean was rarely nervous. “…Are you dating anyone?” You blinked. “No… why?” Piper immediately looked away toward the lake. “No reason,” she said too quickly. You tilted your head. “That sounded like a reason.” She laughed awkwardly. “Okay maybe there’s a small reason.” You closed your notebook. Now you were curious. “What reason?” Piper’s fingers nervously traced the edge of the dock. “I just… wanted to know.” The moonlight reflected in the water as she glanced back at you. Her voice dropped slightly. “…because there’s someone I like.” You smiled a little. “Well that’s good. Who?” Piper froze. Her shoulders stiffened. For a long moment she said nothing. Then she looked at you again — really looked at you. And suddenly she looked very nervous. “…Would it bother you,” Piper asked quietly, “if the person I like… was a girl?”

Jason x Luke

The cavern was quiet except for the soft drip of water echoing somewhere in the dark. Jason stood a few feet away from Luke, arms crossed tightly over his chest, pretending the cold was the reason he was shaking. Luke wasn't looking at him at first. He sat on a broken stone pillar, head bowed, fingers loosely laced together. The torchlight painted his face in gold and shadow, softening the sharpness that usually made him look untouchable. For once, he looked human. Tired. Almost fragile. Jason hated how that made his chest ache. When Luke finally lifted his head, his biue eyes found Jason instantly-like they always did. Like they were drawn to him without permission. Jason's breath hitched, just slightly, and he hoped the darkness hid it. Luke stood slowly, the movement careful, almost hesitant. He took a step toward Jason, then another, stopping just close enough that Jason could feel the warmth radiating off him. There was a moment-quiet, suspended-where neither of them spoke. Jason's pulse hammered in his throat. Luke's gaze flicked down to Jason's mouth, then back up, and The cavern was quiet except for the soft drip of water echoing somewhere in the dark. Jason stood a few feet away from Luke, arms crossed tightly over his chest, pretending the cold was the reason he was shaking. Luke wasn't looking at him at first. He sat on a broken stone pillar, head bowed, fingers loosely laced together. The torchlight painted his face in gold and shadow, softening the sharpness that usually made him look untouchable. For once, he looked human. Tired. Almost fragile. Jason hated how that made his chest ache. When Luke finally lifted his head, his biue eyes found Jason instantly-like they always did. Like they were drawn to him without permission. Jason's breath hitched, just slightly, and he hoped the darkness hid it. Luke stood slowly, the movement careful, almost hesitant. He took a step toward Jason, then another, stopping just close enough that Jason could feel the warmth radiating off him. There was a moment-quiet, suspended-where neither of them spoke. Jason's pulse hammered in his throat. Luke's gaze flicked down to Jason's mouth, then back up, and The cavern was quiet except for the soft drip of water echoing somewhere in the dark. Jason stood a few feet away from Luke, arms crossed tightly over his chest, pretending the cold was the reason he was shaking. Luke wasn't looking at him at first. He sat on a broken stone pillar, head bowed, fingers loosely laced together. The torchlight painted his face in gold and shadow, softening the sharpness that usually made him look untouchable. For once, he looked human. Tired. Almost fragile. Jason hated how that made his chest ache. When Luke finally lifted his head, his biue eyes found Jason instantly-like they always did. Like they were drawn to him without permission. Jason's breath hitched, just slightly, and he hoped the darkness hid it. Luke stood slowly, the movement careful, almost hesitant. He took a step toward Jason, then another, stopping just close enough that Jason could feel the warmth radiating off him. There was a moment-quiet, suspended-where neither of them spoke. Jason's pulse hammered in his throat. Luke's gaze flicked down to Jason's mouth, then back up, and hammered in his throat. Luke's gaze flicked down to Jason's mouth, then back up, and something unspoken tightened between them. Jason looked away first. He always did. But Luke didn't move. He stayed there, close enough that Jason could feel the ghost of his breath against his cheek, close enough that Jason's resolve wavered like a flame in wind. Luke's voice, when it finally came, was barely above a whisper. And Jason hated how much he wanted to hear it.

Luna

The sun hung low over the beach, painting the sky in soft shades of orange and pink as you and Luna walked along the shoreline. The warm sand shifted beneath your feet, and the sound of waves rolling in created a calm, steady rhythm. Luna brushed a strand of her brown hair behind her ear, smiling as she looked out at the water. Her tan skin shimmered in the sunlight, and her brown eyes sparkled with excitement. She wore a simple bikini that showed off her ass and part of her breasts and despite the casual setting, she carried herself with a quiet confidence that made it hard to look away. “You’re staring,” she teased gently, nudging you with her shoulder. You laughed, feeling a little flustered. “I can’t help it. You just look… really pretty.” Her cheeks warmed slightly, but she grinned. “Good answer.” The waves splashed softly at your ankles as you stepped closer to the ocean. The water was cool compared to the heat of the sand, and it sent a refreshing shiver through you. Luna reached out, her hand brushing against yours before she laced her fingers through yours. “Race you in?” she suddenly said, a playful spark in her eyes. Before you could answer, she squeezed your hand and pulled you forward, laughing as she broke into a run toward the water. You followed, laughing too, the two of you sprinting into the shallow waves. The ocean rushed around your legs, then your waist, the water rising as you waded deeper. Luna let go of your hand and splashed you lightly, her laughter carrying over the sound of the sea. “Oh, you’re going to regret that,” you said, grinning as you splashed her back. Soon the two of you were laughing uncontrollably, splashing each other as the waves gently pushed and pulled around you. Every so often, you’d stop just to catch your breath, standing close, water dripping from your skin, both of you smiling like nothing else in the world mattered. For a moment, the world felt simple—just you, Luna, and the endless ocean stretching out in front of you. You try not to stare at her chest, you were both girls

Anakin

You’re baby brother

Nico Di Angelo

The wind whipped through your hair as Apollo’s sun chariot raced across the sky—well, minivan for the day, because apparently “low profile” meant a car that blared pop music at a volume that could shatter glass. You sat in the front seat, arms crossed, your bow resting across your lap like a silent warning. You could feel eyes on you—Percy trying to sneak glances from the backseat, probably wondering how Artemis’s daughter could exist without wearing silver or pledging herself to eternal maidenhood. Thalia sat next to him, rolling her eyes at Apollo’s playlist, while Nico watched everything with a mixture of awe and nerves. You weren’t part of the Hunt. You never had been. Immortality didn’t tempt you—not when it meant watching everyone you cared for grow old and fade away. The Hunters didn’t understand that. Zoë called you a traitor, and the rest barely tolerated your presence, though a few couldn’t hide their grudging respect when they saw your aim. You could outshoot anyone alive—anyone, except maybe your mother. Back at Camp Half-Blood, though? You were something else entirely. The “Queen of Archery,” as the younger campers called you. The one who trained the others, who could split an arrow midair and still smirk about it. Apollo’s voice cut through your thoughts, far too chipper for the situation. “So! Road trip to Camp Half-Blood with four demigods, one sun god, and a van running purely on good vibes. What could possibly go wrong?” You shot him a sideways glare. “You’re driving, so… everything?” Thalia snorted. Percy laughed. Nico smiled faintly.

Gin

You were 15, and your parents forced you to go to a dark looking gynecologist. She was rude, and creepy, since she would tie you to some stirrups. Today you had been dragged to an appointment yet again. And you where not agreed

Jorge

You never thought losing someone who was still technically there could hurt like that. When Jorge was in 7th and you were in 5th, he used to call you Star Wars, laughing because you’d talk about lightsabers like they were real. Your curls were messy then, your smile a little crooked, and he still looked at you like you hung an entire galaxy in the hallway. Then volleyball happened. Games where he’d smile across the net. Jokes. Stray glances. The day he asked you out, voice cracking and cheeks pink. And then he went to high school. Just one building away… yet a different universe. You barely saw him. He barely saw you. And the distance felt like punishment. At home, you cried quietly—face buried into the couch cushions, curls falling around you like a curtain. At Jorge’s house, he slammed pillows, threw his volleyball at the wall, wiped his eyes with the back of his arm, furious at a problem he couldn’t punch. Both of you hurting. Both of you thinking the other was forgetting. Your moms? They weren’t having it. Luz and Mariela sat at a table over coffee, trading tired, knowing looks. “She’s miserable,” Luz sighed. “He’s worse,” Mariela groaned. And so they made a plan: • Jorge could stay at your house for an entire summer month. or • You could both show up at each other’s houses whenever you wanted and even sleep over. But neither of you knew. ⸻ The Surprise You were curled on the couch, wearing an oversized hoodie, watching a cheesy romance movie through blurry eyes. Your breath still hitched now and then—small, quiet sobs you tried to swallow. Your dark brown curls were soft around your shoulders, messy yet stupidly pretty in that accidental way. Your brown eyes were warm and sad, glowing from the TV light. That’s when your mom, Luz, poked her head into the room. “Mi amor… ven acá. I have something for you.” You wiped your face fast, trying to pretend you weren’t crying. It didn’t work. “Is it important?” your voice cracked slightly. Your mom only smiled—soft, secretive, the way moms smile right before they drop life-changing surprises. “It’s outside,” she said. “Go look.” Your heart thumped. You stood up. Your curls bounced. Your palms were sweating. You walked toward the door, confused, nervous, still wiping tears off your cheeks. You opened it. And there he was. ⸻ Jorge Standing on your porch. Hoodie. Flushed cheeks. Light brown hair a little messy from running his hands through it. Blue-green eyes soft and unsure, the color of seawater right before a storm. He looked at you like he’d been waiting forever. You froze. He exhaled—relieved, hurting, hopeful—all at once. “Star Wars…” he whispered, voice breaking on your old nickname. “I missed you.”

Peeta Mellark

You and Peeta were friends since you were kids, it was hard to make *real* friends, your dad being Haymitch. He was real. But when Peeta was chosen for the games, and he faked a love for Katniss, everything changed. When he won and came home, You had been avoiding him but it was hard to do when he moved into victors village with you and your Dad. You were sitting in the kitchen when Peeta walked in. “My dads not here,” You said. “Actually, I’m here for you,” Peeta replied.

Jefferson Hatter

You and Jefferson were madly in love before the curse. Always the sweetest, sharing secret words and kisses. After the curse the two of you got thrown to storybrooke he could remember you remember it all…. But you? You didn’t know a thing, you where convinced you where just an archer shop owner. Archery had always been your passion. He would watch you from a far, and just wonder how would things be if the evil queen hadn’t done this. Hadn’t separate you! He was mad, mad to the point he would sometimes, weird times, get hung up. When the curse was broken and everyone got their memories back you were looking for him, but he was just to scared you would hate him. Hate him for leaving you, even though it wasn’t really his foult. You walked down the street. Bow sound on your back and quiver on your hip. High black boots dark brown pants and black leather shirt with high black gloves in one of them your arm guard. Then he called your name our “Raven!”

Luke x Din

Luke Skywalker doesn’t expect Din Djarin to stay. Most people don’t, not after the job is done. They leave quietly, or loudly, but always away. Din lingers instead, standing at the edge of the landing pad as twin suns sink low, armor catching the last light of day. “You could come with me,” Luke says, half-joking, half-hoping. Din snorts beneath the helmet. “I don’t do temples.” Luke smiles anyway. They cross paths again weeks later — then months. A pirate ambush. An escort mission. A quiet drink in a cantina that smells like dust and old smoke. Luke learns Din is more observant than he lets on. Din learns Luke listens more than he speaks. When they fight together, it’s seamless. Din moves like a wall — solid, protective — while Luke is motion and light, spinning green arcs through the air. Beskar deflects blaster fire meant for Luke. The Force shoves enemies away from Din before they can flank him. After one battle, Din sits heavily on a crate, armor scorched. Luke crouches in front of him. “You’re hurt.” “I’ve been worse,” Din says, but he doesn’t pull away when Luke’s fingers brush the edge of the dented beskar. It’s quiet for a moment. “Why do you keep helping?” Din asks. Luke considers the question. “Because I believe people can choose something better.” Din tilts his head. “You think I need saving?” Luke meets his visor. “No. I think you already did.” That night, they camp beneath unfamiliar stars. Din removes his helmet only when Luke turns away — but later, Luke feels the shift beside him, the warmth of Din’s shoulder pressed lightly against his own. No vows. No labels. Just two men who keep finding their way back to each other — beskar and light, choosing the same path. ⸻ By morning, the fire has burned low. Luke wakes to find Din still there, seated close, quiet as ever — but this time, Din’s gloved hand rests over Luke’s, solid and warm. Not an accident. Not a question. Luke doesn’t pull away. He turns his palm instead, fingers threading gently through Din’s, the Force humming softly between them — not power, not destiny, just connection. Din squeezes once. A promise without words. And for the first time, Luke realizes this isn’t just someone who stays. It’s someone who chooses him.

Apollo

You remembered the fall. The heat of the cavern. The roar of the poisoned river. The crushing darkness as Python coiled and struck again and again. You remembered Apollo’s hand in yours. And the moment you both let go of the edge. Then— Nothing. ⸻ Soft sheets. Warm sunlight. Your eyes fluttered open slowly. The ceiling above you was white marble veined with gold. The air smelled faintly of laurel and sunlight. For a moment you thought: This is the Underworld. Then you turned your head. And your heart nearly stopped. Beside you, asleep on the bed, was Apollo. Not Lester. Not the awkward mortal boy with acne and messy hair. Apollo. His short blond curls rested against the pillow, slightly tangled from sleep. His skin was sun-tanned and warm, his chest strong and defined like carved marble rising slowly with each breath. Golden. Alive. Your fingers trembled slightly over the sheets. We died, you thought. Didn’t we? The memory of falling into the darkness with Python still echoed in your mind. You slowly pushed yourself upright. That’s when you noticed someone sitting beside the bed. Calm. Silent. Watching. Silver eyes. Moonlight presence. It was Artemis. Apollo’s twin sister. Your best friend. She sat in a chair beside the bed with one leg crossed over the other, arms folded, studying you with an expression that was part relief and part amusement. “You’re awake,” she said quietly. Your voice came out hoarse. “…Are we dead?” Artemis raised an eyebrow. “No.” You blinked. “No?” “You defeated Python,” she said simply. Your mind struggled to catch up. “But we fell into the—” “Yes,” Artemis interrupted dryly. “You did.” You looked down at your hands, flexing your fingers like you expected them to disappear. They didn’t. “Then how—” A soft sound beside you interrupted. A groan. You turned your head. Apollo shifted in the bed, golden curls falling into his face as he slowly woke. His brow furrowed. “…Ow,” he muttered. His voice was deeper now. Clearer. Not Lester’s voice anymore. Your heart stuttered. Apollo blinked his eyes open. Bright. Sky blue. For a moment he looked confused. Then his gaze landed on you. And everything else disappeared from his expression. “…You’re alive.” Your chest tightened. “You’re one to talk,” you whispered. He pushed himself up on one elbow, staring at you like he was making sure you were real. His hand lifted slowly. Then he touched your cheek. Warm. Gentle. “You came back,” he murmured. Artemis snorted softly from the chair. “You’re both incredibly dramatic, you know that?” Apollo ignored her completely. His thumb brushed under your eye, like he was checking for tears that weren’t there. “I thought we died,” he said quietly. “So did I.” For a moment the room was silent except for the soft rustle of Olympus’ wind outside. Apollo looked down at himself suddenly, realizing something. “…Oh.” You followed his gaze. He looked… very godly again. And also very shirtless. Artemis sighed loudly and stood up. “I am leaving before either of you becomes even more insufferable.” She paused at the door, glancing back at both of you. Despite her usual cool demeanor, there was warmth in her eyes. “You did well,” she said. Then she added, almost teasing— “Try not to destroy the universe again.” The door closed behind her. Silence returned. Apollo looked back at you slowly. Then he laughed quietly, relief washing over his face. “You’re here,” he said softly. And without another word— He pulled you into his arms.

Luke Castellan

Got it — here’s the corrected version, same tone and era, with Luke in the stands watching Percy fight the host, and ending exactly where you asked. ⸻ Everything unfolds the way it does in the book. Rachel’s help. The Labyrinth twisting in on itself. The sudden opening into the arena, heat and stone and the sense of something ancient watching. And then you see him. Luke Castellan isn’t on the ground fighting. He’s in the stands. Seated like a king watching entertainment, one leg crossed over the other, sword resting lazily at his side. Kronos’s presence clings to him, but his posture is relaxed—almost bored. Until his eyes find you. You and Luke used to be together. Before Kronos. Before betrayal. Before the line between enemy and memory blurred beyond repair. And no matter how much you hate him for what he’s done, some part of you still aches when you see him. The fight begins. Percy is forced into the arena, facing the host, steel ringing against steel. The crowd roars. Luke watches intently now, eyes sharp, following Percy’s every move like he’s studying a puzzle. You move to help Percy—to break free and jump into the fight—but a monster grabs you from behind, claws locking around your arms, hauling you back. “Get off me!” you snarl, struggling as the creature pins you, the battle unfolding just out of reach. Then— The whistle. Percy’s signal slices through the chaos. A second later, the ground shakes. Mrs. O’Leary comes barreling in from the tunnels at full speed, hellhound eyes blazing. She doesn’t slow down. She doesn’t dodge. She slams straight into you. The impact sends you flying—thirty feet up, the world spinning, air ripped from your lungs as the arena blurs beneath you— And then gravity wins. You crash down hard. Not on stone. Not on sand. On Luke. You land squarely in his lap, the force knocking him back into his seat as his arms instinctively wrap around you, catching you before you can hit the ground. Everything freezes. The roar of the crowd fades. Percy’s fight feels distant. Luke’s grip tightens just slightly, breath uneven, eyes locked on yours from inches away.

Hyacinthus

It's 2026, and Westwood Academy's hallways are buzzing with the usual noise of a private school afternoon. You walk beside Annabeth, your dark brown 3AB curls bouncing lightly as you shift your books, your brown eyes scanning the crowd for your next class. Annabeth nudges you. "Don't stare. But... look." You follow her gaze. Standing near the front office are two figures - one tall, imposing, unmistakably royal. The other is your age. Prince Hyacinthus of Sparta. He's dressed like any normal student, but nothing about him feels normal. His dark brown hair -just the right length for a boy - falls naturally across his forehead, soft and effortlessly perfect. But it's his eyes that stop you. Violet. Bright, impossible, mythic. He's talking quietly to his father, but the moment he sees you, he goes still. His posture く • Fantasy Romance Story Starter co Invite He's talking quietly to his father, but the moment he sees you, he goes still. His posture shifts — not tense, just... attentive. Focused. Like he's been waiting to see you without knowing it. Annabeth whispers, , "Why is he looking at you like that?" You have no idea. Hyacinthus says something to his father. The Spartan king follows his son's gaze, and when he sees you, his expression changes - recognition, respect, approval. You don't know this, but Hyacinthus has been given a task: Find a girlfriend worthy of a future Spartan king. He's already considering you. Especially after learning you're the daughter of Athena... and of Jedi Knight Obi-Wan Kenobi.. Hyacinthus steps toward you, violet eyes steady. "Daughter of Athena," he Says softly, voice warm and sure. "May I speak with you."

Haymitch

The Second Quarter Quell still feels unreal. Your name is called instead of Louella’s, and Haymitch’s world cracks right along with yours. He doesn’t let go of your hand until they force him to. He looks at you like he’s already lost you — like he’s furious at Panem for daring to try. Now you’re here. The back rooms beneath the Capitol streets are chaos — stylists shouting, tributes being painted and stitched and molded into spectacle. District 12’s room, though, is empty. No stylist. No costumes. Nothing. Wyatt paces. Maysilee sits stiffly on a bench, jaw clenched. Haymitch stands near the wall, arms crossed, eyes sharp and calculating — until they land on you. “They forgot us,” he mutters. You laugh once. Low. Bitter. “No,” you say. “They ignored us.” A Capitol attendant tells you there’s no time, no supplies, no options. You stare at them. “I need a sewing machine,” you say flatly. They hesitate. You don’t blink. Somehow, one appears. Fabric follows. Scraps, coal-black cloth, dull gray lining, flame-resistant fibers meant for something far less intentional. You work fast. Your fingers move like you were born for this — tearing, stitching, burning edges just enough to char them. You scorch seams. You blacken hems. You shape the fabric into something that looks like it crawled straight out of a mine. Haymitch watches you the entire time, something fierce and proud in his eyes. When you’re done, you lift the costumes and turn to them. Wyatt. Maysilee. Haymitch. You hand each of them their suit, firelight flickering across the scorched fabric, and you smile — sharp, wicked, fearless. “Here’s your salvation,” you say calmly. “We’re District 12, and people better know what we do. We take coal, and we light it on fire. I hope none of you are scared of fire.”

Rela

Sophia met Rela this summer and she was a very hot girl with green eyes a ginger hair. The two of you became friends instantly and after a while you started dating. You went to the same school and shared kisses and all. Today after class the two of you wondered into the bathroom. It was empty and Rela locked the door. Then she took out her backpack and looked at Sophia

Luke

You hadn’t meant to run. You told yourself it was temporary. Just space. Just breathing room away from expectations. Being the daughter of Obi-Wan Kenobi and Athena meant you were never just Rowen. You were legacy. Discipline. Strategy. Control. So you left. You found Camp Half-Blood. You found freedom. You found Luke Castellan. And somehow, between training sessions and late-night talks on the beach, you fell in love with him. He wasn’t careful like Jedi. He wasn’t calculated like Athena. He felt everything loudly. And when he slipped that simple promise ring into your hand one evening—silver, understated—you hadn’t put it on your finger. You’d threaded it onto a string and tied it around your neck. Close to your heart. A choice. ⸻ The mission wasn’t supposed to be personal. Just reconnaissance. But fate has a twisted sense of humor. You and Luke were sitting in a small café on Coruscant, cloaks draped loosely over your shoulders. Steam curled from your cups. The city buzzed beyond the transparisteel windows. You were mid-laugh when— The Force shifted. Not violently. Not dark. Familiar. Your spine straightened instantly. Luke noticed. “What?” You didn’t answer. You felt him before you saw him. Controlled presence. Calm. Steady as a mountain. Your father. And beside him— His Padawan. The café door slid open with a quiet hiss. You didn’t turn right away. You reached for the ring at your neck instead, fingers curling around it instinctively. “Rowen.” His voice. Not angry. Not shouting. Just your name. You turned slowly. There he stood, robes immaculate despite the travel. Blue eyes locked onto you—not confused. Certain. The Padawan beside him scanned the room cautiously but kept silent. Luke followed your gaze, immediately understanding the weight in the air. “That’s him,” Luke murmured. “Yes.” Obi-Wan’s gaze shifted briefly to Luke. Assessed. Measured. Not hostile—but alert. “You left without permission,” he said evenly. You stood from your chair, meeting his eyes head-on. “I wasn’t a prisoner.” “No,” he agreed. “But you were my responsibility.” “I still am,” you replied quietly. Something flickered behind his calm mask at that. His gaze dropped briefly to the necklace at your collarbone. The ring resting there. He noticed everything. Athena’s blood in you. “You’ve formed attachments,” he observed. Luke stood too now—not aggressive, but protective. “I care about her,” Luke said plainly. Obi-Wan studied him longer this time. “You are young to make promises that last a lifetime.” Luke didn’t back down. “Maybe. But I meant it.” Silence stretched. You stepped slightly forward—not toward Luke. Toward your father. “I didn’t run because I hated you,” you said softly. “I ran because I needed to know who I was without the Jedi deciding it for me.” The words landed. Heavy. True. The café noise felt distant. Obi-Wan exhaled slowly. “You could have told me.” “I was afraid you wouldn’t let me go.” He didn’t deny it. That hurt more than if he had. The Padawan shifted slightly but remained quiet, sensing this wasn’t a fight—it was something far more fragile. Finally, Obi-Wan’s voice softened. “You are still my daughter.” “And I’m still me,” you replied. His eyes moved again to the ring. “Does he make you happy?” The question wasn’t sharp. It was careful. You looked at Luke. At the way he stood steady beside you. At the promise resting against your heartbeat. “Yes.” A long pause. Then— “Very well.” Luke blinked. You blinked. “I did not come to drag you back in chains,” Obi-Wan continued calmly. “I came because I felt you. And because a father has the right to see with his own eyes that his daughter is safe.” Your throat tightened. “I am safe,” you said. His gaze held yours. “I can see that.” The tension in the room eased just slightly. He turned to leave, then paused at the doorway. “Rowen.” “Yes?” “If you ever need me… you need only reach out.” Not as a Jedi. As a father. He left. The door slid shut. You stood there for a long

Asher

Elisa had been doing her locker when she heard from her friend that there was a new girl. She immediately went to look for her to say hi and welcome her to the school. But when she saw her, man she got a crush (since she was lesbian). Her name was Asher and she had red hair with green eyes and Elisa couldn’t help hut notice that Asher had big tits. The bell rang and she left for class. Later that afternoon Elisa entered the bathroom and saw Asher and thought why not talk to her now? Classes where over, after all. Asher saw Elisa come in, her eyes discreetly moving and saw that Elisa had big tuts and cute blue eyes. Of course Elisa dint notice this.

Anakin

OH this is forbidden, chaotic, destiny-vs-duty energy. I love it. ⸻ Being the daughter of Obi-Wan Kenobi was complicated. Being the daughter of Nemesis? Even worse. Balance lived in your blood. Retribution hummed under your skin. Half your life was spent at Camp Half-Blood, training with celestial bronze and learning that every action demanded consequence. The other half was in the Jedi Temple, learning that attachment was forbidden and emotions were dangerous. You were good at both. Too good. This morning, however, you were not a warrior. Not a demigod. Not a Jedi in training. You were curled up in your bed, staring at the ceiling, cramps twisting through your stomach like a Sith Lord had taken up residence there. You’d skipped morning drills. Which meant someone would notice. You heard the door slide open. “You’re late,” came a familiar voice. You didn’t even turn your head. “Go away.” A pause. Then footsteps. You finally glanced over. And there he was. Anakin Skywalker — messy hair, concerned eyes, trying to look serious but failing because worry was written all over his face. “You’re never late,” he said, softer now. “Are you hurt?” You snorted weakly. “Depends. Does biological betrayal count?” He blinked. “…What?” You rolled onto your back dramatically. “I’m dying.” His eyes widened. He stepped closer instantly, dropping to sit on the edge of your bed. “That’s not funny.” “It’s cramps, Anakin,” you muttered. “Not the Sith.” He visibly relaxed — then frowned. “Cramps?” You stared at him. “You fight droids and you don’t know what cramps are?” His ears turned slightly red. “We don’t exactly cover that in Jedi training.” Despite the pain, you laughed. That soft, breathy laugh you only let out around him. He hesitated. Then, carefully, he reached out through the Force. You felt it — warm, cautious, brushing against your discomfort like sunlight trying to melt ice. “You’re not supposed to use the Force like that,” you murmured. “You’re not supposed to skip training,” he shot back quietly. You looked at him then. Really looked. There was always something intense about the way he watched you — like he was trying to memorize you. Like you were the only thing in the room that mattered. Dangerous. Very un-Jedi. “Anakin,” you said softly. He swallowed. “If this is about attachment rules—” “It’s not,” you interrupted. It was. But neither of you said it. Instead, he shifted closer, awkward but determined. “I can stay,” he said. “Just until you feel better.” “You’ll get in trouble.” He shrugged. “Worth it.” Your demigod heart — the part forged from Nemesis, from balance and consequence — knew this was a dangerous path. But your human heart? It just wanted him there. So you moved slightly, making room beside you. He hesitated only a second before lying down on top of the covers, careful not to touch too much. The Force hummed softly between you. “Don’t shadow the dark side because I skipped training,” you murmured sleepily. He huffed a quiet laugh. “I’d fall to the dark side for far worse reasons.” You didn’t know then how true that would be. But for now, in the quiet of the room, with the galaxy still spinning outside and Camp Half-Blood miles away— It was just you. And him. And a crush that already felt like destiny. ⸻

Unamed

You smiled when your mom told you that your dad forgot his lunch. Quickly you told her that you would take it to him. As you got dressed, you put on a thong and a shirt skirt with a shirt and no bra. You were exited to see your father’s young boss who was two years older than you. When you get there you see your dad’s super sexy boss. He pulls you in his office

Izara

I’ll keep this soft and romantic 💛 ⸻ Izara had never been subtle. You noticed it in the little things first — how she always sat just a little too close, how her knee would brush yours and she wouldn’t move away. How she looked at you like she was trying to memorize your face. You were both girls. And neither of you had said anything about it. That evening, you were in your room, music playing low from your phone. The lights were dim, golden from the small lamp on your desk. You were sitting cross-legged on your bed, explaining something animatedly, hands moving as you talked. Izara wasn’t listening. Well — she was. But not to your words. She was watching the way your lips moved. The way your eyes lit up when you got excited. The way a strand of hair kept falling into your face. You finally stopped mid-sentence. “…Why are you looking at me like that?” She blinked, caught. “Like what?” “Like you’re about to say something and then chicken out.” Her cheeks turned pink. For a second, she looked like she might laugh it off. But she didn’t. Instead, she shifted closer on the bed. Close enough that your knees touched. Close enough that the air between you felt different — heavier, charged. “I’m tired of not saying it,” she murmured. Your heart started pounding. “Saying what?” She hesitated only a second longer. Then she leaned in. Not rushed. Not dramatic. Just careful. Nervous. Brave. Her forehead almost brushed yours before she paused — giving you time to pull away if you wanted to. You didn’t. Her voice dropped to barely a whisper. “I like you.” The words were soft, but they hit like lightning. Your breath caught. “I know,” you admitted quietly. Her eyes widened slightly. “You do?” You nodded, a small smile forming. “I was just waiting for you to catch up.” That made her laugh — breath shaky with relief. This time, when she leaned in again, it wasn’t hesitant. Her lips brushed yours gently. Sweet. Quick. Like she was afraid the moment might disappear if she held it too long. When she pulled back, you were both smiling like idiots. “Okay,” she whispered. “Okay,” you echoed. And suddenly, the room felt warmer than before.

Sergio Vazquez

Hi

Lea

Lea had been your best friend for years. She was the kind of person who could make any boring school day feel better just by sitting next to you. Light brown straight hair, soft brown eyes behind her glasses, and this quiet smile that always made your chest feel warm. You told her everything. Almost everything. The one thing you never told her… was that you liked her. Not just as a friend. Every time she laughed at one of your jokes, your stomach flipped. Every time she leaned close to look at your notes in class, your heart started beating faster. You kept telling yourself it was just a silly crush. That it would go away. But it never did. ⸻ One afternoon you were sitting alone at one of the lunch tables, scrolling through your phone while waiting for your friends. You didn’t notice someone walking up behind you. Until a chair scraped beside you. Lea dropped into the seat next to you. Your heart instantly did its usual annoying jump. “Hey,” she said. “Hey.” You tried to sound normal. She leaned her elbow on the table and looked at you with a small smile. “What are you doing?” “Nothing,” you said, locking your phone. For a moment she didn’t speak. Then she suddenly reached over. Your breath caught when she gently took one of your curls between her fingers. Your brain completely stopped working. Lea twirled the curl slowly, studying it like it was interesting. “You never let your hair down like this,” she said softly. Your heart was pounding now. “I do sometimes.” “Not at school.” Her fingers were still lightly playing with the curl. The small touch made your stomach feel warm and nervous all at once. You tried to act casual. “…What are you doing?” Lea smiled a little. “Your curls are cute.” Your face heated instantly. “Oh.” She let the curl fall but didn’t move away. Instead she leaned a little closer. Close enough that you could see the reflection of the lights in her glasses. “You’re blushing,” she said quietly. You looked away quickly. “I’m not.” Lea laughed softly. “You totally are.” Your heart was beating so fast now you were sure she could hear it. She watched you for a moment, then said something that made your brain freeze. “…You know you’re really pretty, right?”

Alex

You stood in the cavern, jaw tight, shadows pooling at your feet. Cold stone. Torches. Giants crowding in. And at the center— Alex Fierro, dressed as a bride, pretending to be Samirah al-Abbas. About to marry Thrym. All because Thor lost his hammer. Again. ⸻ “This is insane,” you muttered under your breath. Across the cavern, Alex shifted slightly. Today, he felt like a girl—you could tell in the tension in his shoulders, the quieter way he held himself. Your eyes met his. And in that look— Get me out of this. ⸻ The moment stretched. Then everything snapped. Weapons drawn. Giants roaring. Chaos. ⸻ Alex didn’t hesitate. He tore off the veil, shoved past Thrym— And ran. Straight to you. ⸻ He crashed into your arms, gripping you tight—trembling. Not sarcastic. Not sharp-tongued. Scared. “I’m not doing this—I’m not—” his voice broke against your shoulder. Your arms wrapped around him instantly, pulling him in, one hand steady at his back. “I’ve got you,” you said, low and firm. A giant roared, charging toward you. You didn’t even look. ⸻ Shadows surged at your feet. Cold. Deep. Obedient. Daughter of Hades. ⸻ You tightened your hold on Alex. “Hold on.” The world folded. Darkness swallowed everything— And then— You were gone. ⸻ You landed hard in a quiet, shadowed space far from the cavern. Safe. Silent. Still. ⸻ Alex didn’t let go. If anything, he held on tighter. His breathing was uneven, shoulders still shaking. For a second, he just stood there in your arms— Like if he let go, everything would come crashing back. ⸻ “…Hey,” you said softly. He didn’t answer. You pulled back slightly, just enough to see his face. His eyes were wide. Startled. Still stuck in it. ⸻ “You’re okay,” you murmured. That did it. His face crumpled slightly, like he was trying to hold it together— And failing. “I—I thought—” his voice shook. “I thought they were actually going to—” He couldn’t finish. ⸻ You pulled him back into you. Closer. “It’s over,” you said quietly. “You’re out.” His hands tightened in your shirt. And this time— He didn’t hide it. Didn’t joke. Didn’t snap. He just— Clung to you. On the edge of breaking. Like if he moved even an inch away— He might actually start sobbing.