Rewriting to improve writing.
"Gods are born out of the need of humans but they shall die at the hands of the ones they've wronged."
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The world of demigods has never been a safe one, plagued by monsters, the wrath of gods, and the impending d...
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I carry my mother's hands, withered in pain, I carry my mom's last name, cursed by it. I carry your eyes father, filled with hate. I carry your rage father, unresolved and unbounded.
»»--⍟--«« Tw(kinda?) Fight scenes
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Fuck alarm clocks.
Not in the fun way. Not in the "Oh, haha, alarm clocks suck" way. No, Y/N's hatred for alarm clocks was something primal. Something ancient. Something that belonged in a cautionary myth about a vengeful god punishing humanity with the concept of punctuality.
If Hades himself had emerged from the depths of the Underworld and asked her what the single most evil creation of mankind was, she would've spat out the words before he even finished his question: Alarm clocks. Fucking alarm clocks.
And this one? This miserable, screaming, little square of doom? It had chosen violence.
A blaring, shrill, soul-piercing wail tore through the Hermes cabin like a battle horn announcing the apocalypse, splitting through her dreams with the subtlety of a sledgehammer to the skull. It was sudden. It was brutal. It was personal.
Y/N woke up with the force of someone being dragged from the depths of a really nice dream—something vague, warm, and blurry, with just enough serotonin to leave a sense of loss in its absence. Her first coherent thought was NO. Her second thought was Who the fuck decided I should wake up?
Her third thought? Die.
Not her, obviously. The alarm clock. That thing that had dared to exist in her presence. It was still screaming, unaware that its lifespan had just been violently cut short.
Before she even fully registered the movement, her arm was already in motion. There was no thought behind it. No hesitation. Just pure, unfiltered instinct—like she had trained her whole life for this exact moment.
Her hand found the alarm clock, gripped it, and yeeted it across the room with a force that could've shattered the sound barrier.
There was a brief, almost poetic silence before a spectacular crash. A satisfying crack. A final, dying beep-beep-bzzt as the device gave one last pathetic attempt at resistance before meeting its inevitable demise.
Y/N lay there for a moment, body still heavy with sleep, listening to the soft echo of its destruction. Then she exhaled slowly, deeply, letting the weight of her victory settle into her bones.
"That's what I fucking thought."
Her head throbbed in protest at the sudden movement, the leftover ghost of the alarm's screech bouncing around in her skull like an echo chamber of regret. Her temples pulsed in a slow, dull rhythm—like her brain was personally holding a grudge against her for waking up.
