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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Such beauty in the way a child's eyes sparkle when they look at you- Remnants of stars that haven't died out yet.
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Tw: None!
This is an extra chapter of THE PRESENT Y/N'S childhood with Thea. It's moreso an extra chapter just so you babies can have some baby y/n moments.
Ily sm<3
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
There wasn't a single crayon in her box that y/n didn't want to chew.
Y/n sat cross-legged on the floor of the foster home's cluttered living room, a battered red crayon clutched in her tiny hand. The once vibrant wax crayon was now a dull, worn nub, but it was her favorite. She had been diligently scribbling in a coloring book, the kind that had cheerful images of flowers and butterflies. However, Y/n was not following the prescribed patterns. Instead, she created chaotic, abstract designs, red lines zigzagging across the page in a way that resembled neither flowers nor butterflies.
The word "flower" on the page was a jumble of letters to her, incomprehensible and elusive. Y/n squinted at it, her e/c eyes with their shimmering golden freckles narrowing in frustration. She never had the attention span to finish coloring anything properly. Her h/c hair fell in loose waves around her face, making her look both ethereal and disheveled. Despite her messiness, there was an undeniable adorableness about her, an innocence that shone through her quiet demeanor.
She was just about to add another wild streak of red when the front door creaked open. The familiar sound sent her heart racing. Scrambling, Y/n shoved the coloring book and the crayon into the corner, her small hands trembling as she tried to find a better hiding spot. Failing to locate one, she quickly stashed the items behind her and stood in front of them, her face the picture of forced innocence.
Her foster parents walked in, their presence a mix of authoritative sternness and weary patience. Her foster father, a man always absorbed in his work, barely glanced at her as he headed to his study. He was strict, but his discipline was impersonal, a set of rules rather than a relationship. Her foster mother, on the other hand, was a teacher who valued curriculum and order above all else. She was the one who enforced the rules, ensuring Y/n's education adhered to strict standards.
The door to the living room swung open, and her foster mother stepped in, her gaze immediately locking onto Y/n. The woman gasped, her expression a mixture of horror and frustration.
"Y/n, were you outside playing in the garden again without washing your hands and feet before coming inside?" she demanded, her voice sharp.
Y/n shook her head, her eyes wide. She kept her lips tightly sealed, the red crayon now lodged uncomfortably in her mouth. Her foster mother's sharp eyes narrowed further.
