#pjo x reader

The rain had stopped sometime after midnight. Not that Dionysus had been paying attention.

Storms came and went. They always had. Mortals treated them like extraordinary events—as if thunder itself had decided to make a personal appearance—but to the gods, weather was simply another argument among immortals. Someone was angry. Someone was showing off. Someone had lost a wager.

None of it interested him.

He stood on the hill overlooking the sleeping town with his hands buried deep in the pockets of his khaki shorts. His Hawaiian shirt—today's masterpiece featured oversized purple grapes wearing tiny sunglasses—fluttered lazily in the cool breeze.

The chocolate wrapper remained folded neatly in one pocket. He hadn't thrown it away. An annoying habit. He sighed.

"So," he muttered to the empty air, "that's inconvenient."

No answer. Of course not. When the gods wished to ignore one another, they were exceptionally talented at it. He looked toward the little white house at the end of the cracked road.

Even from here, he could hear muffled shouting. Mortals. Always convinced the smallest people around them deserved the largest burdens.

His jaw tightened. He hated that feeling. Not because it happened often. Because it happened rarely.

For thousands of years, he had watched kingdoms rise, empires collapse, heroes celebrate victories that cost too much, and monsters feast on the innocent. Eventually, one learned the most useful survival skill an immortal could possess.

Detachment. Care too much, and eternity became unbearable. So he stopped caring. Mostly. The little girl on the porch had complicated that arrangement. He rubbed a hand over his face.

"Wonderful."

A branch snapped behind him.

"I wondered where you'd wandered off to."

Dionysus didn't turn around.

"I was avoiding you."

"How rude."

Hermes stepped beside him as though he'd been there all along.

He wore a brown leather jacket over a bright orange T-shirt, winged sneakers muddied from whatever impossible route had brought him here, and the unmistakable grin of someone who found the universe endlessly entertaining.

"You've been avoiding everyone."

"I've been trying."

Hermes looked toward the Harlow house.

"So."

"So."

"You met her."

"I did."

"And?"

Dionysus resisted the urge to sigh again.

"She's seven."

Hermes waited.

"That's your observation?"

"It's the only one that matters."

The messenger god folded his arms.

"You know why I'm here."

"I was hoping you'd forgotten."

"I never forget."

"Yes," Dionysus muttered. "One of your more irritating qualities."

Hermes laughed.

"You felt it too."

Dionysus didn't answer.

Because he had.

The moment he'd stepped into that dying little town, something old had stirred. Not power. Potential. Different things. Power announced itself. Potential whispered.

Sometimes so quietly that even gods missed it. But not this time. There had been something impossibly familiar hidden beneath the fear in the little girl's eyes. Not divine. Not yet.

But close enough to make Fate pay attention. And whenever the Fates noticed someone… History usually follows.

"I don't like it," Dionysus admitted.

Hermes nodded.

"I know."

"No, you don't."

"I do."

Dionysus finally looked at him.

"I don't like children."

Hermes raised an eyebrow.

"You tolerate them."

"I tolerate campers."

"Sometimes."

"Barely."

"You gave one a juice box last month."

"He was bleeding."

"You also told him not to tell anyone."

"I have a reputation."

Hermes chuckled.

"You certainly do."

Silence settled between them.

The first rays of dawn began to creep over the horizon, turning the soaked roads silver. Birds cautiously resumed singing. The world looked peaceful. It wasn't.

Dionysus knew better.

"She's been through twelve homes."

"I know."

"Seven years old."

"I know."

"They've convinced her she's the problem."

Hermes didn't answer. There wasn't anything to say. The gods saw countless tragedies. Most couldn't be prevented. Some weren't meant to be. That was the curse of immortality. Knowing.

Rarely intervening. Dionysus hated the rule. He understood it. But he hated it. He really hated it.

"I almost broke protocol."

Hermes looked sideways.

"Almost?"

"I considered turning the woman into a shrub."

"...A shrub?"

"A particularly ugly shrub."

"Creative."

"I was tired."

"You can't go around transforming abusive foster parents into landscaping."

"Why not?"

"It creates paperwork."

"Ah."

"Mountains of paperwork."

"There it is."

Hermes smiled.

"I knew that would convince you."

Dionysus rolled his eyes.

"I despise Olympus."

"You despise paperwork more."

"...Fair."

The messenger god's expression softened.

"You gave her chocolate."

"It was in my pocket."

"You bought it."

"I was hungry."

"You don't eat chocolate."

"I don’t eat it much."

Hermes smirked.

"You're terrible at pretending not to care."

"I've had centuries of practice."

"You've had centuries of failure."

That irritated him. Mostly because it wasn't entirely incorrect. He had seen the way the child carefully broke off the smallest piece. Saving it.

Stretching a simple candy bar into something precious. No child should know how to ration kindness. He hated that he'd noticed.

"I shouldn't have spoken to her." 

"But you did."

"I shouldn't have."

"But you did, and you can’t go back."

"I know."

Hermes rested his elbows on the weathered fence.

"Do you remember Ariadne?"

Dionysus stiffened.

"What kind of question is that?"

"The relevant kind."

"I remember everyone."

"You remember how frightened she was."

He did.

“Of course, I do…. She is my wife.”

Did he remember her… Of course he did.

The abandoned princess on an empty island. Certainly, no one was coming, so certain she had been discarded. Until someone finally chose to stay. That memory had survived centuries.

Perhaps that was why the little girl's eyes had unsettled him. Fear changed over time. Loneliness never did.

"I dislike where this conversation is going."

"I know."

"You always know."

"It's part of the job."

Hermes reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded sheet of parchment.

"I received this."

Dionysus took it reluctantly. The paper felt older than it should. Golden thread stitched its edges. Three tiny scorch marks decorated one corner. He didn't need to open it. He recognized the craftsmanship. The Fates.

"Oh, absolutely not."

"You haven't read it."

"I don't need to."

"You should."

"I refuse."

"It concerns the girl."

"...That's manipulative."

"I learned from professionals."

With an exaggerated groan, Dionysus unfolded the parchment. Only a single sentence appeared. No signature. No explanation. No prophecy.

Just eight words.

Do not let her believe she is forgotten.

The letters slowly faded. Then disappeared entirely. The parchment crumbled into harmless golden dust. Dionysus stared at the space where it had been.

"...That's unusually direct."

"They're worried."

"The Fates don't worry."

"They do today, and they never worry about a half blood.”

He looked back toward the little town. The house remained quiet. Too quiet. A feeling settled heavily in his chest. One he hadn't experienced in far too long. Responsibility. He disliked it immensely, but he also knew how to do it.

"So," Hermes asked gently, "what are you going to do?"

Dionysus didn't answer immediately. He watched sunlight climb over the rooftops.

Somewhere inside that weathered house, a seven-year-old girl was probably waking up expecting another day exactly like yesterday.

Another day of surviving. Not living. He couldn't fix the world. Even gods couldn't. But perhaps… Just perhaps… He could make sure one frightened little girl learned she had never truly been alone.

Dionysus sighed toward the brightening sky.

"I have the distinct feeling," he muttered, "that my life is about to become significantly more complicated."

Hermes smiled.

"It usually does."

"For your information..."

Dionysus adjusted his sunglasses.

"I already dislike where this story is headed."

Hermes laughed. Somewhere far above them, thunder rumbled across a cloudless morning. Not a storm.

A warning. Or perhaps… A promise. The game had already begun. Neither of them knew just how many lives one forgotten little girl was about to change.

Hermes had always believed there were two kinds of journeys. The first were the ones people chose. The second were the ones who chose them. This was undoubtedly the second kind.

Camp Half-Blood was quieter than usual in the early morning.

Mist drifted across the strawberry fields, and the cabins still held the sleepy silence that came before breakfast. The only sounds were the distant crashing of waves against the beach and the occasional clang from the forge where someone was apparently incapable of sleeping past sunrise.

Hermes walked beside Dionysus without speaking. The silence itself was unusual. Normally, Dionysus filled every walk with complaints. About campers. About Zeus. About paperwork. About the weather. About being awake.

Today… Nothing.

That worried Hermes far more than any complaint ever could.

"So," Hermes finally said.

"No."

"I haven't asked anything."

"I know where this is going."

"You always do."

"I've lived for several thousand years."

"You've also been wrong before."

Dionysus stopped walking.

"I distinctly remember never admitting that."

Hermes smiled.

"You don't have to."

They continued toward the Big House. The porch creaked beneath Dionysus's purple Crocs. He glared at it as though the wood had offended him personally.

"I still maintain," Hermes muttered, "those shoes are a crime."

"They're comfortable."

"They're purple."

"I like purple."

"They have little grape charms."

"They were a gift."

"You bought them yourself."

"They were still a gift."

Hermes decided not to argue. Some battles simply weren't worth fighting. Inside the Big House, the smell of coffee lingered in the air.

Maps covered one wall. Letters covered another. Most were requests for help. Some were warnings. A few had never been opened.

Immortality had an unfortunate tendency to create more responsibilities than hours in the day. Hermes reached into a drawer and removed a worn map of the northeastern United States.

He spread it across the table.

Dionysus glanced down.

"The town."

Hermes nodded.

"The house is here."

A small bronze pin marked the location.

"It isn't just the foster home."

"No."

Hermes tapped another point several miles away.

"Monster sightings."

Another pin.

"A satyr report."

Another.

"A disturbance in the Mist."

Another.

"A prophetic dream."

Dionysus frowned.

"All centered around one child."

Hermes nodded once.

"Exactly."

Neither of them liked coincidences.

Especially not divine ones.

Word count: 1,681

@lia1405

@roze-latte-zz

"Some storms begin long before the rain."

Rain always sounded different depending on where Y/n lived.

In the first foster home, it had tapped softly against the bedroom window while she lay awake, wondering if her mother would ever come back. In the fourth, it had leaked through the ceiling and dripped into a bucket beside her bed all night long.

In the eighth, the rain had been so loud against the tin roof that it drowned out the shouting downstairs.

By the twelfth… It sounded like the sky was crying with her.

At seven years old, Y/n had become very good at pretending. She pretended the bruises on her arms didn't hurt. Pretended she wasn't hungry when dinner was "forgotten” or pretended she couldn't hear the arguments through the paper-thin walls.

Most importantly...

She pretended she didn't care whenever another social worker smiled kindly and said the same words.

“This home will be different." They never were.

 Each house had different wallpaper. Different furniture. Different rules. But somehow they all felt the same.

Temporary. Cold. Never really home.

The twelfth foster house sat on the edge of a dying little town where most people kept their curtains closed.

Its paint had once been white. Now it peeled from the wooden walls in curling strips. The porch sagged. The mailbox leaned sideways. The front yard was nothing but mud.

Mrs. Harlow liked everything spotless. Except Y/n. Mr. Harlow rarely spoke. When he did… His voice always sounded like a warning.

"You're too slow." 

A plate hit the sink with a loud crack. 

"I-I was trying—" Y/n would stutter 

"Trying isn't doing." Said Mrs. Harlow as she grabbed Y/n’s wrist. 

Her fingers dug painfully into the little girl's skin.

"You spill one more thing..." 

She didn't finish the sentence. She didn't have to. Y/n already knew.

She had learned people's footsteps. Heavy footsteps meant anger. Fast footsteps meant shouting. Quiet footsteps… Those were the ones that scared her most. Quiet usually meant someone had already decided what was going to happen.

That afternoon had started quietly. Too quietly. Mrs. Harlow had burned lunch. Mr. Harlow had come home early from work. The television was broken. Everything felt… Wrong.

Y/n tried to stay invisible. Invisible children didn't get noticed. Invisible children stayed safe. Or at least… That was the hope.

"Girl." 

She froze. Mr. Harlow stood in the doorway. 

"Come here." 

Her stomach twisted. She obeyed. Always obey. Maybe today would be different. Maybe—

"Did you touch my toolbox?"

"N-No, sir."

"Liar."

"I didn't!"

The first slap knocked her onto the floor. The second came before she could stand. She curled into herself instinctively. Not because someone had taught her. Because she'd learned. When adults got angry… Small was safer.

The storm outside finally broke. Thunder rattled the windows. Rain slammed against the roof. Mrs. Harlow folded her arms.

"Look what you've done."

Y/n stared at the floor. She didn't understand. She never understood. Sometimes people were angry because she spoke, or because she didn't, or simply just because she existed.

An hour later… The house had become strangely silent. Mrs. Harlow disappeared into the kitchen. Mr. Harlow sat in front of the television muttering under his breath.

Y/n slowly stood. Every movement hurt. Her cheek throbbed. Her knees stung. She looked toward the front door.

No one noticed. She reached for the handle. It squeaked. Mr. Harlow didn't even look up.

"Stay outside until you can behave."

The words weren't permission. They were dismissive.

Rain soaked her almost instantly. Cold water dripped from her dark hair into her eyes. Her oversized sweatshirt clung to her arms. She hugged herself and walked toward the old porch swing. Its chains squeaked softly in the wind.

She climbed onto it with wet shoes. Pulled her knees against her chest.

And listened. Rain. Thunder. Wind. Those sounds… She understood. People were harder. She didn’t know why either.

Sometimes she imagined another little girl somewhere. A girl whose parents tucked blankets around her before bed, who got birthday cakes, got hugs because someone wanted to hug her. Not because someone felt sorry for her.

Y/n wondered what that felt like. She couldn't remember anymore.

Lightning flashed. For just a minute… She thought she saw someone standing beneath the old oak tree.

A tall man. Wide shoulders. Bright colors. Then darkness swallowed him again.

She rubbed rainwater from her eyes. Maybe she'd imagined it. Adults didn't stand outside in storms. Not willingly.

Another flash. He was closer now. Walking through the rain without an umbrella. Without even seeming bothered by it.

His shirt was covered in enormous purple grapes. A ridiculous Hawaiian shirt. Khaki shorts. Purple Crocs. White socks. Who wore socks with Crocs?

The thought surprised a tiny laugh out of her. She quickly covered her mouth. She hadn't laughed in… She couldn't remember how long.

The man stopped at the edge of the porch. He looked at her over a pair of sunglasses. At night? During a thunderstorm… The thought of laughing again happened.

"You laughed."

His voice was dry. Almost amused.

"I...sorry."

"For laughing?"

She nodded. He frowned.

"Well, that's depressing."

Neither of them spoke for a while. Rain filled the silence. He leaned against the porch railing like he had all the time in the world.

"You live here?"

She looked back at the house.

"...For now."

"Hm."

He sounded like he understood exactly what those two words meant.

"You hungry?"

The question caught her off guard. She hesitated.

"...Maybe."

He reached into his pocket. Pulled out a chocolate bar. Not king-sized. Not fancy. Just...a chocolate bar. He held it toward her.

She stared at it. Then at him and back at the candy.

"I don't have any money."

"I didn't ask for any."

"...Why?"

He shrugged.

"Because I bought too many."

"You don't know me."

"No."

"So...why?"

The man sighed as though the answer should have been obvious.

"Because you're hungry."

Slowly… Very slowly… Y/n reached out. She expected him to pull the candy away at the last second. Adults did things like that.

Instead… He simply let her take it.

She peeled back the wrapper. The smell alone almost made her cry. Real chocolate. Not Halloween leftovers. Not stale candy. Fresh.

She broke off the tiniest corner. Trying to make it last. The man watched.

"You eat like someone's going to take it."

She lowered her eyes.

"They usually do."

Silence. Longer this time. Even the thunder seemed quieter.

"...That's unfortunate."

His voice had changed. It wasn't sarcastic anymore. It sounded… Old. Very old. Like someone who'd watched too many sad stories.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Y/n."

"Hm."

"You?"

He hesitated. Most adults answered immediately. He didn't. Finally, he smiled.

"You can call me... Mr... D."

"That's not your real name."

"No."

"Why not tell me?"

"Because names have a funny way of becoming powerful or important."

She blinked. Adults never spoke like that.

"Do you have kids?" she asked quietly.

Mr. D looked out at the rain.

"...Thousands."

"Really?"

"In a manner of speaking."

"Do they visit?"

"...Some do."

"You must be lucky."

He laughed once. It sounded tired.

"Luck has very little to do with family."

Y/n looked down at the candy in her hands.

"I've had twelve."

"Twelve what?"

"Families."

The word felt wrong.

She corrected herself.

"...well…. houses."

Mr. D didn't interrupt.

"They all say they're trying."

She swallowed.

"I think...I'm hard to keep."

"No."

The answer came immediately.

Firmly.

"No."

She looked up.

"For someone who doesn't know you..."

He said quietly,

"I'm remarkably certain that's not the problem."

Something tightened painfully in her chest. No one had ever disagreed before. Tears invaded her eyes before she rubbed them away.

The front door opened behind her. Mrs. Harlow stepped onto the porch.

"There you are."

She glared at Y/n first. Then at Mr. D.

"And who are you supposed to be?"

"A concerned citizen."

Mrs. Harlow scoffed.

"Mind your own business."

"I generally try to."

Mr. D smiled pleasantly.

"But neglected children have a way of becoming everyone's business."

For just a second… Mrs. Harlow looked uneasy, as if she saw something she shouldn’t have. Then she grabbed Y/n roughly by the shoulder.

"Inside."

Y/n flinched. Mr. D noticed. His smile disappeared. Not dramatically. Not angrily. It just simply… Vanished. The air seemed heavier. The rain intensified. Thunder rolled so loudly that the windows rattled. Mrs. Harlow glanced uneasily at the sky and at Mr. D…

As Y/n reached the doorway, she looked back. Mr. D hadn't moved. Rain poured over his shoulders. He stood perfectly still. 

Watching. Not with pity. Not with sadness. With certainty. As though he had already made a decision.

Y/n didn't know why… But for the first time in years… Walking back inside that house didn't feel like the end of her story. It felt like the last night before everything changed.

“Have a nice night, Mr. D,” she spoke softly and waved goodbye.

Word count: 1,513