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#maybe I am
nvirskies · 2 months
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sand - c. la rue
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idea taken from one of @star-girl69 's asks about married clarisse and immediately went to think about how the vast majority of greek demigods didn't get to live past their 20's or even teen years... and the survivor's guilt that would come with being one of the few lucky enough to live longer.
warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, traumatic nightmare flashbacks, descriptions of violence, descriptions of blood + war, spoilers for TLO, set after both reader and clarisse leave CHB about 6-8 years into the future, google translated Greek term of endearment, crying, survivor's guilt, platonic RueGard, ooc Clarisse, she's matured more over time and more articulate with her feelings and words
summary: clarisse wakes up from a particularly bad nightmare in the middle of the night, reader comforts her through a breakdown
wife!fem!demigod!reader x wife!clarisse la rue
word count: 2.2k
καρδιά μου (kardiá mou) - my heart
Η καρδιά μου είναι η καρδιά σου (I kardiá mou eínai i kardiá sou) - my heart is your heart
"but you have more pieces of me than than desert has sand, and I have less pieces of you than I can hold in my hand" sand, alchemical: vol. 1, dove cameron
taglist: @lvrue @star-girl69 @azrielsdiary @petitegavotte @b0ok-lover
men, nsfw, non-sapphic, 16-/19+ dni
Greek demigods fell in love hard and fast with an unmatched intensity. They normally didn’t live long enough to even envision themselves in their adult lives, and why would they? Every day was a struggle to stay alive with monsters coming in from all angles and quests most didn’t come back from.
And that was why, as soon as the two of you graduated high school, Clarisse got down on a knee and proposed with the knowledge that you were the one she would want to spend the rest of her life, however long or short, with.
When you two had graduated college, the next thing in the books was to make it official in the courthouse, and that was what you had done. No extravagant party or ceremony, just a quiet day in the courthouse and a night in to celebrate.
But no matter how far the two of you ran from Camp Half-Blood, the nightmares never went away, never got better. As the years passed, more of the people you had considered friends died. One after the other, falling like cursed dominos, helplessly standing by as they all tumbled down.
Soon, the nightmares became more about the people that were lost than the monsters themselves. Nightly plagues of searingly painful memories from watching the life drain from so many demigods’ eyes burned themselves in both of your psyches.
All you could do was hope Charon would be kind enough to ferry them across the Styx without his payment of a silver coin.
And tonight certainly hadn’t been anything out of the ordinary with the two of you and your limbs interlaced in a protective embrace while sleep claimed your minds, as if the both of you could protect each other from the monsters both in and outside.
Your head, nestled into her chest. Her deep, rhythmic breathing made your hair flutter ever so slightly as she exhaled. Her arms, wrapped loosely around your waist, hands not-so-sneakily under the baggy shirt of hers you had stolen to wear as pajamas for the night. It was all perfect. Too perfect.
You would be damned fools to think that peace would last for so long. Demigods didn’t get peace, they didn’t get tranquility, and they especially didn’t get uninterrupted domestic bliss.
Unbeknownst to you, Clarisse’s face contorted into one of distress. Her arms pulled you in closer subconsciously as the all too familiar face of Morpheus greeted her with a sly smirk on his face in her dreams.
In moments, she was transported back to the Battle of Manhattan.
She was seventeen again.
Blood was everywhere. Abandoned weapons lay on the floor, the hands that once gripped them tightly, now loose and limp. Shrill screams echoed throughout the air, all cut short by gut-wrenching sounds of fatal injury. Metal cut through flesh. Acid burnt through metal. Flames licked and greedily consumed anything and everything as fuel.
Her feet felt heavy, her hands numb. She could do nothing but stand and watch it all unfold before her own eyes, forced to relive the carnage and devastation that had ripped through Manhattan on that fateful day.
Morpheus’ voice whispered in her right ear, the sound of it sending an uneasy chill down her spine. “Daughter of Ares. A fitting dream, no? Your father must have been proud of you for the way you fought after… well, I’ll let you relive that, too.” Before she could blink, she was transported to the moment right after Silena had been sprayed by the Lydian Drakon.
Clarisse was too late. She had always been too late.
She was back on her knees, choking and weeping bitterly as Silena lay in her arms, watching as life slowly left her once-lively eyes.
What kind of a warrior even was she? So weak that she couldn’t even protect her friend? Too weak to protect the girl who had adorned her armor and led her siblings into battle?
Just as Clarisse reached out to touch Silena’s face to wipe away the one mark of smudged eyeliner that the Aphrodite girl normally would never have even allowed to happen in the past, she was jerked back to consciousness, eyes flying open and arms almost crushing your sleeping form momentarily as she came to.
No longer was she in Manhattan, instead sheltered in the familiarly adorned walls of your shared bedroom. Upon the walls hung framed pictures of joyous times past and her sword collection, among other things.
Familiar faces stared back at her, some faces that would never age again. Immortalized memories of times that would never happen again. Everyone was dead or scattered across the globe.
A particular picture caught Clarisse’s eye. It was a portrait of Silena that she had commissioned one of the Apollo kids to draw for the daughter of Aphrodite’s seventeenth birthday.
She never lived to see that day.
Her eyes locked with Silena’s in the drawing for a moment, and that moment was one too much as hot tears began to prick in the corners of her eyes.
She had inadvertently woken you up with the way her arms tightened around your waist in a near vice grip, slowly coming to your senses. No longer were her breaths slow and rhythmic, their steadfast pattern replaced by one that was erratic and shallow. The once-steady thumping cadence of her heart as it beat in her chest was now quickened, all of which you could hear with your head having been nestled into her chest.
Craning your head to look up at her, you were greeted with the sight of Clarisse desperately trying to silently blink back tears and control her own breathing.
Hurriedly, you pushed yourself up off her chest and tugged the blankets off the two of you before sitting down on her lap. You took note of the way her hands had never left your waist, holding onto you as if she were drowning and you were the last life ring thrown out.
It wasn’t anything you and Clarisse hadn’t dealt with before. The nightmares had been a part of your lives as far back as you could remember, it just came with the territory of being a demigod. But they never got any easier as time went on.
She watched silently with eyes brimming with unshed tears, pleading wordlessly with you to do something, anything to make it all go away.
“Let’s switch, yeah? You can lay on me and completely cover me if you want, love,” you offered up, a melancholy smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. Wordlessly, she nodded and you slipped off her lap, laying back where she had just been moments ago.
Gently patting your chest, you motioned for her to rest her head on it, knowing that the rest of her body would soon follow, completely engulfing your form with hers. After she had positioned herself, her arms snaked around your waist again as she simply held you for a few moments, her face pressed into your chest as tears slowly soaked into your shirt.
One hand reached out to gently run along the length of her back, the motion meant to soothe. A few beats passed in silence before you spoke in a hushed whisper, the bedroom devoid of sound beyond the two of you breathing in tandem with each other.
“You hear that, love? That’s my heart,” you murmured softly, craning your neck to press a gentle kiss to the top of her head. “It’s beating, beating for you. Η καρδιά μου είναι η καρδιά σου.”
She didn’t respond beyond releasing another shaky sob into your chest and tightening her grip around your body, but you didn’t mind. You didn’t need her to talk just yet.
“You’re also η καρδιά μου, you know that, right? My heart, my wife, my love, my everything. And I’m yours. Entirely yours, and I”m not going anywhere.” You craned your neck again to press another kiss against the crown of her head, hand never stopping its path of running gently along the length of her back.
“I would go down to the depths of Tartarus for you. I would challenge Hades himself to a fight if it meant I had even a glimmer of a chance in getting you back.”
Never once did you try to rush her into talking or shushing her tears. You knew her better than you knew yourself, and giving her time to let everything out was the best thing you could do for her at the moment.
You were her safe space, the one woman that she could let her walls down around. She wasn’t Ares’ star daughter in your arms, she was just Clarisse. No expectations dangling over her head, just open arms and understanding.
After another few quiet moments, she finally spoke up in between half-choked sobs, whispering so quietly that her voice was nearly inaudible, “Silena… Manhattan… should have been able to save her,” before letting her face fall back down onto your chest, releasing another pained cry.
“She’s gone- a-and everyone else too- why me?”
Her question left you speechless, mouth partly opened in an attempt to come up with a reassuring response, but nothing seemed to come to mind immediately. It was rare for this to happen, as you normally had just the right words at the top of your tongue, weaving them as Arachne once wove tapestries on her loom.
“They’re all gone and- and- ”
“Shh, love…” you cut her off, gently pulling her head up to look her in the eyes, your other hand leaving her back to wipe the tears that were still streaming down her cheeks with the pad of your thumb. “Please, don’t go back into that self-sacrificial spiral. Talk to me, tell me what the dream was about?”
She only shook her head in response, unwilling to divulge details of the memory that had shattered your night of otherwise perfect proportions.
Deflating back on top of you, she whispered, “They’re all gone, and we’re one of the only ones remaining. It was like every time another one of them died, that small part of myself that I gave to them died as well.”
Her arms that were wrapped around your waist tightened for a moment before going limp along with the rest of her body as she lay atop you, her head pressed against your chest.
“Love…” you began softly as one of your hands found its way to her head and carded gently through her curls. “You can’t blame yourself for what happened. None of it was your fault. We didn’t ask to be born, to be thrown into this mess of a world and tossed around like pawns in the gods’ game of chess with our lives.”
“We didn’t ask for this life, and we were so young at the time. For fuck’s sake, we were only seventeen- we hadn’t even made out yet. We hadn’t graduated high school yet, there were so many things we couldn’t control.
“None of it was your fault, I promise you. You were so brave, and you did everything you could.” She stayed silent as you spoke, the only sounds coming from her were the soft, shaky breaths as she sniffled and burrowed her face further into your shirt.
“I can’t explain to you why so many things had to happen, that’s up to the Fates. I can’t give you the pieces of yourself back that you lost when we kept losing everyone,” you murmured whilst your hands kept on with their idle motions.
It shattered your heart to give her such an incomplete answer when you knew it was tearing her apart inside to live with it all, but there was nothing you could do beyond offer solace and comfort. “And for that, I am so, so sorry. But the one thing I can do is keep the piece you’ve granted me to keep, safe and sound.”
She only nodded in response, not trusting herself to speak in fear of her own vulnerability. Her tears soaked into your shirt, but you didn’t care. All that was important was that Clarisse was here, in your arms, and slowly calming down.
Clarisse knew just as well as you did that everyone had done the best they could with the circumstances given, and that the loss affected you just as deeply. But she didn’t dig into that, it would be a can of worms to open for another time, another sleepless night where your own troubles caught up with you after running from them for so long.
And so, the rest of the night stretched on into early morning, the two of you half-awake, seeking silent solace in each other until sunlight crept into the bedroom through the cracks of the curtains the next day.
The two of you might have been running from your trauma like runners to a marathon, but at least you were running hand-in-hand with matching strides.
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notllorstel · 1 year
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btw this guy is why I’m in frog mood 🐸
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bellowsthebard · 2 years
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Okay but here are the things:
1. Imogen bought the ruby ring at that store saying "what if I were serious" or some such
2. Laudna is wearing the ring
3. Matt specifically said the store owners were looking at their fingers and had to have noticed the ring
4. Laudna and Ashton were giving off serious rocky (hehe) relationship vibes
All I am saying is those shop owners are probably convinced that the mysterious purple haired woman and the undead woman are having a torrid affair behind the back of the green rock man. They are shipping. They are arguing about who Laudna should be with. They are bringing this up to their friends to get more opinions. They are invested and hoping for more in this saga but are resigned to never knowing.
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orangechickenpillow · 2 years
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Hob hasn't gone swimming since they tried to drown him as a witch. He still gets anxiety whenever he's near the open water, especially when other people are around him and get too close.
Dream hates being naked. He's working through it in his own time (with Hob's occasional help), but he still gets panicky whenever he's undressed; it reminds him too much of his imprisonment.
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zooblewopper · 5 months
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I’ll claim I’m not a furry and then talk about how these fuckers are “literally so me” in the same sentence
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oharaslover · 1 month
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HUH 🤨🤨
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Video
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silliestsakura · 2 months
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two autistic dumbasses in love
@cloudymistedskies
no further context will be given. dont even ask. I won't say a word.
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aseyaz · 10 months
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who asked him to be that hot
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mermaidinthecity · 6 days
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Here I fucking go again. Holding up a match to everything I love. I'm burning down my world again, just because. Flying down the interstate. It's hard to see the road in front of all these tears. Your words are swirling in my brain, all I hear. You say that I'm a crazy bitch. I'm sick, I'm permanently numb. You say that I'm a narcissist as if I haven't heard that one. You say I'm ruining my life on purpose, just because I can. Maybe I, maybe I am. Maybe I, maybe I am.
Maybe I Am by Fletcher
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Did I just become a consulting chemist instead of a consulting detective?
That makes me sound like a drug dealer. 
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a-luran · 5 months
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3, 5, 15, 18, 21, 44 for Alasdair if you fancy! I love hearing your opinions on him *please sir I want some more* 🥺🤲
phil!! ♡ yes of course.
3. What is/was your character’s relationship with their father like?
For canon AUs, I don't envision parental figures and I lean a lot more strongly on chosen family over blood. That being said I think that Alasdair has always made himself useful under leadership and that would ingratiate him to authority figures early in his history. He is a capable hunter, and a craftsman. Sparse with his words. I think that as he grew older his short temper and headstrong nature would spell a lot of conflict and chaffing against authority. A bad father would not live long with a son like Alasdair. A good father would recognise the strength of him. Any father would be proud, but be quick to resent him. I think that Alasdair would never know how to tell a father that he loves him and he would never hear it back.
5. On an average day, what can be found in your character’s pockets?
Not his wallet.
I think he'd be the kind of person to carry a handful of change, lint, keys, one (1) splinter glove tucked into the back pocket, sometimes his phone. If he ever has a bag with him it's like a magic trick, he has anything you could think of in there.
Not his wallet though.
15. Is your character preoccupied with money or material possession? Why or why not?
He would say he isn't but he absolutely is. He places a lot of value on craftsmanship and labour so he would be the kind of person to insist on paying the true cost of things. There is nothing that he would hate more than something cheaply made and absurdly marked up. I think he would also be hard pressed to buy something that he could make himself, and as skilled as he sometimes he might get a little too ambitious with it. A have a soft spot for the thought that as someone who is industrious to a fault he'd have a soft spot for things made for him, no matter the level of skill. He would wear the awful, misshapen socks Daffyd made him one winter until they were beyond repair. He'd scrape the last drags of jam from him plate because Arthur made it. He'll hum a song for a century because Sean wrote it, even long after the words fade from his memory.
18. Is your character more likely to admire wisdom, or ambition in others?
This one was difficult to answer. I think if pressed he would say wisdom but in a lot of ways he admires ambition instinctively. He is still a strategist at heart.
21. If something tragic or negative happens to your character, do they believe they may have caused or deserved it, or are they quick to blame others?
Out of all the characters I write i think that Alasdair probably has the most straightforward relationship with guilt and he's more interesting for it. He would not be quick to blame or bear undue guilt, but where he does find guilt he would go at it like a beast. Ruthless. I think earning his forgiveness, when he finds you unforgivable, would be impossible. And if he ever found fault with himself he would be the same. He would not find guilt debilitating or paralysing the ways others might, and especially on a surface level it would appear that he is quick to turn guilt into something productive but whatever he did, or failed to do? It would haunt him forever.
44. How easy or difficult is it for your character to say “I love you?” Can they say it without meaning it?
He could not say it without meaning it and he uses it very sparsely. He also does not care to hear it which makes him a hypocrite and also speaks to a bit of arrogance on his part. On the one hand, his love language leans heavy on acts of service so for him to speak love aloud would take a lot. A part of him, the arrogant bit, does not believe that others place as much importance on the words 'I love you' as he does. And that is a fault. It is something that he just can't come to terms with, the idea that people can say 'I love you' again and again and mean it every time. This would cause a lot less strife with someone like Arthur but would definitely put him at odds with Francis. If not at odds then at least uneasy, he would have a hard time accepting it. It is not that Alasdair is careless with other people's hearts, but for all his skill he still has clumsy hands and a mean streak when he feels cornered or patronised.
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fletchernetwork · 5 days
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"I released a song called 'Becky's So Hot,' which, you know, did a lot on the internet, and I remembered in that time I was reading so much about myself online and comments and opinions and what people were saying about me and I really wanted to write from the perspective of like, OK, what would it feel like if I did believe what everybody said about me was true? What if all those things were true? Like, what if I felt those things in my body? What would it feel like? And this song came out of it that's like, maybe I am -- maybe I am all those things and sort of just this commentary on like, what if we believed everything that the world had to say about us? It's just about being able to take everything with a grain of salt and be able to receive feedback -- while also having a strong center of gravity and knowing yourself and who you really are."
— FLETCHER via Entertainment Tonight
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nuppu-nuppu · 2 years
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Bro I woke up and I’m fucking sick ;;; broo
I’m not feeling so hot
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gronjon44 · 2 years
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I never got into GOT as a show...
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But House of the Dragon slaps.
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dakry · 8 months
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Whaaaaaat? Me obsessed with Tim drake??? Nahhh, no way
Also me: 
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Aha, that’s not obsessed, I don’t know what you’re talking about...it’s just uhhhhhhhhh..... SHUT UP!!! YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU’RE TALKING ABOUT!!! >:(
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