Fall (Percy Jackson x Reader)

thirty

welcome back, besties :)

before we start, i'm going to address something that i really don't want to. let me preface it with this: i love your support. i love knowing that you're excited to find out what happens next. but please do not ask me to update. over the past few weeks i've received multiple comments on the last chapter that only beg me to do so. i wish i could more frequently, but i can't. i've made that clear far too many times.

"i can't wait for the next chapter" is fine. "i'm excited for the next update" is fine. that gives me encouragement. but please, don't outright ask me to. i can't write all the time and i can't spare every ounce of my minimal free time to this story. comments that beg me to post a chapter just make me feel worse that i'm not able to. if you commented like that, please don't apologize. just take it as a learning experience. i'm not asking for sympathy. i'm asking for basic consideration.

that's all. again, i adore your support—there are just better ways to express it for right now.

enjoy!

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this chapter contains descriptions of physical abuse (punching/choking/cutting/etc), poisoning, and blood. please read at your own discretion.
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Each blow feels like a punch to the gut.

The reason likely is because most of them are.

(Y/N) barely winces as her ribs, stomach, and collarbones are battered; she feels the pain, yes, but the frustration that seeps out of Chris' pores—all due to her lack of response—numbs her to any adverse sensation. Besides, she's been stabbed and cut and broken so many times that as the bruises form and layer upon one another, the warmth that emits feels almost like a blanket.

A blanket reminding her that, 'Hey, you fucked everything up. This is your well-earned punishment.'

Instead of punching a surface herself to increase the multitude of scars on her knuckles, she allows herself to be hit until her skin becomes marred with color and blood. To her, it's only fair.

What hurts most, however, is how her friends force themselves to look away, the sight of her torture far too painful for them to endure.

Percy's muscles strain against their binds, his breaths hitching and body tensing at every blow; he can hear the jewel on Chris' ring make contact with her bone every time it strikes her ribcage, can smell the blood on her wrists from the too-tight ropes that work away her skin like sandpaper until her flesh is exposed. He vowed to suffer alongside her, he took it as his responsibility to keep her safe by any means; that was his self-sworn duty when she decided to be his partner. And there she was, giving up her safety—hell, her life—with the same justification, all because she cared just a little bit too much.

It's infuriating how much more it makes him feel for her.

Annabeth has to fight off her furious and helpless tears, trying to keep her mind focused on an escape plan and not the repeated sound of a fist or knee making contact with her best friend's skin. Annabeth was the wise one; she should have known ahead of time that this would happen, should have been able to read the clues and come up with a proper plan so they'd have a safeguard. Any other solution to their dilemma, any other way to stay safe that didn't put (Y/N) at risk, and Annabeth would take it without a second's hesitation—but the daughter of Persephone's stubborn love for her friends proved to be a curse in the worst possible moments.