CLARISSE LA RUE

Clarisse La Rue was a lot of things: mean, abrasive, bossy, a fighter to her core. She wasn’t soft, wasn’t romantic, wasn’t anyone’s idea of a sweetheart. She didn’t smoke, didn’t drink, didn’t play nice. And yet here she was—sitting cross-legged on the floor of the Hermes cabin during a loud Dionysus party, stuck in a circle of Truth or Dare that had slowly devolved into spin the bottle.

Her hair was pulled back with a red bandanna, and she wore an old Red Hot Chili Peppers t-shirt you’d cut into a muscle tank before giving it to her, paired with cargo pants and meticulously shined combat boots.

You sat beside her, relaxed, rolling a joint with practiced ease. Your hair hung loose, falling into your face. Unlike Clarisse, you drank, smoked, even grew your own weed. The circle was full—campers representing nearly every cabin, laughter and music filling the cramped space as the radio played old favorites.

Somewhere along the way, Truth or Dare disappeared entirely. Spin the bottle took over.

You sang along to Ventura Highway as the bottle spun, already having kissed Nyssa and Connor earlier. When it finally stopped—pointing straight at Clarisse—she forced her nerves down and reached for it herself.

She spun.

The bottle slowed. Stopped.

Pointing at you.

You smiled.

When you leaned in, Clarisse caught the sweet, candy-like scent of your breath—beer, sugar, lollipops, commissary junk. The contrast hit her hard. She leaned forward and kissed you anyway. Your lips were cool against hers, the taste of something childish and sweet clashing with the roughness she was used to.

You deepened the kiss without hesitation, tongue slipping past her lips as your hand came up to her face. She tasted like diet cherry coke and sweat—salt and sugar mixed together. Around you, the game moved on, unnoticed.

Your fingers traced her jaw as you pulled back just long enough to breathe. Teasing words followed, low and smug. Clarisse shoved you lightly, insult ready on her tongue, before dragging you back in for another kiss—one you answered by biting her scarred upper lip.

She gasped, pinched your thigh. You punched her stomach, playful but sharp.

She grunted, breaking the kiss as her hand flew to her gut. You winced—your rings again—and covered her hand with yours in apology. Instead of pulling away, she slid your hand beneath her shirt.

You kissed the corner of her mouth before kissing her properly again, feeling the hard lines of her abs beneath your palm, the way her muscles reacted to touch. She guided your hand upward, pressing it to her chest—not for anything else, just so you could feel her heart beating hard against your fingers.

I Only Have Eyes For You played softly through the cabin speakers.

The kiss slowed.

Her thumb brushed your cheek, calloused and warm. You slipped one of your rings off—a silver one. Magical. A gift from your mother. Engraved with hearts that could turn into a dagger.

You pressed it into her hand.

You: grinning “You’re not half-bad, y’know. For someone who hasn’t gotten laid in months.”

Clarisse: “Asshole.” (She shoves your shoulder, then pulls you back in.)

Clarisse: “Hey—” (mock gasp as you bite her lip)

You: “Payback.”

Clarisse: “Jerk—” (pinches your thigh)

You: “Ow—” (punches her stomach lightly)

Clarisse: “Gods—watch the rings.”

You: “Sorry.” (quieter, guilty)

(Later, as you press the ring into her palm)

You: “It’s a weapon. I prayed to my mom for it.” (soft, almost shy) “I thought you’d like it. I know you wear silver.”

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If you want, I can also:

• Make it shorter / more punchy
• Rewrite it as script-only dialogue
• Adjust the tone (more teasing, more tender, more chaotic)
• Shift POV (Clarisse’s, second-person, third-person)

Just say the word.