one of the best things about pjotv percy going so hard with the yearning is that he is still in fact actually deeply oblivious to the nature of his feelings so even absolutely unhinged shit like "i'd burn down olympus for you" is genuinely him just Having A Real Normal One With His Good Friend Annabeth
The implications of a child of Aphrodite witnessing Percy’s devotion to Annabeth’s safety and coming to the conclusion that winning this war will be easier than they thought…
maybe aphrodite reader who enjoys making percy go every possible shade of red by flirting in the most inconvenient times and situations possible, for the fun of it?
and then the time percy's had enough of her games and kisses her for her cheekiness. possibly some smut, even? *winky face
(no established relationship, btw)
xo
Unleashed
Pairing!: Percy Jackson x F!reader
TW: Explicit Sexual Content/ Degradation/ Overstimulation / Rough Unprotected sex / Humiliation / Creampie
A/N: dam.
Being a child of Aphrodite wasn't always about high fashion or breaking hearts; for you, it was about the art of the inconvenient flirt. There was no better target in all of Camp Half-Blood than Percy Jackson. It wasn’t just that he was cute—though the sea-green eyes and wind-swept hair certainly helped—it was that he was so spectacularly, wonderfully bad at handling attention. To the rest of the camp, he was the hero who had stared down Kronos; to you, he was a giant, adorable mess of a boy who didn't know what to do with a compliment if it didn't come with a side of combat training.
To you, Percy was a finely tuned instrument of embarrassment, and you were the virtuoso. You made it your personal mission to see every possible shade of crimson the son of Poseidon could produce, turning his legendary heroics into a series of stammering retreats. Your siblings in Cabin 10 even started a betting pool on how many seconds it would take for his ears to turn red once you entered a room.
The first time was during a serious strategy meeting in the Big House. The air was thick with the scent of pine, old parchment, and the lingering tension of a potential quest. Chiron was pointing at a map of the Labyrinth, his hoof tapping a nervous rhythm on the floorboards. Percy was leaning over the table, arms propped on the wood, his brow furrowed in that intense concentration that usually meant he was planning how to not die.
You leaned in close, your shoulder brushing his, the scent of your cabin's rose-water perfume drifting into his space like a sweet trap. You whispered just loud enough for him to hear, "You know, that serious 'hero' look really brings out the gold flecks in your eyes. It’s devastating, really. How am I supposed to focus on a quest when you’re looking like a snack?"
Percy’s brain clearly short-circuited. He let out a small, strangled noise—something between a cough and a squeak—and his ears turned a vibrant magenta. He didn't look at you for the rest of the meeting, staring so intently at a forest icon on the map that you half-expected it to catch fire. You’d spent the rest of the hour hiding your smirk behind a cup of nectar, savoring the way he kept stealing frantic, confused glances at you.
Then there was the incident at the lava-climbing wall. Percy was halfway up, muscles corded and glistening with sweat as he dodged a sudden overflow of magma. He looked powerful, agile, and completely focused—the image of a demigod in his element. You, suspended comfortably on a nearby rope, swung closer until you were just a few feet away, the heat from the lava making the air shimmer between you and highlighting the flush on your own cheeks.
"Careful, Jackson," you called out, your voice a playful lilt over the sound of hissing stone. "If you fall, I might have to catch you, and I’m not sure my heart could take having you in my arms while you're all... sweaty and heroic. It’s a very distracting aesthetic. Maybe try being a little less rugged next time? It’s hard for a girl to maintain her composure."
He fumbled his grip, his foot slipping a good three inches as his concentration shattered. He looked over at you, his face already darkening to a sunset-orange that rivaled the lava. "Not—not a good time!" he choked out, his voice cracking slightly. You just blew him a kiss and descended, leaving him to navigate the rest of the climb with a coordination that had been thoroughly compromised, his movements suddenly jerky and self-conscious.
The third "official" strike was during chariot racing practice. Percy was sweaty, covered in a fine layer of dust, and currently untangling a stubborn leather harness that seemed determined to stay knotted. You strolled over, looking perfectly pristine despite the Greek summer heat, a cold bottle of nectar in your hand.
"Need a hand, Seaweed Brain?" you asked, stepping deep into his personal space, close enough to see the individual beads of sweat on his forehead. You reached past him, your fingers intentionally lingering against the warm skin of his forearm, feeling the pulse jumping there. "Or are you just showing off those biceps? Because if you wanted me to notice, you could have just asked. I’m a very appreciative audience, Percy. I notice everything."
Percy dropped the leather strap. It hit the dirt with a heavy thud. He looked up at you, his face darkening from a shy pink to a deep, bruised plum. "I—uh—the harness... it's... caught on the..."
"It’s okay," you cooed, reaching up to brush a smudge of dirt from his cheek with agonizing slowness, your thumb grazing the corner of his mouth. "Take your time. I love watching you struggle. It’s endearing, seeing the savior of Olympus reduced to a pile of nerves just because I’m standing here."
The true shift came on a Tuesday evening by the lake. The sun was setting, casting long, bleeding streaks of orange and purple light over the water. Percy was sitting on the edge of the pier, cooling his feet in the surf. He looked peaceful, his guard finally down. It was the perfect time for a tactical strike.
You sat down next to him, letting your legs swing beside his. "You know, Percy," you murmured, your voice dropping into that low, honeyed register. "The way the water clings to your skin... it makes me wonder if you’re as fluid and talented elsewhere as you are in the waves. Are you always this... impactful? Or do I just have a special effect on you?"
You expected the usual. A stutter. A blush. Instead, Percy went still. Very still. The water around the pier stopped rippling. Slowly, he turned his head. His eyes weren't wide with panic; they were narrowed, the sea-green depths churning with a sudden, turbulent energy.
"You think this is a game," he said. His voice was lower, a deep, resonant rumble. "I'm tired of losing."
He kissed you then—a hurricane of salt and power that stole the air from your lungs—but that was only the beginning. The following days were a slow burn of role reversals, with Percy tracking you like a predator, whispering promises of "consequences" that made your knees weak. But of course, he had to leave you because he got called for a quick meeting, all needy and breathless.
The next day, you were heading toward the armory to check on some bronze plating when a hand suddenly clamped around your wrist. Before you could protest, you were pulled into the dim, metallic-scented shadows of the back room, behind rows of breastplates and shields.
Percy slammed you against a heavy wooden rack of spears, the impact rattling the metal above. He didn't look like the sweet boy you’d teased for months. His eyes were dark, a storm-tossed green that held no mercy.
"You've been so loud lately," he growled, his body pinning yours so tightly you could feel the hard, unyielding line of his heat through his jeans. "Always talking. Always pushing. You wanted to see what happens when I stop being shy? Well, here we are."
He didn't wait for a witty retort. He grabbed your hair, tilting your head back to expose the line of your throat. "You’re just a little brat who thinks she can play with someone and not get burned. Or drowned." He let go of your hair only to rip your shirt open, buttons skittering across the stone floor. "This is where your stupid mouth took you. Now handle it."
He didn't bother with romance. He turned you around, slamming your chest against the spear rack, your cheek pressed against the rough wood. You heard the harsh metallic clink of his belt being unbuckled, then the sound of his zipper. The air in the armory felt heavy, charged with the ozone scent of an approaching storm.
"Please, Percy—" you gasped, the realization of what you'd unleashed finally hitting you.
"Don't 'please' me now," he spat, his hand coming down hard against your backside in a stinging slap that made you cry out. "You wanted this. You begged for this every time you whispered in my ear or touched me when I couldn't touch back."
He reached around, his fingers rough as he shoved your underwear aside, finding you already slick and aching for him. He let out a dark, mocking chuckle. "Look at you. Crying for it while I treat you like the little toy you are. Is this 'endearing' enough for you, Princess?"
Without a word of warning, he drove into you.
It was a total, violent conquest. He hit you with the full force of the tide, his hips slamming against yours with a rhythmic, brutal intensity that forced the air from your lungs in ragged sobs. He was deep—unbearably, perfectly deep—filling you in a way that made your vision white out.
"Handle it," he groaned into your ear, his voice a gravelly command. He didn't slow down; if anything, he pushed harder, his hands bruising your hips as he kept you pinned against the wood. "This is what you wanted, right? To see the sea break? Well, I'm broken. And I'm going to make sure you remember exactly what it feels like to be underneath me."
He was relentless, his pace frantic and punishing. Every thrust was a reminder of every blush you'd forced, every stutter you'd mocked. He was degrading you with every movement, treating you like nothing more than a place to vent months of built-up frustration.
"Tell me," he demanded, his voice dropping to a dangerous, husky silk as he gripped your hair again, pulling your head back so he could see your wrecked expression. "Who's losing the game now? Tell me you're a mess for me. Tell me you're nothing but a place for me to sink into."
"I am," you whimpered, your fingers clawing at the wooden rack as your climax began to build—a terrifying, overwhelming wave that threatened to shatter you. "Percy, I'm yours... I'm a mess..."
"Good," he growled, his pace becoming even more frantic, his breath coming in jagged bursts. "Then drown."
He hit his own breaking point a second later, a low, guttural roar escaping him as he buried himself to the hilt, his release hitting you with the same intensity as a tidal wave. He stayed there for a long moment, his forehead pressed against your shoulder, his body still trembling with the aftershocks of his wrath.
When he finally pulled away, he didn't offer a sweet smile. He adjusted his clothes, his eyes still dark and predatory. He leaned down, his lips grazing your ear one last time.
"Next time you want to play, remember this," he whispered, his voice cold and terrifyingly confident. "Because the sea doesn't have a 'timeout' button."
He left you there in the shadows, shaking and marked, finally realizing that the boy you thought you could control was a force of nature that had just claimed every inch of you.
how about percy and reader getting caught by the others while fucking on the argo? 👀
Caught (Oh gods)
Pairing!: Percy Jackson x F!reader
TW: Explicit Sexual Content/ Degradation/ Overstimulation / Public Indecency / Humiliation (accidental)
A/N: I mean ofc it had to be him.
The air in the cramped cabin was thick enough to choke on, heavy with the scent of salt air, sweat, and the unmistakable, musk-heavy tang of a long, desperate session of sex.
On the narrow bunk, the only sound was the rhythmic, wet slap of skin meeting skin and the jagged, hitching breaths of two people completely lost in a primal rhythm.
Percy had you pinned against the mattress, his hands locked like iron shackles under your thighs to hold you wide for him.
His knuckles were white, his biceps bulging with the effort of keeping his massive frame steady as he worked you. Every thrust was deep and deliberate, a punishingly slow grind that forced you to arch your back until your spine nearly snapped. He was a force of nature, all hard muscle and tan skin, his hair a wild mess that tickled your forehead every time he leaned down to growl into your ear.
"Look at you," he rasped, his voice a low, vibrating rumble that made your bones ache. "Stretching for me. Taking every fucking inch like you were made for it."
He wasn't being gentle; the soft-spoken hero was gone, replaced by something ancient and hungry. He shifted his grip, one hand moving from your leg to your hair, winding the strands around his fist and tugging your head back to expose your throat.
"Percy," you gasped, your fingers digging into his shoulders, nails drawing faint red crescents in his skin. Your head tossed back against the pillow, your eyes rolling into the back of your head as he hit your cervix with a force that sent a spark of pure electricity straight to your core. "Oh gods, Percy."
"Shh," he commanded, the sound more of a bite than a shush. He leaned down, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your neck. "Just take it. Be a good little mess for me."
The degradation hit you harder than the physical sensation, making your core clench around him in a desperate, needy pulse. He felt it—he felt everything—and he rewarded the reaction with a sharp, stinging crack of his palm against your butt cheek. The sound echoed in the small room, the sudden bloom of heat on your skin making you cry out.
"Again," he muttered, his eyes dark and predatory as he watched the red mark blossom on your skin. Crack. Another hit, followed immediately by him slamming back into you, filling you so completely it felt like you were being split open.
He was overstimulating you, his hands moving everywhere—pinching, pulling, and guiding you—while his lower body remained a relentless machine. He began to stutter-step his rhythm, finding that perfect, sensitive spot and grinding his weight into it until you were sobbing, your heels digging into the small of his back.
"You’re so tight," he groaned, his voice sounding like gravel. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his sea-green eyes blown out, hooded and dangerous. "I’ve got you so worked up you can’t even breathe, can you? Just a shaking, dripping mess for me."
He hammered into you again, harder this time, the bed frame creaking ominously. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him even closer, needing to feel the salt-crusted heat of him. The cabin felt like an oven.
You were right on the edge, your vision blurring, your breath coming in short, jagged little chirps as he pushed you further and further into a mindless haze of pleasure.
"That's it," he urged, his pace snapping into something frantic. "Give it all to me. Break for me."
The door to the cabin didn't just open; it swung wide with the casual confidence of someone who lived there.
"Hey, Percy, Leo's asking about the coordinates for the Mare Nostrum again, he says the Archimedes spheres are acting—"
The voice cut off as if someone had physically clamped a hand over the speaker's throat.
Percy froze mid-thrust, buried deep inside you, his body locked in a rigid line of tension. You shrieked, the sound dying in your throat as you scrambled to pull the thin, discarded sheet over your exposed chest, your face erupting into a heat that felt like it was going to set the room on fire.
Standing in the doorway was Frank Zhang. His hand was still on the doorknob, a piece of parchment clutched in his other hand. His jaw had dropped so low it looked like it might hit his chest.
His eyes were wide, darting from Percy’s bare, sweat-glistening back—still marked by your nails—to your flushed face and tangled hair, then down to where your legs were still draped over Percy's hips. The sight of the red handprints on your thighs and the visible, wet friction between you both made Frank’s brain seemingly short-circuit.
The silence that followed was deafening, save for the heavy, ragged sound of Percy’s breathing and the distant creak of the ship’s hull.
Frank’s face went from pale to a shade of red that rivaled a Roman war banner in approximately three seconds.
"Shit— uh— fuck!" Frank sputtered, his voice cracking an entire octave. He practically tripped over his own feet as he scrambled backward into the hallway, fumbling blindly for the door handle. "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! I— gods, I'm leaving! I'm gone!"
He slammed the door shut with enough force to rattle the hinges.
Percy remained frozen for a long second, the adrenaline of the moment mixing with the lingering, frustrated heat of his climax. Slowly, his head dropped onto your shoulder with a muffled groan of pure, unadulterated defeat.
"I'm going to kill him," Percy whispered into your skin, his voice thick with the remnants of his "beast" persona but vibrating with the sheer awkwardness of the moment. "I am actually going to jump overboard and never come back."
Heyy! I really like your writing and I have a small prompt for you, if you don't mind. Jealous Percy? I know we see a lot of jealous reader and Annabeth, especially regarding Books 4 and 5 with Calypso and Rachel, but I'd love to see some jealous Percy! Maybe with a demigod best friend reader he's had a crush on for years. He goes to school with her, but, contrary to him, she's actually quite popular and magnetic. I know it's not much info to go from, but you can add whatever inspires you and go however far and long you want.
Jealousy
Pairing: Jealous! Percy Jackson x reader
TW: Just pure jealousy.
A/N: I remembered that Grover can feel Percy's emotions.
Percy Jackson did not get jealous.
He repeated this to himself like a mantra as he stood near the edge of the quad, backpack slung over one shoulder, watching you laugh with some guy whose name he absolutely refused to learn. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Soccer jacket. Too confident. Too close.
You tilted your head when you laughed—something Percy had noticed years ago and never stopped noticing—and the guy said something that made you shove him lightly, smiling like he’d earned it.
Percy’s jaw tightened.
The fountain in the middle of the quad bubbled louder.
Dude.
The voice echoed directly in his head, warm and familiar, threaded with concern.
Percy stiffened. Grover?
Yes, seaweed brain, it’s me. And you need to calm down before you short-circuit the plumbing system.
Percy glanced around instinctively, even though he knew better. Grover wasn’t here. He was miles away. But the empathy link hummed anyway, alive and buzzing.
I’m calm, Percy shot back.
The fountain shot a jet of water several feet into the air.
Grover paused. You’re absolutely not.
Percy clenched his fists. I don’t even know why you’re—
Because I can feel it, Grover interrupted gently. You’re so jealous it’s bleeding through the link. It’s like emotional secondhand embarrassment.
Percy grimaced and looked back at you. The guy leaned closer, and Percy felt something twist sharply in his chest.
I’m not jealous, he insisted weakly.
Percy, Grover said, voice softer now, you’ve been in love with her since you were twelve.
Percy swallowed. Don’t say it like that.
Like what? True?
The guy—Ethan. His name was Ethan. Percy hated that he knew that—handed you your water bottle, brushing his fingers against yours. You didn’t pull away. You smiled.
Something snapped.
The sprinklers lining the grass exploded to life.
Water sprayed everywhere. Students shrieked, backpacks held over heads, shoes soaked instantly. Percy froze in horror as chaos erupted.
“What the—?!” someone yelled.
You jumped back with a laugh, startled but amused, hair already damp. “Okay, who angered the weather gods?”
Percy stood there, heart hammering, drenched to the bone.
Grover’s voice was very quiet in his head.
Percy. Breathe. Now.
Percy forced himself to inhale. The sprinklers sputtered…then died.
You turned toward him, eyes scanning the mess—and landed on Percy, standing there like a guilty statue.
Your gaze narrowed slightly. “Percy… why are you the only one who doesn’t look surprised?”
He opened his mouth. Closed it. “Uh.”
You stared for another second, then shook your head, laughing. “Never mind. Guess I’ll see you later.”
Ethan waved at you and jogged off, soaked but grinning.
You followed, leaving Percy behind with water dripping from his hair and something heavy pooling in his chest.
Smooth, Grover said dryly.
Shut up.
Camp Half-Blood was supposed to make things easier.
It didn’t.
You fit into camp like you’d been born there—laughing by the fire, sparring effortlessly, sitting wherever you wanted and making it look natural. People gravitated toward you without trying, and Percy watched it happen like he was trapped behind glass.
That night, he sat on the shore, knees drawn up, trying to calm the lake beneath him.
It worked. Mostly.
Until you sat at the campfire with an Ares kid.
The guy was loud. Confident. His armor was still on, like he needed everyone to know who he was. He leaned back on his hands, stretching, and you sat beside him, shoulder brushing his arm as you listened.
Percy’s stomach twisted.
The lake rippled.
“Okay,” Annabeth said flatly, appearing at his side. “You need to stop that.”
He startled. “Stop what?”
“Making the water boil because you’re jealous.”
“I am not—”
A wave surged out of nowhere and absolutely soaked the Ares kid from head to toe.
Not you.
Just him.
The guy yelped, scrambling back as water poured off his armor. “What the—?!”
You gasped, then burst out laughing. “Oh my gods, are you okay?”
Percy stared.
Annabeth raised an eyebrow. “Selective emotional control. Impressive.”
The Ares kid muttered something about cursed lakes and stomped off, dripping and furious.
You stood, brushing sand from your legs, still smiling—and then you looked straight at Percy.
“Did you do that?”
Percy’s heart leapt into his throat. “I—no. I mean. Maybe? Not on purpose?”
You walked over, stopping just in front of him. Close enough that he could smell the campfire smoke in your hair.
“Percy Jackson,” you said slowly, eyes searching his face, “are you jealous?”
He laughed once, breathless and helpless. “Is it that obvious?”
You laughed, nudging his knee with yours. “Percy, you almost flooded the camp because some guy sat next to me.”
“…I didn’t mean to.”
You studied him for a moment, expression unreadable. Then, quieter: “You know I always come back to you, right?”
He turned. “What?”
“You’re my constant,” you said. “School. Camp. Monsters. You.” A pause. “I just thought you didn’t feel the same way.”
Percy’s heart slammed against his ribs. “I’ve felt this way for years.”
Your breath caught.
“Oh,” you said softly. “Then maybe you should’ve gotten jealous sooner.”
The lake went perfectly still.
Percy finally let himself lean in, forehead brushing yours, voice low and honest. “I’ve been jealous for years.”
You smiled. “Good.”
And for the first time, Percy didn’t try to fight the feeling at all.
how about percy getting all putty and whiny, eyes rolling back, when reader rides him?
Overstimulated
Pairing: Percy Jackson x f! readers
TW: Sexual Content/Overstimulation/Vulnerability/Power Dynamics/Physical Intensity.
A/N: sub!Percy is gonna be the death of me.
The salt-scented air of the Poseidon cabin was thick with heat, the only sound the rhythmic, muffled thrum of the Long Island Sound against the hull-like walls. Percy was usually the one in control—the hero who faced down Titans and giants, the leader who kept his head when the world was ending—but here, pinned to the silk sheets of his bed, he was utterly defenseless. The cool blue lighting of the cabin seemed to pulse in time with his racing heart, casting deep shadows over the sharp planes of his face.
You moved with a slow, agonizing deliberation, your hands braced against his chest. Every time you shifted your weight, the friction sent a jolt through him that made his toes curl into the mattress. Percy’s breath came in ragged, hitching gasps, his fingers digging blindly into the bedding as he tried to find some semblance of an anchor. The sheets bunched beneath his knuckles, a poor substitute for the stability he so desperately craved.
"You're... you’re doing that on purpose," he managed to choke out, though it sounded more like a plea than a tongue-in-cheek accusation. His voice was thick, dropped an octave into a raw, gravelly tone that betrayed exactly how close to the edge he was. His chest heaved beneath your palms, the skin slick with a fine sheen of sweat that made your touch slide effortlessly over his pounding heart.
As you leaned forward, hair brushing against his feverish skin, you watched the transformation take hold of him. The "Hero of Olympus" was gone, replaced by a boy who was rapidly coming undone. His head fell back against the pillows, his neck straining, the tendons standing out in sharp relief like the rigging of a ship in a storm. He was unanchored, drifting into a sea of sensation that he had no hope of navigating.
When you sank down fully, a long, high-pitched whine broke from the back of his throat—a sound of pure, unadulterated surrender. It was a pathetic, needy little noise that he would have been mortified by in any other context, but right now, he was too far gone to care about his dignity. The sound vibrated through his entire frame, a shimmering note of desperation that filled the small space between you.
"Wait, wait," he whimpered, his hips stuttering upward in an involuntary, desperate search for more of you, even as his mind screamed that he couldn't take another second. His hands moved from the sheets to your thighs, his grip bruisingly tight for a fleeting moment, then softening immediately into a trembling caress, as if he’d lost the physical strength to hold on. "Please, just... you're killing me, you're actually killing me."
You didn't stop. You picked up the pace just a fraction, grinding down with a targeted pressure that shattered what little remained of his resolve, and that was the final breaking point.
Percy’s green eyes, usually so sharp, defiant, and full of life, began to glaze over. As the pleasure reached a fever pitch, his lids fluttered, losing the battle to stay open. His eyes rolled back until only the whites were visible—a physical manifestation of a mind completely short-circuited by overwhelming sensation. He looked dazed, almost delirious, his mouth hanging open in a silent, breathless gasp before he let out another broken, whiny moan that trailed off into a sob-like hitch.
He was like putty in your hands, his body humming with a frantic, electric energy that seemed to mimic the power of a brewing hurricane. Every muscle was taut, vibrating with the effort of holding back, then suddenly loose and pliable, then taut again as another wave hit him. He was babbling now, his filter completely destroyed. Nonsense words and soft, weeping sounds of "please" and "more" spilled from his lips, his head thrashing slowly from side to side against the pillow as he tried to escape—or perhaps immerse himself further in—the white-hot haze.
"I can't... I can't think," he whispered, a tear of pure overstimulation pricking at the corner of his closed eye. He was entirely at your mercy, his movements reduced to weak, rhythmic twitches that followed your lead. The fierce warrior who had stood against the King of the Titans was reduced to a shaking, sobbing mess, his fingers feebly curling around your wrists as if to beg for either release or a permanent stay in this blissful torment.
In this moment, there was no prophecy, no monsters, and no heavy crown of god-like expectations. There was only the weight of you, the agonizing rhythm of your movement, and the way you could turn the most powerful demigod of the age into a shivering, pleading mess with nothing more than a steady, unrelenting heat and the ruthless command of your body over his. He was yours, entirely dismantled, a wreck of a hero washed up on your shore.
And when he came? Gods, it was full blown whimpering and sobbing, muttering soft 'thank yous' while burying himself deep inside of you.
can't stop thinking about bsf!percy being absolutely gobsmacked when reader suggests practicing giving a blowjob on him (could be his first time getting one, or not, whichever)
Practice? Oh...practice.
Pairing: Percy Jackson x reader
TW:Explicit Sexual Content, blur-of-boundaries, exploration of sexual themes within a platonic friendship, sexual tension, themes of surrender and vulnerability, consent.
A/N: Muehehehe.
The silence in Percy’s cabin usually felt like a warm blanket—familiar, safe, and smelling faintly of sea salt and the blue cookies his mom had sent in a care package earlier that day.
You were sprawled on the edge of his bunk, staring at the ceiling, while Percy sat on the floor, leaning against the bed frame as he absentmindedly sharpened Riptide with a whetstone. It was a mundane Tuesday afternoon, the kind of afternoon where the boundary between "best friends" and "something more" usually felt solid as a rock.
Then, you opened your mouth.
"I’ve been thinking," you said, your voice casual, though your heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. "About… practice."
Percy didn’t look up. "Practice? Sword fighting? Because I told you, your footwork is getting better, you just need to—"
"No," you interrupted. "Not sword fighting."
He paused, the whetstone scraping one last time against the bronze blade. He tilted his head back, looking at you upside down. His sea-green eyes were bright and curious, completely unsuspecting. "Then what?"
You took a breath, the oxygen feeling thin in your lungs. "I was thinking I need practice…giving a blowjob. And I was wondering if I could practice on you."
The silence that followed wasn't like the warm blanket from before. This silence was a vacuum. It sucked the air out of the room.
Percy didn't move. He didn't blink. For a full five seconds, he looked like a statue carved from Olympian marble. Then, the color started. It began at the tips of his ears and raced down his neck, a deep, frantic crimson that clashed spectacularly with his orange Camp Half-Blood shirt.
"Wh—" His voice cracked, a high-pitched sound he hadn't made since he was twelve. He cleared his throat, trying again. "What?"
"You heard me," you said, your own face heating up, but you pushed forward. "We’re best friends, Percy. I trust you. And I figured…if it’s your first time too, or even if it isn't, it’s better to do it with someone you actually like."
Percy dropped the whetstone. It hit the floor with a heavy thud, but he didn't seem to notice. He scrambled to his feet, looking down at you with an expression of pure, unadulterated shock. He looked gobsmacked—jaw slightly ajar, eyes wide, hands twitching at his sides as if he didn't know whether to grab you or run for the Long Island Sound.
"You want to… on me?" he stammered. "Like, right now? In the middle of the afternoon?"
"Is the timing the problem?" you teased, though your voice trembled.
"No! I mean—no, the timing isn't—" He cut himself off, running a hand through his perpetually messy hair, making it stand up in even wilder peaks. "Gods, _____. You can't just… drop a thermal detonator like that and expect me to function."
He took a shaky breath, his gaze dropping to your lips for a split second before snapping back up to your eyes. The "best friend" mask was gone. In its place was something raw, hungry, and incredibly overwhelmed.
"You're serious?" he whispered, stepping closer until his knees brushed the edge of the mattress. "You’re not joking? Because if you’re joking, I might actually jump off the climbing wall without a harness."
"I'm not joking, Percy."
He let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-groan, sinking onto the bed beside you. The mattress dipped under his weight. He looked at you, the shock slowly melting into a look of intense, focused heat that made your toes curl.
"Okay," he said, his voice dropping an octave, sounding more like the son of the sea god and less like the boy who forgot his sandals this morning. "Okay. Let’s… let’s practice."
Percy’s hands were shaking. It was a subtle thing—the kind of tremor he usually only got after fighting a drakon or holding up the sky—but as he reached down to unbutton his jeans, the metal button felt like a puzzle he couldn't quite solve.
"Wait," he breathed, his voice sounding like it had been dragged over gravel. "Wait, _____. Just... give me a second to catch my brain. It’s currently somewhere near the bottom of the canoe lake."
He sat back on the edge of the bunk, his legs spread slightly, looking at you with a mix of reverence and terror. When you moved to kneel between his knees, the denim of your own clothes rustling in the quiet cabin, his breath hitched so sharply it sounded like a sob. The floor was cold against your knees, but the heat radiating off Percy was intense, a localized summer storm.
As you eased his jeans and boxers down, the air in the cabin seemed to thicken, smelling of sea salt and a sudden, sharp spike of adrenaline. Percy’s head hit the headboard with a soft thud, his eyes fluttering shut the moment your fingers brushed against the sensitive skin of his inner thigh. He was already hard, a pulsing, heavy weight that spoke of how much he’d been suppressing while sitting next to you during campfire songs and strategy sessions all these months.
"Holy shit" he whispered, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the edge of the blue-clothed mattress so hard the wood frame creaked.
You looked up at him, the sight of the Great Prophecy's hero looking so utterly dismantled bringing a flush to your cheeks. "You okay, Percy?"
"Yeah," he choked out, his eyes snapping open. They were a dark, stormy green now, turbulent and deep, the way the ocean looks right before a hurricane hits. "Yeah, I’m... I’m great. I’m fantastic. I’m just trying to remember how to breathe in and out in the right order."
When you finally took him into your mouth, the warmth of the contact made Percy’s entire body jolt as if he’d been struck by one of Thalia’s highest-voltage lightning bolts. A low, guttural sound tore from his throat—a sound you had never heard him make in all the years you’d known him. It wasn't the sound of a best friend or a leader; it was the sound of a man being systematically undone.
And gods if it wasn't hot.
He didn't know what to do with his hands. First, they stayed locked on the mattress, then they hovered indecisively in the air, before finally plunging into your hair. His fingers tangled in the strands, not pulling, just holding on like you were the only thing keeping him from drifting out to sea.
"Gods," he gasped, his hips twitching upward instinctively as you swirled your tongue around the head. "You... you said you needed practice? Who told you that? Because you're—fuck, _____—you're doing everything exactly right."
As you grew more confident, experimenting with the rhythm and the pressure, the suction he so clearly craved, Percy stopped trying to maintain his composure. His head rolled back, exposing the long, strained line of his throat, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed back a moan. His chest heaved under the orange cotton of his shirt, the fabric damp with sweat. He looked beautiful like this—vulnerable, stripped of his legendary status, and entirely dominated by a sensation he couldn't control.
The "practice" became less of a clinical exercise and more of a desperate, messy scramble. You used your hand to stroke the base while your mouth focused on the top, and the combination made Percy lose his grip on reality.
"I'm gonna..." He gripped your hair tighter, his eyes blown out until the green was just a thin, vibrating ring around his pupils. His heels dug into the floorboards. "I can't—_____, stop, no, don't stop—wait, I’m gonna—"
He didn't finish the sentence. He couldn't. With a final, choked-off cry of your name that sounded like a prayer, Percy stiffened, his back arching off the bed in a violent line of tension as he surged into you. He held the position for several long seconds, his heart hammering so hard you could see it thumping against his ribs through his shirt, before he finally collapsed back against the pillows.
When it was over, a heavy, sweet silence returned to the cabin, charged with the weight of a brand-new reality. Percy stayed slumped against the headboard, his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling in deep, shaky heaves that gradually slowed.
Finally, he opened one eye and looked down at you, a dazed, lopsided, and entirely smitten grin spreading across his face. He reached out a shaky hand to brush a stray hair from your forehead.
"So," he whispered, his voice still trembling with the aftershocks. "Do you... do you think you need more practice? Because I checked my schedule, and I’m free every Tuesday. And Wednesday. And, uh, every other day for the rest of my life."
Hiii I hope you are doing well!!! Could I request an Alastor x reader fluff where the reader is a human who summons demon Alastor and they have frequent hangouts then slowly fall in love❤️🔥
A contract signed twice
Pairing!: Alastor x reader
Tw: Mentions of death!
A/N;
You hadn’t expected the summoning circle to work.
The chalk lines were uneven, smudged where your hand had shaken. Candles flickered nervously, their flames bending inward as if holding their breath. You’d memorized the incantation from a brittle old book that smelled like dust and regret, reciting the words with the calm resolve of someone who had already made peace with the inevitable.
If Hell was real—and you were certain it was—you wanted to be ready for it.
The air crackled. The room warped, shadows stretching unnaturally long before snapping back into place.
Then the radio static started.
A tall shape unfolded from the darkness, sharp grin first, antlers scraping the ceiling as if it were an inconvenience rather than a limit. His smile was wide, fixed, delighted—like he’d just been handed front-row seats to the world’s most amusing tragedy.
“Well now,” Alastor drawled, voice layered with cheerful distortion, “this is a treat. A human who actually knows how to draw a summoning circle. Sloppy, but points for enthusiasm!”
You swallowed, heart hammering, but you didn’t back away. “You’re Alastor. The Radio Demon.”
He tipped his head, pleased. “In the flesh—well, something like it.”
“I want to sell you my soul.”
That made him laugh. Not cruelly. Genuinely delighted.
“My, my. Straight to business! No begging, no desperate tears, no dramatic monologue about lost love or wasted potential.” He clasped his hands behind his back, leaning closer, red eyes glittering. “And may I ask why?”
You hesitated only a moment. “I’m going to Hell anyway. I want to be prepared. I thought… maybe if I belonged to someone powerful, it wouldn’t be so bad.”
Something in his expression shifted. The grin stayed, of course—it always did—but his eyes sharpened, studying you like a radio host deciding whether a caller was boring or fascinating.
“How practical,” he said. “How utterly refreshing.”
A contract appeared between you, parchment curling at the edges, ink shimmering like it was alive.
“Very well,” Alastor said brightly. “Your soul, upon death, becomes my property. In exchange…” He paused, tapping a clawed finger against his chin. “Let’s say protection. Influence. And the distinct pleasure of my company, should you ever summon me again.”
You signed.
The moment the ink dried, the candles extinguished at once. Alastor straightened, tipping his hat.
“Pleasure doing business with you,” he said, and vanished in a crackle of static.
You didn’t summon him again for three days.
Not because you regretted it—but because you didn’t know what to say.
When you finally did redraw the circle, it was smaller. Neater.
Alastor appeared mid-sentence, as if he’d been talking to someone else and simply decided to include you.
“—and then she had the audacity to scream—oh! You again!” His smile widened. “To what do I owe the honor?”
“I had questions,” you admitted. “About Hell.”
“Well, that’s vague but promising. Ask away!”
You sat on the floor. He leaned against the wall like it was his living room.
You asked what the streets were like. He told you—colorful descriptions, half theatrical exaggeration, half unsettling truth. You asked about sinners, overlords, survival. He answered with amusement, occasionally correcting himself just to make the story more dramatic.
Somehow, hours passed.
When you finally yawned, embarrassed, Alastor blinked. “My goodness. Humans are alarmingly fragile.”
“Sorry,” you said. “I didn’t mean to keep you.”
“Nonsense! I was enjoying myself.” He paused, then added, almost thoughtfully, “You may summon me again, you know. No charge.”
After that, it became a habit.
You summoned him to ask about music in Hell. About whether demons ever missed being alive. About what he’d been before.
He never answered the last question directly—but he stayed.
Sometimes you didn’t even talk about Hell. Sometimes you complained about your day. Sometimes you listened as he tuned an invisible radio, filling your room with old-time melodies and crackling laughter.
Somewhere along the way, you stopped thinking of him as your future tormentor.
And Alastor—though he would never admit it—began to look forward to the sound of your voice calling his name.
“You’re an odd little human,” he said once, watching you stir sugar into your coffee. “Most people tremble when they look at me.”
You smiled. “You’re not so scary when you’re not trying to be.”
He laughed at that, loud and bright, static flaring. “Careful! Compliments like that could get you in serious trouble.”
When you died—much later, peacefully—you weren’t afraid.
Hell was loud and chaotic and cruel, just as promised.
But Alastor was there.
He took your hand with surprising gentleness, guiding you through the madness like a host welcoming a guest home.
“Welcome,” he said softly, smile fond in a way no one else ever saw, “to eternity.”
The contract burned away, rewritten by something neither of you had planned for.
After all—
Some deals were meant to be broken.
And some souls were never meant to be owned at all.
since we're feeling percy jackson...how about reader and percy making out kissing in his cabin, while percy just absolutely loses any sense of the outside world. he can hold his breath for long and sure does use it to his advantage. his hands work almost as fast as his mouth and it's all instinctive. you have to shove him off to tell him that he's making the water in the poseidon cabin pool move without even realising it.
Lost in the sauce
Pairing!: Percy Jackson x reader
Tw: Making out!
A/N: I didn't know what else to put in the title 💔.
—set in an aged-up, post-war AU—
The Poseidon cabin always felt like it breathed.
The walls shimmered faintly, light bending as water shifted in the pool at the center of the room, the air cool and salt-clean. Percy barely gave it a glance before he was on you again, like the space itself had faded out the second you stepped inside.
His hands found you first—firm, familiar, sliding to your hips with a quiet certainty that made your stomach flip. The kiss started slow, almost hesitant, like he was reminding himself to pace it.
That restraint lasted maybe five seconds.
Percy kissed like he was drowning and you were air. His mouth pressed to yours with growing urgency, the rhythm unthinking, instinctive. He didn’t pull back for breath. Didn’t need to. Instead, he deepened it, forehead dipping just enough to angle closer, like the rest of the world had narrowed down to this one point.
Your fingers curled into his shirt, feeling the tension in him—how every muscle seemed wound tight, like he was holding something back and failing spectacularly.
His hands moved faster than his mouth now, thumbs brushing along your sides, palms warm and grounding. It wasn’t sloppy, just intense—like he’d flipped a switch in his head and forgotten how to turn it off. Each kiss blurred into the next, Percy chasing closeness with an almost frightening focus.
The room reacted before you did.
A soft sloshing sound cut through the haze.
You barely noticed at first, too caught up in the way Percy leaned into you, breath steady, unwavering. But then the floor felt cooler beneath your feet. The air shifted.
Another sound—water meeting stone.
You broke the kiss with a gasp and looked past his shoulder.
The pool wasn’t still anymore.
The surface rolled in slow, deliberate waves, light rippling wildly across the walls. Each time Percy’s grip tightened or he leaned in again, the water answered—rising, falling, restless.
“Percy,” you said, breathless, hands pressing to his chest.
He hummed softly, not quite there, lips brushing your jaw like he intended to keep going.
“Percy,” you repeated, shoving him back just enough to force space between you and pointing toward the pool.
He turned.
The second his attention snapped away, the water stilled—waves collapsing into gentle ripples like nothing had happened.
“Oh gods,” he muttered.
His ears flushed red instantly. He dragged a hand through his hair, half laughing, half mortified. “I didn’t even— I swear I wasn’t doing that on purpose.”
“You were completely gone,” you said, still catching your breath. “You were making the water move.”
Percy stared at the pool like it had personally betrayed him, then glanced back at you—eyes dark, focused, unmistakably still caught in whatever headspace he’d fallen into.
“Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “That happens when I forget everything else exists.”
The corner of his mouth twitched, sheepish but honest. He stepped closer again, slower this time, like he was grounding himself on purpose.
“Guess I should pay more attention,” he said.
His gaze flicked briefly to the water—calm now, obedient—then back to you.
