pairing: frat boy!percy jackson x fem!reader
summary: percy, just broken up, is looking for someone who will help him forget his broken heart. lucky for him, you're just around the corner.
tags: smut, fingering (f receiving), public sex, rebound sex, drunk percy and tipsy user, frat boy percy who is usually cocky but rn is a whiny mess, reader lets him forget his ex w her.
notes: hi :) this is my first time publishing my work like ever, so im really excited!! decided to start my account by participating in in my favorite holiday, kinktober :3 english is not my first language, so pls be kind ! this oneshot is inspired by a c.ai bot I saw a while ago BUT I CANT REMEMBER WHO DID IT ;(( but still, credits to the author!
College parties were your strong suit.
There was something about the stale stench of beer, the pool game where people got just a tad bit touchy, the tension that seemed to linger and permeate the air.
And all of it seemed to amount to one, definitive, final moment.
Who you managed to go home with after. And today, it was nothing new.
You could tell Percy had put his effort into this party as soon as you walked in, especially after his messy breakup which the whole school hear about. He had a reputation to maintain, after all, and he wasn't about to blow it simply because his ex girlfriend had gotten tired of his lifestyle.
And yet, as you stood by the entrance, a red cup filled with something...blue, you simply couldn't find Percy.
It's his party, his frat. Shouldn't he be here?
Walking around the cramped house, bumping with people shoulder to shoulder simply didn't help. He was nowhere.
Until you reached the stairs leading up to the second floor, and you came face to face with a suspiciously Percy-shaped lump.
He's slouched on the stairs like a sleepy mess, cup long forgotten beside him as he throws his head back, a low groan leaving him. The sight of him so...pathetic was usual, for all you know, he usually was the first to pick a girl for the night and fuck her before you even got to the party.
"Percy..?" You ask softly, half squinting to see if it was actually him and not just some drunk freshman. "Is that you...?"
Crouching down to his height, you reached out to grab his head, holding him by the scruff as if he were a bad behaved kitten. That only earned you a whine from him, his hand quickly clasping over his eyes as if the barely noticeable light had somehow burnt them.
His blonde curls were a tangled mess, sweat making them stick to his forehead, and he looks more like a boy who lost a fight with the world than the frat king everyone worships.
“Mm...don’t talk so loud,” he mutters, voice rough like he’s been yelling over the music for hours. He peeks at you through his fingers, squinting, before a lazy grin spreads across his face. “Hey..."
The audacity makes you snort, how even if he looks like a boy who snuck in and stole his father's alcohol he stills acts cocky , but you don’t let go of his scruff. “You look like shit, Percy."
He only leans into your hold, annoyingly content. "Do I, now?"
You let out a shaky, breathless laugh, letting go of him just to move him lightly aside. He is so far gone that he isn't even aware of his weight, making no effort to move his ass as you try to scoot into the empty space beside him on the stair step.
He seems to notice your struggles to fit in, and somehow between the alcohol gaze that seems to cloud his mind and the need he feels presumably after his breakup, he just picks you up and places you onto his lap.
You gasp, hands instinctively grabbing at his shoulders as he manhandles you like you weigh nothing. You don't even have time to call him out before he's already nuzzling against your neck.
“Problem solved,” he slurs, settling his chin against your shoulder like it’s a pillow, his breath against your skin. He smells like sweat, beer, and that sharp cologne he always overdoes, the mix making your head spin.
“You’re ridiculous,” you mutter, though you don’t move off him, fighting the instinct to not run your hands and try to tame his messy curls.
“Mm,” he hums, arms wrapping loosely around your waist, heat seeping through the thin fabric of your outfit. “You’re comfy. Better than the stairs.”
The music downstairs thunders, muffled but constant, and yet it feels like it’s just you and him in this narrow slice of quiet. His breath fans against your neck, hot and slow, sending an uninvited shiver down your spine.
Until you start to feel a damp sensation marking your skin.
At first, you think it’s just the heat of him pressed so close, the sweat clinging to his temple, but then the wetness seeps in hot, undeniable, sliding against the curve of your neck.
It doesn't take long for you to figure out he's tearing up, crying against your neck.
He doesn’t answer right away, only burrows closer, arms tightening around your waist as though you might slip away if he let go. His breath hitches, the sound muffled against your skin.
“I,” his voice cracks, so soft you barely catch it over the muffled bass from downstairs, “I fucked everything up. I can't do anything right."
Your chest squeezes, and for a moment you don’t know if it’s the alcohol in your own system or the way he sounds so utterly broken.
You two had never been particularly close. Sure, he sometimes joked around with you as he discreetly tried to convine you to let him copy your homework. But not nearly enough for him to be crying into your neck, as if somehow, you're the only one who can save him.
You hesitate, your hand hovering above his messy curls before finally giving in, threading your fingers through them with a shaky exhale.
“Hey…” you whisper, softer than you mean to. “You’re fine. You’re okay.”
But he just shakes his head against you, his lips brushing your throat with every word he forces out. “She said I wasn’t enough. That I’d never… grow up. And maybe she’s right.”
The words bleed into your skin, raw and trembling, and suddenly the weight of his body against yours isn’t just drunken clumsiness. It's need.
He lifts his head off your neck, and before you can realize it, his lips are on yours. He's so drunk he cant kiss you right, but he is determined to try as his tongue tries to get your lips to open.
It doesn't feel...right. There's too much teeth, too much tongue, and he is to eager. But most of all, it feels wrong to have him kiss you just because he is imagining someone else.
You gently pull away, hands on his chest just to get him off as he tries to chase your lips, a pitiful look plastered on his face.
He stares at you with glassy confusion and red rimmed eyes, like he just can't understand why you pulled away, why you rejected his kiss.
“Please…” he rasps, voice breaking, “please… just… let me,”
You blink at him, heart twisting at the raw need in his tone. He’s not cocky right now. Not charming. He’s just… Percy. Messed up, vulnerable, and leaning all of himself onto you, as if holding you close could make the world right again.
“I… I just need…” His lips tremble, hovering over yours again. “…to forget. Just… for tonight. Can you… let me?”
You swallow hard, torn between knowing it’s messy, wrong even, and the undeniable pull of him. His hands fumble at your waist, nails grazing your skin, holding like he can’t risk losing your warmth.
Everything around you seems unaware of this moment, of the turmoil inside both of you. People are still drinking, playing and dancing. Girls are still trying to flirt with guys who are far too drunk to even make sense anymore.
Everyone is close but no one is watching you. This moment, even admits all the people, is just yours.
“Percy…” you murmur, barely audible, but the sound is enough to make him lean closer, brushing his nose against yours. "Okay..."
That seems to be all the permission he needs. His lips crash into yours again; sloppy, frantic, needy, and this time, you don’t pull away. His tongue teases yours, searching, desperate, tasting the faint salt of tears on your skin. He’s drunk, he’s messy, he’s wrong in every way… and yet, impossibly, it feels like you’re the only thing keeping him steady.
You cling to him, hands tangled in his curls, letting him chase your mouth with his, letting him forget everything else for a heartbeat even if it’s messy, even if it’s just tonight.
His hand finds its way to your barely covered thighs, fingertips touching your skin just enough to tease you. Goosebumps immediately formed in your skin, a familiar wetness seeping through your panties.
The hand on your thigh was a contradiction; clumsy but firm, seeking reassurance more than pleasure, yet setting your nerves alight all the same. That flicker of heat in your core was a betrayal, a response to a boy who was too drunk to know your name, but who held your entire world in his trembling grip.
Instead of lifting you, he twisted your body onto of him in a sudden, urgent motion, pivoting you slightly until your back was pressed against the rough, dusty wood of the banister, shoving you into the deep shadow of the corner of the stairwell.
He leaned in, pinning you with his weight, his mouth finding yours again, slower this time, more focused, as if the physical demand of moving you around had burned off the most chaotic edge of the liquor.
The kiss was deep and possessive, his tongue exploring every desperate angle of your mouth, tasting the lingering despair he couldn't hide.
His hands, however, were suddenly ruthless as he anchored you to his lap, pulling the hem up your skirt until the cool, mid air hit your bare skin. You gasped into his mouth, the muffled music of the party becoming nothing more than background noise for the sudden need he ignited in you, for the frantic reality of his hands against your skin.
Playful fingers finally found what he wanted, and as soon as they touched the damp fabric that barely concealed your desire, he whined against your lips.
"God," he murmured, his tone suddenly sharp as he pulled away. His deep, sea green eyes locked on yours, your breath caressing his lips as you stared at each other.
As soon as he pulled your underwear to the side, his thin, long fingers dipped inside you, and he let out a moan so loud at the sensation you suddenly feared everyone would suddenly stop partying and realize what you were doing.
"Percy..." You whined, pleading, as your hips shifted slightly, trying to get his fingers deeper inside you.
"Shhh," He gritted out, his thumb pressing down on a sharp spot that made your vision white out.
His fingers were quick, finding a rhythm that was all wrong. Too fast, too desperate, fueled by panic and the blinding need for distraction yet somehow, it was perfectly aligned with the anxious, rushed heat building in your own core.
You knew he wasn't thinking of you; he was just running away from the quiet, crushing realization of his break-up, and you were the temporary, messy tunnel.
You whimpered, biting down on your lip to muffle the sound as his other arm wrapped like iron around your lower back, bracing you. The music was a wild, throbbing bass drum, beating exactly the same frequency as the pulse between your thighs.
The risk was intoxicating. You could hear feet shuffling and laughter just a few steps below you, but no one looked up, consumed by their own drunken haze. You were invisible.
"Look at me," he commanded, the raw urgency back in his voice, his eyes wide and unfocused, but staring right through you as he finally starts pumping two of his fingers in and out of you, fucking you as if that could fix him. You buckled violently against his hand, your hands coming to grip his wrist as you try to get him to apply more pressure.
He immediately understood, slipping another finger inside your tight hole while his thumb moved, finding and teasing your clit. He kept his gaze on your face, only occasionally glancing at his hand and the way his hand was covered in your glistening scent.
You could hear people walking past you, and yet there was a strange thrill on it. Knowing that anyone who was sober enough could turn around and see Percy finger-fucking you only added to your arousal.
"We need to move, Percy," you whispered, trying to sound firm despite the lingering heat in your own core. "Someone's going to..."
He cut you off with a tired, insistent groan.
"Let them," he mumbled, his voice already half-gone, eyes closed. "They can watch."
The thought alone made you tremble, your thighs clenching around his hand and your walls greedily clinging to his fingers. The sight of him, so focused on your reactions, so determined to make this great for you nearly undid you.
"It's okay..." He whispered, the movement of his fingers getting even more speed. "Come for me."
And at his words, you finally came, gushing out all over his hand.
The climax was sharp, a tight, shuddering pull that emptied your lungs. You clung to his shoulder, riding out the aftershocks until your body went limp, heavy and breathless against his chest.
His fingers paused, buried deep inside you, sticky with the evidence of your release. He didn't pull away immediately; instead, the three fingers inside you suddenly contracted, pressing against your slick, sensitive wall with just enough pressure that sent a fresh wave of shivers through your exhausted core.
Percy slowly, finally, began to withdraw his fingers, pulling them out slickly. His hand, warm, heavy, and wet trailed out, sweeping across the sensitive, sticky skin of your inner thigh where your release had pooled. The sound was muffled but undeniable in the quiet pocket of the stairwell, and the sudden rush of cool air where his hand had been made you clench shut.
He then rested that hand, now completely saturated, on your hip, pulling your skirt down just enough to cover the immediate mess, but his touch lingered, heavy and possessive. The subtle motion was one of cleanup and claim, all in one.
"Better?" he mumbled, his voice thick and low, completely devoid of the usual frat-boy swagger. He pressed a sloppy kiss to the curve of your jaw, his lips damp and tasting faintly of tears. He wasn't even attempting to kiss your mouth anymore; he was just burying himself in your scent, your warmth, your existence.
You could only manage a choked, breathless nod. You were a mess; your makeup likely smeared, your clothes askew, and your body vibrating with residual pleasure and the terrifying shame of the public act.
And yet, you were filled with an undeniable bliss.
You had helped him forget, and in return, now you would never erase this memory from your mind.
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