do you have like anything for like a apollo reader with percy? like sometimes the reader usually use percy as a muse and percy asked them how they are good with art and the reader just shrugs and tells him that she was always good at it like maybe a hint that she was always an a apollo kid before arriving at camp? i think this is such a cute request
This request was so freaking cute! Apollo is absolutely that parent who wholeheartedly approves of his kids dating Percy—like, no hesitation, full-on cheerleader mode. Hope you all enjoy! p.jackson/apollo!reader
Every child of Apollo was different. Their father had a wide range of talents—music, poetry, archery, healing—and his kids were no different. Some got the medical genius, like Will Solace, who could patch up a broken bone before most people even realized it was broken. Others were master archers, their hands steady even in the middle of battle.
And then there was you.
Healing? You could slap a Band-Aid on someone and call it a day. Archery? Let’s not talk about how many of Chiron’s training dummies had been “accidentally” skewered in all the wrong places. But the arts? That was yours. Truly, enviously, yours.
You had a gift—one that made your half-siblings tilt their heads and squint at your paintings like they were trying to figure out how a bunch of colors on a canvas could breathe. Because your art wasn’t just realistic—it was alive. Not literally (at least, you were 90% sure it wasn’t), but something about the way you painted made people pause, like they expected the figures to move.
Percy was one of those people.
He was stretched out in the grass next to you now, propped up on his elbows, watching as you worked on a painting of him. You knew he was trying to play it cool, but the way he kept stealing glances at your sketchbook betrayed him. His expression wavered between curiosity and something dangerously close to awe.
Finally, he broke the silence. "How are you so good at this?"
You glanced at him, then back at the canvas, tilting your head as you considered your response. "Natural talent?"
Percy scoffed. "No way. I’ve seen some of the Apollo kids try to paint, and they do not make people look this—this…" He gestured vaguely at the painting, at himself, then back at the painting. "This real."
You dipped your brush into the paint and smirked. "Maybe you're just easy to paint, Jackson."
He snorted. "Please. I can barely take a good photo, let alone get a whole masterpiece out of it."
You shrugged, then reached out, placing your hand under his chin with gentle pressure. His skin was warm under your fingertips. You tilted his face slightly, angling his eyes just right, studying the way the afternoon light caught in them. His pupils flickered to you, surprised but not pulling away, and for a second, neither of you moved.
Then, satisfied, you let go and turned back to your painting, adding a touch more light to the green of his eyes on the canvas. "I’ve just always been good at it."
"Yeah, but, like… even before camp?"
That made your brush pause for just a second.
Because, truthfully, yeah. Even before Camp Half-Blood, before you had ever stepped foot into Cabin Seven, you’d been like this. Art had never been something you learned—it had always felt more like something you remembered. Something already in your bones, in your fingertips. You had always been able to see the light in people, the colors that made them them, long before you knew who your father was.
So you gave a small, knowing smile and said, "Yeah. Even before camp."
Percy studied you for a moment, like he was waiting for you to elaborate. You didn’t. But he didn’t press, just let out a huff, staring at the sky.
You turned your attention back to your painting, only for Percy to very obnoxiously scoot closer, resting his chin on your shoulder. His black curls tickled your neck, and you huffed out a laugh.
"Comfortable?" you asked, rolling your eyes as you adjusted your brush.
"Very," he said smugly, voice muffled against your skin. He shifted, pressing his cheek against yours, all warm and solid. "What are you gonna do about it?"
You pretended to think, then dipped your finger in blue paint and smudged it onto his nose.
Percy jerked back with an offended squawk. "Did you just—"
"Yep." You smirked, wiping your hand off on your jeans. "And now you're part of the painting. Congrats."
Percy rubbed at his nose, only succeeding in smearing the paint further. "You suck."
"You sat on me, Percy. What did you expect?"
"A little kindness? A little mercy? A little love from my amazing girlfriend?" He dramatically flopped onto his back, hands over his face. "This is how I die. Betrayed. Marked for life by blue paint."
Rolling your eyes, you reached over and gently flicked his forehead, making him yelp. "You'll live, drama queen."
He grumbled something under his breath, then—before you could react—stole your brush right out of your hand and booped your nose with the tip.
Now you were the one spluttering. "Percy!"
"Payback." He grinned, sitting up and twirling the brush between his fingers like he had just won some grand battle. "How’s it feel, Picasso?"
You wiped at your nose, glaring at him even as you fought back a smile. "Hope you know you just declared war."
Percy’s grin widened. "Oh, bring it on, sunshine."
And maybe you did. Maybe that painting session turned into a full-blown art war. Maybe there was way more paint on you two than on the actual canvas by the end of it. But at some point, when you were both out of breath and covered in streaks of color, Percy reached over, smudged some orange paint on your cheek, and muttered, "You really are amazing at this, y’know?"
The words were quiet, a little softer than before. No teasing, no sarcasm—just Percy, being Percy.
And that, more than anything, made you smile.
