mia

Percy never thought of himself as handsome...

Heroes were supposed to be handsome but !! He thought he had other and better qualities. Heroes were supposed to be brave, reckless and maybe even a little stupid.

Confidence? That was for Apollo kids and Ares boys who flexed in every reflective surface they passed.

Percy just... well, he fought monsters, got scraped up, forgot to wash his face all the time, and figured that was enough.

For Gods' sake he was 13 years old and on survival mode, it was okay if he didn't look good !

But oh, his reflection in the Camp Half-Blood bathroom mirror and brain disagreed.

Maybe Percy lacked self-love and self-esteem; honestly, he had a zit on his forehead and marks all over his body from battles, so why was he going to try to change that either?

The guy didn't know someone had their eyes on him.

You, an Aprhodite kid, noticed how he never looked at himself in mirrors, how he scrubbed dirt from his hands but never bothered with the cuts on his face until they scabbed over rough and uneven. And for sure you noticed the faint redness on his cheeks from sunburns he never treated properly or the way his curls frizzed because he probably didn’t use anything but whatever soap was near.

You noticed— and instead of judging, you tilted your head and thought: Oh. I could work with that.

Being a daughter of Aphrodite meant people assumed you cared only about perfection; flawless skin, symmetrical smiles, love at first sight... But love, real love, wasn’t about perfection.

It was about potential.

And Percy Jackson had so much of it that it hurt to look at him.

The first time you approached him, he was sitting by the lake, skipping stones with a frown on his face, he had some fight marks on his face, possibly Clarisse had put him through hard training. The stones bounced— once, twice, three times— before sinking. He sighed and went for another.

“You know,” you said casually, dropping down beside him, “saltwater helps with inflammation, but too much sun damage cancels it out.”

He blinked at you as the stone in his hand slipped. It didn’t skip at all— just plopped straight into the water, disappearing instantly.

“Uh, hi?”

You smiled. “You don’t take very good care of yourself.”

Percy stared at you for a beat, then let out a disbelieving laugh. “Wow,” he said, shaking his head. “We’ve known each other for, what, ten seconds? And you’re already critiquing my life choices, that’s gotta be some kind of record.”

“I’m not critiquing,” you replied evenly. “I’m just… noticing?”

“Oh,” he said dryly. “Well, in that case, please continue. I love being perceived.”

He picked up another stone, rolling it between his fingers like he was trying to focus on literally anything else but you didn’t move away and, also, didn’t apologize. You just watched him— his sun-reddened skin, the faint roughness along his jaw where a cut had healed poorly, the way he hunched slightly forward.

“You should be more careful,” you added after a moment, tone still gentle. “The sun around here isn’t forgiving.”

He snorted and replied without looking at you. “I fight monsters, actual monsters, with teeth and claws and poison. I think I’ll survive a little sunburn.”

“A little,” you echoed.

That made him glance at you again, brows knitting together. “Is this your thing?” he asked, a bit of anger creeping in. “Just… showing up out of nowhere and telling people what they’re doing wrong with their lives?”

Percy didn't add how annoying it was that someone as beautiful as you would comment on his unkempt appearance, it made him feel ashamed.

“Only when they’re being unnecessarily cruel to themselves,” you replied this time.

“Great,” he said. “So now I’m self-destructive. Love that for me!”

You tilted your head slightly, studying him— not like a project, but like someone worth paying attention to. “You don’t have to neglect yourself just because you’re used to getting hurt.”

He shrugged, tossing the stone harder than necessary. It skipped once, twice, then sank.

“Comes with the job,” he said lightly, like it didn’t matter.

“Mmmh.”

Over the next few weeks, you made it a habit.

You began sitting near him at meals— not directly across from him! Just within reach of conversation, close enough that he became aware of your presence before he actually realized you were there. Sometimes you didn’t even speak; you’d just be there, eating, occasionally nudging his plate closer when he got distracted and forgot to finish his food.

Or after training, when his arms were sore and his knuckles bruised and his head was buzzing with leftover adrenaline, you somehow always ended up walking beside him on the way back to the cabins.

Maybe it was your Aphrodite presence but you made things feel natural, not too flirty or too planned before hand just... natural.

You’d ask him how the session went, listen without interrupting, let him ramble when he felt like it and fall quiet when he didn’t.

And then there were small things.

The scrapes he usually ignored, the burns he’d shrug off, the shallow cuts along his forearms that weren’t bad enough to warrant attention but still stung when he moved. You noticed all of them, and you always took care of them.

“Hold still,” you’d say gently while reaching for the ambrosia.

“It’s not that bad,” he’d argue, even as he let you take his wrist. “Besides, don't you children of Aphrodite hate getting dirty?”

“You say that about everything,” you’d reply, breaking off a piece anyway. “aaand I don't really care.”

You never made a big deal of it or acted like he was fragile. You just treated the smaller wounds with the same care you’d give a serious one, pressing the ambrosia into his palm and waiting patiently while it did it's work.

Sometimes you didn’t even comment on the injury itself.

Sometimes you’d pause, studying his face for a fraction with your hands on his cheeks, and then hand him the ambrosia anyway— like you could see the tension sitting behind his eyes or the stress he carried from being the kid of the prophecy.

He didn’t ask how you knew.

At first, he tried to joke about it. Tried to wave you off with sarcasm and half-smiles, as if this was another weird thing Camp Half-Blood was doing to him.

But you didn’t get bored— didn’t move on to someone easier or shinier or more obviously impressive. You stayed and with it some change came for Percy.

He found himself glancing around the pavilion before sitting down, unconsciously angling his body toward the space you usually occupied. He slowed his pace after training, just a little, allowing the walk to continue and both of you to talk about everything and nothing. He stopped brushing off his smaller injuries and stopped insisting he was fine before you even had a chance to ask.

One evening, as you pressed ambrosia into his hand for a shallow burn along his shoulder, he frowned down at it.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said.

You looked up at him. “I know.”

That was the thing; you never acted like he owed you anything, you just took care of him because you wanted to.

And Percy Jackson— hero, son of Poseidon, boy who had learned early how to endure— didn’t know what to do with it.

He only knew that, somehow, without meaning to, he’d started feeling better and you were the main reason of it.

“I’m not fixing you,” you continued, meeting his eyes. “I’m taking care of you,” you added. “There’s a difference.”

And yeah, people couldn't believe what was going on with you two!

It started with looks— glances exchanged across the dining pavilion, murmurs that followed you both, the subtle shift in tone whenever your situation came in. Aphrodite kids expected to notice patterns, but none thought of you noticing Percy Jackson.

One afternoon, as you sat on your bed absentmindedly organizing a small collection of salves and oils, one of your half-siblings leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, but the lips curved in open amusement.

“Good luck,” she said with a laugh that was cruel and dismissive. “I mean it. Even mom herself couldn’t turn that into a heartthrob.”

You simply capped the jar in your hands and smiled faintly.

You didn’t need to convince anyone.

At fifteen, two years later, Percy was still very much in that uncomfortable phase where he wasn't sure what to do with himself, his body, or his image. He saw everyone around him discovering their confidence, and even with the war going on, everyone was trying to look like the whole demigod pack.

And he certainly didn’t know what to do with you. He felt it, though! He could admit that much to himself, even if he couldn’t articulate it yet. He felt something whenever you were near, the way your presence seemed to pull his attention away from everything else, the way his chest would tighten when your hand brushed against his, the way he became hyper-aware of the sound of your laugh or the tilt of your head.

Did he know he felt something? Yes. Towards you? Definitely.

And yet… what could he do? His eyes were on a daughter of Aphrodite. A beautiful one, if not the most beautiful in his admittedly biased view.

If, when you had both been thirteen, you were already remarkable, now, at fifteen, with the slow, inevitable changes of puberty, you were growing into a full woman. Not just taller, or more mature, or curvier— but someone who knew herself, whose gaze lingered long enough to make him second-guess himself and whose smile could disarm him if he let it.

And trust me, Percy had been letting it.

It terrified him, in a way he wouldn’t admit to anyone, not even Annabeth. Every time you approached him— whether it was to hand him ambrosia for a fresh scrape, to joke with him after a rough training session, or help him clean his face— he felt it: the way his heart picked up speed without warning, his hands grew clammy and the world narrowed to him who could just look at you.

He doesn't know what to do, not even when you grab his shirt and connect your lips to his.

He’s never kissed anyone before.

It’s a fact that hits him all at once, right in the middle of it, even as your lips press against his and the world seems to tilt off it's axis. He hadn’t known what to expect— hadn’t even let himself imagine this— but whatever vague idea he’d had in his head doesn’t come close to how it feels.

He’s painfully aware of how inexperienced he is, of the way his movements are hesitant, but there’s no judgment in the way you kiss him..

That thought alone makes his head spin even more.

His brain lags behind what’s happening, like it refuses to catch up, because this can’t be real. There’s no logical explanation for why your lips are on his, why the world has gone oddly quiet around them, why the warmth blooming in his chest feels too big to contain.

His first coherent thought is something dangerously close to ''oh wow—she’s kissing me,'' followed immediately by ''no, there’s no way, this has to be a mistake''.

He almost pulls back because he’s convinced that if he moves, if he breathes too hard, the moment will vanish.

But then you laugh against his lips, a quiet, happy sound that vibrates straight through his skin, and before he can even process it, you press another quick kiss to his mouth— lighter this time, playful, unmistakably real.

His breath stutters then.

You pull back just enough to look at him, eyes bright, cheeks flushed, smiling like you’ve done exactly what you’ve been wanting to do. And for a second, Percy can’t help but think you’re glowing.

He’s still staring when you lean in again, brushing a gentle peck against his lips, and that’s when it hits him fully: This is real.

His hands, which had been hovering awkwardly at his sides like they didn’t know where they should go, finally find their way back to you, resting over your hips like he does when hugging you.

He feels his brain just learned something important in the last few seconds. He would be happy to be able to kiss you everyday from now on.

His legs feel unsteady, his heart's still pounding fast, but now there’s a dizzy kind of happiness that makes his chest ache.

You’re smiling at him like you’re proud when you pull back with your hands on his neck and your cheeks slightly flushed.

Somehow, after the wars ended and the world finally stopped trying to kill Percy every five minutes, life slowed down enough for… this.

“Absolutely not!”

Percy sat cross-legged on the floor of your cabin, arms folded, staring at the face mask in your hands as if it was a cursed artifact. His hair was pulled back with a ridiculous pink headband— one with little bunny ears that flopped forward every time he moved.

“It’s just a face mask,” you said patiently, shaking the jar. “It’s seaweed-based. You’ll love it.”

“I am part of the sea,” he argued. “I don’t need it.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You literally just spent two hours in the sun.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. “Okay, but— counterpoint— I’m being used.”

“You’re being moisturized.”

That was how it always went.

Out there, beyond the cabin, campers still talked about him. Some thought he was a god walking among them, some thought he looked like one at least, with sharp lines and confidence.

You’d known long before anyone else bothered to really look.

Back when Percy was thirteen and perpetually scowling at the world like it had conspired against him, back when his hands were always scraped and his skin sunburned and he carried himself with a tired look, you’d seen it even when he tried to hide himself in a shell.

No one believed you then.

They laughed when you sat beside him or when you followed him after training. Some of them even rolled their eyes when you said his name sweetly.

And now— years later— you were sitting on the floor of your cabin, Percy stretched out between your legs, his back resting against you, a thin mask dotted with little sea creatures clinging to his face. His hair was pushed back with the headband he'd stolen from your own things, and the irony of it wasn’t lost on you.

The boy they’d mocked you for liking now looked like out of a myth even while sulking in your arms.

“You’re being quiet,” he said eventually, voice low, almost wary.

You didn’t answer right away. Your fingers moved, spreading moisturizer along his temples, tracing the familiar lines of his face like you were committing them to memory all over again.

He loved letting your hands touch his face.

“I’m thinking,” you said at last.

“That’s never good for me,” he murmured.

You smiled faintly. “I’m thinking about how strange it is that everyone sees it now.”

He tried to move between your legs. “Sees what?”

“You,” you replied. “How handsome you are. How easy it is for them to believe you’re unreal now.” You leaned forward, resting your chin against the crown of his head. “I saw it when no one else did., when you didn’t even see it yourself.”

There was a long pause. Camp sounds drifted in through the open window—laughter, footsteps, the quiet peace of a world no longer on the brink.

“I didn’t feel like that guy,” Percy admitted quietly. “I still don’t, sometimes.”

“I know,” you said. “You were surviving back then, too busy staying alive.”

Your hands slid down to his jaw, thumbs brushing along his cheeks. He leaned into the touch before he could stop himself and turned his head slightly, to look up at you, eyes gentle beneath the silly mask.

“And now?” he asked.

“Now,” you said, smiling, “you’re my handsome, grumpy boyfriend who actually lets me put skincare on him.”

A quiet laugh escaped him, low and breathy, as he relaxed fully against you.

But even when Percy was incredibly happy having you with him, even when only you could give him true happiness, he had his moments of doubt, the insecure kid somewhere inside of him.

Even now that you guys moved to a beautiful house outside the city.

Percy was laying half over you, skin warm, breath still uneven, curls damp against his forehead and one of his arms was wrapped tight around your waist, the other over your thigh, keeping you close.

You were both still catching your breath as he pressed a lazy kiss beneath your eye, then another to your cheek and the corner of your mouth.

Not hungry anymore but lovingly.

“You okay?” he murmured, voice lower than usual, rough in a way that made your stomach flutter and think maybe another round wasn't too much.

You nodded faintly, too boneless to form a proper answer.

He smiled against your skin at that — soft, satisfied — and kissed your jaw.

His nose brushed your temple as he repositioned himself.

“I don’t like when they look at me like that,” he said quietly.

It took you a second to catch up. Your fingers were lazily combing through his curls.

“Like what?” you asked, voice a bit rough from moaning.

“Like I just became this...” His grip tightened slightly. “Like I wasn’t… me before.”

You shifted to look at him. His lashes were low, his expression open in that way he only allowed when you were alone.

“They look at me now like I’m unreal,” he continued. “Like I woke up one day and suddenly I'm a hero out of a story.”

He huffed faintly, almost embarrassed. “You’re the only one who saw me before that.”

You brushed your thumb over his cheek. “I still see you,” you said.

There was a pause — long, intimate — the kind that is heavier when your skin is still touching everywhere.

His mouth moved slowly over your cheek again, over your jaw.

“If I’d stayed that awkward, sunburned kid…” He didn’t look at you when he said it. He was kissing along your shoulder, like he needed to ask it into your skin instead of your eyes.

“The one who didn’t know how to stand right, the one who thought he was just… tolerable.” His hand moved to your thigh, flattening there.

“Would you still have looked at me?”

It wasn’t about sex or even about beauty. It was about being wanted even without the glow. Kinda like would you still love me if I were a worm?

You tipped his chin up gently, forcing him to meet your eyes.

“I would,” your nose wrinkled faintly in a smile. “You think I started loving you when everyone else did?”

Your fingers traced the faint scar along his collarbone. “I loved you when you pretended not to care that your skin was peeling from the sun.”

A faint, breathless laugh left him.

“When you rolled your eyes and acted like I was insufferable when I gave you products for your skin.”

His forehead dropped to yours. “I wasn’t impressive,” he whispered.

“You were mine,” you corrected.

His arms wrapped tighter around you, pulling you fully against his chest, burying his face against your neck like he needed to hide there for a second.

“You make me feel like I was always enough,” he said, voice muffled.

“You were,” you replied immediately.

He exhaled slowly, sniffing a little bit. “I only want you looking at me like that.”

You smiled against his hair.

“I don’t know how to look at you any other way, Perce.”

Outside, the city hummed in the distance, chaotic but here, oh well.

Inside of your house, Percy held you like a now young adult who had finally learned he didn’t have to become someone else to be loved.

He wanted to be with you forever.

There was no doubt in him when he said: “Marry me.”

♡ 𝐑𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞

♡ 𝐅𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ⸝⸝ 𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐲 𝐉𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

✦ ݁˖ the first time he touches your face, it’s to shove you out of the way of a falling shelf in his cluttered kitchen. his palm is rough and warm against your cheek. “watch it, sweetheart,” he grumbles, his voice raspy. “only one of us is supposed to be a walking disaster.”

.✦ ݁˖“look at that face. all serious. thinkin’ big thoughts.” he kisses you, a loud, smacking sound. “there. distracted ya. my hands are good for that, too. distractin’ my girl”

.✦ ݁˖ you wake to his hand resting heavily on your bare stomach, his thumb making absent, sleepy circles on your skin. it’s the most peaceful you ever see him.if you stir, his hand stills. “go back to sleep,” he mumbles into the pillow, his voice a sleep-roughened rasp. but his hand doesn’t move away

.✦ ݁˖ when you’ve gotten under his skin enough to be a comfort, not a nuisance. he’ll reach out and squish your cheeks together with one hand, making your lips pucker. “look at that,” he’ll say, a real, unguarded grin cracking his usually sour face. his accent is thick. “all that fuss over nothin’. you can be real mean sometimes, you know that?” and then he’ll lean in and kiss your puckered lips, quick and hard, his thumb stroking your cheekbone before he lets go

.✦ ݁˖ he uses his hands to talk almost as much as his mouth. a dismissive flick when you’re worrying about something he deems stupid. a sharp, chopping motion to cut off a conversation about the capitol. a vague, swirling gesture when he’s trying to explain some half-drunk philosophy about survival

.✦ ݁˖ his touch surprisingly tender despite the teasing. “my hands are only good for two things: holdin’ a glass and holdin’ you.

.✦ ݁˖ his fingers trace your jawline slowly,scraping lightly against your skin in a way that makes you shiver

.✦ ݁˖ when he holds your hand, his grip is firm and warm, fingers interlacing with yours as if he’s afraid to let go

.✦ ݁˖ you watch his hands move during quiet moments, veins standing out along the backs as he flexes them unconsciously

.✦ ݁˖he has a habit of rubbing his thumb over the pad of his middle finger, back and forth, when he’s thinking or trying not to drink. you catch yourself staring at it during long silences on the porch.

.✦ ݁˖ haymitch catches you staring at his hands again while he pours another drink. he sets the bottle down slow, flexing his fingers so the veins stand out. "you got a thing for these, don't you?"

.✦ ݁˖ haymitch uses his thumb to wipe away a tear from your cheek, the pad rough but the motion tender

.✦ ݁˖ you feel haymitch’s rough palm cup your jaw again, his thumb dragging slow across your bottom lip as he tilts your head up. “look at you, already leaning into it,” he murmurs, voice low and amused

.✦ ݁˖ you feel his fingers tangle in your hair, tugging just enough to tilt your head back for another kiss

.✦ ݁˖ his palm presses flat against your chest, feeling your heartbeat race as he smirks down at you.

.✦ ݁˖ his fingers press just a little harder against your cheeks, squishing them together until your lips purse. “pretty when you can’t talk back,” he says, leaning in to kiss the pout he created.

.✦ ݁˖ he grips your hips with both hands, fingers digging in as he pulls you closer during heated moments

.✦ ݁˖ he just holds your face in his hands, looking at you. no squishing, just holding. his thumbs stroke your cheeks. “you’re too good for this,” he says quietly, not teasing at all. then he shakes his head, the smirk returning. “and too good for me, obviously. but since you’re here…” he leans in and kisses you, softly. “i suppose I’ll have to keep you.”

.✦ ݁˖ you notice how his knuckles whiten when he clenches his fists, tension visible in every line of his hand

.✦ ݁˖ haymitch slides one finger along your lower lip, parting it slightly before replacing it with his mouth

.✦ ݁˖ his hands are large enough to span your waist, thumbs brushing over your ribs in slow circles.

.✦ ݁˖ haymitch slides two fingers down the column of your throat, feeling your pulse race. “heart’s beating like you’re scared…. or excited”

.✦ ݁˖ he taps his fingers against a table while thinking, the rhythmic sound drawing your eyes every time

.✦ ݁˖ his free hand traces the waistband of your pants, knuckles brushing skin. “bet you’d let me do anything with these hands, wouldn’t you?”

.✦ ݁˖ you feel his hand slip under your shirt, palm warm against your stomach as he explores

.✦ ݁˖ haymitch’s grip tightens on your thigh, holding you in place as his other hand works lower

.✦ ݁˖ his fingers curl inside you, finding that spot that makes your vision blur while he watches your face

.✦ ݁˖haymitch taps your lower lip with his thumb. “open.” when you do, he pushes the digit inside, watching your tongue curl around it.

.✦ ݁˖ haymitch drags his palm up your inner thigh, stopping just short. “ask nice and maybe I’ll keep going”

.✦ ݁˖ he brings his wet fingers to your mouth again after sliding them between your legs. “why don’t you clean them, hm, sweetheart ? taste what you do to me”

.✦ ݁˖ on the bad nights,he’ll wordlessly pull you against his chest. his hand will spread wide over your back, covering as much of you as possible, holding you to him. his fingertips press into your spine. he’s not trying to initiate anything; he’s using you, the feel of your breathing, to remind himself which world he’s in. the one with the warmth of a you, not the arena

.✦ ݁˖ he wipes a drop of liquor from his thumb across your lower lip,smearing it. "bet you'd rather i put this thumb somewhere else."

.✦ ݁˖ they’re surprisingly steady when they need to be. when he’s fixing the stubborn latch on your back gate, or skinning a rabbit with brutal.the tremor only shows when he’s reaching for a bottle

.✦ ݁˖ he brings his hand up to your face, spreading his fingers so you can see "these hands have killed people. you know that, right? and here you are, getting wet just thinking about them on you"

.✦ ݁˖ .✦ ݁˖ .✦ ݁˖ .✦ ݁˖ .✦ ݁˖ .✦ ݁˖ .✦ ݁˖ .✦ ݁˖

MASTERLIST