it seems that your boyfriend hasn't got over what your sister did to him.
Percy Jackson x cabin 20 reader
words:911
isn’t it obvious @lecsainz
the one where you're a daughter of aphrodite and end up with the son of poseidon.
percy jackson x aphrodite! reader
she is like thunder @lecsainz
the one where you're a daughter of zeus, exploring your relationship with percy.
percy jackson x zeus!reader
1 step forwards , 3 steps back @sunkissedburns
friends and feelings don’t really go well together, do they ?
percy jackson x aphrodite fem reader
words : 6.2k
wavebreaker @marchxoxo
how Percy Jackson accidentally terrified the cutest surfer girl at camp
percy jackson x fem reader
strawberry kisses @strawberries-and-summer-days
your boyfriend percy wants attention while you are tending to the strawberry patch
percy jackson x demeter daughter reader
words : 573
canceled plan , sweet plan @wildesqdreams
sometimes you have to experience pain again and again, even if it's caused by friends, until you find that person who would fall into tartarus for you.
percy jackson x fem!reader.
untitled @percyluvr
percy jackson x aphrodite cabin counselor!reader
valentine's day at chb brings you and your best friend closer than ever
words: 1.4k
the stars by the ocean @daystarpoet
percy teaches you how to surf, and you teach him about the stars
percy jackson x hades!reader
i would come back from death for you @pumpkinbxtch
dionysus’s daughter and percy being obsessed w each other
percy jackson x daughter of dionysus!reader
my peaceful nights belong to you @crownofgildedliliesdedlilies
a son of poseidon has himself convinced a daughter of athena doesn’t want to listen to him complain.
percy jackson x daughter of athena!reader
words : 2.1k
thinkin' of me ? @loverangels
percy claims you were thinking of him when he sees your clay... masterpiece
percy jackson x fem reader
sharkboy and his shadow @lina-lovebug
reader is the only child of Nyx, and has grown up with Percy. After being claimed, lots of kids are afraid of her, and reader feels alone. To 'help' Percy see the error of his ways, Luke and Annabeth come up with a plan.
percy jackson x daughter of nyx reader
seasick @deuxiose
wherein you navigate uncharted waters with percy.
percy jackson x gn reader
words : 705
cabin confession @wqlfstqr
y/n loves gushing about Percy to her siblings, Percy accidentally finds out about this and he's absolutely obsessed with it.
percy jackson x aphrodite daughter reader
lip & gloss @marchxoxo
Percy is in infatuated with your kisses, to the point where he has basically consumed so much chemicals from your lipgloss. but he doesn’t mind, until you complain about a shortage.
percy jackson x fem reader
————
⋆˚꩜Luke castellan⋆˚꩜
⋆·˚ ༘ * in between @xoxochb
whipped! luke castellan x daughter of iris
personal favorite
gloss taste test @wqlfstqr
luke trying his girlfriend's lipglosses until he finds his favorite— except he just likes the kisses.
luke castellan x fem reader
the perils of love @rose-pearls
being in love with Luke seemed to be a bad idea as you realise that he doesn't seem to be interested. But as you get ready to move on from love entirely your father decides to appear and two people fall for you.
settle down ! @ohodie
you hate his guts. he hates yours. but you’d by lying if you said you didn’t want to make out with him until his lips start bleeding. and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t like that idea.
luke castellan x reader
words : 3.7k
suggestive
us before you and me @kaciebello
Luke and the readers’ relationship before they became a couple. Luke is an absolute loser when it comes to crushes.
luke castellan x hades daughter reader
words : 1.3k
thunderstruck ! @targaryenluvs
the one where percy’s babysitter ends up at camp with him, and may or may not be the child of a certain stormy man as well as falling in love with a thief (of her heart & other things).
luke castellan x daughterofzeus!reader, percy jackson x fem!reader (platonic & half-siblings)
words : 4.2k
personal fav !
second that @ohodie
luke castellan is the only one at camp who sees right through your perfect and poised persona; and all he wants is the satisfaction of ruining it.
Luke castillan x fem reader
smut mdni
come one ,come all @cobrakaisb
percy jackson has finally arrived at camp half-blood, so why is he so shocked to see that people have genuine relationships here? aka, the four times percy thought you were dating luke, and the one time he actually asked.
luke castellan x reader
words : 3.2k
one year with Luke castellan @tangledinlove
luke forces annabeth to go seek medical care from that one apollo kid he’s always fighting with
Luke castellan x daughter of apollo reader
words : 2.9k
forward beckon rebound @ohodie
luke castellan lovingly pissing off his girlfriend while she’s reading
Luke castellan x fem reader
super sword expert @selenewowww
Luke never misses an opportunity to spend time with the gorgeous Aphrodite daughter, even if said opportunity is sparring with her.
luke castellan x aphrodite!reader
Words: 1.2k
Geyser @atlabeth
percy learns about the first girl luke castellan ever loved.
luke castellan x daughter of poseidon!reader
words:6.5k
The line between thieves and healers @fawnindawn
Luke Castellan returns from his quest as a ghost of his old self with a bleeding scar to prove it. With his golden boy exterior all but shattered, no one in camp has tried to approach him since his return. This changes when you stumble upon the son of Hermes when he decides to go back to his old roots, stealing from your infirmary at midnight.
luke castellan x apollo fem! reader
Love to hate you @ eiriss
You and Luke have always been rivals, but what happens when you join Kronos' army?
Words : 3.2k
Personal fav
The day we went to the 600th floor @junieperlily
You and Luke had been rivals in camp, constantly bickering, sparring, and annoying each other. That was until you were given a quest together, which led to the two of you being stuck on the elevator on the way to Olympus. What do tension and unspoken feelings bring about in close proximity, a closed space, and two frustrated teenagers?
Luke Castellan x Fem Apollo! Reader
Words : 6.4k
Smut / mdni
THE GRUDGE (or: the 7 things luke castellan hated about you)
@kamaluhkhan
luke hated your guts. he really did. he just hoped that no one could tell how, even after all this, you're still everything to him.
luke castellan x child of nemesis!reader (gender not specified)
Words:8.5k
————
⋆˚꩜Clarisse La rue ⋆˚꩜
Readin between the lines
@cranberryjuice-posts
both you and clarisse like eachother but Your both to stuborn to admit it
Clarisse La rue x Fem! Daughter of Hecate Reader
Possession @cranberryjuice-posts
you sick of people underestimating your relationship with clarisse
Clarisse La Rue x fem! Hekate! Reader
Suggestive
Tangled @priyajoyy
Reader spent their entire life hidden away in a tower to protect her from the outside world wanting her for her powers, its only when a certain daughter of ares finds her scared and confused, that she finally gets to see the outside world like she always longed to.
Clarisse la rue x repunzel!pesephone!fem!reader
Get her back ! @the-oblivious-writer
You and Clarisse have always had a reputation for the rollercoaster you both called your relationship. While on another one of your "breaks," you decide you want to mess with her
Clarisse La Rue x Daughter of Athena!Reader
Shy @prxtze-l
Clarisse loves teasing her girlfriend
Clarisse La Rue x aphrodite daughter reader
I can’t keep you out of my diary
@hwnig
In wich Clarisse see drawings of herself in reader's diary.
Clarisse La Rue x Fem!Reader!
Words : 2k
Untitled @ampitrit3
To all the boys I’ve loved before moment where readers siblings send out unsent love letters to clarisse
clarisse la rue x daughter of tyche!reader
Words : 1.6k
Poison ivy & daisies @the-oblivious-writer
Clarisse La Rue has been on your mind since the day you saw her, but because of your nervousness and her stand-offish attitude, you could never build up the courage to actually talk to her. At least, that was until you tripped on a rock
Clarisse La Rue x Demi-god!Reader
Personal fav
Our hearts forever intertwined together @asvterias
clarisse surprises her long-distance girlfriend when she returns to the human world. after being reunited again, the couple figures out that distance does indeed make the heart grow fonder.
clarisse la rue ✘ black!fem!goddess!reader (daughter of hades & persephone)
Words:3.6+k
Time out @cntrlnoah
In which Clarisse’s tiny girlfriend puts her in time out after learning about what she did to Percy.
Clarisse La Rue x smaller!coquette!fem!reader
Weak in the knees @jnkgrnde
in which, you and clarisse make each other weak in the knees.
clarisse la rue x black!fem!reader (daughter of aphrodite)
A bit suggestive
Opposites attracts @targaryenluvs
the one where percy jackson has to wrap his head around the fact that the nicest person he’s met at camp, is dating clarisse.
clarisse la rue x aphrodite!daughter!reader (romantic) percy jackson x reader (platonic)
Personal fav !
————
⋆˚꩜ Leo Valdez⋆˚꩜
Yearning & distracting @laursdomain
Leo Valdez finds himself in a bit of a situation when he’s fallen head over heels in love with you. Unbeknownst to you, you mistake his attention as platonic only. It’s not until you begin questioning his klutzy nature that the truth comes out.
Leo Valdez x fem reader
Words : 1.3k
Personal fav !
Short skirts and short circuits @wqlfstqr
Leo has tried way too hard not to crush on his best friend. But when she suddenly decides to wear a skirt— yeah. That'll be a problem for him.
Leo Valdez x fem reader
Untitled @spider-ghoul
Leo's getting concerned about your absence, and checks in on you... He reminds you amazing you are : D
Leo Valdez x child of Hades reader
Personal fav !
Paper rings @hyuneskkami
leo and reader get married <3
Leo Valdez x daughter of Poseidon reader
Words : 1.3k
Cool about it @girlkisser13
"if you even feel half the way i do about you..."
Leo Valdez x fem reader
Such minx clouds @selenewowww
Reader and Leo have been in a situationship for a while. People around them are fed up by their stubbornness of not putting labels, but they're completely comfortable not dating officially. For them it's enough. However, an interruption during one of their "dates", will make him change idea.
Leo Valdez x child of Zeus
Words : 2k
Let me keep you warm in the cold
@gabsandbucky
Relationships are difficult for a child of Hades, especially when the one you've been seeing was the charismatic son of Hepheastus, Leo Valdez.
Leo Valdez x Daughter of Hades!reader
Smut / mdni
A heatwave ! @pumpkinbxtch
leo valdez x f!daughter of poseidon!reader
Smut / mdni
My kind of woman @leeny-leens
Snippets of your relationship with Leo Valdez and how your boyfriend frequently falls apart because you're just his kind of woman.
Leo Valdez x fem reader
Words : 2.2k
I’m a mess without you @eiriss
If there's one thing Leo Valdez has, it's low self-esteem, and having the embodiment of perfection as his partner takes it's toll on him.
Words : 2.3k
————
⋆˚꩜ Jason Grace ⋆˚꩜
you’ll be my American boy , American boy ! @psychesalcove
fluff headcanons with our favorite american boy, jason!
Jason grace x fem reader
taking hits for you, cause i wanna feel like i'm supposed to @psychesalcove
headcanons for jason after an argument w/ gn reader
Jason grace x gn reader
Crushing @laursdomain
jason grace is forced to come to reality when he realizes that he’s not scared of a specific demigod at camp half-blood, but rather, that he has a crush.
Jason Grace x child of Hades reader
Words : 1.3k
Personal fav !
Sleeping in @laursdomain
Like nearly every camp day—it’s time for training. Jason Grace is always too excited for the activity, especially when he knows you will be there. Though, he can’t help but panic when you are noticeably absent for the activity. Something that is very unlike you.
Jason grace x gn reader
Words : 1.2k
Clumsy attempts of a hero ! @fromrory
Jason grace x daughter of Aphrodite reader
Words : 1.15k
Sunshine boy @laursdomain
Jason Grace, Camp Half-Blood’s sunshine storm boy, being with their grump daughter of Hades is a thought nobody ever thought to come true. The most polar opposites came together at the end of the war, finding safety and love in one another. While most demigods cannot wrap their heads around it, Jason can’t help but love every part of you, especially the parts that scare everyone else.
Jason grace x daughter of Hades
Words : 1.6k
he wrote 'mine' on my upper thigh @pumpkinbxtch
Jason is a little jealous and possessive boyfriend
Jason grace x fem reader
the day that i met you i stared (day) dreaming !
@inmyheaddd
you're there for tutoring, but the session has you realising the boy you had a little hallway crush on was so much more than you had thought as you both joke and banter— and by the end of it, you both have a little more heart eyes for each other
Words : 1.2k
Sweet on you @supercutszns
Jason grace x fem reader
Words : 1k
If it rains , it’s only because I wanted a reason to hold you closer @roze-latte-zz
He makes it rain just to have an excuse to lend you his jacket, grumbling when you call him out. But under the storm’s cover, you realize he doesn’t really mind—because it means keeping you close.
————
⋆꩜Silena Beauregard⋆꩜
Pink hair @s0mb0d7
"maybe in another universe you lived."
Silena Beauregard x gn reader
Blooming affection @percysbaby
silena beauregard x persephone!reader
Silena Beauregard headcanons @obsessioncollectorr
2000’s au Silena, ruegard canon au, i #misssilena, aesthetics, book silena face claims, confused bisexual silena, detailed headcannons.
My city @pjomakesyourkidsgay
this city's gonna break my heart; this city's gonna love me then leave me alone."
Words : 772
Silena Beauregard x gn reader
Personal fav !
————
꩜Grover Underwood⋆꩜
Relax @loriiisstuff
grover is stressed out about percy and y/n calms him down
Grover underwood x child of Artemis reader
I wish you saw yourself how I see you @curlyhairedgirlwrites
when grover comes back from his quest with percy and annabeth, he can’t help but notice that y/n has grown closer and closer to luke, causing him a bit of worry for the two of them.
Grover underwood x gn reader
Words : 1.2k
A much needed declaration @cabinofimagines
reader is trying to tell Grover they like him, but they keep getting interrupted by people needing him for things
Grover Underwood x gn reader
Words : 1.1k
Here for you @curlyhairedgirlwrites
one morning when y/n woke up she remembers it’s the anniversary of her father’s disappearance and grover can’t sit around and endure her pain any longer.
Grover Underwood x fem reader
Words : 1.2k
Bloody knuckles @loriiisstuff
you are ashamed of the person you’ve became
Grover Underwood x fem reader
Too bad @the-dumpster-fire-of-life
Grover Underwood x nymph reader
Touching Grover’s horns @korizzybee
Reader asks to touch Grover’s horns and Percabeth teases him for it
Grover underwood x black daughter of Demeter reader
Personal fav !
Tree @kioflerkira
one afternoon, you and grover sit under a tree, talking—until you both doze off, leaning against each other.
Grover Underwood x gn reader
Ugh finally! @korizzybee
after years of dancing around each other, they both finally gain the confidence to confess.
Grover Underwood x black daughter of Apollo reader
————
⋆꩜Annabeth Chase⋆꩜
Misunderstanding @asapjens
percy thought he was dating you, annabeth thought you were dating percy, you thought annabeth was the prettiest girl in the world.
Annabeth chase x fem reader
Words : 448
Personal fav !
Tell me that you love me @blondejellykitty
Spending christmas with your fellow demigods vs spending christmas with a bunch of mortals you don't really know. The choice is obvious but when your girlfriend invites you to spend christmas with her family, your not one to say no to her.
Annabeth chase x gn reader
Trials of a demigod @atlasthegreatest
Final exams have arrived at New Rome University and Y/n Castelli is confident— until they realize they completely forgot about their math exam, which is happening in one hour. And their only hope is their girlfriend— Annabeth.
Annabeth chase x gn reader
Words : 1.4k
Mixed feelings @xoxochb
annabeth chase x fem! reader
Personal fav!
You like that ? @annabethsbbg
annabeth chase x fem!reader
Smut / mdni
Ur my lullaby @aphroditeinthesea
spending a rainy day with annabeth chase
Annabeth chase x fem reader
Friends to lovers with Annabeth chase @linxnnalyn
Kiss me again (& again)@frickingnerd
annabeth gets all affectionate with you for 'no reason'...
Annabeth chase x gn reader
Blue pearls @eiriss
In which you are badly injured in a battle and Annabeth fears losing someone precious again.
Annabeth chase x fem reader
Words : 1.5k
Social fucking butterfly @eiriss
Annabeth and you had an argument but it can be resolved with understanding and kisses, right?
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Because he never made you feel like a burden. He never looked at the bruises on your arms and asked what you did to provoke it. He never sighed when you flinched at loud noises, never rolled his eyes when you cried, never told you to “just toughen up, he’s your father.”
He never said that.
But your mother did. She sat on the couch, cigarette burning down to the filter, and said, "He's your dad. What do you want me to do?" while you stood there with blood drying in your hair.
Your mother, who watched it happen for years and said nothing. Your mother, who once handed your father the belt because you'd forgotten to wash the dishes. Your mother, who looked at your split lip at the dinner table and asked you to pass the salt.
Your friends did. "Maybe if you didn't talk back so much..." one of them said once, and you learned to stop telling them things.
Everyone did.
Everyone but him.
He just looked at you. That first time. You were sitting on the curb outside the convenience store, trying to stop your nose from bleeding with a crumpled napkin. He didn’t know you then. You were hiding from a house that hated you. He parked his truck, walked over, and crouched down right there on the dirty pavement. He didn’t ask what happened. He just handed you a clean handkerchief—soft white cotton, like something from an old movie—and said, “You okay doll?”
That was it. The first time you saw him.
He’s not that well off—he works at a garage on the edge of town, the one with the flickering sign and the pit bulls chained out back. His hands are always stained with grease, knuckles perpetually split, nails lined with a permanent crescent of black. He dropped out of school at sixteen to take care of his own shit, family stuff he never talks about except late at night when his voice goes hollow and distant.
But he always brought you the things you wanted. Things you never asked for, because you learned a long time ago that wanting things only led to pain. Wanting got you a fractured wrist. Wanting got you called a greedy, selfish, bitch just like your mother. So you stopped asking. You stopped looking. You stared at your shoes and never let your eyes linger on anything too long.
But he noticed.
Of course he noticed. He notices everything about you. The way your breath catches. The way your fingers twitch toward something before you shove your hands in your pockets. The way your gaze drifted—just for a second, just a flicker—toward the white dress in the thrift shop window every single time you walked past it.
You never said a word. But he knew.
He knew the exact shade of white. The tiny lace trim at the collar. The way it would sit on your shoulders, the way it would twirl around your knees if you ever let yourself spin in it. You'd never spun in a dress before. You'd never been allowed to be that kind of girl.
He got it for you.
He got it. For you.
He worked extra shifts. He skipped meals. You didn't know that then. One night, after another beating, he showed up at your door with a crumpled paper bag in his hand.
"It's not wrapped or anything," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "I didn't know how to do that fancy shit."
His voice was rough, almost embarrassed, like he was the one who should be grateful.
You wore it the next day and he looked at you like you'd hung the moon. No one had ever looked at you like that before.
Before him, you never saw the sea.
Your parents never took you anywhere. Vacations were for other families, the ones whose fathers didn't drink through their paychecks and whose mothers didn't disappear into their bedrooms for days.
Your friends would plan trips—bus tickets, shared hostel rooms—and you'd watch them go from your bedroom window, forehead still throbbing from the night before. They'd come back with sunburns and blurry photos and stories you weren't part of.
"Sorry, we just don't want you to be... uncomfortable. You know, with money and stuff. We didn't think your parents would let you."
Uncomfortable.
Right.
They meant they didn't want you to make them uncomfortable. With your bruises. Your empty wallet. Your nervous habit of saying sorry for existing.
Guess who took you there?
Him.
You mentioned it to him once, months later, in the truck with the windows down and the radio playing static between stations. A joke that wasn't really a joke. You do that sometimes—say things with a laugh tacked on at the end so no one feels obligated to care.
"You know, I've never seen the sea."
"Let's go then."
Just like that. He pulled over at the next gas station, checked the oil, bought you a pack of those gummy worms you like, and pointed the truck east.
It was a long way. Seven hours. The seats were cracked vinyl and the air conditioning was broken, so you drove with the windows down and the hot wind whipping your hair into knots. You fell asleep somewhere around hour four, your cheek pressed against the seatbelt, the vibration of the road humming through your bones.
You drifted in and out, and in that half conscious haze, you felt it—the warmth of his hand on your thigh. Just... there. Heavy. Calloused thumb tracing slow circles against the inside of your knee, barely moving, like he was trying not to wake you. You kept your eyes closed and didn't move. Your heart was pounding. You didn't know if it was fear or something else. You still don't.
When you finally stood on the sand and watched the waves roll in, you started shaking. You had spent your whole life in a cage, and this man had simply... unlocked the door. He stood behind you, arms wrapped around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder.
"You see?" he murmured into your ear. "There's a whole world out there. And I'm gonna show you all of it. Just you and me."
Just you and him.
That was the best day of your life.
He's the best thing that has ever happened in your life.
You always wanted to try alcohol and cigarettes. Normal teenage curiosities, the kind other kids explored at parties and bonfires, the kind your father beat out of you when you stole one of his beers. You were fifteen. He cracked your head open on the kitchen counter and told you he'd do worse if you ever touched his stuff again. Your mother held a dish towel to the wound and whispered, "Why do you always make him mad?"
But he let you try it. The first time, he sat you down on the back of his truck bed, legs dangling, the night sky smeared with stars. He handed you a bottle—something cheap, bitter—and watched you wince at the taste.
"It's okay if it's with me," he said, taking the bottle back, his fingers brushing yours. "But you shouldn't do it with other people. They will take advantage of you. Bad things happen."
Then he took a slow drag of his cigarette, leaned in, and kissed you. Smoke curled between your tongues. The taste was bitter and acrid and absolutely nothing like you'd imagined your first kiss to be.
You loved it. You loved it because it was him. Because he was giving you something your father tried to beat out of you.
He pulled back and looked at you with dark eyes. "You shouldn't do this with anyone else. Only me. Promise me."
"I promise."
You promised. You'd promise him anything.
He never lets you drink with anyone else. He's always there—leaning against the wall at the party you didn't really want to go, watching from the truck when your "friends" invite you out, texting you to check in, to remind you he's waiting, to ask if you're okay, if you need him, if anyone's bothering you.
Your friends don't like him.
They say he's broke. They say he's creepy, the way he just there, the way he never talks to them. They say he's too old for you—what does a grown man want with a girl like you? They say he didn't finish his education, that he's going nowhere, that he's dragging you down with him.
"Oh my god, why is he always there? It's suffocating."
Because he loves you.
That's why he's always around. That's why he waits outside your job at the diner to walk you home. That's why he knows your schedule better than you do. That's why he once followed a guy three blocks because he catcalled you and you never saw that guy again. You didn't ask what happened. You didn't want to know. You just felt safe.
People don't want to be around people they don't like, right? Your father never wanted to be around you. Your mother took extra shifts just to avoid the house. Your friends stopped inviting you places long before he came along.
"What do you mean he doesn't want you to drink with us? That's controlling."
Shut up.
You don't know shit.
You don't know anything.
Your so called friends are just a bunch of spoiled cunts who've never felt the weight of a grown man's fist. They've never hidden in a closet and prayed for the footsteps to pass. They've never learned to read the temperature of a room by the way a door slams. They don't understand what it means to be really alone, and they don't understand what it means to be saved.
He doesn't want you drinking with them because they don't know how to take care of you. They'd let you get sick. They'd let you wander off. They'd let someone slip something in your cup and then say "oh my god that's so crazy" the next morning while you piece yourself back together alone.
He would never let that happen.
So yeah. Controlling. Sure. If "controlling" means "would die before letting a single bad thing touch you ever again," then fine. Call the police.
They don't understand.
But he does.
He was the one who got rid of your dad's body after all.
You didn't mean it.
You really didn't mean it.
It wasn't even a conscious decision. It was an instinct. A flinch. A lifetime of fear exploding outward in one desperate motion. Your father was beating you again. With his belt. The iron buckle caught the light every time he raised his arm, and it came down on your back like a brand. It made your back bleed. You could feel the wetness soaking through your shirt, sticky and hot.
He had you by the hair. Ripping it out in chunks. Your scalp screamed. You couldn't see straight. You couldn't breathe. You never understood why he hated you this much. You still don't. Maybe there is no reason. Maybe some people are just born into the world already burning, and the flames have to go somewhere.
And you were so tired.
You'd had a headache all day. A migraine, probably, from stress and hunger and the fact that you hadn't slept more than three hours in two days. And he kept ripping your hair out, and the pain was everywhere, and your vision was going white—
So you pushed him.
Not hard. Just a shove. Just a desperate, flailing attempt to make it stop.
But he was drunk. He was always drunk. And he was standing at the top of the stairs. And his balance was gone.
And he fell.
He didn't even scream. Just a grunt of surprise, then the sound of his body hitting the steps one by one by one. Then silence.
He died.
Just like that.
The blood spread so fast. It painted the floorboards black in the dim hallway light. His neck was bent wrong, his eyes open and empty.
You couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. The walls were closing in and your hands wouldn't stop shaking and the blood was still spreading, creeping everywhere like a living thing.
So you called him.
You didn't even think. Your fingers dialed his number before your brain caught up. He answered on the first ring. He always does.
He didn't ask questions. He didn't panic. He just said "I'm on my way." and hung up.
He came in through the back door. He saw the body. He saw you, trembling, still holding the phone. And he didn't flinch. He didn't gasp. He just walked over, stepped carefully around the blood, and pulled you into his chest.
"Hey. Look at me. Look at me."
You couldn't. You were staring at the body. At what you'd done.
"No," he said, and his hands cupped your face, forced your eyes to his. "Don't look at him. Look at me. Only me. Okay?"
Okay.
"Good girl. Now listen. You're going to go upstairs and take a bath. Lock the door. Don't come down until I tell you. Can you do that?"
You nodded. You were shaking so hard your teeth chattered.
"Good. Go."
But your legs were giving out and your vision was blurring and he had to carry you.
He ran the bath himself. Checked the temperature with his elbow—gentle, so gentle—and helped you out of your ruined shirt. You were too numb to be embarrassed. He didn't look at you with pity or disgust. He looked at the gashes on your back, the old scars layered beneath the new ones, and his jaw tightened so hard you could hear his teeth grinding. But his hands were feather light when he cleaned the wounds, when he helped you into the warm water and told you to stay there until he came back.
"I'll take care of everything," he said, and kissed your forehead. "Everything's alright."
Then he went downstairs.
You heard things. Sounds. Thumps. The back door opening and closing. The truck engine starting, then fading into the night. And then nothing. Hours of nothing while you sat in the cooling water and shivered and prayed—to God, to the universe, to anything that might be listening.
Please don't let them find out.
Please don't let them take me away.
Please don't let him get caught.
Please.
Please.
Please.
When you came back downstairs, the body was gone. The floor was clean. The bleach smell was so strong it burned your nose, but there was no blood. Not a single drop. Your father had vanished from the world like he'd never existed.
Your mother asked you where your dad was and you said you don't know. She looked at you for a long moment—too long—and you felt your stomach drop, but then she just nodded and went back to her phone. She didn't ask again. Not the next day, and not the day after. Maybe she knew. Maybe she was just grateful. You never found out.
You couldn't sleep for days. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw the fall. The sound. The way his neck bent. So you just lay there, staring at the ceiling, praying to gods you didn't believe in.
And then one day, he came back. Like nothing had happened.
He wrapped his arms around you, pulled you into the heat of his chest, pressed his lips to your hair.
"Look," he whispered.
You looked.
Huh?
"I got you the shoes you wanted."
That made you break down—heaving sobs that tore out of your throat like they'd been waiting years to escape. He held you. He didn't shush you. He just let you soak his clean shirt with tears and snot, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other pressed flat against your spine, careful to avoid the bandages.
"I've got you," he whispered against your hair. "No one's ever going to hurt you again. No one."
You believe him. Because he's the only person who's ever protected you.
Your friends still don't understand. They send you texts about "red flags" and "power imbalances." They don't know that he's the only reason you're still alive. That if he hadn't picked up the phone that night, you might have just lain down beside your father's body and let the cold take you too.
But he did pick up. He always picks up.
He's the only one who loves you like this. The kind of love that wraps around your throat like a warm scarf and you can't tell if it's keeping you safe or cutting off your air. But the truth is, you don't even care.
It's been two years now. Your father's case is still open, technically, but no one is looking very hard. The house got sold. Your mother moved away. You moved in with him, into that tiny studio with the broken ceiling fan and the mattress on the floor. It's not much. But it's yours.
You have a ring on your finger now. It's not a diamond—he couldn't afford that—but it's silver, tarnished, old. He found it at a pawn shop, he said. Something about the way he said it made you think maybe he didn't. Maybe it belonged to someone. Maybe he took it. You don't ask.
"I'll get you a real one someday," he promised, sliding it onto your finger with those grease stained hands. "When I've saved up. When things are settled."
You told him it was already real. You told him you didn't need anything else.
His smile almost reached his eyes that day.
He works during the day. You stay home. He says you don't need to work—he'll take care of everything. He's never been controlling about it, exactly. He just says it's safer this way. That the world is full of people like your father, people who will see your softness and try to crush it. He's protecting you.
You're not sure when "I love you" started to sound like "don't leave the apartment." You're not sure when "I'm the only one who understands you" started to feel less like comfort and more like a cage.
But maybe cages aren't so bad. Maybe safety is worth the bars.
Sometimes, when he's asleep, you think about leaving. You think about taking what little money you have and catching a bus to somewhere far away, somewhere you've never been, somewhere no one knows your name or what you did. You think about starting over. Being normal. Free.
But then he shifts in his sleep and reaches for you, even unconscious, his arm curling around your waist like you're something precious.
And you stay. You always stay.
Because you love him.
You love him so much it terrifies you.
Because if he ever left—if he ever decided you weren't worth the trouble—you would have nothing. Less than nothing. You would have the memory of what it felt like to be held, and the knowledge that you could never go back to the cold. He is your everything. And the most terrifying part, the thought that keeps you awake at night when he's not there, isn't that he might hurt you.
It's that you would let him.
If he wanted to. If he decided one day that you owed him more than gratitude. If his hands, which have only ever been gentle, turned into something else. You would let him. Because he's earned it. Because you owe him everything. Because after what you did, who else would ever want you? Who else could ever look at you and see anything but a murderer?
Only him.
Only ever him.
Your friends don't understand.
But it's okay.
You stopped talking to them months ago. With his help. He said it was better this way. He said they were toxic. He said they made you feel bad about yourself. He was right. He's always right.
synopsis ⠀:: ⠀ dick's new girlfriend is a little too friendly with his ex.
including ⠀! ⠀ dick grayson. barbara gordon. ✶
contents ⠀! ⠀ fem reader. obsessive dick. cheating. kinda smutty. wlw. bi reader. english is not my first language. ✶
It's fine.
It's totally fine.
He's not threatened. He's not some insecure little boy who gets jealous of his girlfriend's friends. That's not him. He's Dick Grayson. He's the supportive boyfriend. The evolved boyfriend. The boyfriend who understands that female friendships are sacred and complex and sometimes involve... things that he, as a man, couldn't possibly understand.
He's read the articles.
He's read so many articles.
"Platonic Intimacy Among Women: A Cross-Cultural Analysis." "The Spectrum of Female Homosocial Bonding." "Why Your Girlfriend Kissing Her Best Friend Is No Big Deal, You Insecure Prick." That last one wasn't peer reviewed, but he bookmarked it anyway. He reads it at 3 a.m. when his hands are shaking and his jaw is clenched so tight his teeth ache and you're not in his bed because you're at Barbara's place for a "sleepover."
Sleepover.
Right.
Just two best friends. Having a sleepover. Painting each other's nails. Watching rom coms. Doing skin care. Making each other laugh. Making each other happy. Making each other cum—
But it's not cheating.
You said so.
You sat him down—so gentle, so patient, like you were explaining something to a child—and you said, "Dick, it's just a girls' thing. It doesn't mean anything. It's not like when I'm with you. You're my boyfriend. She's just... my girl."
And he smiled.
Of course he smiled.
He's a good person. He's sweet. Charming.
The one who's so secure in his masculinity that he'd never dream of controlling you or questioning your choices.
"Of course, baby. I get it."
He's not threatened by your friendship with his ex. That would be toxic. That would be obsessive behavior. He's a normal boyfriend. A sweet boyfriend.
You kissed him. You tasted like her lip gloss—strawberry, the one she always wears—and he kissed you back and told you to have fun and then he went home and broke every plate in his kitchen.
One by one.
Every. Single. One.
Then he cleaned up the shards. Scrubbed the floor. Replaced the plates with identical ones from a box he keeps in the hall closet for occasions like this.
Nothing for his baby to worry about.
He's just like that sometimes.
It's fine.
He's fine—
And yet here he is. 2:47 a.m. Sitting on his couch with the lights off. Waiting for your "goodnight" text that always comes around 3:15, which means you're probably done now, probably lying in her bed in your little sleep shorts—the ones he bought you, the ones with the little robins on them, does she know he bought those? does she see them when she pushes them down your thighs—
Nope.
Nope nope nope.
Don't think about it.
But he wants to.
Fuck he wants to so fucking bad it's driving him insane.
He's never actually seen anything. He's not that guy. He's not a creep. He doesn't hide outside your window or install spyware on your phone or follow you when you say you're going out with her.
And he doesn't—he doesn't—have a pair of her panties in the back of his closet right now, the ones she left at your apartment that one time, the ones you mentioned in passing that she was looking for and he said "huh, weird, I haven't seen them" while his heart hammered against his ribs because they were folded in a ziplock bag in his winter coat pocket.
He doesn't know why he took them.
He's not going to do anything with them.
He just... has them.
For safety. For evidence of your cheating. For—
Okay okay fine!!
He's jerked off into them twice.
Just twice okay??
And he hates himself. Because it's like he's cheating on you. And he's knows it's not. It's not fucking cheating!
You can't really blame him, can you?
Oh no no no no. You can't. You can't fucking blame him.
Especially because you both were rubbing your pussies together that night.
So her panties also smell like you. And technically it's not cheating because—because—because—
He's pathetic.
So, so, so fucking pathetic.
But you know what? He could be worse. He could be so much worse. He could be controlling. He could be toxic. He could say, "It's me or her, baby," and watch your face fall and then whisk you away to a nice isolated cabin where no one else can ever touch you again.
He's thought about it. He's looked at real estate listings. There's a beautiful A-frame in another city, four hours from here, no cell service, just you and him and the snow and nothing else.
But he won't.
Because he's a good boyfriend.
A good boyfriend trusts his girlfriend. A good boyfriend doesn't punish her for having close friendship with his ex. A good boyfriend swallows his jealousy and his fear and his anger and his fucking boner and smiles and says, "Tell her I said hi," even though every word tastes like shit.
He wonders what you told her about him.
Does she ask about him? Does she ask what it's like to be with him? Do you tell her he's good to you? Do you tell her he's sweet and attentive and maybe a little clingy but in an endearing way? Does she laugh and pull you closer and whisper, "Bet he can't make you cum the way I do"?
He can.
He can.
He knows everything about you. Not in a weird way—okay, maybe in a weird way, but it's fine, he's not a bad guy, he's not going to use it against you.
He knows every sound you make. Every breath. Every little expression. He knows how to rub your clit that you cum under a minute. He knows that spot on your neck that makes your eyes roll back. He knows the difference between your moans when you're close or when you're faking it, and you've never faked it with him, not once, he'd know.
So why do you need her?
Why does she get to touch you in ways he's never even been allowed to? Why does she get to hear the sounds you make when you're completely gone, the ones you maybe hold back with him because you're still performing, still being the cool girlfriend, still trying to be perfect for him when all he wants is for you to fall apart in his hands, completely, his—
He just wants to be enough.
That's all.
If he were enough, you wouldn't need anyone else. You wouldn't crave the softness of a woman's touch or the understanding of someone who shares your experiences. He'd be so good, so perfect, so everything that the thought of anyone else's hands on you would feel like a downgrade. So the fact that you still seek her out means... means he fucked up.
He fucked up as your boyfriend.
A good boyfriend would be enough.
So he needs to be better. He needs to learn. He needs to understand what she give you that he can't. He needs to watch.
Oh god, he's going to watch.
Finally.
He knows the apartment layout. He knows her bedroom window faces the fire escape. He knows she never closes the curtains properly—a gap, about three inches, just enough for a telephoto lens. Not that he'd use a camera. That would be wrong. That would be a violation. That would be... he's just going to observe okay? For research purposes. For relationship improvement. For—
He's already putting on his suit.
He's so fucked up.
He's so, so, so fucked up.
But maybe—maybe you'll catch him.
Fuck that would make him hard.
Maybe you'll look up and see his silhouette against the window and instead of screaming, instead of calling the police, instead of looking at him with the disgust he deserves, you'll smile. You'll beckon him inside. You'll say, "I was wondering when you'd finally join us."
And he'll crawl through that window and he'll be so good, he'll be so grateful, he'll do anything you ask. He'll watch. He'll participate. He'll sit in the corner and not touch himself until you give permission. He'll let her show him how to touch you properly, the way you like, the way only she knows. He'll swallow his pride and his jealousy and his burning, screaming need to be the only one and he'll learn, he'll be the best student, he'll take notes mentally and physically and—
His phone buzzes.
It's 3:12 a.m. Early. You never text before 3:15.
He grabs it so fast he nearly fumbles it off the balcony.
"Hey baby. Hope you're not waiting up. We had a really intense night. She's asleep now. I just wanted to say... I miss you. Wish you were here. Think you'd fit right in with us. ;)"
There's a photo attached.
It's you. In bed. Hair messy. Face flushed. Winking. Naked. And next to you, a lump of covers that's definitely her, and her bare arm is draped across your lower stomach with her fingers still on your pussy.
...
That's... that's good, right? That's inclusion. That's you thinking about him even in the afterglow. That's you saying, "I wish you were here." That's you saying, "You'd fit right in." That's—
That's his brain melting out his ears.
Because he's already imagining it. The three of you. He's so hard he could cut steel. He's crying a little bit. Just a tiny bit. Just one single tear of happiness. Yeah he knows it's fucked up and he hates himself for it but still.
He types back with shaking fingers: "Miss you too, beautiful. Get some sleep. Tell her I said goodnight. Dream of me. :)"
Perfect. Supportive. Green flags all over.
Then he sets the phone down, lies back on the cold rooftop tiles, and stares at the stars while his erection throbs against his zipper. He doesn't touch it. He doesn't deserve to. Not yet. Not until he's learned everything. Not until he's so good at loving you that you never need anyone else again.
He'll start tomorrow.
Tonight, he just lies there, replaying your message in his head. "You'd fit right in with us." Us. You and her. And a space, maybe, for him. If he's good enough. If he earns it.
He'll earn it.
He'll be so good.
He'll be the best fucking boyfriend in the world, and he'll start by learning exactly what it is that makes you cum on her tongue.
I have surprisingly been getting messages from people asking whether I'd do a post about my design notes for the deadly seven sins. Alright then, here goes;
Design Notes; The Seven Deadly Sins
Greed points at everything they want and grasps anything they can. Their true form is unseen. Their own hand partially blinds them. Different eyes puncture their crown, stolen from others. They float, detached from all. Their stick is sharpened at both ends
It is the first and oldest design, dating back to 2023
The stick sharpened at both ends is a reference to Lord of the Flies (in the book, one end of the stick goes into the earth while the other holds a severed head) I wanted it to symbolize violence
Sloth exists in a wrapped cloth that provides comfort but muffles all sensations. Sloth doesnt see, speak nor hear. The cloth overwhelms them. They are bound by a rope whose edge reaches inside their confinement, giving them the ability to free themselves if so desired.
I made an extra effort to put the rope within Sloth's control, to avoid associating inertion from mental illness to laziness
I wrapped my Blajah plushie with a bed sheet and used my robe's belt as rope to get a picture reference for the upper body. Despite eerie origins, my designs come into paper with a lot of silly methods.
Pride exists inside a golden, hollow statue. Their gaze is set upon a cracked book of pages set in stone. Their laurel crown is sharpened to the point of horns. Pride can be set free if they break the outer shell that binds them with the gavel they use to condemn others.
The pose and clothing is a reference to the painting The School of Athens, by Raphael.
Being mettalic, the book only reflects back themselves. Even if you interpret it as stone, it would still work since the pages remain static
I like to imagine the rotten legs dragging their heavy statue shell around. Ever since I was little I have a strange fear of statues moving
Gluttony is a stomach, living and consuming themselves within their confinment. They’re not represented by an underweight or overweight person; it had to be something everyone has. Their scale is purposefully unspecified; because everyones is different.
The design resembles the Horseman of Famine because gluttony and famine are connected; the excessive hoarding by some people causes famine to others. They're like two different plates on a scale
While the basic representation is just fat, I never considered drawing an underweight person to counter it and appear subversive. When talking to a friend recovering from an eating disorder they mentioned how cheap and uncomfortable it is when people use extreme thinness just for the sake of horror and I have to agree. I always avoid drawing real bodies for horror
Lust is the only one who tries to disguise itself with a human appearance, tho it has too many hands. One hand to beckon, one to threaten, and one to silence you. It kneels because not all of its victims are adults. It lives undercover and invites you in as well
Many asked about the fourth hand: it's the one you only notice afterwards and are left wondering what it means, whether it's an innocent gesture or not. How it made you feel.
It has 2 other variation designs. While what I made before is beautiful, it is not unsettling enough. It has the artstlye of an angel rather than something human and dangerous
I settled on the design after a passage in the book Second-Hand Time, by Svetlana Alexievitch. It was a passage about a teen abused by a military squad, killed when she got pregnant, and mocked over how underveloped her body was. Because of that my original idea was to have Lust wearing military boots, but that would restrict the concept too much. I thought that drawing would make that passage less haunting to me, but to no avail.
Envy is a slowly burning and constricted heart. It covers its identity with a mirror; the more it seeks to resemble the reflection of others the less it will resemble itself. But even the reflection is broken, inaccurate, and unsatisfactory.
Many have said the concept looks like a chrysalis or a flower bud, unable to flourish. I like when people interpret my drawings, they often find beautiful meanings that escaped me
I pondered whether to paint the mirror in front of them black, to symbolize phone screens, but decided against it because it would blend into the background
Least popular design but one where people have told me ''I cant stop thinking about it'' the most, which made me cherish it a lot
Wrath is not a beast acting ravenous, but a human thing slowly crawling towards you. All of their actions are justified by the halo they claim to be righteous. The closer they get, the more they shed their humane appearance
It was a challenge to make wrath differ from someone being rightfully angry. It applies to all designs; how to portray dangerous excess to very common and not entirely wrong emotions.
Wrath has no legs. Nothing to stand on
''Little by little, it turned into that wild fury in which the eyes camouflage with a black veil, the fists contract with a tremedous force and your very teeth find the enemy'' Roughly translated quote by Nikolai Gumilev that I kept in mind while designing it. Amazing writer
That is all I can remember at the moment. Hopefully it saciates everyone's curiosity and not ruin the magic and mystery. Thank you very much for your interest. I will see you soon, when it's time for the Seven Heavenly Virtues
A Welcome Gift - after months apart, Percy is finally back at camp—and the moment he sees reader, he's all over them. Greetings can wait. Right now, all he wants is reader and a whole lot of making up for lost time. (18+)
By: @sacrificiallane
eat your way to my heart
too sweet
𝒲hen did you get hot?
hey cute jeans, take mine off me - you devour cowboy!percy in his car
By: @snowynns
A delightful wedding surprise. - At the wedding reception, the bridesmaids give Percy a small, spicy gift from you. Your now-husband loves(needs) you madly right now.
I wanna be your first everything. - But for every first I was having with him, he already had his.
By: @percysbaby
SLEEPY PERIOD SEX
PERIOD SEX
By: @gigichbx
Unleashed
Practice? Oh…practice.
The art of losing focus
Caught (Oh gods)
SWEET DREAMS By: @fatedfires
antise(x)ptic! - You hate the look of blood on demigods; every drop of the reddish liquid only serves as a bleak reminder of all the grueling work you have to do as a healer. However, an unassuming Tuesday makes you realize that sometimes, blood looks oh so good on a certain son of Poseidon. alternatively, where you realize you want Percy after he shows up to the infirmary bloodied and gashed. By: @deuxiose
thirsty? By: @cyclopson
No Title By: @prcysgirl
CAUGHT BY THE LAKE - You sneak out to spend some time with your boyfriend, but so rudely gets interrupted. By: @velvetvisagesblog
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
CORDS AND CURRENTS - you play the guiter and your boyfriend begs you to teach him, so that’s how you end up out on the sandy beach one morning wrapped around his back, helping him try and learn how to play.
HIS LITTLE NERD - you’ve read and re-read and re-re-read all of the comics you brought to camp half blood so the son of poseidon goes on a quest of his own accord to help
By: @blairenqs
A LITTLE RESPECT FOR WOMEN CAN GET YOU VERY VERY FAR - IN WHICH 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖼𝗒 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗍𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝖺𝖽𝗆𝗂𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝖽𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝖽𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗆𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝖽𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾!
CAN YOU SEE ME? I’M WAITIN’ FOR THE RIGHT TIME - IN WHICH 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗌 𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗀𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗋𝗎𝗍𝗁 𝗈𝗋 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗀, 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖼𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖼𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗏𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗁 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗏𝗈𝗂𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 !
TELL ME THAT YOU’RE STILL MINE, TELL ME THAT WE’LL BE JUST FINE - IN WHICH 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗏𝗂𝗇𝖼𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗏𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖼𝗒 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖺 𝖻𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝗋𝗀𝗎𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝗌𝗉𝗂𝗋𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖿 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝗀𝗋𝖾𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗁, 𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗅 𝖺𝗇𝗇𝖺𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗁 𝖽𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁!
SO GORGEOUS, IT ACTUALLY HURTS - IN WHICH 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗁 𝗈𝗇 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖼𝗒 𝗃𝖺𝖼𝗄𝗌𝗈𝗇, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝗒𝖻𝖾 𝗂𝗍’𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖺𝗌 𝗈𝗇𝖾-𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗌!
I JUST WANT YOU - IN WHICH 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖼𝗒 𝖿𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗇 𝗂𝗇𝗃𝗎𝗋𝗒, 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗈 𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝗉𝖺𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺 𝗏𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗂𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎!
By: @macherieeeeee
𝓙 ealous 𝓟ercy 𝓙ackson - in a situationship with percy? uh oh! you’re not his—except when you’re in his lap, his hands under your shirt, and he’s calling you “sweet girl” that gets you all hot and bothered like...!!!!
making out with 𝒫 ercy 𝒥 ackson - thinking of make outs with percy jackson. lipgloss smeared and he can't get enough of you
ruin the friendship - being PERCY JACKSON's sweet sweet friend means knowing everything about him—but who he likes. surely the campers are just exaggerating how he treats you...! but are they really?
𝓘n 𝓣he 𝓢tables w/ 𝒫ercy 𝒥ackson - ending up on the stables with Percy Jackson did not end well. well, let's just say a certain coach and satyr did not like the idea.
By: @wqlfstqr
my my my - if Percy can't find a way to slip a 'that's my girlfriend' into the conversation, then he'll still find a way to make it known.
percy's girl - Percy would let the world burn if that assured him y/n's happiness. Everyone knows it, except y/n herself.
sleeper build - Four times Percy showed off his strenght and had y/n swooning over him.
wisdom teeth - Percy gets his wisdom teeth removed. His filter? Gone. His love for his girlfriend? Louder than ever.
in between - I just can't come in between them, they got their own thing or 6 times people thought they were dating + the 1 time it was actually true.
my current boyfriend trend with percy jackson.
By: @bvrnesher
𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐔𝐂𝐊𝐘 𝐎𝐍𝐄
Silly Worries - period cramps are killing you, and, for your good—or bad—luck, all you can do is cuddle up with a Percy who makes silly comments.
Fish Out of Water - percy never planned to spend his afternoon explaining his demigod status to you—especially not after you witnessed him slay a monster. Cue panic, existential crisis, and way too many questions.
By: @marchxoxo
Lips & Gloss - Percy is in infatuated with your kisses, to the point where he has basically consumed so much chemicals from your lipgloss. but he doesn’t mind, until you complain about a shortage.
Wavebreaker - how Percy Jackson accidentally terrified the cutest surfer girl at camp
By: @xoxochb
seashells & tan lines!
percy jackson + his love for hot chocolate
a band aid and a kiss
kiss it better?
diet pepsi
assorted berries
By: @lydiasfalling
home is whenever im with you
❝ you can hear it in the silence! ❞
By: @ibelievelia
distracted - percy is hopelessly down bad to the point where he’s always distracted by you.
family’s favourite - you were stopping by the jackson’s apartment to pick up percy for your date but instead you found yourself distracted by the rest of his family.
BLUE(BERRY) CUPCAKES By: @cherryribbcns
blue and you! - percy’s favourite things in the world is blue…and of course you! By: @loverangels
Percy Jackson loves getting scolded by you. By: @beanxiv
Dark Percy Jackson x Mortal! Reader By: @floatyflowers
passion By: @castellandiary
saltwater in between kisses - when percy takes you on a date during midnight. By: @vqmpressa
Separation Anxiety - You and Percy have separation anxiety. The camp begins to think you two are dating. Percy doesn't deny it. Fluff ensues. By: @sleepyxvenus
WHERE IS MY HUSBAND! - I would like a ring, I would like a ring! I would like a diamond ring on my wedding finger — I would like a big and shiny diamond that I can wave around and talk, and talk about it! (Or: Percy Jackson wonders every day about how he somehow managed to land you. He's got one chance, and he's not going to screw it up.) By: @supermenz
TIGHT SPACES - you might have slight claustrophobia and the one place you end up hiding is a 3×3 box. By: @thatssoemelia
You Let Me Win - You keep trying to beat him. He keeps trying to love you. Somewhere in the middle, you let him. By: @charlotteking27
IT KNOWS - Kissing Percy by the lake at night left you soaked... but not in the good way. By: @night-daily
Percy Jackson x reader where they are chaos gremlins together. By: @adorabluesposts
treat you better. by: @annabethsbbg
No Pictures! - Percy has gained a new obsession with a camera and you, his girlfriend! By: @jasongracesbiggestglazerever
Percy’s bed by: @elorareads
𝓑less 𝓣he 𝓣elephone - You don’t understand why Percy Jackson is suddenly so avoidant. By: @angelforpercy
tucked in - you’re just trying to finish inspection rounds without losing your mind, but percy jackson has to go and be asleep and soft and ridiculously cute about it. and now you’re tucking him in? gods, you’re never living this down. By: @starksweasley
Ordinary Morning (with a twist) - waking up beside Percy on the last day before camp begins. By: @leaawrites
Lost in the sauce By: @gigichbx
GUiNEA PiG. - it seems that your boyfriend hasn't got over what your sister did to him. By: @seonghrtz
the aftermath - the aftermath of the battle for camp half-blood has you reeling (both figuratively and literally), but luckily percy is there. (or, alternatively: dumb and dumber take care of each other lol) By: @triptuckers
seasick - where in you navigate uncharted waters with percy. By: @deuxiose
warming up winter days - you and percy are at the beach. he’s in the water, and eventually persuades you to come inside despite the frigid temperatures. By: @inmyheaddd
Angel Eyes - the only feeling stronger than percy’s hatred for you is the confusing attraction he harbors for your annoyingly pretty face. and it becomes harder to suppress with each provocation thrown his way. what happens when you finally push him over the edge? By: @mystiquevoid
♡. 𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐲𝐬 : Oh Ser Jackson, his Majesty, son and prince of the enemy kingdom, marrying you? This had to be a horrifying nightmare orchestrated by the gods.
♡. enemies to lovers, royal AU, percy's pov over letters, arranged marriage, percy is downbad, wedding night, porn w plot, f! oral, spitting, p n clit sIapping, fíngering, pussiedrunk, virginity loss (both), mating presses, manhandIing, size difference, creampie.
For as long as history could remember, the Kingdom of Solis had never bowed to famine, plague or the old gods when they demanded blood from daughters and called it the supposed duty of women.
And certainly not to the seas.
Your kingdom stood where the sun touched first. At the highest crest of the southern cliffs, where the mountains broke into gold-veined stone and warm rivers ran like melted amber through the valleys below, Solis rose in white marble and sunlight. Its palace—Helion Keep—sat upon the highest point of the capital, carved into the mountain itself, where your family had decided it belonged accordingly.
From your chambers, the entire kingdom unfolded beneath you.
Terraced gardens spilled down the cliffs in levels of jasmine and ivory roses. Long bridges of pale stone connected towers crowned with the gold of the sun. Markets below shimmered with silks dyed saffron, crimson, and royal blue. Even the guards looked as though they had been painted there— with bronze armors polished beneath the afternoon and spears gleaming like second sons of the sun.
Nothing in Solis fitted the word subtle. Your mother used to say that subtlety was for kingdoms with something to hide.
Solis had power and power deserved spectacle.
Which was why your bedroom ceiling had been painted like the heavens themselves.
You stared at it now from your chaise lounge, one silk-slippered foot dangling over the edge, a book forgotten in your lap as your ladies fluttered uselessly around the room.
“My lady—” “No.”
“Just hear—” “No.”
Lyra, your longest-suffering handmaid, pinched the bridge of her nose.
“You have not even heard what I was going to say.”
“I know enough from your face to know I dislike it.”
“But my lady—.”
“Maybe I'll ask Father to cut off your head if you keep talking,” was your last reply before opening again the neglected book.
Beyond the open balcony doors, warm wind stirred the gauze curtains, carrying the scent of orange blossom from the lower gardens. Somewhere in the palace courtyard, musicians were rehearsing for the evening banquet.
As soon as your ears heard your mind translated it to nobles and diplomacy matters which = your father was about to ruin your day.
You sat upright. “Who has arrived?”
Lyra hesitated and immediately, your stomach dropped.
“My lady—”
In a second you were crawling between the no-longer-so-tidy sheets of your enormous bed, trying to escape any responsibility that might be placed on your shoulders that very night.
“Tell Father I have died.”
The door to your chambers opened.
Your father, King Helios III of Solis, entered with those golden robes that didn't help to walk, ceremonial rings and the expression of a ruler carrying the weight of six hundred years of war and at least three immediate headaches. (Mind you, you were one of them.)
“Father.” You said, voice muffled by the sheets.
He sat next to you, uncovering and holding your cheeks. “My sun flower.”
“Before we begin, I would like it noted that I may be against this conversation.”
“That saves us both time.”
Wasn't that wonderful? Your kind father wasn't going to torture you for long, only as long as necessary.
You narrowed your eyes. “Who is here?”
He did not answer, a bad sign already. Instead, he studied you with the same expression he wore over battlefield maps.
“The delegation from Atlantis arrived this morning.”
Your father continued, because tyranny now extended into parenting. “Their High Council has requested formal peace negotiations.”
“No.”
Well, that was your favorite word today, wasn't it?
“And proposed a political union between our kingdoms.”
His voice remained maddeningly calm but across the room, even Lyra looked like she wanted to flee.
Marriage to Atlantis.
To the kingdom that had spent centuries raiding your ports, destroying your fleets, and sending awful diplomats.
Your father stood by the open balcony doors, where the last of the evening light poured gold across the marble floor and turned the edges of his robes to fire, and for a long moment he said nothing at all, as though he were deciding which version of the truth a daughter deserved—the one told to princesses, fit for history books, or the one reserved for kings, heavy with graves and numbers and the kind of silence left behind after battlefields emptied.
You didn't need to hear the histories again.
For as long as memory had been kept in ink, the Kingdom of Solis and the Kingdom of Atlantis had belonged to one another only in violence.
No historian could agree upon where it had begun.
Some claimed it was the pride—that ancient kings, both too proud to bend and too convinced the gods themselves favored their bloodlines, had turned a bunch of differences into a holy inheritance of hatred. Others insisted it had been love, which was to your eyes eugh; a Solis princess promised to an Atlantean prince centuries ago, drowned before the wedding could take place, her death blamed upon betrayal, her body never returned. There were old songs still sung by servants in the lower kitchens that spoke of storms swallowing ships in mourning and the sea refusing to calm for an entire year.
Your tutors preferred politics.
Trade routes, they said, while pacing before maps stretched across classroom walls, fingers pressing into painted oceans and mountain borders. Salt and grain. Ports and taxes. Control of the eastern coast. Access to the southern straits. Men liked to call war honorable when it was always about ownership.
As a child, you had preferred the pride story. It felt more according to your personality .
Less pathetic than admitting entire kingdoms had slaughtered one another for generations over shipping rights or over the incident of a princess.
Regardless of how it had begun, by the time you were born, hatred was tradition and lived in the palace walls as naturally as sunlight did.
You learned it in stories told by your nursemaid while she brushed your hair before bed, tales of sea-born princes with smiles like sharpened knives and queens who lured sailors into drowning with songs sweet enough to make men forget they had lungs. Or in the way servants spat over their shoulders whenever Atlantean ambassadors were mentioned, as though the very name invited misfortune.
You learned it in your first history lessons, seated far too straight at ten years old while your instructor, old and severe and permanently offended by joy, pointed to battlefields on maps and recited casualty numbers as though they were scripture.
You too knew your great-uncle had died on the western fleet before you really understood what fleets were. You knew your grandmother still refused pearls because they reminded her of Atlantean royal gifts sent during failed negotiations thirty years before. You knew there were entire wings of the palace where portraits had been removed because the people in them had been lost to the war and your mother could not bear to look at the empty spaces their absence left behind.
Even celebration was about that hate.
Victory festivals filled the capital with gold banners and music and dancers in the streets, but always there was the undercurrent—that joy only existed because somewhere else, someone had been defeated.
Atlantis—always Atlantis—remained something distant and monstrous, less a kingdom and more a threat given architecture.
You imagined it often as a child.
Not as it truly was, but as children imagine enemies when they have only stories to build from. A place of endless storms and black oceans, where the sky was always bruised and the people had blue blood.
Their cities were rumored to be carved from the ocean floor itself, their palaces built into cliffs black with salt and age, their people born from sea water and tempers to match.
As a child, you had believed every ridiculous whisper.
That they slept in flooded chambers beneath the moon. That their royal family could call hurricanes with prayer alone. Even that if an Atlantean kissed your hand, your lungs would fill with seawater and scales would sprout all over your body!
You were embarrassingly old before you stopped half-believing Atlanteans did all this stuff.
Outside, a thunder rolled softly somewhere beyond the southern mountains.
Your father had been talking and you heard nothing, his hands clasped behind his back.
“The war has lasted longer than your grandmother’s reign. Our soldiers are exhausted. Trade routes are broken. We can't rebuild villages faster than they can be burned. Every season costs us more lives.”
You crossed your arms resigning yourself to listening to your father's words.
“And who, exactly, is the unfortunate sea creature demanding my hand?”
“Prince Perseus Jackson.”
Prince Perseus Jackson—the heir of Atlantis, called the Tide Prince by enemies and far less flattering names by your generals. Commander of fleets. Breaker of the Eastern Siege.
Oh merciful gods, this could still be a bad joke!
You had believed, with certainty at thirteen, that Prince Perseus had the head of a fish, and not in the metaphorical way.
You remembered announcing this with confidence at breakfast, explaining to your mother that it was the only reasonable explanation for why no formal portrait of him had ever reached Solis, and if the Sea Kingdom was so determined to hide their prince, clearly it was because he had scales and unblinking eyes and perhaps gills where a proper neck ought to be.
Your brother laughed so hard he nearly choked on fruit.
Your mother, with the kind of patience only queens and saints possessed, had simply informed you that royal diplomacy would be significantly more difficult if you insisted on addressing the foreign prince as trout.
Finally the King moved toward the door.
“The formal announcement will not be made until tomorrow evening. You have tonight.”
“For what?”
“To decide whether you will make this difficult with dignity,” He opened the door to get going. “…or dramatically, which I assume is your preference.”
Lyra approached carefully, like one might approach a wild animal considering arson.
“My lady?”
You turned slowly. “If I throw myself from the balcony, do you think they will still make me attend dinner?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
This was tragic.
You walked to the balcony, gripping the stone rail.
Far beyond the golden city, beyond the cliffs and the rivers and the sunlit valleys of Solis, the sea stretched blue and endless toward a kingdom you had never seen.
Somewhere beyond that horizon was the man who apparently intended to marry you.
That same afternoon you were given a letter with the Jackson house seal. It was a deep blue color with subtle marine details embedded in silver ink.
You opened the seal with a small knife, considering at some point using it to tear the paper and send it back to him like that.
The parchment was expensive, thick and smooth beneath your hands, edged in so much silver ink it felt unnecessarily elegant. Even his stationery was smug.
You unfolded the letter slowly, suspicious already.
You expected some beautifully phrased threat disguised as diplomacy, or even the arrogance a lot of men used.
What you did not expect was this:
Dear future wife,
I was informed—repeatedly, and with great suffering on all sides—that it would be politically beneficial for me to write to you before our families force us into the same room. Apparently silence is considered poor courtship over Solis.
I argued that forced marriage should excuse a lack of romance, but your future in-laws are, unfortunately, optimists.
So.
Hello.
By now, I assume your father has explained the arrangement, and I imagine your reaction was somewhere between dignified outrage and the active consideration of murder. If so, I find that deeply reassuring. I would be concerned if you accepted this.
I am told you dislike my kingdom.
In fairness, the feeling is mutual, so at least we begin with honesty.
I know what Solis says of Atlantis. I imagine I have horns by now. Possibly scales. Someone, somewhere, has likely informed you I keep drowned sailors in the palace walls and sharpen swords on their bones.
For the record, only one of those things is true.
I will not insult you by pretending this marriage is romantic.
It is political, inconvenient, and being treated by every advisor around me as though it is the personal triumph of diplomacy itself, which should tell you how unbearable my week has been.
But it may also keep our kingdoms from spending another hundred years trying to bury each other, and I am selfish enough to think that sounds preferable.
You should also know that I did attempt to refuse.
This was received badly.
Mostly because I offered no convincing reason beyond “I would rather not.”
Apparently that is not how treaties work, my future queen princess.
So here we are.
I know enough about you to suspect you are proud, difficult, and entirely too intelligent to tolerate fools for long, which means we may survive this if I am careful and if you are feeling unusually merciful.
I will offer one promise, since everyone else seems determined to offer you expectations.
I do not intend to make a prisoner of you.
If this marriage happens—and it will, because neither of us is being consulted nearly enough—I will not ask for sweetness where there is none, nor obedience where it is not deserved.
That feels, at the very least, like fairer warfare.
Until we meet,
Prince Perseus Jackson.
P.S.
If anyone has told you I have the head of a fish, I regret to inform you the rumor is false. I am unfortunately very handsome.
—
Well, that last part was reassuring if we ignored how narcissistic those last words were. So your future husband was going to be the enemy army general? This could cause a scandal throughout the kingdom.
The next morning arrived with all the grace of an execution as the formal announcement was to be made by sunset which meant, according to the women of the palace, that your suffering needed to begin at dawn.
You were woken not by sunlight, nor birdsong, nor any peaceful luxury afforded to a princesses in a sentimental poem, but by the violent betrayal of curtains being thrown open and six women entering your chambers.
You opened one eye.
“Noooo, five more hours.”
“It is too late for no,” Lyra informed you, crossing the room with the merciless efficiency of a woman who had planned your downfall in advance. “The ambassadors have arrived, your father has requested your presence by evening, the entire court talking about the most scandalous political arrangement of the decade, and Lady Cassandra has already selected your gowns.”
You pulled the pink silk sheets over your head. “Tell them I drowned in cushions.”
“Given the circumstances, that may be interpreted as an insult.”
Fantastic.
You emerged from the blankets with all the dignity of a martyr and stared at the room now transformed into your own personal execution.
Your dressing table had disappeared beneath brushes, combs, perfumes, pins, ribbons, jewels, and enough cosmetics to prepare five royal engagements. Two younger maids were carrying in fresh basins of steaming water scented with lavender and orange blossom. Another stood near the wardrobe, holding garments draped over both arms like ceremonial offerings to an unwilling goddess (you).
At the center of it all stood Lady Cassandra, the royal dressmaker, who regarded human emotion as a minor inconvenience beneath the importance of her tailoring.
An hour later, you were regretting every decision that had led you to birth.
Your hair had been washed in rosewater and combed until your scalp hurt. Your skin had been rubbed with oils that smelled faintly of jasmine. Someone had forced tea into your hands while another woman debated with Lady Cassandra about the dress options.
You sat before the great mirror of the room while half the palace adjusted your existence around you.
“I don't like this,” you muttered as one maid fastened a bracelet around your wrist while another argued over pearls.
You met your own reflection.
Princesses, you had decided long ago, were merely decorations for the palace too.
Everything about the royal presentation was important. From the colors you wore, the stones at your throat, the embroidery at your hem— they were literally selling you out in the eyes of the enemy kingdom.
Unfortunately, Lady Cassandra agreed on that.
She approached carrying the gown and for one terrible moment, you forgot how to speak.
It was blue.
Not the pale blue of spring skies or harmless ribbons, but the deep, impossible blue of the sea just before a storm—the kind sailors prayed to and feared in equal measure. Rich silk spilled like water between her hands, layered with silver-thread embroidery that caught the light like moonlight on waves.
At the bodice, delicate patterns of curling foam and cresting tides had been stitched so finely they seemed alive, winding around your waist and ribs. Tiny freshwater pearls had been sewn into the design too—not enough to seem excessive, but enough that when you moved, they shimmered like drops of sea spray.
The sleeves were long and sheer, trailing at the wrists in translucent silk, while the skirts fell in heavy folds that whispered over the marble floor. At the neckline, subtle silver beading formed the shape of stars and compass points.
The maids moved quickly after that, slipping the gown over your shoulders, fastening hidden closures, smoothing every line until the dress sat against you like a second skin.
It was beautiful and that made you hate it immediately because it suited you.
The blue made your skin glow warm beneath the sunlight and turned the gold in your jewelry brighter and the silver embroidery made you look like a princess being offered to make peace.
Lyra stepped beside you, adjusting the final necklace at your throat—a collar of moonstone and white gold, elegant and cool against your skin.
“Well,” she said softly, studying your reflection with the satisfaction of an artist admiring finished work, “if Prince Percy does not fall in love with you tonight, I shall consider it a insult to the crown.”
You gave her a flat look.
“If Prince Perseus falls in love with me tonight, I will push him into the nearest fountain.”
“That's a romantic beginning.”
“A necessary drowning.”
She laughed, and for a moment, so did you until the unmistakable sound of hurried footsteps in the corridor met your doors, by the sort of hushed excitement that only meant one thing.
Someone important had arrived.
You were seated before your mirror while two women debated whether your sleeves required more silver threading when the youngest maid in the room, Elia, abandoned all dignity entirely and rushed toward the balcony windows.
“He’s here.”
“Who,” you asked dryly, though everyone knew exactly who we were talking about.
Elia turned, eyes wide with scandal and delight.
“The Atlantean prince. Their carriage just passed the east gates.”
Half the maids abandoned all pretenses of professionalism and hurried toward the balcony like birds fleeing toward gossip, gathering at the stone rail with urgency. Even Lyra, who prided herself on dignity, and Lady Cassandra, who claimed not to care and still somehow arrived there first.
You remained seated for precisely three seconds before your own curiosity betrayed you.
“This is ridiculous,” you muttered, standing while your hands worked on your hair.
“Completely,” Lyra agreed, already pulling you with her. “Move.”
The balcony overlooked the eastern approach to Helion Keep, where the long marble road curved upward from the city gates through the royal gardens and into the palace courtyards below. From here, on clearer days, you could see nearly half the capital— with gold rooftops, white towers and fountains catching the sunlight.
Now, all you could see was a gathering.
Guards lined the lower courtyard in ceremonial armor; servants moved like frantic ants between columns; even stable hands lingered near the entrance steps, pretending not to stare.
And there, at the center of it all the carriage.
It was impossible to mistake.
Dark as stormwater, polished to a shine that reflected the palace walls around it, the royal carriage of Atlantis stood waiting beneath the archway like a threat wrapped in elegance. Silver detailing curved along its sides in patterns like waves and sea serpents, and the crest upon its door gleamed unmistakably.
Sea-blue banners shifted from its frame in the warm wind with the house mark and the horses were enormous, black and restless, their bridles silver-chained and immaculate.
“I expected something with more fish.”
“Perhaps the fish are inside.”
Elia gasped. “Do you think he really has scales?”
Below, palace officials were gathering near the carriage entrance. Your father stood at the front of them, beside him stood your brother, looking far too entertained by the entire affair.
What a traitor of a brother you had.
One of the younger maids whispered reverently, “Do you think he is handsome?”
Another replied, “I think if he survives meeting her highness, that will be impressive enough.”
One way or another, you didn't get much closer to the balcony like the rest of the maids; only one thought entered your head.
You imagined him inside.
Prince Percy Jackson, heir to Atlantis, commander of fleets, a professional nuisance before even introduction. Perhaps he sat there, enjoying the spectacle, fully aware that half your father’s court was holding its breath for the privilege of watching him step onto stone.
It felt like something an arrogant man would do. That decided immediately if true, you disliked him even more.
You got out of the thought when some of the girls screamed as one of the carriage doors unlatched, the silver handle turning.
And at that exact, divinely cursed moment, the wind changed. Strong mountain wind swept suddenly across the upper terraces, rushing through the balcony in a warm gust that sent every curtain in your chambers billowing like sails. The heavy balcony shutters—usually held open against the stone—slammed inward with violent force.
One struck the marble wall with a crack like thunder and the other shut directly across your line of sight.
Gasps filled the room.
“By the gods—” “Open it!” “I can't see anything—”
By the time the maids reached it, fumbling with the polished bronze latches and silk sleeves and collective despair, the moment below had already passed.
The royal family of Atlantis—whoever they were, however they looked, however much of your immediate future stood among them—were already hidden beneath the palace arches, swallowed whole by marble before your court could properly devour them with its eyes.
The maids stared in open heartbreak, the open doors of the carriage and people below starting to move again. However, you felt strangely calm; you really didn't know if you wanted to see your potential future husband.
The rest of the day went with going from one place to another just to actually prepare you until you were summoned to the Hall of Crowns. The sun had begun its slow descent behind the western cliffs, pouring molten gold through the palace windows and setting the entire world ablaze.
Helion Keep had always been built for this type of spectacle, but nowhere was that more obvious than the great hall.
It stretched the length of the central palace—vast marble columns veined with gold, ceilings painted with the victories of dead rulers, chandeliers of crystal and sunstone hanging high above like captured stars. The floors reflected everything: candlelight, silk hems, polished armor, ambition.
But today the halls of Helion Keep had been transformed for the evening.
Gold lanterns hung from the archways, casting warm light over the polished floors. Musicians played softly from the upper gallery, low harp notes mixing in the environment, it was elegant enough to soothe any temper and expensive enough to remind everyone who was paying all of it.
The long banquet tables stretched through the center of the hall beneath the banners of Solis and Atlantis hanging side by side in what looked, frankly, like a threat.
The sun crest and the sea crest. Gold and blue. Fire n' tide.
At the highest table, beneath the vaulted ceiling painted with gods, sat your father.
On the other end the Queen of Atlantis was exactly what you expected and somehow worse for it—beautiful in the cold way winter storms were beautiful, dressed in silver-threaded navy silk with pearls at her throat like captured moonlight. She looked like a woman who had never raised her voice because she had never needed to.
Beside her sat the King, taller than you expected, broad-shouldered and sharp-faced, wearing his own crown.
And then there was him.
At first, you almost missed him—not because he was a forgettable face, but because he was doing everything in his power to appear as though he would rather be anywhere else in the world.
He was not watching the room, the musicians or ladies laughing between them in a corner.
No, he was looking at his plate with total interest. As though the roasted figs before him had insulted his bloodline and he was deciding whether they deserved to survive being eaten.
For one brief moment, standing at the entrance of the Great Hall with the court pretending not to watch your reaction, you simply stared.
He was, annoyingly, very handsome. Well that was unfortunate.
His dark hair fell slightly untidy despite every visible attempt of the palace staff to make it look presentable with the prettiest sea-green eyes you've probably ever seen.
His face was sharp, with a marked jaw and perfect symmetry, the kind sculptors would spend lifetimes trying and failing to reproduce without accidentally starting religions. Maybe he was some sort of godl— anyways.
There was sun still left on his skin despite the sea kingdom’s colder reputation, bronze against navy silk and silver fastenings.
Beside you, Lyra made a sound suspiciously close to suppressed laughter.
You did not look at her. “Say nothing.”
“I said nothing.” “You were thinking loudly.”
“I am merely relieved for you, my lady. Marriage to a trout would have been very complicated.”
Suddenly there was no more room for private irritation, because your father had moved from his chair and stepped forward from the throne dais and the performance had begun.
“Her Royal Highness,” the herald announced, his voice carrying through the marble, “Princess of Solis, heir of the Sun Court.”
Every eye in the room found you as descended the staircase beside the hall entrance with all the serenity of someone not imagining murder.
The blue gown swept behind you like tidewater, the silver embroidery making soft sounds. The moonstone at your throat felt colder now. Every noble in the room watched as though trying to calculate exactly how much peace cost and whether you looked expensive enough to satisfy the other kingdom.
At the end of the hall, your father extended a hand as you took your place beside him.
Across from you stood the royal family of Atlantis and Percy.
Dear Gods up close was worse. Much worse!
Why couldn't you tear your eyes away from that man? Perhaps it was the surprise of not seeing any scales on his neck or hands. You weren't sure if it was 100% real, but hus skin had freckles on cheeks and hands. What you were certain of was that the skin peeking out from his neck showed a single dark freckle.
The banquet endured for what felt like several consecutive lifetimes. You smiled when required, spoke when demanded, and spent the rest of the evening discovering that there were very few things more exhausting than being discussed as though you were both present and decorative.
Every noble in Solis seemed to have developed an urgent and deeply insincere interest in your happiness.
Every lord from Atlantis looked at you with the politeness of men trying to determine whether you would eventually become their future queen or their prince’s most elegant mistake.
Neither possibility appeared to reassure them.
And at some point, beside you, Percy performed no better.
He was civil, which somehow felt more irritating than open hostility as he answered questions with practiced ease, nodded at all the correct moments, and wore the expression of a man enduring a hostage situation with remarkable restraint.
You caught him staring at the doors more than six times.
But you sympathized because the moment dessert arrived, you briefly considered setting something on fire simply to create an exit.
Unfortunately, your mother had raised you better than that. Your father, regrettably, had not.
It happened just after the final toast. The musicians softened into quieter melodies, wine had made several ambassadors far too confident, and the court had settled into that dangerous part of evening where everyone believed themselves subtle.
Your father leaned toward you with the expression parents wore when they were about to ruin their children’s lives.
“Walk with the prince.”
You turned slowly. “What? No.”
Across the table, Percy’s father was having what appeared to be the exact same conversation.
Percy looked up at you and also said no.
Two kings, separated by kingdoms and centuries of conflict, exchanged the silent understanding of fathers united by mutual disregard for their children’s preferences.
Your father smiled. “It was not a request.”
Naturally.
And so, several minutes later, you found yourself walking with your hand over the arm of Prince Percy Jackson through the western corridors of Helion Keep in a silence so pointed it deserved its own poem.
Two guards followed at a respectful distance, to pretend privacy existed.
Moonlight spilled through tall windows, silver against the marble floors. The evening had cooled; the palace breathed softer at night, its grandeur less performative in the quiet hours.
Your shoes clicked against the stone and his did too.
It felt like an argument waiting to happen.
At last, Percy stopped near one of the smaller receiving rooms overlooking the lower terraces and pushed the door open with the resigned courtesy of a man offering someone the chance to murder him indoors rather than publicly.
You entered first.
The room was big— with velvet chairs no one actually sat in, books no one read, a fireplace large enough to roast tension over properly. The balcony doors stood open to the warm night air, white curtains shifting softly in the breeze.
Behind you, the door closed.
And finally you guys were actually alone. There was no court, no musicians and no parents controlling all your interactions.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke until you turned to look at him.
“I am not marrying you.”
The words left your mouth without mincing words, like finally drawing a blade after hours of polite smiles.
Percy, leaning one shoulder against the door as though preparing for impact, nodded once.
“Yes,” he said. “I had assumed that might be your opening line.”
He had an annoyingly pleasant voice too.
He crossed the room slowly, stopping near the fireplace, hands folded behind his back like a prince would do.
“For what it’s worth,” he said, “I am also not particularly eager to marry you.”
“Good.” “Excellent.”
You stared at each other, it was going to be a problem if you two talked at the same time like that.
This, at least, felt honest.
You moved toward the balcony instead, needing distance, air and needing the moon to witness your suffering.
“I refuse to believe,” you said, looking out over the gardens below, “that two entire kingdoms have looked at centuries of bloodshed and decided the solution was forcing me to attend dinner with you forever.”
Behind you, Percy gave a quiet sound that might have been an agreement.
“I offered several alternatives,” he said. “Most involved gifting a bunch of ships.”
“How dare yo—” “And yet here I am.”
You turned back.
He had removed the formal mask, or perhaps simply grown tired of wearing it. Without the performance of the court, he looked younger and somehow more dangerous for it—less princely in a portrait and more like an actual man.
You folded your arms. “You wrote a very irritating letter.”
He sighed. “I was forced to write that letter under direct maternal supervision.”
“I could tell.”
“That should concern you. Imagine what I would have sent unsupervised.”
“I assume a blank page and an apology as PS.”
“You are optimistic, princess.”
Despite yourself, your mouth moved in a small smile that formed small dimples.
“You are still arrogant.”
“And you,” he said, with maddening calm, “are exactly as difficult as advertised.”
You narrowed your eyes.
There it was again—that infuriating ease, that careless confidence like he had never once in his life doubted his ability to survive the consequences of his own mouth.
You stepped closer.
“Let us be clear, Prince. I do not care how beloved you are in your charming sea kingdom. I do not care how many poets have embarrassed themselves over your face. I do not care how many battles you have won. I have no intention of becoming another admiring audience member in the Percy Jackson tragedy of excessive self-regard.”
He blinked as you talked and slowly, one corner of his mouth lifted.
“Oh,” he said softly, “you do have a vicious mouth.”
You frowned. “I beg your pardon?”
He stepped closer too, close enough that you could possibly count his freckles and your breaths could mingle if you both exhaled with your mouth.
“For a princess,” he said, voice low with an unmistakable amusement, “you are remarkably unladylike. I had expected elegance and grace.. Perhaps even a soft smile and some very refined passive aggression.”
You stared at him. He continued, clearly enjoying his own survival far too much.
“Instead, I find myself alone at night with a woman who looks like she might stab me with decorative cutlery.”
Your expression did not change. “Do you want me to prove it?”
“See,” he said, almost warmly now, “that. Exactly that. Very concerning. Not at all lady-like.”
“Percy.”
Your first time calling his name and it sounded like a warning in your mouth!
He seemed to like that far too much because he just leaned into your space. “Yes?”
“If you call me unladylike again, I will throw you from my balcony and tell both our kingdoms diplomacy simply failed.”
Private notes of Prince Percy Jackson.
Not intended for royal archives, review, or my mother’s deeply invasive curiosity.
If found, kindly throw it into the sea.
—
I was told, very firmly and by several people, that keeping a written record of this process might be “good for perspective.”
My mother said reflection builds character.
Annabeth, who I am increasingly convinced enjoys watching me suffer, said if I was going to be insufferable about this entire arrangement, I should at least be insufferable on paper where historians could mock me properly.
So here we are.
For the record, I hate it. I hate arranged marriages. And I hate political banquets.
And, perhaps most urgently, I hate the Kingdom of Solis.
That last one should probably be written down with some honesty, since this journal is meant to be useful and not simply an expensive place for me to complain.
In Atlantis, children are taught early that the sun burns just as easily as it warms.
I was raised to distrust them long before I was old to understand why and I'm pretty sure her highness the princess learned just the same way as I did.
In any case, I had heard rumors about the nobles who lived in the city where the royal family resided and how they looked non-human.
Dear journal, the truth is that I was expecting my future queen with fiery hair.
I have met her.
Unfortunately after weeks of council meetings, endless negotiations, and being informed by every living adult that marrying the Princess of Solis would be “historically significant” and “a stabilizing force for the future of both kingdoms,” I can now confirm that history is a malicious thing and should not be trusted.
I had, over the years, heard enough stories about the Sun Princess to build at least six entirely different women in my head.
Depending on who was speaking, she was either impossibly beautiful or terrifying enough to be a monster.
As a child, I was told she probably had claws! Which was fair, considering Solis spent most of my adolescence convinced I had the head of a fish.
Do I look like a trout? Do not answer that.
Still, when I looked up tonight and finally saw the woman I am apparently expected to spend the rest of my life married to, my first thought was not diplomatic at all.
It was, very specifically:
Oh, that is deeply unfortunate. She is beautiful.
Which is a disgrace, I would have preferred her hideous.
She looked like Solis itself had decided to become a person purely to be insufferable about it—elegant in that polished, sunlit way their entire kingdom seems to be, like she has been designed with the sole purpose of making the rest of us feel underdressed.
Beauty, in theory, should not matter. Entire kingdoms are not held together by bone structure and eye contact. Political alliances are not to become more complicated because the person across from you happens to look like the kind of mistake poets ruin themselves over.
And yet she walked into that hall wearing blue, looking like the best mistake to commit ever and for one brief moment I forgot what my mother had just asked me to pay attention to.
I suspect I am going to enjoy arguing with her and I also suspect it may eventually kill me.
The worst part—and I resent writing this—is that I understand why this marriage might work personally.
She would never disappear into someone else’s court, never let herself become ornamental or let anyone mistake the marriage for surrender of her house.
I would hate a wife I could intimidate.
She, I think, would hate a husband who tried.
So at least there is that.
Still, I remain opposed on principle. She is proud, difficult, and probably dangerous, very likely already planning how to murder me to escape this...
And I—sadly—am looking forward to seeing her again.
This is humiliating.
If anyone reads this, I will deny the part where I admitted she was is??? was pretty.
I would rather return to the fish head rumors.
—
The days that followed should, by all political expectation, have been the beginning of something graceful.
The royal betrothals were not promises of love between two people—they were negotiations, alliances and kingdoms trying to teach two unwilling heirs how to stand beside one another without looking as though they planned to commit murder before dessert
And so your parents, in all their wisdom and complete disregard for your peace, would insist upon time spent together.
Walks through the palace gardens beneath careful supervision for some bonding time, lessons on courtly customs and each other's culture or meetings with advisors who would explain, with grave importance, how one properly ruled beside someone they had known for six days and considered a trial sent by the gods.
You'd be made to sit beside him during council, to dine with him, smile beside him while old noblewomen whispered about some invented future heirs as though your body had become the public property.
And worst of all, to walk with him.
It would begin in the lower gardens of Helion Keep, where the white roses climbed the marble walls and the fountains had an incredible amount of decoration dedicated to the sun.
The Queen of Atlantis, Sally, suggested it first, with that serene expression she always wore and your father would agree immediately, because fathers were traitors by nature.
And before either you or Percy could invent a convincing plague, you would find yourselves dismissed beneath the late afternoon sun, sent walking together like characters in one of those terrible romantic poems old ladies adored.
He would offer you his arm because etiquette would demand it and you would take it because both your families watched from afar.
And for several long moments, you walked through the gardens of your childhood in a silence so stiff it might have qualified as architecture.
The sun hung low over Helion Keep, warm and golden against the white stone, turning every fountain to liquid fire. Jasmine climbed the walls in pale blooms, and somewhere beyond the terraces musicians practiced for some other noble event that with no doubt eventually will become your problem.
Beside you, Percy would walk like a man and not like a boy that gave you a headache every 30 minutes. His hand, where your fingers rested lightly at his arm, remained warm.
At last, he would speak.
“I have been informed,” he said, his voice carrying that calm, low amusement you were already beginning to distrust, “that I am expected to learn your favorite flowers.”
“How thrilling for you.”
“I thought so. Apparently this is considered courtship.”
The gardens opened wider here, into a terrace of columns and trailing vines. Below, the cliffs dropped toward the sea, and the wind carried salt even this high, threading through the warmth.
You slowed, so did he.
Percy stood a little apart from you now, though not by much, for the space between you had the uneasy quality of something negotiated rather than chosen, and even that small distance felt fragile beneath the weight of everything neither of you had yet said aloud.
When he spoke again, it was not with haste or provocation, but with a kind of careful deliberation that made it clear he was choosing each thought as though it might be later examined in a court of law.
“In Atlantis,” he began, gaze briefly shifting toward the horizon before returning to you as if measuring your reaction more than the view, “courtship is spoken of in far less poetic terms than I imagine your tutors have taught you here. It is not a matter of flowers, nor music, nor the pleasant illusion that two people might be gently guided toward affection by sufficient candlelight and well-timed conversation. It is instead spoken of as a kind of assessment, wherein one is placed in proximity to another and observed for signs of either compatibility or ruin, and from what I have gathered since arriving in your kingdom, Solis does not seem so different in its practices, only in the way it addresses it.”
You listened without interrupting, though your posture had already begun to harden in response, not because of insult alone, but because there was something irritatingly precise in the way he spoke—as though he had taken the time to learn your world and was now describing it without permission.
He continued, voice conversational in its restraint.
“I was told before arriving that your customs would require me to learn your preferences, and I admit I expected something far simpler, ornamental even, but what I find instead is that nothing here is truly ornamental at all, not your words, not your court, and certainly not you.”
That last part landed differently, though he did not emphasize it, and perhaps that was what made it worse.
You turned slightly toward him, the light catching the embroidery at your sleeve.
“In Solis,” you replied after a pause, your voice quieter now, though no less firm, “we are taught that endurance is not a performance, but a form of loyalty. That one does not measure affection by ease, but by whether something remains standing when ease is gone. It is not meant to be comfortable.”
“For what it is worth,” he said at last, more subdued than before, “I did not expect you to be what you are.”
You glanced at him again, wary now, though not openly so.
“And what, precisely, did you expect me to be?”
Percy seemed to consider this with far more seriousness than the question deserved, “At first,” he said, “I expected red hair.”
You blinked once. “What?”
He nodded once, entirely unashamed.
“Yes, a hair that looked as though it might set curtains ablaze if left unattended. I was told your temper entered rooms before you did, and I thought it only courteous that your appearance should offer a similar warning.”
You stared at him for a long moment.
The late afternoon sun spilled gold over the terrace stones, warming the marble beneath your slippers, and behind you the palace stood bright and watchful, undoubtedly full of nobles who would have paid obscene amounts of money to witness this exact conversation.
“And who,” you asked at last, with dangerous calm, “told you such stupidity?”
“A diplomat from the western coast. Though in fairness, he also insisted I had gills and slept upright in seawater, so perhaps his judgment was not flawless.”
“That man was my uncle.”
Percy let out a slow breath.
“That explains a great deal.”
You should not have found that amusing.
Instead, you folded your arms and resumed walking, forcing him to follow as the path curved past white roses and sun-warmed stone benches built for noblewomen to sit prettily and discuss each other’s ruin.
“And besides the red hair?” you said. “What else did your vast intelligence lead you to expect?”
Percy fell easily back into step beside you, hands clasped behind his back with the infuriating ease of a man too comfortable while offending people.
“I expected someone softer, perhaps more inclined toward performance. Instead, I find someone who speaks like a knight denied wine.”
You gave him a look.
“How devastating for you.”
“Profoundly. I was hoping for an actual bride. Instead I seem to have been promised a very well-dressed goblin.”
You stopped walking again this time so abruptly he nearly took another step before catching himself.
The fountain beside the terrace murmured softly as you turned fully toward him.
“And what, precisely, makes you believe I would ever concern myself with being your bride?”
Percy tilted his head slightly.
“Your father. My mother. Approximately six kingdoms and one old priest.”
There it was again—that calm, infuriating smile, as though he found your temper not alarming but entertaining.
It made you want to commit crimes.
“And you,” you said sweetly, which was always a bad sign, “are far too pleased with yourself for a man who arrived in my kingdom looking like a little kid.”
He placed one hand over his heart in mock injury.
“You’re cruel, my lady.”
“I believe the word is accurate.”
“No,” he said, stepping closer with that easy confidence that made you want to throw things, “accurate would be observing that for all your pride, you are still only a very elegant little tyrant with the disposition of a churl.”
Silence fell as the fountain continued its cheerful betrayal.
You blinked once. “A churl... How dare you.”
He seemed, for the first time, to realize perhaps he had wandered too far but it was too late now. He continued anyway, because his self-preservation was not a skill taught.
“Yes, certainly, sharp-tongued, suspicious, and trying to look like royalty.”
You stepped forward.
“And you,” you said, with a voice low and terribly calm, “are a loggerhead in expensive boots.”
Percy opened his mouth, likely to make it worse, and you did not allow it.
With one sharp movement, both hands planted firmly against his chest, you shoved him backward. There was a brief, glorious second in which surprise overtook princely dignity entirely.
Then Prince Perseus, heir to Atlantis, commander of fleets, terror of the eastern sea fell directly into the fountain.
Water erupted upward in a magnificent, deeply satisfying splash that also dampened a little of your poor clothes.
For one perfect moment, there was only silence.
Then Percy surfaced, soaked, hair falling into his face, staring at you with the expression of a man reconsidering every decision that had led him here.
Water ran from his sleeves, hiis boots and his now wounded pride.
You stood at the edge of the fountain like divine judgment.
“Well,” you said, smoothing your skirts with composure, “at least now you may feel more at home. Do try not to call for dolphins. The palace staff is already overworked.”
For once—miraculously—he had nothing to say.
You inclined your head with all the grace expected of a future queen.
“Sleep well, Your Highness. Do give my regards to the fish.”
And with that, before he could recover either dignity or a reply, you turned and walked back toward the palace.
Your spine remained perfectly straight but your heart was beating far too fast.
Behind you, somewhere between outrage and shame, Percy shouted your name across the gardens.
Servants moved through the corridors with the discretion of people who absolutely knew everything that happened. Noblewomen spoke in soft voices behind jeweled fans. Somewhere, without question, your aunt had received three separate and wildly inaccurate versions of whatever unfortunate spectacle had occurred in the western gardens.
You had pushed the Prince of Atlantis into a fountain.
In your defense, he had deserved it entirely.
You sat before your mirror while Lyra adjusted the final fastening at the back of your gown, her silence was talking for her.
Finally she said, very carefully, “I hear His Highness required assistance returning from the lower terraces.”
You met her gaze in the mirror. “I am sure the fish were delighted to have him back.”
She pressed her lips together. “My lady.”
“He called me a churl.”
Lyra nodded solemnly, as though discussing matters of state. “A grave offense.”
That, apparently, was the end of the sympathy, because moments later she stepped back, satisfied with your appearance, and said with the merciless calm of a woman, “Try not to drown him again before dessert. It would create paperwork.”
“No promises.”
Tonight’s gown was softer than the first, though no less beautiful—ivory silk threaded with pale gold and your hair pinned back with pearl combs, your jewelry lighter.
The problem with dignity, you had discovered, was that it was very difficult to maintain when one was still remembering the exact look on a prince’s face as he disappeared into a fountain.
You should not have been pleased, but you were.
By the time you entered the Great Hall, dinner had already begun.
The chandeliers burned warm above the long tables, scattering gold across polished silver and crystal goblets. Music drifted from the gallery overhead, soft for you to be ignored and the banners of Solis and Atlantis still hung together in stately disapproval, as though even fabric objected to the arrangement.
At the high table, your father was already seated, speaking quietly with the King and Queen of the other kingdom. And Percy was not there.
That was interesting, and a minor annoyance since your site was still next to his, if he wasn't there it would be very noticeable and you would be bombarded with questions.
But lucky you were, Percy entered as you took your seat.
Changed, thankfully, into dry clothes, though whoever had assisted him clearly deserved a raise for attempting to restore dignity to a man recently defeated by the decorative architecture that was the fountain.
His dark hair was still slightly damp, curling at the edges and he wore deep navy tonight, embroidered in silver at the collar and cuffs, the color making the bronze of his skin warm beneath candlelight.
His mother looked up at him once, only once.
Her eyes moved from his still-damp hair to the faint scrape at one cuff, then toward you.
At last she said, in the calmest voice imaginable, “Did you enjoy the gardens?”
You looked very carefully at your plate and your father suddenly found his wine fascinating.
Percy, without breaking, replied, “Immensely.”
That was all, the queen gave a small smile, nothing more.
He sat beside you, the chair making the smallest sound against marble. You did not look at him and he did not look at you.
The dinner resumed for approximately twelve seconds.
Then your aunt— a menace and a professional destroyer of peace—leaned forward from halfway down the table and said, far too brightly, “It is so lovely to see young people spending time together before the formal engagement. There is such a difference between duty and genuine affection, is there not?”
You closed your eyes briefly as Percy took a very slow sip of his drink.
Queen Sally, bless her terrifying soul, replied, “Indeed. I find mutual understanding far more reliable than charm.”
Your aunt sighed dreamily. “And did the two of you enjoy your walk?”
Percy set down his glass, without turning his head to look at you, he said, “I found it refreshing.”
You kept your own smile perfectly in place.
“How wonderful. I thought you looked more relaxed afterward.”
“I nearly drowned.”
You ended up talking. “And yet, bravely, you survived.”
“Your disappointment wounds me.”
“Be patient. I am sure another opportunity will present itself.”
Across the table, your aunt clasped her hands.
“They are already teasing one another. How sweet!”
Private Journal of Prince Percy Jackson.
To be kept far from my mother, the royal council, and any servant. Should this be discovered, I will deny its existence, and possibly fake my own death.
—
There are many ways in which a prince imagines humiliation may arrive.
One thinks of battles lost, of treaties broken in full view of rival courts, of saying the wrong thing before kings who remember such errors for decades and repeat them at every feast thereafter. One does not, generally, imagine that dignity will be destroyed by being pushed bodily into a decorative fountain by the woman one is expected to marry.
And yet, here we are.
I feel it important to record the event with complete honesty, if only because history has a terrible habit of making fools appear noble, and if I am to suffer, I would prefer future generations understand precisely how undignified the suffering was.
The fountain was cold... Needlessly cold.
It was also shallow and deep, which I suspect was an architectural decision made by someone who hated princes and wished to leave opportunities available for women with good aim.
There were swans nearby.
I do not know why this detail feels important, only that it does. There is something especially offensive about public humiliation occurring beneath the judgment of birds.
I had called her a churl.
In fairness, she had earned it.
In further fairness, I had perhaps underestimated how quickly a Princess of Solis might choose violence when presented with minor provocation. She did not argue nor threaten. She simply looked at me with the expression of someone reaching a deeply personal conclusion and then removed me from dry land.
Well, I was looking into those beautiful eyes and forgot I just insulted her.
There was one brief moment—one single, sacred second—where I understood exactly what was happening and had time only to regret my mouth and the long history of choices that had shaped it.
Then water and her.
She looked magnificent.
This is, perhaps, the root of the problem.
She stood there in all that royal composure, with sunlight on her dress, pearls catching the light, looking less like a princess and more like some old god of vengeance who had grown tired of patience and decided it was my time.
She told me not to call for dolphins.
And the worst part—the truly humiliating, soul-damaging part—is that I nearly laughed.
Not immediately, of course. At first there was outrage and a wounded pride. There was the cold and dripping indignity of climbing out of a fountain while two palace guards looked at the horizon in an effort to preserve everyone’s future.
But on the walk back, with my boots ruined and my dignity somewhere beneath a stone, I found myself trying not to smile like a complete idiot.
There is something alarmingly attractive about honesty when it arrives wearing pearls.
I dislike writing that and I dislike thinking about it even more.
The truth is that she is, for my disgrace, a little too much my type, which feels like a betrayal arranged by the gods for their own amusement.
I had hoped—sincerely and desperately—that she would be easier to resent.I wanted that the marriage could become little more than duty and I could respect from a distance and never think about after dinner.
Instead, I have been presented with a woman who looks at me like she is deciding whether I would improve the landscape as a corpse.
And apparently, for reasons I would rather not examine too closely, that is doing something to me.
She is proud and clever. She has pretty eyes, a beautiful smile and a lovely laugh.
This is not ideal in a future wife.
It is, however, very much ideal in the sort of woman one writes terrible poetry about.
I am trying not to be that man but it is not going well.
Every person in this palace speaks of the wedding as though it has already happened.
They discuss fabrics, who’s coming, the ceremonies, the joining of courts, the endless practical machinery of binding these kingdoms together, and all of it with that tone nobles use when speaking about your future as though you are not sitting directly in front of them holding a knife.
And then comes the matter of having heirs. I won’t enter in detail for my own good tonight.
Thanks to my own terrible mind, I cannot hear it without thinking of her and is unacceptable.
I would like to return to simpler concerns, such as war because now I find myself in the middle of council meetings wondering absurd things, like whether she would teach our children to be crazy like her or whether they would simply inherit it naturally. Whether they would have her eyes when she is angry, or my talent for making situations worse.
This is madness.
I have known this woman for what feels like six minutes and one attempted murder.
I need to stop writing now, it's late and im writing strange things.
This journal is becoming evidence.
—
Time, unfortunately, did what time always did—make things more complicated.
It would have been far easier if Percy Jackson had remained insufferable in simple and obvious ways.
If he had been nothing more than a boy wrapped in expensive silk, with every conversation ended in some sort of offense and every shared glance in the mutual certainty that history had been correct and your kingdoms were better kept apart.
But Percy, infuriatingly, insisted on becoming a person that actually thought of you.
Weeks passed after the fountain incident, and with them came back the machinery of royal expectation. Walks through the gardens became routine rather than punishment, the shared dinners were unavoidable, but got ordinary. You sat beside one another during council meetings where old men argued over the borders as though none of them had created the problem.
You learned of his silence a lot, he grew quieter when he was truly angry.
He also had the infuriating habit of leaning back in his chair during council as though he were bored, only to speak once and somehow say the most sensible thing in the room.
He was kinder to servants than most princes bothered to be and he laughed rarely, but when he did it was sudden and unguarded, you kinda liked hearing it.
And worse was that he listened and not because the courtship required it.
When you spoke of Solis, of the southern provinces,even of the people your father’s council liked to reduce to numbers, Percy listened like he was trying to really understand you rather than simply waiting for his turn to be right.
You hated how much that mattered deep inside.
Well, he still annoyed you constantly.
He still smiled at the wrong moments and said things purely to test your patience or walked through your palace one poor decision away from being banned permanently.
The western library was one of the oldest rooms in the palace, built in stone that held the warmth of the day long after sunset. Tall windows opened toward the cliffs, beyond them the sea stretched and it smelled of old paper, candle wax, and the kind of silence only old places knew how to keep.
Percy was standing by one of the long tables near the windows, sleeves rolled to his forearms, reading through one of your father’s maritime records with an offended expression because of poor naval strategy.
You sat opposite him, pretending to read when you were actually watching him be irritated by other people’s incompetence.
It had become embarrassingly easy.
Weeks ago, you would have called him stupid for correcting your generals…
Now, you were beginning to suspect he was often right, but it was intolerable.
The room was quiet enough that the turning of a page sounded significant and outside, the sound of the sea seemed to be loud even when it was miles away.
Inside, Percy frowned at a map.
“This,” he said at last, tapping the parchment with the disapproval of a priest condemning sin, “is either the worst trade route I have ever seen or a very elaborate attempt of suicide.”
You looked up from your book. “It was designed by Lord Cassian.”
Percy glanced at you. “Wow, that explains everything.”
“Be careful,” you said. “If my father hears you insulting his council again, he may decide peace was a mistake.”
“Your father has watched me survive three formal dinners with your aunt. I believe he considers me battle-tested.”
“That is fair.”
He smiled then, faintly, and the way your heart jumped unsettled you in ways you were not prepared to name.
When did it become so easy? The arguments are softer and the silences easier in a way.
You had learned how he thought about some cultural things from your land or how when he was truly tired, he rubbed at the scar near his jaw without noticing or how his sarcasm came off when he was uncomfortable.
You had not meant to notice these things, really! You had certainly not meant to care.
And yet you do care and you do notice.
The candles burned lower, the sky outside was darkening as you two relied on the presence of the other.
Then came footsteps— fast and uneven. They weren’t the soft, practiced silent ones from the servants moving through the halls as though they were part of the walls themselves, nor the steady, unhurried tread of guards who carried all that armor. These steps were hurried, careless with panic, striking against the marble with force enough to pull both of you from the fragile stillness of the library.
A messenger appeared in the doorway, breathless and pale, his face drained so completely of color that for a moment you thought he saw a ghost. It was remarkable, the way fear could enter a room before a single word came.
Both of you stood at once.
That was another thing about being raised in courts—you learned young that there were expressions more powerful than announcements, that sometimes a single look could deliver catastrophe long before anyone dared say it aloud.
Something had happened and it was bad.
The messenger bowed quickly, the movement clumsy with urgency.
“My lady… Your Highness.” His voice was strained, and already your stomach had begun to turn.
“There has been word from the eastern coast.”
The silence got worse over the library, heavy and awaiting, even the crackling candles seemed to quiet. Percy straightened beside the table, every trace of ease disappearing from his posture, and you felt your own hands tremble a bit where they rested against the polished wood.
The eastern coast, close to the disputed waters.
The messenger swallowed hard, and in that small movement you could see how much he wished not to be the one delivering this.
“One of the Solis patrol ships near the border was attacked at dawn. It was intercepted near the reefs beyond Thalor Point.”
Your pulse slowed but not with calm, but with the kind of dread so deep it made everything inside you go frighteningly still.
“By whom?” you asked, though the answer was already gathering like a storm behind your ribs.
The messenger hesitated.
“Survivors report Atlantian sails.”
The sentence landed like steel driven through bone.
For a moment, no one moved. The room itself seemed suspended around those four words—the library, the candles flickering low, the endless sea beyond the windows, all of it held in place by that single sentence.
Atlantian sails.
Four words, and suddenly you were not standing in the palace library but sitting as a child in the history rooms, listening to your tutors show wars across faded maps with ink-stained fingers, marking coastlines where your people had drowned, where fathers and brothers and sons had vanished into the sea and never returned.
Atlantian sails.
Stories of burned ships with skeletons on black water and southern tides running red from the blood of your people.
Atlantis.
Beside you, Percy had gone very still.
He was no longer the man with you in the gardens, sunlight in his hair and teasing he pretended not to mean. Now he was simply that prince from Atlantis.
And suddenly, you hated how much that mattered to you.
The messenger continued, his voice low, careful, as though speaking too loudly might shatter what little peace remained.
“Three confirmed dead. Several wounded. The ship barely made it to port. The council has already been summoned.”
Every fragile month of peace—every dinner, every forced alliance, every diplomatic smile—is already beginning to splinter beneath the weight of that old suspicion.
You turned to Percy just to look at him.
At the navy silk draped over his shoulders and that impossible green of his eyes and suddenly it felt absurd—how easily you had let yourself forget what his name meant.
His gaze met yours, and there it was the same terrible understanding.
You still were enemies, maybe with better manners and almost let you forget you were enemies at all.
Your voice was colder than you intended, but perhaps honesty did that to you.
“Were they under your banners?”
Percy’s jaw tightened, and for the first time since you had met him, he looked like someone standing on the edge of a war he could not stop. “I do not know.”
You swallowed against the bitterness rising in your throat. “But they were yours.”
Something changed in his face then—not anger but for sure hurt.
You could feel the slow rebuilding of walls you had foolishly believed were coming down, stone by stone.
“They may have acted without orders,” he said, his voice controlled. “There are captains in disputed waters who still don't know about the new peace we are trying to create.”
You let out a short, humorless breath. “How convenient.”
His eyes narrowed. “Careful.”
You stepped forward, your fury demanded movement and standing there with his gaze trying to read you was too much.
“No,” you said, your voice cutting through the room with more force than you intended. “My people are dead.”
His answer came low and stripped of every softness you had come to know in him.
“And mine have died in those same waters for generations. By the Gods, do not speak to me like I don’t know.”
You folded your arms, it was the only way to stop your hands from shaking. You held his gaze and forced the question out.
“Then tell me honestly, Prince—if your council decides this was justified, if Atlantis claims those waters again, if this peace fractures the way everyone always said it would… where exactly do you stand?”
He did not answer immediately and to be honest, since you had met him, this was the first time you were afraid of what he would say.
When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet enough that it felt like a blade pressed carefully between your ribs. “Where I have always stood. With my people.”
Of course he did. What else had you expected?
All your conversations in the gardens could outweigh centuries of blood? That one prince could become something other than the sea he came from?
You nodded once. “As do I.”
You turned toward the door, if you looked at him one moment longer, you might say something unforgivable or ,even worse, you would cry.
To say that you walked to your quarters is something, because if anyone was to ask a servant about your wing, they would say that they heard muffled screams.
Your pillow is wonderful for screaming and letting out all your feelings.
The council chamber had been built for war a long, looong time ago so it's normal it sat beneath the oldest wing of the palace, part of the room was carved into the stone of the mountain, the walls were thick to keep secrets and you never saw windows open there, it was probably one of the darkest places in the whole kingdom.
By the time you arrived, nearly everyone was already there.
Your father stood at the head of the great oak table, one hand braced against its edge. Beside him, your generals were gathered. Lords from the eastern provinces spoke in low, urgent voices.
Across from them stood the royal family of Atlantis.
King Poseidon looked exactly as powerful men did when forced to defend things they had not broken but would be expected to answer for all the same. The queen sat beside him, composed and still.
And Percy stood near his father, shoulders straight and the expression guarded.
You took your place beside your father.
The captain of the attacked patrol ship stood near the center of the room, arm bound in fresh linen and he looked exhausted.
Your father nodded once. “Speak.”
The captain swallowed.
“At dawn we were running patrol near the eastern reefs, close to Thalor Point. Visibility was poor, there was a lot of fog over the water, heavy enough to swallow the distance to the port. We spotted sails before we heard them.”
His voice roughened.
“Atlantian sails, they closed fast and were armed. There wasn't a signal offered bir request for passage.”
Your hands curled against the table.
One of your generals slammed a hand against the wood.
“Pirates do not fly royal banners.”
“No,” another lord said darkly, “but princes do.”
Across the table, King Poseidon’s expression hardened.
One of the eastern lords stepped forward, the grief making him brave and foolish in equal measure.
“For generations Atlantis has called those waters disputed only when it wished to steal them. How many treaties must we sign before your captains learn they do not own every place they can reach?”
Poseidon’s reply came like stone.
“And how many times must Solis build fortresses along shared waters before you stop calling expansion defense?”
The argument erupted with that, the voices rose, accusations started to fly over your head, some maps were unrolled and the borders stabbed at.
You had grown up watching councils like this from doorways, hidden behind the pillars while adults argued over the shape of your future.
Through all of it, Percy remained silent with his hands clasped behind his back, gaze fixed on the maps and his jaw tight betraying what the rest of him refused to show.
When he finally spoke, it cut cleanly through the noise.
“If my father had ordered an attack,” he said, voice steady, “you would not be debating whether it happened.”
Every eye turned to look at the boy as he continued.
“This was not sanctioned by Atlantis. If we intended war, you would not be receiving apologies. You would be receiving fleets.”
One general sneered. “Don't be conceited, kid.”
“I’m honest,” Percy said. “That’s something both our kingdoms claim to value when convenient.”
Your father watched him carefully. “And what do you propose, Prince?”
Percy stepped toward the table.
“Find the captain responsible before this becomes an excuse for every man in the room to indulge a war already wanted.”
One of your lords laughed sharply. “And we are simply to trust Atlantis to investigate itself?”
“No,” Percy replied. “You are to trust that I would not stand here defending cowards. If an Atlantian captain attacked under our banners without command, then he has endangered not only your men but my kingdom. I will not protect him.”
Your father studied him for a long moment and then looked at you not as king but as your father.
He wanted your judgment because everyone in this room had seen the walks, the dinners and the fragile attempt at peace between heirs. Your opinion mattered.
You looked at Percy and you realized with sudden, miserable clarity that both things were true.
He was the enemy and he was not.
Your voice, when it came, was measured. “If this was unsanctioned, then the guilty should answer for it.”
The dark-haired young man gave a small smile while you were speaking.
“If Solis answers blood with blind blood, then we are not defending peace. We are merely admitting we never wanted it.”
One of the generals muttered, darkly with the suspicion of a man who had buried many friends. “And if Atlantis lies?”
Your father said nothing, King Poseidon’s expression didn't give away his thoughts and several lords shifted, preparing for another round of arguments.
But to your surprise Percy stepped forward.
The prince of Atlantis stood beneath the torchlight, shoulders straight, gaze steady, looking not at the general asking but at you.
When he spoke, his voice carried cleanly through the chamber. “If Atlantis lies, then let the blame fall first upon me.”
Percy did not look away.
“I stand with my people,” he said, now it was only the truth stripped bare to hurt. “I always will. I am the son of Atlantis before I am anything else. Its blood is mine, its burdens are mine, and if war comes, I will stand before it, not behind.”
Your breath had been expelled from your lungs, this mattered because that was his answer.
Yet he continued.
“But do not mistake loyalty for blindness.”
His eyes remained on yours.
“If one of ours has done this—if an Atlantian captain sailed beneath our banners and spilled Solis blood for vengeance, or for the comfort of hatred—then I will not defend him. I will drag his name into the light myself.”
Percy’s voice lowered but no less steady for it. “I did not come here to inherit another century of graves.”
You opened your mouth to give an answer but he didn't let you talk.
“And I did not come here to ask for peace only to betray the woman I intend to have beside me.”
The words struck harder than the shouting of men in the room and across the table, your aunt nearly stopped breathing from joy.
Percy, apparently, had chosen violence against your heart.
Indeed your heart was betraying you in ways you intended to punish later.
“When I say I stand with my people, Princess, understand that I do not separate you from that future.”
Your throat felt dangerously tight.
“This marriage was meant to quiet kingdoms. Fine. Let it begin there. Let duty open the door if it must. But I will not stand in this chamber and speak of alliances as though you are merely another clause written into a treaty.”
It's not like the room has disappeared, your father was still there, everyone was still there and somehow at the same time none of it existed.
It was only him and his softening voice.
“If you become my wife, you will not be an obligation I endure for peace. You will be my queen. Mine to honor before courts and councils, mine to protect when kingdoms are against us, mine to stand beside—not behind, you'll never be behind.”
You felt like you were going to faint when your brain reacted: he was in front of you and, and painfully slowly, knelt on one knee to take your hands, which were trembling like leaves.
“And if I must choose between disappointing old men who worship war and disappointing the woman I would ask to rule beside me, then let the gods hear me plainly now—”
His gaze held yours like a vow was being made.
“—I would sooner let kingdoms burn than fail her.”
Terrible, magnificent silence.
And you— you stood there with your trembling hands and jumping heart, trying very hard to remember how breathing worked.
Because Percy Jackson, prince of Atlantis, had just declared such love words in the middle of a war council.
Like an idiot! A beautiful, infuriating idiot.
Your father cleared his throat once, but his mouth showed a small smile and King Poseidon looked at the ceiling, perhaps asking the gods for quieter sons.
“Your Highness,” you said, “that was either the most persuasive political argument I have ever heard…or the most elaborate public courtship attempt in history.”
At last—finally—Percy smiled.
“Can it not be both?”
By the time the council chamber had finally emptied, the palace had fallen into a peculiar silence only the deepest hours of night could create, when even the walls seemed exhausted by the weight of the day and every corridor felt longer than it had in daylight.
You were walking quickly to your chambers with your cheeks getting deep in color.
It wasn’t like you were fleeing, you refused even in your own mind to call it that!
If you slowed and allowed yourself even a single moment of stillness—you would have to think, and thinking, after what had happened in that council chamber, would have your head spining.
Your pulse had not yet remembered to behave like normal.
Your father had said nothing as you left, which was infinitely worse than if he had chosen to give you both a talk.
Your aunt, on the other hand, had looked radiant with a kind of joy usually reserved for coronations and public scandals, and you had no doubt whatsoever that by morning she would have transformed Percy’s words into some elaborate thing involving grandchildren.
You intended never to forgive either of them.
Percy had stood in the middle of a war council, before your father and his own, before generals and men and all the hatred your kingdoms had spent centuries perfecting, and had looked at you as though vows were so simple.
As though loving you was not about the war.
You hated him for that but hated yourself more for the terrible, humiliating truth that part of you had wanted him to say it again.
Behind you, footsteps were approaching.
You already knew the sound of his damned boots, the irritating calm of a man who had just dismantled your entire peace of mind and still believed he had the right to continue speaking.
“Princess.”
You kept walking. “No.”
There was a brief silence behind you, followed by the unmistakable sound of him quickening his pace, and then his voice again, closer now.
“Unfortunately, that is not specific enough to be useful.”
You reached the turn of the corridor with every intention of continuing, of disappearing into your chambers and locking the door firmly and condemning every poor decision your life had made as suddenly his hand closed around your wrist.
The movement stopped you so abruptly your breath caught and your pulse betraying you in one violent, humiliating motion.
“Let go.”
Percy stood close enough now that the corridor seemed smaller for it and his voice, “No.”
The sheer audacity of him!
You stared at him with all the fury you could still afford.
“In case the council chamber was not sufficient humiliation for one evening, have you now decided that physically restraining foreign princesses is the next great strategy in mind?”
“I decided,” he said, “that if I let you walk away now, you would spend the entire night being furious and I would spend the entire night with no rest, so I find both possibilities intolerable.”
Your fingers curled tightly at your side. “You should have considered that before declaring yourself like some mad knight in front of everyone.”
“And yet,” he said, stepping half a pace closer, “strangely enough, I do not regret it.”
“That makes one of us.”
His gaze searched yours, he had the prettiest gems as ocular globes… and those puppy eyes…
“No,” he said softly. “It doesn’t.”
You tried to pull your hand free as he did not tighten his grip, but neither did he release you.
“Look at me.” “I am looking at you.”
“No,” he said, “you are trying very hard not to.”
“How dare you.”
Percy’s thumb shifted slightly against your wrist, a small movement, barely anything, and somehow it felt more intimate than if he had kissed you then and there. Why did your brain think of kissing him so bad?
“I am beginning to think,” he was giving a small laugh away, “that is how most of our important conversations begin.”
“In the council chamber, in front of both our kingdoms, you spoke as though—”
His expression changed then, the prince receding and the man remaining.
“As though what?”
You lifted your chin. “As though I mattered to you beyond treaties and borders and that noble performance you were attempting to offer your audience.”
For a moment, he just looked at you as he released your wrist.
“Did you truly think I would say those things for politics?”
Your throat felt tight with the answer and your voice lowered despite yourself as if you were scared someone heard.
“Did you mean it?”
Percy held your gaze with no wit left between you to hide behind.
“Yes.”
Your heart betrayed you immediately.
You hated it and hated him for making the truth sound reachable.
So like a fool, you made it worse. “Which part?”
His brow moved faintly.
“The peace? The alliance? The declaration dramatic enough to shorten my father’s life by several years?”
You stepped closer despite yourself, because if you were to be ruined, you would at least be honest in it.
“No,” you said, quieter now. “Not that. Me… Did- Did you mean me?”
“You are the only part of this I’m certain about, my lady.”
He lifted his hand again, slower this time, but it didn’t go to your hand or wrist, oh no, his fingers touched your jaw.
“I would stand with my people,” he said. “I would fight for them, bleed for them, carry every duty they place upon my name. But none of that changes what I know when I look at you.”
His thumb brushed lightly against your skin, and gods, if you really kissed him would it be so bad?
“I did not expect you and I certainly did not want this. It would have been simpler if I disliked you. Simpler if you were merely beautiful, or merely cruel, or merely someone I could survive beside without ever truly seeing.”
His fingers caressed your cheek. “But you are none of those things.”
Your voice was barely yours. “And what am I, then?”
His gaze dropped to your mouth like he no longer intended to fight.
“You are the woman I would choose even if peace didn’t demand it. You are the person I find myself thinking of when I should be thinking of fleets and the thousand practical things princes are meant to care about.”
Your mouth gave a smile as your hands went to his chest, “You are insufferable.”
“And yet,” he said, his forehead nearly brushing yours now, “you are still holding.”
That was enough. You kissed him first.
It was a kiss with weeks of restraint collapsing under its own weight, anger and relief and want and the unbearable certainty that somewhere between hating him and understanding him, you had become hopelessly and disastrously attached.
His hand moved to your waist, yours caught at his collar.
Someone—perhaps both of you—made several decisions neither kingdom would approve of and history would likely judge harshly.
It was absolutely inappropriate for a palace corridor three floors from your father’s chambers but it was perfect.
And when you finally pulled apart, his forehead rested lightly against yours, and for a moment neither of you spoke, because some things, once they happened, made language feel smaller than it had before.
If it weren't for the fact that your entire body and mind were so focused on the prince in front of you, you would have sworn it was a lie when Percy exhaled softly “I love you”.
Private Journal of Prince Percy Jackson.
To be kept far AWAYYY from my mother, the queen.
—
This was meant, when first I began it, to be a record of my path to discipline and thought, of the observations expected of a prince who intends one day to rule without error, and yet tonight I find that it has become something far less dignified, for I am writing not of things involving this nor even of the fragile peace that holds our kingdoms apart, but of her.
We kissed.
I attempt to write it with composure, to frame it as an event of little consequence, an impulsive misstep best forgotten by morning, but the truth refuses this, and so I am left with the plain, humiliating admission that we kissed in a corridor and now has become a place I will not be able to pass again without remembering it in full.
She smiled, and I find that I cannot write that simply and move on, for it was not the smile she offers in court nor the sharper one she uses as a weapon.
It felt— No, I will not write that.
I told her that I would choose her, that even if peace had not demanded this union, even if our kingdoms had never thought to bind us together in the hope of ending centuries of bloodshed, I would still choose her, and I said it without calculation, without weighing consequence, as though the truth of it required no consideration at all.
This is not how I have been taught to speak and is not how I have been taught to think.
And yet it is how I spoke, and worse, it is how I meant it.
At one point, in what I must classify as a complete collapse of discipline, I found myself writing—
my wife, my wife, my wife
I find the word returning with an ease that suggests this is not a passing thought but a developing problem.
my future wife
No, that is worse, for it implies expectation rather than an actual thing happening, and I refuse to grant my own thoughts that level of confidence.
the woman I am to marry
This is correct but insufficient because she’s going to be my queen.
I may have developed the need to have her by my side forever.
—
How did you end up in this situation? I mean, yes, it was your wedding night and the marriage was supposed to be consummated, you got prepared for that, but you were hoping to have a few drinks, talk to your dear parents and family, and... Seriously, all because of a tradition?
One moment there was the ceremony still clinging to the air like heavy perfume— with the oaths spoken and the weight of a thousand watching eyes pressing down—and the next, everything broke into motion, into sound, into laughter and applause.
Men and women of the court, soldiers and even the attendants who only moments before had been standing like statues, now moving with a jubilanty as though this had always been the point of the entire affair.
Someone spoke your name in celebration and suddenly the ground left you.
The sudden loss of ground startled something unguarded in you, your hand instinctively catching at the nearest solid thing—which, to your immediate and profound irritation, was Percy.
He, too, had been taken by surprise, though he hid it better, his posture adjusting as several men hoisted him upward with far less ceremony than you had been granted, the contrast not lost on anyone present.
Some women tried to take the various fabrics and pearls you were wearing, but they were only able to take out shoes and accessories in your hair.
A roar of approval rose through the hall.
“Comfortable?” he asked, his voice carrying to reach you over the noise.
You held his gaze, refusing to let the situation unbalance you further than it already had.
“If I fall,” you said, your tone even despite the circumstances, “I shall ensure you are blamed for it.”
There were petals on the way—scattered, thrown, caught in your hair and on your dress, their scent sweet.
The doors ahead grew fewer, more private.
And then, at last, you reached it; your shared chambers.
The doors were thrown open with force, the room beyond lit in warm gold, prepared in a way that left very little to the imagination of anyone who had arranged it.
You were carried inside first and set down with far more care than you expected, your feet meeting the soft bed.
A moment later, Percy was lowered beside you.
The noise lingered at the threshold as the last of the laughter and well-wishes spilling inward before the doors began to close, as though savoring the final moments of public presence before sealing you both as newly weds.
Your eyes really didn't know if they could meet those of your now husband; the room felt warmer than the fireplace should been able to bring.
Percy pushed himself up, his breaths heavy from the rough handling, and for you saw his body. The suit, a tailored thing of midnight wool with silver accents, had already been loosened during the toasts, all the buttons undone at the chest, exposing the tanned planes of his torso.
He moved first, sliding off the bed to kneel at its edge and moving you with him.
Your now husband caresses the fabrics; the wedding dress is heavy on velvets, rich wools, golden embroidery, and pearls. The truth is, it's not very easy to remove.
The bed was high, so you basically could see him, and damn, why was he on his knees fiddling with your silky clothes?
His fingers tugged at the layers of the dress, bunching the velvet skirts up your thighs. The fabric was so pretty on you but he wasn't sad about taking it off if he could connect with your body and you.
His fingers, callused from sword hilts and rigging sails, tugged at the laces of your gown, but the thing was a fortress of fabric, heavy with wools and pearls that resisted his impatience.
“Fuck this,” he muttered, voice low and rough, like gravel under boots.
He wasn't gentle about it, yanking at the bodice until the golden threads strained and exposed the swell of your breasts to the cool air. You gasped, but he didn't stop, his hands roaming lower, bunching the skirts up to your hips.
God, he didn't have enough patience right now to take all your clothes off properly so the poor wedding dress stayed half-on.
His mouth was on you before you could catch the breath, hot and insistent, trailing kisses along the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. You felt the scrape of his stubble, the warmth of his breath ghosting over your dressed core, making your pussy clench in anticipation.
Percy Jackson, the man you hated so much, was now parting your legs with those strong hands, his eyes dark with want.
He hooked one arm under your knee, spreading you wider, and then his fingers were there—the rough fingerpads brushing against your underwear and finally swollen folds.
You were a soppy mess, slick from the tension of the day and the way he'd been staring at you during the vows, like he was undressing you with his gaze alone.
“You're soaked,” he growled, a hint of approval lacing his tone as he slid one finger along your slit, teasing the entrance before pushing in slowly.
The stretch was immediate, his touch firm but not rushed, circling your clit with the thumb while that finger curled inside you.
Oh gods, his mouth was so close now, lips brushing your thigh as he licked a stripe up the soft skin, tasting the salt of your anticipation. Your hips bucked involuntarily, chasing the heat, and he chuckled against you, the vibration sending sparks up your spine.
Then finally, you felt the first lick of his tongue—flat and broad, dragging over your pussy with such slowness. His tastebuds rasped against your sensitive flesh, the slightest inch of his tongue squeezing in alongside his finger, probing deeper.
It was messy, the sounds of his breath filling the room as he lapped at you, sucking gently on your clit before delving back down.
To say that you were euphoric at this moment would be an understatement because you had possibly just opened the gates of heaven.
But still… still you felt nervous, with a million thoughts going on when his mouth connected your most intimate zone and so the words blurted out theirself.
“Wait.. I'm not,” a small moan comes out. “I’ve never done this before..”
His mouth, pink and wet with your juices, lets out a small sigh, “I’ve never participated in these activities either.”
His cheek rests against your thigh, looking up before muttering against your folds. “I learn as I wend.”
And unfortunately, the only thing you can do in response is with your hips, moving them slightly against him as a new wave of slick follows.
Percy won’t make you wait.
In no time his tongue has lapped all those juices and entered your cunt alongside his finger, trying to get more and more of the sweet flavor you are giving him, maybe he’s just getting addicted.
Again and again, you find yourself dragging out desperate pushes of your hips against his mouth— riding your sensitive cunt down his straight nose and making it push on the button of your swollen clit.
You mewled, the pressure building fast, maybe too fast and he responded with a tiny slap to the cute nub! Even a glob of his spit mixed with your slick, and he rubbed it nice and good with your cunt, fingers circling and thumb pressing sloooow until you feel your walls fluttering around another invading finger— stretching you wider, his pads pressing against your squishy g-spot making stars burst behind your eyelids.
“Be honest with me,” Percy murmured against your skin, his voice muffled and lips slick with you. “Like your pussy is…Tell me when you're close.”
Gods, why couldn't you just say it? The words stuck in your throat as he worked you relentlessly, dragging out your orgasm so lengthily, his tongue tickling your constantly throbbing clit while his fingers pumped in a rhythm that had you arching off the bed.
“How are you so good at this?” you gasped finally, voice breaking as the edge rushed up. “Is this your first time? Are you kidding me?”
He pulled back and gave a grin, chin glistening and eyes wicked. “First time, princess. But I've dreamed about eating your cunt plenty.” No joke in his tone, just raw truth that made your core tighten.
“You do kiss- ah.. you do kiss your mother with that mouth…”
“As of now I'm kissing something sweeter.”
He dove back in, sucking harder, and you shattered, waves crashing through you as your pussy clenched around his fingers with slick gushing out. Percy didn't let up, milking every pulse until you were trembling, oversensitive and boneless.
You laughed breathlessly, pulling him up for a kiss that tasted of you.
But the heat didn't fade; it built.
Percy stood, shedding the rest of his loosened suit with quick, impatient jerks. Finally, you saw it—his cock pulsing, fat with red veins snaking along the length. A sensitive slit at the tip, already beading, and heavy balls hanging low.
He wasn’t just needy, he was ravenous, the angriest reddened tip flushed like it had a grudge.
He manhandled you onto the bed properly, moving you onto your back with hands that gripped your hips hard.
It was both of your first times, and lord, he was just using his tip to fuck you—rubbing the head along your slit, teasing the entrance without pushing in.
He was big, there was no way that would enter your poor pussy.
The stretch was immediate when he tried to push into your orifice, a burn that made you whine, but it mixed with the ache he'd already stirred.
You didn't know who was more pussy-drunk or cock-drunk—you, with the way your walls fluttered greedily, or him, groaning like a man possessed as he nudged in. Just a few more inches out of the numerous ones eased inside your cunt with the most lecherous sounds as if your clingy walls were trying to suck him up and weren't able.
You were addicted to the way his girth was molding your channel to him, stretching wide, the burn blending into pleasure that had you clawing at his shoulders.
You guys started fighting a bit then—playful, your hands pushing at his chest as he tried to sink deeper, him pinning your wrists with one hand while the other guided his cock.
“Stop squirming,” he laughed breathlessly, but you twisted, half-protesting the overwhelming fullness, half-pulling him closer.
“It's not- Oh fuckkk- It's not going to fit-!”
Percy looked down, seeing that there was still some way to go, his cock was screaming in agony, needing to feel you squeeze him to oblivion, and that's how his hands released your wrists.
But it wasn't until you felt his hands on your legs that you understood what he was doing, lifting them up to his shoulders and beeeending you until your legs were giving him the perfect space.
“It has to fit, fit, fit, fit...” His hips moved like a piston, trying to fill you up until the sound of a resounding wap! echoed.
He finally made it fit, bottoming out with a shared groan that left you both dumb at the feeling, brains short-circuiting from the tight, hot clasp and his balls slapping your skin.
Percy started pumping then with no intention of giving a small break, the thick, vein-puffed length of his cock from tip to base to thwack! and plap! your cervix wetly.
The man was breathing heavily as his hips continued to make the luxurious bed creak over and over again, letting out small grunts that matched your joyful moans.
Your vision blurred when a hand wandered down to give tiny slap slap slaps to your reddened clit, body arching as pleasure bordered on too much, slick coating his shaft and dripping down your thighs.
Percy watched you, transfixed, his own control fraying in a matter of seconds—when he saw the tears streak your cheeks, the way your mouth fell open in silent pleasured cries, he couldn't hold it.
“Shit—you're—” He really couldn't hold it, hips stuttering as he filled you, hot spurts of cum flooding deep. Your cunt leaked out in both slick n’ his seed, the mess dripping onto the sheets.
The poor guy was trying to pull that high out of you, trying to wrench it as he gave you a puppy look, he just needed you to cum again. And you did, crashing over the edge with a big cry you muffled by biting his shoulder, teeth sinking into the muscle as your walls spasmed around him, milking him dry.
Percy was fucking you sloppily, the rhythm erratic as his cock dragged through the mess he'd made. His fingers reached down, joining to plug you up.
Aah, lucky you both were married because for sure he bred you, and in this moment, you were drooling into the cushions, dumb on it, your body limp and buzzing.
He laughed, dizzy and breathless over your look, collapsing half on top of you, his weight a grounding heat.
“Look at you,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple, affectionate even in the haze as you rolled onto your stomach, expecting him to rest next to you, catch his breath but oh no no no—he was playing with his cum between your legs, fingers scooping the leaking seed and rubbing it back in, making you whimper.
Your man pushed up your hips, ass in the air, and you felt the blunt press of his cock against your stuffed cunt again. “Can't just stop at one,” he said, voice teasing as he eased in, the stretch easier now with the slick mess.
You moaned into the cushions, face buried, as he started thrusting shallowly.
He even joked, breathing hot against your ear, “Ship's arriving at the port—hope it's ready for round two.”
You managed a weak “Don't mess around,” but it dissolved into a gasp as he fucked deeper, his cock pushing out globs of his own cum, mixing it with your fresh slick.
Your pussy was red from the smack of his hips against your ass, swollen and tender, and his pubic zone was also messy with your fluids, dark curls matted, and you heard the wap! plap! plap! sounds echoing—wet, obscene, driving you both wild.
Percy was so loving even when teasing you, one hand stroking your back while the other gripped your hip, pulling you back onto him.
“You feel incredible,” he groaned, pace quickening, the lewd squelches growing louder as he chased his release. Your body responded despite the ache, walls clenching around him, drawing him in deeper as he came inside once more, hard and sudden, flooding you until it was just an overspilling mess, thick ropes leaking down your thighs in rivulets.
The citadel's bells tolled midnight outside, but in the chambers, the real merging had just begun. Percy pulled out slowly and you both collapsed in a tangle of limbs and rumpled sheets.
His arm draped over you, fingers tracing lazy patterns on your skin. “Think we can skip the morning feast?” he asked, voice muffled against your shoulder.
You chuckled, turning to face him and a hand coming up without thinking, brushing a loose strand of his hair back from his forehead.
“The court would consider that a declaration of war.”
Percy shifted slightly closer, as though the space between you had become completely unnecessary. There was none of the earlier tension left in him now, none of the heat or provocation—just a look of love in his eyes.
“Then we are already off to an excellent start as a married couple,” he said.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
The bells outside faded into silence, the palace beyond your chambers distant and irrelevant, as though the world had politely stepped away to allow this peace to exist without interruption.
You studied him in that quiet—the way the torchlight softened the features of him, the way he looked at you now without challenge or the distance between kingdoms that had defined everything between you.
Your fingers drifted from his hair to his cheek, resting there lightly.
“They will expect us,” you said after a moment.
“They can expect whatever they like,” Percy replied, his gaze soft on yours. “We’ve already done everything they required of us.”
Your hand slipped from his face, but he caught it before it could fall away entirely, threading his fingers through yours.
You exhaled softly, letting your forehead rest briefly against his.
“Just this once,” you said quietly, “we stay.”
“A generous decree,” Percy murmured, his voice low with sleep and softer, it did not sound like the prince who argued in the council chambers or provoked you in gardens. “I should thank my wife for such mercy.”
“Do not grow accustomed to it,” you replied with a small laugh. “I grant it only because you have ensured that walking tomorrow would be… unnecessarily difficult.”
“I see,” he said slowly, as though considering this with more seriousness than it deserved, though the corner of his mouth betrayed him. “Then I must accept this kindness with proper gratitude, my queen.”
You narrowed your eyes at him.
“Careful,” you warned, though it lacked the bite it once would have carried. “You will make a habit of saying things you cannot take back.”
“I do not intend to take them back.” His thumb moved faintly against your hand, absent and thoughtful. “We could go for a walk in the morning to see your favorite flowers.”
“Sleep,” you said. “If you insist on embarrassing us both in the morning, you will at least require the rest.”
A faint breath of laughter escaped him at that as his arm tightened around you.
“As you command,” he murmured. “My love.”
♡ 𝐑𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞
♡ 𝐅𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ⸝⸝ 𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐲 𝐉𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
💭: Guys this is not proofreaded LIKE 70% sooo hopefully you won't find many weird typos or stuff TT Still I'm reallly happy because I don't tend to write such long oneshots, yippieeee!!
if Percy can't find a way to slip a 'that's my girlfriend' into the conversation, then he'll still find a way to make it known.
this is kind? of a part two to this one
warnings: no cabin mentioned for reader, no use of y/n, overprotective!percy, just fluff.
If someone at camp didn’t know Percy and her were dating, they were probably living under a rock, because Percy isn't subtle at all about his love for her.
And well, maybe he is a little too loud about it, but so what? he has an amazing girlfriend, he would happily walk around camp talking to every person he found just to make sure everyone knows he is dating her— Oh, that is actually what he does almost every day. Sue him.
It gets to a point where people already expect the 'and my girlfriend' in almost every trivial conversation, and if he can't find a way slip it in? Well, he has to show off.
⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ 1. the hand on her back
The pavilion is full of people after breakfast ends, everyone standing from their tables to go with friends or plan their schedule for the day, it takes Percy only a second to find her trying to make her way in between the crowd.
He knows that look. The tightness in her posture, the way her gaze shifts through the people. Crowds make her anxious.
So he moves through the mess of bodies, he's right there by her side in an instant, leaning to kiss her temple. "Hey, pretty girl."
Her body immediately relaxes the moment she hears him, like his voice is the exhale she didn’t know she was holding. "Hi, Perce" and she smiles, that kind of bright smile that one day would be able to do what monsters and gods couldn't do— kill Percy.
He can feel her fingers brushing his sleeve, as if she's looking for some kind of comfort. Without needing to ask any questions, Percy slides his hand to the small of her back like it's second nature, like he was made to guide her through chaos.
The contact is subtle, it's not even meant to be possessive— not showy, just steady, intentional, just Percy softly keeping her close in a sea of demigods and chaos.
Of course, someone notices.
"Dude." Connor calls out, walking past them with Travis. "Chill, she's not gonna vanish."
Percy smirks, guiding her through the people. "I'm not taking any chances."
His hand remains there, grounding her, providing her with the peace she needs. But also, if people notice his hand splayed protectively against her back, it's just a plus.
⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ 2. the water bottle
Percy has been distracted for a while, leaning against a wall, his eyes fixed on her as her tongue pokes out slightly in concentration, aiming her arrow. An Apollo camper is beside her, giving her pointers. "Okay, keep your shoulders relaxed and release."
The arrow cuts through the air, landing dead-center with a satisfying thunk. She looks at it for a second, before jumping in pure delight, Percy doesn’t even bother hiding his silly smile.
But immediately, his smile falters when the Apollo camper chimes in, "That's it, that was amazing!" and he throws his arm over her shoulder.
Oh no.
Percy's right there in a second, he's sure he isn't even that fast when it comes to battling monsters. But when it's about her, he would teleport if he could.
"Hey, love!"
She turns to see Percy, absolutely taken off guard, as he strides towards them, water bottle in his hand. His curls are messy and he's sweaty, she guesses he probably just finished his training, but he still manages to look like he walked out of a daydream.
"Here, pretty girl." he gives her the water bottle, smiling as he coincidentally places himself between her and the Apollo boy. "You look tired and, y'know, i'm your boyfriend. Just doing my job."
She blinks at him, taken aback, then snorts because she finally realizes what this is about. "Thanks, Perce."
"Of course." He says, planting a soft kiss against her temple, before stepping back. "I'll leave you to it, but let me know if you need something else, yeah?"
When he steps away, he smiles shamelessly at the bewildered Apollo camper that takes a long second to even mutter something. "Yes, she's great, isn't she?"
"Yes, totally, she's the most talented at everything she tries." He nods, absolutely proud, but he's fast at adding, "you know, my girlfriend. That i'm dating. Me. Can you believe it?"
Behind him, she rolls her eyes and mutters something about him being ridiculous, but she's smiling into the water bottle as she takes a sip.
⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ 3. iris message
The worst time for Percy is when he has to go on a quest without her, being apart from her feels like falling into tartarus. And maybe, just maybe, he gets a little annoyed about the idea of other people flirting with her when he's not around.
Of course, he trusts her, but he also knows she's simply oblivious when it comes to people flirting with her. That's why it took so long for them to start dating, after all.
So yeah, maybe he checks in a little too often. Not only because of that. He simply loves getting to talk to her, seeing her after every rough day makes the quest a little less tiring.
She's smiling politely at the Ares camper in front of her, nodding as he talks about his strategy to win capture the flag, his arms crossed in a way that makes it seem as if he's flexing his muscles.
Not that she's interested at all, she's just polite enough to pretend she is even when she's only thinking about Percy. Missing him.
It's almost as if he knows that she's thinking about him, wherever he is, because suddenly a shimmering golden mist swirls in the air between her and the Ares boy, slicing through the conversation.
"Oh, Iris message!" the boy steps back slightly.
She beams, the polite smile widening into a happy grin when the mist sharpens into the image of Percy, out of breath, his curls sticking to his forehead, his face dirty, riptide still in hand.
"Hey there, love." Percy smiles, his tone fond and sweet— no one would even think that he was side-eyeing the boy standing beside his girlfriend. "Just checking in. We just killed a monster, you should've seen it, it was this gross serpenty thing. But I thought of you."
"Charming, love." She replies, amused.
His eyes flicker to her side like he's only just now noticing the boy beside her. "Oh, sorry, I didn’t know you were busy. Sorry, love you."
"I love you too, Perce." His eyes go back to her, his stare turning softer, the kind of stare reserved for her only.
"I have to go, pretty, just call me if you need anything, yeah?" He smiles innocently. "I'll be back soon, anyways."
The mist dissolves.
The silence that follows is awkward.
The boy clears his throat, no longer flexing his arms as they fall to his sides. "Does he just uh- calls you every time he kills a monster?"
"Oh no, that would be ridiculous." she replies, fighting a smirk. "Why?"
"No reason."
⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ 4. bragging rights.
They're supposed to be on watch duty, patrolling the border to make sure there's no monsters lurking or campers trying to sneak out past curfew.
But Leo's starting to think that the threat here is not the monsters or the rebellious teenagers, the real threat is how Percy hasn't shut up about his girlfriend for the past fifteen minutes.
"And did you see the little ribbon thing she had on her hair? She's so cute, I swear, and it matched her camp shirt. How can she manage to look so pretty and cool at the same time?" He's walking, but it's a wonder that he hasn't tripped yet since Leo can see how distant his eyes are, that dreamy little smile on his face.
Leo blinks, surprised. "Dude, do you have a crush on your girlfriend or something?"
"Don't be ridiculous, a crush is way too small. I'm madly in love with her. That's way different." He explains, and then keeps going. "And did you see when she grabbed the flag? I thought she might slip when she jumped from that tree, but nope, perfect landing."
"Yes, I was there, heard you scream."
"I didn’t scream"
"You absolutely did, then you tripped over a rock trying to run to stop her from falling."
Percy stops.
Leo stops.
They look at each other for a long second before Percy sighs. "Yes, probably panicked out a little, can't blame me."
Leo holds up his hands in the air. "Not blaming you, just saying you're hopeless, dude."
"I'm not hopeless, just in love."
And Leo groans. Yes, this is going to be a long patrol shift.
⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ 5. the dramatic kiss
Percy takes off his helmet, pushing through people cheering, some groaning while walking to the infirmary with wounds and bruised limbs, others replaying what just happened during capture the flag.
But he doesn’t stop to talk to any of them, instead he scans the crowd until his eyes just land on her, like it's second nature.
She's standing there, looking pretty even after the afternoon's events, cheeks flushed, strands of hair falling freely on her face even after she pushes them away with her free hand, the one that's not clutching the flag she just got. And she's laughing at something Piper is telling her. So radiant, so beautiful.
Percy stands there, giving himself just a moment to admire her, before he's full on sprinting.
His armor clinking, sweat dripping down his temple, eyes locked on her like she's the only thing anchoring him to the world.
She turns just in time to catch him running towards her. "Perce? did something—"
But her words are cut short when he's suddenly scooping her up into his arms, and dipping her like something straight out of one of those romance movies she loves so much.
And then, he kisses her.
Percy can hear gasps around them, or maybe whistles, he's sure as hell he can hear someone shouting. "Oh my gods, not this again."
But he doesn’t care.
Even after he pulls back, he can only focus on her, her arms around his neck, looking at him through wide eyes.
"You're crazy." She mumbles, breathless.
And he can only grin in return. "Crazy about you? Yes, yes I am."
She hides her face on his neck mortified, and of course he only holds her tighter, smirking.
⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ +1 the one time she was showing off
She's trying not to be annoyed.
It started with her sitting near the campfire, changing the bandage from a scrape on her leg she got from the chariot race. Two campers sat nearby, she didn’t recognize one of them so she was sure it's probably a new camper. And she didn’t mean to pry, but they were so loud.
"Who's that guy over there?" The new girl asks, not subtle at all. "The one with the sword? he's just so dreamy, I mean, the hair, the jawline, those arms."
The other one snorts. "You mean Percy Jackson? he's a legend here."
It's immediate, she stops whatever she's doing with the bandages and her head snaps up, brows furrowed together as she glances in the direction the other two are staring at.
Yes, it's indeed Percy they're talking about. He doesn’t seem to notice the eyes on him, he never does. Instead, he's laughing with Grover, his hair is wet like he just took a shower, and the sun is hitting him just right. And— okay, fine, he looks a little too good. Ridiculously good.
"Gods, he's hot." The new one replies. "Do you think he has a girlfriend?"
"Actually—"
She doesn’t stick around to keep hearing the conversation because she's suddenly feeling too bothered by it.
Instead, she marches over, catching Percy mid-laugh. "Hey, love—" he starts, but doesn’t even get the full sentence out because she grabs him by the collar, pulls him in, and kisses him.
He stumbles a bit in surprise, but the second he realizes what's happening?
Yes, he's absolutely loving it. His arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her closer and his lips returning the kiss with equal excitement.
By the time they break apart, he blinks at her like he's just been hit with a tidal wave. "Uh... hi." he breathes.
"Hi, you" She beams at him, and Percy's heart feels like it might jump out of his chest.
Behind them, Grover rolls his eyes. "Gods, you two are sickenly sweet, I'm leaving."
Percy just grins, eyes fixed on her like she's the only person in the world. "You kissed me."
"Yes, is that a problem?" She tilts her head, eyes shining playfully.
Percy leans to kiss her again. "Not at all." he mumbles against her lips. "Keep doing it."
Somewhere behind them, across the fire, the camper turns to her new friend. "So yes, he has a girlfriend."
Percy would let the world burn if that assured him y/n's happiness. Everyone knows it, except y/n herself.
warnings: jealous n overprotective percy, slight mentions of violence i really don't know if it counts, oblivious reader, no cabin mentioned for reader.
part 2 here
Everybody at camp halfblood knows by now not to mess with percy's girl— except, well, she isn't really percy's girl. At least not that she knew, but for everybody else? yes, she is his girl.
Hard to think about it in any other way when Percy walks around camp glaring at just anyone that even dares to look at her the wrong way. And when it comes to keeping her out of harm's way? He is practically a force of nature.
Percy doesn’t take y/n's happiness lightly, so anything that threatened that is handled by him without her even noticing.
She is probably the only person to come unharmed out of every Stoll prank, and it's definitely not for lack of trying. Connor and Travis like her enough not to pull anything dangerous, but that doesn’t mean they can let her get away without trying.
So everything was planned. A simple, classic, but effective bucket on the door. She only had to come out of her cabin for lunch and they would get her. Hiding in the bushes, Travis and Connor snicker once the door opens.
She is talking to Percy, that is walking behind her, but something makes him pause just when she steps exactly on the mark the Stolls had left. Percy clocks what is happening immediately, as if it was second nature, and he moves y/n out of the way just in time for the bucket to fall directly on him.
He ends up fully covered in chocolate syrup seconds later, but he couldn't care less. His only worry is— "you okay, sunshine?" he asks, wiping chocolate off his face.
She is, in fact, okay. But she's gaping at him, her eyes comically wide. "Oh my gods Percy, how did that happen?"
Oh he definitely knows how that happened, he can turn around right now and find the bush in which the Stoll brothers are hiding just by the sound of them snickering. He is going to kill them.
Still he shrugs. "I don't know, weird bucket placement." He replies casually. "Why don't you go ahead and wait for me in the pavillion? I'll take that bucket down."
"Weird things always seem to be happening around here, huh?" She raises her eyebrows, but happily obliged as she starts walking away.
Percy doesn't take the bucket down, he makes the Stoll brothers do it once he takes them out of their hiding. And the snickering doesn't last them much because as he's leaving, he glares at them. "You two better not try this bullshit with her again."
Listen, Connor and Travis are all about going against direct orders from everyone. But they don't try anything else after that, because Percy is scary when it comes to y/n and they are not about to end in the same position as that Ares son who had tried to flirt with her.
It had been after sword training, some Darren or Dane or something— Percy really did not care about his name, mostly because he was more occupied with glaring at him as he leaned a little bit too close to y/n.
He stood a few feet away from them, knowing that he couldn't intervene without y/n noticing but still fully preparing to do it just in case she got too uncomfortable. He knew her, she wouldn't say anything in fear of being rude. But Percy didn’t have that problem, he would gladly be rude if that meant keeping her safe.
So for now, he only stood with his back against a wall, pretending to sharpen riptide.
"You know, you should train with me sometime. I could teach you a few moves." He told her, smiling smuggly. Percy wished he could erase that smile right away.
And when she started hesitating, the son of Poseidon got ready to intervene. "um- I-" she stammered.
But Percy didn’t really have to do much, because as he was pushing himself off the wall, the Ares guy seemed to notice him, sharpening riptide and sending incredibly hard stares at his way.
Darren-Dane-whatever visibly gulped and took a step back. Percy smirked. Smart move.
As the boy excused himself and basically ran away, y/n blinked at him surprised before she turned to Percy. "Okay, that was weird."
Percy smiled innocently. "Right? so weird."
The next morning due to completely unrelated events, Darren-Dane-whatever ended up waking up in the lake, completely soaked without a single clue how he got there. Percy denied any relation to this weird incident.
Worst part about it all is that Percy swears people don't learn their lesson. While y/n is just walking around in her perfect sunny world, Percy is just following her, trying to maintain her world exactly as it is, free of assholes.
But gods dammit, those assholes don't make it easy for him.
When they're playing capture the flag, they end up on opposite teams and even though Percy is focused on getting that flag, he's also worried for her. He hasn't seen her around, but he knows she should be somewhere close because he has already seen some of her siblings running around.
It's only when he's close to the opposite team's flag that he finds her: she's supposed to be guarding the flag but she's crouched down near the lake, watching a butterfly that's perched on a flower, completely oblivious to the mayhem happening around her.
Percy stops abruptly, his heart racing at the sight. She looks completely at peace, lost in her own little world, the late afternoon sun tracing shadows on her face, it's like she belongs in a painting. So beautiful.
He's mesmerized for a second, flag completely forgotten. Then—
A blur of blue runs past him, pulling him out of trance. His mind barely registers one of his own teammates from cabin nine before the boy is already charging towards y/n at full speed, catching her completely off guard.
She rolls on the mud, almost falling into the lake and Percy is immediately running to her.
"Dude what are you doing? go take the flag!" His teammate yells at him, pinning y/n to the ground. Fuck the flag, Percy couldn't care less about it.
With almost too much strenght, he's pushing the boy out of her, sending him soaring through the air, an indignant yell before he lands with a splash right into the lake.
"Dude what the fuck? i'm on your team!" The Hephaestus boy yells as he clumsily stands on the lake, dripping wet and looking very displeased.
Without looking, Percy flicks his hand and a second later, a wave crashes into the boy's face. He doesn’t care about his protests, he's busy helping y/n up on her feet.
"Are you okay?" He asks, his hands cupping her face to make sure there's absolutely not one scratch on it.
She lets out a small cough, wipping mud from her face. "Yes? it's capture the flag, Perce. This is part of it."
He knows she's right, that doesn’t stop him from scoffing. "Yeah, well, what he did was unnecesary." They both look at the boy once again trying to stand up only to be met with another wave crashing against him.
This time, she realizes this is Percy's doing and gasps. "Percy!"
"What?" he shrugs innocently, wiping some dirt from her nose without any care for the other camper. "He looked like he needed some refreshing."
He ends up being dragged away by her, not that he puts any kind of restraint anyways.
Yes, maybe everyone at camp knows about him being just a little overprotective of her, but so what? he loves her— can't help it if he wants her to be happy and safe. The only one that doesn’t realize this is y/n herself, she's completely oblivious of his actions.
And she remains oblivious through it all; when she's thirsty after training and he's waiting for her with a water bottle, when she's hungry and he has her favorite snack ready, when campers are talking badly about her archery skills and with only one Percy-designated glare they immediately shut up before she can hear them, when he deliberately walks by the side closer to the magical borders just in case something dangerous happens.
It's always there, he's always there. And all it takes is overhearing a conversation for her to realize it.
She's outside of the Aphrodite cabin, waiting for Piper to go have dinner at the pavillion when she overhears some of the girls walking by.
"I mean, come on, Percy is literally the hottest guy at camp, don't you think?" one of them says, and she feels this bubbling jealousy in her chest— something she has never experienced before.
"Agree, but it's a little annoying that y/n is always around him." the other one adds. "I mean she's sweet but he probably finds her annoying how much she clings to him."
Her heart drops, is that what they think? is that what Percy thinks? that she's just this annoying girl clinging to Percy for everything?
Before she can overthink it, the first girl talks again. "I don't think he finds her annoying, he's like totally in love with her, obsessed even."
A third girl sighs dreamily. "Right? he's always so careful and protective with her, Dean from cabin five told me Percy was glaring at him for flirting with her, and the next day he casually woke up on the lake. Listen, he would totally let someone burn if she said she wanted to roast marshmallows."
A chorus of giggles follows, their voices dissipating as they walk away without even noticing y/n was there all along, trying to process their words.
Suddenly everything clicks in her mind. Every time that Percy seemed to just be there. Always at the right moment. Always with a solution to every single problem.
She's not dumb, she has known Percy was protective. But she always thought it was him just trying to be a good friend, surely he was the same with Grover or Annabeth? but now she was sure it was never the same.
Because neither of them has Percy following them around, treating them like they're the most precious thing in the word. That's only reserved for her, and it has taken her this long to understand it, realization crashing over her like one of those waves Percy used to almost waterboard the boy that almost hurt her during capture the flag.
Piper finally steps out of her cabin, apologizing with y/n for taking too long. But she's not even listening, she's already made up her mind.
Without even stopping to take some time to think it through, she turns around and ignores Piper's questions as she sprints towards his cabin.
She arrives just when he's stepping out of the front door, and she's running so fast that she can't stop herself in time before she crashes into him. Thankfully, Percy's senses are better than hers so he catches her by the waist before they both end up on the floor.
"Woah there." he says, and even through his confusion he still finds it in him to be concerned. "Did something happen, sunshine?"
He barely has any time to finish his question before she's grabbing his face and pulling him down to kiss him. He makes a startled noise, completely caught off guard because honestly that was the last thing he was expecting to happen. A couple of long seconds pass with him completely frozen but then— oh, then he's kissing her back, his hands finding her waist like they've always belonged there.
He can taste the strawberry chapstick he has always seen her put on, but the kiss also tastes like stolen glances and endless afternoons spent together, like a love that's always been there, just waiting to get noticed.
When she finally pulls back, too soon on Percy's opinion, he blinks at her. "Not that i'm complaining, but what was that for?"
Her heart is stammering against her chest as she offers him a small smile. "Some girl said you were in love with me?"
"Took you long enough to realize." he replies simply before pulling her close again, his lips finding hers as if this was something he had been born to do.
And she can feel it, in the kiss, in the way he holds her— Percy Jackson loves her. And the best part? She loves him too.
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summary: I would like a ring, I would like a ring! I would like a diamond ring on my wedding finger — I would like a big and shiny diamond that I can wave around and talk, and talk about it! (Or: Percy Jackson wonders every day about how he somehow managed to land you. He's got one chance, and he's not going to screw it up.)
pairing(s): percy jackson x daughter of aphrodite!reader
word count: 4.6k
warnings: based on the books and may contain spoilers for the pjo series and heroes of olympus but nothing major (i kept it all at bay to one character and one location), references to all that the demigods have to go through to survive, himbo percy, tooth rotting fluff, nothing else i think!! also, this is a christmas fic :)
author's note: if anyone doesn't know, evil eyes are supposed to protect you from fake compliments derived by envy, and if they break it means they served their purpose in protecting you from the bad things that happen thanks to fake pleasantries! it's important for the story :) i also know that i promised you guys a batsis x conner kent... but let me have this LMAO 😭 i've been a fan of pjo since i was like twelve, so seeing the fandom come back to life is actually refreshing... i might write a jason grace fic later on but we'll see. anyways, the conner fic is still getting written! but have this treat in the meantime :)
dividers from @uzmacchiato!
Now, it’s not that Percy is ugly.
He’s all but that, really — and honestly, even if he was, he doesn’t think he’d have the time to care. He’s lived since he was twelve like he was in survival mode (which he was), and with all the monsters that came looking after him, he didn’t really have the time to worry about looks. So, safe to say, the first years after adjusting to being a demigod might’ve been a little… rough on his appearance.
Puberty didn’t help at all — he doesn’t even want to remember that year where he had to juggle both acne and braces, all the while constantly looking out for any signs of malevolent activity behind his back. His hair persistently looked like a mess, because he always either forgot or postponed haircuts until his strands seemed more like a bird’s nest than anything else, and it’s not like he was the most stylish kid out there.
So, it’s no wonder why every single one of your siblings made fun of you for getting with him.
At fifteen, he was still in that awkward phase where he didn’t quite know what to do with himself and his body, and even if he tried to act like it wasn’t a big deal, it kinda was. He saw everyone around him start growing into their own people, start really caring about looks and noticing things he couldn’t even come up with — enter: you. A really, really gentle soul who took one good look at him and thought: I can work with this.
He doesn’t even know how he managed to land you — he’s not really sure he wants to know, because maybe his potential is far greater than he could have ever imagined, and that kinda scares him. What he knows, however, is that he’s known about you ever since he got to Camp Half-Blood — well, duh. Nobody ever managed not to notice Aphrodite’s kids, but out of them all, besides Selena and a couple of others, you were the only one who was actually nice. Not in the fake Mean Girls way that Drew or your other siblings adopted just to please Selena, but in a real, actual-saint way.
The first time he meets you he’s twelve. You patch him up after his first game of Capture the Flag, where he’s still too stunned from being recognised as Poseidon’s son to notice the really pretty girl tending to his bleeding arm — at least, that’s what he tells you later on. The truth is that for a moment he actually believes you’re a hallucination, because he’s never talked to a girl in his whole life, let alone have one this close to him, willingly at that. It’s only when you pat his wounded bicep and give him a tender smile that he suddenly realises you’re real, and when you say, “Be careful next time, okay?” there’s only one thought going through his mind: don’t screw this up.
Obviously, he screws it up. “I– um– like– y– yeah, of course.” he’s sure he’s as red as a tomato can be, and even worse, not only you had to see that, but also the guy behind you did.
(The guy behind you is William Solace. He’s your best friend. At his own expense, Percy will also find out that he’s the biggest gossip in all the Camp beside Drew, because inexplicably, at dinner, everyone’s talking about how newbie Jackson goofed it up with that one cutie from Cabin 10.)
From then on, it’s not exactly a secret that Percy’s got the fattest crush on you. Grover’s never been great at hiding secrets, and even if he was, Percy could not act normal about it even if his life depended on it. He’s at your beck and call, suddenly springs to attention whenever you’re mentioned or your voice and laugh are heard, and looks like the definition of a loyal puppy whenever you’re around. Not that he actually ever manages to have a real conversation with you, anyways — he always needs two to three work days to process any and all interactions you two have, and once he does, it’s always too late to reply.
That’s why — two years after that first encounter — he’s so stunned about how persistent you become with him. More demanding, always asking for his opinion, slowly bringing him out of the shell (pun not intended) that he had created for himself and used just for you, and there’s not nearly enough fuel in any of the speeches Annabeth gives him about it to convince him to confess. She likes you too, she insists, but he doesn’t really believe in what she says until you quite literally drag him by the collar down to your height to meet your lips after a particularly heated match of Capture the Flag.
He’s never kissed anyone before, and he didn’t think it could actually feel this nice. Maybe it’s because it’s you, but he feels his legs all wobbly, and when you drag his hands to rest over your hips, he leans on you a little more than he’d like to admit. And again, maybe it’s because he’s not an expert at kissing and is just a little delusional, but the kiss feels like something you’ve waited a long time for, too.
He hears the gasps of the other campers around him, but honestly, he’s too focused on your lips to care. And even when you do part, any embarrassment he might feel is immediately replaced by fuzzy warmth when you hug him tight, nuzzling your cheek in his chest happily. His face is burning and he’s pretty sure he’s close to puffing smoke from his ears, but he knows that it was worth it.
Everyone teases him relentlessly — Grover even cries once Annabeth tells him what happened, rubbing snot all over Percy’s shirt while sobbing about how much he has grown in so little. He doesn’t really care about what the others think, because none of the snide remarks they say while passing him nor the constant whispering that follows him since the kiss will ever manage to make his heart flutter less when you take his hand in yours or kiss him.
He’s never been one to mind about what others think of him, so when the other campers start to suddenly pat him on the back and talking about how lucky he is, he doesn’t think much about it — he just guesses that the jealousy’s faded, and they now feel bad about treating him like a war criminal, even if it is weird to have Clarisse out of all people compliment you about your girlfriend.
You don’t think for a moment that it’s genuine, and your suspicions are revealed to be true when one day he falls and sprains his ankle — Percy Jackson, hero of many quests, slain by a step? Weird.
The day after, you come up to him and swing a necklace with an evil eye over his head with a weird expression. “You keep this on, okay?”
Percy looks at the pendant, then at you, “Not that I’m complaining about the gift, but why?”
Sherman Yang comes up behind him and nearly makes him topple with how hard he slaps his shoulder, “Congratulations, Jackson,” he grits out, with the eyes of someone who wants to break both his legs. “Your luck continues to baffle me every day.”
Your boyfriend, bless his heart, smiles at him. “Thanks, man.”
Yang goes on about his life after that, and you deadpan at Percy’s completely clueless expression. “See? He was being nice.”
You pat his cheek, “You’re too innocent for this world. Just keep the necklace on and maybe nothing bad will happen to you.”
Pictures from that summer show clearly the eventual glow up he gets — all those weird face masks and skincare routines you made him do eventually worked, because when he gets back home and Sally sees him, she gasps in delight. “Did you finally start washing your face? It’s a real miracle what just soap and water can do when used correctly–”
(And that’s the story of how you single-handedly saved his face card, but that’s not what this story is about.)
By some miracle, your father lives in Manhattan, too. Apparently he made a lot of money with acting in his younger days, so when you came around, he was perfectly capable to start being a dad 24/7 — and being able to see through the Mist, that meant fighting off every teacher that feigned to be human and all the toddlers that turned out to be actual goblins. Now he mostly works as a personal trainer for his own enjoyment, as you’ve grown up too much to be under his constant care, but that’s not the point here.
The point is: you and Percy actually manage to date.
Sure, a few monsters crash your outings once in a while — who are we kidding? Usually about four monsters per date is the ordinary — but it’s the most normal Percy has felt in a long time. You don’t whine about having to basically constantly be on the run, and it helps him take his mind off of the impending prophecy that is still hanging over his head.
He tries to remind himself that you’ve probably just taken pity on him — that he’s probably going to be dead by the time he reaches sixteen, so maybe that’s why you took his charity case into your hands — but every time you guys hang out, his doubts about your honesty get weaker and weaker.
Sure, you’re way out of his league, and sure, he is a loser in pretty much anything but the eventual quests he gets sent on. But sometimes he thinks that the way you kiss him feels a little too real, and the way you hug him whenever he walks you home doesn’t exactly feel fake. He lives in doubt — basking in the dream until he can just in case his paranoias eventually become true — until, just before the summer starts, you ask him a question that changes everything.
“Hey, my dad was wondering if you’re free this Friday evening,” you mumble, half-asleep on his chest as you lay on a blanket in Central Park. “He really wants to meet you before… y’know,”
Before the world goes to shit. Before Kronos comes back to kill us all. Before you get whisked away on another quest and never come back. Percy knows that — but the thing that strikes him the most, funnily enough, is that you want him to meet your dad. Because — yes, he’s talked about you to his mother a thousand times by now, but he didn’t exactly think that you were talking to your father about him. It’s at that moment that it clicks in his brain — gods, you weren’t trying to make fun of him or trick him. You actually liked him. For. Real.
Up until then, it just felt too good to be true — but, he guesses, even people like him get to have one single nice thing in their lives.
And that’s how, that Friday afternoon, Percy finds himself sitting stiffly at your dinner table in the best-looking casual clothes he has while your father happily chats with him, and you look at him with eyes that tell everything he needs to know — that you’re almost as smitten with him as he is with you.
It’s the last moment of peace he has before everything blows back up — the missions, the quests, all the monsters he has to slay before the final battle. But later on that night, as you say goodbye to him with a simple peck over his lips on your porch, he looks at your eyes and makes himself a promise: he’s going to survive all of it, no matter what the gods may throw at him — if not for the sake of the world, just to have another simple and domestic dinner with you.
And survive, he does.
Years later, you’re twenty — older than you’d ever thought you would’ve lived up to — living in a little apartment in New Rome with Percy and simply thriving.
Your boyfriend still wonders how exactly he’s managed to end up with you, but he’s not protesting. And seven broken evil eyes later, he’s learning that they actually serve their purpose quite decently.
It’s weird to think that he’s setting up Christmas decorations with the same girl who basically bullied pimples away from his face when he was fifteen, but honestly, he’s not going to complain about his steak being too juicy — he ended up with, in his modest, humble opinion, the prettiest girl in the whole Camp, and he thanks the gods every day for giving you the strength to ignore your sibling’s jabs about how he had way too many pimples to be with you.
(He doesn’t have pimples anymore, by the way, and his skincare routine is rock solid. You also torture him once a month to get all the blackheads he’s got out of his face, and even if he hates it, he knows it comes from a place of love.)
This year, you’ll be spending the holidays at your father’s house with Sally, Paul and little Estelle, and he’s a bit nervous about this whole thing. He’s met your dad and you’ve met his mom, but their meeting feels… official. The anxiety that feeling brings does absolutely nothing to deter him from constantly changing the hiding spot for the present he got you a while ago, and even if it’s in a small box, he swears it weighs a ton. He doesn’t know why he’s making such a big deal out of it — it’s just a ring — but as he watches you hang the ornaments you got from the dollar store downtown to your little Christmas tree, he gets it.
It’s because he wants to spend the rest of his life with you — with the same girl that saw something in him that nobody had ever seen before — and he absolutely does not want to mess this up. And later on that night, as he's resting on your chest while you're scratching his scalp with your manicured nails, he thinks that this might just be the easiest decision he's ever had to make.
Three weeks later, on Christmas Eve, he’s sitting on your father’s couch in the living room while your parents and Paul happily chat in the kitchen, and you and Estelle play on the carpet.
Percy’s little sister is turning three next year, and he cannot believe that she’s a toddler already. Sometimes he feels like an old man, and whenever people mistake him for her very young father, that feeling just grows. But as you play with her, and she giggles and shriekes at your attempts to tickle her, he wonders if you would ever want one of your own.
He envisions a little girl with your smile and his eyes, or perhaps a small boy with your face and his dark hair. His chest gets fuller at the thought, and later that night, when the adults are still chatting — quite drunkenly at that — over how a Thanksgiving turkey should be properly cooked, and Estelle’s sleeping it away in your old room, Percy takes your hand and gestures to the door. “Want to take a walk?”
The streets are crowded despite the late hour — it is, after all, half an hour before it’s officially Christmas, and everyone must be waiting for the fireworks. He hastily swats your hand away when you try to put it in his pocket like you always do, and when you glare at him, he feels his blood go cold. He instead takes your hand in his, kissing your frown away, “C’mon, baby, it’s Christmas– don’t be mad at me.”
“What, are you hiding something from me?” you joke, and gasp when his face falls. “No way– you totally are!”
His ears are pink, and his nose scrunches in the same way it does whenever he’s lying. “I am totally not.”
You chuckle and decide to leave him to his secrets, snuggling into his side, “Whatever you say, Mr Jackson,” you muse, “just remember that if it's an ugly gift, your mom likes me more than you. She'll be on my side if we fight about it.”
He gasps, befuddled, “You didn’t just say that!”
“I actually just did.” you snicker, “And you’re getting mad just because you know I’m right.”
The park’s a less crowded shortcut than the streets — which are getting emptier, too: everyone’s going to Times Square for the countdown for the 25th and the fireworks. You were heading there too, only that Percy stops in his tracks, and you don’t bother looking behind you until you’re a few steps in front of him, convinced that it’s just another one of his antics. “Awe, c’mon, Perce, don’t be mad that Sally prefers me over–”
Thud!
You blink, your cheek feeling suddenly cold, clusters of snow falling and melting over your lashes. Percy just stands there, his gloves still covered in tufts of snow, hands covering his mouth in shock like he isn’t the culprit to blame. “…Did you just throw a snowball in my face?”
“I’m sorry, babe, I swear!” you don’t understand if he’s actually feeling sorry or is about to burst out laughing, “I didn’t mean to, I swear! I was aiming at your back but then you turned arou–” he’s interrupted by his own shriek — one he makes after you throw a bigger snowball right at his face.
“Ooh, your game’s on, Jackson!”
Twenty minutes later, you’re lying in the snow, chests heaving and scarves and hair soaked, cheeks red and hearts feeling impossibly full.
(You won the match, by the way; Percy never lets you lose when playing against him, even if he has to put his big bad ego away.)
“My hands are freezing,” you laugh, not really bothered by your nimble fingers. Your boyfriend doesn’t waste one second before taking off his own gloves and putting them over your hands, and even if they are a couple sizes too big for you, the gesture still makes you feel fuzzy inside.
After giving him a quick, grateful peck, you check your watch, “We’re gonna miss the fireworks,” you tell him, not really too beaten up about it. You see them every year with your father, anyways, and even if you and Percy have never seen them together for one reason or another, there’s surely going to be another time. You guys aren’t at constant risk of dying as you were just three years ago — besides, you really had fun with that snowball match.
But Percy suddenly springs up, total panic over his face. He drags you up to your feet with him, “C’mon– we’ve gotta run for it! We can’t miss them–”
Your laugh is serene, “Easy, Perce — they make them every year, we’ll just come back here next year and–”
“No! I wanted it to be this year–”
Boom!
The fireworks have started. Percy stops in his tracks, his shoulders falling, and lets go of your hand like a kicked puppy. “…Nevermind.” he proceeds to slump back down in the snow, pout prominent on his face and eyebrows knit tightly.
Frowning, you kneel down to his level, “Hey, I didn’t think that you cared so much about the fireworks,” you mumble gently, taking his face into your hands, “Besides, we can still see them from here– honestly, isn’t it better this way? We would’ve had to fight people to get a barely nice spot in an overcrowded area.”
He sniffles, his cheeks and nose red from the cold. “You… didn’t want to see the fireworks?”
You shrug, “Well, yeah, but I wanted to see them with you.” you plop down next to him, hugging his arm to your chest as a thousand colors explode in the sky, “And we are seeing them together, aren’t we?”
His throat bobs. He looks up to the sky, at the fireworks that he has waited for ever since he came up with the plan, and the only thing that comes to his mind is: improvise. This is Christmas, your favourite holiday, and he’s not going to ruin your surprise like a fool — the days where he was a blubbering mess are long gone, but this is heavy. He never thought he’d actually get to ask you something like this, but here he is, and by now he knows that every moment he gets with you is to be cherished.
Percy says your name with such seriousness that it almost scares you. You look away from the night sky and to him, eyebrow raised in question as he takes his arm away from your hold and puts his hand in his pocket. “I, um… I wanted to give you your Christmas gift now. I wanted to watch the fireworks in Times Square because I knew how much it meant to you, but, uh, I guess that this will have to do.”
Your frown softens. “Percy, I thought it was something serious.”
He pouts again, “It is serious,” we’re talking about almost-proposing in the Square your father took you to every Christmas, he wants to say, “I mean, it is to me.”
You chuckle, your cheeks a lovely pink, “Okay, okay, go on.”
“Promise not to laugh at me,”
“Why would I? Come on, hun, I’ve seen you in that one Superman themed swimsuit and still accepted being seen with you– why would I laugh at you now?”
He shakes his head, trying to calm his nerves, but it’s all futile when he takes the little velvet box out of his pocket and you gasp. Heat creeps up his neck, and this time, it’s not because of the cold. “So, I– uh, um–” what happened to the whole speech he had planned? Come on, Percy, you’re better than this, surely–
He takes a deep breath. “I wanted this Christmas to be special, y’know? It’s the first one we actually spend together, and I love how we managed to decorate our little apartment for the holidays. Um, our parents seem to also get along great, so that’s perfect too–” is he spiraling? Oh, he totally is.
He opens the box, letting you see the ring — a simple gold band with an aquamarine stone, with two little diamonds on the sides. “So, um, I know you usually wear silver but– I just wanted you to have something a bit nicer for once, right? And I’m not telling you that I don’t like your silver jewelry, it’s just that gold has a different value, and I wanted to finally give you something that–”
“Percy,” your voice is teary as you put your hand over his, and your eyes are too. “It’s perfect.”
He blinks, “Okay,” he manages to blurt out. “So, what I wanted to say, I guess, is… that I love you. Like, a lot. And I’m not proposing — I think we both know that it’s way too early for that — but I just wanted to get you this. As a promise, if you will, that when we’re a little older and maybe our apartment’s a little bigger we’ll figure things out and properly spend the rest of our lives — long or short as they might be — together." The silence that follows kills him a little. “…Only if you want that, of course.”
The silence continues as you stare at the ring, “Please say something,” he blurts out. Has he just ruined a five-year relationship? His brain explores every possibility, every outcome — until he notices that you’re crying. “Hey,” he mumbles softly, his free hand going to your cheek, “I… was it me? Did I say something wrong? Do you not like the ring?”
You shake your head, tears streaming down your face, “I just,” you sob, “I just never thought we would’ve ever gotten to this point.”
What are you talking about? Do you not want to marry him one day? What about the kids he dreamed about? He's already got the whole name list for them planned–
You take off your — his — gloves and take the ringbox in your hands, staring at it. “I’m so happy, Percy.” your voice breaks a little, “Every day I thank the sky that you survived everything you had to go through, because I’m not sure of what I would do without you.”
Ooh. You didn't think the both of you would have survived this long. Well, that's even sadder.
You hold out the box and your left hand for him, “Would you like to be the one to put it on?”
A bit emotional, he takes the ring and slips it onto your ringfinger, pressing a small kiss — more like, a lot of them — onto your lips and hand after. “You know, you’ve always been my dream come true,” he mumbles, your hands intertwining as the fireworks slowly come to an end.
You beam up at him, “Am I?” you mumble, your cheeks still a bit wet, “Because the first time I saw you, I thought you would’ve been real handsome once you grew out of the awkward teen phase.”
His eyebrows shoot up to his forehead, “Really?”
Amused, you nod, “I put in a real investment here, can’t you see?”
When you finally reach Times Square — your left hand finally holding his in his pocket — the crowd you find there is actually no surprise. And despite it all — despite the thousands of people there — you still manage to find your parents in all the chaos.
Estelle is in your father’s arms, still a bit sleepy from her nap and no doubt wondering who is the nice man holding her (you’re not really sure she understood who he was when he introduced himself to her), while Paul and Sally — still looking very tipsy from the wine they had earlier — trail behind him, hand in hand. “There you are!” your father exclaims, the little girl perched on his hip suddenly springing into attention at the sight of you and her brother. “We’ve been looking for you everywhere! I knew you wouldn’t have missed the fireworks for anything in the world,”
You smile, looking at Percy, “Yeah,” you agree, inching just a little closer to him. “For nothing in the world.”
Somewhere in Olympus, your parents are fighting.
“The ring was way too small!” Aphrodite yells, “She deserved better! A whole rock!”
“Oh, yeah? Then we’ll have to talk about how your daughter ruined everything by crying!” Poseidon, definitely no better than her, screams back.
“Are they still fighting over that proposal?” Athena asks Hera, who’s sitting in the same place as two hours ago, listening intently to the fight. She nods solemnly, “As they should.”
The goddess of wisdom looks between the two screaming gods, grimacing, “Are they forgetting that Jackson got someone way out of his league, and that this is the first time an Aphrodite’s daughter is happy in a stable relationship? I don't understand mortal relationships, but this seems like a win-win situation to me.”
Hera gasps, “Don’t tell them that!” she hisses, “It’ll ruin all the fun!”
no one:
the other demigods at camp halfblood once they get a word of percy and reader's relationship:
(they're trying to curse him with negative energy)
hiii i LOVE your work!!!! i was wondering if you could write something for percy, like maybe he gets his wisdom teeth taken out and wants to see us but he’s all loopy? not sure if your taking requests rn so if not it’s okay!!! <3
◟𖥻 wisdom teeth : percy jackson
▰▰ pairing: percy jackson x fem!reader
Percy gets his wisdom teeth removed. His filter? Gone. His love for his girlfriend? Louder than ever.
Warnings: use of y/n, no cabin mentioned for reader, prob medical inaccuracies.
Percy has been out cold for a while, mouth open, cheeks puffy, drool on full display. And she has been sitting beside him the whole time, hand resting over his. But eventually, she does need a bathroom break.
"Go, I'll keep an eye on him." Sally gives her a soft smile. "Besides, he's sleeping. He won't even notice."
But, as fate would have it, he does notice. Once she shuts the door behind her, Percy immediately stirs in his sleep, and then Sally hears a groggy whine.
"y/n?" he mumbles in a pitiful whisper.
Sally smiles gently at her son. "Hey, honey. You're awake."
That doesn’t seem to soothe him as he blinks around the room in panic, like he's some kind of lost puppy. "Where's y/n?"
"She went to the bathroom, sweetie, she'll be right back soon."
"She left me?" He gasps. "she can't leave me, she's my emotional support human."
By the time she finally comes back, Sally already has her phone out and is recording, giggling behind the camera as Percy looks over at the door and his eyes get comically wide.
"baby!" He beams, trying to stretch his arms towards her. "What took you soooo long? I almost died in here."
She looks at Sally first, holding back her laughter as she walks towards Percy, standing just beside his bed. "I was gone for two minutes, Perce."
He's immediately reaching for her hand. "Too long." He whines, pulling her hand to his chest dramatically. "Don't ever leave me again."
With her free hand, she brushes some curls off his forehead, giving him a soft smile. "I won't leave, Perce, I promise."
"You're so pretty." Percy mumbles, looking totally in awe. "Do you have a boyfriend?"
"Yes, I do have a boyfriend."
Both her and Sally have to hold back a chuckle when he pouts at her.
"Aw man." He replies, shaking his head, then he looks around as if he's making sure there’s no one close to hear him and whispers "I can be a much better boyfriend, I swear."
"Percy, you already are my boyfriend."
"Yes! See? I knew that other guy couldn't stand a chance." He nods to himself, completely sure, then turns his head to Sally with his mouth open and an attempted grin. "Mom, can you believe how lucky I am?"
Sally nods behind her camera. "Yes, sweetie, very lucky."
Percy goes back to looking at his girlfriend, giving her a loopy smile as his head falls back on the pillow.
"I'm gonna marry you someday." He suddenly tells her. "You wanna marry me?"
Her eyes soften, but her heart feels like it's going to jump out of her chest at any moment. "Yes, Perce, someday."
His smile widens as if he won some kind of trophy, mouth full of gauze. "I'll ask you properly later, don't ya worry." He promises.
There’s a pause, she thinks maybe he already got tired of trying to talk. But he doesn’t drop her hand, or stops looking at her.
Then— "We're gonna live by the sea." He nods to himself. "In a pretty blue house, with our children, and you can wear those sundresses you have. God, I love those. You always look so pretty."
She smiles, leaning to press a kiss on his forehead. That's exactly when the nurse comes in, clipboard in hand and a cheerful smile. "Alright, Percy, we're just gonna do a quick check to see if you're good to go home."
Percy looks absolutely horrified when y/n starts to pull back, and he immediately shakes his head, refusing to let go of her hand. "No! don't go."
"I'll be right here, baby, they just need to check on you before—"
"I don't trust her" Percy interrupts, narrowing his eyes in the nurse's way. "She's trying to steal you away from me."
The poor nurse can only laugh. "I promise i'm not."
"She's evil." He whispers dramatically to his girlfriend, loud enough for everybody else to hear. "I don't trust her. Don't like her vibe."
"Percy, she's just doing her job." Sally says through a laugh.
"Then she can do it while y/n holds my hand." He insists, wrapping both arms around her arm, refusing to let go.
After he threatens to bite the nurse, she has no other choice but to work that way. And thankfully, she makes quick work out of checking everything's alright, all while Percy refuses to stop glaring at her.
Once she's done, He sighs dramatically, the gauze in his mouth freshly replaced by the nurse. "I swear, that nurse's a homewrecker."
And the ride home? he gets even worse there, in the car he refuses to sit alone and pulls her with him at the backseat. Then, for a few minutes he's just mumbling nonsense and pointing things he sees passing by the window.
It isn't until maybe ten minutes later in traffic that he finally drops his head on her lap and starts to fall asleep again, her fingers gently brushing through his hair.
"I love you." he mumbles, eyes closed. "thanks for leaving your boyfriend for me. I swear I'll make you as many blue pancakes as you want when we get married."
She lets out a soft laugh, Sally looks at them through the rearview mirror with a smile of her own. "You're are my boyfriend, Percy." she whispers.
He hums sleepily. "Good. The other one didn’t deserve you."
She giggles, leaning down to press a kiss to the top of his head. He melts under her touch, scooting even closer.
"Your hair smells like dreams." he adds with a little dreamy tone.
"Dreams?" She asks, but he doesn’t reply, so she assumes he's already asleep.
They get to the apartment not long after, and Percy is insistent that he can walk by himself. He can't. So Sally and her have to walk with him clinging to them like a koala.
By the time they get inside, he immediately beelines to the couch and flops down. "Percy, your room is right there." She tells him, but he just grumbles in response before he pulls her down with him, wrapping his arms around her waist.
"This is your life now. You live on the couch. With me." He decides.
She doesn’t try to fight it, because she knows it's helpless. After a few minutes his breathing slows and he stops mumbling nonsense, so she figures he's finally asleep.
Until he mutters, "Mrs. Jackson sounds really good, doesn’t it?"
"It does, Perce, It does."
He doesn’t add anything, so she just smiles and kisses his temple, holding him a little tighter. Eventually, his breathing slows and he falls asleep. No more mumbling about marriage or evil nurses.
And she stays there, holding him close, until Sally insists she should have something to eat. So she manages to get out of Percy's hold, and he doesn't wake up this time, he keeps sleeping, curling on the couch.
It's about two hours later when he finally wakes up again, blinking at the ceiling like it personally betrayed him. "Why does my mouth taste like cardboard?"
She's sitting on the floor beside the couch. "You had gauze in it." She replies, giving him a glass of water. "Here, drink."
He sits up slowly, taking the glass from her. "Did that stop me from talking?" He asks, already dreading her answer.
There’s a moment where he can see her trying to hold back a giggle. "Oh no, you actually talked a lot."
He puts the glass down, running his hand through his hair with a sleepy groan. "What did I say?"
"Where do you want me to start?" She starts, clearly amused. "Maybe when you threatened to bite the nurse if she took me from you? Or when you flirted with me like I was a stranger and told me to leave my boyfriend?"
"Just show him the video." Sally calls out from the kitchen.
"There’s a video?" Percy looks horrified, but then his curiosity gets the best of him. "Okay, it probably isn't that bad."
She pulls out her phone and plays the video. And it definitely is that bad. He watches with an increasingly mortified expression as past Percy almost cries when he wakes up without her, then when she comes back he tells her that she deserves a better boyfriend and then—
'I'm gonna marry you someday. You wanna marry me?'
There’s a pause. And Percy stares at the screen, completely horrified, for a moment. Until he simply shrugs.
"Damn right i'm gonna marry you." He says, voice still scratchy but smug. He lets his head fall back against the couch cushion and adds, "Don't need anesthesia to know that."
Her cheeks burn, but Percy grins, reaching for her hand. He's fully awake now, but still very much in love.
"You still down for that little blue house by the sea?" He asks playfully, though he can't help but feel hopeful.
She squeezes his hand. "Only if the blue pancakes offer is still available."
a/n : been obsessed with Luke and Charlie for this past weeks! hope you can enjoy this fic ;)
It’s been a week since your first step at the Camp Half-Blood and you still live in the Cabin 11—not claimed yet. You are sword training with other campers for today’s activity.
“Ow,” you hear someone to your left shout in pain, having been scratched by a sword.
Instinct takes over as you run to her and check on her. The training comes to a halt, and the other campers form a loose circle around you. You quickly grab a bottle of water, wash away the blood, and wrap the wound with a clean cloth from your pocket.
“You should go to the infirmary soon,” you say.
When you stand back up, a warm breeze sweeps past, carrying a faint scent of roses. Suddenly, the water you used to wash the blood rises into the air—slowly but surely—lifting above your head and forming a symbol: a seashell.
“The goddess Aphrodite has claimed her daughter,” Chiron says, nodding to you in acknowledgment.
“She fits. Welcome, honey,” the counselor from Cabin 10—children of Aphrodite—walks to you while welcoming you.
Training is called off for the day as the other campers help the injured girl to the infirmary.
➽──────────────❥
The next day, you wake up early, your body still not used to the new cabin. You decide to get some fresh air—maybe take a walk or go for a morning run. The camp is still quiet, everyone still in their bed. You walk slowly, then jog, sometimes stopping for a moment to enjoy the peaceful morning. Eventually, you rest near Canoe Lake, admiring the scenery.
Ten minutes later, you hear someone running towards the lake. You glance up and see Luke Castellan, your former counselor.
“You wake up early. Can’t sleep?” he approaches you and sits near you.
“Yeah, still getting used in the new cabin,” you say. He nods.
Silence wraps between you as you both enjoy the quiet camp. You aren’t close, but the air feels comfortable.
“I need to go back. See you around, I guess?” Luke says, breaking the silence.
“See you around,” you answer, offering him a small smile.
➽──────────────❥
Later that afternoon, you join the others for archery training.
“What the hell is she doing in here?”
“A daughter of Aphrodite in the training field?”
“Ain’t no way she’s still here after the claiming,’
You hear whispers behind you, but you try to ignore them. Instead, you focus on your bow and the target ahead. You take a deep breath and release the arrow. Unfortunately, it misses the mark. A few people laugh behind your back.
“Need a hand?” a voice startles you.
You turn around and find Luke standing there.
“Yes, if you don’t mind,” you reply.
He adjusts your stance, correcting the position of your legs and hands.
“Take a deep breath. Focus on the center,” he guides you.
“Relax,” he whispers, noticing your trembling hands.
You close your eyes, steadying yourself. Then you inhale deeply and draw the bow again. This time, the arrow flies straight into the center of the target, drawing gasps from the others.
You look back at Luke as he gives you a smile.
“Thanks,” you whisper.
He nods before returning to his friends.
➽──────────────❥
It’s been a few days since your first encounter with Luke in the morning run. And it’s been a routine for you to wake up early and do the morning run. You feel refreshed every time you enjoy the quiet camp. So does Luke. He feels surprisingly comfortable enjoying the Canoe Lake every morning with you. You two just sit, enjoying the scenery.
Later in the evening you sit near the campfire, waiting for dinner.
“Hey,” Luke greets, sitting beside you.
“Hey.” you reply.
He brings a pomegranate in his hand, tossing it around before opening it.
“Where did you get this?” you ask.
“Someone left it. Want some?” he offers the red fruit.
You hesitate, just for a second, before taking it.
“Sure,”
You pull a few seeds free and eat them. Sweet. Slightly bitter.
The noise around the campfire softens, a few conversations pause. Someone near you glances over, then quickly looks away. Luke doesn’t seem to notice, so do you. He eats a few seeds himself.
“Guess it’s better shared.” he says lightly.
You nod, unsure why your chest feels warm all of a sudden. Neither of you says anything else about it.
When you stand to leave, you catch someone from Cabin 10 watching you carefully. An Athena camper nearby lowers her voice mid-sentence.
No one laughs.
No one comments.
Later, as you walk away from the campfire, you realize your hands are still faintly stained red. You try to ignore the stares, walking to the pavilion for dinner.
The evening continues. But the air feels…shifted. You catch some people whispering while looking at you and Luke. But no one talks to you, neither your siblings in table for Cabin 10. They stay silent, but steal some glances at you.
The pavilion slowly empties after dinner. People leave in small groups. Some laugh. Some talk quietly. When you walk past them, a few conversations lower in volume—not stopping, just adjusting.
You hear fragments as you pass.
“Did you see–”
“Yeah.”
“They shared it.”
You keep walking.
Your fingers still feel faintly sticky. You wipe them on your pants, noticing the red stain that hasn’t fully faded.
The camp feels normal. And not at the same time.
➽──────────────❥
Cabin 10 is quiet when you enter.
The lights are dimmer now, softer. A few campers sit on their beds, pretending not to listen. The counselor waits near the mirror-lined wall.
She gestures for you to sit.
“Did you eat dinner?” she asks.
“Yes,” you answer.
She nods once.
“Do you remember what you did in the campfire before dinner?’
You hesitate, “Sharing a fruit?”
She exhales slowly—not annoyed, not angry.
“It’s not just ‘a fruit’. Did you know what it meant? The pomegranate?”
“No,” you say. “I thought it was just fruit.”
She studies your face for a moment.
“In mythology,” she says calmly, “it’s never just fruit.”
You stay quiet.
“Sharing a pomegranate in front of others is a symbolic act,” she continues. “It’s not a proposal. It’s not a vow.” She pauses. “It’s acceptance.”
“Acceptance of what?” Your throat tightens.
“A connection,” she says. “One that doesn’t ask permission.”
You look down at your hands.
“And if he didn’t know?”
The counselor’s expression softens slightly.
“The gods don’t care about intent,” she says. “But people do.”
She places a hand lightly on your shoulder.
“You’re not bound. Not completely.” then, quieter: “But something has started.”
She steps back, giving you space.
“Get some rest,” she says. “Tomorrow will feel different.”
You don’t know why—but you believe her.
➽──────────────❥
Luke stands by Canoe Lake long after curfew. The camp is quiet now. The water is still. He stares at his hands. There’s no red on them anymore, but he can still remember it—sticky, dark, red, real.
He hears footsteps on the grass behind him.
“You’re avoiding the cabins,” Annabeth says.
Luke doesn’t turn. “Am I?”
She stops beside him, arms crossed. “You gave a pomegranate to a daughter of Aphrodite,” she says flatly. “In the campfire.”
Luke sighs. “I shared fruit.”
“You shared a symbol.” Annabeth looks at him.
“I didn’t mean anything by it.”He rubs the back of his neck.
“I know,” she says.
That makes him pause.
“Then why does it feel like I messed something up?” he asks.
Annabeth looks out over the lake.
“Because something shifted,” she says. “And you felt it.”
Luke swallows.
“It feels like there’s something pulling right here,” he says, pressing a hand lightly to his chest. “Not bad. Just… there.”
Annabeth studies him for a moment. “That’s usually how it starts,” she says.
“Great.” Luke lets out a quiet laugh.
She doesn’t smile. “You didn’t doom yourself,” Annabeth adds. “But you didn’t walk away untouched either.”
Silence settles between them. Luke looks back at the lake.
“I’m not sorry,” he says finally.
“I didn’t think you were.” Annabeth nods.
They stand there a little longer, watching the water. Some things don’t need to be named yet.
➽──────────────❥
You are standing back to back with someone, a thin red thread wrapped around both of your wrists. Not pulling. Not tying. But every time one of you moves, the thread tightens a little. You don’t know who the person behind you is, but you know that if you pull, you will feel it.
You try to turn your head to take a peek. But before you can see anything, you open your eyes—panting, sweat streaming down your body.
“Was that a dream? What does it mean?” you whisper.
Later that morning, you approach your counselor, still trying to make sense of your dream.
She is sitting by the vanity, brushing her hair slowly. When she notices you, she gestures for you to sit.
“You look tired,” she says.
“I had a dream,” you reply. “And I don’t know what to make of it.”
She sets the brush down. “What kind of dream?”
You hesitate for a moment, then speak.
“There was a red thread. Tied to my wrist. And someone else’s.”
Her expression doesn’t change, but her attention sharpens.
“It wasn’t tight,” you continue. “But every time one of us moved, it pulled.”
Your counselor leans back slightly.
“Did you see who it was?” she asks.
“No,” you answer. “I woke up before I could.”
She nods once, as if that confirms something.
“Dreams from our mother don’t always show faces,” she says. “They show choices.”
“So… what does it mean?” You frown.
She considers her words carefully.
“It means a connection has been acknowledged,” she says. “Not forced. Not sealed.” She meets your eyes. “But no longer invisible.”
You look down at your wrist, half-expecting to see the thread again.
“Can I stop it?” you ask quietly.
Your counselor’s voice softens. “You can ignore it,” she says. “You can walk away.”
She pauses.
“But you will feel it every time you do.”
Silence settles between you.
“Get some rest,” she adds. “And don’t rush to name it.” You nod.
Some things, you realize, don’t need answers yet.
➽──────────────❥
The next few days continue as usual, but feel different. You realize that you and Luke often are in the same place, without an appointment. One day you find Luke chatting with his friends at the campfire bench while you sit near him, making a bracelet. Another day Luke finds you at the archery field, seeing you practice archery while he picks up the bow that he had been left behind. And now you find Luke entering the infirmary to treat his small—according to him—wound.
“Hey, no one else here besides you two?” he greets.
“Yeah, it's just us. She cuts her finger and I help her out,” you explain.
“I see. Where is Will?” Luke glances around the infirmary.
“Guess he’s busy,” you answer.
“I will wait then,” he says. He moves to sit on the empty cot, careful but clearly unconcerned. You finish wrapping the camper’s finger, tie the cloth neatly, and send her off with a reminder to take it easy.
The infirmary falls quiet.
You turn back to Luke.
“So,” you say. “What happened?”
“Training. Nothing serious.” He shrugs.
He rolls up his sleeve anyway. There’s a shallow cut along his forearm—already healing, but still red.
“Sit still,” you say.
He does.
You clean the wound gently, your movements practiced. Luke watches you for a moment, then looks away, jaw tightening slightly—not in pain, but something else.
“You’ve done this a lot,” he says.
“More than I expected.” You nod.
You wrap the bandage around his arm, careful not to pull too tight. Your fingers brush his skin. Neither of you comment on it.
“Too tight?” you ask.
“No,” he says quickly. “It’s fine.”
The door creaks open behind you.
Will Solace steps inside, sunlight catching in his hair. He stops when he takes in the scene—Luke on the cot, you standing close, your hands still at his arm.
He doesn’t say anything. He just watches for a moment longer than necessary. You finish tying the bandage and step back.
Luke flexes his arm once, testing it.
“Thanks,” he says.
Will finally clears his throat.
“You didn’t need ambrosia,” he says calmly.
Luke looks over. “Didn’t think so.”
Will nods, his gaze shifting briefly between the two of you.
“Good,” he says. “Try not to reopen it.”
He walks past, already reaching for a tray of supplies, as if nothing unusual just happened.
But when Luke slides off the cot and you turn to leave, you can feel it—Will is still watching. And somehow, that makes the quiet between you and Luke feel heavier than before.
➽──────────────❥
Luke began to realize that his days were divided into two parts: the days he saw you, and the days he didn’t. It wasn’t written down. It wasn’t planned. It simply existed in his head. On the days he saw you, everything felt lighter, faster. On the days he didn’t, something felt off. But he blamed it on training, or the weather, or the general mood of the camp.
He always carried two bottles of water during training—one of them for you—long before he ever checked whether you were on the field or not. One day, you didn’t show up, yet he still brought two. The second bottle remained cold the entire time. He didn’t drink it. Somewhere along the way, it had become a habit.
Today, he hasn’t seen you yet.
Luke walks around the cabins, aimless. Or at least, that’s what he tells himself. In truth, his eyes keep searching for a familiar presence—you. When he finally spots you, a small smirk tugs at the corner of his lips before he can stop it.
Then he notices the guy standing beside you.
You look comfortable, laughing softly at whatever he’s saying. Close. Too close, Luke thinks before he can correct himself.
He approaches anyway, offering a brief nod in greeting. Nothing more. But when he stops beside you, he stands just a little closer than necessary. The space between you shrinks without either of you acknowledging it.
The other camper seems to sense the shift in the air. He clears his throat, steps back, and mutters a quick goodbye before leaving.
“Hey,” Luke says, voice casual.
“Back from training?” you ask.
He nods. “Yeah.”
For a moment, neither of you says anything else. The silence isn’t awkward—just familiar. Luke glances down at a hair tie in his hand, then holds it out without thinking.
“You forgot this yesterday,” he says.
You take it, brows knitting slightly. “I didn’t even realize.”
“Yeah,” he replies, shrugging. “You usually do.”
The words linger between you longer than they should.
Luke looks away first, gaze drifting toward the cabins. He feels it again—that subtle shift in his chest. Not sharp. Not overwhelming. Just… there. Like something settling into place without asking permission.
Suddenly, one of your siblings calls you out.
“Guess I need to leave,” you say.
“I’m going to rest, then,” he replies.
“Have a good rest,” you say your goodbye to him as he smiles and nods.
➽──────────────❥
It’s almost eight at night, the campers have already had their dinner. Some still in the pavilion, some in the campfire and some already in their cabin. You walk around the cabins, seeing Luke sitting near his cabin.
“You look tired,” you approach him.
Luke nods at your words.
“Yeah,” he says. “Long day.”
You hum softly, sitting down to the bench. The night air feels cold. You shivered a bit from the wind. Luke sees it, noticing your trembling hands and how your cheeks turn a bit pink.
“It’s cold. I’ll walk you back,” he says. It doesn’t sound like a question.
You glance at him, then nod. “Okay.”
The path to Cabin 10 is quiet at this hour. Campers pass by in pairs or small groups, but no one lingers. Gravel crunches beneath your shoes, your steps falling into an easy rhythm beside his.
Not close.
Not far.
Just… together.
Neither of you speaks at first.
Luke’s hands are tucked into his pockets, shoulders relaxed like he always is after training. You can hear his breathing—steady, familiar. It’s strange how natural this feels. Like something you’ve done before, even though you haven’t.
“So,” he says eventually, breaking the silence, “you settling in okay?”
“Yeah,” you answer. “Cabin 10 is… quieter than I expected.”
He snorts softly.
“Give it time.”
You smile.
Another stretch of silence follows. Not awkward. Just full.
You notice it then—how Luke slows his pace without realizing, matching yours when you lag behind. How he angles his body slightly toward you when you speak, even when you’re not saying anything important.
When Cabin 10 finally comes into view, you stop.
“This is me,” you say.
Luke stops too.
For a moment, neither of you moves.
The lantern light spills softly over the porch, catching on the pale walls of the cabin, the faint glow reflecting in his eyes. He looks like he wants to say something. You feel it—like a held breath between you.
Instead, he just nods.
“Good night,” he says.
“Good night.”
You turn to step up onto the porch, until a voice holds you.
“Hey.”
You pause and look back.
Luke hesitates. Just for a second.
“…Get some rest,” he says.
You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips.
“You too.” as you open the door and step inside
You feel it. That strange, quiet shift in your chest.
Outside, Luke doesn’t leave right away. He stands there a moment longer than necessary, staring at the closed door like he’s waiting for something else to happen. When it doesn’t, he exhales through his nose and turns away. He tells himself it’s nothing.
But as he walks back down the path alone, he can’t shake the thought—
When did walking someone back start to feel like something he didn’t want to end?
➽──────────────❥
It happens on a day that shouldn’t matter. No prophecy. No warning. Just training that runs longer than it should.
The sun is already low when the horn sounds, signaling the end. Campers begin to disperse, laughing, complaining, already moving on.
You don’t.
Your shoulder aches—nothing serious, but enough to make you slow. You tell yourself it’s fine. You’ve had worse. You don’t notice Luke at first.
He notices you.
He always does.
“Hey,” he says, jogging over. “You good?”
You nod automatically. “Yeah.”
He doesn’t believe you. Luke’s eyes flick to your shoulder, the way your arm hangs just a little too still. His jaw tightens—not in anger, but something sharper.
“You’re hurt.”
“It’s nothing.”
He exhales, slow and controlled.
“That’s what everyone says right before it becomes something.”
You open your mouth to argue, but he’s already stepping closer.
“Come on,” he says. “Infirmary.”
“I can walk.”
“I know.” he still stays beside you.
Inside the infirmary, the lights are dim. Will isn’t there—probably off helping someone else. The room smells faintly of nectar and clean linen. Luke guides you to sit.
Careful. Too careful.
He reaches for supplies like he’s done this before, like his hands remember even if his mouth doesn’t say anything. You watch him clean the scrape, wrap the bandage. His touch is steady, but you can feel it—something restrained beneath it.
“You don’t have to do this,” you say quietly.
He pauses.
Then, just as quietly: “I know.”
He finishes tying the bandage and doesn’t pull away right away. His hand lingers at your wrist. Not holding. Not leaving.
“Luke,” you say, not accusing. Just… honest.
He looks at you.
Really looks.
And something in his expression shifts—not fear, not regret—but recognition.
“I don’t think,” he says slowly, “I can keep pretending this is nothing.”
The words hang between you. You don’t rush to fill the space. Instead, you nod.
“Me neither.”
No grand declarations. No promises. Just the truth, finally allowed to exist.
Luke steps back—not away, just enough to breathe.
“Okay,” he says.
It’s not relief.
It’s not certainty.
It’s acceptance.
Outside, the sky has darkened completely. You walk side by side toward the cabins, closer than before, shoulders brushing once. Neither of you pulls away. For the first time, the thread between you doesn’t tighten painfully. It settles. And somehow, that’s scarier than denial ever was.
➽──────────────❥
The choice comes quietly. No gods intervene. No signs in the sky. Just a conversation that wasn’t supposed to matter.
It happens near Canoe Lake, the same place where silence has always felt heavier than words. The water is calm, reflecting the dimming sky. You sit at the edge, feet brushing the surface.
Luke stands a few steps away, arms crossed—not closed off, just thinking.
“I might leave,” he says.
The words don’t land like a threat. They land like a fact.
You don’t look at him right away.
“Where?”
“Anywhere,” he answers. “Nowhere specific.”
You nod, fingers trailing through the water. It’s cold. Grounding.
“You always could,” you say.
“You’re not asking me to stay.” he watches you carefully.
You finally look up at him. “That wouldn’t be fair.”
The air shifts. Luke exhales, slow and deliberate. He sits beside you, close enough that your shoulders almost touch.
“I’ve had chances before,” he says. “To walk away. To stop choosing this place.”
You wait.
“I thought staying meant being stuck,” he continues. “Like I didn’t have a choice.”
You turn toward him fully now. “And now?”
“Now I know I do.” he meets your gaze.
Silence settles between you—not empty, but full. The kind that only exists when nothing important is being avoided anymore.
“I could go,” Luke says. “No one’s stopping me.”
You nod again. “I know.”
Another pause.
“But if I stay,” he adds, voice quieter, “it wouldn’t be because I have to.”
Your chest tightens—not painfully. Just real.
“It would be because of you.”
The words aren’t dramatic. They don’t echo. They simply exist.
You don’t reach for him. You don’t promise anything back. Instead, you say the truth that matches his.
“I wouldn’t ask you to choose me over yourself.”
He smiles then—not sharp, not smug. Soft. Certain.
That’s why I am.”
The lake ripples gently, as if agreeing. Luke stands first, offering you his hand—not pulling, just there. You take it. The contact is warm and steady.
As you walk back together, you realize something simple and terrifying:
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.
Synopsis: You and Percy have separation anxiety. The camp begins to think you two are dating. Percy doesn't deny it. Fluff ensues.
Warnings: nothing heavy! Anxiety, idiots in love, cheesey ending
2k words! Enjoy!! 💙
---
"I have to leave, Percy."
"Nooooo!" Perch whined, his voice raspy from sleep. His arms tightened like a steel band around your waist, but not enough to hurt. He was always mindful of his strength around you. His face was pressed against your spine, shaking side to side to emphasize his displeasure. You two had been back from your little vacation---saving the entire world from Gaia's awakening---for nearly three weeks now and hadn't left his bed.
At first your lazy closeness was justified. You were both traumatized as hell (Literally. You went to Tartarus). Given that, if one of you were too far away or gone too long from the other, you'd spiral into a panic attack or worse. This applied to sleep. That first night was terrible, everything felt wrong. Your cabin was too warm, your sheets too rough, then your mind began to conjure up terrible atrocities happening to Percy. The worst part was most of them were real. Memories of what the both of you went through one right after another. It had not even been a year after Kronos's attempt to rise that Gaia followed. Who's to say it another Olympian affair would not happen tonight? What if a god had stolen him again? What if he was still infected with that poison in Rome and it was just slow acting? Maybe something egregious was happening to him right now and you didn't know?
You weren't suprised when you saw Percy walking across the green to get to your cabin as you were to his. Neither of you said anything. You ran into his arms, your own wrapping tightly around his neck. Your head fell onto his chest and you could hear his frantic heart beats. Beating. Alive. From the way he held you---his fingers digging into your sides in a tight fearful hold like you would slip out of his grasp---he had experienced similar fears about you. Percy's hands slid under your thighs and he picked you up, carrying you back to his cabin.
From there, everything was better. You melted into his blue, sea-creature bed sheets and pillows. It smelled just like him. Warm sand and salt water. He followed you into his bed, his hands never leaving your body like he needed a physical tether to you. The both of you slept for virtually two days. When you and Percy finally left his cabin to get dinner (with his hands still on you), Chiron turned a blind eye. It was against the rules but you had both been through so much. It was deserved.
This had gone on for weeks. Percy would never leave your side and you both would rarely leave his cabin. You neglected your duties as your cabin's councilor in favor of Percy's warmth. Your days were filled with his sea-green eyes and voice soft like the ocean breeze. Leo had tried to get Percy to go out for "Bro's night" once but he was back at your side in an hour saying how they were annoying anyway and he missed you (though how much he was shaking you suspected it was due to other reasons). It was cute at the time since you were missing him as well, but in hindsight you realized how this was bothering everyone around camp. You hadn't seen your friends in weeks--- hadn't even thought about them. Your cabin was likely a mess from your absence. One of the older campers had probably stepped up, but they shouldn't have to. That was your responsibility. So you had decided to finally go back to normal life. Your break had been relaxing and much needed, but it couldn't go on forever. Percy seemed to have a different opinion given your current situation.
"Percy, we can't say in here forever." You whispered, your hands wormed under his arms to force them off you. Percy shook his head again your back again with a muffled whine. "You haven't talked to anyone but me in two weeks. Come ooonnn. Don't you want to see Grover? Leo?"
"Don't care." He muttered, he held you tighter for another moment then finally let go, flopping into his back. He was shirtless, scars littered his toned body a shade lighter than his tan skin. His hair was a serious mess, sticking up all directions and the white streak didn't help. Somehow, even in his disheveled state, he was incredibly attractive. You forced yourself to look away before his ego got any larger from catching you staring. He watched you get up, giving you those big green sad puppy eyes. "Its not fair. We saved the world. Twice. We deserve to do nothing for the rest of our lives."
"Its our last year at camp! We should have fun with our friends, not say inside- a- and- Would you stop looking at me like that!" You huffed and he grinned lazily. "You love fun, dummy. Why are you being so mopy?"
"Everytime we try to be normal and have fun, the world tries to end itself." He grumbled and reached out for you with a grabby motion. You put your hands on your hips at his depressing response. You knew it was from his trauma (and was true to an extent), but you couldn't let him bury himself in here for eternity. You were so caught up in his ridiculous answer that it took you a moment to notice how his gaze had drifted down to your body. You were wearing one of his shirts, an old swim team jersey with his number on it and nothing under it. When you placed your hands on your hips it emphasize your curves. His bright green eyes lingered there---from your waist to your thighs.
"Percy?"
"Hm?" He eyes slowly trailed back up to your face. "Just admiring." The langour and confidence in his smile made you feel all warm inside. You had always been just friends. You can't pinpoint a moment when you became this physically intimate, but it was slow and causal. Comfortable. It was a certain autonomy that had developed from your shared experiences. Yet, it was nothing heated like this usually. You brushed it off. Hes just tired. He was too dorky and oblivious to flirt with a girl anyway.
You grabbed one of Percy's hands and pulled him off the bed forcefully. He groaned dramatically and leaned onto you heavily, causing you to stumble under what felt like two hundred pounds of muscle.
"Stop being a big baby."
"Waaa."
---
You managed to get him up and out around camp. Little by little, you got used to life again. Percy was always there (obviously like the clingy sea-urchin he was), but you learned to handle the separation anxiety better. Percy also did, but he used it as an excuse for his purposes. At first, it was reasonable. He was lonely at camp. He didn't have any half-siblings who stayed here, so he followed yours. You took your cabin to archery. Suddenly, he wanted to practice his skill with a bow. Arts and crafts? He needed to make a present for a friend. Battle training? He could be your practice dummy! At capture the flag, he would "accidently" get lost again to happen to find you. He was always around. He gradually became more physically close to you in public. He was always connected to you in some way. At meals, he had a hand on your knee or holding yours. When sparring, he would purposely mess up so you would correct him. Adjust his stance yourself. Even walking, his hand was in yours, or his arm was around your waist. It was that soft intimacy you had become so used to with him. But, you felt it was starting to become something more.
One day, you were sparring with this boy from Ares cabin just before dinner. He was handing your ass back to you for someone a year younger. Great potential. You were talking to him as you took of your training gear when Percy came up behind you. You knew he was watching earlier. He had been catching up with Frank (they were stopping by before they left for some minor quest) and waiting for you so he could walk to dinner with you like always. Only this time, his arms snaked around your waist, pulling you against his chest firmly. His head fell to your shoulder and he pressed a quick kiss to your neck.
"Ready to go, babe?"
The Ares boy was shocked and disappointed. He mumbled some sort of excuse you didn't really take in and rushed out of the amphitheater. You felt Percy smirk against your neck. You grumbled and smacked him playfully.
"That was mean!"
Then it happened again.
You were having lunch one day (at Percy's lonely table obviously) when a boy came up to you. A few others---who you guessed were his friends---gave him cheers and thumps up to give him courage. It was cute. The boy's face was red. His camp t-shirt showed his cabin. The Caduceus---Hermes. Then Percy noticed, leaning closer to you with a not so subtle pitying expression at the boy.
"Hi! Oh- um, is he your boyfriend?" He asked, quite downtrodden. You quickly shook your head, but Percy somehow got more smug. His hands came up to your shoulders, resting there possessively.
After the boy, went back to his friends. You smacked Percy's arm.
"Seriously?"
"What?!"
"Stop doing that." You told him sternly. He grumbled and pushed around the food on his plate. "Percy, its not fair. Boys are allowed to talk to me. They rarely do to begin with... I won't leave you if I get a date. I'd choose my best friend over a silly boy anytime. Tell me you know that..." Percy didn't respond. His beautiful sea-green eyes focused on his lunch.
But it kept happening! Like he didn't even listen to you. You cherished his friendship and his closeness and everything between, but this was getting ridiculous. Honestly, it was starting to hurt. You told him how you finally felt it was safe to find a partner, settle down, and go to college. You were finally ready to start life again. But instead of supporting you, he was rejecting everyone who talked to you! Some best friend. Now, his recent stunts compiled with how close you two were around camp naturally led everyone to think you were a couple of they hadn't before. Anytime the rumors got back to Percy, he didn't deny them.
---
It wasn't his fault, really. Percy just didn't like that guy talking with you.
Or the other one.
Or the one after that...
Oh, come on. You were being dramatic, He thought. His little stunts work perfectly. The guy goes away, and you keep your attention on him... Okay, maybe it is a little unnecessary, but he thinks it's a fair measure to keep you by his side. He really couldn't handle it if you left him. You were his everything. He went into Tartarus for you. He held up the sky for you. Heck, he gave up literal immortality to stay with you! If you left him for another guy, that would be a big blow.
But you were right. He was starting to be a jerk. You were allowed to have your own feelings. If you wanted someone else...
"Percy?" Your pretty voice called, tired yet still melodic. It was midnight. He escaped from his cabin once you were asleep to come down to the dock. The lake always helped him clear his head (when the naiades weren't unwilling telling him gossip that is). Tonight, they were---thankfully---no where to be found. The sky was almost inky black only broken up by tiny speckles of stars and the bright crescent moon. Her dreamy light was cast onto the rippling water highlighting its ebbing peaks. He heard your light footsteps on the creaky wooden dock as you drew nearer. You sat down beside him, leaning your head on his shoulder. His heart melted. That was all he needed. You close to him and the calming sound of the lake. "Why'd you leave?"
He sighed and leaned into your embrace, pressing his face into your neck and breathing in your wonderful scent. He should just be honest. If you were mad, it was justified.
"Wanted to think." He muttered into your skin.
"You never do that." You replied, unable to stop yourself.
Percy grumbled, pulling away slightly to look at you with puppy eyes.
"Im trying to be serious, you jerk." He whispered your name with such reverence it sobered up your tiredness within seconds. "... I've been an asshole. I know you're trying to just have a life. But you are my life. You're my everything. Gods, I love you so much, and I can't stand you being with someone else - I know you'd wouldn't really leave me, but you wouldn't be mine. I wouldn't be able to have you- its selfish, but fuck- I've waited for so long..."
You weren't saying anything. Simply staring at him with a dazed and mesmerized expression. It was scaring him. You were never this quiet. His heart was pounding. This was it. He'll have to move across the country, change his name, and start afresh-
"You love me?" You whispered, your eyes searching his desperately.
"Always have."
You kissed him. It was unexpected and something new, but he melted into it. His hands moved to your waist as yours tangled in his hair. It was messy but happy. A simple little joy finally connects you together completely. He pulled away, staring at you with his big stupid grin.
"Does this mean I can say you're my girlfriend now?"
"I dunno... maybe.." You gave him a similar smile and shoved him off the dock, into the water with a loud splash. You laughed as he yelped your name. Cold water speckled your face, making your skin pebble with goosebumps. Before you could celebrate, a wet hand grabbed your ankle, pulling you down into the watery depths. Familiar hands found your waist and cheek, and then the son of poseidon's lips were on yours again. This time is more intense than before.
---
Author's notes: My first fic here, so apologies if it's a little rough. Tips and critiques are appreciated! I plan to write more, but I am employed, so uploads will be slow 🩷
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.ೃ࿔ I just can't come in between them, they got their own thing or 6 times people thought they were dating + the 1 time it was actually true.
"So, you're dating?" the new camper looks between her and Percy after they gave him the tour around camp.
Ah, the long awaited question.
And the answer never changes. "No, we're friends, why?"
Once again, the camper looks between her and Percy, who's standing just behind her with his arms wrapped around her shoulders, her head comfortably resting back on his chest. "Oh, nothing, I just thought—"
Yes. Everyone just thought. Everyone just thought they were together, and everyone was always shocked when it turned out they were merely friends.
Percy and her couldn't understand it at all, because it was totally normal for friends to act the way they acted with each other. Right?
⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ the ponytail incident
It is, obviously, totally normal for friends to want to help each other out before combat. So, of course Percy knows exactly how to tie her hair into a perfect ponytail.
Shouldn't everyone know that?
Who can blame him if he knows his best friend so well that he can easily notice her discomfort with her hair falling on her face when she's sparring? And who can blame him if he wants to help? That's what best friends do.
So he doesn't see anything wrong with standing behind her after she calls for time out, his fingers gently carding through her hair, gathering it into a ponytail, twisting it with practiced fingers and securing it with the hair tie that he just happens to have on his wrist.
"Thanks, Perce." She says, as if it's nothing out of the ordinary.
"Dude, how do you even know how to make a ponytail to begin with?" Leo asks when he hangs back and she goes back to sparring.
"She hates when her hair falls on her face." He shrugs, like there's no more explanation needed.
Leo doesn’t understand, he doesn't know if he wants to, "You do realize you're in love, right?"
But Percy isn't even listening, his eyes already fixed on her and his smile growing when he sees her more relaxed without her hair bothering her.
⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ the necklace and hairtie
Yes, it's completely and totally normal if she wears a necklace with her best friend's initial around her neck.
It isn't even that noticeable— just a small, golden "P" that rests on her collar bone. Cute and meaningless. She just likes jewelry. This one she especially likes, since she wears it every day.
Clarisse has never noticed it before, but now that she stands in front of her while they drink water after training, the gold necklace manages to catch her attention, sparkling under the sun tauntingly.
Clarisse squints her eyes at it. "Is that... a 'P' on your necklace?"
She lowers her water bottle and smiles, and oh— Clarisse already knows what's coming just by the silly smile on her face. "Yes, for Percy."
"How is that—" Clarisse stops herself with a sigh. "Nevermind."
She's tired of questioning it.
Meanwhile, Percy carries a hair tie on his wrist. Because friends should be prepared for when their best friend needs a hair tie, of course. There’s nothing else to it.
People don't notice at first, it's a simple black hair tie, nothing to question.
But Percy fiddles a lot with it during meetings, snapping it against his skin when he's bored. And he doesn’t let anyone take it or borrow it from him, "anyone has an extra hair tie?" and he's silent because he's sure as hell not giving his.
Nobody really understands why until he ends up losing it and he's frantically looking around for it as if it's such a precious object he just lost and not a simple hair tie.
"Hey do you know if I left the hair tie in your cabin last afternoon?" He asks her when they sit together for breakfast.
"No, but you can have this one if you want." And it's that simple. He nods. And she takes it off her hair to give it to him.
This one is not even a black hair tie, but rather a lilac scrunchie that definitely clashes with his orange camp shirt. But Percy is grinning like a child opening christmas gifts, and you best believe he won't lose this one.
"Is that her scrunchie on his wrist?" Katie Gardner squints at him when he walks past her table.
"Yes, and he's wearing it like it's a promise ring."
⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ the kiss on the cheek
And of course it's normal for her to greet him with a kiss on the cheek every time.
Hi? Kiss on the cheek. Bye? Kiss on the cheek. Training? Kiss on the cheek. Breakfast? Kiss on the cheek. Seeing him after capture the flag? Kiss on the cheek. It was simply her way of greeting. Him. Only him.
So when she was late for a cabin meeting and rushed past him with a distracted, "Morning, Perce!" without a kiss?
Percy kind of freezes. His eyes follow her as she walks away, looking like a kicked puppy.
He proceeds to spend the rest of the day sulking. No sign of her around. No kiss on the cheek. By dinner, he's still weirdly quiet.
Grover asks first. "Dude, are you okay? you look like a child that got his candy stolen."
"She didn’t kiss my cheek today." He mumbles, more to himself than to his friends.
Piper looks like she wants to throw her fork to his head. "Is this whole thing just because she didn’t kiss your cheek?"
"Why didn’t she? Did I do something wrong?" And he's pouting, dramatically sad about it.
Grover raises an eyebrow at Annabeth, but before any of them can say anything else— there she is, rushing to the table to take her usual seat beside Percy.
"Sorry guys, had a busy day today." She excuses herself and, like it's second nature, she leans to press a kiss against Percy's cheek. A greeting.
And every single one of his friends is able to witness the change in Percy's expression, the way his whole face just brightens. Long forgotten is the sadness and the sulking.
"How is this normal?" Annabeth shakes her head, going back to her food.
⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ the picture on the wallet
Percy, as a good friend would, has memorized her usual order. "Chicken sandwich with no tomatoes and fries on the side, add honey mustard for those please."
"Does it change anything if I point out that you hesitated with your own order but not with hers?" Jason asks, looking at him as if he's simply ridiculous.
"That's what friends are for." Percy shrugs, taking out his wallet.
"So you know all your friends orders that way? I don't think-" Frank's words trail off when Percy opens his wallet. "What is that?"
Percy pulls out a few dollars before he realizes Frank is talking to him, his eyes fixed on his wallet. "Hm?" he looks down and he smiles at the photo. "Oh, that's y/n."
He proudly opens the wallet wider to allow both Jason and Frank to see the picture of little five year old y/n squinting at the camera with a wide grin and a bandaid on her nose. "Doesn’t she look cute?"
"I— uh— do you just carry it on your wallet?" Jason asks, genuinely taken by surprise.
"Well, yeah? She gave it to me ages ago." And he turns to pay, like he doesn't understand why they're so surprised about it.
Frank and Jason exchange looks and shake their heads in disbelief, meanwhile Percy is already distracted. "Hey do you have those chocolate chip cookies with the colorful little sprinkles on top? She likes those."
⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ pink lilies and cherry-minted lip balms
Friends get each other flowers, right? At least, Percy will if he casually spots flowers while grocery shopping with his mom.
It's not his fault that he finds a bouquet of pink lilies, her all time favorite flowers, right when he's walking past the flower stand. They are basically calling for him.
When Sally Jackson looks up from her cart and finds his son holding a bouquet, she smiles knowingly.
"Is there any special dates coming soon?" She teases, knowing exactly what this is about.
"Oh?" He looks down, as if he just realized he's holding flowers. "Oh these? they just remind me of y/n, so I might aswell get them for her."
Sally nods, she doesn't question it, she doesn't try to understand it. Because she already knows.
Except sometimes it really is unbelievable that his son is so oblivious, Sally gets to realize this when she takes a lip balm from the racks by the cash register. "Maybe I should get y/n one of these, she likes them, doesn’t she?"
Percy hums, distracted by placing the groceries on the checkout belt. "Yep, just make sure to get the one that tastes like cherry-mint, you know? the one in the little pot with the silver lid, it's her favorite."
"Percy, how can you know how it tastes?"
Silence.
Percy stops mid-putting the bread down and realizes what he just did.
"I guessed." he replies simply.
Because he's not about to confess to his mother that he knows that's the lip balm she has been wearing since he kissed her for the first and only time when they were twelve.
So what? they had just been friends who had never kissed anyone before. It just seemed fitting at the time that they should share their first kiss with each other.
And it's totally normal if maybe he simply made a mental note not to ever forget her favorite lip balm. Because he's a good friend.
"Perseus, you are unbelievable."
⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ the date
Percy felt as if it was perfectly normal to be worried about his best friend going on a date, but worried to the point of sulking the entire day? completely normal.
Yes. She has a date. With some guy Percy didn’t even bother learning the name of. Percy had only focused on the sheer audacity of this guy to be charming enough to get her flowers—roses, seriously? and ask her out.
But it's normal for him to be a little protective over his best friend. That's all it is. He just doesn't want her getting hurt by some dude that didn’t even bother trying to get her favorite flowers.
That's the only explanation for the way he felt something inside him twisting when he saw her before she had to leave for the date, looking all pretty and smiling brightly to go out with some other guy.
That's why he doesn’t do much the whole day, he can't be bothered with training or joining his friends on their impromtu day at the lake. And by the time the night falls, he has been on his cabin for hours, glaring at the ceiling for more time than he'd like to admit.
It's past lights out when there’s a soft knock coming from his door. And before he can even react, she opens the door and slips inside, still in that dress that looks like it's been made just for her, her heels clicking as she holds them in her hand.
Most of the times, she lingers on the door to wait for Percy to give her permission to step inside— as if he would ever tell her to leave. But not this time, this time she walks quickly and doesn’t even stop at the edge of the bed or sits like she always does.
No, this time she simply crawls into bed with him.
"Hey, how did—" He gets cut off when she suddenly wraps her arms around him, burying her face against his chest.
"Missed you." Her voice is muffled against his chest, but he's able to understand. "So much."
Percy wraps his arms around her waist almost instictively, pulling her closer to him. "You saw me this afternoon."
"Still missed you." She replies. "Especially after that date."
He chuckles softly, his fingers carding through her hair, her fingers curl slightly against his shirt, and he tightens his hold around her. And it feels right.
"Was it that bad?" He asks, keeping his tone light, as if he didn’t spend the whole day brooding.
"So bad." There’s no hesitance. "He talked about himself the whole night, barely asked anything about me. And when he did, and I brought you up, he got all weird."
Percy's hands stop on her hair for a second, his eyebrows raising slightly. "Weird?"
She shifts slightly, nuzzling her face against the crook of his neck. "He told me that we should probably distance ourselves a little because people thought we were dating and he almost didn’t ask me out because of you."
"That's ridiculous." Percy laughs, but it even surprises him how forced it sounds, how his stomach twists.
She pulls away now, barely really, just enough to look at him. "Yup, ridiculous, right?"
They both look at each other, her fingers still curled in his shirt, his arms still securely wrapped around her waist. And neither of them moves.
After a moment, he whispers, as if he couldn't allow himself to speak any louder because it might break the whole thing. "Have you ever thought that maybe... it isn't so ridiculous?"
His heart is pounding, his gaze glued to her, waiting for a response. "Yes, maybe it isn't ridiculous, maybe—"
Percy doesn’t let her finish her sentence, he can't. Because the moment she confirms what he has been thinking about, it's like his body moves instinctively, his lips suddenly crashing against hers.
Cherry-mint lips welcoming his like they've been waiting for this for a long time, his hand brushing over the delicate chain around her neck, fingers pausing just for a second on the tiny gold letter that hangs on it.
And it's exactly what it should be. Soft. Sure. Familiar. Comforting. And even better than that first time they kissed back when they were twelve year-old kids convinced that all they could ever be was friends.
⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ the kiss
The next morning, nobody notices the change— because there has not been any evident change in the way they act. Everyone just thinks that the clingyness, the kisses on the cheek, the hugs, are just part of the routine already.
Until they're getting ready for capture the flag and, as usual, Percy helps her with her ponytail. It isn't anything that people haven't seen already, No. So everyone just rolls their eyes at them, mumbling about how oblivious they are.
"How many more months do you think will take them to finally realize?" Clarisse mumbles, putting on her helmet.
"Who knows? It could be years, they—" Grover's words die on his mouth when Percy suddenly leans to kiss her.
Kiss her. Percy is kissing her. In front of everyone.
He doesn’t even realize that people have stopped to look at them, because as he pulls away, the only thing worth his attention is her smile as he says. "You'll do great out there, angel."
"I swear if you tell me you're only friends after that, Jackson." Leo tells him after she runs off to go find her spear.
Percy chuckles, his smile bright, his eyes still fixed on her. "Friends? No, that's my girl."
♡. 𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐲𝐬 : Percy doesn't think he's attractive, as an Aphrodite kid you are on a mission even though you don't know each other at all.
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
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