pagenne

[pagenne]

REINCARNATED F!READER x Blood of Zeus

Warnings: Explicit themes, slight sexual themes, 13+, mentions of slavery, English is not my first language.

Tags: Reincarnation, Greek mythology, platonic attachments, only a prequel.

Author's Note: Hi everyone! I know it's not one of my regular Percy Jackson oneshots/fanfictions, but I just got newly attached to this Netflix series called Blood of Zeus, and hoping I would find more Blood of Zeus fans here who are interested with some family denial angst, hurt and comfort sort of vibe fanfictions. Hope you guys enjoy reading it!!! Please leave a heart, share, and comment!!! And tell me if I should make an actual fanfiction out of this????

Before she even came to terms with the new reality set for her, she was once an ordinary university student.

Not locked in a miserable life, but not born under a lucky star either. Hers was a path marked by quiet mediocrity: not the kind that numbs, but the kind that humbles. A subtle resilience brewed in her bones through years of watching, waiting, and choosing silence in the chaos of adolescence. Her story didn’t begin with greatness. But it began with intention.

Her freshman year had unfolded with an almost divine precision—like the Fates themselves had whispered favor into her ears. A full graduate scholarship, generous enough to cover half of her tuition and every other necessity that came with the high cost of education. There was even a monthly stipend, meager in the grand scheme of things, yet more than enough for her humble needs—granted under the single condition that she maintain excellence.

And she did.

She became one of the youngest interns her university had ever produced. Not just another name in the system, but recognized—recruited by a renowned company not just for her credentials, but for the way her mind worked. Sharp, efficient, and visionary. Her life had finally been falling into place. 

It had all taken so long. So many years of coasting through high school with half-hearted effort, letting others take the stage while she lingered behind it. She had said no to student council elections, to club meetings, to after-school leadership roles—not out of apathy, but preservation. Her energy was limited, reserved only for the joys of friendship and the passing satisfaction of hobbies. But college changed everything. It felt like the first time she had chosen herself.

She was going to graduate. She was going to get that job. She was going to buy her parents something nice—finally, finally—and she was going to build the kind of life they had always hoped she would live.

But it only took a second. 

A truck. 

A turn too wide. 

A scream too late.

The traffic light had just turned red. Her feet had just met the first cobblestones of the crosswalk. She wasn’t even on her phone. She wasn’t distracted. She had been present. Aware. And it still didn’t matter.

There was no time to scream. No time to pray.

Just pain.

And then—

Nothing.

When she opened her eyes, the sky was a brutal shade of blue. The first thing she noticed was how small her hands looked. How they trembled when she reached for the bucket of water in front of her. Fingers like matchsticks. Wrists like reeds. Her reflection—caught in the bronze of a polished bowl was not her own. Not anymore.

Her soul had been swept from the modern world and dumped into something ancient. She was a chore girl now. A servant in a brothel nestled somewhere in the slums of Athens. The year? She didn’t know. Time here moved like myth—fluid and distorted. The women around her wore draped peplos and laughed like harpies. Perfumed and powerful, yet pitied behind closed doors. The hetaerae. High-class companions of philosophers, politicians, and warriors. Worshipped by some. Used by most.

And she served them.

She wasn’t one of them. Not yet, which she was thankful for. Maybe not ever. She washed their linens, fetched their food, ran after their bronze mirror-polished sandals when they were flung in tantrums. She learned to keep her eyes down. To walk lightly. To listen for trouble before it arrived.

She learned how the world worked in this life.

The brothel owner was no gluttonous pig of a man with greasy fingers and a penchant for cruelty. No, she—the madam—was a woman of precision and pragmatism. A relic of time, perhaps, but still as sharp as an Athenian dagger. Her name was Eirene, ironically bearing the name of the goddess of peace, though her tongue could flay skin like a Spartan whip.

White hair, long and bound with an old purple ribbon, crowned her head like frost on dying lavender. Her eyes, a deep, contemplative brown, shimmered not with age, but with knowing. The kind of knowing that grew in the backstreets of Athens and festered in its politics and filth—where kings slept with harlots and priests whispered curses in temple corners. She did not pander to illusions. She ran illusions. She crafted them with callused hands, painting the lie of desire for men willing to pay any price for power between the legs of beauty.

She knew the game. Played it well enough to last five decades.

She knew what to do when young girls were dropped off like stray dogs. Some came in chains. Some with silent eyes. Some, screaming. But all of them, in time, became hers. And if they arrived too young to please the eager patrons that frequented the brothel’s rose-scented halls, they were placed below—house slaves. Chore girls. 

Just like her.

The girl with eyes too thoughtful for an 8-year-old. Fingers too nimble. A silence too old for her age.

She washed dishes with hands too small for bronze plates, dried amphorae meant for wine she’d never taste. She carried silk robes she’d never wear and jewels she'd never touch, brushing the hallways in the brothel’s shadowed belly where even the moans above seemed like echoes from another world. She understood early: the brothel was a living thing. A monster with velvet skin, wine-stained lips, and teeth hidden behind incense and music. It demanded from everyone. It demanded obedience most of all.

She gave it.

Not because she was weak, but because she had learned quickly that survival, in this life, was not won by resistance—but by knowing when to resist.

And so she smiled when they told her to. Complimented the elite courtesans when they passed in their golden robes,and she bent her knees to the madam, offered whispered flattery to the harlots with dagger-like tongues, cleaned blood-stained sheets after violent encounters, and bit her lips until they bled when her back ached from scrubbing the marble floors until the white gleamed like moonlight.

Still, sleep eluded her. Night after night, she lay beneath the brothel in a shared pallet among other girls, where the damp earth made her joints ache and the stone ceiling reminded her there was nowhere else to go. The fear of her future clung to her ribs like a parasite. The thought of being chosen, not for merit or mind, but for beauty and obedience. To become a courtesan groomed for rich men's beds, stole her rest.

And yet… she endured.

Then came the conversation. The one she would never forget.

She was polishing a silver vase—an imported treasure from Corinth, etched with dancing satyrs and nymphs. It glimmered under the flickering oil lamp, almost mocking her with its elegance. Her hands moved with practiced care. She hardly noticed Eirene’s presence until the scent of something acrid—burnt herbs had tickled her nose.

“Your mother was never a prostitute, you know,” the madam said, seated on a carved wooden stool beside the doorway.

The girl froze. Just a flicker—just enough that her hand trembled and nearly dropped the vase.

She had heard whispers. Stories murmured from behind curtains when she brought trays to the courtesans’ rooms. Gossip passed between wine-slick lips. 

“She was just a plain girl. Practically a farmer’s daughter,” Eirene said, exhaling smoke from the rolled kánna, a thin reed of dried herbs used in place of modern cigarettes. She held it between two fingers like a general preparing to draw a battle plan. “But wild. Too wild for her own good. Not like you. You’re a little mouse. She was a horse without reins.”

The girl did not know how to feel about that. Her lips parted, but no words came.

“Didn’t care about the consequences. Her old man was a landowner—a rich one. The kind who fed grain to his horses before his servants. She lived wild because she could. Then,” Eirene paused, drawing in another drag of the bitter smoke, “then came the festival. Wine flowed, flutes played, and the gods were said to walk the earth that night. And that’s when she met him.”

The madam's eyes narrowed, and for a moment—just a heartbeat—there was something else in her gaze. 

“She got entangled with some rich fellow. Might’ve been something else. Nobody really knows. Only that your stupid mother fell in love.”

The girl placed the vase down gently on the lacquered table. Turned to face Eirene.

“An elite?” she asked, cautious.

Eirene exhaled again, the kánna crackling softly in the silence.

“Don’t know,” she admitted. “But he must’ve been something. Because she ran away with him. Eloped. Stupid thing, came back months later. Alone and belly swollen with you.”

The air turned heavy.

“Her father, the mighty land owner, disowned her. Kicked her into the gutters like waste. She gave birth to you behind the brothel, right there in the alley where the refuse is tossed.” The madam gave a humorless chuckle. “I found her. Screaming. Half-dead. You came into this world covered in blood and ash.”

The girl didn’t speak.

She couldn’t.

The image painted for her—the story of her mother, not a whore but a reckless girl blinded by love—burned in her chest like embers from a dying fire.

“Be grateful you’re here, little one,” Eirene continued, snuffing out the last of the kánna. “Your mother died two winters later from the fever. But I kept you. Don’t know why, really. Maybe I was bored. Maybe I thought the gods owed me something. Maybe it was the way you looked at me. Like you knew something.”

The girl’s jaw clenched.

Because she did know something. Or rather, felt it.

A year had passed.

Twelve moons of silent endurance, of whispered flattery, of calculated smiles and calloused hands. She had mastered the art of invisibility, of being useful but unthreatening, of earning favor without inciting envy. The courtesans, once aloof and dismissive, now nodded in acknowledgment when she passed. The madam, Eirene, no longer looked through her but at her.

And then, the moment came.

“I knew you were smarter than the other girls,” Eirene said, her voice a blend of grudging respect and pragmatic calculation. “So I’ll make an exception out of you.”

Her eyes widened, the sky-blue irises shimmering with restrained joy.

“But don’t mistake my orders as special treatment,” Eirene continued, her gaze sharp. “This is to uphold my brothel’s reputation. An elite for the elites.”

With that, she was dismissed to the study adjacent to the madam’s office—a sanctum reserved for high courtesans and their protégés. It was a room of quiet opulence: shelves lined with scrolls and codices, the scent of aged parchment mingling with the faint aroma of lavender oil. Here, women learned to converse on politics, philosophy, and art—not for enlightenment, but to ensnare the minds of powerful men.

But for her, this was not about seduction. It was about survival.

She immersed herself in the texts, absorbing knowledge with a voracious appetite. Medicine, to understand the frailties of the human body. Politics, to navigate the treacherous waters of power. Literature, to grasp the nuances of rhetoric and persuasion. Business, to comprehend the mechanisms of wealth and trade.

And then, she reached the tome she had saved for last: the compendium of the Greek gods.

She hesitated.

It wasn’t ignorance that stayed her hand—she was acutely aware of the pantheon that governed this world. She had seen their influence in the rituals and festivals, in the whispered prayers and offerings. But delving into their myths felt perilous, as if acknowledging them too deeply might unravel the fragile threads of her reality.

Still, curiosity prevailed.

She opened the tome, its pages filled with tales of divine exploits and mortal tragedies. As she read, a sense of unease settled over her. The stories were familiar—not from this life, but from another. Memories surfaced of late-night binge-watching sessions, of animated battles and dramatic revelations.

It hit her then.

This wasn’t just ancient Greece.

This was Blood of Zeus.

The realization was both surreal and terrifying. She recalled the characters, the plotlines, the twists. And then, a particular image came to mind: a warrior woman with blonde hair, golden armor, and piercing eyes.

Alexia.

The Grand Archon of the Amazons, a formidable warrior trained by Chiron, who had aided Heron in his quest against the demons.

She had seen her 4 months ago, in person—patrolling the streets with her soldiers. The same Alexia from the series, now a living, breathing presence in her world.

Panic surged.

She rushed to the mirror, her reflection staring back with unsettling clarity. Sky-blue eyes, so vivid they seemed unnatural. Eyes that mirrored the heavens, that sparkled with an otherworldly light.

She bit her lip, a knot forming in her stomach.

“I hope I’m not his,” she whispered.

Well, her so-called hope of not being a god’s daughter had been burned to ashes—quite literally.

She had clung to that fragile illusion like a child to a threadbare blanket, a final denial of something deeper gnawing at her bones. Something ancient. Something divine. The gods, she told herself, were distant. Unreachable. She had read the myths—both here and in her past life—she knew what happened to mortals entangled in the affairs of Olympians.

They died.

Or worse.

But fate, it seemed, had other plans.

It happened on a night like any other—quiet, still, humming with the subdued sighs and shuffles of the brothel settling into slumber. The scent of cheap oil, fading incense, and lavender soap clung to the air. She lay curled on her thin mattress—if one could call a bundle of worn linen and straw a “bed”—with her back to the wall and a scroll balanced in her palm. Her legs ached, her mind buzzed from an afternoon spent rehearsing postures and smiles, and the faint flicker of a dying candle sat beside her, casting trembling shadows on the cracked stone walls.

She tried to focus—something about trade routes between Corinth and Naxos—but her eyes kept drifting to the final page of the scroll, where someone had scrawled a fragment of a hymn to Athena.

"Goddess of Wisdom, who sees beyond the veil..."

The words unnerved her. Too familiar. Too close.

Then the scream came.

Not the usual kind of drunken shriek or a catfight in the courtyard. No—this was primal, panicked, a tearing of the throat kind of scream. The kind that made people wake from sleep with their hearts in their mouths.

She froze.

Then—an uproar.

Another scream. Then a crash. Then the thunderous pounding of boots across the upper floors. The walls trembled. Distant shouting cut through the brothel’s belly like a blade.

She jolted upright, scroll forgotten, and stumbled to her feet. The candle nearly toppled, casting a wild arc of light. With her skirt in hand, she bolted down the hall and up the stairs to the lounge that overlooked the street.

Smoke.

Thick and black, it curled over the rooftops in serpentine coils, choking the stars. Flames danced atop thatched homes and wooden carts, leaping greedily from one building to the next. People ran through the streets, barefoot and screaming, clutching children or sacks or nothing at all.

Then the horn sounded.

A deep, guttural bwoooom, echoing like the call of war through the city. It came from the upper districts—from the direction of the city guards—and with it, the unmistakable sound of metal meeting metal, of chaos breaking free.

“What in Hades…” she whispered, pressing her face to the windowsill.

And then came the madam's voice.

“Everyone evacuate!” Madam Eirene bellowed, pushing girls toward the doors with strength none of them had seen before. “Take the back stairs, go to the Temple! NOW!”

The girls obeyed. There was no time to argue. No time to pack. No time to cry.

She grabbed a small child—one of the youngest slaves, maybe six years old, with tear-streaked cheeks—and carried her through the hallway, past the stifled sobs and the crash of hurried footsteps. The stairwell was chaos, bodies pressing together in desperation, hair tangled, shoulders bumped. Somewhere, someone prayed to Apollo. Somewhere else, someone simply wept.

They reached the outer courtyard and spilled into the darkened streets.

But safety would not come easily.

Because that’s when she heard it.

A sound that didn’t belong to mortal lungs. A deep, inhuman roar that tore through the sky like thunder split in half.

She looked up.

Something was circling above the city.

It had wings—vast, leathery, and blacker than night. It moved with terrifying grace, predatory, each pass lower than the last. People stopped in their tracks, gaping, transfixed in horror.

Then it screamed again.

The beast.

The chimera-like creature—part demon, part something ancient and malformed—hovered above them, wings flapping with a sound like cracking sails in a storm. And on its back… a rider.

Not a man.

Not anymore.

She knew who it was.

The horned figure, armored in jagged metal, with blood-red eyes that burned through the smoke. His silhouette was unmistakable. He towered even while seated, his cape snapping behind him like a funeral banner.

Seraphim.

[pagenne]

PLATONIC Percy Jackson x Older Mermaid Half-Sister

Warnings/Notes: English is not my first language. Characters appearances are based from the books NO HATE TO THE SERIES.

“Don’t go too far,” is what he remembers his mother saying—soft, warm, laced with the kind of care that didn’t need to be loud to echo in his tiny chest.

But she never specifically said how far.

So Percy Jackson, five years old and full of questions he didn't know how to word yet, wandered with purpose only a toddler could have. His legs, short and pudgy, barely made long strides, but they carried him far enough that the cool spray of the ocean mist began to kiss his sun-flushed cheeks.

He trudged forward, unwavering, clutching a paper bag filled with what he considered the world’s finest treasure—blue cookies, the kind only his mom knew how to make just right. He held it with stubborn little hands, the same way he held onto everything he loved: tightly, protectively, like the universe might try to take it from him at any moment.

His green eyes—cheeky, curious, the kind that sparkled mischief and melancholy all at once—roamed over Montauk’s weather-worn horizon.

He took it all in, like a painter committing every stroke to memory.

The sand was a warm, golden-brown that slipped between his toes like silk, comforting and familiar. Above, the sky wore a shroud of grays, clouds clumped together in a quiet hush that whispered of rain yet to come. And before him stretched the sea—vast, deep, unknowable—a shifting field of green and blue that felt like it saw him, knew him, called to him.

The waves came and went, a quiet lullaby of motion. They rolled toward him, then sighed back into themselves, leaving trails of frothy lace and broken shells in their wake. Percy stopped at the place where the ocean kissed the land—a sacred line, delicate and fleeting—and stared.

Something shimmered.

Half-buried in sand was a shell. Broad, pale, like a smile turned on its side. It sparkled with a pearlescent sheen, almost glowing under the gray light. Percy’s eyes widened, his lips parting in a quiet “whoa.”

Still clutching his cookies in one arm like a soldier protecting a sacred relic, he crouched down with the awkward elegance of a child who hasn't quite figured out the mechanics of gravity.

He reached for the shell.

The wave beat him to it.

A teasing rush of water surged forward, swiping the shell from beneath his outstretched fingers and pulling it back into the sea’s embrace like a mother snatching away a secret.

“Oh no!” he cried, his voice small against the wind. He scrambled forward, but his feet betrayed him. He fell back with a soft plop, landing on his bottom with an indignant squish of sand and wetness.

He blinked at the water. Then blinked again. And slowly—almost like a storm cloud creeping in from the edges of his eyes—his lower lip trembled.

He was five. And five-year-olds are allowed to cry. About toys, and cookies, and scraped knees. About seashells that get swept away by saltwater.

But he didn’t want to cry.

Not because it didn’t hurt—but because he was tired of hurting.

Because even at five, Percy Jackson had learned that crying doesn’t always bring someone to pick you up. That sometimes, when you cry, all it does is make your mom sad, and she tries to smile through it anyway.

Because he saw how tired her eyes looked at night, after long shifts and longer subway rides, and how she never let him see her cry, even when he caught her staring at the bills in the kitchen drawer.

Because when he cried once at school—when a teacher yelled at him for a thing he didn’t understand—no one comforted him. They called him a troublemaker. They told his mother he was difficult.

Because sometimes, the world seemed to punish softness.

So no. He didn’t want to cry. Not again.

He sniffled, rubbed his face with the back of his sleeve, and forced a sigh from his tiny chest like a grown man might.

Then he stood up, wobbly and brave, brushing sand from his shorts with a sort of solemn dignity. He turned back toward the lighthouse where his mother waited, probably with a warm blanket and soft hums in her voice.

And then—

Something moved.

Just out of the corner of his eye.

Something shimmered above the water. Not a seagull. Not seaweed. Not driftwood.

Something tall. Something gliding. 

A... a tail?

Percy blinked hard.

Once. Twice.

The sunlight danced off the waves like a thousand sparkling mirrors, and for a moment, he thought maybe—just maybe—he imagined it. Maybe the sea had played a trick on his eyes. He rubbed at them with the back of his hand, smearing cookie crumbs and sugar across his cheek.

But then he saw it again.

A tail.

Long. Big. Beautiful.

It shimmered with soft mint scales that glinted with silver where the sun caught them, rising up like a great, lazy arc above the rolling waves, before slipping back beneath the sea’s surface with a sound like silk being pulled through fingers.

“Woah…” Percy whispered, his little voice barely louder than the breeze.

The curiosity that bubbled inside him was too much to contain. It was a warm and fizzy kind of feeling, like soda pop bubbling behind his ribs, compelling his chubby feet to step closer to the edge of the water. The ocean lapped gently at his ankles now, like it was greeting him—like it knew him.

He stood there, blue cookie bag clutched tightly to his chest, looking out into the endless blue. The tail didn’t appear again. The minutes stretched long and quiet, and Percy’s wonder started to droop like a wilting flower.

He pouted.

But then… something else rose.

First, it looked like seaweed—dark, tangled shapes rising with the tide. But as the water shifted and light caught the shape, Percy realized it wasn’t seaweed at all.

Curls. Floating, spiraling, impossibly long. They bobbed gently on the waves like kelp and midnight, drifting just beneath the surface before slowly lifting higher.

Then—a face.

His heart skipped. His breath caught.

A young girl was surfacing from the depths.

Your head broke the water slowly, deliberately, as if the ocean had been cradling you and was now offering you up to the world. Your eyes—sharp, clear, piercingly sea-green—locked with his the moment your face fully emerged.

Percy stared, mouth slightly agape.

He had never seen anyone like you before.

There was something… off, but not in a bad way. Not scary. Just different. Beautiful. Otherworldly. Your features weren’t like the humans he knew. Your cheekbones sat higher, your lashes longer, your pupils darker and deeper, like little whirlpools of emotion.

But it wasn’t just your looks that made Percy freeze—it was something deeper.

Something inside him stirred.

Like a bell ringing far away in his chest. Familiar. Longing. Like a song he forgot the lyrics to, but somehow still knew the melody of.

“H-Hello,” he stammered, holding his cookie bag like a knight holds a shield. His small voice quivered between awe and politeness.

You didn’t answer at first.

You just tilted your head—watching him.

Like you were seeing more than just a boy. Like you were seeing everything.

And then… you smiled. A slow, knowing smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. Not yet. But it was gentle. Warm. Heartbreaking, if anyone knew what your heart was doing.

He mirrored you, head tilting to the side like a puppy, and your smile grew a little wider. He was cute. So small. So innocent. You had waited so long to see him up close. Six years since he was born—six years of waiting in the currents, watching from afar. And now here he was. With a smudge of cookie on his cheek and the sunlight kissing the brown of his hair.

You moved closer, cutting through the water with the grace only those of the sea could possess. The tide curled around you like it knew your name.

When you came close enough, Percy gasped again.

His gaze had traveled to your arms—faint fins, almost like feathers of light, glowed on your skin. And your smile, once kind and serene, now revealed rows of polished teeth—sharp but not cruel. Not monstrous. Just… natural.

He should have been scared.

But he wasn’t.

You raised your hand, slow and gentle, and opened your palm.

The shell.

Percy gasped, eyes lighting up.

“My shell!” he squealed.

He snatched it from your hand and cradled it like a treasure.

“Thank you!” he beamed up at you, eyes sparkling with the kind of joy only a child could give freely. “Thank you!”

Your fingers curled slightly, resisting the urge to brush his cheek.

You had meant to give it back to him like this. The very shell he dropped in the water just a while ago. 

Not because of the shell.

But because he had touched it. And it was the only thing of him you had.

Until now.

You reached your hand out—trembling just slightly with an emotion too big to name. You wanted so badly to touch his hair. To tuck it behind his ear. To brush away the crumbs.

You were his sister.

His older sister.

But Percy didn’t know that. He couldn’t. Not yet. Not until the time was right. Not until the tides changed.

So you hesitated.

Hovering just above his head, fingers outstretched…

“Percy!”

The sound tore through the wind like a blade.

Percy turned. “Mom!”

Sally Jackson’s voice was clear now, urgent and loving, as she hurried down the stairs of the lighthouse toward the beach. Percy waved his little arm high above his head.

“I’m here!”

In the brief seconds it took him to turn back to you—

You were gone.

[pagenne]

Would it be interesting if I were to write a fanfic about a daughter of ares (OC) who returned back in the past after she died 3 times because she was cursed by Kronos to forever suffer in a time loop and experience different times of death. That is why Ares had no choice but to coincide with Kronos in exchange for his daughter get rid of the wretched curse bestowed upon her.

The daughter of ares who almost went completely insane and could no longer freely express out her rage and just sits silently in a corner, harboring each and every little burn that blazes inside her heart until the day she finally gets her revenge.

The daughter of ares who isn't so expressive and is often an outcast in her own cabin, but still gets pulled in some little troubles caused by her siblings.

The daughter of ares who kept quiet about battle strategies and prefers to do it on her own and always works out in the end.

The daughter of ares who holds much greater rage than her own siblings and truly has the will to kill someone.

The daughter of ares who doesn't hesitate to murder any creature.

The daughter of ares who is a closeted lesbian but prefers not to dwell so much about it because it would just distract her in fear that the day when she finally falls in love, she's soon bound to be heartbroken.

The daughter of ares who has trust issues with men, well, everyone at this point. Because of what happened to her on the previous timeliness.

The daughter of ares who could see what her father is trying to achieve by being so cold and commanding to his children.

The daughter of ares who got along with the son of Hades, Nico Di Angelo because she also has the same dislikes as him. (it's Percy, but soon dissapointed it wasn't just hate all along. But still like the guy because they both get along).

[pagenne]

Imagine #2

An Aphrodite kid who knows they're pretty, who knows someone's out there for them, and who knows that love is a wonderful thing. However, they're too scared to commit themselves in FALLING IN LOVE because they know that love will truly hurt when it's not right.

[pagenne]

Imagine a Filipino demigod that got claimed by Poseidon which dramatically explains why her mother's side of the family is incredibly rich and owns more than 5 islands and coasts in the Philippines.

[pagenne]

Imagine a trio that consists of a lesbian daughter of Dionysus, gay son of Aphrodite, and a aromantic son of Athena. Being one of the most chaotic and awesome trio in camp.

Daughter of Dionysus

Son of Aphrodite

Son of Athena

Lightning Thief:

"You like the son of Poseidon? Bitch, why?"

"First, it was luke. Second, it was Michael Yew, and now the offspring of the sea. Just pick one."

"Why do you both sound so dissapointed?!"

"Because it's a boy!"

_______________________________

"So... Which side are we gonna choose?"

"Obviously— it is to my dearly beloved!"

"I have to agree with him on this. Logically speaking, Zeus lacks any warranty or proof that Percy was indeed the one to steal the lightning bolt. Poseidon's act of defense is normal, given his honor and his son is in the line."

"You know, you could've just said that Zeus is wrong and Poseidon made a point."

_______________________________

"Stop drinking!"

"I can't!"

"Why not?!"

"Luke stole all the coke I storaged that would last me for 3 more days in this hell!"

"Well... At least he didn't poison you."

"What..?"

"Oh, I mean— Awhile ago I saw him summoning a scorpion to poison my beloved."

".... Dude...what the fuck?!"

"How did you know? Were you— No— Were you stalking percy?!"

"Pfft— Why would I?!"

"..."

"..."

"..."

"... Yeah I kinda did. Met Ares by the way, and I won't lie— I could totally see why my mom chose him. The man was ripped."

"Dude..."

[pagenne]

Any other Poseidon kids out there??

[pagenne]

PERCY JACKSON WITH LITTLE SISTER READER (MUTE AND SUFFERING FROM PTSD)

Warnings: Mentions of Abuse and Mental Health

Contains: Fluff, Slight Angst, and Platonic relationships

PART 2

Don't be scared...

________________

It had been two days ever since you got acquainted with your older half-brother and stayed with him inside your father's cabin.

You never really knew your real father. All you knew is that your mother hated him so much, and told you that he abandoned you both ever since you were born. Your step-father felt the same together with his daughter and son, your step-siblings.

Your family hated your sea green eyes. A sign that you weren't a part of the normal gene in this family. It was to the point that the verbal abuse they threw at you became physical and very violent. Your step-siblings would bully you, and the adults in the family would turn a blind eye. If you even caused a single small mistake or one of your step-siblings caused trouble, the punishment would always land on you. Or when your parents are just mad and needs something get their anger out, then their anger would always aim at you.

You didn't understand why you were being treated like this. You didn't even understand why you were even being hated by everyone who you thought you loved. Even at a young age, after a few harsh words being thrown at you almost everyday, you felt like giving up. You were slowly believing that nobody would ever come to love you.

However, he came along. Your brother. Percy Jackson.

You were scared of him at first, thinking that he would treat you like your step-siblings, but he never showed such hatred nor hostility to you. In fact, he was kind, gentle, and understanding. Always smiling at you and giving you good if you ever felt hungry.

He never forced you to do something you don't want to and let's you lay on the bed to rest together with a bunch of sea creatures plushies around.

You were still anxious being near him. The uneasiness of betrayal laying heavy inside your head as you continue to close off any annoying emotions.

However, Percy didn't give up. He would always watch over you during the day when you feel like walking around the cabin with your plushies, afternoon as you sat outside the cabin, and during the night when you're ready to go to sleep.

He wanted to make sure you felt safe around him. Wanting him to make it clear to you that you're important and is now a precious member in his family.

Until one night, he heard you crying silently under your blanket.

"Hey... Shh... I'm here I'm here, don't be scared..." he whispered to you. Soothingly patting the small of your back as you panted with tears in your eyes.

"You got a bad dream? That's alright, I got those too. And I hate them." He was gently smiling while continuing to talk to you. Percy thought that it might make your forget the bad dream even a little bit or possibly make you to open up to him even just a bit.

"It's okay. I'm here... Your brother is here..."

[pagenne]

PERCY JACKSON WITH LITTLE SISTER READER (Mute and Suffering from PTSD)

Warnings: Mentions of Abuse, Mental Health, Cussing

Genre: Fluff and slight angst

Part 1

I got you sister...

_________________________

After the war with Gaia and getting out of Tartarus alive whilst forming new friendships with camp jupiter— Percy's days has been pleasantly peaceful, which he believed was too good to be true considering the Gods.

While hanging out with his girlfriend, Annabeth. A young camper suddenly went up to them and told them that Chiron was looking for both of them.

The lovers shared questioning glances at each other, both of them worrying about the same thing if another prophecy had revealed itself, and if it's talking about them.

They went to the big house and was surprised to see Nico waiting outside by the doorframe.

"Nico, what's going on?" Nico didn't say anything for a moment before turning his head and staring at both Percy and Annabeth. "You should go see it for yourselves."

Percy held Annabeth's hand for support as they both went inside and was even more surprised to hear an object being thrown to a wall by the clinic and hurriedly went over there to see what was going on.

"Will!" They saw the young Apollo boy with his hands held in front of him as if in surrender as he tries to calm someone in one of the rooms he was in.

"Shh..." Chiron was inside the room. Shushing the lovers and requesting them to shut their mouths. Percy looked over his girlfriend's shoulder— only to see a little girl hiding behind the beds.

He could hear her sobbing. Her eyes red and puffy as tears continue to drop from her sea green eyes.... 'Wait, Sea green eyes...?' Percy pondered.

"It's okay... Don't be scared... We'll help you..." Will said in a soothing voice, trying to calm the panicked child. After a few minutes, they could see she was slowly calming down and Will took this chance to take a few steps closer to her.

"There, There," Percy watched as how Will gently tries comfort her trembling form and carries her to the bed. He saw dribbles of red blood on her hand, explaining the broken glass and vases inside the room.

Soon after that, Chiron explained to them that a merman that showed up by the coast near the camp, visited him last night with a sleeping girl in his arms. The merman told him that she was a daughter of Poseidon, who had suffered from heavy abuse by her own mother and step-father, together with her other step-siblings. The merman warned him to take good care of her, or else the God of seas will take drastic measures himself.

Percy was confused for a moment. Who was this merman? And did his father really say that? Whatever the case, after hearing what his new little sister had suffered, he didn't really care what his father might do. All he knows is that he needs to let his little sister know that she's safe now.

After an hour, Will got out of the room and informed them that she was sleeping. However, he brought terrible news. Currently, the girl was mute and is suffering from PTSD due to the amount of trauma she carries at such a young age. Furthermore, he had found out last night that she had so many bruises and scars from constant abuse.

Percy's blood almost evaporated like a volcano. Constant abuse? TO A CHILD NOT OLDER THAT 10 YEARS OLD?!

Percy thought that those people with her in that terrible house were fucking insane. They were monsters, each and every one of them.

Chiron told Percy to wait for his little sister until she heals and has the strength to take a step outside the clinic. So for now, he had to prepare his cabin that might not frighten and threaten the little girl's mental health.

Percy immediately jumped into action with the help of Annabeth and his friends. (Grover, Jason, Piper, Leo, Nico, Hazel, Frank, and Will.) They decorated the cabin a little bit, making it a bit more outgoing and radiating a positive aura.

Percy even asked his mom, Sally, if she could bake some cookies for his new little sister, and Sally happily agreed.

When the day has finally come where you get to step out of the clinic and go to your cabin. Your older half-brother was already waiting for you with open arms.

He greeted you with a gentle smile, but you didn't say anything back. You founded it difficult to even utter out a word, and was still scared to say anything regardless. Percy was very understanding with you. Taking his time to understand the things you find comfortable with and the things you dislike.

He noticed that you felt pressured when you were out on public during the camp tour as almost every camper had their eyes on you.

You started sweating and tears were gradually building up in your eyes. Percy noticed it quickly and carried you back to your cabin with his eyes glaring at the people who were staring at you.