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The morning began perfectly.
Sunlight filtered lazily through the open windows of the war god’s cabin. The scent of pine. The low crackle of embers in the hearth. Percy Jackson, twenty-five, god of tides, storms, and “Holy Sh*t, He’s Hot,” was stretched out in nothing but one of Ares’ tattered hoodies and a pair of black boxer briefs. His hair was a mess, one thigh thrown over the still-sleeping form of his husband, and he looked thoroughly debauched.
Exactly how he liked to start his day.
Ares’ hand was resting on Percy’s ass. A bite mark on his shoulder from the night before was already healing, but not fast enough to erase the memory of the way Ares had growled, “Mine” into his throat.
Percy blinked blearily at the window. He could feel it, deep in his soul—today was going to be peaceful.
That was, of course, when the golden light exploded above their bed and a scroll smacked him directly in the forehead.
Ares snorted awake. “What the fuck?”
Percy groaned, opened the scroll, and read aloud:
“Percy Jackson, you are summoned to Olympus. Your presence is required immediately. Ares has threatened Apollo. Again. — Hera.”
Percy let the scroll drop onto his stomach.
“…It’s not even eight.”
Ares yawned, already sitting up and cracking his neck like a soldier reporting for war. “I warned that little bitch to keep his sun-drenched hands to himself.”
“You tried to strangle him, Ares.”
“He said—” Ares growled, fists tightening, “—that you’d be happier with someone who could match your light. Your light, Percy. As if that spoiled, glittery nudist could handle you.”
Percy flopped back on the bed, dragging a pillow over his face. “I hate Olympus.”
Ares leaned over, kissed his thigh. “Wanna skip it? I’ll go break his ribs again.”
“You promised not to punch gods before I had coffee.”
Ares bared his teeth. “I lied.”
Olympus – Throne Room
By the time Percy arrived, the entire pantheon was already there.
Hera sat on her throne like a judge waiting to sentence war crimes. Athena looked vaguely murderous. Hermes was passing out popcorn. Artemis looked one more insult away from stabbing someone. Hades and Hestia were seated together, very much enjoying the drama. Apollo was pouting like a golden retriever that got left outside.
And then Percy walked in.
Hair a mess. Hoodie sliding off one shoulder. Still barefoot. Still glowing with the kind of heat that only came from a very long, very good night.
The room fell silent.
Apollo blinked. “Percy…”
Percy ignored him completely and walked up to Hera, slamming the scroll on her lap.
“This better be life or death. I was going to blow my husband. Now I’m here.”
Ares strolled in right after, shirtless, bruised, and smirking like he wanted a reason to start World War Four.
Zeus cleared his throat. “Your husband threatened divine assault again.”
Ares cracked his knuckles. “Apollo touched Percy’s shoulder.”
“It was a light touch!” Apollo yelped. “He just looked tense—”
“You looked at him like you wanted to unwrap him!”
Hermes whispered, “He does look like a present,” and got elbowed by Artemis.
Percy rubbed his temples. “Let me get this straight. I get dragged out of bed, summoned to Olympus, because the Sun God can’t keep his crush to himself, and the War God is two seconds from turning this into a bloodbath. Again?”
Apollo tried to look innocent. “I’m just saying, Percy deserves someone who understands him. Someone who knows how to be gentle, kind—”
Ares snarled. “Gentle?! Percy is a goddamn tidal wave in human form. You couldn’t survive a kiss.”
“I could—”
“You’d cry if he moaned.”
Ares and Apollo were now circling each other like lions in heat. Dionysus sipped his wine with an excited little bounce.
Artemis muttered, “I swear to the stars, if one more piece of furniture gets broken…”
Percy finally snapped. “ENOUGH.”
The room trembled with power.
Everyone froze.
Percy stepped between them, dragging Apollo forward by the collar until they were eye to eye. His voice was ice.
“Stop talking about what I deserve. You don’t know me.”
Apollo opened his mouth—
“You think I’m gentle? You think I want someone to hold my hand and write me poetry?” Percy tilted his head. “That’s cute. I want to be wrecked. I want someone who can fight me, match me, take me down in bed and on the battlefield.”
He pointed at Ares.
“That man nearly broke the headboard last night, bit my shoulder hard enough to scar, and had the audacity to call me ‘gorgeous’ while I was choking him out.”
Ares, very red in the ears now, whispered, “You’re so hot when you threaten gods.”
Percy turned back to Apollo.
“You don’t want me. You want the idea of me. But I’m not soft. I’m not sweet. I’m not some poem in motion. I’m the fucking storm.”
Apollo paled.
“And if you ever touch me again,” Percy added, stepping closer, “I’ll let Ares finish what he started. Got it?”
Apollo swallowed. “Got it.”
“Good.”
Percy turned on his heel and marched toward Ares.
“We’re leaving.”
“Baby, you’re glowing.”
“I swear if I don’t get laid in the next ten minutes—”
Ares growled low in his throat. “Say less.”
Later That Night – Olympus
From the top of the mountain, a tremor shook the halls.
Ares’ howl echoed across the clouds.
Hermes looked up from his scroll. “And…there it is.”
Hera sighed. “Do I even want to know?”
Hestia smiled serenely. “True love.”
Athena groaned. “Olympus is going to need reinforcements.”
Poseidon, sipping wine, actually smiled. “At least it’s not Apollo.”