Author's notes: Just some Percy/Annabeth smut for you. Again, if you're not old enough to read or don't like adult subjects, please don't read. Set sometime in the future and does not take into account Heroes of Olympus.

Disclaimer: I don't own Percy Jackson and the Olympians.

The Agony and the Ecstasy

Annabeth always picks out the worst movies to watch during movie nights, but Percy can't tell her that because it'll lead to yet another lecture about him needing to expand his cultural horizons and cinematic appreciation beyond Michael Bay actions flicks. That's the last thing he wants to do on Friday night when he has his girlfriend tucked into his side.

So he puts up with the documentaries on the Hoover Dam or Empire State Building, her Elizabeth Taylor, Elvis Presley and Audrey Hepburn obsessions, and the fucking Sound of Music that she insists they watch at least once a month for god knows reason because he loves Annabeth and when you're in love, you watch movies you hate to make your significant other happy.

But tonight she's gone too far. The Agony and the Ecstasy is about as boring as watching paint dry, which, coincidentally, is what the movie is about. Well, Annabeth told him it's supposed to be about Michelangelo's struggle with the Papacy to paint God and Adam and shit on the Sistine Chapel ceiling, but so far all there's been is 360 and close-up shots of some naked statue's junk, and he doesn't quite believe her.

Percy's not even going to bother with their twenty minute, "wait and see if you like it" rule tonight — he's already to scratch his eyes out from boredom. Just as Charlton Heston's about to start in on another rant about his art, he reaches across Annabeth, grabs the remote, and turns the TV off.

"Hey!" she says, gray eyes flashing as she swats his arm. "You turn that back on right now. I've been waiting all week to watch that!"

"Watch it tomorrow, when I'm at work," Percy replies, pulling her flush against him. "I think we can find something more entertaining to do."

He plays with the strap on her tank top, waiting for the slow, pleasured flush to spread from her cheeks to the crest of her breasts. When Percy gets bored during movie night, his mind tends to wander to certain other activities the two of them could be doing on the couch (or the coffee table or the floor or against the TV cabinet). Annabeth usually tells him to wait until the movie's over, but he's not going to be deterred by a fucking Michelangelo biopic tonight.

She makes a move to snatch the remote from him, but he grabs her wrists and maneuvers them so she's lying back on the couch cushions, her hands pinned above her head.

Annabeth huffs at him, blonde curls obscuring her glare. She hates it when he gets the advantage over her physically. He's filled out since they were kids, growing into a pair of broad shoulders and developing denser muscle mass, and it makes it much harder for her to dislodge him in situations like this. Not that he minds when she tries — her struggles turn him on a primal, male sort of way and if she gets on top, there's nothing to complain about.

"You just have no appreciation for art," Annabeth says as he slides her tank top up to her breasts with his free hand. She shivers as he mouths the line of muscles on her stomach, and her back arches as he pauses just above the lip of her yoga pants. "Or the classics."

"Of course I do," Percy replies, mock offended. He rubs her with his palm over her pants and teases her navel with his tongue, letting her gasp and grind into him until the material of her pants is damp.

"Name... name one classic you enjoy," Annabeth pants, struggling to form words. She's writhing beneath him, eyes half-closed, pink lips parted to let little mewls and moans go free. Her breasts are straining against the fabric of her shirt, nipples hard and pointed — she's the picture of erotic perfection, a work of art herself, and Percy's dick throbs painfully against the zipper of his jeans as he devours the sight of her.

"Well," he says, letting go her hands so he can pull her pants and underwear down her legs. He unzips his own jeans, shoving them around his hips. "Missionary's certainly my favorite classic."

Annabeth's exasperated groan transforms into a cry of pleasure when he buries himself in her tight, hot center and he chuckles with satisfaction. He thrusts slow and deep, letting her rock into him and taking his time with getting them both to the edge. They rarely get to have leisurely, lazy sex like this and Percy fucking lovesit. He gets the best sounds out of Annabeth this way, the long, uninhibited moans that make his dick diamond hard and haunt his late night fantasies.

He can feel her clenching on him, drawing him in, and he knows she's close. He draws her hips up a little higher, plunges into her hard, and that's lights out for the both of them. Percy tries not to collapse on her — while Annabeth finds his denser muscle mass very sexy, she does not like it suffocating her post-sex — and supports himself on his elbows, pressing his forehead against hers and kissing her nose.

"That wasn't the kind of classic I was referring to," Annabeth says at last, voice low and fucked out. She smiles dreamily at him before she kisses him, slow and deep. "But I suppose it's acceptable alternative."