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Maybe it’s his own bias talking, but Percy really doesn’t get why NRU is making such a fuss over Bacchanalia.
He pulls at the collar of his sweatshirt restlessly as he makes his way across campus, his skin prickling in the evening breeze. If it were up to him, he’d already be curled up in his nest right about now, surrounded by cozy blankets and the familiar scent of his friends’ clothes. But his life is never that easy, and so of course his heat crept up on him unexpectedly, forcing him to go out for supplies instead of sleeping away the cramping in his stomach.
He’d managed to make it to the supermarket and stop by Annabeth’s dorm to collect his ex-boyfriend dues (a worn Camp Half-Blood t-shirt and the quilt from her sofa) before sundown, rushing in a hopeless attempt to avoid the cool sting of autumn air, but even he couldn’t fight the inevitability of nightfall as the sky made way for pretty oranges and purples.
The night is thrumming with music booming in the distance and spirited giggles from the groups of students he passes. Campus is alive in a way he’s never felt before, the atmosphere brimming with energy, so full that the electricity has no choice but to seep deep into his bones. He’s uncomfortably sweaty and he’s struggling to walk in a straight line, but he feels incredible in a way he really shouldn’t. A warm pleasure curls in his gut, curbing the September chill and making him want to smile giddily at nothing at all.
He can’t stand it.
The divine influence is so thick he feels like he’s being smothered, unable to evade it even if he were to try. It coils around every passing person and permeates everything from the ground he’s walking on to the air he breathes. It’s so strong Percy thinks he could jump headfirst into the Little Tiber and it would still trail him obediently, tempting him to join the festivities with whispered promises of euphoria.
It’s only exacerbated by the sheer number of people coming out to celebrate, thousands of students heading to the Dining Hall to feast on a cheap rendition of Bacchanal revelry before escaping to the courtyard to party and rave until daybreak in the name Bacchus, honoring him through Spotify’s All Out 2000s and barefoot wine.
If gods fade from a lack of worship, he wonders if they’re bolstered by more of it. He hopes not — the Mr. D he knows definitely doesn’t need the kind of power the university is probably shelling out right now. He doesn’t even want to think about the rest of New Rome.
Honestly, he’s pretty sure that this festival would be gone and buried if even half of these people knew Mr. D. He knows the Romans have a different culture surrounding the gods or whatever, but he can’t imagine a single soul looking at Mr. D and thinking ‘Now this guy? This guy deserves reverence.’
He makes it back to his dorm without complication, and if he’s unusually cheerful, he chooses to ignore it for the sake of his sanity. He’s already chubbing in his jeans and his nest currently consists of his unmade bed from this morning and absolutely nothing else — he has more pressing concerns than the morality of his old camp director practically drugging the rest of the student body.
So he gets to work. He forms his bedding into a more proper nest, placing Annabeth’s stuff in carefully. He arranges and rearranges everything what feels like a hundred times, his instincts raging and quickly taking over his ability to form conscious thought. By the time he’s happy with it, his sweatshirt is sticking to his skin unpleasantly and he’s decidedly more than half-hard, and gods, he always manages to forget how much he hates his heats until they’re here again.
They hadn’t been so bad when he’d been with Annabeth — having an alpha to soothe him and satiate his more carnal desires actually made the whole thing pretty nice, but without one, they’re absolute misery. The beginning stages are easy enough to ignore or sleep through, but once he’s gone, he’s gone. He’ll take some of the things he’s babbled into his pillow to the grave.
He manages to collapse into the nest instead of onto the floor, and he rolls around desperately for a moment trying to relax. When that proves futile, he settles for undressing, peeling his hoodie and pants off and tossing them thoughtlessly over the side of the bed. It distracts him from the fever for a second, but the feeling of the sheets rubbing against his bare skin only serves to work him up more, making him huff in annoyance. Really a lose-lose situation, here, huh?
The thrill of the night wears off just as quickly as it came, leaving him frustrated, hot, and way hornier than he should be for how early he is into his heat. He can’t decide if it’s better or worse than being loopy on the smell of wine and the sound of laughter.
He feels slick start to leak down his thigh, soaking through his briefs and pooling onto the sheets below. His hole clenches around nothing, and the sensation results in a full-body shiver.
Worse. It’s definitely worse.
He groans, giving in and reaching down past the waistband of his underwear. He shudders when he grabs his cock, stroking it a few times before pressing down on the tip roughly. He’s aching to be filled, but he knows his fingers will just make it worse, a cruel imitation of what he really wants. So he settles on making do with his hand, even if his hind brain is screaming in protest with every pump of his fist.
He’s leaking pre-cum steadily, making the glide of his hand wonderfully smooth. He’s already so far gone, delirious on hormones and the sheer power of his own basal instincts that he’s practically incoherent, hardly able to think past empty, breed me, alpha, need. There’s no way he’s going to survive this.
The amount of slick pouring out of him is obscene, and he can feel tears gathering at the corners of his eyes, desperation flowing through him so naturally, it’s like his own blood.
His hand speeds up around his dick, pressing against the underside of the head just the way he likes. He’s whining, loud and uncaring, fondling his balls with one hand while the other moves, up and down, faster and faster. He wants to sob from overstimulation. He wants to cry from wanting.
He strokes and jerks and pumps and everything in between, one, two, three, too many times for his muddled mind to keep track of. He’s soaked in pre-cum and slick and it should be gross but it just amplifies everything more, his bucking hips smearing the dampness everywhere.
It feels like centuries before he cums. It feels like twenty seconds. For all he knows and cares, he’s floating on a plane untouchable by mankind and he’s cumming, and it’s somehow everything he needs and not nearly enough. His back is arched off the bed and he’s flying and he’s drowning all at once.
He heaves as he crumples back onto the sheets, unsatisfied despite the cum drying on his stomach. He knows he should clean it up before it gets crusty and uncomfortable, but he can’t bring himself to bother. He’s gonna be crusty and uncomfortable by the end of this anyways, so what does it matter, really?
His hole is still loose and dripping despite the orgasm, and he isn’t nearly strong enough to stop himself from flopping onto his stomach and propping himself up on one of his elbows when his brain tells him to. He circles a finger around his hole lightly, using the slick dribbling out to wet it, before shoving it inside harshly. He doesn’t have time for gentle. He doesn’t want gentle.
He wants to be taken, and so he takes. He fucks the finger in and out without care, jabbing at his prostate with brutal precision. When he slows down, he only does so to rub at the spot mercilessly, embracing the wet streaks running down his cheeks as he coaxes himself back to full hardness within minutes.
“Alpha,” he cries, yearning in a way that makes him understand some of the more ancient myths. Maybe he’s more god than he’s been giving himself credit for — he thinks he’d do absolutely anything for a knot right now.
He’s lost in sensation, can feel himself slipping fast into the blur of his heat, and he’s never been more grateful to be in New Rome than he is now. If a monster were to attack him like this, he doesn’t know that he’d be able to do much more than bear his neck and beg like a bitch.
“Well, don’t you make a lovely offering?” a new voice purrs, the baritone making Percy tremble. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been paid tribute in such a way. I must admit, I’m well pleased.”
His hazy mind makes it nearly impossible to think about anything other than the sudden scent of berries clouding his senses. It’s delightful — sweet, but not sugary, earthy undertones and the richness of a green vine. It transports him to a sunny orchard and makes him whimper and spread his legs wantonly.
It’s so incredibly alpha, and Percy manages to push himself onto his hands and knees and present himself properly, even going as far as to spread his hole apart with his fingers, before the words catch up to him. He freezes, fingers still stuffed inside himself, his slick somehow oozing out around them even more fervently at the new presence in the room.
Even in his delirium, he knows there definitely shouldn’t be an alpha in the room with him. However, because of his delirium, he’s overjoyed that there is.
The alpha rumbles deep in his chest, seemingly content to watch the display from his place at the foot of the bed. Percy flushes despite himself, unsure whether he wants to run and hide or beg the alpha to touch him. He takes a deep breath, forcing himself to turn his head and look at his new company, and —
Percy moans.
The alpha’s eyes are sharp, a tantalizing violet that pulls Percy in without permission. He’s clad in what looks like some kind of ceremonial toga, the wool draped over his body in an elaborate way that Percy’s sure he could spend hours trying to figure out to no avail. His dark curls are crowned with ivy, and when he smiles amusedly, Percy’s attention is drawn to the faint trace of red at the corners of his mouth.
Something about him is unsettlingly familiar. Percy’s certain he’s never seen him before, and yet he feels like he knows him, recognition sinking in somewhere deep in the back of his mind behind the fogginess of his heat. He pushes the thought aside, ignoring the alarm bells ringing in his ear and the sad voice of his mom in his memories — you have to be wary of the gods, Percy; you never know what they’re capable of — opting to arch his back further instead.
“Alpha?” Percy asks, fluttering his lashes like the omegas he used to watch on TV. “Help me?”
“Of course, sweet thing,” the alpha coos, a wicked grin playing at his lips. Percy only vaguely registers his cock straining against his stomach; he’s so empty and there’s an alpha here and he’s kneeling in his nest and he’s getting closer and holy shit there’s an alpha here.
The alpha makes himself comfortable, permeating Percy’s nest with his scent, and pulls Percy towards him by his thighs. Percy mewls, high in his throat, the show of strength gratifying something primal inside of him.
The alpha drapes himself over Percy’s back, and for a moment, Percy’s sure he’s finally going to get what his body’s been begging for. Instead, he tips Percy’s face towards his, drawing him into a passionate kiss. The alpha kisses him like it’s something he’s wanted to do for years, the glide of his tongue leaving Percy tingling. His mouth is honeyed, the sweetness teasing Percy’s taste buds, and Percy thinks he could get addicted to this.
He pulls away, leaving Percy panting, and chuckles when Percy tries to follow him. Percy feels drunk — whether on hormones or the taste of the alpha, he’s not sure. He tilts Percy’s head to the side, and leans down to mouth at the side of his neck, kisses and nips and harsh sucks. It’s incredible, but the moment of respite after the kiss clears Percy’s head just enough to catch up.
“Do I know you?” he asks, bearing his neck to give the alpha better access.
“I don’t know,” the alpha hums, pausing his ministrations. “Do you?”
When Percy glances back at him, the alpha is already staring. His eyes are molten, like pressed grapes, and he looks entirely too entertained by Percy’s confusion. Percy doesn’t get the joke.
“Who are you?” he tries again, finding he doesn’t particularly care for the answer when the alpha goes back to sucking marks into his skin, paying special attention to his scent gland.
“I go by many names,” the alpha replies easily, hot breath against his neck making Percy quiver. Percy wants to respond, but before he can, the alpha is shuffling away, hands firm against his back. He makes a noise of complaint, earning another laugh from the alpha, and suddenly something warm and wet is flat on his hole and Percy howls.
The alpha licks into him greedily, giving Percy no time to adjust. He slurps up the slick gushing out of him, lapping up the streaks on his thighs before returning to his hole, pressing his tongue inside to draw more out. He does it again and again, and Percy can’t even bring himself to be embarrassed of the sounds he’s making.
The alpha groans into his ass at a particularly loud keen, fingers pressing tightly into Percy's thighs. Percy hopes he’ll be able to see the crescent-shaped marks in the morning.
“You taste so good, darling,” the alpha murmurs, still eating Percy out like he’s starving. “So, so sweet. What a beautiful omega you are.”
“Alpha, please,” Percy whimpers, clutching the pillow under his head tightly. It’s so good, so good, but he needs so much more. “Please, wanna be full of you.”
The alpha dips his tongue into Percy’s hole, deep and wet, before he pulls back to speak, voice playful, “You seem quite full as it is.”
Percy whimpers, shaking his head fervently.
“No?” the alpha asks, mocking. “This isn’t good enough for you, is it?”
“I need more,” Percy whines, pushing his ass further into the air.
“You will take what you are given,” he says, hard edge to his voice. “You would do well to remember your place, Omega. This is my night.”
He dives back in before Percy has a chance to fully process, drinking Percy’s slick with a satisfied sigh. Percy shoves his face into his pillow as the alpha licks around his rim, muffled sobs spilling out of his mouth. His cock is pressed between his stomach and the sheets, and every twitch of his body just makes him more sensitive.
“I’ve always wondered if you’d be as sweet as you look,” the alpha says, tone soft again, like he was never angry at all. “Somehow, you’ve managed to surpass even my wildest dreams.”
He presses his tongue flat against Percy’s hole again, before licking, and licking, and licking. Percy’s shaking, struggling to stop his hips from jerking, desperate to get more of the alpha’s mouth on him and more of the sheets against his cock and desperate to get less, fire pooling in his gut dangerously fast.
He’s damp, slick flooding the space between his thighs, the alpha’s saliva sticky on his skin. It’s intoxicating. He’s desperate to be filled with something bigger than the alpha’s tongue, but he wants to please the alpha even more.
“Are you close, darling?” the alpha asks, caressing the back of his leg lightly. When Percy moans, he smiles, lapping into his hole with more fervor. “Go ahead, precious thing. Let me really taste you.”
Percy’s body locks up, his muscles tensing. He sobs, grasping at the pillow and the sheets and anything he can reach, before relaxing, spilling onto the bed below him.
The alpha lets out a pleased sound, grabbing Percy by the waist and flipping him over onto his back. Percy stares down at him, eyes half-lidded and sight blurred, but he still isn’t prepared when the alpha takes his softening cock into his mouth, suckling at the tip. His whole body spasms, the overstimulation almost too much to handle. The alpha laughs lowly as he laps up the rest of the cum on his belly before pulling back to look down at his work, licking at his lips.
“You did so well, precious,” the alpha croons, mouth splitting into a wolfish grin, “Almost makes me want to give you a baby.”
Percy perks up at that, hole twitching in interest. The alpha laughs, moving backward in his nest, and the movement makes Percy look at him, really look at him, and what he sees makes his brows furrow in befuddlement.
“Mr. D?” he asks, disbelieving. Something about his face has changed, Percy thinks — his jaw a little less sharp, his eyes a little more mad.
The alpha grimaces, distaste clear on his face, “You may call me Lord Bacchus, actually.”
Percy swallows, eyes wide, searching for the right words to say. Bacchus’ lips are on his before he can, hungry and wet, but it doesn’t really feel like the goodbye Percy thinks it should.
Bacchus pulls back, grinning against his mouth.
“Happy Bacchanalia, Peter.”