Slowly but surely, Percy was losing the ability to string together a coherent thought. He couldn't think past a mantra of OhgoddssssweeetCirce with the things Oliver was doing with his tongue to his mouth. Throw in his hips bucking up reflexively, needing more friction, needing the grind, and you had a Percy who wasn't remotely aware his glasses were askew and his hands were tangling in Oliver's hair and running down his back and clutching at anything that might make him feel anchored somewhere.