Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

When Percy opened the door to her apartment, the first thing he felt wasn’t the smell — it was the silence.

Not absolute silence, but that kind of quiet filled with thoughts, keyboard clicks, pages being turned, uneven breathing. The kind of silence that happens when someone is trying to save themselves from their own mind.

Annabeth was sitting on the living room floor.

The second thing he felt was the instability underfoot when he almost tripped over a cushion thrown near the door.

Blankets and pillows scattered around like rejected pieces of a puzzle she still didn’t know how to assemble. None of them seemed right. None of them seemed enough. The laptop open on the low coffee table, several hand-drawn papers spread around, scales, sections, elevations, nervous scribbles in the margins. An organized mess — and still a desperate one.

She was sitting cross-legged, her hair tied up carelessly, her skin with that faint glow of heat that didn’t come just from the temperature.

She was trying to work.

And failing.

Percy didn’t say anything right away. He just watched her for a second.

The way her shoulders relaxed before she even looked at him. As if her body had noticed first.

Only then did she lift her eyes.

And sighed.

Not relieved.

But relieved.

“You took long enough,” she said, her voice a little lower than usual.

“Long surgery,” he replied, closing the door behind him. “But I brought something that’s going to improve your night.”

He lifted the bag.

“An excellent cut. The butcher looked proud. Almost offended when I asked if it was fresh.”

Annabeth looked away, back to the screen.

“It’s impossible today,” she murmured. “This heat… I can’t think.”

Percy felt it.

Not just the heat of the apartment — but the other one.

The one that didn’t come from the weather.

“Do you want me to open the windows?”

“Please don’t. The street smell will throw everything off,” she replied, running a hand across her forehead. “And it’s not that kind of heat anyway.”

He didn’t answer right away.

Because he knew exactly which kind it was.

Percy started walking around the living room, stepping over the drawings spread across the floor, the open books, the abandoned cushions — as if she had tried to do something there and failed. As if her instinct had started sketching before her mind had even agreed.

He placed the bag on the counter.

The sound of the plastic made her glance up again.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“I’m cooking for you,” he said, taking out the meat. “By the look on your face, you’re going to forget to eat. Again. We don’t want your blood pressure dropping.”

“I didn’t forget last time.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Almost.”

The corner of her mouth twitched into something resembling a smile.

That was how it was now.

Three days of heat.

Three days too intense to fit into any conversation.

After that…

They hadn’t touched on it again.

Not like that moment.

Not that way.

They had simply gone on.

As if, after the storm, there remained a quieter, more cautious, more delicate version of themselves.

They stayed friends.

They stayed close.

They kept laughing.

He still fed from her on Fridays; that Friday was no different. It was still something charged with tension, something dangerously intimate — but he never crossed more than she allowed, never pushed past what they had left unspoken. Six months like this.

And maybe, deep down, he held himself back out of guilt. Not for lack of desire, but because, unlike her, he remembered everything.

The way he had taken her. The smell. Her hands on him. The way the world had seemed smaller and more dangerous.

He turned his head slightly.

Watched Annabeth there, trying to be just human, just the architect. Just someone normal.

But with her body starting to whisper things she didn’t want to hear yet.

She closed the laptop with a sigh.

“My mind doesn’t work today,” she said, resting her head against the couch behind her. “Like everything is… somewhere else.”

Percy looked at her.

And he knew exactly where.

But he wasn’t going to be the one to say it. He was sure she knew too, now.

He turned his attention back to the counter like someone trying to hold onto something solid, something practical, something that wouldn’t answer back. He rolled up the sleeves of his blue dress shirt and carefully removed the meat from its packaging, more slowly than necessary, just to keep his hands busy, just to avoid looking in her direction again. The smell started spreading through the kitchen within seconds, deep, warm, familiar — and yet what really put him on edge didn’t come from the meat, it came from the silence behind him, from that almost imperceptible movement of the floor, that faint sound of bare feet dragging across it.

By the time he noticed, Annabeth was already there.

Not touching him.

Not leaning against him.

But close enough.

Far too close for someone who was supposed to be as neutral as a piece of furniture.

Her presence in the kitchen shouldn’t have unsettled him. It was her space, after all. But it did. Because six months earlier she had also been there, too close, too hot, too impossible — and now what filled the air wasn’t just the smell of the steak, it was the stubborn memory of something he had tried to shove very far away over the past months. The things he had done to her on that counter… God, what was wrong with a kitchen counter?

“Do you always cut meat like that? So focused, like a predator making sure it doesn’t leave any traces?” she asked, lightly resting her hip against the other end of the counter, as if that small space between them were an absurd distance, something almost comical.

He didn’t look at her.

“It’s a vampire ritual,” he replied sarcastically, his voice low, half-drowned out by the sound of the knife. “If I don’t focus on something as trivial as cutting you a piece of steak, I’ll end up thinking.”

“How dangerous,” she teased, without malice, without cruelty — just tired curiosity. “I didn’t know your thinking was dangerous.”

“Depends what I’m thinking about.”

He felt her gaze on him.

Not invasive. Just attentive.

“And what have you been thinking about lately?” she asked.

He stayed silent for a second.

A second that stretched longer than it should have.

He turned on the extractor fan when the butter started melting in the pan, the heat of the stove making the kitchen even warmer.

“Your questionable ability to go days without proper ventilation.”

She let out a small laugh, short but real, and he felt the tension fold in on itself, as if that sound were a fragile line between discomfort and something dangerously familiar.

“You don’t seem bothered by the heat. Your cold body should keep you from feeling warm,” she commented.

Percy turned his face slightly, finally looking at her from the corner of his eye.

“It’s not the heat I’m trying to escape.”

She pressed her lips together, her expression much more serious now.

“Is it me?”

He took a deep breath.

The pan hissed louder when he placed the meat on it, as if it also knew it had just stepped into a conversation that wasn’t neutral.

“No. It’s not you.” He paused briefly. “It’s what we pretend not to remember.”

The silence returned.

But not the same silence as before.

This one was denser. More aware.

Annabeth looked away for a second, as if the kitchen had suddenly become too small for certain words.

“You know I remember. I remember very well,” she said, in a tone that was low, almost venomous, but loaded with something he knew all too well.

“I know.”

“Then why do you act like I should forget?”

He set the tongs down on the counter, his hands finally stopping when he turned to face her. So far, and still so close.

“Because I’d rather risk you forgetting than risk you regretting it.”

She let the air out slowly.

“That was almost romantic… if it weren’t slightly tragic.”

One corner of his mouth twitched.

“That’s the most I can offer today.”

She stepped a little closer, her arms crossed now, watching him finish searing the meat as if it were the most important thing in the world. And it was. For him, because it was for her.

“You know what the funny part of all this is?” she asked.

“Given the situation, I’m afraid of the answer.”

“You act like you’re the only one who lost control that time.”

He didn’t answer right away. He sighed.

Just turned the meat once more. Too calmly.

“And I wasn’t?” he asked, a half-sad smile forming.

She tilted her head slightly, studying him like someone examining a complex project. From that angle, she could see his jaw tighten and the way he gripped the pan handle.

“No. I literally gave myself to you, Percy.” She might have been slightly irritated. Even the strands of her braids were sticking to her sweaty skin now, even the heat was bothering her more. All because of how detached he was.

“You didn’t have a choice, I—”

“You think I didn’t have a choice?!”

“I was the only one available, I was the one who did this to your body, I’ve been taking advantage of you for almost a year and—”

“Enough,” she said, her voice cutting through him. Percy looked at her with an expression that instantly made her regret her harshness — it was extremely irritating how a 6'2 predator built to lure and tear apart his prey could make a “kicked puppy” face so well. “I don’t even want to hear the rest.”

He just breathed out hard as she moved back to the counter. Percy placed the green beans in a pan with a bit of butter and garlic, their gentle sizzling keeping company with the meat crackling in the skillet. Cooking had always worked like a kind of liturgy between them — something practical, almost too ordinary, that transformed tension into concrete task: cut, season, taste, stir.

As he stirred the beans, he glanced sideways at Annabeth perched on the counter stool, her papers now stacked into a semi-acceptable pile beside her while she got lost in the words he had just thrown at her. There was also a focus on her face that was as familiar as it was dangerous to him: she buried herself in work when she wanted to push away the rest of the world, and in that moment he understood that, no matter how much they pretended to be normal, part of the world between them remained upside down.

When he turned off the stove, he called her with a subtle sound and carefully plated the food — the meat sliced into perfect strips, the glossy green beans, a touch of coarse salt on top, making the aroma rise like a promise. He carried the plate to the living room, to the dining table, and Annabeth followed. He set it in front of her with a gesture that was almost solemn.

They sat together at the small dining table; the contrast between the domestic ritual and the after-math-of-a-storm feeling was both cruel and absurd. Annabeth began eating slowly, as if each bite were an exercise in returning to the present. Percy kept watching her — not out of physical voyeurism (though, of course, watching her was dangerous for other reasons), but out of a mixture of care and guilt that only existed if it could be seen.

The silence between one bite and the next was filled by the soft clinking of cutlery and the distant hum of the city muffled by the closed windows.

Until she spoke, without really looking at him:

“You know, I still haven’t talked to anyone about… it. About what happened.”

He swallowed hard, feeling something tighten in his chest.

“I know.” The words came out heavier than he meant them to. “And I… I can help, if you want. Not in the sense of… replacing anything you want for yourself — just… looking for partners. Controlled contact. People who understand wolves. The same way you’re perfect for my feed, there must be someone perfect for your heat.” He tried to sound casual, practical. Offering solutions was his way of keeping things at a safe distance.

Annabeth gave him a small smile, almost breathless. “And why would I need a catalogue of partners? You know it’s not that simple.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and went back to her plate. He was watching her eat like she was his own dinner, and it was almost comical. “It’s not about finding someone who can handle it. It’s about… about why I wanted it to be you.” Her voice softened, but didn’t weaken. “And the problem isn’t that I can’t find partners, Percy. The problem is you.” There was no accusation in her voice — only confession. A sad kind of courage that cut through the kitchen like cold air. It was the first time they had ever said it out loud.

He stayed quiet longer than necessary.

“I know I’m the problem,” he finally said, with no theatrics. “We’re different species. That matters. It matters to me, it matters to you, it matters to anyone who actually thinks about it. I don’t want to be — I don’t want to trap you. I don’t want you to feel like it has to be me because of some biological debt or because of something I did to your body.” His hand tightened around the napkin, creasing the fabric. He spoke slowly, like someone dismantling a delicate mechanism piece by piece, afraid of breaking everything with a single wrong word.

Annabeth looked at him, her eyes full — not of anger, but of something like understanding and hurt at the same time.

“You think I want to be trapped? You think I… enjoy not having a choice when it comes to you?” The question wasn’t aggressive; it was an attempt to map a feeling. “I don’t want you to trap me. I also don’t want to be painted over by rules that aren’t mine just because species labels exist. But when you’re close, when your scent hits me — it’s not just physical, Percy — it’s like the rest of my mind gets switched off. I feel like I can’t even decide for my own body.” The raw honesty in her voice hurt him.

He lowered his eyes.

“That’s what terrifies me.” The confession was small, almost inaudible. “I know I can be a dangerous point of anchoring. I know that, biology aside, there’s something about me that holds. And I don’t want my presence to turn into a prison — not for you, not for anyone. I know how hypocritical that sounds coming from me, who is clearly addicted to you like a junkie, but unlike you, I remember every moment… and I’m afraid my memory is going to be the story you’ll read later just to blame yourself.”

She watched him chew on his own words, as if weighing every syllable.

“And what if I tell you I don’t regret it?” she asked, her lips still damp from the last bite. “What if I tell you that, out of all the wrong things that happened, there’s something about being your ruin that doesn’t shame me? Even my desperation doesn’t shame me.” There was provocation in her tone — a test. “You think I didn’t have a choice, and I partly agree. I didn’t choose to have cycles, but I chose you. And I’m not ashamed of that. And I don’t want you thinking you need to punish yourself for wanting me — or for letting me be what I am with you.”

He let out a short, almost lost laugh, and for a second they both laughed at their own tragedy.

“Great, so now we have the healthy dilemma of ‘I’m not trapping you, but we’re trapped,’ which is basically the plot of a dysfunctional romantic comedy.”

She rolled her eyes and smiled.

Percy sighed again, exhaling something heavy as he continued,

“That’s what scares me most. That we’ll become dependent on each other. Truth is, I already am. You know that. I just don’t want the same thing for you, Annabeth.”

The conversation grew heavier when he brought up alternatives. "I could look for people who understand mixed species, clans, maybe. Someone who accepts that you keep feeding me, but can meet your biannual needs without treating you like property. I could try to find someone who wouldn’t be a trigger. But I can’t pretend that if you agreed to spend those days with someone else, I wouldn’t step back. Maybe even travel to the other side of the country. I can’t pretend it wouldn’t eat me alive, and I don’t know how it could be any different." He said it with the bluntness of someone willing to face every consequence, even the ones that burned from the inside.

She chewed, thought, then spoke slowly. "The problem isn’t finding partners. The problem is that it can’t be anyone other than…" Annabeth stopped, breathed in, then tried again. "The smell of your body on me, Perce… The problem is that you are you — and that makes me want things that aren’t rational. And I don’t know how to separate what’s mine from what’s a consequence of being fed by you every Friday." A heavy silence followed; for a moment, the world seemed reduced to just the two of them, the empty plate, and the steam rising from the now-limp green beans. "I won’t be able to do this with anyone else. You know that too."

He inhaled deeply, controlling something that wasn’t just desire. "Then maybe the only honest way is… to talk about rules. About boundaries we create and actually follow. About what a permanent bite would mean, a mating mark — if it’s something you want, if it’s something I could give without regretting it."

"And you wouldn’t regret it if I did that to you?"

He stared at her like she’d grown another eye in the middle of her forehead.

"I’m already yours in every explicit way, Annabeth. Your bite would just be a formality." She nearly choked on what was left of her food, blushing all the way to her ears and flushing even hotter than should be physically possible. "But I can’t be selfish and say ‘I want to mark you’ without knowing if you want to be marked forever. By me. A vampire." The way he pronounced "marked forever" made the weight of it unmistakable: a complete surrender, a bond that went beyond the physical and rooted itself in scent, in symbolic possession.

Annabeth set her fork aside, more tired than before. "I don’t know," she admitted. "But I do know I don’t want it to happen because you feel responsible. If a bite happens, I want it to be because it’s our choice — not an accident of heat." She looked straight at him, and there was a calm determination there, almost sickening in its honesty. "And about finding partners? Thanks, but no. You’ve already been part of something that changed me — I can’t imagine bringing another presence into my body like that. Besides, I’m dumb enough to prefer dealing with this mess with you instead of trading it for a different one. I hope that option is closed."

He gave her a sad smile, one that was more acceptance than joy. "I don’t want you to go through this alone. Not because of my guilt, not because of your pride. If, at any point, you think you want help — partners, therapy, a nest arranged by someone — I’ll do it. But I won’t force anything. I’ll just promise to be honest, even when it’s ugly. And to control what I can control."

She let out a soft laugh, something between tenderness and exhaustion. "Honesty is kind of the only thing we still do well, isn’t it?"

"That and feeding in the most functional way possible inside pure dysfunction," he added, and they both laughed. The laughter broke the tension into smaller, more manageable pieces. But sitting across from each other, with their hands occasionally brushing against the table, they shared the meal and the conversation with a carefulness that strangely resembled love — not the clean love of stories, but a dirty, complicated, responsible love, willing to negotiate its own limits so it wouldn’t break the other.

When they finished, Percy gathered her plate in silence, and Annabeth stayed a little longer, staring at the space between his hands and hers, as if trying to memorize every movement. They needed to make a decision.

The water ran steadily in the sink, too hot for the stifling night still dragging on outside. Steam rose in small clouds, fogging up the kitchen window and erasing the outline of the city, as if inside there was only the repetitive sound of plate against plate, cutlery against metal, their bodies trying to pretend at normalcy.

Percy always washed the dishes in the most methodical way possible.

Like someone holding an invisible rein, like someone who needed a pattern not to fall apart. It was good to watch — and that’s what Annabeth was doing now.

He moved the sponge in slow, deliberate circles. The rest of the meat was already gone. What remained were the extra plate, the bowls from the green beans, her glass, and the small pan. It was oddly amusing to watch someone who didn’t eat do the dishes.

And now there was silence.

A silence that, strangely, wasn’t uncomfortable.

Just heavy.

The kind that carries unasked questions.

He broke it first.

His chin tilted, almost casually, toward a corner of the kitchen, where a thick blanket had been tossed onto the floor, folded in half as if dropped in the middle of a thought.

"You’re going into heat soon, aren’t you?"

There was no irony in the question. Only care. And attention.

"Well, I thought I’d already made it pretty obvi—" Annabeth followed the movement of his face, and only then seemed to notice the blanket, out of place.

Her expression shifted.

A faint blush crept up her cheeks.

"Oh — yeah, it’s… sorry about the mess…" she murmured, running a hand through her curls, a little embarrassed. "It feels like nothing really looks right in this apartment anymore."

He gave her a half-smile from the side, without turning his body.

"I’ve seen you turn chaos into award-winning projects. This is actually way too organized, considering everything."

She sighed, leaning her hip against the counter.

"About the heat…" She hesitated. "Actually, I don’t really know yet. My body’s been weird since this morning. It’s not that overwhelming thing like last time — when I only realized it when it was already too late. Now it’s just… discomfort. Like everything’s slightly out of place."

He turned the faucet off for a moment, dried his hands on a dish towel, and leaned sideways against the sink, looking at her.

"Every six months… that’s a pretty fast cycle."

She let out a short laugh, but there was something bitter in it.

"You say that like you don’t know the reason."

He raised an eyebrow.

"I have a few theories."

"No, Percy."

Now she was looking straight at him.

"I’m sure. It’s your fault. Because you’re my neighbor. Because of this little Friday ritual of yours. Because you come here, cook, sit with me, feed, and leave like nothing between us is, um… happening."

She gestured vaguely, nervous.

"That’s exactly what messes everything up."

He didn’t defend himself. And he didn’t deny it.

But his eyes became more serious.

"And don’t you think this might also be your body trying to organize something?" he asked calmly.

She frowned.

"Organize what?"

Percy looked around.

The blanket, the furniture slightly shifted. A chair pressed against the wall, the couch out of its usual alignment, cushions scattered in strategic places, blankets and throws.

He took a slow step around the kitchen, almost studying the space.

"Have you ever heard of nesting?"

She blinked, confused.

"Not in the way you’re thinking."

He let out a quiet breath through his nose.

"It’s not exactly conscious. And not always planned." He gestured subtly around them. "Before heat, some species start reorganizing their environment. Creating a safe, comfortable area that makes sense to their instincts. It’s a biological response. This isn’t just a mess, Annabeth. It’s preparation."

She swallowed.

"Preparation for what?"

He looked at her with an uncomfortably direct seriousness.

"For receiving the partner during heat."

The air between them changed.

Annabeth crossed her arms, looking away, almost embarrassed.

"Great." She exhaled heavily. "So you’re saying I’m turning into an irrational animal inside my own apartment."

"No. I’m saying your body is more honest than you are."

She made a low sound, humorless.

"And you talk about this with an absurd amount of calm."

"Because I’m a doctor." He gave a half-smile. "And because this is a natural mechanism, not a judgment."

She stayed quiet for a few seconds, looking down at the floor, at the blanket, at the furniture.

"But it doesn’t make sense…" she murmured. "Nothing here feels right. I can’t make it comfortable. I move things around, but it all still feels wrong."

Percy stood still, watching her.

"And why?" he asked softly, taking a few steps closer.

She slowly lifted her eyes to him and took a deep breath at the distance between them.

The same eyes that, for a moment, looked tired of running.

"I think… it’s because you haven’t left your scent on my things enough."

He stayed still for a second longer than necessary. It wasn’t ordinary hesitation — it was as if his body had been forced to recalculate every priority at once. As if her sentence had rewritten something in the air, an invisible frequency, a point of no return being redrawn in that silence. The world kept going — the low hum of the refrigerator, some distant noise from the building — but everything sounded muffled, pushed far away by that single sentence.

The silence was no longer neutral — it was anticipation.

Dense. Elastic. Alive.

So full of possible consequences that it felt like it had weight.

He approached slowly, without any hurry. Not just out of self-control, but out of awareness, like someone who understands that their own body is an event and doesn't want to be an invasion.

His footsteps were almost silent on the kitchen floor, but Annabeth felt each one as if they were cracking inside her chest. Not by the sound, but by the proximity. By the presence. By the certainty that he was entering again into that delicate territory where they pretended to live only as friends.

Annabeth didn't back away, which already said everything. She already knew what was coming.

She only leaned slightly back, until she felt the cold countertop touch her spine, like a physical support point for something that destabilized everything inside her. The icy surface contrasted with the heat that was already beginning to accumulate under her skin and in the center of her thighs when his gaze slowly descended.

Along the contour of her jaw.

Along the curve of her neck.

Her skin, marked with sweat, reflected the yellowish light of the kitchen in a way that was almost indecently human.

And the soft veins that pulsed there, alive, vulnerable, silently declaring everything he tried to deny within himself.

"Can I feed?" he asked hoarsely.

His voice was lower than before. Deeper. In a gentle way that made her nipples harden. Damn, she would never get used to it.

There was no trace of command in his voice, only raw need like hers. It was a request, heavy with meaning and laden with self-control.

She swallowed hard.

Not because she was afraid—but because she knew exactly the weight of that question. She knew what came after and she knew what always came with it.

Even though she was almost used to it… it was never simple.

It was never automatic.

It was never a routine.

She would never get used to it.

Her shoulders tensed for a second, betraying the silent war still raging within her.

Then they relaxed.

And she nodded, silently.

A minimal gesture, almost imperceptible to anyone else, but absolute, definitive, full of a quiet surrender that he seemed to respect more than any word.

Percy moved closer.

His body closing the space between them slowly, as if to make it clear that she still had control—even knowing she wouldn't use it to push him away. The grandeur of his body compared to the smallness of hers. It was almost a ritual: the last chance to deny, the last chance to lie to her own instincts.

A hand came first.

Firm, warm, not trembling, not insecure.

The fingers held her waist beneath the shirt she wore carefully, but without fragility, without that excessive apprehension that transforms touch into distance. He held her like someone who recognized her body, like someone who knew exactly how much support it demanded, as if that place had already memorized the perfect fit.

Annabeth took a deep breath as he brushed his nose against her forehead, breathing her in. Percy caressed the skin under his fingers and then leaned in, resting his forehead against the side of her neck, his nose now lightly brushing her skin, absorbing the scent that was already beginning to change—more impactful, warmer, denser, laden with that hormonal tension he knew better than he'd like.

He stayed there a second longer—not out of hunger, but out of restraint.

Out of memory.

Out of choice.

"You feel different today…" he murmured, warmer than a vampire could feel.

"You too," she replied, almost in a whisper.

And in that small exchange, there was a whole universe of things they never verbalized.

And then he tilted his head.

The touch of his lips came before his teeth. Deliberate.

Careful.

A gentle touch, which seemed to contradict everything the world said he was. As if he wanted to remind her, and himself, that there was still humanity in that gesture.

And when he bit, it wasn't abrupt.

It wasn't predatory.

It was precise, calculated.

As if his body knew where to touch without hurting her essence.

A shiver ran through her body at that same instant—not of pain, but of that strange discharge between sensitivity, warmth, and vulnerability. Something that ran down her spine like a silent electric wave, making her bite her lower lip as she contracted under his hands.

She held her breath.

Her hands closed on the countertop, seeking support that wasn't physical, but mental, as if the world had begun to move a little faster around them.

She felt his body press against hers, not to dominate her, but to support her as her knees began to buckle. He noticed before she could say anything. Before she even understood what was happening to her own body.

The sound of his breathing changed as the blood began to touch his tongue. It became deeper, slower. Almost reverent.

There was no savagery there, only contained intensity.

And he held her tighter by the waist, like someone anchoring something precious.

Then he moved down the sides of her hips to reach her thighs, his fingers firm, secure, preventing her fall, without ever seeming like she was being taken by force.

And then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he lifted her.

Her body was pulled against his in a fluid, automatic movement—her legs wrapping around his waist by instinct, not by decision. The countertop no longer supported her. The floor no longer existed. It was only him. Only his warmth. Only that unstable balance between dependence and choice.

He supported her.

And he continued feeding like that, his mouth on her neck, his whole body serving as support, as a barrier, as protection—as if the distance between them had finally been erased, erased on purpose, erased consciously.

His rhythm was controlled, conscious to the limit. But there was something fierce in that control—because he was fighting against himself, not against her.

When the pressure of his teeth finally eased… He didn't pull away.

His face still buried in the warm skin of her neck, his heavy breath against her collarbone. As if he needed another second to remember that the world existed outside that spot.

Her body still suspended against him. Her hands still gripping his shirt, her eyes still closed.

"You taste so good today, Annabeth, fuck…" He breathed as he said, trembling. His face warm from her blood.

Annabeth tightened her legs around him, controlling herself to avoid lowering her hips slightly, to the point where she knew he would be hard and as needy for her as she was for him. Dripping, exhausted. How had they survived months without this?

The air between them still heavy with something nameless.

It was then that she whispered, almost without strength, but completely lucid, a little dizzy and terribly excited:

"Percy… let me mark you. I want to leave a mating bite on you… I want you to mark me too, and I want to spend this heat with you."

His whole body tensed for a moment, as if his own muscles were battling against a decision that had been there for months, long before that moment.

He still hadn't let go. His arms remained firmly gripping her legs, her body pressed against his, their breaths mingling in a disjointed rhythm, too hot to be comfortable.

But Percy lifted his face.

His fingers slid slowly down her back, still under her shirt, not to push her away, but to breathe with her. His cold fingers sent shivers down her spine.

"Annabeth…" he murmured, his voice too deep to sound like a denial, closer to a plea than a limit.

He pressed his forehead against hers, not out of casual closeness, but as if he needed to feel the true weight of what she was asking for.

Their skin was still warm. Her pulse was still erratic against his chest. And her scent was more intense now, too complicated for someone who had spent months convincing himself that it was just control.

Percy rubbed his nose against hers, shaking his head.

"We just had this conversation, wise girl," he continued, lower in his voice. "I'm not your kind. Your world is different. You deserve choices that don't depend on what my body is and needs from you."

The way he said it wasn't distant, it was painful.

Like someone trying to save another person from themselves.

Annabeth opened her eyes slowly, finding him with his eyes closed.

She was still dizzy.

She was still vibrating with that dangerous energy.

But the lucidity was there—embedded beneath it all.

"I'm the one who needs you." She responded, bringing her hand to the man's face, her thumb brushing his lip, redder with her blood. He opened his mouth, following the touch. "I already told you that you're not holding me back. I am. And you're letting me choose."

His chest rose stronger.

And fell slowly.

"Do you think I haven't thought about this every day for the last six months?" he says, his voice lower now, but absurdly firm, their breaths mingling. "Do you think I haven't tried to rationalize it? To turn it into trauma, into chemistry, into circumstance? Annabeth..." He pressed his lips to her cheek as he breathed, "Do you think I'm not already trapped by you?"

She ran her fingers along the side of his face, without pressing, just feeling the texture of his skin, his cheek slightly flushed with satiety. "Do you know why none of this worked? These months of abstinence, the way we ignored it..."

"Ah... Annabeth," he groans, as she writhes against the very tip of his hardness.

"...This...?" A corner of her mouth curled up, almost wearily. "Because the problem was never the heat." She took a deep breath. "It's you." The word hung between them. Not as an accusation. "It's me..." She wriggled again, and he squeezed her with immense force. "It's us." She says, truly not accusing anyone, just as truth.

Percy closed his eyes for a second, swallowing hard, as if feeling something pierce through his defenses.

He breathed against her forehead, their lips so close that the distance began to feel cruel.

A thread of space.

A thread of resistance.

His nose lightly brushed against hers again, both breathless.

Almost an accident.

Almost a kiss.

Their breaths mingled before their lips met.

The whole world seemed to shrink around them.

Her mouth parted slightly without asking, without demanding.

Simply existing there.

And he hesitated.

Not because he didn't want to, but because he wanted too much.

His fingers pressed lightly against her back, a contained tension, like someone holding a thread about to snap. Her thumb still caressing his lip expectantly.

"If I say yes…" he whispered, still without opening his eyes, "…it won’t be just a heat. It’s something that will change me. It will change you. And I don’t know if you’ll be able to come back if you regret it later."

Annabeth took a slow breath.

"I’m not coming back anyway. But I won’t regret it either."

It was simple.

It was everything.

He opened his eyes.

And what he saw there wasn’t impulse, it wasn’t just desire. It was choice.

But he still didn’t kiss her.

Because he needed this to be different from everything they’d ever been before.

His hand rose carefully, sliding through her hair, brushing a heavy braid away from her flushed, warm face.

His lips skimmed her cheek, her eye, slowly up to her forehead.

A warm touch. Long. Steady.

Trembling.

A soft kiss that didn’t promise everything.

But promised that something was changing.

His breath still uneven against her skin.

"If we do this…" he murmured, still resting against her, "…it will be your way. In your time. But I won’t pretend anymore that you’re not my world too. You will be mine forever, and I will be yours."

And then he rested his forehead against hers again.

She nodded, and that was how they sealed their agreement.

A few days had passed since they had sealed that agreement — too vulnerable, too exposed — and still nothing inside him had quieted. Percy was lying in Annabeth’s bedroom like someone occupying a place that wasn’t truly his, but that he could no longer leave. The nest beneath the window felt like an improvised extension of what they were becoming: something crooked, intimate, fragile. Blankets folded without order, wrinkled sheets, pillows he recognized as coming from his own couch, his shirts tangled among the fabrics as if Annabeth, consciously or not, had tried to bring his world closer to hers. Everything smelled like him — or at least the version of him that existed in that space — and yet the air carried something of her too, something warm, electric, unstable. He couldn’t smell himself, of course, but he knew. He knew by the way she breathed more deeply whenever she buried herself there, as if that scent were an anchor, a silent call he was incapable of ignoring. And the same way she felt his scent, he found himself intoxicated by hers.

She had opened the door for him hours earlier in that distracted way, her hair loosely tied, a few strands stuck to her temple from sweat, her eyes half-closed as if the world was happening a second too fast for her. And yet there had been intention behind that tiredness. An irritating need to please, to welcome him, to make him feel good there — which, for some reason, stirred things inside him that were too contradictory to fit into a single name. She wore a thin silk nightgown, short, probably because of the heat. Her flushed cheeks, her rising and falling chest, that quiet urge to please… He felt filthy for wanting it. Filthy for liking the effort. But at the same time, there was something primitive, almost violent, in the silent arousal that grew every time she looked at him as if he were allowed.

Now she slept against his chest, her skin far too warm, almost damp, as if her body were caught in a fire she still didn’t fully know how to name. Percy kept his arms around her in constant, measured tension, forcing his own eternally cold body to serve as shelter, containment, temporary relief. He listened to her uneven breathing, felt every smallest shift, every subtle tremor, every time her body pressed closer as if searching for something greater than sleep, greater than comfort.

He didn’t close his eyes. He never did. For him, time didn’t fall asleep — it only stretched, dragged itself forward, and sometimes became unbearingly aware of itself. And there, in that bluish darkness spilling through the window, he fought a silent battle with himself: whether this was protection or selfishness, care or addiction, whether he was saving Annabeth from something… or condemning her to something she would never be able to escape.

But then she moved.

It wasn’t a big movement, not even a conscious one — just an instinctive adjustment, almost sleepwalking. Her fingers lightly clutched his abdomen, her face buried deeper into the curve of his neck, and a low sound slipped from her lips, a broken murmur full of heat and something he refused to name out loud.

And in that moment, Percy shut his thoughts as if closing doors. Not because he had all the answers — he knew he didn’t — but because, for one second, as she breathed against him like he was the only stable point in the world, everything fit into a truth too simple to unravel:

He was there.

She was there.

And for now… that would have to be enough.

She began to wake slowly, as if emerging from somewhere too warm to leave all at once. The body first, then the breath, then consciousness — everything in her drifting back to the world in a lazy, misaligned order. Percy felt it before she even opened her eyes. He felt it in the way her muscles tensed just slightly, like someone realizing they’re not alone. In the way her breathing changed rhythm — deeper, less innocent. In the way her warmth seemed to double against his icy skin.

Annabeth shifted against his bare chest almost unconsciously, searching for the contour of his body as if it were memory, not presence. Her forehead rested lightly beneath his chin, her fingers sliding from his abdomen and now hooking onto the waistband of his sweatpants as if letting go were a risk. And he stayed still. Not for lack of desire — but because he imagined that if he moved even one centimeter more, he would sink into something he might never have the courage to leave.

When her eyes finally opened, they were slow. Heavy. And even before they focused on him completely, there was already something there. A soft tension in her gaze, a silent recognition, as if her body was ahead of her mind. The corner of her lips parted, and she breathed the air between them like someone measuring distance — not of space, but of a limit. Damn, she was so beautiful and so his.

“You don’t sleep, do you…” she murmured, her voice still low, dragged by heat.

He softened his gaze at her, tracing her face as he brushed a braid out of the way.

“No, darling. Not for almost a century, more or less.” He teased, his hand caressing her waist, held under his arm over the soft silk of her nightgown.

She seemed to take it the way one accepts an ancient secret, something she already knew without needing to hear. The silence stretched between them, heavier than any conversation. Annabeth adjusted herself this time on purpose — no longer sleepwalking, no longer just instinct. She slowly draped her leg over his, pressing her body against him with a naturalness that hurt Percy in a dangerous, cruel, absurdly good way.

She didn’t grip him.

She didn’t tease him directly.

She just stayed there, too close, close enough that every breath she took brushed his skin, that her heat became a constant reminder of everything he was avoiding.

“Were you like this too the last time I slept on you?” she whispered.

“Like what?”

Her eyes traveled slowly up his face, lingering longer than they should. On his lips. On the line of his jaw. On his exposed throat.

“Waiting patiently, so quiet it looks like you’re considering a mistake.”

The corner of his mouth twitched into a half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“And do you always wake up like this?”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re trying to test me.”

She didn’t deny it.

Because she wasn’t testing him. She was feeling. Pushing her own limit against his, not to break it, but to understand how far he would go before losing himself.

Annabeth moved closer, slowly — too slow to be impulse, too deliberate to be innocent. Her lips hovered a breath away from his. Percy felt their world shrink into that narrow space where everything existed and nothing had yet been touched.

And he could have kissed her.

He could have ended the waiting, the control, this fragile line he insisted on holding only for her.

But he didn’t.

He simply lowered his forehead to hers, breathing with her, sharing the same hot, impossible air.

“Don’t play with me like that,” she murmured.

“I’m not playing.”

And she believed him.

Because inside his chest, his heart was racing far too fast to be a game.

He wasn’t gentle this time.

Her leg lifted slowly at first, as if testing her own courage… and then she pressed it against his hip with an almost involuntary urgency, hungry for contact, for friction, for confirmation. The sweatpants absorbed some of it, but not enough to hide what her body was asking for — not in words, but in signals far too clear to be ignored.

Her heat bled through the fabric. Insistent. Relentless.

And he closed his eyes for a second.

Not because he didn’t want to… but because he wanted more than that. He wanted her to feel, not just to beg.

“Annabeth…” his voice came out low, restrained, almost like a prayer.

She let out a quiet moan, her forehead falling against his shoulder as if the weight of what she felt was becoming too much to hold.

“Please…”

And it wasn’t a pretty request.

It was empty, raw, needful.

It was that point where the heat began to steal logic and replace it with something more primitive, more desperate — more dangerous.

Percy held her face carefully, his thumbs brushing her far-too-warm cheeks. He forced her to look at him.

“Not like this.”

She frowned, breathless, her body still trying to move against his as if it couldn’t understand why she was being held back.

“It will hurt less if it lasts,” he murmured.

“You don’t know that…”

“I know you. Remember?”

The words weren’t said with arrogance — they were said with knowledge, with the kind of intimacy built between people who’ve already been hurt together.

He held her firmly, pulling her back into the nest — that imperfect pile of blankets, sheets, and clothes saturated with his scent. The entire world seemed small inside it, muffled, warm, as if the rest of reality had been left on the other side of the window.

Annabeth molded herself against him without realizing it, her body settling as if it already knew where it belonged.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” she whispered, her voice already different — heavier.

“I’m keeping you with me.”

She swallowed hard.

“And that’s cruel.”

“No. Cruel is letting you lose yourself.”

And then he kissed her.

It wasn’t voracious and it wasn’t rushed. It was slow enough for her to feel every second.

His lips touched hers with an almost provocative care, as if he were teaching her body how to wait, how to breathe, how to endure her own need without being swallowed by it.

She sighed against his mouth, her hands rising along his bare chest, her fingers closing around his marble-like skin as if he were the only solid thing in a world that was starting to spin too fast.

The kiss deepened slowly. Their tongues locking into a slow, sweet, delicious battle between ragged breaths and her needy, broken whimpers.

And the heat…

It had already begun.

But he wouldn’t let it turn into chaos.

Not this time.

Not with her.

Percy turned her so her back pressed against his bare chest, his palm flattening over her stomach as he nipped, kissed and sucked at her shoulder, bared by the strap of her nightgown now slipping down her delicate arm. He held her tightly against him, making her feel his arousal against the soft flesh of her body. Of course he was already ready — he doubted he had not been ready since the moment he’d stepped into her apartment.

She moved against him, drawing a low groan from his throat and a hard tightening of his grip. She looked almost edible in that thin little nightgown; he wanted to tear it apart, but he would make it last.

"You're going to come on my fingers first, sweetheart." He squeezed her right breast. He touched and held her everywhere at once, driving her wild. "I'm going to feed while you squeeze my fingers and use them as you please, desperately craving more. And then I'm going to bury myself so deep inside you that you'll beg me to give me a mating bite." He sucked on her earlobe and rubbed his nose against the sweaty nape of her neck, finding it especially delicious there. "And I'm going to let you, darling." His tongue licked a drop of sweat that trickled down there, the salty taste incredibly exploding on his palate. "I'm definitely going to let you."

Annabeth nodded vehemently. "Percy..." He continued holding her against him, pinching a nipple between his index and middle fingers, making her throw her head back towards him, exposing her neck.

Still holding her, he pulled her nightgown up, his nimble fingers going where she needed to, but not quite. His almost ghostly touch traced her groin, stomach, chest, neck, chin, to her mouth parted in gasps. His middle and ring fingers brushed her smooth, full lips, and he left a half-open-mouthed kiss on the side of her eyebrow.

"Open up for me, love..." he asked, her mouth opening persuasively as he entered her. As she received his fingers on the tongue, her legs spread as brazenly as possible, her nightgown bunching up at her waist. "I want you to suck," Percy's voice was raspy, she was right on top of him, on his hardness. And her mouth was warm, closing around his fingers as she sucked. "Oh, Annabeth, how beautiful you look like this..." His other hand roamed freely over her body, making her tremble, moaning around his fingers. The straps of her nightgown were crooked, her breasts peeking out from under the hem, the silk beginning to cling to her sweaty skin. "Lubricate it, that's it..." His fingers slide in and out in a repetitive motion. "I know it's not necessary, you're so soaked, darling." She almost chokes on his fingers. "I guess I just want to fantasize about my fingers in your slender, beautiful throat," she moans, the vibration exciting him even more.

His fingers leave, leaving a wet trail down her chin, her collarbone, the silk on her belly, and finally inside her lace panties, clinging to the wet lips of her pussy.

"Oh, Percy, Percy, please..." she begs, Annabeth's thighs opening wide, the widest he'd ever seen them when he used those same wet fingers to penetrate her.

"Your whole heat for me, fuck, I love how you're made for me." He says in a deep groan that reverberates in her belly, going in and out. His fist circled Annabeth's clitoris as she arched, her hips twisting in search of more, while he also sought his own pleasure, positioning his cock between her buttocks. "My little wolf in heat..."

He fingered her with skill, fervor, desperation, holding her so tightly he knew he could hurt her, but neither of them cared.

Desperate for her to come, for it to last, he can't contain himself. He runs his tongue over her canines, feeling how sharp they are, adjusts himself by pulling her higher (without stopping thrusting, of course), and sinks his fangs into the junction of her neck and shoulder, unlike what he usually did, using the jugular to feed. He bites her right on the gland, and drinks from it there, feeling the warm viscosity of her blood, marking her, claiming her. This, my friends, was one hell of a mating bite.

Annabeth bites her lip to keep from screaming and raises her arm to him, grabbing his hair. He grabs her like a madman, and she pulls his curls frantically, even harder against him, calling to him while smelling the monster on the verge of humanity in Percy.

"Percy, I'm going to..." She presses harder against him, the grip tightening, the waves coming to break. He seems more intent on drinking more, drinking it all, again pressing against her breast while moaning in delight, the eccentric, sweet taste. Shit, he was already addicted to how she felt every Friday, in heat, she made him a drug addict for that blood.

"Yes..." It seems he says it, she doesn't fully understand, but she arches her hips into the air, towards his enormous hand as she orgasms to the point of dizziness. She doesn't know if it's from blood loss or arousal, but her ear buzzes and she falls limp on top of him.

It's not enough.

He breathes against her sore gland, removing his fingers and leaving it empty. "Are you okay?" he asks, gentler than any man in his position could be. His sticky fingers leaving a trail on her collarbone, on her breasts, everywhere.

Annabeth nods, trembling.

"Okay, okay..." He breathes in her ear. "Can I eat you now, my love?" She feels a shiver run down her spine and her throat tighten with an inhuman sound at just the question. "Or do you need more time?"

"No, no... Now, I want you inside me now." She turns her face to him, her mouth open to receive him with her tongue in a lascivious and obscene way, the kiss leaving her wetter and more needy, dying of lust for a kiss. Unbelievable.

"Are you sure?" He asks, leaving a tongue kiss on her cheek, knowing he was about to lose control. Too satisfied, too hard.

"Percy!" Annabeth complains, annoyed by the stalling. He understands the message immediately, turning her onto her lap, settling her where she needs to be.

"Use me, Annabeth, however you want." He lifts his hips with her on top, as if she weighed nothing, only to lower his sweatpants enough to free the cock that wasn't even covered by underwear. He tears the panties and pulls them off in a tattered piece of lace, throwing them away from the nest as if they were something offensive to them.

Annabeth understands, also lifting her hips so she can fit in just the right way, the perfect way, the way she wanted.

He's big, and he stretches her like never before. In that position, he seems to go deeper, his cock crushed by her tight, soaked walls, which sucked him in in a way that made him growl and grip Annabeth's hips to control himself before he could come too quickly, which shouldn't happen given the feeding, but could, given how hot Annabeth was.

In and out, his hips seeking what Annabeth most desired. Her head fell back, her curls brushing against his legs, their moans mingling, she looking delicious barely wearing that nightgown that looked more like a rag. In fact, he would love to tear it off and make it a rag once and for all.

Well, that's what Percy did.

His hands slid down her legs, over her waist, and then the sound of the fabric tearing made her moan loudly, sitting down even harder. Suddenly she was almost completely naked, her nightgown hanging from her body like a rag, a sight like paradise for Percy.

She trembled against him, her breath short and uneven, as if the very air were too hot to hold in her lungs. Her heat was dragging her to the surface of something she no longer knew how to control, but also didn't want to interrupt.

She leaned in, but he met her halfway, their foreheads touching.

Percy's face was close to her neck, his lips brushing the skin where her pulse beat strongest. The bite he had left on her was still sensitive, alive, throbbing—not just in the flesh, but somewhere deeper.

"Can I... Can I bite you?" she whispered, a desperate moan, her movements erratic. "Please, Percy..."

He smiled, licking his lips at the request he had anticipated.

"You want to bite me, do you?" Percy uses both hands to cup her breasts, kissing Annabeth's face almost too smugly.

"Yes, yes, please!" She can barely speak, her eyes barely open, her face buried in his neck, desperate to grab on and bite, to mark him completely.

"Of course you can, love," he hugs her. "Mark me, make me yours. I'm already yours, just make it visible."

She sighed, opening her mouth as if biting the neck of her prey in her wolf form, but hesitant to truly hurt him.

He grunted slightly irritated, now he himself was hitting his cock in her, doing all the work for her.

"Harder, darling, come on. You're better than this, leave a mark."

Her body simply obeyed, now her fangs in his jugular. Percy smiled at the realization.

"That's it, love, hard enough... Very good, Annabeth..." The compliment only encouraged her more, Percy realized, as she moaned against his neck while sinking her teeth into the soft skin of his neck and sucking hard. "As hard as you can. I want a mark that will stay there for days, weeks, months. I want everyone to know I'm taken by a wolf. By you." She bites him hard enough to draw blood, a deep purple blood that feels spicy and exotic on her tongue. Well, if Percy felt 1/3 of what she was feeling sucking his blood when he sucked hers, she could understand where the addiction came from.

She feels him thrusting wildly too, swelling inside her, the peak coming for her growing slowly.

"Good girl, very good," he hums, tightening his embrace, exploding with her afterward.

She stifles a cry against his neck and Percy can't contain himself for a second, letting out a loud groan of intense pleasure. Annabeth collapses on top of him, dissolving, feeling different, numb. Percy holds her there, clinging to him as he clings to her, their legs intertwined, a jumble of fluids, pleasure, and…

"I love you," a sigh escapes her lips, her face dizzy and heavy on his shoulder. She's fading again.

And when he whispers back, "I've always loved you," she's too hazy to hear.