Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

They never should have been friends.

Not colleagues.

Not even acquaintances.

Wolves and vampires coexisted like two parallel lines: close enough to notice, too distant to touch. Peace between the species was built on unwritten rules, silent boundaries, polite coexistence — and an ancient fear both sides pretended to have forgotten.

But Percy and Annabeth were never very good at respecting anything imposed on them.

It all started with a wrong door.

She had just moved into the building — tired, anxious, exhausted from the life of a lone wolf no one could understand, especially not an architect in the heart of the city. He was arriving in the early hours of the morning, coming back from an overnight shift at the hospital, where he worked to appear “normal” enough despite being the only one capable of performing an 18-hour surgery without even yawning. Both distracted, both irritated with the world, both far too accustomed to their own solitude.

She opened the unlocked door she thought was hers.

He was inside, taking off his shirt.

No screaming.

No jumping back.

Just a stare that lasted far too long for two strangers.

“This isn’t my apartment.”

“Clearly not.”

Under normal circumstances, that would have been the end.

An apology, and they would never look at each other again.

But Percy asked if she was okay, with that casual concern of a vampire Annabeth knew she should avoid. After all, from the very first moment it was obvious what they were to each other.

And she lied, answering yes.

And he offered her coffee. Well, it was one in the morning — what a ridiculous time to drink coffee, right?

And she accepted, only because she didn’t have the strength to refuse, or maybe because her instincts knew more than she did.

He was the first creature in years who didn’t try to categorize what she was.

She was the first creature in decades who wasn’t afraid to get close to him.

An unlikely friendship was born from that moment a year ago. No warning. No logic. No permission from anyone.

Movies shared on the couch, long conversations into the night, ridiculous complaints about the human world… Late-night walks because she couldn’t sleep and he never slept anyway.

Little routines that fit together so naturally they began to feel inevitable.

There was no flirting.

No hidden intentions. At least, none they dared acknowledge. They couldn’t afford to.

Just two beings too wrong for the world, who for some reason felt right only beside each other.

Annabeth, with her quiet resignation of a wolf without a pack.

Percy, with the irritable humor of a vampire far too powerful to belong anywhere.

Their friendship was built on their shared loneliness and the strange safety they only felt when the other was around.

So it was no surprise to anyone — not even to themselves — when Percy started walking into her apartment without knocking, and she simply… let him. After all, she knew she could do the same, and she did.

When he complained, she listened.

When she stayed silent, he understood.

When one of them needed something, the other appeared. Always.

It was wrong.

It was secret.

The kind of intimacy no one would approve of. Her biological mother least of all.

But it was theirs.

And it was exactly because it was so theirs that, on that particular night, when Percy walked into her apartment grumbling after a brutal Friday shift and collapsed onto her couch like it was his own home, she didn’t even look up from the TV.

And it was exactly on that day that Annabeth’s problems had begun.

Percy lay sprawled on her couch like he owned the place — one arm thrown over his eyes, the other dangling off the side, his fingers twitching in the air with irritation, punctuating every grumbled complaint. It should have been illegal for him to look that attractive, but that was the nature of vampires: everything about them was alluring. Alluring in a deadly way. Especially Percy, one of the most powerful vampires of the century. He was beautiful — beautifully lethal. Good thing that didn’t affect Annabeth at all; she had never even gone into heat before. She’d only had sex twice in college — both times with a human who fetishized wolves — which had been terrible enough to make her swear off the idea altogether. Not having heat was a blessing. A blessing that kept her immune to Percy’s charm and happy to maintain an uncomplicated friendship.

“You know, I swear on everything that’s holy, wise girl, if I have to watch one more human faint in front of me, I’m going to start carrying smelling salts in my pocket. Three seconds of a bite and boom! Their blood pressure drops like they got hit by a truck!” He huffed, stressed. Well, maybe he really wasn’t feeding the way he needed to.

She, on the other hand, didn’t seem even remotely affected by the drama. Sitting on the floor with her back against the couch, she absentmindedly nibbled on a piece of chocolate while watching a movie she’d already seen about a hundred times.

“You always complain about that, Percy.”

“And I’ll keep complaining! There’s no way none of them can handle more than two sips.”

The wolf raised an eyebrow but didn’t look away from the TV. The main character was about to discover that the hero was actually the villain.

“Then stop choosing humans with a history of anemia, right?”

“I DO NOT ASK THAT ON A FIRST DATE!”

She laughed — a short, dry laugh that was so characteristic of her. A sound that said I care, but I’m not going to show it.

Her personality was like that: detached. A kind of lightness that was almost irritating for someone who’d never had a pack, never had a sense of belonging, never had any emotional guidance from anyone but herself. The world taught her detachment, and she learned it well, from early on, since childhood.

But Percy… Percy was an exception she would never admit out loud.

“Yeah. Tragic.” She finally looked at him now, without a drop of sympathy. “Must be awful for you, Edward Cullen.”

Percy scoffed.

“You know I hate that stereotype, Beth.” She tried to hold back a smile. Yeah, he genuinely hated it. Not only him, every vampire thought the movie humans made was deeply offensive. It had been a whole thing: protests, boycotts, everything. Wolves found it hilarious, and she wasn’t any different. “And the terrible taste of those community centers,” he continued. “Have you ever tasted blood from those humans? Of course not, you’re all morally righteous—”

“I’m not morally anything, Percy,” she cut him off, flat. “I just have taste.” And then, one last bite of chocolate. Annabeth didn’t like human blood — she preferred the things they cooked. The Denver Steak was an amazing meet, you know? Rare, of course. 

That earned him a half-smile, the kind of smile he only had with her.

She watched him for a moment, sprawled on her couch. He looked tired. Irritated. A bit paler than usual, which meant he hadn’t fed properly in days. Not because he didn’t want to, but because he hated everything involved in doing it with humans. The risk. The unpredictability. The fact that some fainted before he even started. The constant fear of taking it too far.

He did have blood bags stored at home, but she knew vampires preferred fresh blood. There were volunteer centers across the city where Percy went once a week, on Fridays, to feed. It was normal for humans to faint — it was basically like donating blood in real time. But with Percy specifically, it was different. He was the strongest vampire of his century, so he needed to feed better. More blood, more refinement, more purity. So you can imagine how those volunteer centers probably offered diabetic, greasy blood — normal, given the country they lived in. Not to mention he couldn’t even swallow twice before the person fainted, which forced him to hunt animals (something he absolutely hated) or consume the cold, bland blood from his stock.

“I just want to drink without feeling like I’m committing murder, you know? And I hate having to travel to the mountains to hunt. I hate hunting.”

“Truly tragic.”

“You’re mocking me.”

“I always am.”

He huffed. “You’re impossible.”

“It’s a talent.”

The movie played for a few seconds, the screen painting their faces in bluish tones. To anyone else, it was just comfortable silence between friends. But she felt the weight of it — a dense, almost tangible weight — as his complaints echoed inside her. Annabeth was thinking about something, a possibility she was wrestling with.

She knew the history. The ancient agreements. The unwritten rules between their species.

Vampires don’t drink wolves. Wolves don’t offer their blood.

Simple. Binary. Forbidden.

But she also knew other things. Things she never said out loud, thoughts she’d had moments ago.

She knew Percy hated hunting more than any vampire she’d ever met. She knew he forced himself to keep humans alive even when it weakened him, because he had limits, and principles, and a self-control no one else had.

She knew he trusted her. And, more dangerous still: she trusted him.

And deep down, there was an uncomfortable truth, almost too intimate: she was stronger than she should be. More resistant than any lone wolf had the right to be. Half the rules that governed her species had never truly applied to her.

She had never gone into heat, never bonded with a pack, never functioned like the others — much to her mother’s disappointment.

So why should this rule — of all rules — apply? After all, she’d been born from a partly human, too.

She inhaled slowly, realizing she’d been holding her breath for minutes. Her pulse sped up. Not out of fear, but out of decision. Percy kept watching the movie, completely unaware of the internal war she was fighting on the rug of her living room.

If I offer, he might accept. If he accepts, nothing will be the same. If something goes wrong… it’ll be my fault.

But then she looked at him — really looked.

She saw the old, ancient exhaustion. The discomfort lodged in his tight, beautiful jaw. The automatic motion of squeezing his own arm, as if trying to ignore the hunger. His messy blond curls falling over his forehead, giving him a youthful appearance, even though deep, purplish bags formed under his blue eyes, signs of a powerful vampire who was starving and who couldn’t even sleep to recover.

The decision, once so heavy, simply… became light to Annabeth. Obvious. This was Percy, whom she’d known for so long. And he would do the same for her, if she needed it. They were friends, simple as that.

So, staring at him while he stared unaware at the TV, she spoke as casually as someone commenting on the weather:

“You can feed from me, if you want.”

He froze. His already cold body became clearly paralyzed.

Then he blinked, as if he thought he'd misheard. She just looked at him, waiting patiently while he processed the information. His whole body remained stiff, as if someone had pulled an emergency brake. He sat up slowly, his eyes wide, analyzing every inch of her as if he hadn't quite understood.

“Sorry… what?”

She shrugged, as if she’d offered him water, not her own blood. “You’ve been complaining for half an hour. I’m strong enough, Percy. You can drink from me.”

He blinked fast, an expression of near horror twisting his features.

“But— What? No. No, you… no.” It was as if she had broken him with one simple suggestion.

Annabeth sighed, moving to sit on the couch beside him, ignoring the movie altogether. “Why not?” Another shrug. “I’m sturdier. It’s physiological. Werewolves endure more.”

“That’s not how it works.” His voice hardened, pupils swallowing the blue of his irises in the glow of the TV. He seemed to resist the offer, as if the words alone were dangerous. “I can’t drink wolf blood. That’s… forbidden, dangerous, wrong, pick whichever adjective you want! You’re supposed to be the wiser one!”

She didn’t look particularly impressed. “Which is why you should trust my judgment when I say I considered this.”

He exhaled shakily. “Beth, this is… this is insane. Vampires don’t drink from wolves. It’s forbidden. Biologically dangerous. And for me, it would be incomparably addic—” He cut himself off before finishing, like he was afraid to say the word.

Annabeth turned fully toward him, straightening her spine to bring a seriousness to her posture, her long curly braids framing her smooth skin and the expression of complete commitment on her face.

“I’m not just any wolf.” She leaned in so he would look into her eyes when she said: “You’re not going to kill me.”

“That is exactly what an irresponsible vampire says right before killing someone by accident.” He scoffed, half mocking.

She rolled her eyes.

“I’ve never gone into heat, Percy. Never. My body is too stable, too regulated — I don’t know — but strong enough. It won’t hurt me. It might be addictive for you, yes, but you’ll just have to control yourself as much as you can. Or maybe not, we don’t know! I’m not a normal wolf!” She threw her hands up slightly, exasperated. Should she really have to convince him? He was right. This could be a terrible idea!

He went silent. The tension in the air grew thick, pulsing on their skin.

“That doesn’t make biological sense.”

“Nothing in me does.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but she lifted her hand, gently cutting him off.

“It’s just a suggestion, Perce. You decide. I’m not pressuring you.”

That was worse.

Much worse.

He leaned back, as if trying to escape the physical pull of her words. His eyes darkened, not with hunger… well, maybe that too, but with conflict. Percy was slumped on her couch now, thick legs spread, rubbing his face with both hands in deep thought.

The flickering TV light cast a strange atmosphere across the dim room — something Annabeth couldn’t quite name.

She watched him, calm as ever.

As if she hadn’t just offered something forbidden, as if she hadn’t just shattered whatever boundaries still existed between them.

Percy took a deep breath.

Once, twice, three times.

“It’s really just a suggestion, Perce,” she repeated, calm, almost indifferent — but not indifferent enough that he couldn’t hear the quiet invitation beneath it. “If you want it, great. If you don’t, you can keep complaining about humans until next year.” She said it with a little laugh, shifting to lean against the couch as well, angled toward him.

Something in him faltered — Annabeth saw it.

“Beth…” His voice came out hoarse — hoarser than she’d ever heard it — but it didn’t scare her.

“You haven’t fed today, have you?”
He stared at her between the fingers covering his face. It was adorable — she couldn’t help but laugh softly, already knowing the silent answer. “Where were you planning to feed? Do you have some volunteer lined up?”

He swallowed hard.

“I— No. I don’t. I… I was going to feed at home, from my stock. Alone.”

Her eyebrows shot up.

“Then?”

The offer hung between them — heavy, intimate, almost indecent. Maybe because it actually was indecent. Too indecent.

Before he could think too much — before he could rationalize, retreat, run — Percy tilted his head, lowering his hands and giving in to something he never should have been offered.

“...Okay. Before you change your mind and I… never have the chance to try.”

Her heart sped up but her face stayed neutral.

Detached. Always.

As if she hadn’t just broken the first of many rules that, that night, would cease to exist.

The silence between them wasn’t comfortable anymore.
Not uncomfortable, either.

It was a cord pulled tight between two bodies drawn to each other with a force neither of them had ever been honest enough to admit.

A different kind of silence.

One that felt like it breathed on its own.

Annabeth fidgeted with one of her braids, twisting the curls without noticing that her fingers trembled just a little. Percy tracked every movement, his jaw tight, his whole body leaning slightly toward her— and he didn’t even seem to realize he was doing it. It was the first time she had seen him like this, truly like…

Like a vampire.

An ancient predator made of control and precision, looking… unsettled.

They stayed like that for long seconds, two idiots staring at the TV as if it might give them an answer.

“So… what do I do?” Annabeth asked at last, her voice softer than she’d meant it to be.

Percy blinked, as if snapping back into his body.

“Oh. Right. Uh… well, you don’t have to do anything. I— I do everything.” He ran a hand through his curls, nervous. “But we need to… hm… it’s better if you just…”

She understood the vague gesture, and without knowing exactly where to look, she slowly pushed her braids away from her torso. Her fingers trembled a little more.

Then she hooked a finger into her collar and tugged it to the side, exposing the part of her neck that was already visible, going completely rigid.

Percy let out a small laugh: low, soft, almost affectionate.

“Beth… if you sit there stiff as a board, I’m gonna think I’m threatening you and not… I don’t know… being invited.”

She frowned, mortified.

“Sorry! I don’t know how— I’ve never— I just thought that’s how it worked!”

“It’s not,” he said, still laughing. “Definitely not.”

They adjusted themselves, turning to face each other on the couch again, sitting upright. Their knees brushed, their breaths short, the movie forgotten behind them, the bluish glow outlining them in something now indecently intimate.

“Okay,” Percy murmured, more serious now. “First… can I touch you?”

He touched her casually all the time, but Annabeth understood the weight of what he was asking now.

She swallowed hard but nodded.

He moved in slowly, fingers brushing through the thick curls of her braids, separating them gently before guiding them all over her left shoulder. Her right side became exposed—vulnerable, sensitive.

His touch—so light—shot down her spine like an electric current. Gods, what was that…?

“Relax,” he whispered, the words barely a breath.

“I am relaxed,” she lied.

“You’re stiff as a lamppost, Annabeth.”

She rolled her eyes, but he was right.

Percy brought his hand toward her neck, slowly, waiting for any sign to stop. There was none. When his thumb touched the thin skin over her jugular, she held her breath.

“This spot,” he explained, sliding his thumb with an almost reverent precision, “hurts the least. The skin’s thinner. The blood flows faster. It’s safer for you and easier for me.”

His voice was far too low. Velvet-soft. Warm, like just being near her had shifted something in him. Not that she had doubted before, but—yes—he was definitely a vampire.

He set his other hand on her waist, warm for a vampire. Warm because he was trying not to lose control—steady but gentle, pulling her just enough so she stayed stable… and so he could feel her breath brushing his jaw.

“Can I… hold you here?” he asked, tight, vulnerable. Their faces were now very, very close.

She nodded, unable to speak.

Percy tilted his head, bringing his nose to her neck, inhaling slowly. The sound that escaped him wasn’t human—low, rough, restrained, as if he was holding his own instincts by the collar.

The hand on her waist tightened.

“Annabeth,” he murmured, voice deep and hoarse, pulled from wherever he kept the things he refused to let out. God, how could her body react like this? “Like this…” he whispered, guiding her face slightly to the side, his hand covering half of it.

“I trust you,” she breathed, barely audible with how close he was.

He trembled.

Then he cupped her face fully, guiding it further, showing just how much she trusted him, leaving her neck exposed in a way that made her shiver.

She felt his breath against her skin—warm, hungry, trembling.

“Breathe,” he murmured. She tried. Or thought she did.

Percy brought his lips to her throat, brushing them lightly over the spot his thumb had traced.

Almost nothing.

Almost a kiss.

Almost.

And then—

He opened his mouth.

And sank his teeth into her.

The pain of the first drop disappeared far too quickly—replaced by a warm, heavy wave that spread through her body as if he had lit something beneath her skin.

Percy groaned against her neck.

It wasn’t a human sound.

It wasn’t one he had ever made near her.

It was low, tight, dragged from somewhere deep, filled with hunger and… something that twisted her stomach from the inside out. God, she had never felt this before, this knot tightening in her belly.

Annabeth felt every muscle in him respond to the first taste on his tongue where it now pressed to her neck.

His whole body went rigid, tense, as if someone had pulled a wire taut inside him.

His hands tightened—one at her waist, the other still holding her face with such delicate care it cruelly contrasted the urgency trapped inside his chest.

She felt it when he swallowed.

God—she felt it.

A deep vibration ran through her neck, his throat moving, and heat rushed up her spine as if her body itself bent toward the pull of it.

Percy sucked harder a second time—deeper, slower—and a sound escaped him, muffled against her skin.

The sound of someone tasting something they shouldn’t.

Something forbidden.

Something far too good.

He pulled back suddenly, making her moan in response to something she didn’t even know she was capable of doing.

He pulled away as if shoved.

His breaths were short, almost uneven.

His chest rose and fell much too fast for a vampire.

His eyes… darker under the glow of the TV.

His face… a bit more alive.

His mouth stained with her blood in a dense, garnet-red that gleamed when he ran his tongue over his fangs in a desperate attempt to pull himself together. Annabeth’s heart felt like it was trying to leap out of her chest, her ears ringing, her body burning hot as fire, tingling everywhere. Her hands trembled—everything trembled. Her heartbeat pulsed specifically at the fresh wound on her neck, in a rhythm that wasn’t just fear, or adrenaline. It was something else. Something she couldn’t name.

“Was… that enough?” she asked, her voice thin, shaky. Weaker than she wanted.

Percy didn’t answer right away. He was far too tense. Far too trapped inside himself.

His breathing was a struggle, as if every second near her was a battle.

“Annabeth…” He swallowed hard, almost groaning, looking away for a moment. “I… can’t. If I drink one more drop, I—”

She cut him off with no courage at all, but something stronger than courage:

“You can.” 

He stared at her, destroyed, devastated.

“It wasn’t enough, was it?” She knew it wasn't.

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” he whispered, his forehead hovering against hers, their noses brushing, his hands gripping her tighter now.

“I can take it.” she whispered. He shut his eyes. “I know exactly what I’m saying,” she added. And she did. Or it felt like she did.

“It’s never… Annabeth, it is never going to be enough.” Percy murmured in a restrained growl.

Percy opened his eyes slowly.

And in that instant, she saw everything: the hunger, the fear, the want, the way his self-control cracked like thin glass.

He leaned in—not quickly, but with a determination that made her whole body freeze and burn at once.

His fingers slid to the back of her neck and his thumb to her chin, angling her face again, now with the precision of someone learning fast. She softened beneath his touch. Let him.

His other hand pressed to her waist, but it wasn’t guiding her now.

It was holding her.

Anchoring her.

Or anchoring himself.

“If I go too far…” he whispered against her skin, his mouth so close to her open wound that she felt every word.

“Then don’t,” she answered, almost begging, unashamed.

He growled—low, desperate.

And then he gave in completely.

He dove for her neck and held her tightly—not hurting, just firm, as if he needed all of her to keep himself from falling apart.

His mouth found the wound with cruel precision and this time he didn’t hide what he felt.

The pull was deeper, hotter, harsher. She moaned immediately, “Oh, Percy!”, and it seemed only to make him hungrier.

A silent, focused urgency made her legs go weak.

The hand on her waist slid to her back, dragging her against him until their bodies crashed together, firm, aligned.

Annabeth let out a sound—small, involuntary—and Percy answered with another, muffled by her skin, like that sound had tugged something loose inside him.

When she nearly fell backward, he caught her—not just with his hands. He followed her, completely undone, animal, addicted to his own drug, pursuing her blood.

Instinctively, he guided her toward the arm of the couch, lowering her slowly but with a heat that burned through both of them, all while still drinking from her. His body settled between her legs without him realizing… or realizing all too well.

He lowered his own body onto hers weightlessly, supported by his arms, but so close that his warmth permeated their clothes.

And he kept drinking, now above her, caging her in beneath him as she felt small under his body. Annabeth gave him room automatically, and now he held her only by the hips, her neck pressed to the arm of the couch while the hot wave of pleasure energized her body, regenerating her blood as he drank and drank, making sounds that tightened her nipples and sent a throbbing ache between her thighs, making her want to grind against him—right where he held her back, preventing it.

Deeper.

Slower.

More intense.

His fingers pressed into her hips hard enough to leave marks.

His breath brushed hot over the shell of her ear.

His mouth moved with hunger, precision, and a tenderness that didn’t match the way he trembled against her.

Annabeth felt the world narrow to the places he touched her.

Where he held her.

Where he fed.

Where she burned, now dizzy and overwhelmed.

And Percy—who had always been control itself—was there above her, fighting his own body as hers begged for more—

He stopped.

Not abruptly. Not like before, when he had to pull himself off her to avoid losing her to his own instincts. But rather with a heavy, intentional slowness, as if he were dancing on the edge of a precipice—and had decided, for some incomprehensible reason, that he wouldn't fall.

His mouth moved away from her neck millimeter by millimeter, leaving a warm, wet trail that made her spine arch against him without her being able to stop it. He breathed against her open skin, panting as if he weren't a vampire, as if he were a man trying to remember what to do with the air. And then, still trembling, Percy slowly slid his tongue along the cut—a precise, slow gesture, too careful for the state he was in.

Her body responded in a way that left her mortified and beside herself at the same time.

"P–Percy…" she whispered, almost voicelessly.

He shut his eyes as if it hurt him.

The final lick was light, gentle, almost deferential—a warm touch that made her whole body tremble. The strongest dizziness came soon after, a slight spin in her head, and then the low blood pressure hit hard. Her vision blurred at the edges. She let out a hoarse, deep sigh, trying not to faint as she lay on the sofa.

Percy felt it. Of course he did.

He pushed himself up over her and opened his eyes — and God…

He was beautiful.

Beautiful in a way that almost ached.

His lips, stained with her darkest blood, glistened in the television light. The blue of his eyes was vivid, electric, too intense, as if he had just been awakened. His skin was flushed. His muscles were still tense. His scent… different. Warmer. Closer to hers. He smelled like her. Annabeth had the absurd impression that he now smelled like her.

Percy gave her a half–smile. Nervous, small, almost shy, but exhausted with satisfaction.

A smile that said this wasn’t supposed to happen like this and I can’t regret it at the same time.

She blinked slowly, her head spinning.

“I… get why humans faint…”

He let out a laugh—a genuine, short, relieved laugh—and stepped back just a little, as if he didn't trust his own knees.

“Come here,” he murmured, sliding a hand to her waist carefully. “Let me sit you up before you fall over and I have to carry you.”

He helped her slowly rise. Annabeth sat back and leaned against the couch, her head tipping slightly, breathing deep like she’d just run a marathon underwater in hot steam.

The world felt strange — muffled, pulsing, slow.

But she wasn’t unwell.

Just… too warm.

And so dizzy that every thought arrived late.

Percy brushed his thumb across her cheek in an automatic, intimate, deeply worried gesture.

“Are you okay?”

She managed only a nod.

Maybe it was a lie.

Maybe it was too true.

He watched her face for a few seconds — seconds that stretched long — and then stepped back, inhaling as if trying to regain control.

“Don’t move,” he said, low and rough. “I’ll be right back.”

What was that in his pants?

Well, he disappeared into the kitchen quickly enough that the question stayed only in her imagination. She heard cabinets, silverware, the sound of a package tearing. When he returned, he carried something far too absurd for the situation: a cup of Greek yogurt with protein and a spoon.

“This’ll help faster,” he said, handing it to her. “It’s got calcium, protein… and you need anything that can stabilize your system.”

Annabeth would’ve laughed… if she had strength.

Or air.

Or dignity.

She reached out with trembling hands to take the yogurt, which made Percy move first, not even letting her touch the spoon. He knelt in front of her without a second thought, right there, too close, and fed her, in a parallel that was almost sarcastic. She tasted the first spoonful slowly, feeling her body finally starting to return to itself — her genes really proving the theory she’d made: Annabeth could feed Percy and recover fast.

Once he was convinced she was getting better with each spoonful, he leaned in again to check the wound. He touched the side of her neck with cool fingers, tilting her gently, and wiped the spot with a damp cloth he had kept on his thigh — without her even noticing it was there — his expression tense, quiet, something between regret and suppressed need.

His touch was careful.

Too careful.

Almost tender.

She didn’t comment.

He didn’t either.

But there was something new, undeniable, between them — something neither of them dared to name. The warm pulse at her neck was proof enough.

The wound was barely bleeding now. Vampires closed what they opened; it was part of their nature. Part curse, part charm.

Percy wiped the last trace of dried blood and pulled back a few inches, taking another steadying breath.

Even after all of this — for reasons neither of them could explain — they repeated that ritual every Friday.

Always at the same time.

Always on the same couch.

Always with that same unbearable, destructive, addictive tension, just like he’d warned it would be.

It was his ruin, but, more than anything, it became hers. Her body wasn’t prepared. She had never pushed her genes like this before. Everything Annabeth believed about herself began to change, week after week, without her even noticing.

And, in the seventh week of this unhealthy ritual, Percy arrived at her apartment door still carrying the cold smell of the hospital—metal, antiseptic, too much air conditioning—and felt, as always happened on Fridays, his body loosen just knowing he was about to see her, about to drink from her. If someone had told him months ago that a sensible, careful vampire, passionately committed to not losing control, would be happy with an agreement that obliged him to touch the same skin every week, e would have laughed. Mocked. Maybe even been offended. But now… now he didn’t even try to hide it from himself: it excited him.

Not just the blood.

Not just the forbidden, undeniably addictive taste.

But her.

Her saying “it’s okay.”

Her trembling, but for the right reasons.

Her not being afraid.

Her liking it — and him feeling that she liked it, even when she didn’t say it and her warm wolf-body showed it.

Annabeth had this… detached, blasé, almost lazy approach to her own emotions, and that was exactly what drove Percy insane. Because despite the cool façade, he felt it. He always felt it. Her body reacted, pulled, called. She wanted him close. She always had.

And he — who had always prided himself on control, clarity, perfect boundaries — discovered, week after week, that there was something deeply wrong with the way he wanted this.

Or deeply right.

The agreement was dangerous, forbidden, completely irresponsible…

…and still the only part of the week when he felt truly alive.

He turned the spare key she kept under a ridiculous magnet on the fridge just for him, already prepared to see the same scene from the past few weeks: Annabeth in the kitchen, chopping vegetables with the expression of someone losing patience with the entire world. She needed to eat well before he drank from her — protein, salt, sugar — because without that she got too weak afterward. He usually cooked alone or helped, almost always poking at her annoyance just to watch her roll her eyes at him.

But today he had warned her he’d be late. A long surgery — emergency work, too much human blood, hunger held back for hours — and she had said “ok,” which was far too monosyllabic even for her, but enough to make him believe it.

Annabeth always handled everything. Always.

But the instant the door opened, Percy knew—he knew instantly—that something was wrong.

The smell hit like a blunt blow to the chest.

Warm, dense, alive.

A scent that wasn’t exactly perfume.

Not sweat.

Not blood.

Not her usual scent.

It was… something else.

Something his instinct recognized before his mind did.

…no.

No, it couldn’t be.

“Shit.” He growled, too stunned to believe it.

Percy went rigid in the doorway, as if a burning hand had wrapped around his cold spine. The air felt charged, too heavy, as if every breath tasted of something he shouldn’t touch.

Should he go in?

He tried to deny it mentally.

He tried to think that he was tired, that he might be confused, that it was impossible. Tried to tell himself he was tired, confused, imagining it.

She had never gone into heat.

Never.

He took two steps inside.

Then three.

Each one made it worse.

The scent followed him like a hot current.

Crawled up his throat, his nerves, his teeth.

Pulled. Called. Sang. Made his mouth water.

“No… no, it can’t be that…” he whispered to himself, barely a voice at all.

And then he saw her in the kitchen.

In the same place she should be — but not in the state she should be.

Annabeth was standing with her back to him, bent slightly over the counter, like her own body had decided to become too heavy. The simple white tank top clung to the warm sweat on her back, showing the baby-blue bra beneath her dark skin. Her low bun of curly, intoxicating braids was crooked, half undone, as if she had run her hands through it repeatedly trying to control something that didn’t make sense.

But the worst part — the thing that completely paralyzed Percy — was the dishcloth tied to her hand.

And the blood was running down the side of his wrist.

And the vegetables cut crooked, like she couldn’t hold the knife properly.

When she lifted her head, her face was flushed.

Her eyes… glazed.

Her breath… shallow.

Her body… far too warm, even from across the room. He could’ve felt that heat from miles away.

Percy felt his throat close.

Felt instinct roar inside his chest.

Felt everything in him saying run and get closer at the same time.

Annabeth sighed when she smelled him enter the kitchen — a deep, low, almost moaning sigh, eyes closed, as if his scent was some kind of torturous relief.

The dish towel slipped a little.

She tried to grip it.

Failed.

Percy stayed still, breathing like he’d forgotten how.

“Annabeth…” he murmured, afraid to affect her more, his voice too low, too rough, already altered, as if he were fighting something huge and invisible.

And she opened her eyes slowly, like rising from underwater, searching for him, finding him — and something inside her seemed to melt completely.

Yes.

She was definitely in heat.

She didn’t know.

But he knew.

The thing he feared most… Fuck, of course it would happen. He’d spent six weeks messing with her genes, destabilizing her biology, creating a bond with her. How could he have been so naïve? How could he believe she’d be fine? That nothing could happen? She couldn’t imagine it, but he could! And he took the risk. Drinking from her and going home with his dick as hard as marble, making himself finish in the shower biting his wrist and moaning her name, always her name. Their sessions were intrinsically sexual! How had he pretended her moans, her hips, her scent were nothing but fantasy? She had been affected too, week after week, and Percy doubted she had any idea. Of course she would go into heat.

He felt terrified, disgusted with himself. She was the best friend he’d ever had, and he had taken advantage of her, triggered her heat, altered her genetics.

Annabeth’s soft murmur snapped him back. He called her again: “Annabeth?”

She moaned, loud and long, sending a shiver down Percy’s spine — and, inevitably, a numbness straight to his groin.

“Your voice… I…” She breathed out, leaning further, out of breath.

“Annabeth… what are you—”

She moaned again the moment he took a step, and Percy stopped instantly. The sound hit him like another blow — low, broken, completely involuntary. It wasn’t a conscious request. It was pure biology. Raw instinct.

It terrified him. He had never seen a wolf in heat in person — everything he knew was theory, never practice. It was frightening, but so exciting, and so wrong… especially when the wolf in question was his food source. Literally, her blood ran through his veins. Was there anything more intertwined than that?

Percy didn’t know how he was still standing. Every step he took toward her felt wrong, dangerous, and inevitable all at once, like his body was split between two opposite instincts: run to survive or get closer to… to what? He didn’t want to answer that even in his own head. Her scent was too strong, too warm, sticking to his throat, his chest, his spine. It was Annabeth, but it wasn’t. It was something awakened in her, something new, something calling to him from a place she definitely didn’t understand. It was a thick, sweet scent that mixed the fresh blood with that impossible heat saturating the air like steam.

And she was there, leaning over the counter, breathless, lost, not even realizing what she was emitting.

It was torture.

And he deserved every second of it.

“Let me see your wrist,” Percy managed to say, though his voice had dropped too low, too rough, like it had been scraped raw from the inside. He wasn’t ready to touch her — not like this — but she was bleeding, and that crossed every safety boundary he had. So he took a deep breath, held his own air in his lungs, and approached slowly, very slowly, almost expecting the floor to open and swallow him before he reached her. When he finally took the kitchen towel, his fingers brushed hers by accident, and the reaction was instant: Annabeth trembled from her shoulders to her hips, a sudden, full, silent shiver, like she’d been hit with a heat so sharp she couldn’t withstand it.

“Sorry,” Percy blurted immediately, as if he’d committed a massive mistake, an intrusion. He almost backed away, but she shook her head, breathing deep, panting, as if his touch had created more need than pain. “I’m going to help with the cut and then I’m leaving, okay?” he whispered, running a hand through his hair, panicked, like he was trying to wake up from a nightmare. “I’m not… I’m not touching anything else. Just the cut. Just that.”

“Keep going,” she said, and her voice came out strangely soft, almost a low purr. It didn’t sound like Annabeth — and somehow sounded exactly like her. “Just touch me…”

She was going to kill him.

Guilt tightened Percy’s stomach. He looked away, because facing her expression made everything worse, made it too real.

He turned her wrist gently, trying to touch as little skin as possible while removing the cloth, and guided her hand to the faucet. Cold water ran over the wound, washing the blood away — but the scent… the scent only got worse.

Before, it had been only blood. Now, with the cold water warming against her skin, releasing more heat, more aroma, it felt like the whole kitchen was breathing Annabeth. The air was heavy, almost humid. Percy felt the back of his neck prickle, his body rigid, tense, like he was holding wild beasts inside his ribs.

His dick pressed so hard against his dress pants he was afraid the zipper would burst. Seriously.

Annabeth let out another moan when the water touched the cut — not a moan of pain. It was soft, airy, almost relieved, as if his touch helped more than the water. Percy nearly dropped her wrist right then.

“Annabeth…” he murmured, but she was breathing so fast she seemed unable to hear him. Her chest rose and fell in a desperate rhythm, her eyes half-lidded, her legs slightly parted in an instinct she definitely didn’t understand.

Her whole body was reacting without her mind’s permission. Percy recognized every sign — and hated recognizing them, but being a doctor gave him painfully clear awareness of all of them.

Annabeth wore a white tank top, the thin strap slipping loosely off her left shoulder. She had on a soft blue bra with no padding, her nipples showing through the fabric, so hard he could pinch them just to make her scream. She wore loose gray flannel pants, hanging low on her hips and revealing a strip of skin that was obscene under these circumstances.

He could lose his mind over her at any moment.

She could barely hold her own weight. The scent mixed with fresh blood made him unsteady, almost dizzy, like the air was poisoned with something too sweet.

When he finally turned off the faucet, Annabeth opened her eyes with extreme effort, like she was fighting to reach the surface of her own body. Her expression was a confused, almost broken shock.

“Percy…” she murmured, her voice too soft, dragging. “What’s… what’s happening to me?”

He froze.

He didn’t want to say it.

He didn’t want to put it into words.

Because putting it into words made it undeniable that it had been his fault.

That it was a consequence of him.

Percy closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them, he looked older, more tired, more wounded than she had ever seen him.

“Annabeth… you…” He swallowed, but his saliva felt like melted sugar, burning. “You went into heat.”

She blinked a few times, as if trying to understand a new language.

“No,” she said, her voice breaking. “I… I don’t have that. I’ve never had a single cycle. Not even when I was younger. I—”

“I know,” Percy cut in, painfully gentle, as if every word were a confession. “I know. But that changed. Because I changed with you. I messed with your body. With your system. With your blood. Six weeks… Annabeth, six weeks coming into contact with me… with my type… with my venom in my fangs. That alters wolves. It alters their cycle. It must have triggered the heat.” His chest rose slowly in a ragged breath. “And I did that to you. And I’m so sorry.”

She felt the impact of his words, but a wave of heat drowned out any logic before she could react.

Percy pulled her wrist out from under the faucet’s dripping water, holding it firmly—firm enough to keep her from trembling so much. The bleeding had stopped, but the smell was still there, far too strong, far too sweet, far too provoking. He felt every muscle in his body begging him to run, and every instinct begging him to stay. It was a conflict that hurt.

“Can you do the bandage yourself?” Percy asked, breathing through his mouth, trying to avoid her scent, but it didn’t matter. He already had her scent carved inside him. “I need to go. Now.”

She immediately frowned, as if he had just said something unbearably cruel. “No… it hurts, Percy… it hurts so much, please don’t go.” Her fingers gripped his forearm with surprising strength, but not intention. It was instinct reaching for the only relief in the room.

“Annabeth, I can’t help with this. I really can’t,” he said, almost begging, almost pleading for her to understand. “We’re different species. I can’t… I can’t even stay here. I’m trying to protect you.”

She looked at him with such desperation that Percy’s stomach twisted. Heat transformed everything: her sensitivity, the warmth, the perception, the scent, the need. She was vulnerable, open, confused—and he was the only thing in the room her body recognized as comfort.

“Then why don’t you help me?” she asked, and the voice that came out was soft, low, almost a lament. An instinctive, raw, heated plea. Percy inhaled sharply, clenched his jaw, looked away. He couldn’t hear that tone. He couldn’t.

“Annabeth…”

That was when she reached out her hand toward his face, trying to touch him. Her wounded wrist so close to his mouth, to his teeth… “You have no idea what you’re asking of me.”

Completely defenseless.

Completely surrendered.

As if her body were making decisions without her.

“Percy,” she whispered.

And his name in her mouth—said like that—ruined everything.

Percy grabbed her wrist too quickly, as if preventing a fall, when in reality he was the one falling. He leaned in, pressing his nose against the warm skin at her wrist, and let out a low sound from his throat, almost a warning to himself, almost a choked sob.

“I can’t… I can’t… I can’t…” he repeated, breathing in her scent as if it hurt him. And it did. Because he wanted. He wanted too much. He wanted in a way that was ugly, dangerous, forbidden. Her blood called to him so loudly, the scent drowning his senses, he couldn’t…

But then his tongue touched the skin of her wrist without permission.

A first slow drag.

Hot.

Sharp.

Devout.

Lost.

Percy groaned against her wrist—small, hoarse, broken—as if he had been defeated.

And he licked her blood from the wound.

The taste hit his tongue like liquid fire.

Sweet.

Warm.

Alive.

Percy felt his entire body react in a silent spasm, as if something ancient inside him had been shaken awake from hibernation, his cock even harder now. The hand holding her wrist tightened—instinctive, protective, desperate—while the other braced against the counter beside her so he wouldn’t collapse. It was humiliating how much it affected him. Humiliating and inevitable.

Annabeth let out a breath that didn’t sound like anything he had ever heard from her before. It was soft, uneven, warm at the edges, as if that touch—his tongue cleaning the wound—relieved a kind of pain she couldn’t name. Her body relaxed and tensed at the same time, shoulders melting while her hips involuntarily sought more support against the counter.

“Percy…” she breathed, his name dragging out of her mouth, almost too heavy to pronounce.

It made Percy tremble.

He pulled back half a centimeter—half—as if he needed to remind himself he was still responsible for something in that chaos. But her scent pulled him back before he could even catch his breath. He ran his nose along her skin again, grazing, as if trying to memorize every nuance before having the courage to step away, inhaling her like she was a narcotic. His chest rose and fell fast, as if he were holding his own instinct by the throat.

“I… I can’t…” he whispered against her skin, but it sounded more like a plea than a refusal.

But Annabeth wasn’t hearing any logic. She couldn’t. Heat erased rationality, smothered it, blurred every edge that wasn’t warmth, scent, touch. And Percy was all of those things at once. Her body leaned in closer, almost touching him, and Percy felt the air collapse in his chest.

She didn't know what she was asking for.

But her body knew exactly.

Annabeth lifted her wrist a little more, offering, in a gesture so pure and so devastating that Percy sucked in air like he had been punched.

“Please…?” she murmured, and the sound hit him like a clean, fatal strike.

Percy squeezed his eyes shut, trying to hold himself together for one more second. Just one. Just long enough to let go of her wrist without hurting her. Just long enough to walk away before something unforgivable happened. But her touch slid up his arm, a warm, pleading trail up to his forearm, and Percy lost his balance.

He opened his eyes—and met hers.

My God.

Annabeth was glowing.

Her eyes dark and blown.

Her mouth parted, her face flushed, her brow furrowed.

Her breathing uneven, hot, smelling like hunger.

Not hunger for food.

Hunger for him.

And that destroyed any remaining sense of distance.

“Annabeth…” His voice came out broken. “You have no idea what you’re doing.”

She shook her head, lost, sincere in a raw, almost childlike way.

“Then tell me,” she whispered. “Why does it hurt so much? Why does it feel like… like something’s missing? Like I’m… like I’m empty?”

The word empty nearly made Percy choke.

He dragged a hand over the back of his neck, trying to think, trying to breathe, trying to exist. Nothing worked. Every move she made, every scent, every tremor in the wrist he was still holding—everything called to him with a precision that felt like violence.

“It’s the heat,” he finally managed, voice thin. “Your first heat. And… and my scent… my touch… it makes it worse. I’m a trigger for it, Annabeth. I amplify it. I awaken it.” He closed his eyes for a second. “I’m the worst place for you to be.”

“Then why do I feel like you’re the only place?”

Percy’s eyes opened instantly.

That wasn’t logical.

It wasn’t rational.

It wasn’t her.

It was the heat.

It was instinct.

It was him.

And even knowing that, the impact hit too deep, in a place inside him that shouldn’t respond.

He stepped back—but she followed.

Instinctively.

Her body moved with his like two pieces pulled by a magnet, and Percy almost tripped over his own breath.

Annabeth lifted her free hand and touched his chest. The heat of her fingertips burned through his white dress shirt, lighting up every inch of skin that had no business being involved. The touch was gentle. Searching. Starved. And Percy felt his internal defenses collapse in dangerous slow motion.

“Annabeth… don’t do that, sweetheart.”

It was so weak it didn’t even sound like a refusal. And the endearment? God, what the hell was wrong with him?

“Why not?” She was breathless, sincere, confused. “It hurts…”

He almost groaned just from the way she said hurts.

“Because I can’t touch you like this,” he answered, his voice finally cracking. “I can’t. You’re not thinking straight. There’s no choice here. No consent. It’s instinct. It’s biology. It’s the heat. And I’m… I’m being pulled by it too. God, I could lose control any second. I need to leave, Beth.”

Annabeth looked at him as if the only thing that made sense was that final point: he was being pulled too.

And he was.

She sensed it.

Maybe not with her mind.

But with her body.

With her scent.

With the way he vibrated, how he held her wrist too tightly and still seemed about to let go and collapse.

“Percy,” she said again—and his name, said like that, was almost an invitation, almost a biological command.

He shuddered. Opened his mouth with nothing to say.

And then she lifted her wounded wrist… and pressed it to his mouth.

Not offered.

Not requested.

Placed.

As if she trusted he knew what to do.

Percy let out a sound—low, deep, not even remotely human.

His hand rose to hold her wrist firmly—and before he could stop himself, before he could think, before instinct could be silenced—he tilted his head and dragged his tongue over the wound again.

Slower. Deeper. Surrendered. The taste not enough to feed him, but enough to excite him past reason.

Percy groaned against her skin, so low it vibrated in the bones of her wrist.

And that was the first real break in his control.

He even tries to keep some distance, just a few inches to breathe better, but she doesn’t allow it. When he pulls his hand from the counter to her waist, as if trying to be rational for half a second, she moves on pure instinct—and it ruins him.

Her fingers clutch the collar of his shirt, pulling him closer with an urgency he had never heard, never seen, never imagined from her. It isn’t a request. It’s a drag. A don’t leave me like this.

And the sound she makes…

God. That’s what destroys his control.

It’s a small, trembling sound, almost a sob coated in need—the kind of sound that shouldn’t exist, that she would never let slip in full consciousness. It’s involuntary, desperate, raw.

He freezes for half a second, as if someone had driven a stake through the center of his chest.

Then, it’s over.

His self-control simply doesn’t exist anymore.

“Annabeth…” he tries to warn her for the millionth time, but his voice breaks halfway through, too deep, too warm.

She looks up at him with blurry eyes, pupils blown wide, trying to understand what’s happening to her own body—and he sees the exact moment her desire spills past instinct and becomes something conscious, even if confused.

That’s what shatters the rest of him.

He cups her face with both hands, as if she’s the only thing keeping him grounded, but the touch is far from calm. His thumbs tremble. His breath stutters. He’s fighting the urge to simply give in to what her body is begging for.

“Don’t do this to me…” he whispers, resting his forehead against hers, trying to pull in air. “that sound…”

But she makes it again.

His hand slides along her waist, firm, pulling her against him as if he can’t stand even a breath of space separating them. His breath hits her neck, hot, while he tries—vainly—to regain even a shred of control.

He can’t. He doesn’t even try very hard. And she knows it, because she uses that moment to roll her hips against him, right where he needs, right where he wants. She lets out another sound, and he answers with one of his own. Two desperate creatures.

He murmurs, his voice low, dangerous, almost a warning: "I swear I won't be able to stop. You need to understand. I'm a vampire, darling, and I'm starving..."

She presses her warm face to his cold one, kissing his chin as she replies, “I’m starving too.”

Silence hangs for a single second—only one—before she tilts her face up, seeking his mouth with an urgency that makes Percy’s heart crash in his chest. It’s no longer an indirect plea. It’s no longer an involuntary slip caused by her heat. It’s her choosing him. And it destroys him completely.

He cups her face with both hands as if he’s been waiting weeks to do exactly that, and she barely has time to breathe before his mouth is covering hers.

The first kiss isn’t gentle. There’s nothing hesitant about it. It’s hunger. It’s an explosion contained for six weeks. He kisses her with an intensity that nearly knocks her over, as if he needs to feel her deeply, as if he’s memorizing every breath, every shiver, every part of her that yields under his touch.

She grips his shirt, pulling him closer, as if her body itself knows it wants no distance at all—and Percy groans into her mouth. A low, rough sound that vibrates in his throat and sends heat curling through her stomach. His hand digs into her waist, dragging her even closer, until there is absolutely no space left between them.

She sighs into the kiss—and that’s what makes him lose the last sliver of control.

He deepens the kiss without asking permission, tilting her head to the perfect angle, pressing her body to his with a need that makes no sense and cannot be denied. He’s too warm for a vampire. Too strong. Too tense.

The air he steals from her comes back as a hoarse whisper the moment he pulls away just enough to speak:

“You have no idea what you’re doing to me. Your taste, your lips, fuck… your tongue…”

She tries to answer, but he kisses her again—even deeper, even more desperate—as if any word she said could snap the thread holding what little consciousness he still has. His hand slides up her back, finds her nape, fingers tangling in her hair as he claims her with every movement of his mouth. Their tongues tangle, her taste so sweet, so good, unlike anything he’s ever been capable of feeling before.

She moans—sharp, breathy.

He freezes.

The sound is small, confused, instinctive, but its effect on him is catastrophic. Percy loses his breath completely, and his body reacts as if she’d called out the most intimate version of his name. The hand on her waist tightens, pulling her against his hips in an involuntary, almost feral motion. He grinds against her, so boldly it borders on madness.

"Annabeth..." he grunts.

She kisses him back with the same intensity.

And it is there, at that moment, that he completely falls apart.

She kisses him back with the same intensity.

And it’s right there, in that moment, that he breaks for good.

Percy lifts her as if she weighs nothing—too light for someone so warm, so strong, so desperate—and sets her on the counter in one firm, decisive movement, like he’s being guided by something much deeper than desire.

Annabeth lets out a muffled sound when the cold marble touches the back of her thighs beneath her pants, sending an uncontrollable urge through her to roll her hips just to soothe her overheated center, cool it against the marble—but Percy almost turns feral at the sight, because everything about her is too hot, too alive, pulsing against him like a promise.

He leans in immediately, as if he can’t stay away even for a second, and claims her mouth again with a haste that has nothing rational about it. The kiss is wet, intense, hungry, as if he’s kept every small desire locked away for weeks—and now, finally, he can touch what he’s only imagined.

Her hands moved up to his shoulders, trailing to the nape of his neck, pulling at his curly blond hair with a need that made Percy groan against her mouth. He responded by gripping her waist, pulling her closer to the edge of the counter, as if he couldn't bear an inch of distance between them.

When he finally lowers his mouth to her chin, she gasps—a soft sound that turns into a shiver. Percy closes his eyes for a moment, as if needing strength to continue without completely losing his mind, and then follows the path her skin seems to beg for.

He slowly kisses her jawline.

Then the neck.

Then that spot just below her ear, and then the scar from her feeding, where her breath falters and she reflexively holds her face, as if it were too much—but not enough.

“Percy…” she whispers, and the way she says his name feels like claws dragging along his instincts from the inside.

He doesn’t answer.

He can’t.

He just keeps going.

His mouth trails down the side of her throat, leaving warm, slow, searching kisses — each one pulling another wave of impossible heat out of her. He uses his mouth like he’s learning her taste, like he needs to memorize every place where she trembles, where she arches, where she loses every last piece of control.

When he reaches her collarbone, his hands tighten around her waist, savoring the way she reacts to every touch, every breath he lets fall against her exposed skin. He presses a kiss to the center of her chest and lingers over the heat at the curve of her left breast.

“You have no idea how much I… wanted this.” He murmurs it against her skin, voice low, rough, almost like a secret ripped out of him.

Annabeth slides one hand across his face, pulling him back up to kiss him again. The kiss is different now—less awkward, more urgent. They cling to each other as if the world were crumbling around them, as if this moment were inevitable, as if they were two forces drawn to each other with no choice.

Percy sinks his hand into her thighs, opening a space between them in an instinctive gesture, but he stops there—he doesn't advance, he doesn't go beyond—he just breathes deeply against her mouth, trembling, struggling, desiring.

He kisses her once more—deep, slow, intense—before moving down her throat again, making his way to her shoulder, where he bites lightly, just enough to make her gasp and pull him closer, as if her body were determined never to let go again.

Percy is lost. Completely.

With his left hand, he pulls down the thin strap of her tank top along with her bra, baring her to the air. Annabeth practically cries out when he takes her nipple between his fingers, firm, deliberate, sending her hips pushing back against him, her body searching for friction, for contact, for anything.

"Come here," he pulls her against his erection, only to hear her bite her lip hard. He'd never been so hard, so ready, with no intention of stopping anytime soon.

He turns her around with a decisive motion and bends her forward just slightly, enough that her hips lift toward him, an instinctive offering. The sight knocks the air out of him. He has never been this undone, this ready, this dangerously close to losing everything that makes him human. Or a bit human. 

Annabeth wriggled against him, the soft flesh of her buttocks pressing against him, reminding him of a cat in heat arching her tail for her mate. He smiled at the thought, pressing her breasts.

Annabeth's breasts were beautiful, perfectly sized, and fit so well in his hands. Her nipples, hard at the touch, drove her wild, making her writhe and throw her head against his hard chest. The height difference was delightful.

Her shirt and bra don’t survive his urgency; he tears them down the middle, pushing her forward so her chest meets the cold marble. “Fuck, Percy!” She moaned in a drawn-out voice, and he growled softly, his cock pressed against her ass as she rubbed herself harder and harder.

"You look so hot, darling", he begins to unbutton his own shirt, forcefully enough to pop a few buttons in the process. "The scent you have here..."

"Oh!" She cries out as Percy, his shirt still on and open, wraps an arm around her hips, placing his palm between her legs, pressing against her wet pussy, which is so wet it stains the flannel pants she's wearing. He licks his canines and smiles. Oh, how he wanted to feed now.

He shrugs out of the rest of his shirt in a bit aggressive way, and turns her back to face him to strip away what’s left of hers. Leaning close, he notices that not even the cold marble could cool her off. His little wolf in heat… she is burning.

He drops to one knee, kissing up her stomach, dragging his mouth up her ribs and over her breasts again, drawing one into his mouth, sucking with hungry care — careful, always careful, not to let his fangs graze her. He looks the wolf starving one, not her.

"Percy, I think I'm gonna..." Annabeth rubbed her own thighs as he worked on her breasts. "It hurts so much… I’m so close… Don't stop, baby, don't stop..." Annabeth had never sounded so broken, so surrendered, so utterly dominated by her own body. Would she only come from him playing with her nipples? Not a chance.

He released her breasts, kissing her torso and listening to her moan, clearly annoyed that her 'half-relief' had been interrupted. Her scent—sweet, warm, alive—rose like smoke around them, a scent that Percy felt as if it had claws, pulling him by the nape of his neck, his chest, the depths of his mind. He felt the vampiric instinct expand within him, enormous, voracious, dangerous.

“Don’t stop!” she repeated, and Percy almost groaned at the demand because he didn’t want to stop either. He wasn’t going to stop.

He lifts his head, his mouth still glistening with her skin, and looks up—at her face tilted back, her eyes half-closed, her hands trembling on her hips. Her whole body pleaded without words.

And it’s her body.

Her heat.

Calling for him.

Percy rests his forehead on his bare stomach for a second, breathing violently, as if trying to remember his own name, but when Annabeth sinks her hands into his hair and pulls—hard—letting out a trembling, almost tearful groan, Percy loses any shred of self-control he still believed he had.

With a firm kiss stamped to her skin, he pulls down her loose pants, exposing her soaked panties. They were cotton, also gray like the flannel of the pants, revealing a huge stain that ran down her thighs. 

Damn heat.

Annabeth trembles when Percy shamelessly drags his nose over the soaked fabric, smelling her like a dog caught in his own mating cycle. She fists his curls so hard her fingers hurt, worried she might be hurting him. Percy only smiles against her center. Of course. He’s a vampire — he doesn’t feel pain.

“You’re going to kill me like this, Annabeth,” he whispers, voice nothing but a low, strained scrape, tight and loaded, almost as agonized as she is.

He guides her hands back to brace on the marble and pulls her even closer to the edge, tilting her body forward as he lifts her right thigh and settles it over his shoulder.

"Is this where it hurts, love?" he murmurs right over her covered clitoris, his voice too deep to mean anything safe.

She breathes like she’s drowning. “Everywhere. Percy… I— I don’t know what to do. It’s too much. It’s too hot. Help me, come on… Please…”

The word help hits him straight, deep, like it was made to split him in half.

Well, he’ll help her.

Percy closes his mouth over her through the fabric, sucking her with desperate force.

Percy groaned against her as he felt Annabeth arch violently at the vibration of his moan, her whole body reacting as if it had been connected to an electric current. Her panties simply no longer served as a barrier; they were so soaked they seemed molded to her skin, warm, throbbing, alive. He held her firmly by the thigh resting on his shoulder, keeping her exactly where he wanted her, and each time he sucked, he felt her scent grow thicker, sweeter, more possessive. It wasn't fair. None of this was fair.

Annabeth let out a sound that was half moan, half sob. “Percy… P-Percy, please… please…” She gripped the marble as if it were about to collapse, her whole body trembling—but not from fear. It was hunger. It was impulse. It was instinct.

He lifts his face slightly, still pressing his mouth against the fabric. “Talk to me, babe.” His voice was hoarse, broken. “What do you need?”

She shakes her head, unable to form a coherent sentence. Her breath comes out short, hot, desperate. "I don't know... I just... you... I need you."

Percy tugs the fabric with his teeth, just enough to tease, not enough to remove it — and the sound she makes sets his fangs throbbing, his whole body going tight like he’s seconds from breaking. He doesn’t bite. He can’t. He knows he can’t. But God, he wants to feel more of her.

“Annabeth…” Her name comes out like a scratched prayer. “You have no idea…”

He kisses her there, with his tongue—over the fabric, then beside it, then lower down—a slow, possessive, reverent sequence, as if marking his territory with just his mouth. With each kiss, she arches further, until Percy finally slides his hand along the inside of her thigh, his fingers just touching, almost without contact—and her body reacts as if it had been set on fire.

“Like that, isn’t it?” he teases, almost smiling against her.

“Percy…” She throws her head back, biting her own lip. “I’m gonna…”

He laughs softly, a dark, warm, hungry sound. “I know. But first…”

Percy then runs the tip of his nose along the damp mark of her panties while his hand slowly moves up to the sides of the fabric, where it becomes just another rag in his hands. He explores the curve of her thigh as if trying to memorize every inch. Annabeth trembles again, and when she tries to pull him closer, Percy holds her hip firmly.

He takes her without restraint. Annabeth just falls back, almost with a strangled scream, the braids in her already loose bun coming undone as he devours her. The taste exploding on his tongue, driving him completely mad. She tasted so good like that, it was a shame he couldn't feed on it, because he would want to. He would do it with pleasure.

Percy even wondered if she felt so sweet there, let alone her blood. Maybe he could use his fangs and… The thought—dangerous, hungry, completely wrong—pierced Percy like lightning, and he pushed it away with the same violence with which he gripped her thighs. He couldn't think about it. Not with her. Not now. Not ever.

But Annabeth moans loudly again, and the sound makes his whole spine tingle. Her scent rises so strongly that Percy feels himself stagger, as if something had pulled his legs from the inside. He presses his mouth harder against hers, alternating long sucks with wet kisses, as if he needed to taste her, feel her, have her until her heat left him in peace—but the damned instinct only worsens.

“Percy…” She sobs his name, and this time there’s no shame, no control, no rational thought. It’s a raw plea. A plea that strikes right at his core.

He raises his face just enough to see her: slumped against the marble, her chest rising and falling in a frantic rhythm, her nipples slightly moist and beautiful, sweat glistening on her collarbone, her hands trembling as she tries to find something to hold onto. Now that her bun has completely come undone, strands of hair ricochet across her face, the nape of her neck, her shoulders. She looked like a goddess.

She was beautiful. Beautiful and in heat.

Beautiful and calling for him.

Beautiful and completely undone.

“Look at me,” Percy pleads, his voice so deep and low it seems to scratch the air.

Annabeth slowly opens her eyes—and when they meet, something inside him gives way, collapses, breaks. He doesn't know if it's the vampire, the man, or a monster he's never known. He only knows that it's strong. And he knows that it belongs to her.

“Like this…” He slides one hand to her waist, gripping her like he can anchor her with his touch alone. “Is it better like this?”

She doesn't respond with words. She moans once again. A long, hurt, almost angry moan—as if her body demanded it faster than her mouth could keep up. This draws a broken gasp from Percy as she grips his hair again.

“Beautiful, Annabeth…” He kisses the inside of her thigh again, more slowly this time, his tongue tracing a warm path across her skin to the junction of her hip. “You drive me insane.”

She thrusts her hips forward, reflexively, in desperation—and he almost loses his breath.

“Slow down, darling.” Percy brings his hand to her stomach, holding it firmly, almost as if trying to remind her that she won’t fall. “I’m here. You don’t need to rush.”

But she rushes anyway. Heat does that. Her body leans in as if she wants to press her mouth against his, as if everything inside her is screaming for him to relieve her, calm her, take her, complete her.

Percy's chest ached as if he had been hit.

Feels his blood — or whatever he has — surge hot and fast.

He keeps sucking, the sound echoing in the kitchen as his jaw works and she tries to control herself from screaming. She's in an overdose of pleasure and he's completely addicted to her. He savors her taste, devours her greedily until she finally comes.

And comes. And comes again.

And it still isn’t enough.

He's out of breath, panting as if he'd run a marathon, and mind you, he never used to get out of breath like that.

Percy stands, leaning over her overheated body. Annabeth cups his face with both hands, dragging him up to her, pulling him close enough that her thumbs nearly scratch his cheeks. Her eyes are glazed, unfocused, still starving.

"It wasn’t enough, was it?" he asks, just as she did when he first tasted her.

Annabeth shakes her head, smiling at the memory as if clinging to a thread of lucidity. "It will never be enough, Percy."

He smiles too — fangs and all.

Screw it.

He picks her up, her wrinkles staining his pants, making them slippery against him. He wants to take her, now as abstruse as she is, but he's at his limit. He needs to bury himself so deep inside her that they both forget their own names.

And with that thought, he pressed her against the living room wall, unable to make it to the couch.

“I’m gonna fuck you now, okay?”

She holds his neck, frowning in the most pleading expression in the universe.

“Yes. Finally, yes.” She let her head fall back against the wall, bracing a hand on his shoulder, barely giving him enough space to pull back just far enough to—while looking directly into her glazed, tear-bright eyes—undo his belt. Percy freed his heavy cock, long and smoothly thick, hard as stone wrapped in silk. Gorgeous, like the rest of him, already leaking in anticipation.

Annabeth swallowed hard as he grabbed her hips and aligned them, pushing in so slowly both of them trembled with restraint and anticipation.

"Annabeth" 

"Perce" 

They groaned at the same time, mouths brushing, noses touching. He thrust in as he felt her stretch around him in a way he had never felt in his entire existence. He stretched her in a way that was almost humanly impossible, which was ironic given their nature. Annabeth was tight, crushing him and milking him in her moisture. The temperature difference between their bodies made the experience even more maddening.

He bottomed out inside her, deeper than he ever had. Her legs were spread wide, like a little wolf in heat desperate to be taken.

She wrapped her arms around him and let out a thin, broken whine.

“Still feel empty, sweetheart?” Percy murmured, his mouth against her cheek.

Annabeth shakes her head. "I've never been so full, Percy... Please..." She shifts her hips, searching for more.

He pulled back slightly, smiling at the sight of his little wolf in heat, and lifted her higher against the wall right as he thrust for the first time.

Percy drove into her over and over, hard, and the sound that tore from Annabeth’s throat didn’t sound normal — it was hot, urgent, breathless, full of a relief that never arrived and a hunger that only grew. He held her tight by the waist, their bodies pressed flush, the movement between them nearly impossible to control.

She molds herself to him, her legs tightly wrapped around his hips, her hands buried in his shoulders as if trying to anchor herself to something that could stop pleasure from tearing her apart inside.

“Percy…” 

Her voice cracked—high, trembling, desperate.

“I know,” he whispers, and there’s pain and longing and adoration all mixed together in that voice that vibrates against her skin. “I know, love. I know.”

He holds her tighter—not to restrain her, but because he himself is on the verge of exploding. Her heat hits him in waves, leaving everything dense, hot, sharp, as if the air in the room had come alive, hungry, breathing along with them.

Annabeth slid her hands to the back of his neck, dragging him close—so close his nose brushed her cheek—and whispered in his ear, breathless and undone:

“Feed.”

Percy froze. Just for a second. He couldn’t stop thrusting.

A second that feels like something inside him is bursting open.

“Annabeth…” 

But she turns her face away, exposing her neck—sweaty, hot, throbbing—and the instinct he's been trying to suppress for weeks engulfs him whole. The vampire, the man, the animal, everything in him aligns into a single focus: her.

"Please…" 

It was her please that destroyed him.

Percy leaned in, brushing his nose along her skin, inhaling a scent that already drove him insane and now became something almost sacred. A promise. A permission. A surrender.

He felt her pulse under his lips.

Felt her body begging, trembling, calling for him.

Felt her heat pounding against his mouth like a heartbeat.

“I shouldn’t…” he whispered, but he was already gone.

Already hers.

Already lost.

Annabeth cupped the back of his neck and pulled him down.

“Percy. Mark me.”

He groaned — low, almost mournful, like it hurt him to need her this much — and then placed his mouth on her neck. First his lips, then his teeth scratching lightly, asking for permission one last time.

She trembles all over.

Tilted her neck.

She presses her hips against his, searching for something he can no longer hold.

“That's it…” she breathes, so softly it sounds like a sob. “There…”

His fangs finally broke her skin.

Not with violence.

But with an overwhelming, slow, profound devotion — ike he was kissing her with his teeth.

Her taste flooded his mouth.

And Percy lost the world.

There are no more walls, no rooms, no controls, no fear — only her warm blood on his tongue, her body trembling against his, her heat mingling like a wave that sweeps everything away, her taste like a spice, even better, even more addictive, even more intoxicating.

Annabeth gripped his torso, her body arching, her breath broken by a short groan that he felt vibrate against her mouth.

“Oh, Percy—” 

He couldn’t answer.

He was too gone.

Too taken.

Too marked as he marked her.

He sucked harder, reverent and ravenous, each second pulsing between them like a shared heartbeat, her blood different—sweeter, spiced, perfect.

She wraps her legs around him, her skin warm, his scent intoxicating, her body craving more, needing more, begging for more…

And Percy finally holds her with both hands, pulling her closer to him—the kiss, the bite, the heat, the touch, all becoming one, indistinguishable, inevitable, overwhelming.

From that point on, what happens no longer belongs to reason — only to the instinct that consumes them together, because, by the time he finished feeding, Annabeth was limp against him, her pussy milking as she orgasms even harder than the last time.

“Fuck, you’re the dirtiest, sweetest little thing I’ve seen in my entire… fucking… existence,” Percy confessed, licking the last trace of her blood from his lips, still fucking her. He was still hard as stone, and he knew she could take more — after all, that’s what her body was made for.

He grabbed her again, now finally reaching the couch. His cock slipped out, she whimpered, he smirked darkly and laid her down on her stomach across the cushions, making her lean on the arm of the chair while he adjusted her so she was presenting her ass to him. It was animalistic, he was going to fuck her on all fours, doggy-style like the animal he had become because of her.

"You're going to come again." It's an order. He penetrates her as soon as he finishes saying it. She cries out softly, and he knew it was because she was biting into the fabric of the couch.

He reached for Annabeth’s wrists and pinned them behind her back with one hand, forcing her to lose her leverage entirely, letting him fuck her the way he wanted. She looked incredible like that — her smooth, round ass slapping against his hips, his balls hitting her every time. The pants he still wore made him feel even hotter, which should’ve been biologically impossible for his species.

“How deep I can bury myself in you, Annabeth…” Percy growled, thrusting into her almost violently. “And how tight you squeeze me—fuck, I’ll never want to stop.” She let out a chesty sound, her loose curls swinging down her back and intoxicating him with that sweet scent rising from her braids. "I knew you'd be my downfall the moment you opened the door to my apartment..." He braced one knee beside her body, making it easier to pound into her with quick thrusts that deflowered her.. “I knew you’d kill me from the moment your blood got me hard, made me come undone in the shower every Friday since…” He leaned down, burying his nose in her nape, curls brushing over him. “You smell like you’re mine. Your heat is for me, darling.” She rubs her face against the couch fabric, sweaty, almost drooling with lust, her mouth slightly open.

He's almost there, and he knows she is too. Pulling out just for a moment, Percy flipped her onto her back, laying her down across the couch. Her face was flushed, her neck marked with a mating bite that made him want to mark her again just for being so fucking beautiful. His. His. His.

Annabeth kept her thighs wide open for him, making it easy for him to slide back inside. She lay beneath him, and he knelt between her legs, grabbing her wide hips and narrow waist that fit perfectly in his palm. Fuck — he could see himself sliding into her, could see the head of his cock nudging her cervix.

“I never wanted a bloodline, but you make me want to put a baby in you, sweetheart,” he confessed, drunk on pleasure. She smiled, just as wrecked.

“You can get me pregnant if you want, Percy. You can do whatever you want with me. I’m yours… I’m yours, Percy.” He growled, pulling her hips flush to his, not just fucking her but making her fuck him back.

“Fuck, Annabeth, I’m gonna come,” he panted, the pleasure rising through his stomach, his cock throbbing, balls heavy, feeling fuller, more alive than he ever had.

“In me! Please, with me—do it with me, inside me, Perce,” she begged, needy, and he felt her coming—felt the instinctive pull of the end of her first day in heat.

He squeezes her right breast, bites his own lower lip, and thrusts in, one, two, three, four times, and on the fifth time he ejaculates, exploding inside her while vocalizing about it, unable to contain himself. She also orgasms; he feels and sees the fluids rippling around him inside her, but she was tight enough not to let a single drop of him leak out. She wanted everything inside her, as was usually the case with wolves in heat, their reproductive system built for breeding.

Percy collapsed over her slowly, careful not to crush her, staying inside her as Annabeth’s pussy kept him locked in place, doing the instinctive work he knew wolf bodies did.

She wrapped her arms around him, and he rested his head on her chest, exhausted. If he weren’t a vampire, he might actually have fallen asleep.

But she wasn’t a vampire — and she yawned, already sleepy.

"And you had the audacity to apologize for this..." Annabeth laughs softly, now truly satisfied.

He sighs, caressing her body. "We're different species, darling."

Growing drowsier by the second, she murmured, “That’s not what my body thinks, is it?”

Cradling her in the way he could, Percy nodded and stroked her gently until his partner — his brilliant, beautiful partner from another species — fell asleep in his arms.