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"Oh, no. No, no, no—"
Percy doesn't need to explain why he starts backing away, what makes him go pale and sick-looking. Luke feels it too, just as sudden, just as earth-shifting and horrific.
For a second, Kronos fumbles. Luke screams, but his body doesn't make a sound. It just heats up, boiling him alive. The only consolation to be found is hoping Kronos feels the burning pain, too.
A flash. The same burning pain, with a sweet-slick edge. The bed is soft, the room dark; the smell heady and overwhelming.
"No," comes the same voice, but this time, it's firm and commanding. Directed at him, not pleading in reflexive horror. "Come on. I need you."
Luke blinks a few times, until his tired eyes make out the dark outline above him. He stretches his arms, flexes his hands, lifts them up— or tries, and realizes he's tied to the bedpost by his wrists.
Several things fall into place, jolting him into groggy awareness. I want you to wake me up by riding me. Just hold me down and use me. And don't be fucking nice about it this time, okay?
Fuck. It's probably a good thing for humanity that Percy never fell for Luke's initial attempts at a less literal seduction; apparently, he can be an evil mastermind when he wants to. The single-minded intensity is devastating enough when it's being used for this— it would be catastrophic if he ever let it absorb the kind of poison Luke nearly choked on.
He's better than Luke ever was. That's why Luke isn't dead now. Maybe that's not a good thing, especially for Percy's sake, but there's nothing they can do about it.
No, Percy begged years ago, sixteen and shaking, helpless as something washed over him— something bigger and older and more primal than the curses of gods or titans.
It hit Luke at the same time. One second, he couldn't move, trapped in his own mind by the monster who'd stolen his body; the next, he slammed so hard against the bars of his prison that he shattered them, knife sinking into his gut. Kronos' gut.
At least dying would have solved Percy's issue, but there's that better-than-Luke thing again. He never even faltered. He caught Luke around the waist and held him while his vision faded, hands slippery with blood as he held pressure to the wound. No, no, no— you don't get to die like this, you can't leave me here to—
"Hey. Look at me."
The slap is light. It still smarts, deliciously bright. Luke blinks away the last of his dream, and obeys.
Percy's there, above him. Around him. Hot, wet, insistent. In heat. Luke trembles under him, shifting restlessly against his bonds.
"Tell me," he breathes, half-slurred with exhaustion. His hips move without his permission. Percy snarls, deep and guttural and wild, and rocks back as his hands seize fast around Luke's wrists.
"You're mine. You owe me."
Yes, Luke thinks and doesn't say. For everything. For all the shit I put you through—
Percy slaps him again. He's not sure if it's because it's obvious that he keeps slipping. He focuses on the pain, lets it tether him to consciousness.
"I own you, Castellan," Percy continues, sharp as a knife's edge. One hand comes down to Luke's throat— fuck, yes— and threatens, just barely enough pressure to stoke anticipation.
Fuck. Fuck.
"Please," Luke hears himself breathe.
Percy looks at him for a moment, green eyes glinting like Greek fire.
Then he starts to press down.
Slowly at first. Then a little more, then he eases up again. He's flirting with it without following through; teasing, really.
Not that Luke deserves any better.
"Please." Urgent and hungry. Too easy. Percy shakes his head, clenches again around Luke, and presses down again with his hand.
This time, he uses enough pressure to cut off Luke's air.
He's dangerous, and he always has been. His self-control keeps him from flying off the deep end, but once every three months, Luke gets to see the side of him he tries to keep under lock and key.
It's beautiful. Terrifying. It makes Luke feel more alive than he has since he was a teenager.
Maybe it's being close to death. It's a state he's used to by now, but Percy can still bring an edge of newness to it. It's different, feeling the pressure of a thumb against his wildly-fluttering jugular— there's no sense of bone-searing exhaustion, no burning agony from pushing his body well beyond its limits. It's just him, Percy and the fading of his vision.
Just as suddenly as he started, Percy lets go again. Luke gasps in a harsh lungful of air. His dick spasms, hard, and Percy sits down firmly with a warning glint in his eyes.
"Don't you dare," he whispers, soft lips turning the venom of his tone into something seductive. "I'm not done, so you aren't, either."
He reaches for something Luke can't see. He doesn't go far enough to separate them, but Luke still misses the force of his hands. Before he has a chance to complain, he hears the striking of a match, and suddenly the room illuminates in a warm yellow glow.
One, two, three seconds. Luke is so focused on the flickering of candlelight off Percy's bare, sweat-shiny skin that the first spill of hot wax makes him yelp, startled.
Percy blows out the candle. His expression is invisible in the darkness. The slow circle he makes with his hips tells Luke what it looks like anyway— hungry. Maybe even predatory.
"Again."
"Needy," Percy scolds, or praises. Luke doesn't know and doesn't care. There isn't much distinction when he gets like this anyway.
"Yeah."
Another struck match, another burst of fireglow, another lick of almost-pain as hot wax floods over Luke's shoulder.
"Say it," Percy demands, and blows out the candle again.
Luke breathes through the darkness, soaks in the slippery heat surrounding him, drinks in the smells of their combined frenzy.
"I need you," he says, quiet. It hurts his ears anyway. Somewhere above him, he hears laughter, and again he can't tell if it's mocking.
"Yeah, you do." Percy lights the candle a third time, and lets it illuminate his face long enough to make Luke shudder. He gasps when the wax spills over his fingers, and Luke feels it in his gut when Percy's teeth sink into his lower lip.
Hot wax floods over Luke's chest, and this time he cries out. Then the flame is gone, and once again the only proof that Percy's still there is the heat of him.
"Please," Luke begs, raw. Broken.
Percy shudders in his arms.
"One more time. Say it out loud."
Luke swallows, staring at the dark ceiling. He can make out the outline of Percy's shoulder above him. They've both held the weight of the sky, but only one of them can really use that as a point of pride.
"I need you, Percy."
There's no way it's enough. It can't possibly be enough, but it works every time.
Percy falls apart, whining, clenching, hips surging faster like he can eliminate the distance between them with the friction. For some reason Luke can't fathom, nothing else gets to Percy like being needed.
Luke isn't good for much, but this is one thing he has no trouble providing.
"Please," he repeats, urging Percy on. "I need you. Please."
That's it— Percy falls over the edge with a howl, hips slamming down hard. They go still, but his muscles are still moving, contracting harshly over and over and fuck—
"Go ahead," Percy moans, breathless and euphoric. His hand comes back up to Luke's throat, pushing down hard. "Come on. Show me how much you need me."
The permission and the pressure and the heat and the lack of oxygen overwhelm Luke's mental strife. The release is like a storm surge, tearing down the dilapidated buildings left by a lifetime of failed expectations and broken promises.
Luke has been close to death before. Every time he puts his life in Percy's hands, he expects it to be snuffed out. Every time it isn't, he feels like maybe those old buildings needed to come down anyway. Maybe it's a good thing that Percy breaks him so completely; something's been wrong with him since he was born, and if anyone should have a right to try to force him into the shape of something worthwhile—
"Shhh," Percy soothes, his mouth pressed to Luke's throat right at the spot where his thumb was earlier. He's heavy and drowsy now, flooded with oxytocin; he licks gently at Luke's pulse as though the movement is unconscious. "It's over. You were amazing. I'm so proud of you."
It happens every fucking time, but Luke still finds himself glad for the darkness. It doesn't actually hide his tears or Percy wouldn't be wiping them away, but it does give him a layer of insulation against acknowledging them.
"Thank you," he manages, his voice a rough, husky whisper. It could be from the choking or from the fucking state he's in or both— it doesn't matter. All that matters is the body knotted with his, holding him down.
"You're welcome. Please don't make me do that again for at least a couple days."
The laughter sounds thick and snotty and pathetic. Percy's is a lot sexier, all sleepy and satisfied and proud, even as he shoves at Luke's chest. "No, I mean it. I know it makes you feel better, but I hate being that much of a dick to you. I don't mind it when you beg me to hurt you, but I like it better when you do it because you're horny than because you want punishment, you know?"
Luke doesn't respond. He doesn't have to; Percy knows that now isn't the time for serious, binding conversations, and instead of pushing it just moves on to the next step of their game.
He stretches one arm across Luke's torso, feeling around on the nightstand. He doesn't fumble long. What he's looking for is always in one of two places: there beside the bed, or locked around Luke's neck.
It's small and simple: a celestial bronze padlock that goes on Luke's camp necklace, opened by the little silver key Percy wears on his. It clicks into place, the metal rapidly warming against Luke's skin.
"I know you hate it," he breathes, the weight grounding. If he focuses on that little padlock, it keeps him from sliding backwards into the darkest parts of his memory. "But you're really good at it, and I appreciate you indulging me."
Percy sighs softly. A moment later, Luke feels a hand in his hair, fiddling gently. The lock of white has long since grown out, but they both remember exactly where it was.
"I think you've beaten yourself up enough already without beating yourself up for needing me to beat you up sometimes, too."
They're always going to differ there. Luke is fairly sure he could spend a millenium in the fields of punishment, and it wouldn't be enough to make up for what he's done. But Percy…
Somehow, Percy believes in his best, even after everything Luke's done and broken and ruined. As angry as he was about not getting a choice in the matter, he never blamed Luke for imprinting on him. Years later, when he finally gave up being stubborn, he admitted he'd been getting sick every time he went into heat, his body screaming at him to seek Luke out. Even so, it wasn't until he realized Luke was getting sick too that he couldn't bear distance anymore— couldn't bear the idea of his mate suffering, no matter how much he resented their bond.
"You know, just because we didn't choose each other doesn't mean we didn't choose each other," Luke muses, almost immediately feeling embarrassed about the stupid phrasing.
Percy's laughter doesn't help at first, but then he hears the affection in it. Feels Percy's fingers wrap around the padlock, his closed fist resting right over Luke's heart.
"I like the way you think, babe."
It was Percy's idea, using celestial bronze and tempered steel. Mortality and the divine forged together, this time for something that heals instead of corrupts.
Every time it locks around Luke's neck, he feels another piece of himself fall back into place.