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When it finally happened, it felt like everything all at once. They’d been circling each other for months, edging closer and closer, Viago warming to him like a nervous puppy, which Anton always kinda thought, bit ironic that. But yeah, when the barrier finally broke, he felt like a wave crashing, all that building energy cresting into something churning and wild inside himself. Anton had watched it approaching off the horizon and wasn’t surprised when they finally finally collided, but Viago didn’t seem to feel the same, kept quirking his mouth to reveal one delicate fang in a nervous giggle. Kept stopping to carefully pull back, to check that Anton was sure, really we don’t have to and Anton was trying to tamp down the clawing animal that screamed I absolutely do from his gut.
Not that Viago was delicate, but some of his sensibilities were, and Anton didn’t think he’d want their first time together ruffled by the—the thing Anton became when he really let himself go. So, yeah, maybe he needed to reign himself in just a bit more.
“Vi, Vi, are you asking ‘cause you’re not alright? Cause-“ Anton takes a leveling breath against the hinge of Viago’s jaw where he’d been futilely, furiously trying to work a bruise. “I can—I can back off. Yeah, yeah we don’t have to—Anything.”
The thing about getting hot and heavy with a vampire is they didn’t really. No flush in their cheeks or hitching breath or rushing heat to give them away and Anton starts to suspect with a sinking fear he’s gotten way ahead of himself, and he’d come at Viago like an animal, all rough and feral. Yeah, he needed to cool it. He pulls back to give Viago some proverbial breathing room, and catches in his tracks.
Viago’s pupils are blown wide, his lips pulled back slightly to reveal a flash of fangs, and his fingers curl tighter where they’re gripped at Anton’s hips, biting sharp enough that he suspects the claws have come out. And if his body is lacking telltale warmth, all that heat potential has redirected and Viago’s gaze is molten, narrowed tightly against Anton. His tongue swipes out to trace over his lips, to curl round one dangerous fang and then slide on past, like he’s mapping where Anton has been. Viago hisses , a fussy little thing that sends a pleased tingle up Anton’s spine that he is not unpacking, and pulls him closer by his hips.
“No, I do not want you to back off, ” Viago’s claws yep yep definitely the claws tighten at his hips and that sends another spark fizzing through him. “I enjoy you… Riled up.”
Oh. So not so far ahead of himself as all that then.
He leans back into Viago’s space, presses his lips in a delicate arc across one side of his jaw, drags a messy kiss over parted lips, and slides tongue down the opposite side, as Viago trails sharp fingers up the plane of his back, tugging him insistently closer.
“Anton,” he breathes just above his head as he pulls pleadingly against the back of Anton’s flannel. “You are overdressed.”
Anton means to snort laughter, but it comes out closer to a snarl, muffled against the cravat and collar he’s been nosing furtively against, itching for another inch of the delicate line of throat Anton knows he’s hiding under all those stuffy layers. “You’ve got on more fabric than my nan in July, and I’m the one overdressed.” He tugs pointedly at the knot of the cravat and Viago whines at the pressure even as delicate fingers climb up to meet him there, deftly pulling the fabric free and tossing it blindly to the side, and something about fussy, fastidious Viago casting his lace off like a rag just heats that thing in Anton’s gut to boiling.
He wants . He wants Viago ruffled up, stripped of all those layers, looking bare and wild the way he makes Anton feel, he wants it desperately. Wants Viago desperate.
He noses between the cool curve of his neck and the stiff line of his collar, seeking out the metallic tang, the earth-tinged mustiness of his skin, through the pressed flower scent of the perfume Viago always applies a touch too heavy. The column of Viago’s throat vibrates in a pleased hum under the fluttering press of his lips and he drags in a deep breath through his nose. He pushes his face ever closer, relishes the dragging scratch of his beard across smooth skin, before he bares his teeth and bites down.
Viago hisses and his claws dig into Anton’s hips sharper than they have before, edging into real pain. Anton tightens his jaw for a moment at the sting, a low growl tumbling out of him, before letting up, soothing over the divots his canines have left in Viago’s flesh with the rasp of his tongue.
“I— hah— I am sorry, Anton.” Viago gasps around the fiery brand Anton is warming into his throat. He slackens his fingers on Anton’s hips and hitches up his hems to rub cool palms in soothing circles where he’s left his claw marks. “I don’t mean to hurt you, it’s only that—“
“Could do it again.”
Viago’s hands still on his hips, then flutter in question.
“I mean it.” Anton drops his voice, puts a little growl into it, means to come out commanding, but even to himself he just sounds pleading. “Do it again.”
Slowly, softly, Viago presses the tips of his claws into the soft meat of his hips, traces light trails around their curves into the small of his back, then drags them in parallel lines up the column of his spine. Anton shivers, body trembling where it’s pressed against Viago, the featherlight scrape setting every nerve afire, standing at attention, ready for more, more, more .
“Oh.” Viago says softly. He presses a single claw in with intent and draws a clean line down feverish skin to denim waistband. Anton shudders, full body, hot breath panting against cool skin. “ Oh ” Viago exhales, a bite of determination, and suddenly a semicircle of burning comets light up the small of Anton’s back, dragging flaming trails behind them as his claws scrape back where they came, curving across back and hip and carving into a hockey stop in the furred slope of his stomach. There, Viago’s hands falter once again.
“Please, Vi, it’s good, you’re good, you can—“
He pulls back, catches the glassy haze over Viago’s eyes, the slight slump against the wall he’s been pressing him into. “Oh, are you—“
“Anton, it’s alright. I just thought we could move this to the couch?” Anton sees him try for a suggestive smirk, but it doesn’t quite land, he’s faltering again.
“Yeah, sorry, yeah, anything—“ He stumbles backwards, eyes trained on Viago as he follows him across the floor, his usual grace catching on invisible snags in the flooring. Anton tumbles back into the worn leather of the couch and Viago stalls awkwardly above him, like he doesn’t know where he’s allowed to sit, like it’s the first day of school and there’s a wrong answer.
Anton pats the cushion next to him and tries for levity. “It’s alright mate, take a load off.” he offers with a smile.
Viago straightens, seems to draw up some kind of hidden determination, and slides gracefully against Anton’s side, pressing close.
He slides a cool hand under the hem of Anton’s t-shirt, cupping the gentle swell of his belly, and dragging his pinky just against the waistband of his jeans. It’s a tease of a touch, a hint of what Anton desperately wants from him, and he’s aching for it, shaking for it. That thing in his gut just keeps coiling tighter and tighter, threatening to snap and claw its way out of him, to take and take and beg to be taken back. But Viago is— he’s fucking beautiful and he doesn’t seem all the way sure about him and Anton’s not gonna fucking push, not for more than he already, dizzyingly, has.
But suddenly the teasing pinky at his waist digs below the band of fabric it’s been skating against and tugs roughly, once, twice, three times. “I still say you’re overdressed, Anton.”
The determination not to push is fraying, and how.
His hands fly to the hem of his t-shirt and he yanks it gracelessly overhead, dragging his flannel clumsily with it until the whole bundle of it catches at his buttoned in wrists. He pulls roughly at them until they pop free, the fine motor skills to handle anything but Viago carefully having long since vacated the premises.
“Viago,” he tries so fucking hard not to whine, “Vi, please.”
Viago tightens his teasing grip at his waistband and nuzzles his cool face into the heave of Anton’s chest, close mouthed and careful, soft features dragging through coarse hair. “What is it you need, liebling?”
Anton does whine at that, and he can’t take it anymore, and before he can think, can blink, he’s pushed against Vi’s shoulders, pressing him back into the couch, and swung a leg across his prim little lap. He captures Viago’s lips against his own, nipping and sucking at them, telegraphing pleas to return a shred of the ferocity tearing out of him. He’s straining in his jeans, and he realizes wildly it’s not just his cock, it’s his thighs and calves too, shifting and swelling, and he can’t even remember the last time he got worked up enough for his body to toe that line of transformation without the light of the moon.
“Vi, g— oh Viago” he huffs out, and he needs Viago to feel how he has him losing it, needs him to really fucking feel it, and grinds down into his lap, the hard line of his cock meeting Vi—
Oh.
Meeting not much at all.
At once a bucket of ice water slides down his back as fire brands his cheeks.
“Hell, Vi, I’m so sorry, if you’re not—“ He pulls back, eyes wildly searching Viago’s face and, save a matching flush of red, Vi looks as mortified as Anton feels.
“No, I am. I am. Don’t— I do not want you to stop.”
Anton levels his most skeptical, take-no-shit-Alpha face at him. “You sure about that?” Gentler then. “You sure about this, with me ?”
Viago’s face softens. “Yes, yes, Anton, I am very sure about you.”
Anton breaks into a wolfish grin. “Alright, cheers.” He starts to reach for the laces at the collar of Viago’s shirt, trying his level best to unknot with delicacy, not wanting to snag the fine stitching and lace. “Let’s get you more comfortable.”
Viago starts to relax into the couch, humming a content little tune as Anton works the lacing free and moves to the brass buttons of his waistcoat. He pops the buttons deftly with one hand, caressing the wake of creamy cotton with the other. Already, Viago is more bare than Anton’s ever seen him, and each revealed inch ratchets up the volume of the animal in his gut another sloppy notch.
The last button pops free and Anton runs parallel palms from the gentle give of Viago’s stomach to the twin swells of his pecs, mesmerized by the delicious glide of his rough hands against smooth cotton against Viago’s cool skin. The heels of his palms drag against the nubs of his nipples and Viago’s eyebrows raise in interest. Anton mirrors the motion and twists his hands to thumb against the raised pebbling pressing through the weave of his shirt and Viago lets out a tiny kitten-whimper of a hiss.
“Oh yeah?” Anton asks, like he doesn’t know, and Viago’s answering glare says he’s thoroughly unimpressed.
Anton ignores his little huff that he knows is pure, calculated theatrics, and starts tugging gently at Viago’s overcoat. “Budge up, let me get this off of you.”
The textured brocade slides under his palms, dragging against calluses as he helps pull Viago free. He has to lean in, chest to chest, to release himself properly from the coat even with help, and Anton swears he can feel his own heartbeat echoing back at him, bouncing and reverberating off the solid mass of Viago beneath him. The rhythm is pounding, a staccato drumbeat underpinning the growling in his gut, churning at the very core of him, and sliding icy hot out to his extremities.
He feels like a liveware, like every brush of Viago against him is twice the pressure, every breath of him is twice the scent, every connection of skin to skin is twice as chilled as it all really ought to be. He knows, has been around for enough full moons to know, that this isn’t just arousal, not even just “longing for months after Viago and finally getting a chance with him” arousal. There’s pressure in his bones and muscles, an ache in his jaw, a thrumming in his veins that says he’s one choke-chain leash away from full animal.
He takes a heavy breath, literally tells himself down boy , like that’s ever worked, and resolves to keep a lid on it. He’s been wanting far too long to call the whole thing off just because the third quarter moon and a two year dry spell have him literally panting for it.
He neatly folds Viago’s coat over the back of the couch, works the vest free, and gives it the same treatment. When he recenters his focus on Viago, he’s giving him a funny little look, a fang poking from a quirked lip once again, and Anton’s flooded with an impulse to run his tongue against the gleaming point of it.
Running one hand across the curve of Viago’s hip, the other sliding from pec to shoulder to neck to cup the nest of loose curls at the base of his head, he leans in, eyes open and fixated on the prize. Viago is stilled beneath him as he darts out his tongue to tease at the pearly white. The dangerous edge of it reveals itself immediately, lighting up a stinging trail where fleshy tongue connects with razor-sharp bone. He swallows around the bite but does not pause. The liquid ice of pain is only just enough to cut through the swirl of heat and need running through him, and grounds him more than it sets him off.
It also seems to finally deal a killing blow to Viago’s composure, because the whine he lets out, high and needy from the back of his throat, rivals that of some of the youngest pups Anton’s brought up in his day.
“Anton, liebling, please.”
Anton backs off a hair to face him properly before tilting in for a dragging kiss, savoring the edge of warmth he feels in the flesh, knowing it’s directly due to his own proximity.
“Need something, Vi?” he says, and presses the pad of his thumb against his other fang, slides the meat of it in a lazy circle against the tip, and then gently pushes in. It’s not nearly enough to break through the callused skin, but it’s enough to tug the chain.
Underneath him, Viago fully slides back into the couch, mouth falling open, eyes falling closed, but his body is still tensed, his hands gripped tight but controlled against the bracketing weight of Anton’s thighs.
“Anton.”
And it’s soft, but it sounds like a warning.
“What, Vi? What is it?” Viago is still taut and measured beneath him, and his face has become a placid lake, just as still, just as cool.
“I need only a moment. You don’t have to stop—”
“Enough of that, Viago, don’t tell me not to stop. Something’s wrong, and you can tell me, or not tell me, but-” and then he moves to dismount, flexing his thighs against the tight confines of denim that’ve been putting up a valiant fight in holding him together.
Viago’s claws tightening in the meat of his thighs stop him in his tracks, and Viago presses the advantage to pull him bodily back into his lap, shifting his hands to grip into the meat of his ass. The pressure instinctively urges Anton forward and Viago follows with his hands, controlled and even, and Anton’s hips press against where Viago’s are rising up to meet them. There’s still not much for Anton to grind against but that’s not putting a damper on Viago’s enthusiasm as he pushes and pulls Anton until he settles into a rhythm, set by Viago and powered by Anton’s simmering desperation.
Anton huffs frustration into the crook of Viago’s neck where he’s settled and starts again. “Viago Von Dorna—”
“I do not have time for you to finish that.” Viago relaxes his grip and drags a cool hand up the planes of Anton’s back, fingertips drawing in heat and leaving shivery trails in their wake. “I-” He stops again, coils his hand around the back of Anton’s neck as an anchor, the firm collar of his grip rounding cool trails off into a chilly cul de sac. “I apologize. I have not had anyone to eat in awhile, and I’ve just been feeling not the best.”
Realization spreads easily. The shakiness, the stopping and starting, the hesitance. Anton knows the feeling intimately. Viago is starving , and even if it wasn’t physically taxing him, the hunger must be driving him wild. He’s been struggling, like Anton has, to keep something at bay, to keep himself packaged up tightly enough that the other is not thrown off.
And that just won’t do.
Anton’s an alpha. He looks out for his own. He gives. He gives when it’s easier to take, when it doesn’t make sense, when it’s medically inadvisable. So he doesn’t really think too hard before blurting it out.
“Feed on me.”
Viago goes from chilly to frozen.
“Anton, don’t be silly.”
“I’m not.” He pulls back, face open but serious, and looks Viago in his glassy brown eyes, clocking the glaze as a hunger fueled dull in his sparkle rather than the lust addled haze he’d assumed earlier. He reasserts. “I am not. I’ll heal quickly, the full moon is right around the bend, and it’s already been too long, hasn’t it, Vi? You waited too long, didn’t you?”
Viago nods mutely.
“So feed on me.”
“It will hurt.”
“I’m fine with pain.”
“You will not feel well afterwards.”
“You don’t feel well now.”
“I cannot always stop.”
Anton pauses his volley, weighs this one in his hands, rolls it around to feel the size of it.
“Do you trust me? To do what I need to do to stop you?” he asks.
“Yes.” Viago says, barely giving him a chance to finish the question.
He cups Viago’s chin in two strong palms, feels the cool line of his jaw pressing a V into the warm bowl of his hands, and slides a thumb towards Viago’s lower lip. He drags a trail, tugs, teases, feeling the flesh stretch and bounce back underneath him. He grins, and presses the thumb into the tepid moisture of Viago’s mouth, runs the pad of it across the notably softer ridge of his lower teeth. Viago curls back his upper lip to hiss, furrowing his brow, but Anton cuts him off with a kiss, open mouthed and sloppy, his own thumb caught between them. He tastes the familiar dry salt of his own skin, the sticky cloying sweetness of Viago. He tastes a bit like rot, if he’s honest. A bit like sweet, summer ripe fruit has sat too long and begun to ferment into something not quite right. But underneath that, there’s a sharper tang, a solid note of strength, like steel. He knows, instinctively, that he should spit out the taste, wash it off his tongue, his body should reject it like poison. But he finds he craves it. It’s twisted, and layered, and heady, and he wants to spend ages sipping at it, sliding it around his mouth and marking down little tasting notes about just what month the fruit went to rot, the carbon grade of the steel.
With monumental self control, he pulls back once more.
“If you trust me, I trust you.”
Viago’s face softens slowly, melting into tender awe, fang tips pushing against the plush of his bottom lip as he works his jaw, looking for words. After halting consideration that leaves Anton itching, desperate to push, desperate not to push, now that they’ve finally landed on the same page, Viago speaks, a lilt of teasing pushing up against his veneer of practicality.
“The rest of our clothes will need to come off. I am a messy eater.”
Permission granted, Anton doesn’t pause for a moment before reaching for the delicate cotton veiling the slope of Viago’s body. He slips the hem of his blouse from Viago’s trousers, eyes trained on dark brown curlicues against tawny skin, trailing up and over his torso. The full picture of him dawns like a sunrise as the hemline rises higher and higher, spreading across Anton’s field of vision until there’s nothing in his sight but the easy flow of lean muscle into fat into bone. He frees the shirt fully from Viago, neatly folding it against the back of the couch to join the rest of Viago’s clothes.
Viago is wearing that slightly stunned expression again, and Anton guesses it’s a pretty close match to the one on his own face.
“You are so gentle with my things. You are gentle with me.” Viago says, edged in pleasant surprise, like a thank you for a gift when it’s not even his birthday.
“Course I am.” Anton says simply. “You deserve it.”
The gentle admission seems to spur something in Viago, and he pats insistently at Anton’s thighs.
“Up, up please. I need to see you.”
Anton wastes no time, anticipation thrumming in his gut, and levers to his feet, hands snapping and pulling at the closures of his jeans, shimmying the waist past his hips before he’s even fully standing. Denim and cotton drag past the now insistent swell of his thighs, revealing swathes of sandy fur, only to catch dead at the knees. The twist of fabric around him is tight, and the more he tugs at it, the more restricting it feels. The hypersensitive state he’s been luxuriating in turns against him as his body starts to demand freedom from the scratch and pull of fabric bindings, and he feels another growl rumbling through his chest.
A cool hand rests softly against his thigh and slips up and down in a soothing press. A pleasant tingle spreads as delicate fingers furrow through coarse hair, and his breathing evens once again.
“Let me help.”
Anton sinks willingly to the floor, the soft cushion of his body pressing into the scratchy weave of the carpet beneath. Keyed up like this, Anton swears he can feel every fiber moving against him, like he could recreate the pattern on touch alone, if it weren’t for the delicious distraction of Viago reaching gently for his left foot, propping it against his wool clad shin, and neatly unlacing his sneaker from top to bottom, one eyelet at a time. When the shoe finally slips free, there’s not even a tug at his ankle, a sweet contrast to the hands free yank his shoes and most of the rest of his clothes tend to come off with. Then Viago’s hands are carefully stretching the hem of his jeans around his ankle, drawing them gently over his calf, and finally one leg is free to the open air. Viago repeats the process on his other leg in a perfect mirror, and then Anton is bare.
At least, bare of clothing. Fur has been thickening and sprouting on his body since Viago’s lips first touched his, and now he’s coated in a veritable forest.
Viago is looking down at him, but wide eyed awe leveled against him makes him feel eight feet tall.
“Come here. Please.” Viago says softly, and he doesn’t need to breathe but there’s a thready shake to his voice that suggest if he did, there’d be a hitch in it.
Anton shuffles forward, the thrumming in his veins not lending itself to any grace, and trails shaky hands up Viago’s still clothed shins, up his thighs, to the buttons at his waist as he raises himself back over him, lowers himself gently to his lap.
“How do you want—” He starts. He’s done this before. He’s never done this before.
“May I have your wrist?” Viago asks, with a razor sharp flash of teeth that cools the itching in Anton’s chest another precious notch.
He lays a trembling wrist in Viago’s outstretched palm. It’s not nerves that have him shaking in his too-tight skin, he realizes. It’s desire. He wants . He wants Viago to tear into him. However he needs, however he wants, Aton’d give it all up. All the restraints he’s wrapped his howling animal in, and he wants Viago to let his loose all over him. Let them both go over the edge, not a care in the world about coming back.
Viago raises his wrist to his lips for a whisper of a kiss, so soft and delicate that it lights him up all over again. Then he parts his lips, mouths at him, open and messy, licks against his pulse point, and gently presses in. It’s a whisper of a burn, an introductory bite, and Anton can feel him hesitating, as though he’s not sure Anton could really want this.
“Go on Vi, you can. You can.” He sucks in a steadying breath. “I want you to.”
The second Viago’s teeth actually breach his skin, the flirtatious sting narrows into two married channels of committed pain, and his whole body sings with it like a struck tuning fork. The room floods with the scent of his own blood, metallic and raw, like he’s been clocked over the head with a sack of wet pennies, and it’s thick enough to taste. As Viago begins to suck and lap at his wrist, every little piece of Anton, body and mind, circles around their point of contact, drawing in closer and closer until every sense is singing one frequency. A liquid burn of pleasure and pain connecting Anton’s pulsing life force to Viago’s own. He’s drawing from him, but it doesn’t feel like he’s just pulling from the surface, it feels like Viago’s crawling inside of him, taking a stroll around and collecting the pieces he wants to take with him, and every trophy he takes, every sip Viago draws from him, lights him up from the inside out.
There’s a noise filtering into his peripheral, a deep growl of pleasure that he can feel rumbling through him like a wave, and at some point Anton realizes the sound is coming from his own chest. The contrast of Viago’s cool grip around his wrist and the white hot burn of his mouth is spinning him wide, and the pain is melting from jaw-clenching tension to a sweet slide all the way down into his gut. He’s rocking his hips in a stuttering rhythm against Viago, his body begging for friction, begging for release from the thing that’s just building up in him, higher and hotter. The longer Viago draws from him, the harder he is against Anton, and it’s a fucking heady rush to feel the evidence of what he’s doing for Viago firm against him.
He tucks his face into the shelter of Viago’s neck and his growl trips higher and higher into a pleading whine.
“I need to touch you, Vi, please .”
Viago doesn’t seem to register the plea, feasting on Anton’s wrist like it’s a last meal, letting out pleased little hums against delicate flesh, and Anton can feel rivulets of blood escaping the trap of Viago’s mouth, sliding sticky and hot up his forearm. He reaches for the waist of Viago’s trousers once again, pulling and twisting at the buttons with one sluggish hand, and opens his mouth to suck at Viago’s neck to ground him as he works. But his hand immediately starts to falter when he feels the curve Viago’s neck warm under his lips, pulsing with heat and life in a stark contrast to the lukewarm statue he’d had been just a handful of minutes ago. Viago skin is intoxicating, dizzying like this.
Or, actually, Anton is just dizzy, he realizes.
“Vi, Vi—” he nips at Viago’s neck pointedly. “Gimme a second, I need a second.”
Viago slows the working of his jaw over his wrist, even as his hand tightens where he grips it. He does not pull his head back, instead pulling the wrist away from himself with tremulous grip, his tongue still reaching out for a taste until the last possible moment.
They pull away from each other to lock eyes as one, and Viago’s face is transformed. His eyes are lit up, sparkling and bright, and crimson stains of blood mark his lips, tracking down out of the seams of his mouth and over his delicate chin. He still looks dazed, like he had before, but there’s life in it, hunger and desire dancing behind the haze of pleasure that’s washed over his features. That face, like Anton is holding out everything Viago could possibly need, and he just needs to reach out and grab it, he’s never been looked at like that, never felt so cloaked in want like Viago is doing to him right now.
“Are you alright?” Viago asks, with a little tease of a smile, like he already suspects just how alright Anton is in this moment. He can only nod in response, panting for breath, keyed up on pleasure as he is.
“Of course you are. You are handling this so well, you are doing so good for me.”
Anton whimpers, a proper, sobbing little thing, and nods furiously.
“I want- I want this to be good for you.”
“This is, this is very good.” Viago leans into Anton, forehead to forehead, lips only a breath away. “You are very good” he murmurs, and connects their lips in a gentle kiss.
Anton has tasted his own blood a hair more often than the average guy, a hair less often than the average werewolf. Split lips, bitten tongues and cheeks, his own taste has been on the menu before, and it’s not something that would normally register beyond a bit of a metallic tang. Except, now, he’s tasting himself against Viago, a hot slide of lips against blood against lips, and the taste is something else entirely. Salt and sugar and earth and musk and it sparks a hunger that drives his tongue against Viago’s lips, seeking more. Viago grants it to him easily, hissing into the spark of connection they share as he parts his lips and meets him with his own seeking tongue. Anton can feel the taste of himself mixing and melting against the taste of Viago, two parts thrumming metallic life against one part sickly sweet death, and it’s a dangerous cocktail. He can feel himself spinning, three sheets to the wind, off the first teasing sip, and it’s the kind of high that drives him to recklessly seek out even more.
The feral rumble in his gut reaches out with its claws and he sinks his teeth into the pillow of Viago’s bottom lip, too vicious for pleasure. He feels the skin break against his teeth as Viago hisses against him, and he sucks flesh into his mouth where it has split. Heat and metal and salt flood his senses as he drinks his own blood from Viago’s mouth. Viago moans against him, deeper and more desperate than he’s sounded all night, and rocks up against him, the hard line of him pressing through half unbuttoned trousers against naked flesh. The teasing sensation of Viago against him drags Anton back down south long enough to pull back and wrestle the rest of Viago’s buttons open. His left hand is wet and sticky with blood where it’s run over from Viago’s feeding but he can’t bring himself to mind the mess he’s making, and with the way Viago is twisting and arching beneath him, trying to spur his clothes on past his hips, Anton doesn’t think Viago minds much either.
Once Viago is as free as he’ll be with Anton perched in his lap like this, Anton finally, finally gets a hand on him, gripping him loosely at the base to ease into the sensation, and giving a gentle drag up a few inches and back down again. Even the introduction of a touch has Viago squirming and whining again, punching out a tremulous iteration of Anton’s name like a plea. The blood in Anton’s palm eases the way somewhat, softening the rasp of calloused palm against delicate flesh, but as he quickens his movements, the liquid blood turns tackier, tugging and pulling at their connected skin.
Anton raises his hand to his face and licks across his palm, saliva flowing freely as he tastes the heady salt-sweet-rot mix of himself and Viago all over again. He’s hardly pulled his palm from his lips when he’s leaning back into Viago for more; it’s like a soul deep urge, an addictive itch, to feel, to taste himself and Viago mixed and melded. The energy is getting more and more frantic, and so is the meeting of their mouths, teeth catching just as much as lips, blood and spit swirling and sliding between them.
Viago catches his wrist again as they push and pull against one another, and lets out another whimper against his mouth. Anton certainly doesn’t need him to beg and lowers his hand to wrap blood-spit-just-a-touch-of-sweat dampened digits around Viago once again. The glide is instantly better, and the velvet warmth of him slips easily through his hand. Viago feels heavy and solid in his grip, and Anton has a wild urge to squeeze, just to feel the thickness of him, the lack of give against him, that he indulges instantly. He drags the tightness of his grip up the full length of him and slides the meat of the base of his thumb over the head, slipping through a mess of precum that’s gathered there. He follows the motion of his hand with his own hips, thrusting at nothing but needing the movement, the fantasy of friction to soothe the roiling desire in his gut.
Viago is whining and bucking and twitching underneath him, and he pulls back from Anton’s face, wide eyed and wild belied by an edge that seems to be fraying.
“Anton, more, I need more from you, please”
Anton doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t pause the slide of hand over skin, just nods furiously.
“Yeah, yes, whatever you want.”
Viago leans in, noses against his pec, rubs the soft skin of his cheek against the fur covered skin, sending tingles through Anton where the hairs pull and drag, then faster than Anton can clock, turns sharp and feral and sinks fangs in deep, just astride the hardened peak of his nipple. He can feel the oozing heat of his own blood instantly, and Viago is on it with tongue and lips immediately, sucking and pulling from him with the same fervor he had for round one. Anton had thought the all encompassing feeling of Viago feeding from his wrist was grounding, peaking pleasure beyond what he could handle. He had thought.
He’s not thinking about anything anymore. Every cell in his body is tuned in to the twin piercings surrounding the raised nub of his nipple. The pulse of blood drawing out of him spreads throughout his body, a tugging, skidding sensation that presses heat from point of contact throughout the rest of his body. It doesn’t feel like being emptied, it feels like being filled.
The team of pleasure, from the pull of feeding to the lapping tug at his nipple to the firm glide of Viago against his hand, is surrounding him, wrapping him in a blanket of rushing heat. With Viago latched at his pec, he can hardly move, and his hips are twitching in sharp little thrusts, but he’s not reaching any relief with his movements.
“Viago, more, I need more from you, please.” he whines in perfect echo to Viago’s earlier request, and just as quickly, Viago obliges him, but not in the way he’d hoped. He raises a smooth, soft hand to anchor at the back of Anton’s neck and caresses the other from collarbone to swell of pec to trail clawed fingers over exposed nipple. The flirtation of pain has Anton panting again, aching for the teasing drag to sharpen into a focused scratch.
“Please, please, please, Viago, oh god, ple—”
Viago hisses in displeasure against him, the flesh of Anton’s pec twitching and dragging under the contortions of his mouth, and in the same moment, the glancing blow of his index finger against Anton’s areola arcs into a sharpened point and presses in . It sparks hot and sharp, a bitter sting that knocks him around in his cocoon of pleasure.
Anton lets out a little yelp that melts quickly into a moan as Viago soothes the soft pad of his finger against the mark he’s made, then pinches and rubs the tender flesh with a more delicate touch.
Anton’s hand has not stilled against Viago, stroking and sliding on instinct alone as Viago pulls him apart with his hands and teeth. Anton alternates long, firm, gliding strokes along the length of him with shorter, gentler traces across the delicate ridge, the precum slicked tip, touching Viago the way he would touch himself. He stutters his hips in time with the motions of his hand, the pleasure of Viago’s mouth on him swelling in pitch note for note with the rising moans and whines from Viago’s own throat, and it feels like they’re building towards their peak as one.
He raises his palm to his mouth once more to slick the way for both of them, and as he readjusts himself around the hot swell of Viago’s erection, he’s struck dizzyingly by the feeling of himself inside of Viago, Viago inside of him, moving and writhing in concert. He’s buzzing, full to the brim on a delicate balance of pleasure and pain, and his blood is filling Viago up, filling him in his hand as he strokes and pulls Viago closer to the edge. He feels lit up from the inside out, tracking every minute shift in Viago’s tongue, every twitch of finger against nipple, every little drag of pleasure of his own hand against Viago, and that hand against Viago, it starts to feel like Viago’s hand against him.
He’s drunk on Viago, he must be, because even though he can feel each point where Viago’s two hands connect with his body, each stroke of palm against cock doesn’t feel like Viago’s pleasure alone. Heat is pooling and tightening in his gut like every press of flesh to flesh is his own urgent need rocketing right towards the edge. He eases up his hand against Viago, slides his thumb slow and delicate around the head, teases at the ridge, and he can feel his own sensitivity throbbing against a matching phantom touch. His own body is drawing up tighter and tighter and he traces one finger down the underside of Viago’s cock, following a vein to the base where he grips him tight, and his own rising pleasure stutters to pause just as Viago makes his own choked out sound against his chest.
He loosens his grip and drags the circle of his hand from root to tip, and he and Viago let out twin moans of relief.
“Liebling,” Viago murmurs into the pillow of Anton’s flesh. “Liebling.”
Viago eases the suction of his mouth and scatters kisses across the swell of Anton’s chest to meet his own fingers where they are teasing and pulling at his other nipple. He mouths at him gently, a soothing contrast to the sharp edges of his earlier attentions. Anton can feel the gentle slide of Vi’s hands, shifting his left down to the curve of hip and his right to cup the swell of his still bleeding tit.
The softness of his touches, the gentleness of his lips against his chest wash Anton away like the aftermath of a wave retreating out to sea. There’s a stirring in him, a tremor of anticipation, that tells him that something else is building out in the sea, growing and swelling, but in this moment he’s caressed and lulled into something calmer, a slippery brush of pleasure strolling gently around his gut. Viago’s hands are petting him, are petting the animal in him, and under his soothing touch, the rush of their time together starts to crystallize for him into something, not so sharp, but more real than the dizzying push and pull and drag he was drowning in.
Anton keeps working his hand against Viago, stilling frantic drags up and down to circle slowly around the tip, feeling the slide and give of ridge and foreskin and sticky pull against slit where precum is eking out in delicate strings. He’s zeroed in on the heat of Viago, the tenderness of flesh against strong, deft fingers, like he can feel the sensitivity there through the pads of his fingers as though it is his own, like he can feel the simmering need from such teasing touches as though they are his own.
Viago murmurs against his chest, and it feels like a step towards the sea. Viago runs featherlight hands up the full length of his back and it feels like a stride. Viago bucks his hips under his hands and it feels like a stumble. Viago presses his teeth back into the plush of Anton’s pec and it’s a hand at his back, pushing him face first into the shallows.
As Anton quickens his hand around Viago, the retreating water is pulling back, gathering itself up into the shadow of a wave, growing taller and faster, barreling towards him on the edge of the shore, and he can taste the salt in the air and feel the cool breeze off the water against his cheek and then and then and then the wave is crashing out from inside of him, washing heat from the base of his spine over his body, bubbling a cry up from the depth of his throat until he collapses, bone dead and body still, against Viago’s chest.
Distantly, there’s a humming surrounding him, threading through the wall of cottony heat that surrounds his body, but he takes his sweet time tuning into the frequency. Every raw nerve that was singing and thrumming between him and and Viago has flashed blinding bright and is now settled back into a contented glow that slides from one synapse to the next, easing every itchy frantic thread into a cohesive blanket wrapping him snugly in Viago’s arms, finally settled.
A delicate wow in Viago’s voice finally tumbles through the haze, and Anton stutters towards awareness a few details at a time.
There’s a stickiness on his hand where it’s clutched between them, thicker and warmer than the blood and spit they’d put there together. And, under Anton’s limp grip, Viago is still hot and hard.
“Viago, did you already-” he starts in dazed confusion.
“No, liebling, though you did.”
Anton pulls back in wonder, searching Viago’s face. He looks delighted and a little wild. His face is finally flushed, his eyes are wide and sparkling, his perfect curls mussed slightly around the edges where Anton had nuzzled and gripped.
Anton’s always had eyes for Viago, he’d always caught his stare with his tidy little outfits and his delicate curls and big brown eyes, but he looks— he looks mesmerizing. He looks beautiful. He looks— precious.
And it opens up something in Anton’s chest, something fuzzy and tender, that pulls him back into Viago’s orbit, presses his lips against Viago’s, gentle and pleading, all fire and demand sated by the warmth that’s flowed between them, is flowing between them. Viago moves against him, just as soft, just as slow, and Anton slides his hand around Viago, matching their pace. He curls his free arm around the slope of Viago’s shoulders, feels the strength underneath him, pressing and strong, and he gentles his touch even further.
“Relax, Vi, I’ve got you,” he murmurs against his lips. “Let me take care of you.”
Anton can feel Viago melt beneath him at his words, body going slack against the couch, sunny bright and warm like butter with a smile against his lips to match. Pressed close like this, Anton cannot feel a single lingering bit of tension. Viago moves under his hands at the slightest touch, rocking and shuddering to and fro with every movement. Anton touches him with a kind of insistent delicacy, stealing long, syrupy kisses from his lips as his hand slides along him in parallel fashion.
Touching him like this feels like he’s riding a steady tram to the peak of a mountain; he’s keeping measured pace knowing they’ll arrive at their destination together and look out on the valley of where they’ve been at the same time no matter what their pace, so they may as well sit back and enjoy the view. And the slippery glide of Viago in his palm, smoothed along by his own blood and cum, the heat of him pulsing with Anton’s own life, the thrum of his pleasure in vibrating hums and keening whines, it’s a beautiful view.
“Just there, liebling, keep going—”
Anton keeps his pace, even and legato, no hurry, no rush to the finish line, and threads his fingers back into the curls at the crook of Viago’s neck, not tugging, only caressing, holding Viago gently on all sides as he walks him patiently to the edge.
There’s no desperation in his voice now, just a gentle coaxing, offering up his feelings and letting Viago taste them, heated and soft against his lips.
“Vi, you feel so good like this, we feel so good like this, I can—” and zeroing in on the pleasant points of heat where they’re joined, he really—“Can feel both of us, can feel myself in you, we’re together, it’s good, we’re so—we’re so good like this—”
And then, Viago’s whine is pitching higher, and he’s pulling Anton firm against his lips and the pleasant heat between them pools deep, a gentle simmer in a pot just a touch too full that finally spills over the edge until the scant space between them is sticky and warm all over again.
Anton kisses him through it, precious pecks and slides and connections between them as Viago’s movements become sleepier and slower, until he leans back to rest delicately against the sofa, eyes still closed, face washed soft and pliant with bliss.
As Viago reclines, Anton leans back to free his hand from the press of their bodies and marvels at the swirl of rusty red under pearly white streaking across his fingers, his palm. The way the edges of fluid drag and seep against each other form an odd little palette of shades Anton wants to paint across canvas just to preserve the memory of their every moment together, wants to be able to point at and say this was me and Viago, this was us , in case he never gets it again. He settles instead for dragging his tongue through the mess of his palm, feeling the salty-bitter-sweet slide of him and Viago and Viago and him and them together bloom across his taste buds. He’s thorough, seeking out every last drop, sliding one digit after the other into the heat of his mouth to make sure no piece of them goes uncaught.
Viago quirks open one eye at the sound of his tongue still laving against skin and Anton smiles shamelessly.
“We taste good together.”
Viago smiles too, a sleepy, sated thing, and pulls Anton’s hand to his own mouth for a sloppy kiss, blooming one last shout of heat down Anton’s palm and straight to his chest.
“Come, lie down with me.” he says, shuffling beneath Anton, nudging one thigh up and over as he tips himself, somehow still gracefully, boneless as he is, into the crook of the couch. He holds arms open wide, and Anton goes to them readily, worming face against chest with a deep inhale, recentering himself around Viago’s heady scent. Viago curls arms around him, firm but gentle, and heaves a fussy little huff.
“What is it, Vi?”
“Well, next time, we should do this on a bed. I am too old and weary to be romping around on the sofa with such a feisty werewolf.”
“Next time, huh?” and Anton can’t help burrowing into Viago’s embrace just a little tighter, a smile threatening to tear him ear to ear.
Viago tips in closer himself, pressing a gentle brush of lips against the crown of Anton’s head.
“Yes, of course, liebling. Next time.”