Whiskey's an acquired taste an' so am I.

JESSE SEEMS TO VISIBLY RELAX when the blanket is draped over the seat, as if the mere possibility of ruining his idol’s car (and, potentially, owing him a shit ton of money) is too much of a risk. Once that possibility has been properly snubbed out, then Jesse slides into the passenger seat, trying and failing not to gawk. He’s never been good at hiding his emotions. They tend to show on his face whether he wants them to or not, and he’s never quite learned to control it.

     “… Sweet ride, yo.” 

He doesn’t bother with a seatbelt. His muscles feel like hardening concrete and it’s so much easier to just let himself slump against the carseat, making a noise akin to a moan as he does so, though it isn’t altogether clear if it’s a noise of pain or pleasure. Those icy eyes look over at Mal like they’re trying to see through him. 

      “… Y’know you don’t have to like, butter me up, right? I already said yes.” 

His trust issues are glaringly obvious, but he doesn’t seem to care. His main interest is to protect himself, and he’s far too tired to care if it comes off as defensive. 

      “Offerin’ to buy me shit is nice and all, but, like, it ain’t gonna make me work harder for you. You know that, right?” 

“Cheers!” he brightens, noticeably, as the engine roars to life. It’s a beast underneath that hood, and Mal takes her out into the night, “It were my first big present t’myself, always wanted one’a th’big Cadillacs with th’fins. Oh, yer gonna have t’tell me where I’m goin’, too.”

The only thing he’d done to modernize this car was to install seatbelts, but he doesn’t expect Jesse to even try to put it on, he’s been beaten like that, he knows there’s no sense in attempting to move, hell, he might even have to carry the kid inside at the rate his muscles were starting to rebel against him, which he’d absolutely do.

JESSE STARES AT THAT GAUDY gold-plated business card like it’s meant to come to life and speak to him, but when it remains silent, he slips it carefully into the pocket of his sweat pants with a gentle touch that seems uncharacteristic of such an angry, bloodied man. His hand remains in his pocket, thumbing at the edges of the card – a deliberate attempt to hide his very obvious fondness of it. 

He eyes the car warily, clearly taken aback by the apparent enthusiasm behind the offer to give him a ride now that he knows exactly what kind of upholstery he’s going to be ruining with his sweat and blood. Jesse sucks in a nervous breath through his teeth, swaying uncomfortably on his feet. 

      “Uh, yo,” he says, like that’s somehow supposed to convey exactly what he’s feeling. 

The towel is bunched between his reddened fists and brought up to his face again, dabbing at the sweat that drips from his scrappy hair. 

      “I mean, like… I’m gonna bleed all over your seats. You sure that’s cool?”

He’s walking towards the car before he really gets an answer, though he hesitates to get inside until he’s absolutely positive that Mal is just fine with ruining expensive vintage leather. 

      “I, uh… I got ice. Thanks, though.”

It’s almost cute how gingerly his card is taken, like he’s expecting it to start talking like some Harry Potter thing or catch on fire or like he’s going to wake up and it’s all a dream. “It won’t break, boyo,” Mal says with a bit of a chuckle, but he’s just messing with him, it’s perhaps unfortunately obvious that the young man’s fond of it, that he feels special and he knows just how important that card is, how much of a life-changing thing it will hopefully be for him. 

“Mm?” 

Ah, right, “Hang on, ‘ve got a towel or blanket or somethin’ in th’back,” it only took a second to grab it out of the back seat and fling it over the passenger half of the front bench-style seat, “All safe, don’t even worry yerself none.” Mal’s watching him carefully when he gets in, ready to help him if he needs it. The longer he doesn’t move, the harder it’ll be to move at all. 

Everything about Mal is just perfect. His mouth is so warm and wet. He knows how to keep his lips tight but his throat open for him, ready each time his hips snap forward. For a moment the room is filled with moans, the wonderful things coming from Mal in hitched bursts and the growls that slide through sharp clenched teeth as Micah chases every little sensation. It takes a lot on his part to not just grab Mal tight by the scruff and fuck into his mouth until he comes; the heat of an orgasm is there in his gut, eager to burst forth but he waits — has to remind himself that there’s more than enough time for both of them to get off more than once. They have so much to learn about each other — even more, now that Micah knows that his lover gets off on handing over the reigns. It’s exciting, being in charge. It’s not something he got to really do, often — not with the men that usually picked him for a quick fuck and nothing else. Micah had given a lot of head in his time searching for intimacy ( one guy has insisted he had the lips for it ) and it was nice not to be on his knees for a change. It was nice, not because he didn’t fucking love giving head ( he did ), but because Mal was trusting him with this side of him. Letting go. Telling the beast inside to be silent — that wasn’t easy. Mal probably didn’t do that for just anyone.

The thought has Micah’s chest tight. Love is quickly starting to take root there and neither of them can slow down to stop it. Not when they click into place so easily. Not when their monsters play so well together. Micah wants to be the only one who gets to see this side of the wolf, wants to fuck him senseless and then kiss him for a few hours before falling asleep. He wants to explore — everything is so new, so exciting. Mal is different but Micah wants to be able to list all the ways. He wants to know what spots make him moan, what spots are ticklish and make him laugh. He wants to leave marks, spell his name out in hickeys, bite where it’s tender and then lick the wounds closed. He wants Mal close, so close it’s hard to tell where one ends and the other begins.

And he wants it forever.

"That’s a good look on you.” He has to slow down or he’ll come and he’s thankful, almost, when Mal edges him with teeth and has his knees weak because he lets go to speak and it gives him a moment — a much needed one — to swallow hard and focus on not covering the werewolf’s face with cum.

Not that it wouldn’t be a wonderful sight.

“I want in you.” He’s crazy with need, pawing at Mal and trying to chase him onto the bed. “Let me open you up, I wanna see how you’ll sound with my tongue inside you —- c'mon, puppy, let me.”

There was a dichotomy between them now, something that shifted. Outside this bedroom, outside his home, Mal was the one in charge, the one who owned this entire building, and all the things in it, the one who gave Micah a home. But now, with just the two of them? Even though he had a couple centuries on the vampire, it was easy to loose the reigns and give the control over. Something he'd noticed when Micah first showed up was how little control he seemed to have over his own self. Not just because he was freshly turned, but because he'd never really had the ability to be his own person before. Mal knew that feeling all too well, thanks to his own father, and he knew what would help. Perhaps this ability to center himself, control himself like this would make controlling his beast easier. It had when Mal'd still been a pup. And so he let go, and Micah's doing so well, it's intoxicating, feeling him almost physically grasp those metaphorical reins, let his true personality out for perhaps one of the first times in his young life, and his younger afterlife. He's gagging on him and it's making him so hard it's painful, naked or not, he just wants to feel him inside already, no matter how much he's enjoying this. 

Everything about Micah makes him fall a little more in love as he seconds pass, and Mal isn't sure why, but he doesn't care, because the thought that this was meant to be had settled around his shoulders, and he saw no reason to shake it off, not when the sex was already so good and they hadn't even gotten to the fucking yet. God, he wants to suck on him until there's nothing left of Micah but a husk, to take and take everything that the vampire's willing to give, to show him how cared for he is, and how good he is at this all. He gets the distinct impression no one's ever told him how good he was, not like this, not in a way he'd really understand, a way that'd make him feel valuable. 

That audible swallow shows Mal he's got him right where he wants him, and this teasing's finally going to start being over soon. His tongue laths over Micah's dick, chuckling, "Aye, and yeh've not seen anythin' yet, luv." This was rough but sweet at the same time, everything Mal needed, and, it seemed, just what Micah needed, too. 

He could have it for the rest of eternity. 

It’s a lot to take in and for a moment Sonny fears that he may actually end up overstimulated. Mal’s heartbeat is something he can feel and hear so clearly. He’s searched people for their pulse before, felt that little flutter against his skin but this is nothing like that. It’s more like the werewolf has thunder in his veins — something powerful that transfers so that Sonny’s able to feel the tail end of every beat within his own motionless chest. The sensation itself is thrilling but there is also the bombardment of smells. The scent of blood is thick, metallic and heavy in the air between them and it would have Sonny’s mouth watering if he weren’t already latched onto Mal and draining him. The werewolf himself has his own scent — like liquor and Earth. Wolves themselves stuck out differently from humans but that was something Sonny had a hard time with explaining. And then — then there was the arousal. Sonny is able to smell that too, now — not that he needed any help, given that both of them are hard and eagerly rocking against each other.

It’s complicated.

Mal had been willing to be a donor, had consented to such not once but twice. Taking things further — acting on the surge of lust that seemed to accompany feedings — that felt muddy. Risky. Dangerous. As though he were under the influence of a substance that clouded his judgment because, really, he was. The blood made everything so much more vivid. It made contact incredible. Sensations were stronger. His thoughts raced but they were clear, concise. It was nothing like the sluggishness that came from the one time he’d tried pot in college — the countless times he got drunk. This is different. It’s new. It’s intense. Part of him is worried that it’s one-sided but there’s no denying the bulge in Mal’s pants when he rolls his hips yet again. The friction has him shuddering, gasping against skin because he wants more of everything. More blood. More contact. Mal is so warm against him and for a second he wonders what it would be like to have the werewolf under him, around him.

Desire pulls and it’s all he can think about — skin on skin, warmth exchanging, kisses pressed carefully and apologetically to bruises, bodies rolling rhythmically together, names gasped in the dark. He thinks about hands mapping out skin, committing curves and dips to memory. He thinks about the slap of hips coming together, the strained moans, the trembling of limbs.

He thinks about Mal’s face when he comes undone, calls out his name. God, he wants to hear it. To squeeze their hands together and stare into the werewolf’s eyes as he loses himself, takes claim.

Sonny recoils,takes a step back and covers his mouth with the back of a hand. New blood allows a dark blush to rise to his cheeks, the contrast terribly noticeable as he tries to collect himself, to catch his breath. It’s a lot. It’s almost too much, feeding on an actual person. Was it always like this or was it Mal? Did this only happen with werewolves or would it happen with every person that Sonny found attractive? He doesn’t know — can’t even begin to start asking because it’s not like Mal has ever been in the same boat before.

“I’m — I’m sorry.” It’s spoken against his own flesh, blood smearing. His eyes find Mal’s first but then they look at the wound he’d left on the other man’s neck — at the blood that pools to the surface and all but calls out to him. God, he’s so hard, so fucking turned on that he almost can’t think and it’s a problem. Mal has to come first, in all this; it was Mal’s life on the line. It was Mal’s decision if things were going to go any further. “I just … I don’t wanna do something I can’t take back’ y'know? I’m … fuck, I want you. I want all of you and that’s not what we — I can’t ask that.”

Mal was a werewolf, but that didn't mean he didn't know things about how vampires worked, especially since Arlon had been so helpful. Christ, he missed him, but he was probably gallivanting somewhere in Paris with not a care in the world, and it suited him. He could feel his own heartbeat trying to quicken, panicked at the loss of blood, but slowing as there wasn't enough to go around any longer. It was getting to a point where Mal was about to push him off, but he didn't want to. The feel of the hardening cock against him, their hips rolling against each other and the moans, a chorus of them bouncing off the walls and he's too far gone, too far wrapped up in the sex and intimacy of this moment to even realize that this was Sonny's first time feeding from a willing donor. 

If he'd really known that, committed that to memory, perhaps he wouldn't have been as eager to offer himself up, knowing just how intense the first time could be. And yet, perhaps he'd known, subconsciously, or perhaps he was greedy and offered himself because he remembered what happened with he and Arlon that first time, and he wants it to happen again. "Almost full," he can tell just how much has been drunk, his body's healing powers going into overdrive, trying to replicate faster than any human's blood supplies could, but it still wasn't enough. Sonny was starved, and Mal was going to let him stuff himself, because he felt pliant beneath those hands, those fangs, and calm for the first time in God knows how long. That was all Sonny's doing.

"Christ, boyo," there's no heat, no fear that the vampire's approaching a line, but even Arlon's first werewolf feed hadn't been this intense, and Mal's having to hold himself back from shoving everything off his desk and letting them both climb up, the vampire covering him and rocking that erection against him. He doesn't, but god, it takes every inch of his conscious mind to not rip his clothes off, followed by Sonny's, and let him take whatever he wants. If that moan from the first taste of his blood was any indication, the vampire made some beautiful noises, ones he wanted to be the cause of, ones he wanted to witness and commit to memory because maybe this is just the blood-drunkenness, maybe this attraction isn't really real, maybe this is just a one time thing. God he wants it not to be. 

Micah lives for pushing buttons — seeing what he could and couldn’t get away with, when it came to certain people. Mal didn’t appreciate being called a puppy around others but apparently hearing it while naked and getting his mouth fucked was just fine. The beast in him stirs at just how submissive the wolf is being; Micah was used to lovers that only let him run his mouth for so long before they got frustrated and bent him over something to shut him up. Being wanted — hearing the words ‘I want you in me’ has him dizzy with power he didn’t know could feel so damn good. This was what he wanted. Someone who understood him. Someone who could keep up with him — mentally and physically. Someone who knew how to be absolutely nasty one moment but tender the next. Mal is the answer to all of his desires, all of his little hopes and wishes.

He never wants to let him go.

Mal’s answer around taut flesh has him groaning, head dropping back but he ends up looking right back down at Mal so he can see how needy he is — see what he looks like while choking down his length. Words say one thing but actions say another and it’s cute, really, to see Mal torn between blowing him and having him inside. They have time, he wants to remind him, and both of them have the stamina to put this little intimacy session well into the morning hours. Cheeks hollow before he has a chance to coo out any words and it has him almost doubling over, fingers pulling again as he allows another sinful noise to drop from his lips.

"Look at you — you’re loving this.” Fangs glint as he smiles down, hand smoothing down a cheek so he can stroke his thumb over the skin there. It’s gentle. Careful. “Relax your jaw a bit; I wanna fuck that pretty mouth.” The possessiveness is only getting worse. The beast is hungry and it’s willing to take what it can get, happy to have Mal so perfectly compliant under his command. The comforting thing is that he isn’t even using the vampire juju — that thing they did to sometimes lure and control humans. No. Mal was doing this for him because he wanted to. Because he wanted it, too.

“There you go.” Words are all but purred as he holds his place and rocks his hips — slow, at first. Micah bites his bottom lip when he feels his cock hit the back of Mal’s throat without resistance and he keens before repeating the motion again and again. “Ffffuck.” He loves this, is already hooked. Hips quicken the pace a bit and heavy breaths become labored. He has to be careful; he doesn’t want the heat in his gut to spill out just yet but it feels so good and he’s greedy, his other hand back in hair and kneading — tugging. “Take it.”

Despite the fact that the wolf inside him is frequently more dominant than submissive, Mal himself has to keep control in his day-to-day life so often that he relishes giving it up, giving it over to whoever his partner, or partners are at the moment. It's a release, and he gets all but high off that submissive space he relishes so much. It's been a while since he'd spent time with someone who so easily understood that. Micah takes control, despite being the younger in so many ways, and Mal's loving how little they need to talk to get their points across, that the other just knows what to do, knows what to say to make this perfect for both of them. 

It could be like this forever. It would be, if Mal had his druthers. 

If only Micah could clone himself, take him from both ends at once and spit roast him like some pig at a barbecue. He's needy and desperate, and the only thing on his mind is making Micah make those noises again and again, often as he could, and for as long as he could tonight. They're alone, no one should be coming in for anything too big, nothing that his staff couldn't handle. They have all night, but even though he wants to take this to the next step already, he makes himself slow down, because Micah's the one in charge right now, and he wants to enjoy every second he can. 

The order given and received, Mal's jaw goes slack, but his lips try to keep a bit of a circle around the cock that starts jutting itself in, hitting the back of his throat. He doesn't choke, but the moans are cut off, stuttered by the blocking of his airway, turning into a rhythmic set of keening sounds. The wolf can't smile at him, but the edge of his eyes crinkle in affirmation, yes, he's loving this, because Micah's so good, and they're both so tied up in the other they couldn't stop if they wanted to. 

There it is again. Luv. Micah almost melts at the sound of the word, even if Mal has probably used it when speaking to hundreds of others. Micah doesn’t know how long Mal has been alive — doesn’t know how many lovers the werewolf had before he barreled into his life and started taking up all his time. It’d weird, really, that the wolf wasn’t already taken. There were plenty of capable suitors that hung around the place, men and women who would be lucky to have a guy like Mal on their arm. Maybe the wolf was picky. Maybe he didn’t actually form attachments and this was to be a one-time thing — or a frequent thing without strings. Micah doesn’t know, doesn’t even think to ask. He knows his life is going to be a long one and that Mal was going to be in it for as long as possible. If anyone else tried to claim the wolf — well. Micah wasn’t beyond fighting over him. Sure, he could always try to outlive whoever tried to court Mal, but that required patience that the young vampire simply didn’t have yet.

He’s already possessive, already sure that Mal is going to be his — especially after tonight.

Micah wanted to be all that Mal was interested in, all that Mal could possibly see in a room overflowing with people. Jealousy burns in his chest for no real reason; the people looking on are imaginative. The people downstairs aren’t with them, now, aren’t interested in Mal in such a way. They’ve all seen Micah flirt, all witnessed his affection for the wolf at some time or another. They aren’t threats, not really, but something in Micah absolutely burns. There is wrath mixed with the lust in his blood and Mal’s words about stamina have him twitching — hours. They could do this for hours and hours. Micah could spend the entire night marking up his wolf. Laying claim. Kissing every inch of skin. Leaving bruises where others could see. If there was any question about them before they trailed upstairs together, there wouldn’t be any room for any after he was through with Mal.

Oh, he was absolutely going to devour him.

"Fuck. Fuck. Hell yes — good fuckin’ boy.” A hand reaches for dark strands and tugs as he presses his hips forward, eager to allow Mal to have more than just the head of his cock in his perfect mouth. “You look — fuck — you look good like this. You belong like this, don’t you?” Precum drips, adds a bit of slick and salt to motions and he moans again, tone low and breath heavy.

At this point, Mal was already one hundred percent convinced that Micah was going to be staying around for the long haul, and if he did, he was going to be a constant in Mal's life. He was more than okay with that, giddy even, with just the thought of it, but he didn't want to get ahead of himself. This between them, it could be a one time thing, but his instincts were telling him that Micah didn't have anyone else, didn't want anyone else, either. It was as though they were both kissing on the edge of a cliff, and once his ass hit the bed, they both fell, deep and hard, and nothing either of them could do would change anything. They were linked, connected, and Mal wanted nothing more than to let Micah spend the rest of his afterlife by his side, as long as they both decided to hang onto the mortal coil. He'd be there. 

They'd be there. Together. 

Oh, getting called a good boy out of the bedroom tended to raise the wolf's hackles, but here, together, and out of Micah's mouth, filled with so much lust? Fuck, his cock twitched and he wanted to whine again, but his mouth was otherwise occupied. He did moan feeling his mouth and throat now so full, the tension in his hair making his eyes roll into the back of his head. His head is bobbing up and down the vampire's length, and he has just enough wiggle room to nod, an 'mmhmm' vibrating around Micah's cock. God, he tasted so good, this all felt so good, but he wanted more. The wolf knew there was more coming, and he was impatient, one hand around his own cock, stroking slow, the other keeping him upright. The suction stopped almost abruptly as lips mouthed up and down the side, tongue swirling shapes all along the shaft, "Fuck," he said against that velveteen skin. 

JESSE STARES AT MAL FROM behind the bloodied towel, icy eyes glancing to the now-empty, blood splattered arena from which he had just emerged. He can see himself there, gloves swinging and blood flying, people screaming with wads of money in their hands. He looks down at the wadded up bills in his own hands, money collected from having his friends bet against him, knowing for a fact that he would lose. 

He always goes into these fights expecting to win. He always goes in and comes out consumed with rage that burns so hot that it melts the ice in his bathtub when he goes home at night. Jesse looks up at Mal again. 

      They’ll be beggin’ for mercy. I see me in that left cross.

It all feels like a fever dream. Like some asshole had gone across town and found one of the most famous welterweight champions in the world and paid him to come and pretend to show interest in some lost cause with pretty eyes and an improperly set nose. 

So, he’s not really sure why he finds himself reaching for O’Malley’s hand and taking it with a grip that surprisingly firm for a kid that looks like he weighs about the same amount as his boxing gloves. Jesse stands from his seat very slowly, clearly in a measurable amount of pain, and he hisses when he leans down to pick up his boxing gloves and throws the towel over his shoulder. 

     “Sure. Whatever.” 

He needs to get home. Needs to get in that ice bath and numb this body-wide ache, to soothe what he’s pretty sure are three broken rips and a torn labrum. He holds up the trading card.

      “So, what, this your business card? You got a phone number for me, or somethin’?”

He remembered that piddling amount of money from doing underground gigs, getting people to bet against him because he wasn't sure if the losing pattern would hold, or if tonight would finally be the first one, the one that made a difference, the one that showed people he was more than just a punching bag with a face. He'd done it himself, he could do it for Jesse, Mal knew he could. 

The kid had such a fire, he deserved it, and it wouldn't even take much, just a bit of training here and there, tighten up his stance, give him some surefire tactics that would help him take the hits and keep going, it would be easy....if Jesse was willing to put in the work. 

Oh, he's hurting, Mal watched the whole fight, and he knows just how much pain the kid's got to be in. He wouldn't take up too much more of his time, would make sure to get him home and even help him fill the tub with ice if he needed. He didn't have a lot, right now, but he did have that. The handshake is done, and that's contract enough for him. 

"Nah, I've got numbers," he said with a chuckle, taking the gold card back and giving him an actual business card, which--to be fair--looked almost exactly like his rookie card, which was intentional.  Instead of just stats on the back, there was room for his contact information, the address of the gym and his phone number. 

Sonny’s first meal had been entirely stolen; badge flashed at a hospital instead of fangs resulting in a single bag being smuggled out under the guise of it being evidence. It’d been a bit since the actual change — he’d had enough time to end up seriously hungry by the time he convinced himself to go out and lie. The entire ride home was difficult; he wanted to confess to the crime, wanted to hear Father Richie’s voice most of all but there was no way he was going to Staten Island nearing four in the morning to wake up a man who would probably consider him something evil now. Sonny didn’t dare walk into a church after the way his rosary had damn near burned a hole in his pocket and it’d made him feel incredibly alone. Everything he did as a vampire felt like a slight, like some small sin and they were quickly adding up. The lies. The desires. The way he lived his life. The things he needed to survive.

That first bag had been the hardest. He’d ripped into it while it was still cold, human nature making him gag at the taste, texture, and smell. On one hand, he didn’t want anything to do with it — but on the other? It was if he’d been dying of thirst in a desert sun and had finally found a source of liquid. Sonny drank until the bag was empty, squeezed and chased every single drop until he caught him licking the plastic like some animal.

It was embarrassing, having new instincts take over.

Mal doesn’t seem to mind them, at all — though Sonny worries a bit about the snarl that suddenly sounds out. The human in him wants to recoil, to ask Mal if he’s alright but the vampire only latches on with more purpose, eager to get its fill of what honestly tastes better than anything he’s had in weeks. Mal had taught him about heating the blood before he consumed it and it helped, but taking directly was … unbelievably different. It was warmer, hot in his mouth and practically pulsing even as he swallows. Mal had been right; there’s a sweetness to him that Sonny doesn’t understand but he chases it, steps closer so that bodies are flush as the werewolf quietly praises him. The taste, the feeling, the sound of Mal’s voice — the way the other man smells and even seems to melt under his touch, how he boldly pulls on his hair. All of it goes straight to his dick. Sonny wants to blame the blood, wants to blame the sheer intimacy that came with actually feeding on another person but he doesn’t stop to apologize or list excuses. Instead, he pulls back and flattens his tongue against the wound, moaning low as the pressure coaxes more blood to the surface so he can lick again.

He’s getting a little dizzy as warmth exchanges and his hips bump forward, suggestive. Inviting.

“Make me stop if it’s too much.” Lord, he almost doesn’t sound like himself to his own ears — not with so much desire and whatever else lacing his tone. He doesn’t know if he’s just talking about the blood or the fact he’s practically rubbing up on Mal like he’s some cat in heat. Maybe both. Probably both. The wolf had assured him that he wouldn’t let anything go too far and Sonny trusted him, it was just a matter of being unable to trust himself.

It should worry him how much he was enjoying this. The fact that the beast at his neck could kill him easily if he didn't stop him, could drain him dry and leave him dead for, well, probably a few hours while his body regenerated it's entire blood supply? Was way more of a turn on than it should have been. Mal knew long ago he had a bit of a thing for being controlled so utterly, so completely, and though he was just as good at it, the sensation that came from letting go, giving in, it was like getting drunk and high at the same time, euphoria didn't even scratch the surface. So here this fledgling was, starved and angsting about having to drink blood, not being able to drink or eat other things he'd onced loved. The opportunity was there for the taking, and he wasn't about to ignore it. 

He was helping, it felt good. 

Mal was, thankfully, very selective with who he allowed to feed on him like this. The amount of vampires who needed a fix, didn't have their own blood procurement services or alternatives, he would've been in a coma. But there was something about Sonny, other than how shatteringly gorgeous he was, that made the wolf trust him. He understood how difficult this was for the man, and was sure Sonny understood how big a gift this was, too. 

"M'fine," he reassures, as though he'd been able to sense the vampire's apprehension. Mal had given permission, but the baser instincts of the wolf still considered it an attack, still wanted to lash out and protect itself, defend itself. Once the heady cocktails of endorphins kicked in, the wolf calmed, understood what Mal was doing, in allowing this. And they're closer together, he can feel the badge at Sonny's hip digging into his skin, cold that makes his body shiver until it warms itself against him. His jeans start to feel tight, and nearly loses the ability to stand up when his over-sensitive ears hear that moan. "fuck," he keens, fingers nestled in the vampire's hair, gentle, but present. 

When it finally dawned on him that he wasn’t dreaming — that he was an undead creature, he sat for a long time and thought about his options. There was the weight of knowing that he had lost his life, that the countdown concerning everything reached zero. Sonny Carisi wasn’t meant to be on this Earth any longer — he wasn’t supposed to ever laugh or cry again, wasn’t supposed to hold any of his nieces or sleep in on another Saturday morning. There should have been a new headstone in the cemetery where all his family lay. BELOVED SON, it would say. Maybe there would be something about his being an officer. Maybe a quote, he isn’t sure. He’s tried not to think too much about the funeral his friends and family didn’t know they could have had. The clock hit zero but it kept going, started into the negatives and now Sonny was on borrowed time. It came with a cost; he wasn’t allowed to enjoy the sun, wasn’t able to enjoy food, and couldn’t even hold his rosary without his flesh burning — but he was still able to laugh, still able to cry even if the tears came out red. He’d been given a second chance and the moments he had with friends and family meant so much more. But feeding … feeding was an issue. When he was weighing his options, he feared starving. There was no way he was going to hit the town every few nights to seduce men and women and then drink from them. Consent meant everything to him and he was sure that it couldn’t ever exist in his situation.  But then Mal rips his shirt off and offers his neck up like it’s nothing. The bag of blood hits the floor.

He steps over it, completely transfixed on the bare neck before him. Mal’s done this before and he’s still standing — is even confident that he can prevent Sonny from hurting him. It almost sounds too good to be true but he doesn’t question it ( he should have questioned it, but hunger was starting to override his usual thinking process ) and moves closer. “Are you sure?” Pupils are small again and his voice shakes when he asks, as he waits for Mal to confirm a second time. A third isn’t necessary, not when they are this close and he can damn near hear the blood pushing its way through Mall’s veins. A hand reaches up to cup one side of the werewolf’s neck while lips find the other. He’s shaking with nerves and hunger — when teeth first enter skin it’s too shallow. Blood is drawn and he’s eager to lap it up, the taste causing a familiar wave of lust to rush through him. There’s a small noise, composure shattering as he bites a second time and this time it’s enough, this time he’s able to actually begin to feed.  Human blood doesn’t compare.

The first time a vampire had fed on him, it had been necessity. They were stuck, thought to be human and unable to risk outing themselves ads anything but, but it had been weeks since Arlon had last fed, and Mal managed to convince him to take just a bit, before he lost control and ripped innocent people to shreds. And oh, that first time had been just as intoxicating for him, he'd gotten woozy and drunk on the feeling, fasted himself on the man's tongue as they ended up screwing on the floor. Arlon knew his limits, had a few centuries on Mal, and they'd made it a sort of anniversary until they'd lost touch.

His own humble beginnings had been hard enough, learning when he had to leave town to avoid being out in the open as he shifted, to go far enough into the forests to avoid coming in contact with humanity and leaving death in his wake. It had been a learning process, but he'd made due. He hated it for the first decade or so, but it ended up being that he hated who'd turned him into the creature, his father, not the change itself. 

Thankfully the bag doesn't spill forth, but before Mal can take a breath, Sonny is in his space, preternatural instincts kicking in and it doesn't take a genius to see how hard it was for Sonny to keep himself from devouring the wolf. The anticipation sends another jolt right down his gut, warmth pooling there as he tries not to seem like some freak who finds vampire feeding a turn-on. It was mostly true, but he didn't specifically seek out vampires, he just enjoyed when one wanted to have a little snack. 

Something in Sonny’s expression changes when Mal makes it sound like there are foods that he may be able to enjoy; it was his impression that anything aside from the blood was out of the question. It was difficult, accepting the change — Sonny used to spend so much of his time cooking and too many of his favorite dishes, he realized with some bitterness, contained garlic. Most of those dishes were passed down to him and still set on the table at his parent’s place. It was a piece of his life that his death had stolen away — something he still wasn’t sure how he was going to lie about when this year’s Thanksgiving came in a few months.  He plans on making a few dishes for it; he does every year — but then what? It wasn’t like he could let his devout Catholic family know that he was a undead, bloodsucking monster of lore. At the very least, he’s tried not to take blood from actual people. The desire was always there. An itch he couldn’t scratch. A door he was afraid to open. A road he didn’t think he could go down. His heart would race at the thought, if it could.

He almost pops the bag when Mal offers himself in its place, gaze shooting up and pupils dilating to small pricks. The werewolf has his attention and it’s clear in that split second but Sonny seems to physically shake himself out of it, head moving back and forth as though trying to free himself from all the thoughts and mental images that bombard him. Fangs jut out as he tries to chew his bottom lip and he ends up poking through flesh, drawing blood. God, he’s not used to this at all.  “I haven’t, but —- that’s —- I can’t ask you to do that, Mal. You’re already riskin’ a lot, givin’ me this.” He motions with the bag, tells himself to leave, but that little suggestion has him stuck.

He can smell the hunger on the vampire's breath, but he sees that change in expression and it's almost enough to send him off on a tangent of the few foods he'd found that his vampire friends could stomach, though most of them were unfortunately bland, at least there was something other than drinking to do for the rest of eternity. Mal'd met his share of vampires that would still eat out of spite, but that was really no way to live your life, and certainly there had to be something unhealthy about that, not that there'd ever been a doctor to do a study on them.

Mal's family had all died centuries ago, he didn't really know what a family thanksgiving even was, not until he'd settled down and opened this gym. Every year, they held a celebration, filled with all the foods any creature could want, games and booze and fun for a rag-tag family he'd started after solidifying his place in the city's supernatural community. Maybe he'd ask Sonny if he'd like to come.

Oh, he'd seen that look, and damn him, it sent a shiver down his spine in what was probably a really unhealthy amount of arousal. Mal smiles, glad the bag didn't pop--that was a cleanup he didn't want to have to do ever again, there'd been enough messy eaters in this room.

The sound that Mal makes — the whine — God, it’s perfect. It’s a sound that Micah wants to be the cause of again and again and he has every intention of finding new ways to do so. As many as he could, tonight. Due to having just fed, he feels amazing. Awake. Alert. Micah functioned during the night, now, and that suited him just fine. The change wasn’t even too drastic; if anything he was trying to get used to the notion of having to sleep at all. As a human, he just took little cat naps here and there whenever he felt tired. Now he needed to avoid the daylight — needed to hide away and rest so that he could wake as a predator in the evening. He didn’t need the energy to hunt but if he and Mal were going to start some kind of relationship he knew exactly the sorts of things he could use it all for.

It’s a nice thought — doing this on the regular. Staying here. Becoming part of the little misfit group of cryptids that spent hours bullshitting in the gym. Maybe it would be something like a family. A real one. One where they could rely on each other. One where they looked after one another. One where they celebrated things together. Micah wanted that. He wanted inside jokes, gifts exchanged when it got cold. He wanted those who could eat to gather around a table and share Thanksgiving dinner. He wanted to see them all thrive and stay well.

And he wanted to stay with Mal.

Fingers repeat their motion of jacking the both of them off but he ends up distracted by the other man’s words — his hungry kisses. Micah can feel Mal’s teeth, can swear he almost feels the wolf’s wilder side trying to scratch its way to the surface. It’s comforting; he doesn’t have to worry as much about his own beast doing any serious damage. Mal is like him. Sturdy. Capable of handling a few scratches — a few bites.

God, how he wants to bite.

"Why’re you rushing?” Words are purred and he lets go, stops stroking in favor of guiding Mal away from the door by the hips. He wouldn’t admit it but a small part of him was disappointed about the sound-proofing. Possessive. He wanted people to know what they were doing — what they were to each other. It’s dangerous, maybe a little greedy — but when had he promised to be anything else? “You’re all mine for the night. We have hours to fuck around and I’m gonna use every minute I got.” His nose bumps against Mal’s before he sneaks in a kiss, guiding them to the bed so he can coax Mal to lay down on it. The beast in him stirs and he smiles, all fangs and sharp promises of things to come. “M'gonna taste you, fuck you, ride you, drag you all over this fucking loft and screw you on every surface, I swear.”

Mal was needy and impatient, he could be fucked for hours before coming, all this foreplay was teasing him and he hated how much it was turning him on. It's close to the full moon for him, which makes the wolf inside restless, possessive, and all those baser animal instincts were just beneath the surface, itching to get out. He wanted to kiss, claim, fuck and maybe howl at the moon afterwards, maybe sit out on the roof with Micah, watching the city go by below them, the cars, the people walking. He shook off the admittedly nice thought, lust clouding and heightening his senses at the same time, making every touch, even the slightest brush of fingertips set him on fire. At this rate, if Micah was gonna tease him, he might well just explode. He's moaning as his hips thrust of their own accord into Micah's hand, and it's hard not to push him down, try to take control and swiftly sit on his dick, but there's a part of him that wants to see where this is going.

This could be the new normal, Micah could be with him for as long as they both managed to survive in a world filled with just as many things that wanted to kill creatures like them as there were creatures themselves. He needed a new night staff person, anyway, Micah'd have to be busy at night, have something to do that didn't make him feel bored or lonely, and most of the folk at the gym already had started treating him like some sort of mascot. Maybe Mal'd give him the job, maybe he'd never let him go, not if he could help himself. 

The wolf inside was already in love. 

Their accents make a strange combination but it’s hard not to find Mal’s appealing. Attractive, maybe. Everything about the werewolf seems to be so and Sonny tells himself that it has nothing to do with why he’s here in the middle of the night — but he knows it’s certainly a bonus. Maybe if he were a little more in his element he would have produced one of his winning smiles, leaned a little closer, and continued their banter. Maybe it would have lead to something. Maybe. It’s hard to think with a bag of blood in his hand.

“ … I tried making czernina with it, the other day. I figured, y’know, it was worth a shot but it all just — I got so sick.” Food. He couldn’t handle real food anymore and he leaves out the part where that fact had made him misty-eyed, how he’d curled up in a ball of frustration on his kitchen floor. There’s a lot that he has to get used to and he knows it — is blessed, truly, to have Mal around to help ease him into such a huge change. “I think it’s best if I just … go for it. I gotta come around to it, eventually.” But that’s easier said than done.

Mal is kind and gentle, accommodating to a fault, and he’s happy to do whatever the fledgling vampire needs to ensure he’s taking care of himself. There’s a part of him that wants to try and sell the guy on the bonkers idea he’d come up with a few years back of making blood-filled chocolates, just so vampires could have something to eat on Valentine’s Day. He’d almost figured out how to keep the blood from solidifying as it cooked.

“Aye, some foods, yeh’ll have little problem with, I’ll get yeh a list’ve ‘em, yeah? Let yeh know what y’can treat yerself to.” He gives a fond frown, watching Sonny hesitate, and trying to ignore the ache it caused in his heart. The guy didn’t want this, but he hadn’t had a choice in the matter, and a part of him wished he could undo it, take it back, let Sonny have his old life back. But that would probably have meant Mal would never have met him. “Is it easier for yeh t’feed off a willin’ donor? Have y’tried that yet?” Werewolf blood was a bit more potent than regular blood, but it would give the vampire a much fuller belly quicker, and keep him satiated for longer. 

The differences between them are staggering. A werewolf and a vampire. Media liked to pit them against each other with the same vibe as cowboys and indians —- a joke, in comparison. Micah had yet to see a deep-seated rivalry between the two, though he hadn’t gotten to meet many werewolves. Micah’s exposure to cryptids now depended on who came and went from the gym. It was safe, here. Micah was part of that process, part of something greater and it feels so much better than playing the part of hunter scum. It felt good to rob from the living so that the dead could survive; it was dangerous but he was able to personally experience the payoff. Thanks to the bags he got his hands on, he didn’t need to actively track down his meals. He didn’t have to seduce unsuspecting men and women — didn’t have to kill anyone. Micah was still young. Still lacking, when it came to understanding how much he needed versus how much he wanted. Those first few feeds had been bags upon bags and those would have been people. Multiple people.

Micah Owens is young in age and in death but he feels like he’s killed enough for a lifetime.

There’s blood on his hands. The blood of the redheaded vampire he’d been forced to kill when he was fourteen. The blood of a werewolf that was supposed to be his big trophy — the first hunt he did on his own. He’d cried like someone made him kill his own fucking puppy that night. Cried and cried. It was a person. Werewolves were people. Micah could understand hunting the things that ceased to have a human soul. The real monsters — the things you couldn’t talk to or reason with. But people. That felt wrong. That made him feel terrible. That eventually lead to his running away, his change in occupation, and his meeting Mal.

He’s scared to tell him. He scared to tell any of his new friends.

But Mal. Mal is more than just a friend. Oh, sure — they are both very naked, very much into sucking face, but Mal had taken him in without so much as a second thought. He had such a big heart, with his gym full of misfits. Because of Mal, he had a place to go. A place he could learn. A place that he could be safe. There was the bonus of a business aspect, but none of that seems to fuel them, now. They’re connected. Their meeting was meant to be, maybe. Mal had met a lot of people — been in a lot of beds. The werewolf was old but he was frantic to get them touching, to feel Micah close and wanting. Being desired is the best feeling Micah’s ever had. Maybe he could have been anybody — maybe Mal wasn’t picky with who he brought upstairs but Micah lets himself believe it’s more than just some quick fuck and a place to sleep. That they are drawn to each other because of something.

That something has him moaning out and tipping his head back to allow Mal to have his way with skin that feels too sensitive. There’s no pulse there, no notion of just how excited his aside from the twitching cock between his legs and maybe that’s strange. Micah was used to his heart slamming in his ears whenever he got this close to another person, used to his hands shaking and his nerves sparking but all of that is missing as Mal dares mark something owned by death as his own. Hands find the other’s chest and rake down, teasing skin but leaving behind no blemishes, himself. Not yet. That would come, in time but not yet.

"Fuck, I need you.” At the end of their little trail, his hands are able to find purchase in hips and bring Mal even closer — throat vibrating as he moans out at the feeling of cocks bumping and rubbing together. It’s friction he wants, friction he chases and he pushes Mal back against the door and frees up one hand so he can curl lithe fingers around them both and stroke. “Fuck. Mal. You feel so fucking good. Tell me what you want and it’s yours, I swear. I’ll fuck you right here and have you screaming so loud everyone downstairs’ll hear, I don’t fucking care.”

He'd heard tales of the hatred between vampires and werewolves, and when moving pictures started to delve into the shadows, bringing depictions of some monster the director or the script's author had met into mass media, stereotypes and incorrect depictions abounded. The supposed war between wolves and vampires was something that had stuck around since the very beginning. Mal'd met a few vampires he didn't like, but that was mostly because they were assholes, who they were as people, not because they happened to have fangs and a sun allergy. More often than not, he befriended them, because at the very least, they could understand living well past one's intended expiration date. He'd taken to learning about them, how to care about them and care for them, because some vampires didn't check to see if their victims were dead, or that they hadn't dripped their own blood onto their scream-frozen mouths. There were creatures who needed help, and Mal finally had the ability to help people the way he'd needed when he was new.

Like hell he was going to give any of that up. 

His own past was filled with dark corners he tried to avoid, deaths he'd caused, deaths he felt responsible for. One stood out, one man he would've killed again in a heartbeat—his father. That abusive fuck deserved to have each of his limbs ripped off by his only surviving son, the one who'd run away and watched the monster rip it’s wife and daughter to shreds, while it’s son hid on the roof, tried not to cry, tried not to look at the remains when it was finally safe enough to get down. He'd spent all night burying them both, fashioning makeshift crosses to mark their final resting places. Líadan had only been ten, she missed so much life, so much adventure, and he'd never forgiven his father for that. Every new creature he helped felt like he could maybe help his sister, or that she'd at least see it, see he was doing what he could to make up for her not getting a chance to grow, to grow with him. 

Perhaps that's who Micah's eyes reminded him of, Líadan's had been just as cold and bright. 

“see you forgot your manners too.” but the wolf complies and it’s enough to soothe his ire just for a second. dominik scoffs and watches it, takes a long pull from his cigarette and nods his satisfaction. no praise, no words of compliment, it was all part of the game.

he never lost.

“who gave you the whiskey?” ash is flicked to the side, it’ll settle in the carpet sure, but the scent is what’ll linger. the wolf uses it to claim his territory much as he does fucking mal across every surface, smearing his scent until it won’t go away. nothing will ever get rid of his claim regardless of where he puts it.

“answer or I’ll use your mouth as an ashtray.”

Oh, he definitely hadn’t forgotten his manners, but Mal didn’t challenge him, not this time. He figured the response wouldn’t have been the fun kind of pain, and he was in a good enough mood to not push the envelope. It was Dom’s game to win, and who was he to break his perfect streak? 

Oh. Luv. It goes straight to his head. His dead little heart. It’s stupid — to get this attached, this fast. He knows it. Wasn’t even really capable of it before his death. There had been a few people he shared the sheets with, all of them too quick and too dirty. Hunters. They were all about business. Worse, a lot of them feared getting caught with the Owens boy.

The name doesn’t matter now that he’s dead. Any member of his family that found him now would kill him, he knows this for a fact. The legacy came first, that was how he’d been raised. Hell, his father had even warned him against the weakness towards 'putting a lover, friend, or family member out of their misery’ should something happen. When he was a kid, he nodded; he feared the idea of being unable to walk in the daylight. He feared the transformation from human to wolf. He hated the idea of someone he loved caught in a loop to haunt walls that couldn’t make them feel safe or at home.

It all changed as he aged. Now? The night suited him. The thought of transforming into anything was exciting. Death wasn’t the very end of anything. A person could still be loved — even if they were different. Even if they weren’t human.

What a disgrace he’s become; a vampire falling in with a werewolf.

He loves it. He loves every second of it.

” … ’ll be careful.“ This promise feels easier to keep as they both try to remove layers — neither of them happy with the speed. Micah considers behaving, really wants to be patient and maybe even impress the wolf but it all goes out the window when that hand closes around him — hard and needy — making him buck forward. His cock twitches in Mal’s grasp as he moans opened-mouthed and dizzy against him as he tries to reel back from being called something so personal,tries to think beyond simply wanting and taking. Fangs glint as he smiles, chuckles lightly, and breaks their kisses if only for a moment. "Alright, alright — fuck, just. Just gimme a second.” The shirt goes, first. A motion, swift — hand hooking over his head and yanking the whole thing off so he can toss it to the side. Whatever. He’d find it later. They needed to be naked, now. Right fucking now. His own pants are practically painted on but he moves to shuck them down his hips so he can step on the hem and do away with a leg and shoe in one motion. The process repeats on the other side and he kicks away what’s left, somehow comfortable like this. Naked. Bare. He’s pale and a bit chilly to the touch but he has every intention of stealing as much of Mal’s body heat as he can in the moments to come.

“C'mere.” Hands are grabbing, yanking again. Mal isn’t human. He doesn’t need to be delicate. Not now. Not when they are both so eager — so fucking touch-starved. The shirt doesn’t end up removed without being torn but he doesn’t care. “Call me ’luv’ again.” It’s needy, desperate as he noses against a cheek — affectionate while his hands fight to help do away with pants. “Please.”

There hadn't been many people Mal had felt this strong of a pull towards, and even less that had happened this quickly, but that just told him the baby vampire was something special. Any person he'd followed his gut to had changed his life in some indescribable way, made him what he was today. And Micah was gorgeous, which was a bonus. Each second they spent with their lips on each other's, with their bodies touching, he became more and more a part of Mal's life, it was as though when Micah breathed, he took breath from Mal, and gave it back when his lungs began to burn. 

He didn't know the family's name, had somehow never heard it in all his years roaming the globe, but it didn't much matter to him, anyway. Micah could have been related to some serial killer and Mal still would have been right there, with him, with his tongue in his mouth. 

There’s an obvious disadvantage here on the vampire’s part, Mal knows it’s his centuries of experience, but even he has some vague remembrance of what that felt like, the nerves that made hands shake, the worry that whoever's ear you were sucking on would see it, know you didn't know what you were doing, and laugh—or even worse, leave. 

He's not going anywhere. 

If he had full use of his mouth, he would have said 'fuck', feeling the vampire's hips move, his cock twitch. It's all so fast and Mal can't get enough. Micah tastes, smells, and feels like a drug, and it wouldn't be the first time he'd tried those, either, but this one hits him differently. Because it's more intense, it lasts, unlike the healing factor prevented most other sorts of drugs from doing. He's chasing this unparalleled high, and it seems like that's what they're both doing. If it meant feeling this more often, he was ready to take the kid up on the brazen offer of sharing a bed, it would be so good for both of them, and it'd be nice in the balmy, swampy summers to have a veritable air conditioner he could cling to. As Micah starts peeling clothing off himself, Mal takes off his own shoes with a kick and a fling, taking his time so he can watch all that skin come into view. He can't help laughing when his shirt gets torn, loving the eagerness as those chilled hands grab him with zero care, manhandling him like he was some rag doll. He fucking loved it.