escape

Any other time, his nudity would have meant nothing. There would had been nothing to hide, no shame along his skin or burning within his heart. Instead, pressing his forehead to the floor for a moment, Vinny suddenly felt wrong. Trapped within his own skin, he felt vile, wretched, contained in a way that he had never been before. He wanted Marla, wanted familiarity and comfort, wanted the way that he knew her skin just as he knew her voice, the sound of her breathing and the flutter of her gossamer lashes against his jaw.

Steady, thrumming, the growl that had started in his throat built quickly, punching past the cage of his sharp, bile painted teeth. His fingers burned to wrap around the angel throat, to pull at his skin and break the delicate, dark stain of it beneath his fingers until it broke and his blood spread wet and quick. 

“Don’t y’fockin’ touch me.”

Greyfiel withdrew immediately, averting his gaze. Slowly, he got to his feet, leaving the bathroom. He returned a few moments later with Elvin’s clothes, folding them neatly and placing them on the floor just inside the door frame. That done, he seated himself outside of the restroom, to the side of the door. The angel could wait until Vinny could stand him again, even if it took another century or two.

The obstruction made him gag, the scraping of nails against the delicate skin that lined the back of his throat sharp and pulling. Painful, burning, his throat convulsed even as his stomach heaved, and Vinny let out a muffled, terrified whine. Just barely did he manage to wrench Grey’s fingers from his throat, and then he fell to his knees, gut trying to turn itself inside out as he wretched. 

Fear was a bitter thing, burning just as the acid bile pulled as his tongue and teeth, and the toilet water turned red. Brilliant and bubbling, some of that was his, evidence of where Grey’s blood had already started to eat at him from the inside. He was crying, fingers curling on the cold flood as his body jerked, back bunching. 

The moment Elvin pulled away and began to vomit, Grey went down next to him, gently rubbing his back while waiting for him to finish. He could apologise for it later, but for now all he could do was help him through it.

The curdling in his stomach held the promise of becoming something else, already pulling tight along the lining of his gut. He stumbled after the angel, feet not wanting to move and his legs still feeling numb from their previous activities, and his green eyes were wild beneath his curling blond fringe. Fingers twisting within the other’s grasp, Vinny didn’t manage to actually free himself until the bathroom door had shut behind them.

“No, no, I want to keep it.”

His nudity was felt then, and he resisted the urge to cover himself by the skin of his teeth. He was power, he was pride, there was no reason to hide from the other man. Just the same, Vinny realized there was nothing to hide behind.

“Its mi-!”

It was his, because he’d claimed it with his teeth and tongue, he’d stained his lips with it just for the color and taste. That knowledge didn’t stop the sharp, burning twist of it that had started to swelter within his gut, and Vinny’s hands dropped like claws to his stomach, both cradling and pulling all at once, words becoming a sharp whine. 

If only it hadn't been dangerous, Grey might have given up - the other seemed so set on keeping this within himself, after all, but he couldn't let him. Elvin may have been acting like a child, but that didn't make him one, and the angel knew he couldn't stop solely for that.

It burned his throat, thick and sweet like the chocolate liqueur that his sister favored in her drinks. Just the same, it felt like fire to his belly, a hot curdle of it that he welcomed with greedy fingers. Turning his head away from Grey, he licked at his teeth, suckling at the last remaining taste.

Those words told him no, though, denied him even after Grey had just let him take it. He hadn’t told him no, hadn’t stopped him, and what was a claim if he couldn’t bleed and be bled? Enough to coat his tongue, and to give his teeth a yellow sheen was all he’d gotten, but Vinny stared at the other man with sharp eyes.

“No, it’s mine now. Y’let me, that means its mine.”

Your kind, as if there was something wrong with him, with the way he was. He was a werewolf, an alpha, he was strong even in the newly shattered kaleidoscope state of his mind. Vinny flinched though, and his stomach twisted tightly- though it was impossible to tell if that was from the toxin or those words. 

I didn’t let you; you took it, he wrote, though there was no harshness behind his words. Grey dropped his notebook to the side once the werewolf had had enough time to read the words, then stood and pulled the other up. 

He couldn’t let Elvin die from something as simple as accidentally ingesting his blood - he’d never forgive himself for it. Surely he hadn’t taken in enough to kill him, right? Only enough to make him sick? Greyfiel’s blood had never been taken in by another, and he wasn’t entirely sure of the amount that would be dangerous.

Whining against Grey’s lips, Vinny’s fingers ticked across the angels skin for a moment as he found his balance. Braced over the other man, he pressed his weight heavy down between the spread of his thighs.

He wanted to pull at Grey’s skin, to sink his nails in just as he could his teeth, and he wanted to pull. He wanted blood, he wanted ferocity, the harsh slap of skin of skin and the guttural cries punched from somebodies chest. There was difference here though, for as much as he wanted those things, because he could taste Marla on the other man’s skin, and Elvin wanted to lick at every inch of him until that simmering musk was gone, replaced by the alpha’s own.

“Do y’want to be focked, or would y’rather fock me?”

Lighting ran down his spine at the whine and the touch, and he shivered. How to respond? Perhaps it had slipped Vinny's mind - for the moment, at least - that he was mute, which made it difficult to give a proper reply.

He could sense the other's desire for something rougher than what they'd had so far, so he shifted to run his hand up into the werewolf's hair. There, he grabbed hold, pulling him down and into a bruising kiss. It didn't matter to him either way, in all honesty, but the blond had mentioned wanting the angel within him, had he not?

Turning his throat into the feeling, Vinny sighed, the sound a soft, pulling moan. Spreading his legs did nothing, only pressed Grey closer to him, and Vinny pulled at him. Fingers slipping down the back of Grey’s jeans, he snarled beneath his breath, eyes falling shut.

“Wha-why are you being so gentle with me?”

He didn’t want gentle, didn’t want soft or slow. He wanted to feel the split of Grey inside him, the burn of his blood. There was a hot want there, an emptiness that he wanted filled just as much as he wanted to fuck the other man himself. Except, Grey wasn’t helping him, with lips on his throat and fingers on his skin, and the werewolf surged forward.

Pushing at Grey with his strength, he forced them back on the couch, making a home for himself between the splay of the angels legs. Sitting back on his haunches then, Vinny pulled his shirt over his shoulders, his head, and tossed it aside with the popping of seams.

Stretched tall over the darker man, there was a thin quality to his body that he had never held before, brought about by two weeks of self-imposed starvation. Beneath the gold of his skin, his ribs were countable points, and scars littered the taunt flesh, each holding a story of their own from his time serving beneath the previous O’Reilly Alpha. For the first time in his life, there was a self-conscious flush across his skin, and he stared down at the angel with wide green eyes.

Gentle was what he was supposed to be, was it not? The feel of Elvin’s hands on his rear made his hips jerk forward, the sensation having been unexpected, but he drew himself away from the other slowly, as though trying to pretend such a thing had not happened at all.

There was a power shift that he allowed without resistance - why shouldn’t he let the werewolf take control? Despite the length of his life, he was still inexperienced with things such as these; Marla had probably had more sex in her life than he had, and most definitely had had more partners than he.

His eyes were drawn to the other’s bare torso the moment it was exposed, gaze scanning it slowly to memorise every contour, the exact shape of each scar. Greyfiel raised a hand, fingertips trailing lightly over the sharp curve of his ribs, before he decided enough was enough. What he’d done was akin to toying with his food, and it wasn’t fair to him.

The angel’s own shirt was quickly discarded as well, more scars than any mortal being might ever hope to amass in their lifetime visible upon his own epidermis. Places where, back in 740 B.C., people who tried to be physicians had bled him in hopes of curing his sickness, and others where soldiers had broken his body down. His body told the tale of every fight he’d been in up until his death - a great number of them, clearly.

Written over them in fine black lettering, mostly script style, were words. Some were simple phrases, yet others were reminders of things he’d once had, and had learned to let go of. He could have easily communicated with his tattoos rather than his notebook, had he only rolled up his sleeves to reveal the common words, he chose not to.

He’d been prepared for it in a way, he’d known that his words would have consequences, that there would be a response to the things that he did. Still, there was a difference between Marla and Grey, and Vinny felt it then in its truest form. Startled, eyes wide, he watched as the world shifted suddenly, and a high yelp fell from his lips.

“Greyfiel!”

Grey’s mouth was hot against his own, and Vinny pressed into the contact with a muffled moan. Fingers finding Grey’s hips, they dug at the space above the waistband, nails scratching at the skin. There was something soft about the contact between them, and he wasn’t used to that, he didn’t know soft. Marla was always hot, heavy in the fierce way that she took to the rest of life, and Vinny felt flustered beneath the bright burn of those dark eyes.

He would have stopped, but Vinny seemed to wish to continue, and so he did. The angel shifted on the other, pressing his body closer to him. One hand rose, settling upon the werewolf’s cheek, even as he felt the pressure of the blond’s fingers on his waistband.

Pressing himself closer, Vinny’s hands slipped to tangle in Grey’s hair, dark strands caught between his fingers. Thigh spread wide, an obscene sort of arch settled through his spine, and he pressed his hips down in a blatant offering to the other man.

“Wanted it f’weeks, angel, but y’were focking my sister.”

There was no malice to his words though, not even in the growl that overtook his tone. Instead, a heady rumble overtook his throat, words thick along his tongue. He wanted to feel the hard, biting press of fingertips in his skin, the burning stretch of something hot inside of him. Nipping at the hinge of his jaw, Vinny let out a quiet, breathy whine against the other man’s temple.

“I want y’to fock me for a change.”

There was tension in his jeans after a mere moment of Vinny being pressed against him, his surprise having caused his usual control to slip. Had it been any other time, he may have questioned the blond, but surely by now he knew his own mind.

It sounded less like a request and more like an order, so he took it as one. Less thinking meant less inhibitions, after all, and while he burned with God-given light, he wished to burn for a different reason.

Eyes narrowing, Vinny stared up at the other for a moment before pulling back. Words slow, slurring across his tongue, the werewolf grazed his teeth across Grey’s shoulder. He lurched to his feet in a quick, gliding motion though, rolling into a spin that had him facing the other. 

From there he bent forward, knees pressed to the couch wide over the spread of Grey’s thighs, and he tilted his head at the other. Green eyes bright, he plucked the book from the couch cushion to stare at it for a moment with idle fascination, as if it were what had grasped him in the first place.

Keep reading

His brows drew together before furrowing, more from worry and concern than anything else. Vinny hadn’t been acting like himself for the past few days, after all, and Grey didn’t know if this was just another part of that . . strangeness. Even so, he didn’t question it, though his cheeks darkened at the werewolf’s words.

There was something comforting in the heavy, exotic feeling of feathers fitted around his shoulder. Greyfiel had stretched them out as if they were nothing, and under the weight of them Vinny had curled himself into the other man. It had taken days, well over a week for himself to become comfortable in his own skin once more, and even then, Vinny still felt the scratch of something that didn’t belong within his bones.

Pressed tight against the angels side, he watched as long fingers turned another page in the book. He’d never read it himself, had instead purchased it on a midnight binge with too much television and no Marla awake to tell him no. Tilting his head, Vinny nuzzled along the familiar line of Grey’s throat, lips trailing across his skin.

“You’re going to read all night again, aren’t you?”

He turned to let his gaze alight upon Vinny, moving his shoulders in a small shrug. I might, unless you have something in mind, he wrote, his words innocent despite the meaning that could easily be gained from them. Grey leaned down, letting his lips brush lightly over the werewolf’s forehead. Reading was something he enjoyed, but there were better things to do with his life.

More often than not, Greyfiel preferred quiet nights. Now that he’d taken to hanging around the O’Reilly house, he hadn’t left in days, and had made himself - up until then - somewhat at home. Though the book in his hands looked barely cracked, he’d read that particular work of literature dozens of times, all in different editions over the years. Beowulf had been modernised repeatedly, after all, and he’d read it from first print all the way up until the current time, in the original Old English and in the crudest of modern forms.