Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dear Diary,

I didn’t know where I was.

Viago awakens, and already, he feels… off.

He starts the day like any other: by pushing up against the lid of his coffin. The door, it’s stiff and creaky from its travels around the world; hinges corroded by time and the salty sea air it sailed through in the months it took to arrive here of all places. The journey he’d set out on for love had been a futile one, and now? The door creaks. It’s an unfortunate presage, a small, yet constant reminder of his pitiful love life. Hopeless romantic— emphasis on ‘hopeless’.

 It takes a good vampiric shove to surprise those rusted hinges open— but today, when he pushes up hard against the door, it swings open with an astonishing ease and hits against the back wall with a terrible clack. Oh, it’s awfully loud, and the clapper of it rattles his brain in a way that makes his teeth itch; like how nails on childhood chalkboards used to make his skin prickle— it’s the very same.

His shoulders tense up by his ears, and he tries to quickly blink away the last vestiges of his slumber. His alarm hasn’t gone off yet, so he’s not sure why he awakened, but it’s too stuffy to stay in his coffin when he’s just lying there, crossed-armed in the dark— like some dead and buried, forgotten thing. There’s a restlessness under his skin, he wants to stretch his legs, he wants to look at something that isn’t the ceiling.

And so, he’s beginning his ascent, arising from his bed, and he’s about halfway up there, still blinking away the fog of slumber, misty eyed, scrambled brained, and then he— he pauses—

Huh.

He hangs there, mid-air, floating at a diagonal as he blinks and blinks and blinks— but the sight in front of him stays the same.

It's the wallpaper.

It’s wrong.

It’s beautiful and clean, with a shining black design of swirling flowers: nightshades and wolfsbane, hemlock and foxgloves. Beautiful and deadly; his favourite contradiction. He likes to model his own fashions after those flowers— for their rule of nature is one that he lives by too. People respect poisonous flowers, keep a healthy distance and admire their beauty. To Viago they are aspirational, a state of being to constantly strive for.

And now they are papered onto his walls in a series of swirling chrome.

The sickly cream he remembers, dirtied by age, walls that he hated but had never found the passion to change, they are nowhere to be seen.

His concentration slips— he can’t maintain levitation without it— and he abruptly comes crashing back down into the plush interior liners of his coffin, landing on his backside. The coffin wobbles on its stand, and he grips onto its wooden sides as it threatens to topple over.

 It slows, stills, and Viago waits a few beats, eyes wide, worried that another shift may send him careening downwards. Hesitantly, he releases his death grip on the coffin, sighs and looks down at his hands. One of his nails has snagged and has split off, broken from the edge. He huffs, holding his palm flat as he inspects the damage and then—

 No… he’s… he’s not mistaken—

—Several pairs of rings are adorned on his fingers, and yet… he doesn’t remember owning any of them.

He looks down at himself, and it’s more of the same— a pair of beautiful red silk pajamas that feel lovely against his skin— and that he has never seen before in his long life. He feels shocked that he didn’t notice it before, surely, he would have?

And, more than that: He hasn’t owned pajamas since he was human.

Viago opens his mouth. Then closes it with a click. Open, close, open, close—he must look daft— but he just can’t process it, whatever this is. It feels like his brain has stopped working; nothing is adding up, nothing makes sense.

How has he changed clothes? Who must have pasted that beautiful wallpaper to his walls? He’s confused, but he’s not scared, not yet.

It’s when he looks up and across at the rest of the room, and see’s it’s wrongness, it’s complete and utter wrongness, it’s disconnection to the space he’s inhabited all these years and the one that he is seeing right now. That’s when something cold settles over him, making him sit up stiff in his coffin bed, rigid and alert.

Alarm bells are ringing in his mind, over and over, like the bells of the townspeople, in the rural German villages of old, ringing for the dead found in their beds, sucked dry and pale.

His bedroom. The layout is familiar, yes, he’s sure of it, the foundations remain. He knows it, vaguely in his mind, the shape of these old four walls, his window and his door. But everything else, the interior, the parts that are his, that he had command over, it’s all changed, and the sight of it makes his stomach flip.

Something like dread churns deep down in his gut. The feeling comes at him in a rush, washes over him in a submerging wave. His eyes go huge and wide and round. It’s a human feeling, this sickening unease, and it is unwelcome.

There’s new furniture in the room, and it’s not his.

A double bed lays in the centre, with purple sheets and a dark wooden headboard, antique and intricate and he likes it. But Vampires don’t need a bed, so this must not be his room.

There’s a big black screen, like a scrying mirror, reflecting the room back on itself, mounted on the wall opposite the bed. He’s scryed before, but never with a mirror so huge— he wonders if it’s a sign of witches, seeing one so massive and thaumaturgic upon his wall. If his house has been overtaken by a coven, and he’s in a room with a huge bed, then he is in big trouble. But it seems so unlikely, so strange and yet— Vampires do not own such things, so this must not be his room.

All around are potted plants, green and lush, brightening the otherwise gothic pallet of the room. On a desk, beneath the blacked-out window, is a bouquet of roses in an array of colours. There’s a card next to them, stood upright and facing the room. Scrawled across its face it reads: ‘I’m your biggest FAN[G]’, the text encircled by an array of hearts and accompanied by a smiling cartoon vampire with hearts for eyes and pointed teeth. It’s an adorable card, and the plants truly are lush, but he did not put them there, so this must not be his room.

Viago sits hunched over in his coffin, hands bawled tight in his lap. His fingernails dig into his palms.

He thinks for a moment— yes, maybe someone had come in, a burglar or a squatter and brought all this stuff here— It makes no sense but neither does any of the other alternatives: An estate agent maybe, someone is trying to sell his house, has redone the walls, made it look nice— but, even that takes time, and he’s been in his coffin, they would’ve had to move it, would have opened it and saw him inside, surely?

None of these ideas are plausible. They’re all awfully frightening. Now, the more he looks around, the less he recognises the space, he starts to doubt the layout— Maybe his window was a little more to the left, maybe his doorway wasn’t so big— maybe this isn’t his room at all.

Maybe he’s been kidnapped. They took his coffin and placed him here.

He doesn’t dare move; he doesn’t make a sound. He swallows, though he doesn’t need to, he feels the compulsion as his fear spikes, and then he listens. His hearing isn’t as good as some creatures of the night, but it’s pretty fucking great, and as he takes pause, slows his mind, he picks up on a muffled conversation from outside the room. Male voices.

Perhaps there’s been a misunderstanding. Viago likes to think the best of people. Maybe he’s been moved, and they didn’t even know he was in—

Outside, someone laughs. Viago jumps and clutches a hand to his chest.

He’s light on his feet when he creeps out from his coffin, sliding one long leg out after the other and landing with a soft step. His feet are bare, which is odd, he always wears shoes into his coffin— and beneath them is a rug, grey, furry and warm across the cold wooden floors. He’d been needing to put a rug down in his own room for years, but this one seems impractical, what if someone stepped on it? You’d never get the mud out from something so furry.

He pauses, consider his options and creeps first over to the window. There’s a large black shutter across the pane, it’s thick and solid and built into the wall— no curtains in sight. He considers trying to pry it open, but wonders if it’s daylight outside and if he lifted it, would he get it back down in time as to not sizzle to a crisp?

He looks for a clock. No luck.

He decides not to risk the window. He doesn’t want the sunlight. But also, more cowardly, he fears what he would find— if he opened those curtains and didn’t recognise where he was…

He doesn’t finish the thought; it makes him feel dizzy.

He tiptoes, quiet as he can towards the door, pulls it open, just for a peak—

—but the door creeks, it’s so loud—

—and he underestimated how close those voices were, because through a passage, straight on, framed by a doorway, is a group of people, and they all turn to look at him as one.

 Unanimous. Their heads on a swivel. Like they’d been waiting, or suspecting, or prophesising his arrival—

“Um…” Viago’s voice quivers. He considers slamming the door shut, but a few of the men are making their way over, “Hallo?”

One of them laughs, he’s grinning, but Viago doesn’t understand what’s so funny.

“Hello to you too!”, the grinning one responds, he’s coming straight over and Viago staggers a few steps back, door swinging open wide.

“Sprichst du Deutsch?” he asks, eyes scanning, flickering across their many faces. He doesn’t know them. These men are hollow, with unreadable eyes and smug smiles, like they know something he doesn’t.

The one that came over, the one that saw him first through the door, is now blocking his line of sight, but Viago knows there’s still more behind him— one is sitting splayed out on a sofa, the others gathered around in seats, or standing. They’ve all been chatting, while Viago was sat in the next room terrified.

“Oh uh… hang on”, the man leans against Viago’s door frame, he’s frowning, trying to think, “Ah, one minute, wracking my brain here… Ich… Ich lerne Deutsch… zu sprechen?”

The man tries to speak German, it’s not the worst but it’s not great. He lacks confidence with it.

Laughter breaks out again in the other room. Viago peers over the man’s shoulder to see one of the sitting guys glancing his way, laughter still on his lips. He frowns, looks down at himself. His bare feet and his silky pyjamas. Those aren’t his, he remembers. Did these creeps dress him? Change him?

The man in front of him is speaking:

“Yikes, that was awful, wasn’t it? I wasn’t expecting a test—"

“Why are those people laughing at me?” Viago demands, pointing with an angry hand.

“Laughing…?” The man looks behind himself and then back to Viago, “No, I think they’re just laughing at something—”

“Nein! They were laughing at me. I saw. You know, I didn’t even choose this outfit!”

The man opens his mouth to speak, frowns, nothing seems to make its way out.

“What are you people, some kind of— of…  of sickos?! You think you can just take me here, and start laughing and doing the pointing, ja?”

His voice is getting louder, rapidly edging towards hysterical— the man reaches forward, tries to grab Viago’s angry, waving arm, but he bats him away, taking further steps back— back into the room he doesn’t recognise— he feels cornered— those people, they are all looking his way now, they’re standing up, moving closer— he’s trapped in here, they’re going to get him.

“I demand that you tell me who you are, Okey?! You tell me who you are or— or— I rip your bloody throat out!  

Chapter Text

Our point of view shakes as the camera man fumbles.

“OI! Nick. What are you doing with the camera, ay? I need to take some pictures for my ‘Fit Check’”

We get an unflattering shot of Deacon from far down below, like someone is trying to hide the fact they’re recording. Deacon looks directly into the lens before glaring back up towards Nick: the culprit holding the camera.

Behind the screen, Nick answers, “Uh, yeah, well I’m using it right now mate, so you need to wait your turn.”

“Wait my—” Deacon huffs, his nostrils flair, which we get a pretty good view of from this angle, “What are you even using it for?!

“Oh, um well,” there’s some more fumbling and then Nick joins the frame, holding the camera like he’s taking a selfie, “I was gonna film like a, ‘where are they now’ sort of thing, for my youtube y’know? Since the documentary got so popular…”

“Po— popular?” Deacon’s eyes flicker between Nick and the lens, side-eyeing the camera like he doesn’t trust it, “who said it was popular?”

“Oh, it’s like a cult classic! I’ve got thousands of twitter followers!”

Another voice, off screen, adds, “Yeah but all they do is ask us about Viag—”

The camera dips, giving us a pretty solid crotch shot as Nick hisses, “Shut up, Stu, you’re the sound guy. Sound guy doesn’t speak.”

The camera moves again, back into position. Nick smiles, fake and thin.

Deacon bares his teeth, “OI, don’t tell Stu to shut up!”, and he lunges for Nick— there’s some fumbling, the camera gets dropped— everything goes black.

A title screen plays. White text emerging from the plain black. It reads: “Wellington Vampires: Where are they now”.

Smash Cut:

Deacon reclines on a sofa, legs splayed out awkwardly so that they may be spread as open wide as vampirically possible, “have you got my crotch in it?”

Behind the camera once more, Nick sighs, “Yeah… your—  your crotch is in frame.”

Deacon nods, “Okay you may start.”

Another sigh, and then Nick starts his questions.

We learn that in the past 5 years, Deacon has discovered his love for fashion design. He has designed a whole range of collections for creatures of the night.

“Like this: look!” Deacon is showing us around a room full of textiles, most garish or furry—There’s a lot of fur actually, it’s best not to think too hard about where he got it all from. Deacon picks up a tiny little bow tie, about Chihuahua sized and holds it up towards the camera, “this is part of my new bat fashion line! So that you may look your bestest, when you are your bat-ist!”

Deacon grins and waves his hand displaying the bowtie, looking to all the world like he’d just said something very, very impressive.

The video cuts awkwardly, the shot swiping to the right like someone added some PowerPoint transitions in the edit. Deacon is now replaced by Vladislav, standing outside a bedroom with a closed door. He has his ear pressed against the wall. From inside the bedroom there is various intense moaning sounds and the creaking of a large bed.

“Vlad, please man—” Nick asks from behind the camera.

“I am busy!” He hisses back, trying to swat Nick away while not moving his head from its position smushed firmly to the wall.

“It will literally take a second—"

“Fine!” Vlad snaps, swinging towards the camera, “Continue with your idiotic questions!”

“What are you up to now? What’s new with you? How have you been?”

Vladislav brightens slightly at the chance to talk about himself, brushing his long black hair behind an ear, “Oh well, actually things are going great— Me and the beast, we’re back together, and we’ve joined this little human commune, yes? We all have a lot of sex and sometimes we eat them after.”

“Oh… That’s what you’ve been doing?” Nick adds.

“What do you mean ‘oh’, of course it is!”

The camera shot slips a little as Nick continues, cutting off the top of Vlad’s forehead, “It just seemed to me, like, Pauline’s having sex with all these human dudes and then you mope around and listen from outside.”

Vladislav pauses. Unblinking. His eyes go unfocused. And then “HISSSSS!”, he swipes at Nick, “You don’t know anything about—”

“Vladdie!” Pauline’s voice rings out from the closed bedroom door, “Can you keep it down out there! You’re putting me off my thrusting!” There’s another slam and a high-pitched male moan from within.

“Sorry Darling!” Vlad calls back, resuming his position with an ear to the door.

Nick turns around, camera now pointing at Stu holding a tiny, little microphone. The colour of Stu’s usually red cheeks has spread everywhere in a monumental blush as they both turn around to plod back down the stairs.

The camera cuts once more, this time the shot breaks away into lots of tiny cubes and then scatters to reveal:

Viago sitting primly on the sofa, in mid-close up. He is dressed neatly in a blue tailcoat with a silky cream waistcoat underneath— noticeably, he has a little floret of wolfsbane pinned to his lapel.

“So,” Viago starts, “What have I been up to, ja? So, I have been trying veganism, but for vampires of course! So, I only try and drink the blood of animals!”

Cue shaky footage of Nick at a club drunkenly slurring the words to ‘Take Me Home, Country Roads’, arm slung around Stu— In the background, you can spot Viago, with a helpful arrow edited in with the caption ‘Viago lol’. He is dancing in a nightclub, but every time someone gets close Viago quickly holds his nose and turns away in an attempt to combat the stench of that delicious, pumping blood. A poor guy, who just bumped into Viago, looks distraught, trying to subtly smell his own t-shirt.

Back to the interview, Viago grins.

“But ja, it’s actually going really, really, really well!”, his fangs poke out as he smiles, catching adorably onto his bottom lip— his accent is thick over the ‘W’ in well and off screen, we can hear a light chuckle.

“I haven’t killed a human in like two months!” Viago continues, “Which is nearly a vampire record! It is really so brilliant because although I sort of really got into the chasing of the humans around, I didn’t really like the actual killing so much— always so messy! And you can never finish a whole human off so there’s so much waste! So, I had this wonderful ‘Vamp-gan’ idea and Anton has been helping me!”

The camera pans out suddenly, and right next to Viago, gazing at him like a lovesick puppy is Anton. They’ve been holding hands this whole time just below frame. Viago turns to look beside him and grins at his partner, squeezing their joined hands and Anton grins back, scooting closer on the sofa.

Nick clears his throat, “Uhh, anything to add Ants?”

Anton glances at the camera, unprepared.

“Oh, um,”, delicately he reaches over and plucks the tiny microphone clipped to Viago’s cravat and brings it under his mouth. When he speaks, the audio is awful, crackled, muffled, just on the edge of too loud, “Yeah, I just wanna say I’m really proud of Viago—“

“Move it— sorry, can you move the mic a bit further from your mouth, mate” Stu chimes in, “Yeah, there, like that’s good, between you both is fine.”

“Thanks mate,” Anton continues, “Yeah, um, I’m really proud of all his progress, and that he’s decided this all by himself— y’know, he knows how I feel about the killing stuff, for us wolves it’s such an unfortunate and nasty part of the supernatural experience, right?” Anton glances back at Viago, his smile warm, “And he’s made this decision all on his own, but I think it’s a great one, so I’ve been helping out how I can— and y’know, if he’s really thirsty, he can always have a bit of werewolf blood as a top up! That’s part animal, so it counts!”

“Oh yes!” Viago claps his hands, delighted, “and also those people I found last week at that convention! All in those big fluffy dog costumes? Those count too!”

Anton presses his lips together, doing his damn best to hold in the laugh shaking his shoulders, “Yeah love, they count.”

There’s an awkward silence, where the camera keeps rolling but Viago and Anton have finished talking, they both smile blankly at the camera and Anton can be seen looking left and right, clearly between Nick and Stu.

Nick speaks up again: “So, uh… are you guys not going to talk about…?”

“What?”

“Like, you’re dating? Yeah? that’s new—“

“Oh! Ja.” Viago nods emphatically, “Yeah, now we are dating.”

Silence. Viago and Anton smile, and blink when the silence drags on.

“Can you… uh… elaborate?”

Viago huffs, feeling put upon, “Well, we have mutual friends, yes? And then Anton offers like ‘oh your house is all rundown and dilapidated and you’re gonna trip over a loose floorboard and fall on a stake and die, so I should help you fix it up’, ja?  And so, we got to talking and he was big and sweaty, moving stuff about, and now we are in love forever and ever.”

Anton couldn’t grin any wider if he tried.

“Yeah but the people wanna know-“

 “Look, I am in the middle of writing my memoir. So, you will have to learn of mine and Anton’s epic love story when I am published, okey?”

Nick grumbles from behind the camera but says no more on the topic.

“My memoir is not finished yet of course! I will end it when me and Anton marry!”

Anton’s eyes go a little wide at that, but he’s still fighting back his grin, pressing his thin lips into a flat line.

“And then I will be Viago Von Dorna Schmarten Scheden Heimberg-Hewitt!”

Anton glances at his partner, highly amused, “Love, my last name isn’t Hewitt.”

“It’s not? I could have sworn…”

From the back of the shot, behind Anton and Viago, Vladislav emerges from the gloom. He stands directly behind the two, staring ominously into the camera.

“Huey. Anton Huey.”

“Oh—No, I am so embarrassed!—”

“No no, love, it’s okay—”

“I’m a terrible lover—”

“Nooo,” Anton coos, he moves a hand to cup Viago’s cheek, and then further up, fingers fitting in and stroking through curls, “There’s just a lot going on in that vampire brain of yours! Nearly 400 years of names and knowledge is a lot for one little brain, babe.”

Vladaslav remains unnoticed.

“Yes, but still—”

“Hey, it’s alight, everyone forgets stupid things. There’s no reason to get bothered!”

Vladislav stares pointedly at the camera lens. He raises his eyebrows, and shakes his head rapidly, eyes too wide.

“Uhh right.” Nick turns the camera around so his own face his in frame, he’s frowning, looking back up at Vlad, then to the camera lens.

“What’s the face for?”, we hear from Anton before the camera cuts out finally.

Chapter Text

Anton whistles a tune suspiciously close to Bill Withers hit classic, ‘Just the two of us’ as he pours a glass of Prosecco and places it with great care upon the hot tubs edge. Next to it? Another meticulously placed flute glass, but this one filled with fizzing drunk blood.

They didn’t own flute glasses until last night— and these ones are ever so slightly different, two from a not quite matching set found in a charity shop— but it’s the thought that counts. Anton hopes tonight will prove itself worth ruining his Soda Stream to make the small, bottled flask of novelty, fizzy blood. But if Anton’s perfectly honest— and he often is— he doesn’t recall a single other occasion that he has ever used their Soda Stream, other than when it was fresh out of the box. Who wants to make their own carbonated drinks? And why the hell was the answer: everyone apparently in the 2010’s, but only once and then literally never again.

The flutes are aligned, the hot tub is set to bubbles, no jets. As a finishing touch, and Anton’s quite proud of himself really, because he loves Viago but he’s not too great at all that classic romance the dandy deserves— he decides to add a sprinkle of red rose petals to the water’s surface. And y’know what? he thought it’d look cheesy and that’s fine because Viago loves a bit of cheese, but it’s actually very romantic— like something from a movie. He dusts his hands off together over the water, shaking loose the last petals clinging to his palms and steps back with his hands on his hips to survey the scene.

His back garden has been strung with fairy lights, several strings of LED’s twinkling in the nearby tree— leafless from the late autumn chill but now made to be something magical in the dark. It reminds him of the Christmas to come: his first Christmas with Viago and he grins at the idea. He imagines Viago in ridiculous themed jumpers, that he would either adore or endure, Anton really has no idea. They’d spend evenings on the sofa, maybe lounge in the garden on the sun bathers in the warm Aotearoan night— bring the old Tv out from the living room in a trail of leads and cables and settle it on the back grass. They could watch classic Christmas films, filled with snow and winter wonder—even though here it’s the heat of summer— it still gets you in the Christmassy mood.  He’s seen all those films countless times, but this time it will be special, because he gets to watch Viago experience them like they’re new.

Christmas will be when Viago meets his family. They haven’t really talked about it, but he knows Viago’s eager— he’s always asking after his mum— and his poor old mum is even worse, absolutely chomping at the bit to meet Anton’s first long term partner since he was a goddamn teenager. Since before he was turned, of course, but she doesn’t know that.

The grass has been mowed— shit, he even got an old butter knife out and trimmed around where the grass had long over hanged the round little pathing stones leading to the tub. He power washed the brown-ish, yellow stones back to their original white that they hadn’t even been since before they moved in. Any nicer and it would look like a show garden. He even tidied away the boys’ tatty old goal post and footballs and shoved them in the back alley for some not-so-safekeeping.

It’s perfect. Or it will be— once Viago is here beside him.

And speak of the devil…

“Hallo!” Viago pops his head out from behind the sliding glass door that leads out onto the garden. He smiles when he sees Anton and putters out onto the decking. “Oh my-! What’s all this?”

“Happy six months, babe.” Anton grins.

Viago flutters, hurrying with graceful little steps to Anton’s side. Anton wants to hold him close, wants to wrap his arms around his spine, squeeze so hard that they become one. Instead, he settles for looping one arm around the vampires waist, gently coaxing him close till their hips brush.

“O- Anton! A hot tub? Yes? I have never been in one!”

God, the smell of him. It’s intoxicating. Like dried and decaying flowers, like potpourri— his own natural musk like a delightful perfume. It’s what Anton first ever noticed about him, those years ago when they were enemies. The scent of Viago would hit him, and his hackles would raise, his nostrils would flair— and he was just glad he could blame his riled-up state on the threat of vampires— even though he could never quite tell that lie to himself.

Brought in by his scent, like a moth to a flame, Anton leans in close and tucks his nose against the junction of Viago’s neck, inhaling him deeply— he doesn’t bother to hold back his groan. His grip on Viago’s waste grows tighter, possessive.

Viago hums his approval, baring his neck to Anton— an ironic gesture that makes them both exhale on a laugh, breathy and intimate between the two. “Anton, Darling…”

Anton reaches up, in a move so instinctual it almost doesn’t register and begins to paw at Viago’s chest. Large hands slide under the lines of Viago’s waistcoat, stretching the material in their quest to grope and clutch and explore.

“Anton—” Viago sighs, content, his hand rising to settle at the back of Anton’s head, fingers knitting into his ginger locks, gently pressing, encouraging Anton’s ministrations. He’s practically purring, a smug little smile alighting his lips. “—I am certainly not complaining, but this is quite unlike you…”

“Unlike me?” Anton mutters into Viago’s neck, only half focused as he presses a kiss to the skin there. His wondering hands move up, trying now to wriggle their way inside Viago’s crisp linen shirt, to meet with flesh and skin. Viago had neglected to wear his cravat and even left his collar unbuttoned in an uncommon state of undress he’d never usually stoop to within polite company. Anton’s not sure when he became like a Victorian gentleman who pops a fucking boner at the sight of a maidens scandalously exposed ankle— but it was definitely somewhere between meeting Viago and getting to hold him as his own.

“Ja…” Viago pauses, his hand in Anton’s hair reflexively grabbing and pulling as Anton’s light pecks upon his neck turn to nips, turn to casual, luxuriating tastings of his skin in wet kisses and swipes of tongue. He’s all giggly as he continues, “… it’s ah... it’s unlike you to be so forward in public, liebling. Even when I try and ask for it— you never let me have my way with you.”

Anton huffs a laugh, his hot breath panting over Viago and making him shiver, “Public? We’re in my garden.”

“Yes, but the boys—”

As if on que, a clatter comes from within the house followed by the jeering of male voices—Anton wrenches his face out from Viago’s neck but doesn’t move far. From through the glass sliding door, in the boxed in yellow glow of the kitchen light they can see as the boys lumber in. It’s like a perfect vignette, how they are framed just so— windows like aquarium walls in how they glow, in how you can observe the boys as they swan about the kitchen but remain yourself unobserved. It’s nostalgic in a way Anton can’t recall. But he knows he’s been here before, on the outside looking in, silently observing their bodies moving in the light, their muffled voices— knowing instinctually that they’re warm in there, in that yellowed glow, despite how out here the night is blue, and the air is chill.

From outside, they look in, through a porthole to some different place that appears to move in tandem with theirs; but those in the kitchen cannot see how the indoor light casts yellow across the decking. They do not hear the low rustling of leaves as the night breeze blows or the harmonies of crickets chirping in the tall grass growing along the fence, the subtle bubbling of a hot tub as yet unused and the tang of chlorine hanging in the air— their singular, precise and intimate moment, tucked away in their Anton-constructed back garden paradise.

Clifton goes for the fridge and pulls out a crate of beers. None of the boys know they’re out here yet— they are unobserved, but it won’t last long. Soon they will see, and they’ll slip out from that glass sliding door and the mirage will be shattered, a picture frame no longer but simply a door from here to there. Their privacy is limited. It’s always fucking limited. Anton wanted this night.

Viago chuckles and pets through Anton’s hair, not unlike you would a dog’s. “They arrived the same time as I.”

“There’re supposed to be at—”

“At their game, Ja, they say it was cancelled.”

“Fuuuuck—"

“Uh uh— language, liebling.”

Anton lets his head fall, forehead pressed solemnly to Viago’s shoulder. “Oh man— I’m sorry, Vi.”

“Now what are these apologies for, hm?” Viago stops his petting, moves his arm to hug around Anton’s shoulders.

“It’s meant to be our night— I’d set this all up and like, I know I don’t really do enough romantic shit like this— and it’s just been bulldozed over already.”

Viago just smiles, in that benevolent way he does sometimes, when on the rarer occasion he’s about to say something, dare Anton say, ‘wise’ and not his usual default of something bat-shit crazy. No pun intended. “You, my wolfie love, are the most hopeless romantic I know. Instead of asking me on a date— you became my own personal handyman, doing all those ‘dee-eye-why’ projects for months about the house— all these little handy things to get my attention, ja? You made me feel cared for, looked after— you cherish me, I hardly remember the last time I lifted a finger—”

“Now that’s not true—”

“No interrupting, please!” Viago covers his palm over his lovers mouth, affectively silencing him. “Anton. You do so, so much for me. All of the time. You are thoughtful and hard of working— I come home from boogie wonderland, and I think ‘oh nein- I forgot all the dish washing!’, and then I discover you did it all yourself— even though it wasn’t yours to clean— and you are not even on the chore wheel! But you just did it because you are generous, and you wanted me to be happy once I was home.”

Viago removes his palm from Anton’s mouth, smiles at him softly. When he ducks closer it’s to press a light, barely there, flutter of a kiss to Anton’s bottom lip. The soft sound of their lips meeting is loud in the quiet night. Neither are in a rush to pull away, and their noses slide, graze against each other gently when Viago speaks again.

“So, ja…” Viago shrugs, then brings his arms up to Anton’s shoulders to rest there, “maybe you don’t organise as many picnic dates as I do, or midnight excursions, maybe you don’t write love songs and poems, or make handmade gifts— but you are romantic in a different way.”

He licks his lips, “—And this is why I love you—okey? Because you are manly and strong, and I get to watch you from the balcony while you do gardenwork with your shirt off with that big, heavy, hedge cutty machine. Not because I long for displays of romance that do not come as natural to you. I like you, and I like how you choose to love me”.

Anton stares at Viago, and he swallows hard, clears his throat. He doesn’t like to cry— he knows he’s allowed; men can cry yadda yadda yadda— but there’s something ingrained in him, maybe from when he was young that always fights against it, something that objects to the tears that he just can’t shake. So instead, he takes a ragged breath and grasps Viago by the chin, kisses him in a way he never usually would with the boys so near— with teeth and tongue and a growl in his throat— and he feels Viago’s grin even as his tongue pushes in, so demanding past those lips, and Viago answers in a shudder and a sigh.

A wolf whistle cuts through the air, and the two break away to see the boys clamouring out through the back door. They cheer as the lovers part— Anton going a bright red as he wipes his mouth off with the back of his hand and raises the other to flip the boys off— they cheer in response to this too. Viago is practically glowing about the whole thing. He loves being the centre of attention and the boys always treat him like someone special: call him Anton’s ‘missus’ and run about pulling chairs out for him, hanging up his coat, fighting each other to refill his glass and giggling like shits the entire time, all because they know it winds Anton up to no end— leaves him red in the face, twitchy fingered and huffing. When it gets closer to the full moon, they back off, having learnt the hard way not to push it. But tonight? Tonight’s the new moon— so all bets are off. 

“Good evening boys!” Viago calls, and his grin grows wider as he feels Anton’s grip on him tighten, then loosen, then tighten again, like he can’t make his mind up— swinging between what he wants and what his silly little moral mind thinks is right. That muddied battle between possession and agency that wars in the Alpha’s mind— wanting to keep Viago as his own, but also wanting him to be free to do as he likes. The wolf leaping out, the human trying to clip a leash on him and wrangle him back in. As if he could truly stop Viago from doing what he wanted— a sweet thought.

“What’s all this then?” Nathan G asks, eagerly invading the garden.

Stu hangs back by the sliding door, looking apprehensive. “Guys, I think we might be intruding—"

“Holy shit—You got the Hot tub out? Let me grab my togs!” Clifton exclaims and several of the boys chase on after him.

Anton sighs and looks up at Viago’s giggling face. He’s radiant. Just looking up at his love makes him think that maybe this night could be salvaged yet.

Viago presses his ass back into Anton’s swimming trunk covered crotch, wiggles his hips just so.

Yeah. Alright. Someone’s not making it out of this night alive.

They end up in the tub with Anton and Viago pressed close on one end and Stu, Clifton and a Nathan G at the other. Anton drew a hard line under anyone else climbing in. If he feels anyone’s, apart from Viago’s, naked ass feet while sitting in this tub there will be hell to pay.

Clifton is telling them about a girl he’s started seeing recently—who he thinks Viago would get along with apparently because they’re both into their horticulture. Or maybe it was because they were both into the human anatomy— Anton’s not sure if Clifton said she studied botany or biology. He is trying to pay attention, but Viago is in an adorable pair a swimming shorts Anton bought him for the occasion— because the hot tub was a surprise after all. They’re nothing special, just plain black trunks— pretty short, cutting off just below the swell of Viago’s ass cheek like hot pants— but nothing crazy. They are making Anton feel fucking insane.

He’s never seen Viago dressed in so little— not around others. Even his usual swimming costume is some long, full-bodied vintage looking piece. It’s adorable, but this is different. Viago seemed a little uncomfortable at first, exposed in such a way— and for the first ten minute in the tub he’d sat close next to Anton, hiding behind the bulk of him with his arms crossed to cover his chest. As the minutes ticked by, and the boys chatted— all similarly dressed and totally unbothered, Viago began to grow in confidence, till he was his usual animated self, all gestures and giggles and intent fucking listening.

Right now, Viago is politely listening to Clifton, and it’s gotten even darker out here as the evening’s chugged on. The fairy lights paint a twinkling glow across them all, as they fade slowly in and out, in and out—and every time they change, the light catches like a sparkle in Viago’s deep, doe eyes. He is illuminated, like all of them, by the lights emanating up from the bottom of the tub and it makes his skin glow, makes the water droplets caught on his shoulder blades glitter, from where he peaks out from the water— so bare, so lick-able. He wants to suck the water off of Viago’s collarbone, chlorine and all. Fuck. Why the fuck is he so horny.

He places his drink back down on the side, deciding he doesn’t need to lower his inhibition’s anymore tonight.

“And she’s got like a sick pool on her roof!”

Anton tunes back into the conversation to hear Clifton exclaim:

“You should come done and meet her, Vi— honestly.”

Clifton could probably also do with putting his beer down, but he takes another great big gulp. He misses his mouth just a little and a trickle of Heineken runs down the side of his chin.

“Oh Ja, I love a pool party— I can’t even remember the last time I got to have a proper swim.” Viago heartily agrees.

“We could play Chicken!” Clifton cheers, and the boys join in.

“Chicken?” Viago looks over to Anton, like he often does when he doesn’t quite get something. Anton likes being the person he looks to, his first port of call.

“It’s a game in the water, babe.” Anton answers.

“Here, like this.” And Clifton grabs Viago by the naked arm and pulls him over to meet him in the middle of the hot tub, where it’s deepest. Anton’s hands reflexively ball up tight, nails digging into his palms. A shiver rickets up his spine, he thinks his hairs may be standing on end from the sudden jolt of fury that pulses through him— but he takes a slow, measured breath, and he wills himself calm. Viago went willingly, he tells himself, let him, let him, you don’t control him, let him.

Viago wears a puzzled look but seems highly amused. He does spare a glance back to Anton, and there’s something in it-- at this point Anton wonders if the twinkle in his eye is merely the reflection of the lights, or if there’s mischief alight in there too.

“So,” Clifton explains, his hands on Viago’s shoulders now to guide him into place. “It’s two teams— so usually it would be you and Ant, and me and my girl—it’s fun—so pretend I’m Anton—" and Clifton is guiding Viago towards him, lifting him upwards, trying to coax him up onto his shoulders. The boys are sniggering. “You’ll climb up onto his shoulders—”, Clifton grabs a hold of Viago’s thigh, begins to hoist him up, up and over and—

A growl, low and deadly reverberates across the tub, and it freezes all the boys in their tracks. Like a game of musical statues, they all immediately halt— with Clifton at its centre, with one of Viago’s thighs across his shoulder, still gripping onto the vampires ankle. Viago’s other leg is left dangling down into the water.

Clifton’s breathing goes heavy, like a rabbit’s on the run. It’s so fucking quiet out here, you can hear the rest of the boys distantly in the house, but out here, it’s just the bubbles and the crickets and the wind. Viago’s the only one moving, whipping his head between Anton and the boys, his eyes a little wide.

All the boys are fused with energy, breaths quick, pupils blown huge and full and ready, but they keep their focuses locked dead straight ahead, some long inhabited survival instinct demanding them not to look, not to dare to shift their gaze towards Anton’s eye-line. They know even to look would insight challenge.

Clifton swallows hard, a bead of sweat dripping from his forehead.

His fingers flex where they are wrapped around Viago’s ankle.

The growl erupts into a snarl, and all of a sudden Anton is on his feet in the hot tub, water sloshing up and over the sides with the movement— and he’s standing, towering over the crouched Clifton, who immediately yelps and drops Viago like he burns, sending the vampire tumbling down into water, spluttering and kicking. Clifton immediately casts himself onto his back, leaving his belly exposed in that instinctual sign of submission. Anton, who’s sprouted pointed ears and long, jagged canines takes a step to advance when quickly, Viago pops up from his unexpected dip— hair now a sodden mop upon his forehead.

Viago rises up unnaturally fast, standing up tall so as to block Anton’s line of sight. “No one moves.” Viago orders, staring at his lover and then he speaks directly to him, “Hallo, liebling.”

He says it soft, fond, with a smile that makes his fangs peak out just so from beneath a pink and plush lip, “All excited, are we? Aw yes, I can see, you know I love your little teefies.”

Anton’s chest is heaving, pumping in and out in hard panting breaths like he’s been for a sprint. His eyes are rabid and wild, and he’s stock still with gritted teeth. Viago slinks forward, as if he has no care in the world— he smiles and places a hand on Anton’s chest, meeting the ginger hair gathered there, slick to his skin from the water. At Viago’s touch Anton jolts, snarls but Viago shushes him softly and grins.

Anton inhales deeply and shivers. His fingers twitch down by his side.

Gentle but assured, Viago leans in close, nuzzling his nose against Anton’s neck. Something in Anton’s eyes flickers, turning from intense, from mad-dog to something glassy— a growl gurgles from his throat, but at a different kind of pitch, rumbling and hungry— Viago simply kisses at Anton’s neck in response.

Anton is spurred into action, his hands launch up from his sides, and clutch onto Viago’s hips in a bruising grip. He grinds up into his thigh, and Viago can feel that he’s heavy and full against his leg. Their lips meet, in a kiss which is all tongue and teeth, as Anton forces his way past his lips, licks furiously into the cool of his mouth— a puppy dog whine escapes his throat as Viago smooths his hand down his chest, petting that downy ginger hair.

The kiss can only last so long. Viago pulls back, and Anton gives chase, fighting to follow his lips, but Viago grips the back of his head, his grasp strong and effortless in restraining the wolf who can move no further despite how he strains. Viago presses his forehead to Anton’s, lets his eyes flutter closed— Anton whines and Viago shushes him, so gently, petting at his chest— “Breathe, liebling… Shhh Shhh— take a minute, you silly thing.”

They stay pressed there together for a time, just breathing, till Anton’s wild pants turn to unsteady breaths, his soft growls petter out— his pointed ears round, his teeth retract. Viago knows the danger has passed when he feels Anton tremble, his hands finally releasing their murderous grip on his hips, so that he can clutch desperately at Viago’s back, asking for comfort Viago willingly gives. He holds him, there in the centre of the tub, water still bubbling around their knees. The autumn air breezes by and erupts Anton’s skin into goose bumps. They hold each other.

 Viago presses a soft kiss to Anton’s nose, and then they both tilt back slightly, eyes blinking open. That wildness has gone, Anton’s eyes with pupils so huge, and dark and empty look human again— Viago smiles and strokes a hand across the scruff on his lovers cheek. “There we are… Let’s sit, shall we? Come on.”

And Anton is being guided softly down, back into the bubbles. It’s awkward, silent in the tub, with the three boys sitting at the far side, eyes cast down.

There’s a few more moments of silence, of just breathing through it until Anton speaks up, “I’m…. sorry Clif. That was a disproportionate reaction.”

Clifton kinda shrugs, “No, I— I shouldn’t have pushed my luck like that—”

“Nah, Clif. I’m sorry. You were just having fun, I—” Anton takes a breath, “I’ve been riled all night. Not sure why. I should have left the situation, or told you how strung up I was. I’m really sorry.”

From under the bubbles, Anton feels Viago find his hand and squeeze it. He squeezes it back gratefully in return.

Clifton takes a large sighing breath, then looks up at his Alpha, gives him a small smile. “Nah it’s all good, man. Honestly, we’ve all been there. No harm done.”

Silence. For a beat.

Stu speaks up, “So when is this pool party? Because if she has a rooftop pool…. I mean, I’m gonna freeze my balls off--”

And just like that, the tension is broken, everyone breathes. Clifton, Stu and Nathan launch into a conversation and Viago listens intently, seemingly smiling at the three.

They don’t know, of course— can’t possibly see beneath the torrent of bubbles, that Anton’s huge hand is splayed across Viago’s thigh, squeezing roughly. Viago shifts slightly—tilts towards Anton— he still has a hand looped over his shoulders, and he lets it drift lower, and lower, as subtly as he can— till his skirting fingers trail down his spine and meet with the elastic of his trunks— teasing with the fabric.

Anton’s grip tightens on his thigh, and then releases, to drift closer, slowly but surely to the desired spot. His nostrils are flared— the boys voices across the tub are nothing but white noise to him, a ringing in his ears. He has never been this forward in public, and Viago, it seems, revels in it.

Anton gropes at Viago through the front of his trunks, and the vampire shivers— the exhibitionist in him, that Anton knows never gets fed, seems to be absolutely fizzing at the daring touch. Anton feels Viago quickly come alive in his shorts, twitching and thickening. The boys are none the wiser— or if they do notice, they make no note of it, but none of them have ever had the best poker faces.

He can feel his own heart rabbiting in his chest, beating so hard you can see the tick of his pulse pumping under his jaw. He’s being irresponsible, he already has been tonight— and it’s been taken too far already. He can’t risk another outburst, and here he is, eagerly participating in acts he knows will set him off. He feels bad suddenly; first a lick of guilt, and then a tumbling, rising shame as he comes down from his wolf-induced high— His hand stills, pulls back to rest neutrally upon Viago’s thigh. Viago, like always, seems to notice the shift in mood— like he can sense Anton’s emotions like a scent in the air— fuck, maybe he can— Anton doesn’t know how vampires feel the world.

Viago turns, and grins at him, reaches a dripping hand out from the water to rub a thumb across the stubble cast above his lip— smoothing out the beginnings of a moustache his lover keeps on asking him to grow out. “Darling, I’m feeling a little peaky—could we pop inside for a bit?”

It’s a lie. Blatant to Anton— maybe to everyone else too, but who knows. Anton loves him for it.

“Yeah. ‘Course.” Anton responds, gruff and with a nod. They bid goodbye to the boys and climb on out, grabbing two towels from the side. Viago sweeps his untouched flute of blood from the side to bring into the house with him. Their wet feet leave perfect soggy footprints on the white paving stones as they pick their way across the grass— the last stone is a small stretch away from the decking that you need to hop to in order to reach. Anton, like a gentleman, goes first and then leans back over— offering a hand that Viago gladly accepts as he takes the last, wide stride with his long, lithe legs onto the decking.

“Thank you, darling.” Viago whispers.

He reaches over, and plucks a rose petal off from Anton’s shoulder, where it had stuck fast to his damp skin. He expects the vampire to let the blood red flower flutter to the floor, to be picked up by the wind and cast into the night. Instead, he studies it for a beat, and then tucks it safely into the pocket of his swim trunks, like he intends to keep it. Like it’s special.

When Anton breathes in, it’s a wet, shuddery thing. And when he breathes out, in’s on the wave of a growl, a rumble which flows from his throat. Viago grins like the cat who got the crème.

Anton’s plans for the evening have gone awry: a relaxing, intimate session in the hot tub quickly turned into a messy, ruined affair, in which Viago had to step in— calm him down, make things right.

It feels like his lover never gets a night off. If he’s not cleaning up after his flatmates, he’s cleaning up after his boyfriend. The idea plays on Anton.

Now? He’s determined for part two of the evening to go off without a hitch.

He has Viago pinned to the back of his bedroom door, and they’re making out against it. Behind Viago’s head is a small, slim mirror glued to the wood of the door. Viago has no reflection in it, it’s only Anton you’d see, but the face of the mirror fogs when Viago tosses his head to one side, eyebrows pinched, lips parted as Anton sucks bruises into the crook of his neck. Those saccharine splotches of pink and purple never stick around for long, but Anton can never get enough of watching his lover blossom and bloom under his lips, his teeth, his tongue.

They’re noisy. The boys must know what they’re doing. The door frame knocks and rattles at a constant chorus as they bump and push against it, clutching at one another desperately. Anton’s arms are wrapped so tightly around Viago’s shoulders, interlocking at his back and clasping at the still damp skin there, feeling the hot tub heat which is slowly fading as Viago’s natural chill returns. They are tight and close, chest to chest.

His lover moans freely, wantonly— he knows Viago gets off on this— on the thought of the others hearing.

He pulls back, just to nip at Viago’s earlobe, to hear him keen and then he mutters, hot into his ear, “Wanna— I wanna make love to you, baby.”

Viago is moaning, nodding his head furiously, and Anton? he’s panting, breathing the scent of Viago, of his love, of his love in with every deep inhale, and it’s like he can taste him from within, the essence of him swirling in his lungs. He’s fucking salivating, some fucked up Pavlovian response—he’s practically drooling, just another dog hearing the dinner bell.

He wants to make love to him, he wants it to be long, and sweet, he wants it to be gentle but there is something singing in his blood, something that’s got him riled— his body feels hot, like the torturous cast of the moon itself is striking across his skin instead of the plain, dull glow of his bedside lamp. He takes a gulping breath, tries to count to ten in his mind but, but—

Viago’s wrapping his legs, those fucking legs— fucking long, lithe fucking legs made to fit around him— those legs attached to hips that are made for him to grip, connected to his slinky fucking waist that’s made for him to pull him in by, to press him down by, to paw at, to—

There’s a ringing in Anton’s ears, an incoming static that sounds like a cacophony of howls, of barking, of growling battering against the inside of his brain, and all he knows is taste and smell and his hips are stuttering forwards without his control— fucking up into nothing because they both still have their swim shorts on.

He doesn’t really register Viago’s hand shooting downwards, shoving at their shorts— his own black pair of togs barely make it past his hips— just enough space for his cock to spring free, large and aching and blushing a deep pink at the tip.

He’s holding Viago up, taking his entire weight apart from that which rests against the door frame— and he’s trying to think, to blink away this haze that has descended upon him, enough to gain some command over the staccato of his own hips.

His tongue is out and panting, and he feels as Viago slides his fingers against the pink length of it, collecting the spit there till those digits are dripping and shiny, and then his hand is moving lower and— and—

Viago is watching him so fucking intently, pupils dark with wonder, mouth parted just so. One of his hands is down between his own legs, and he’s thrusting two wet fingers up into himself, hurried and with little finesse.  It makes Anton growl, and bare his teeth, makes his squeezing touch tighten— wait, when did his hands move from Viago’s shoulder to his waist? He doesn’t— he doesn’t remember moving them. Anton shakes his head, like he might be able to shake loose this stupor that has clouded his mind— but he can’t, he can’t— all he knows is that his grip wrapped around Viago’s waist will leave a delicious, vulgar bruise— and he’s dully aware of his nail’s growing, sharp and pointed— but he finds he cannot muster the sense, the will, the brainpower to care.

“O—Oh… Puppy”, Viago hiccups out, eyes fluttering, and the sound of his voice seems to spur Anton impossibly harder— he clutches Viago to himself, his cock now sliding against the cleft of Viago’s ass, nudging at his fingers where they are still buried deep within himself.

“Liebling, liebling—” his lover speaks between hitches of breath, his mouth hanging open wide in a grin that is wicked and depraved.

“Oh— Puppy, you are not all there are you?” he strokes a shaking hand across Anton’s cheek, feeling the heat that radiates there and the rough, scratch of his stubble, “You are so desperate— so desperate for me that the beast has—ah, ah— the beast has taken the reigns—”

Anton knows Viago is speaking, his voice sounds so, so good, but what words he is saying, he isn’t so sure. He hears ‘Puppy’, and he whines, trying to pull him closer still, envelope him into his body— not understanding why they’re not joined yet— why his lover— his mate hasn’t been claimed by his cock.

Viago is smirking, and Anton suddenly feels a hand grip his cock— finally some friction— and he howls at the touch, the sound bouncing off the bedroom walls.

Distantly across the house, he can hear the answering howls from his pack who join in with their Alpha, and the sound zips around his brain, courses through his blood in a frenzied buzz of euphoria. And it’s so good but oh— but oh, the hand is guiding him closer, moving his cockhead up the cleft of his lovers ass, until he finally, finally sinks into his hole.

Without precedence, without warning or hesitation, Anton slams up into that cool hole and even then, he does not wait, he does not settle— his hips fucking piston, in and out, in and out at a rabid, inhuman pace.

A noise, between a groan and a yelp is punched out from Viago— the sound curled with the curl of his lips, ending on a laugh that is half disbelieving, half insane.

“Ah- AH-,” Viago tries to speak in between thrusts, he clutches desperately, frantically at Anton’s back, slippery now with sweat and so pink and so hot, practically burning to the touch— “I--- Fuck— I am making lo— making love to the wolf tonight.”

The mirror, just behind Viago’s head. Anton’s eyes flick to it, just for a second. He notes, somewhere in the back of his mind, that the eyes staring back at him are a canary yellow. The mouth that he sees is hanging, slack jawed and open, tongue lolling out, canines extended to a point— a string of drool drips down from his panting tongue— a tongue that is long, larger than normal— and that drool splatters onto Viago’s chest before slipping down, down, down towards where their bodies meet.

Distantly. Oh, so distantly, there’s a creeping sensation, like a tugging far away in the back of his skull, like a yanking hand at the top of his spine— the place where rational thought, where morality, where the human is locked away. And, oh, here they are now— the human is making themselves known, trying to grab a hold of that leash that’s like a noose around the wolfs neck—to wring him back in to heel— and he wants to stay out here, but he think’s maybe he should follow it— maybe he should obey and then—

Then Viago surges forward and on a groan, sucks Anton’s dripping tongue into his mouth, in a sloppy and sinful meeting of lips— and it’s like the human at the back of his skull has been shot through with silver— the way he drops that leash like his hands go slack, like he’s dropped fucking dead, and then— the wolf is free.

Things become a blur after that. He remembers things in scents and sounds.

The pounding, wet slaps of their bodies— the feel of a lover beneath him wailing, spasming and how that sensation spurs him on even more. How he becomes wild and ravenous, greedy, unforgiving. How he takes, and he takes.

The misting haze begins to lift somewhere around Viago’s third time coming. They’re on the floor, Viago cast onto his back and Anton a firm weight on top of him. His lover’s cock is spent and soft, and his poor love whines pitifully as it twitches where it lays snug against his hip. The force at which Anton continues to pump into his body, in sharp, snapping inhumanly fast thrusts doesn’t allow Viago’s body any sanctuary, as he is jerked back and forth, and used again and again.

 Anton’s own cock is almost painted slick and white from come. He’s filled Viago twice, pumped him full of his spend but never slowed, and now their bodies meet with a squelch— his cum being dragged in and out from his lovers hole— spilling outwards just to be fed back in.

There are tears tracks on Viago’s cheeks and he cries out, in a voice that croaks, “Oh Puppy… Puppy— this is… last one… the last one now— hoooo… ah— oh mien goodness…”

Anton’s pace slows, but only so he can thrust deeper— he leans downwards, head ducking to lick long swipes of tongue across Viago’s chest— slobbering mindlessly at the mix of skin, and drool and spend. As he slams deeper, Viago cries out again, a chorus of, “ah! ah! ah!”, and then he sucks in a sharp breath, like something stings.

“Last one, Puppy,” He encourages weakly, “C’mon, you can do it…. Ahh…”

Viago attempts to lift a shaky limb, to pet through the sweaty hair atop Anton’s head— but the movement makes Anton growl something fierce and furious and bare his teeth against Viago’s flesh from where his face is smushed against his chest. He snaps his jaws, and snarls as if to threaten, or to warn, and can feel the scrape of skin pass through his teeth, and then he’s launching up— reaching over to pin his lovers arms back down at the sides of his head. He lays his full weight into it. 

“Ohh,” Viago withers beneath him, eyes rolling back, “So strong aren’t you, Puppy? S-so strong.”

Anton hips piston erratically, lose all sense of rhythm, signalling him finally coming to an end. Pre-cum is already leaking, heady and hot, into Viago’s fucked open hole, slopping in and out with every delirious slap of their hips. Anton growls, saliva drips from his jaws and then suddenly he launches downwards and takes a sinking, violent bite into the meat of Viago’s neck, making him gasp and shout out in pain; a sound that wrenches out from him as his toes curl. Viago’s feet scramble for purchase on the wooded floor, skidding helplessly beneath Anton’s weight— his hand, where it’s pinned can just barely reach the top of Anton’s head, and he weakly attempts to hit and push him away— but the wolf is latched on, unmovable, his canines buried deep and locked into flesh. 

“Ohh fuckk”, Viago whines, going boneless beneath Anton— like a rag-doll he could chew and shake if he chose to. It takes one, two, three more slapping thrusts into the heat of him before finally the wolf is coming, spilling and still pumping his spend in and out, as he fills Viago up for the third time that night. 

There’s a pause, as Anton fucks in deep, and then stays there, plugging Viago’s hole full.

Viago lets out a sigh, “Oh… hell… how does that all fit in me—fuck.” And Anton whines as he feels his love wiggle beneath him, like he’s testing out how he feels, groaning at the sensation of being pumped so unbearably full. Even if he’s sore, and spent, even if it must hurt, he hums a sound close to contentment, his eyes fluttering shut.

Anton unlatches his teeth, causing Viago to shiver, and then licks at the bleeding bite, tongue dipping into the deep imprints his own teeth left behind. He laps at it, once, twice, soothing the irritated skin, and for a moment, all is restful.

Anton is still hard.

It’s with a start that he slips his hips back, and then snaps back deep inside of Viago once again, slow at first and then quickly, gaining speed. 

Viago clutches at Anton’s arms, fingers so tight he’s making little white indents, he shakes his head hastily with a cringe on his lips, “Puppy, ah— that’s—"

Mindlessly, the wolf punches in again— and Viago hisses abruptly, the sound cutting through the room— his grip on Anton’s arm becomes bruising and then—

“Anton. No.”

And Anton pauses, and there’s a whine in his throat, a confused look scrunching up his brow— he blinks, and he blinks again, squeezing his eyes hard, scrunching up his nose and when he opens them again, some of that haze has cleared— that piercing wolfie yellow fading from his eyes to allow for the return to his sweet, soft hazel. He blinks again once, dumbly, unaware and then suddenly he’s gasping in a horrified breath— he’s pushing up, of off Viago and away, cock slipping out of his, poor, abused hole and making Viago suck in a pained breath. 

“Oh my god,” Anton pants.

Viago hisses at the moniker, flinching away.

“Oh—I—," Anton is panicking now, it’s clear to see, from the way his eyes have gone big and round, from how his skin had gone from flushed and happy to as white as a fucking sheet. “Oh, fuck— Vi— I’m so sorry— you’re bleeding— I—"

“Liebling…” Viago sits up gingerly, looking majorly confused, “Shhh, darling— calm down, it’s all okay—"

“Okay? I— I fucking— I— you’re bleeding— you’re shaking, and I just kept on…”

“Anton! Stop this now— come sit here—"

“No, no, you shouldn’t come near—"

“Anton. Sit.” and Viago pats beside him on the bed. 

Anton swallows. He’s standing by the door, still fully naked, looking like a caged animal who’s ready to flee— but he can’t, he won’t and instead he breathes and nods, and hesitantly comes to perch on the edge of the bed.

“Not there, Liebling— here please,” and Viago opens up his arms, expectant— he has that casual small smile back on his lips, the one that makes everything seem okay. 

Anton goes to him, a little warily, but, truly, he’s desperate for the comfort as he falls into his lovers arms. Viago clutches Anton’s head to his chest, presses a kiss to the top of it, sways them gently. They’re quiet for a moment, just sitting and swaying until Anton’s heartbeat begins to climb back down to normal pace.

Anton is the first to speak up, “why… you… you’re not angry?”

Viago hums, rocks them back and forth, “Why would I be angry?”

Anton lifts his head off Viago’s chest, looking him in the eye. “I went too far— You were done— I, fuck, I lost control!”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Yes— I fucking did— Vi, don’t make excuses for me—"

“I am not making the excuses! You did not go too far— I said no— and then you stopped— is that not how it works?”

“But— I— I bit you— I hurt you—"

“Pssh, I am a vampire— I am already healed— this is blood!" Viago rubs a hand across where the bloodied mark on his neck remains, wiping through the dried mess. Sure enough, beneath the blood, the mark is almost completely gone— already just a faded white scar.

“But— It still hurt, Vi— this is exactly what I try to avoid…” Anton still isn’t convinced and shuffles closer. Delicately he takes his rough thumb and wipes it through the dried blood, across that fast-fading white mark. He ignores the thrill he feels at the sight of it, punches that down somewhere deep. He’s wrong, perverted for thinking it, to want to mark and main his lover, like he’s an object to brand, a coat to sew his name into. He tries to shake the thought away.

“Darling,” Viago reaches out, cups a hand to Anton’s cheek, “it was the most I have ever, ever came— you made me orgasm three times— and you were so strong, holding me down like I could only squirm and—"

“Exactly! —"

“Oh, we are interrupting again, are we? Maybe we could get you a little muzzle, hm?”

Anton scoffs, but looks down at the floor, appropriately chastised.

“You silly thing. I was never trapped— I enjoy squirming and whimpering, and feeling like you are so, so strong, that I am so, so helpless. This is why our sex life is so perfect, ja? But, darling, it is pretend. You come far closer than anyone has before, yes, but you are not necessarily stronger than me. We know this.”

Anton processes this information. Then asks in a small voice, “and I— I stopped?”

Viago smiles, “Oh yes, you were very good— I like to babble and talk and fight against you a little but, as soon as I was firm and serious— you snapped right out of it, no problem at all!” then playfully he adds, “you’re a very good puppy”.

Anton snorts a laugh, shakes his head, tries to ignore the heat rising in his cheeks at the use of the moniker. He’s still a little shaken up, but he’s coming round to the whole thing. “Alright… okay… I want— we should establish some ground rules— because— I want no risk here. I don’t want,” he takes a big sighing breath, looks up at the ceiling. He’s just no damn good with words. “I want you to be safe, and I want you to feel good, so— rules.”

Viago just smiles, gestures for him to continue.

“Okay— we need a word— a word more than No— so, so I have something to snap me out— and so you can say no but not mean it, y’know? And we can practice with it, make sure when I get all…” he makes a vague hand gesture, “that I’ll know, and that I’ll stop.’

“You did stop.” Viago insists.

Anton bites his lip, “Look, just for my own piece of mind, alright? We don’t gotta do this right now but… sometime before… before next time.”

“Darling, I know you think I’m a silly old vampire, but I do know what a safe word is.”

“Right— right, sorry.”

“How about ‘Silver’? Ja? Bad for me and bad for you.”

“Yeah. Okay.” A pause as Anton thinks.

“Anything else?”

“Uh… yeah. The uh… the biting?”

“Oh yes— I love the biting very much.”

“O— yeah?”

“Mhm,” Viago nods emphatically, nipping his fangs into his lower lip.

“It just felt—” he pauses, composes himself, “you were pushing me away— I remember— I… and I just pinned you down, fucking clung on…”

“Oh no— it’s fun to struggle, but I loved it lots— I’d like it more, darling. You can bite me like that whenever. Hell knows I bite you enough.” Viago grins.

Anton blinks, that slightly dumbstruck expression making an appearance once more. He shakes his head, lets out a long held, sighing breath. “Man… Have I ever told you you’re perfect? Like— like you’re fucking made for me.”

Viago seems a taken aback, and suddenly, he becomes a little shy. He sits up straight, looking surprisingly demure for someone stark naked and bends his knees to the side, looks down, presses his lips together like he’s hiding his smile. When he looks back up at Anton, it’s through his pretty black lashes— and the sight of him makes something swoop in Anton’s stomach, like his heart is falling out through the bottom of his chest. He is gorgeous: perfectly smooth skin and slinky, tapered waist— lean body like a swimmers, and with coiffed hair dark and curled— he’s like something from a wet dream. Something Anton wouldn’t have ever been able to think up himself, he’s not nearly arty enough for that, he doesn’t have the imagination to conjure something up like Viago. Beautiful and perfect, like, fucking constantly, like he’s made of marble. A never changing creature of the night. 

“Well then,” Viago starts, voice gone all prim, like he’s trying to save face after being caught looking so affected, “Stop staring please, and clean me up, liebling. I am all exhausted and— between you and me— I can feel your spend leaking down my leg.”

A thorough scrub down later, and the two are cuddled close in Anton’s bed. It’s rare for Viago to stay the night here— but after tonight’s dramatics, neither want to head out to Viago’s.

Viago is curled up against Anton, cheek resting on Anton’s copper haired chest. His legs have already interwoven their way in with Anton’s own, like he too wishes they were one being. Absentmindedly, Anton strokes through Viago’s hair, then down the side of his neck. He finds himself lingering at where that bite would have been but has long since disappeared from Viago’s buttery, perfect skin. He wishes it was still there. He hates himself for it. 

He’s not stupid. He knows what his wolf was trying to do. The way he kept on going, no stopping, the way he bit and claimed… He was trying to mate with Viago— trying to fucking… to- to breed with him for fucks sake. 

He doesn’t know how to explain it to Viago— he’s not sure he wants to. He doesn’t like this part of himself. It feels wrong to take without permission. He wants to make love to Viago— that’s what he wanted for tonight. Their anniversary. But he mucked it all up. It’s not even the full moon— nowhere near, but sometimes the wolf is unpredictable. It’s with a pang of misery that he realises why: that he worked himself up so much about tonight, stressed himself silly about getting this anniversary right, strained so hard to keep the wolf at bay, that he undoubtedly set himself off. It’s as if his wolf knew tonight was special, and that in itself sparked something inside. 

He’s his own worst enemy— that’s what his mum told him, when he never really tried at school— when he’d scrape by, uncaring about his future. You’re your own worst enemy, his sister would tell him, when Anton would cancel on party after party— invite after invite— blaming anxiety that, sure, it existed, but not in the way his sister thought. He used to be terrified constantly that something would set him off, that the smallest trigger would bring the wolf out— and then? destruction. He’s worked hard to get to where he is now. 

“I’m sorry our Anniversary was such a bust…” Anton whispers out into the dark.

Viago grumbles from where he has tucked himself snug beneath Anton’s chin. He yawns and then says, “You are so silly, Anton. It was the best Anniversary. It was ours.”

Maybe that can be enough.

Chapter Text

Dear Diary,

I didn’t know who he was.

Viago is having a great time.

He’s sat across the room from an elderly woman with curling white hair, and she is chattering happily with a young girl sat upon her lap. He finds himself watching them for quite some time— just in a casual sense, like how one may observe the ducks when sitting at the lakeside. The little girl is doing most of the talking, but the elderly woman seems more than content to mindlessly listen to her schoolyard tale, to exclaim when appropriate, and agree that yes, she would like to come round for tea, that she would love to stay and play, of course she would, but after grandpa has been seen to.

The little girl has long black hair, half falling out from a pink bobbled ponytail, and Viago is reminded of himself, long ago, as a very young boy. Once upon a time, he had long dark hair too, black as night and curling down towards his waist. His mother used to sweep his hair into a braid or would comb through it gently in the mornings. It was cut eventually, when Viago became more concerned with aesthetics, with being fashionable and keeping up with trends. Now his hair will never grow, stuck permanently at the length at which it was when he turned. C’est la vie. Or— c’est la mort— he supposes.

He hasn’t thought about his adolescence for so long; his own mothers face is fuzzy to him these days— but he remembers being told he looked like her, especially around the eyes.

The old woman helps the little girl to tighten her ponytail, weathered old hands reaching up and over. They’re quickly replaced by fast and small hands, unmarred by time, when the girl snatches her head away, demanding to fix her hair all by herself.

It’s charming. The whole scene sort of reminds him of Katherine; the woman’s own hair: wispy, white curls neat upon her, but also her smile, her patience, her kindness. For once the reminder doesn’t make him feel sad, just nostalgic.

There are a few other people in the room, all sat in rows of chairs that line the walls. Some chatter to each other, in low whispering voices, while most sit in unusually quiet contemplation. It’s a peaceful little room. There’s an older man who has some knitting out, halfway through a scarf woven from a startling shade of scarlet. He thinks of Deacon, and smiles. He quite likes this little room, filled with people to watch. It’s like a library, he thinks; some of the people are reading magazines.

“Okay, they said it shouldn’t be much longer— they messed the booking up a bit.” A fellow appears by Viago’s side, his voice surprisingly close and making him jump— his immediate response is to glare at the intruder for encroaching on his peace, but then the guy is sitting right beside him, and smiling rather sweetly. Whether Viago has just made a friend or a soon to be snack, he never lets the opportunity for a good chit chat pass him by.

“Ah— okey.” Viago nods along, passes another cursory glance across the room, “Yes, there is a lot of people here… if they are all booked in you will be waiting.”

“Yeah,” the guy breathes a sigh, slumping back in his chair, his head resting against the back wall. There’s a beat of silence where the only sound is the soft murmurings around them, and then, the ringing of a phone call from an old landline; it clatters when it’s picked up, and a chipper young lady sat at the front desk answers it. This lull, it should be awkward, but it’s not— not really, and then the guy continues.

“How you holdin’ up?” he asks, and knocks his hand gently against Viago’s arm. Viago glances down his nose at the point where the man had touched him. That was… a tad familiar.

Ah…

Perhaps he’s being flirted with.

“Holding up?” Viago asks, eyebrows raised.

“Like— how are you feeling?”

What an odd little man. How intriguing. Viago constructs his answer with caution.

“… Yes… I’m alright. I’m… holding up.”

The man nods, tries to smile. His leg is bouncing, up and down, up and down. His hands go to his mouth, like he’s going to bite his fingernails, but he diverts last second, choosing to scratch at his neck instead. Viago’s eyes flick down, take in the nails on the man’s other hand, all already chewed to bits— a man clearly trying but failing to shake bad habits.

My… but what large, rough hands he has. Craftsman hands. The skin on his knuckles seems to be cracking just a tad. Viago did always love the hands of workmen— perhaps a little too much, if his late father had any say. Viago wouldn’t blame him… you can only get caught with the groundskeeper so many times…

“Are you?”, Viago asks.

“What…?” The man responds rather dumbly, then seems to catch on, “Holding up?”

“Ja.”

That half-grin, a truly tried and failed smile finally grows into something more genuine, reassuring. The man swallows, and nods. “Yeah. Yeah, course I am. Don’t worry about me— Y’know… I’m here and I’m with you, aren’t I?”

Viago laughs a little nervously. What a strange interaction. Something in him kind of likes it though, this mystery of a man who sought him out. It’s rare that he is gravitated toward this intensely, usually this is Vladislav’s forte. The way this man talks, like he’s already under Viago’s thrall with truly no effort on Viago’s part? It’s fascinating. No, this man will not do for a snack— perhaps this fellow is a new potential familiar. Hell knows they need one.

“And being here with me is so great?” Viago teases, an easy grin stretching his lips.

“Anywhere with you is great. Even shitty waiting rooms.”

It’s not poetry, but the sentiment still rings. Viago might have blushed if he could.

Instead, he lets a little hiccup of a giggle escape. Now that he’s really looking at this guy, he is rather handsome— stocky and broad shouldered like a circus strong man. There is something physical about him, rough and woodsy. He’s reminded of the sailors he’d always like to watch working at the docks.

“And what might I call such a—”

He’s cut off by the voice of a young woman dressed in blue scrubs, she's just walked in with a clipboard.

“2 o’clock, Mr Huey?” She asks the room.

The man beside him huffs, gets to his feet. “C’mon then, babe.”

Babe?

“What? Why?”

“They called us.”

“My name is not Huey.”

“It’s just under my name ‘cuz I booked it— C’mon—” And this guy— Huey holds out his hand to help Viago to his feet.

Viago hesitates. Then, he thinks he remembers something. Oh— of course, how could he forget—

“Oh— y’know— my boyfriend— Huey is his last name”.

It’s the man’s turn to hesitate. A small frown creases his forehead, deepening the wrinkle upon his brow that tells Viago that he must frown a lot. He licks his lip, opens his mouth to speak, but the only sound that comes out is a small but sharp intake of breath, a shuddery thing. He swallows, tries again. The hand reached out towards Viago falls back down to his side.

“Is that like… I’m so sorry, I can’t catch if you’re like— kidding or…?”

Viago feels like he’s taken a misstep. “Nein, no— I’m sorry, I just thought suddenly— you have the same name… as… my…”

“As your boyfriend?” The man’s voice wavers slightly, he clears his throat, shakes his head in a determined sort of way— like he could knock the emotions loose and let them fall away.

“Oh… I do not… I feel like I have upset you…” Viago starts to gather himself to his feet. The woman with the clipboard is making her way over. People. There are people around him, all looking at the scene they are making. Their faces are pitying.

“Sir’s?” The clipboard woman joins them. Her smile is sad, concerned. “Sorry to interrupt. If you could both follow me, we’re ready for you now.”

Viago looks at them both. Clipboard lady is patient. Handsome man? He’s distraught, but he’s trying to hide it. Gingerly, he reaches his hand out towards Viago, open palmed.

Viago doesn’t know what else to do, other than take that man’s hand, and follow.

Chapter Text

“Uh, yeah, so a lot has changed over the last few months.” The camera comes to focus on Anton. He stands in the hallway of the vampires residence. Around him, his pack members bustle about, carrying planks of wood or paint buckets— Nathan M is wearing a hard hat. There’s the sound of construction, sawing and hammering and booming voices, it’s hard to hear Anton over all the noise. His voice raises to a shout when a drill starts sounding from down the hallway. “We’ve been doing the place up a bit—”

The camera cuts. Suddenly we are in the garden, the house standing tall in the background, the noise of construction much further away— a distant racket. Anton stands with his hands shoved into his pockets, shuffles a little on his feet, swathes of wet grass squished beneath his trainers and dampening the cuffs of his jeans. He has his orange and blue jacket on now— like he’s shoved it on just before heading out the door, but underneath is a ratty black t-shirt, threadbare and paint splattered.

“Okay… and, Go!” Nick directs from behind the camera.

“Uh, so yeah—” Anton clears his throat, eyes darting between Nick and the camera, “Me and the boys have been helping the vamps do the place up a bit, I mean— it really was a bit of a shit hole, Y’know? It started with just helping out with some water damage, but after this year, y’know, with getting closer with Viago and stuff—” Anton shrugs.

“So, what’s the current project?”

“Right, yeah— so we’re modernising some of the windows in here— uh, adding like, these electronic blinds that you can set on a timer, or a, like light sensor, y’know— there’s different options, but it’s gonna be way safer than crossing your fingers before opening the curtains every morning. And then uh—” Anton smiles, small and private, looks downwards, like whatever he’s thinking of is something precious— something he wants to keep just for himself. He takes his hand out from his pocket to gesture behind him, towards the house, “Vi’s really got an eye for detail… I introduced him to Pinterest a while back and he’s been going hell for leather— just like, really getting into it. It’s nice just really seeing him come alive…” He looks down the camera lens, deadpan, “y’know, for a dead guy.”

There’s a call for Anton from back inside the house. Then a clatter— a shout of aw shit—

“Coming!” Anton huffs, turns back to the camera, “I uh, can show you around the house later, yeah? When the boys aren’t so busy.”

“Yeah, cool— Thanks mate.” The camera lowers. All we can see is Anton’s old boots, newly splashed with paint, trampling through the long, dewy grass as he heads back up towards the house.

Nick has edited in another amazing, stylised transition. This time the last video frame gets folded up like an origami bird and then flutters away to reveal the next scene.

“Yeah— Anton’s fucking whipped!”

Ah, yes— of course, that’s Clifton, as the little text in the corner of the screen signifies, alongside a title, written out underneath: oldest pack member. He’s helping Dion hold up a plank of wood to the exterior of the house. It’s a hot day, and Cliff has already taken his shirt off, keeping the grey twist of fabric draped across his shoulders like a truly grody shawl. A couple iron nails are tucked behind his ear, ready to pass to Dion when he isn’t so preoccupied chatting shit.

Dion, newest (non-stu) pack member, has a hammer at the ready, but is left frozen awkwardly with the tool half-raised, waiting on nails that don’t see to be on their way any time soon. He’s looking a bit peeved about the whole interruption actually. He sighs and leans heavily against his side of the wooden plank, holding it in place while he wipes away the dribbles of sweat trickling down from his brow. From the looks of things he’s been hard at work— licks of plaster are splattered up his arms and across the back of his hands— some white paint has even flicked up into his scraggly beard. The beat of the sun reflects off the lens of his glasses, and it makes an annoying glinting glare appear on camera whenever he tilts his head just so.

Clifton twists round to better face the camera, and Dion mournfully shakes his head, like he’s heard this particular spiel before and knows what’s coming— you can see him rolling his eyes in the background. Clifton continues, “He’s got us all working at his boytoy’s fucking leisure— he’s called it ‘team bonding’ but it feels more like free labour. Now we’re out here sweating so he can keep on chasing tail. Fucking pushover.”

There’s an awkward silence, just for a moment, and then Dion mutters something to the wooden board he’s still trying to shuffle into place.

“What’s that mate?” Clifton demands.

Dion squeezes his eyes shut. Takes a calming breath. Then he twists his head to stare Clifton down, “Leave off it, mate.”

Clifton puffs his chest out, “Fuck that— If you have something to say—"  

 “I said stop bloody complaining about it, man. We all fucking like Viago—”, Dion snaps.

“Yeah— I never said— I— I like him too!”

“Then start bloody acting like it— I swear to god, Clif, we’re all sick of the whining.”

“I’m just saying—"

“Viago’s good to us, man— he’s good to Anton.” Dion drops his hands, and the plank of wood suddenly slips down at his end.

“Watch it! — ”

“Nah man, we’re all doing this because we want to, yeah?” he says, jabbing a hand towards the house, voice raising, “Giving back to our Alpha— cuz this is important to him. And he does fucking everything— So maybe, like, buck your ideas up a bit?”

Silence.  Dion grits his teeth, “Alright?”

“Yeah, alright— whatever—” Clifton resolutely does not look at Dion, sufficiently scolded. He sniffs, scratches his finger over the grain of the wooden plank, which he then shakes, rattling against the side of the house as he complains, “–fucking help pick up the board then you prick— it’s heavy.”

Dion swears under his breath, but does just that, swoops in and picks up his end. For a beat it’s just the two of them, and the sound of wood knocking wood. The air is a little tense— Nick jostles the camera slightly, the frame shifting as if he’s considering cutting or trying another question. That’s until Dion sighs, and speaks up again:

“Anton is pretty whipped though—”

And just like that, the tension is broken.

“Right?!” Clifton agrees with a grin, “Fucking pussy-whipped to hell.”

“Yeah, I’ll give you that. It’s like a ‘jump, how high?’ situation.”

“The fuck you on about?”

“It’s a saying, you knob—"

Footage begins to play before another argument can break out. It shows clips from a house party a few weeks back. Nick, clearly pretty tipsy, sets up the camera on what must be the windowsill. He shifts it back and forth until he’s happy with the angle and then gives it a big ‘Wooooo’, throwing up peace signs at the lens before backing away— it leaves a pretty good, if not slightly wonky view of the whole living room.

To the left, both of the Nathan’s are singing karaoke together, arms wrapped around each other’s shoulders as they croon into a single, shitty plastic mic. In the centre of the room, Vladislav is passionately boogieing with a collection of glow sticks wrapped all around him— different sticks all connected together to make glowing necklaces, bracelets, crowns.

Nick has joined Stu, and the two are sat a table, trying to connect a bunch more glowsticks together to make a huge, long glowstick snake— although occasionally Stu will connect two sticks together to pass back to a delighted Vladislav. Nick looks exasperated, demanding who’s side are on?, clearly harried about their decreasing hoard of Glowies. Vlad, entranced by the glow, slips his new bling onto his arm, adding to his vast, growing collection. One of his arms is almost entirely glowstick at this point— wrapped up like some crazy, florecent mummy.

Behind them both, settled on the fancy, footed sofa together is Anton and Viago. Viago sits twisted towards Anton, his legs laid daintily out across his partners lap. He leans in, his body all loose and tipsy as he goes to whisper into his boyfriends ear.

Anton seems delighted. He’s nursing his own beer and spending his evening casually stroking a hand up and down the thigh Viago has splayed across his lap, intermittingly giving it an unsubtle, enthusiastic squeeze— purely relishing in the feeling.

Dion’s voiceover plays over the footage, “whatever man— what I’m saying is, he practically waits on Vi, hand and foot.”

Viago looks woozily down at his bloody wine glass. There is only a sip left, and he sticks his bottom lip out mournfully at the sight.

Suddenly, white text covers the screen, each word pounding onto the picture dramatically one by one, accompanied by an additional BOOM sound effect to give it some real oomph.

“Anton ‘Drink Fetch’ Count.”

Anton, without a word or needing to be asked, plucks Viago’s glass from his hands and pats at his lovers thigh. Viago sweetly removes his legs, tucking them beneath himself and Anton stands up, pulls up the back of his jeans— and heads out of frame. Viago turns his attention towards the room, like he’s noticing it for the first time, and engages with the Nathan’s in clapping along to their sparkling rendition of the spice girls classic, ‘Wannabe’. He seems delighted, letting out an excited gasp when Nathan G points specifically at Viago as he sings “you gotta get with my friends.”

Anton returns with Viago’s drink— his wine glass filled with thick, red, drunk blood. He hasn’t even bothered to get a new beer for himself. Once the glass is handed back over, and Anton plonks himself back down, a number counter appears on the screen. DING! The counter flashes ‘1’.

The footage suddenly starts to speed up, like someone has pressed the fast-forward button. The Nathan’s rendition of Wannabe gains a squeaky, chipmunk effect as the pace picks up, and then they’re zooming so quickly through, that when the song ends, it takes a second to even realise the songs has transitioned at all— until you make out the dulcet tones of Nathan G singing out ‘stop right now, thank you very much’. They struggle on who to point at as they sing ‘Need somebody with a human touch.’ There are after all, no human’s present.

Vladislav’s dancing becomes a raving, glowing blur. He only stops dancing briefly to take a few zooming laps around the room, dodging around furniture and away from Nick, who seems determined to steal a few glowstick back off him before Vlad hisses at him, eyes going black. Stu and Nick’s glowstick snake gets progressively longer and longer at a rapid pace, the two passing sticks back and forth in a blur until their mighty glow snake is the length of the entire room. Done with that, the two then occupy themselves with turning their new extra-long glowstick into a skipping rope. Both of them hold each end and whip it round and round— trying to find a way to jump in while still holding an end. Declan briefly pops in and it doesn’t take much convincing before he’s skipping in the middle. His jumping is hilariously fast, looking more like someone’s just grabbed him by the waist and shook him up and down, up and down.

Meanwhile, the whole time, Viago drains drink after drink. At one point, Viago stops sitting on the sofa, and joins Vlad in a little boogie, the two waltzing and spinning together with Viago giggling like a fool. Anton watches Viago with a gooey expression, and diligently holds onto Viago’s glass the entire time. He passes it to him attentively whenever he pauses his dancing. Every time he leaves the room and comes back with another refill for Viago, there is another loud DING effect, and the number counter goes up.

Eventually Deacon waltz in, steps on the glow-snake skipping rope and green fluorescent liquid starts dripping out all over the polished wood floor. There’s a minor squabble, which Anton steps in to fix, and then some commotion with Anton running back and forth to grab paper towels— he also grabs Viago another drink during this process.

By the end of the night, Anton and Viago are left slow dancing in the middle of the room. It would be terribly romantic, and maybe it still is, but Viago is now sloppy drunk, his whole weight leaning into Anton and his head dropped down on his shoulder, eyes closed— the counter flashes big on screen with a repeated DING DING DING to reveal Anton got up to refill Viago’s drink for him a total of 16 times in one sitting.

The footage cuts away, back to Clifton and Dion. The two are laughing like idiots until Dion steps back, and the wooden board shifts again, slanting downwards.

“Oi— You fucking egg, keep the board still—”

“Don’t be a dick about it—”

“You’re the fucking dick—”

A call comes from out of frame, a voice stern and no nonsense and a little high pitched. “Hey hey hey— what’s going on here—”

“Aw shit—” Clifton gripes.

The camera cuts to black.

“Okie— this way…” Viago is flitting about the house, a rather large leather-bound book in hand. He keeps looking back at the camera, smiling that awkward, flat, fangy smile as he makes sure Nick is still following. He comes to a closed door and takes ahold of the handle with delicate fingers, opens it with a little breathy ta da… He turns to the camera, whispers when he speaks for no discernible reason: “This is where the magic happens.”

This scene seems so much quieter, more intimate then the others, less hammering, less squabbling. Viago walks us into a little study room— messy but in a way that reads as well used and busy rather than abandoned or kept poorly. There are books scattered across book shelves, jammed in fit to bursting. One book shelve has a great big dip in the wood, where it’s bending from the sheer weight of all those volumes. There’s a desk, with a little lamp— old and green with a classic old lampshade made of glass— and the desk is strewn with sheets and sheets of crumpled pages, all of Viago’s apparent writes and rewrites.

“I mentioned I am writing my memoir, no?” Viago chirps, walking over to the desk and popping his leather-bound book down upon it. “I write and rewrite and rewrite again and then put the absolutely bestest version in the little leather diary—and then I shall be published and sell millions—” he grins a the camera, “I am still deciding who will play me in the movie adaptation!”

“Uh—” Nick, holding the camera, doesn’t seem to quite know what to say, “sounds great- yeah.”

Viago smiles, small and shy.

Nick moves a little closer, pointing his camera over the desk and—

“No-!” Viago flaps his hands, scrambles to gather all his loose pages of writing. We’re only able to catch the pretty swirling black of his beautiful penmanship— but not much else. He gathers the pages to his chest as Nick takes a step back, “they are not ready! No one can read yet…”

“Alright man— Cool it—” Nick mutters, sounding a bit bored to be honest.

Viago tuts, hugs those pages closer to his chest, the papers crinkling where he holds them— but he does indeed ‘cool it.’ He opens a little draw in the side of his desk— goes to put his little stack of pages into it when— he pauses, frowns.

“Where is my book?”

“Uh…?”

He turns accusingly towards Nick now, eyebrows knitted together, so very cross. “My memoir— I have one book all full up already— my notes, and it’s gone--!”

Nick takes a step back, “I dunno why you’re looking at me like that man— I’ve never been in here, I don’t bloody live here.”

Viago's mouth falls open and he puts his hand to his cheek as he gasps— “Oh mein goodness— my work— someone has stolen it— Oh I do not want Vlad or Deacon to read my notes— oh they are going to laugh at me, I need to—”

That’s when Anton enters the room, whistling and carrying a little red tool box that's absolutely fit to bursting. He grins when he sees Viago— side eyes Nick and the camera slightly, “Alrite' babe?” he holds up his toolbox, gives it a little rattle, “gonna fix that wonky as hell bookshelf—”

“Oh— Anton this is the worst—”

Anton startles, jumping at the tone, eyes a little wide. He immediately walks over upon seeing his lover so worked up, placing a comforting hand on his arm. “Baby— What’s wrong—”

Viago’s lower lip wobbles, and he points emphatically at his empty drawer, frilly cuff flapping about wildly with the motion, “Mein roman— My novel, it’s gone—ich, I cannot believe it—”

"Huh..." Anton's forehead creases in a frown that looks well worn, like it belongs there. He glances between Viago and the empty drawer, then squints, awfully confused, “You mean— your volume one? Or a new one?”

“Ja ja—Volume one!” Viago agrees.

Anton has a little confused smile twitching at his lips, a fond thing like he’s trying to figure out his favourite puzzle, “Baby… You gave it to me. It’s in my flat, I’m looking it over to give my second opinion?”

Viago blinks, “I… I did?”

Anton just smiles wider, knocks his shoulder affectionately with Viago’s, “Yeah silly, we had this whole conversation about it. I can give it back if you like?”

Viago doesn't respond. He's turned his back on the camera. We see as he puts his hand into the empty drawer, touches its wooden bottom like his novel might just suddenly materialise. He pulls his hand back, rubs his finger together, and then slowly pushes the drawer closed. The lamp on the desk shakes a little, clinking against the wall, but other then that, the room feels oddly quiet. It's so quiet you can hear as Nick uses his zoom to track closer to Anton.

Anton’s taking his tools over to the bookshelf, placing them down with a light thump against the circular rug spread across the room.He begins to assess the damage. “You remember don’t you?” he says over his shoulder as he starts carefully pulling load-baring books off the shelf, “It was only the other week.”

The camera pans away from Anton, towards Viago, though all we can see is his back, as he tap-tap-taps his manicured nails against the top of the desk. At last he sighs, “well—I do not doubt you Anton—So I must have done.” And gosh, doesn't he sound off? Weary? Then he's heading out the room, turning fast and walking out too quick for Nick to tilt the camera up fast enough. He can't capture his face in time- we don't get to see Viago's expression, only his retreating frame as he heads through the doorway. Footsteps fade away.

And that seems to be enough for Anton, believe it or not, as he hums distractedly and goes to work pulling nails out of wooden shelving.

Vladislav sits in a a bright red armchair. It's seen better days, appears to be mangled slightly by what may have been claws, threads hanging off, messy and knotted on the left armrest. He is ready for his one and one interview with Nick, or the second attempt at it. They appear to have been at it for a while with the way Vlad is slumped, and rolling his eyes.

Nick asks, “You uh—said you think somethings wrong? Whaddya mean?” He asks, with a yawn behind the camera.

Vladislav scoffs, “Oh boy. Yah. This is not going to end well,” he says like it's obvious.

“What isn’t?” Nick's a little more awake now, the camera shifts in and out of focus till Vladislav is captured, crystal clear in frame. His fangs, in this new quality, reflect a startling white against the camera's light as the older vampire bares his teeth, like there is a disgusting taste in his mouth.

“That dog is either oblivious or willfully ignorant—or maybe both. And it’s not going to be pretty.”

There's a long pause from behind the camera, and then Nick sighs audibly, stands. The camera drops to an unflattering angle that cuts off the top of Vlad’s head. “Why’d you always gotta be cryptic, man? I’m tryna make a serious film here!”

Vlad looks truly offended as he bolts to his feet, only visible from the neck down now as he shouts, “I am not being bloody cryp—” and then the camera’s cut off.

Chapter Text

“Alright-- Alright, c’mon guys, we’re losing nightlight!”   

Anton tries not to slam the blue minivan door as he exits the vehicle. He’s practicing patience, doing his breathing, his bloody journalling as Viago suggested, but still the van door slams— slipping from his heavy-handed grip. He grits his teeth as the sound reverberates across the empty parking lot. It’s too loud and makes his skin prickle.   

Unconsciously, he looks up at the sky, and then looks away sharply when he catches himself doing it. The full moon isn’t for two more nights— but like always, he can feel its draw, feel the moons glow like you would a suns beam, hot on the back of his neck. He scratches at it, up around the collar of his shirt, and scoffs when he can’t help feeling like a dog with fleas.  

The boys are all piling out the back of the van followed not so eagerly by Deacon and Vlad. Bringing up the rear is Nick, still bloody filming, like he has been all week. A man gains a few thousand twitter followers, and suddenly he thinks he’s influencer of the year.  

He hears the passenger side door close delicately, quieter than Anton had managed it, and then Viago is making his way round the front of the van to stand beside his lover. Viago gives a secret, small smile, hand coming up to rest and fiddle with the hairs at the nape of Anton’s neck, his chilled hand stroking cool and soothing over that moonaged, heat prickled skin. He’s never been sure if that inching, clawing heat the moon casts is real, or if it’s just the wolf prowling in the back of his mind, playing tricks. Viago can’t know, they haven’t really discussed it, even after all this time; Anton doesn’t like going into the details of the cruelties of lycanthropy, as if speaking of them makes them too real— but it’s as if by some instinct that Viago knows how to soothe Anton anyway.   

Anton’s world instantly calms, the noisy, the too much, it’s easier, when Viago’s in sight.  

He’s become a constant and yes, bizarre presence by his side, and he loves him so hard it aches.  

“Why does Vi always get to ride shotgun?” Nathan G protests. He’s just wrestled his way out of a headlock, and now he’s in a sulk, patting down his freshly noogied hair.  

“Because… Viago is pack member of the week,” Anton answers simply, leaning back into Viago’s touch.  

“He’s always pack member of the week— because you always get to bloody pick!” Clifton objects.  

Viago just grins, leaning closer to Anton.   

“I don’t know what you’re— Alright— Alright! Enough guys— c’mon! Stop running around— you guys asked to come and now you’ve gotta behave!”  

Nick is filming the carpark, presumably getting some longshots of the stores in the dark: neon signs blaring above their shop fronts, making errie pattens in the puddles, buzzing at this grating, low level that Anton is always able to hear. Nick must have gotten bored of that though, because he drifts, suddenly going in for a closeup of Deacon’s face—   

 —Deacon snaps, swatting at the camera, “Get that thing out of my face already! I’ve had enough of the filming!”  

Anton holds a hand out towards the vampires, “Ay now, c’mon Deacon lets all be—"  

“Stay out of this, Dog! You may have control over your pack— but I do not take orders from the likes of you!”  

Anton takes a deep breath. In, puffing up his chest, out, a little shaky on the exhale.  

 He hates when he gets like this, his fuse is so short coming up to the full moon. He feels ready to snap at any moment, especially to those challenging his authority. He hates that alpha male bullshit— it’s toxic macho fucking crap and it makes him feel awful, like some thug, or like his shithead Dad. The bastard who could never be talked back to, who said shit like ‘my way or the highway’ and used to lob glasses across the room when you didn’t march to his orders. And yet, it’s ingrained in him now, an uncurable disease, some primal instinct permanently cutting his fuse so short that this close to the full moon, a roll of the eyes can get him riled up, raise his hackles so to speak.   

He’d like to say he’s never stooped to his father’s level, that he’s never submitted to the rage, to the beast bubbling beneath his skin— but truthfully, it’s taken time to have gotten to where he is now. The pack dynamic wasn’t always so good as this, and the boys have seen him lose his rag, have stuck by him through rough patches and offered forgiveness in times when Anton couldn’t forgive himself.  

There’s a reason why Anton hasn’t dated in so long, longer than most— for a time there had been a rule against it, a personal one he’d set for himself. Viago was the first to make him break that rule, and he hasn’t looked back since.  

“Water off a duck’s back, my love…” Viago is leaning over, speaking softly into his ear, rubbing that spot where his shoulder meets his neck. Viago has been channel surfing a lot recently, now they’ve got him the new tv, and has recently stumbled upon some Drag Race reruns. ‘Water off a duck’s back’ has become one of his favourite phrases since Jinx Monsoon muttered it on the runway, and it’s not so much the words themselves, but where they’ve come from, who is saying them, with a stupid soft smile, like he’s said something profound or hilarious or— Anton doesn’t even know what, but he falls in love all over again, like he does every damn day— and it’s a beautiful distraction from his anger, from the moon, and he feels the old hound that was rising up from his chest slink back down somewhere inside, whining and baying, exposing it's soft under-tummy to the dandy on his right.  

Viago’s talking to Deacon now, “C’mon Deacon, play nicely please, we are so close to the moon. And we are all here to have fun, you didn’t need to come along, did you?”  

Deacon scuffs the carpark tarmac with his foot, mutters under his breath.  

“What was that?” Viago chirps.  

Deacon rolls his eyes, speaks up, “I need fabric! From your stupid human store— for my new line!”  

“Yes Deacon, so isn’t it so nice for Anton to drive you out here? And so late at night, when it may be easier for him to do his own shopping in the daytime?”  

“Yeah, whatever man, let's just go inside, it’s as cold as a harlots ring finger out here.” With that, Deacon spins around with a flourish of his fur coat, heading towards the Homeware store, many of the pack following behind.  

Vladislav, who has inexplicably decided to wear a top hat for this outing, just rolls his eyes before taking off himself. Who’s to say why he decided to come, perhaps for a break from Pauline’s incessant and loud fucking of individuals who are not him— Although Anton can’t be sure, it seems like he may truly enjoy it on some level.  

It’s part of the reason they’re here themselves. Over the course of the last year they’ve been working, doing up the Vampire’s house— or more, Anton has been working, and Viago has been living out his designer fantasy and making him cups of coffee— which are getting better now that Anton slowly worked up the courage to gently let his love know that he was making the weakest, watery-ist coffee’s known to man.   

They’re here for some building supplies, to maybe get something to help soundproof Viago’s room and lessen the sound of Pauline’s screams— and of course, Viago is most excited to peruse the furniture wares— the million variations of lamps and clocks and genetic paintings, and the few sofas, beds and tables they have near the back of the store. It’s also, of course, Halloween— Anton’s secretly hoping they’ll have some more gothic bits and bobs in stock for the time of year, just so they can find something really to Viago’s tastes, and then he can watch his lovers face light right up.  

Something about the store seems to delight Viago already. Perhaps the act of buying furniture; something brand new, is thrilling for an ancient being who’s often flittered from place to place, not so much laying down roots but tearing up other peoples and playing house in the upturned weeds and battered daisies left behind. Surrounded by peeling walls and antique furniture, the latter often rather appealing, but neither being no more his then the building itself. Just a structure he’d invaded, snuck into once it was abandoned, disused.  

“I’m sorry Deacon is so rude, darling.” Viago smiles, taking his hand and guiding him towards the store, “You seem lost in your mind today, is the moon unforgiving?”   

Anton just shrugs, squeezes Viago’s hand, “s’that time of the month.” It’s always hard, but easier with Viago’s hand in his.  

They all split up once they’re in the store, Viago going off to the section with all the lampshades and picture frames and home accessories while Anton heads towards the lumber to get some wooded panels. He wants to do up the porch if he can, it’s seen better days with the wood rotted through and in places it’s turned green with what seems like algae. He has visions of Viago slipping and breaking his damn neck, and even though that wouldn’t kill his lover—it would happen over Anton’s dead fucking body, that’s for sure.   

This warehouse is huge, with high ceilings that lead up to great metal rafters and white viynl flooring covered in black skid marks from many a shoe and shopping trolley. They’ve been here so many times these last few months that it might as well be a second home. If the provided a loyalty card, Anton’d be sure him and Viago would be able to buy the building itself with the points they’d gathered. He walks past this advert for some fancy electronic shutters on the way, something about a light and time sensor and extra security protection—  there’s a cardboards cuttout of a cheesy looking man with two white teeth and a fake tan that seems to be real happy about the product. Anton’s definitely gonna come back in the daytime and ask a staff member about it – one who actually isn’t falling half asleep at the tills.  

He’s got his tape measure and notebook out, a pencil tucked behind a pointed ear, whistling as he selects different lengths of wood paneling. He muttering to himself, wondering if he has enough screws left of if he should buy more when he hears a familar voice from down a few aisles.  

“Hallo? Guys?”  

Anton’s frowns and heads to the end of the aisle, and he sees Viago there, a little ways down, in the middle of the store and looking around aimlessly. “Babe?” he asks.  

Viago turns to look at him, his face lighting up, “Oh darling— I thought I was on my own!”  

Anton just smiles, fond, “Oh yeah, this place gets pretty empty and spooky during the night— feels like an apocalypse movie, y’know?”  

“Ja…” Viago comes to stand beside Anton, loops an arm tightly with his, “We should go home, Ja?”  

Anton blinks, “Oh uh— did they not have what you were looking for?”  

“What was I looking for…?” Viago doesn’t seem distressed, he’s smiling, but has a sort of vacant look in his eye that makes Anton chuckle.  

“C’mon baby, I’ll take you to the little Halloween bit— think you’ll find it cute.”  

Viago smiles, tucks in tightly against his side, content snuggled up against Anton’s warmth, “so easy to get lost in here!”  

Anton sniggers, “Don’t be daft— you’ve come here like, every week for months.”  

“Nein, that can’t be true—!”  

Anton just laughs at him, rolls his eyes fondly, misses the way Viago frowns.  

Viago looks behind himself, down at the endless lines of aisles. They all look the same, red metal shelves, white floor, white lights. It smells faintly of paint fumes and glue, clincial and unwelcoming, His hand tightens on Anton’s bicep.  

“Here—” they turn the corner, and Anton holds a hand towards the aisle full of decorations, strings of plastic bats and black streamers, skeletons and fake spiderwebbing— Viago gasps, delighted and Anton grins.   

“We should bring Vlad and Deacon to this store— they would love to see these things!”   

Anton raises an eyebrow, questions Viago with a little ‘huh?’ because of course, they’re already here—we brought them today, what a weird thing to say— but then Viago is giggling, picking up a witches hat, putting upon his own curly little head—and Anton just has to get his phone out and snap a few pictures. That picture of Viago in a ridiculous oversized witches hat, eyes big and grinning all fangy-toothed at the camera becomes his phone background for the rest of the month.  

The rest is forgotten.