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Blood slicks down Theo’s throat in slow, sticky rivulets, soaking into the fabric of Liam’s jersey—his favorite one, soft with age and worn thin from use, now clinging damply to his skin. He shudders, because Liam doesn’t just bite, he attacks with passionate, urgent thirst.
Fangs sink in deep, they’re not clean and practiced like an old vampire’s bite. Liam’s still new to it, reckless, and messy. But.him not holding back is part of what makes it so hot.
Theo gasps as Liam grinds up against him, hips pressing flush against his ass, fingers clawing at his sides like he wants to tear him open and crawl inside. Theo arches into it, panting, eyes fluttering closed. Every nerve lights up like a live wire.
Theo feels dizzy with it, the pain and arousal blurring together. He loves that Liam never knows when to stop, loves the bruises, the scrapes, the bite marks he wished he could wake up to every day. Territorial proof, using his body as canvas to paint with need.
No one else has ever dared mark him this deep. No other creature would be this dangerous, this careless, this delicious. But, oh, how it’s unfortunate that Theo’s werecoyote nature makes him bounce back quick, and the sting only lasts a moment. The thrill of being taken like this, though, that lingers.
Liam growls low in his throat, licking at the blood, breath hot against the shell of Theo’s ear. “Mine,” he whispers, voice ruined with lust.
Theo smiles, dark and breathless. “Always,” he answers, grinding back.
Possessive and greedy, they’re both hopeless. Obsessed with each other’s every move on an astronomical level, and clingy to the point of madness. Making sure of showing it to each other. Bites, scratches, hickeys in impossible places. Marks layered over marks so they won’t heal as quickly. A secret language written in flesh.
It builds between them like a storm, that need, that frantic heat—until Theo’s back arches and Liam’s name rips from his throat, raw and wrecked. Liam’s fingers dig into his hips, bruising, anchoring, as he shudders against him, fangs still buried in his shoulder. They come and it feels like they’re trying to carve themselves into one body and heart.
The room spins, drenched in sweat, blood, and need. Nothing else exists outside of them. Just pain and pleasure crashing, leaving them trembling, panting, and marked beyond recognition.
The frenzy ebbs slowly, like the tide retreating from the shore. Theo’s breath comes in shallow pulls, his chest heaving as he slumps forward onto the bed, boneless. Not caring about the sting in his neck, or the cooling blood on the ruined shirt.
Liam’s weight settles against his back, softer now, the grind turned into a slow, apologetic press. His arms wrap tight around Theo’s waist as his nose buries into the curve of Theo’s shoulder. He’s breathing hard, too, but there’s quiet guilt threaded through it now.
“I went too far again,” Liam murmurs, lips ghosting over the raw skin at Theo’s nape. “Didn’t mean to—fuck, you’re bleeding a lot.”
Theo hums, low and languid, turning his head slightly so their cheeks brush. “That’s why I like it,” he says, voice lazy with contentment.
Liam doesn’t laugh. Instead, he slips off Theo’s back, easing him onto his side. He moves with careful hands now, fingers trembling slightly as he pulls the ruined jersey over Theo’s head and tosses it aside. He leans in, licking at the wound with slow, gentle passes of his tongue. Healing laced in every swipe.
“I hate hurting you,” Liam whispers between licks. “Even when you ask for it and moan like you love it.”
Theo sighs, letting the warmth of Liam’s tongue soothe the ragged edges of the bite. “I do love it,” he breathes. “But I love this more.”
Liam pauses.
“This part,” Theo adds, reaching to tangle his fingers in Liam’s hair. “The after. When you touch me like I’ll break.”
Liam swallows hard. His mouth travels down to place kisses along Theo’s collarbone, featherlight, reverent. He brings a damp washcloth from the side table, one he must’ve grabbed while Theo wasn’t looking. He cleans the blood with a tenderness that makes Theo’s heart melt.
“You’re my favorite thing to ruin,” Liam says quietly. “My favorite thing to fix.”
Theo laughs under his breath. “You better fix me with something besides a washcloth.”
Liam smirks, the guilty glint in his eyes softening into something hotter. “Want a bath? Or my mouth again?”
“Both.”
They end up in the tub, limbs tangled, skin slick and pink from the heat. Liam sits behind him, massaging Theo’s shoulders with slow circles, brushing his lips over every mark.
Theo leans back into his chest, closing his eyes. Feeling safe. Claimed. Loved.