Vladimir arches his back. Long, blonde hair slides down his shoulders like a velvet curtain. Beliath smiles, as a predator cornering its prey would, and drags his tongue along the fair neck. A tremor runs through Vladimir’s body, impossible to be hidden when they’re pressed so close.

“You’re delightful,” murmurs Beliath.

He adores Vladimir in this most bare form, when everything that’s meant to cover had been undone and all that is left is sheer beauty, shivering in his hands. He’d always liked to have things be his own. Not to possess them, no — but to be the only witness to a phenomenon. Like when a cat hisses at every hand trying to pet it but not at his, when he’s up early enough to be the only one to see an enrapturing sunrise, when a friend trusts him and him only with a difficult matter.

When Vladimir looks at him with eyes full of greed, and says, “And you want to make me lose my mind.”

It is meant to be a reprimand, but his voice quivers ever so slightly, and Beliath wants to laugh.

“Maybe so,” he says, heavy breaths over Vladimir’s skin. The thought that it’s him who drives the other man insane might just make him lose his mind, too.

When sharp fangs pierce skin, Vladimir gasps, not in shock but something else entirely. It’s painful, but the pain is not unwanted anymore. It’s blending with pleasure, anyway, mixing so that they start to become inseparable. Slender fingers tighten their grip on Beliath’s shoulders, and he lets himself take leave of his senses. Just for a minute. Just to get a taste, to feel. To get lost.

It’s as close as they can get. Tangled on a bed, with moonlight seeping in through open windows, with Vladimir’s weak moans and Beliath’s momentary madness. He caresses the skin with his tongue, basking in heavy, luscious bliss.

So shameless, Beliath thinks, as Vladimir whines, out of breath. Is it too much? Is it not enough? Maybe both. He breaks away from the contact, panting, and traces the dripping blood with his mouth.