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The heart is beating from deep within. The city noise melts away. The heart beats within familiar walls, slow and steady with sleep. It’s easy to slip in, melting through shadow and reforming anew on the other side. Breathing, now, slow, deep. Steady. Alive. Asleep. pack home safe protect check see look check alive safe . Eyes a touch too bright. Limbs a touch too long. Standing silent like a—
"Ебать— Какого черта! Aagh, Jónas! Fuck!" [1]
The shouting makes him cringe back, and he startles back into his body. He hits something when he backs up, and he lets out a noise that his human throat strains against. There’s more swearing, and then thundering footsteps that stride closer to him. Strong arms bear him upwards and then drag him, warm, svo hlýtt , hands clamped around his bicep and over his ribs. He blinks, hard, the shadows and fog of the glacier fading into softer shapes. The curve of linen curtains, the slope of the bed frame. The glow of the alarm clock. 0355 .[2]
“Scared the fuck out of me,” Graham hisses. Jónas feels his ears burning. He hasn’t had an episode like this since before they moved. Meekly, he pushes his cheek against Graham’s chest, hiding his face the best he can. “Sorry. I don’t… I don’t know what happened.”
“Gotta put a bell on you,” the other man grumbles. “Seriously, you’re lucky I keep the gun in the closet, now.”
Jónas opens his eyes, slowly rises up from his sprawl atop Graham. His hand-- the dark, shiny one-- braces against the mattress, carefully angled away from Graham’s flesh. The other comes up to cup Graham’s cheek, letting the bristle of his beard scratch lightly at his palm. If he listens, he can still hear Graham’s pulse, a slightly elevated kick that makes his stomach flip, anticipation and something… more.
“You look like you need a run,” Graham says, soft and secret. Jónas thinks about the stretch of wilderness the Wällsignas allow them to use to train, to escape, to… hunt . Thinks about the visitor’s pass tucked into his bag that lets them into the preserve at any hour of the day. It’s not an entirely selfless endeavour on the Wällsignas’ part-- he knows they’re watching him, keeping an eye on his strange form, documenting, waiting. But they know as much as he does, and he doesn’t see that changing anytime soon.
“I think I want something else,” Jónas says instead, slow and thoughtful.
Graham cocks an eyebrow. “You think?”
“I know ,” Jónas amends, “I want you in my mouth.”
It’s immensely satisfying to watch Graham’s pupils dilate, his vision better than it should be. To hear his pulse accelerate, throat clicking around his next swallow as his mouth runs dry. A smile tugs at his lips as he says, “I think I can help with that.”
“You think?” Jónas snarks, a grin splitting his face even as Graham growls and fists a hand in his hair. Despite the snarl, his chest flutters with a laugh that Jónas can feel beneath him, sending a rush of pleased warmth through him that is almost enough to overpower the ice of his bones. And then he hooks a thumb under the waistband of his boxers and the heat and smell of him captures Jónas’ attention in full, and he’s not thinking about any of it very much at all.
He pulls against the grip Graham has on his hair, a low, animal whining escaping him as Graham forces him to take it slow, gradually lowering him until he can take a greedy breath with his nose buried in the junction of hip and thigh, coarse and slightly curly hair tickling his cheek and jaw. “Gh-hh… can’t believe you’re still this hungry for it. They couldn’t take that away from you even if they tried, mm?”
His ears burn hotter, flush spreading across his face and down the back of his neck. Graham lets him paw and sniff and ground himself in sweat, flesh, pumping blood, hot, hlýtt , mate-love-need-take-pack —
“Easy,” Graham snaps, yanking on Jónas’ hair harder than he would have, if things were different. Embarrassingly, it just makes Jónas moan, low and filthy and echoing in a way that makes Graham’s cock twitch. He scowls down at him, but there’s little fear in his face now, even in the wake of the uncanny noise. “You’re going to give me a complex.”
Jónas laughs hoarsely. “Let me give you something else, then.”
That makes him snort, “You’ve been spending too much time with Heath.”
Jónas doesn’t dignify that with a response, just lets his mouth fall open, tongue lolling out. Graham holds him still with a steel grip on his hair, free hand guiding his cock into Jónas’ mouth. The first taste of him makes him shiver all over, human and delicious and everything he needs. Then Graham slides all the way to the back of his throat in one smooth thrust that makes him jerk. A choked, wet moan dies abruptly in his throat as Graham mercilessly holds him there. Jónas’ flesh hand comes up to brace on Graham’s hip, clinging to him for dear life as he struggles to breathe.
Instead of moving him, or fucking his throat proper, Graham lets out this horribly attractive raspy laugh and rolls his hips in these slow, languid circles that grind his cock against the back of Jónas’ throat. Testing his reflexes, listening to him gag and choke each time. His eyes burn. He’s so painfully hard, cock trapped between his pelvis and the mattress, weeping a steady stream of pre-come into his boxers and sweatpants. His flesh hand flits from Graham’s hip to his waist, hesitantly fluttering towards his forearm. His other stays planted on the mattress, not touching him. He doesn’t reach to tap out, even when the tears in his eyes spill over.
“You look so good like this,” Graham rumbles, breaths coming out hot and heavy, nails just barely scraping against Jónas’ scalp. “Letting me do what I want with you… trusting me to know what you can take. So good , Jónas. You’re good.”
The sound that bubbles up out of Jónas is closer to whale-song than it is to a human moan, vibrating deep in his chest and escaping slightly tinny through his nose as he struggles to breathe around Graham. And Graham, he lets out this surprised little groan that goes straight to Jónas’ cock, his hips twitching upwards as the noise rumbles like thunder in his chest.
“What… what was that?” Graham gasps, a bit of a breathless laugh tumbling out on his exhale. “You’ve never made that sound before.”
Jónas turns scarlet, but there’s nowhere for him to hide like this, Graham’s cock buried in his throat and his hand like a vice in his hair. He just sits there as Graham begins slowly thrusting in and out of the velvety clutch of his throat and the wet heat of his mouth. He’s drooling, after so long held in the earlier position, and the first proper thrust Graham gets is obscenely slick and noisy.
After a short time of letting him get accustomed to movement, Graham begins fucking his mouth in earnest. He alternates between manually moving Jónas’ head with the grip he has on his hair, and just holding him still as he rocks up into his mouth, driving his cock across his tongue and to the back of his throat. Once he gets going, that strange noise roars back to life and fills the heated space between them. Jónas has to close his eyes tightly, embarrassed (even after everything) at how obvious his desires are.
“God, смотреть на тебя [3] ,” Graham’s voice rises and falls in a pleased sigh, the barest hint of growl in his words. Hearing him speak Russian sends a guilty thrill down Jónas’ spine every time. He pries his eyes open to look up at Graham, who is watching him with heavy lidded, lust-blown eyes. His gaze has a tangible weight, pinning him as effectively as the hand in his hair. Seemingly encouraged by the eye contact, Graham continues. “And that noise… it’s like you’re purring , aren’t you? Feels… чувствует себя как рай [4]. Wonderful. You are so good for me, Jónas. Isn’t that right?”
Something caught between shame and bliss burns in his throat, behind his eyes. He nods, best as he can with Graham’s fist in his hair, an urgency overtaking him that makes his hands tremble. His vision blurs, face burns. Instead of cutting him down, as would be so easy to do , Graham smiles, benevolent, thrusting into Jónas’ mouth like it’s what he’s made to do. Just taking what Graham wants to give him. “That’s right. And that’s all you have to do. Be good, кролик [5]. Just like that.”
Jónas hears the crashing of waves and the roar of blood in his ears, but it’s safer, here. Safer surrounded by the sight and smell and taste of Graham, of pack-mate-safety , than he has ever felt before. He loses himself in the trill rumbling deep in his chest and the ache in his jaw, the prickling pain in his scalp and the hazy, floating feeling settling beneath the permafrost of his bones.
Graham’s voice rolls over him like the tide, ebbing and surging, rising and falling in his familiar growling, sighing cadence. His world narrows down to sensation, thoughts slipping away. He’s warm. Sated. Mindless enough he’s no longer rutting down against the mattress, just taking and taking and taking. He’s good, he’s good , doing what he’s supposed to and doing it well . Graham’s fingers are digging near painfully into the curve of his skull but even that feels so far from his body that it barely registers.
He’s in so deep that he barely hears Graham’s groans pitch frantic and loud, barely processes his impending orgasm until the hand in his hair is yanking him backwards. He whines, sharp and wavering, at the loss of flesh and taste, but then he peels his eyes open and sees Graham stroking himself, jaw clenched and brow furrowed. Thrusting into his fist as he groans his name, and Jónas scrapes just enough brain cells together to open his mouth wider, tongue lolled out, straining against the grip on his hair to get just a bit closer.
When Graham comes, Jónas manages to catch most of it in his mouth, but because he’s sleeping with the cruellest man on earth, Graham pulls him away just enough to get two perfect stripes across his cheek and the bridge of his nose. In the moment, all Jónas can think is how glad he is that it didn’t get in his eye. His jaw clicks audibly when he closes his mouth, swallowing thickly. His face is so hot and slightly tingly he can barely feel the drying tackiness on his skin.
Graham is murmuring something to him as he catches his breath, and Jónas can do little else but gaze adoringly up at him, eyes lazily roving from the grey hairs in his beard to the scar creasing his right eye and brow. When Graham moves like he’s going to get up from the bed, Jónas’ hand flashes out and grabs him by the wrist, ice cold panic lancing through him.
“Shit, easy, Jónas. Just getting something to wipe your face with,” Graham gentles, easily prying the black appendage from his wrist despite the immeasurable strength they both know lies within. Jónas swallows an unhappy whine and lets himself settle, hand flexing against the blankets. Without the siren call of Graham’s body heat, he’s slowly coming back out of the fugue state he was in before. His face burns. It’s humiliating to lose himself in such a way, over one (extremely gratifying) blowjob.
Even more so when he realises that there’s a wildly uncomfortable, embarrassingly large patch of wetness across the front of his boxers. He’d been so blissed out that he’d-- with hardly anything? He hasn’t done that since he was a teen, if even then.
“Alright, come here.”
Graham clicks his tongue, and Jónas startles a little, having not heard him approach. But he’s soon reaching for Jónas with one hand, gripping his chin lightly and pulling him just a bit closer so he can wipe at his face with a warm, damp washcloth. It’s a bit mortifying to be this closely perceived with care and attention, but Jónas just closes his eyes against Graham’s watchful gaze and enjoys the touch. The consistency in which he touches him-- in how they all touch him-- so casually and earnestly is slowly thawing out the wariness that keeps him at a slight distance.
“Alright, I think you still have some clothes here from last week. Washed ‘em for you a few days ago, you can change into those.” Graham wipes his face a second time, using the drier side of the cloth, and then plants a slightly itchy kiss on Jónas’ forehead. “Then, you can make us coffee. I’m going to take a quick shower.”
“I can do coffee,” Jónas says, when Graham looks at him expectantly for a beat too long, waiting for an answer. The smile he gets in return settles like a bonfire in his ribs.
“Good. I’ll be right back.”
Jónas watches him leave for the bathroom, and then listens for the sound of the water. Once he’s sure he’s been left mostly alone, he quickly scrambles for his change of clothes and the rag Graham tossed into the hamper. Once he’s cleaned up and mostly capable of thinking again, he sits on the edge of Graham’s bed.
His afflicted arm catches the low lamp light and shines like water, like seal-skin, oil-slick and darker than shadow where the light doesn’t reach. He curls and uncurls his long, strange fingers, the bones popping and cracking quietly as they shift beneath the alien flesh. The chill burns through him, but has grown familiar, odd as it sounds. The… exercise and the proximity to Graham has warmed him all over, but it’s only skin deep. Precious heat all the same, but his bones are still cold.
The rumble of the shower stops. Jónas shakes his hand out, and rises to his feet. Coffee. He can do coffee. When Graham pads out into the kitchen, clad only in sweatpants and beard still damp, Jónas has the pot burbling away and two mugs pulled down from the cabinet. He winds his arms around his waist, chin hooked over his shoulder to watch him watch the street below the kitchen window. Jónas leans back against his chest. They stand in amicable silence as the coffee brews.