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It starts with a kiss.
Soft. Unassuming.
But Mark’s hunger is a thread pulled too tight and when Tong shifts closer, lips parting in trust, the sharp edge of a fang brushes skin.
A flicker. A taste.
Blood blooms on Tong’s lower lip.
Mark reels back instantly like he’s been struck. He’s on the other side of the bed before Tong can blink, crouched low, eyes glowing dimly in the shadowed room. His chest rises and falls in shallow bursts, the monster in him coiling tight, alive beneath his skin.
His voice is strangled. “I didn’t mean to—”
He’s shaking. His hands, his breath, the restraint in his jaw. He turns away from Tong hiding his face, his teeth, everything he can’t trust about himself.
And still, Tong moves closer.
No words. No fear.
Just the quiet sound of knees over sheets, the rustle of weight shifting.
Mark flinches when he feels a hand on his wrist. But Tong doesn’t let go. He guides him gently away from the corner, out of the darkness. Doesn’t push. Doesn’t pull. Just offers.
And Mark takes it. He lets himself be led.
Tong presses their foreheads together, one hand sliding into Mark’s hair, the other on the center of his chest grounding him. Mark gasps like the touch alone burns. And maybe it does. But he stays there. He doesn’t run.
Tong brushes his thumb across Mark’s jaw. Lifts his face, slow and reverent, like touching something sacred. Their eyes meet. Still, no words. Just the sound of breath shared, skin brushing skin, the warm weight of Tong’s fingers trailing down the back of Mark’s neck.
Mark’s whole body trembles. He sinks to his knees on the mattress, head bowed. Not submission in fear but surrender in trust.
Tong’s lips hover near his ear, voice a hush of breath and heartbeat: “It’s alright.”
That’s all he says. It’s enough.
Mark exhales like he hasn’t in a hundred years. Like the fire has finally found somewhere to land without burning it down. He leans in, lips grazing the skin beneath Tong’s jaw, reverent and unsure. And Tong lets him. No permission needed. No control wrestled.
Tong’s hand tightens in Mark’s hair, a gentle but firm anchor. “Look at me,” he murmurs, voice low, commanding without force. Mark obeys instantly, eyes lifting, wide and vulnerable, the glow in them softening under Tong’s gaze.
Tong’s thumb traces the edge of Mark’s lips, brushing over the faint sharpness of a fang. Mark tenses, but Tong doesn’t pull away. Instead, he leans in, kissing Mark softly, deliberately, letting the taste of blood linger between them a reminder, not a threat. Mark whimpers, hands hovering over Tong’s hips, afraid to touch, afraid to want.
“You’re not going to hurt me,” Tong says, his voice steady, a quiet authority that cuts through Mark’s fear. He takes Mark’s hands, guiding them to his waist, pressing them there until Mark’s fingers curl into the fabric of Tong’s shirt. “You’re here. With me. Stay.”
Mark nods, a small, broken sound escaping him. Tong shifts, straddling Mark’s thighs, his weight a grounding force. He cups Mark’s face, tilting it up, and kisses him again deeper this time, slower, a claim that’s as tender as it is unyielding. Mark’s hands tighten on Tong’s hips, his restraint fraying, but he follows Tong’s rhythm, letting him lead.
Tong pulls back just enough to strip off his shirt, the movement deliberate, exposing the lines of his chest, the pulse beating steadily at his throat. Mark’s gaze locks there, hunger flaring, but Tong’s hand is back in his hair, guiding his focus upward. “Eyes on me,” Tong says, softer now, but no less commanding. Mark’s breath hitches, and he nods again, helpless under the weight of Tong’s presence.
Tong’s fingers trail down Mark’s chest, unbuttoning his shirt with slow precision, each touch a reassurance. When the fabric falls away, Tong presses a palm over Mark’s heart, feeling the erratic rhythm beneath. “You’re fighting so hard,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Let me take it from here.”
Mark’s head tips back, a low moan escaping as Tong’s lips find his throat, kissing the hollow there, then lower, tracing the sharp line of his collarbone. Tong’s hands are everywhere — steady, deliberate, mapping Mark’s skin like he’s claiming every inch. Mark’s fingers dig into Tong’s thighs, his body trembling with the effort to hold back, to not let the beast inside him take over.
Tong shifts, pressing himself closer, the heat of their bodies aligning. He rolls his hips, slow and purposeful, drawing a choked gasp from Mark. “Tong—” Mark’s voice is raw, pleading, but Tong silences him with another kiss, this one fiercer, tongues brushing, a spark of dominance that makes Mark’s hands shake where they grip Tong’s waist.
“Trust me,” Tong whispers against his lips. He guides Mark’s hands to the waistband of his pants, encouraging him to undo them. Mark’s fingers fumble, clumsy with need, but he follows Tong’s lead, peeling the fabric away until Tong is bare above him, unashamed, powerful in his vulnerability.
Tong doesn’t rush. He takes Mark’s hand, kissing the knuckles before guiding it between his thighs, letting Mark feel the heat, the reality of him. Mark’s eyes flutter shut, a shudder running through him, but Tong’s voice pulls him back. “Stay with me,” he says, and Mark’s eyes snap open, locked on Tong’s.
Tong moves then, guiding Mark to lie back on the bed, his hands firm but gentle as he presses Mark’s wrists above his head. “Keep them there,” he says, and Mark obeys, his body arching slightly under Tong’s weight. Tong straddles him again, undoing Mark’s pants with the same deliberate care, freeing him from the last barrier between them.
When Tong lowers himself, it’s slow, a careful joining that makes them both gasp. Tong sets the pace, his hands braced on Mark’s chest, his movements steady, commanding, drawing Mark into a rhythm that’s as much about connection as it is about desire. Mark’s hands twitch above his head, but he keeps them there, surrendering to Tong’s control, to the safety of being led.
“It’s alright,” Tong murmurs again, leaning down to kiss Mark’s forehead, his lips, his throat. “You’re mine. And I’m not afraid.”
Those words unravel something in Mark. His hips buck, a desperate edge to his movements, but Tong doesn’t falter. He meets Mark’s need with his own, guiding them both higher, his hands never leaving Mark’s skin, grounding him even as the heat builds.
When they crest, it’s together — a shared release that feels like absolution. Mark cries out, a sound that’s half-sob, half-prayer, and Tong holds him through it, his arms a steady anchor as they collapse into each other.
In the quiet that follows, breath tangled in breath, heartbeat beneath fingertips, the truce holds. Fragile. Sacred. Real.
Tong brushes a kiss against Mark’s temple, his voice soft but certain. “You didn’t hurt me. You won’t.”
Mark’s arms finally move, wrapping around Tong, pulling him close. He buries his face in Tong’s neck, breathing him in, the scent of blood and sweat and trust mingling into something that feels like home.
“I’m trying,” Mark whispers, the words raw, honest.
“I know,” Tong replies, his fingers carding through Mark’s hair. “And I’m here.”
They stay like that, entwined, the world outside forgotten. The blood, the fear, the heat — it lingers, but it doesn’t win.
Not this time.