Chapter 2: The Beast Awakens (Patreon)

🔞 18+ | Explicit content | Monsters, size difference, dominance play | Scenes of violence

Original (ukr) / Translation (eng)

Chapter 2

"The Beast Awakens"

Twilight crept into the mall like thick syrup. The flashlight beams cut through the darkness, picking out shattered shelving, piles of trash, and peeling walls from the darkness, making everything around resemble the insides of some giant beast. The corridors were alive with drafts and the groan of straining metal, and in this silence, the footsteps of three men sounded far too loud.

"Why are we still here?" grunted a stocky one, nervously sweeping his flashlight side to side. He kept spitting, and the saliva clung to his sparse beard. "Either he's dead or hiding. Maybe we should just write him off?"

"The boss said find him," a thin man cut him off. He walked ahead, a rifle slung carelessly over his shoulder. "You heard him."

"I heard. I just don't get why you're all so bent out of shape over this rat. He was a good doctor, so what? Find another."

The thin one snorted. His flashlight beam swept across a wall, catching an old sign that read "PHARMACY" and an arrow pointing into the darkness.

"He wasn't just a doctor to the boss. He gave him... personal care. Regularly. Get it?"

The third man, walking behind with a burnt ear and an indifferent expression, didn't even turn his head. But the stocky one stopped, his face curling into a disgusted smile.

"You mean the boss was... doing him?"

The thin one turned around, and in the beam of the flashlight, his eyes glistened: wet, excited, with that unpleasant sheen you see in people who've spent too long fantasizing about forbidden things.

"What I mean is, the doctor owes him. And not money. Then he decided to run. Now the boss wants what's his back. With interest." He paused, savoring his next words. "And when he's done... he'll share with me."

The stocky one snorted. There was more disgust than laughter in the sound.

"You're both sick."

"Maybe," the thin one shrugged. "But you'll still come with us. Because you're the boss's little dog. And dogs don't get to choose."

 He turned and moved on. The stocky one spat, gripping the shotgun's stock until his knuckles went white, but he followed.

***

The bullet came out with a soft, wet sound and clinked as it hit the floor.

Blood.

Sticky warmth soaked through the mask and touched his tongue with a metallic taste. Only then did Berkan realize he'd been holding his breath.

He could still hear them. Not now, not here, but as an echo in his head. "The doctor owes him. And not money." Then laughter: disgusting, wet, too long. The words settled heavily, like dust after an explosion. The stray wasn't just a runaway mercenary.

"Gauze..." came a whisper from beside him.

His hand found the cloth on its own and pressed down on the wound. Blood welled up. Not good. His fingers pressed firmly, but too firmly. Berkan forced himself to ease the pressure. His other hand held the exhausted body. He pulled it closer.

Too close.

The smell of blood sank deeper, mixing with the warmth under his palm. It called to him. Alive. Wet…

Berkan tilted his head slightly nearer.

Inhale.

Deep inside, something responded, sharp, hungry, and wordless.

"This is... going better than expected.." the stray murmured quietly.

The giant clenched his jaw and slowly pulled his head back, as if that tiny distance could change anything:

"You said how to do it. I listened."

The bleeding gradually slowed, and the pulse beneath his fingers no longer hammered so wildly. But the smell didn't fade.

Suddenly, the weight in his arms shifted: the foundling tried to pull away on his own, weakly, but stubbornly. Berkan didn't stop him.

Now they were almost at eye level, face to face. The stray was no longer grimacing in pain, hissing, or snapping back. Instead… his gaze was more open. That put Berkan on guard.

"Will it be like this from now on?" the stray asked hoarsely.

Berkan had already made his decision. Not when he found him, but now, after hearing everything that lingered behind the wall. He had decided. Or maybe… not him?

It was starting again. Something deep and dark inside him stretched awake, like a beast rousing after a long sleep. Berkan could feel it — the air growing thicker.

"Maybe," he replied evenly. "If you're useful."

He focused on the bandage, tightening the cloth around the thigh. His fingers were too large for this work, yet they moved precisely, as if he were clinging to the process itself. The knot sat tight, and the foundling didn't protest.

Berkan didn't notice it at first — his palm rested on the other man's thigh, so large it swallowed nearly the whole surface. His fingers twitched slightly… enough that if he curled them, the grip would turn into something else. The realization came sharply when his wrist was pushed aside.

"So what now?" the stray asked.

The warmth vanished, and with it, something inside briefly clenched. Berkan exhaled slowly, forcing himself to pull together.

Control.

"Now I watch," he repeated quietly, restrained. "And you heal."

***

The pain still pulsed in his head, but at least the bullet was gone. Larikon leaned his back against the wall and flinched the moment his skin touched the concrete. Only now, as the sharp tension faded, did the cold return, seeping through the cracks and gradually enveloping the space.

"I can barely stand," Lar muttered, "and you've already signed me up as your intern..."

The giant suddenly grabbed a piece of cloth and stood up. Larikon jerked reflexively before realizing that Berkan had simply gotten to his feet and was wiping his hands. Just? His full attention was absorbed by his own palms, rubbing them as if trying to erase something that wasn't there anymore. And he kept his distance. Deliberately.

"You're sitting. That's enough for now," Berkan said without looking at the stray.

Lar recognized the feeling. Back during the procedure, when the horned one held his thigh, there had been a strange, heavy pressure in the air, like before a storm. Something in him had been hovering on the edge and it had nothing to do with pain.

Berkan unhooked a flask wrapped in duct tape from his belt and handed it to the stray. Lar took it without a word, unscrewed the cap, and raised it to his nose. He paused for a moment, then exhaled with the look of a man betrayed.

"This isn't alcohol."

"Keep dreaming," the horned one grunted.

Lar grimaced but started drinking, taking his time. The moment he pulled away to catch his breath, Berkan immediately took the flask back, simply plucking it from his fingers.

"Wait, I'm not—" Lar protested, reaching for it again.

Berkan poured a little water over his palms, rinsing away the last traces of blood. Lar measured that "a little" with a look. For hands that size, it was half the flask.

"Alright, relax. Definitely clean now." Lar remarked dryly. "Can I have some more?"

The giant shook the water from his hands, wiped them on the same cloth, and returned the flask to Lar. No comment. This time Lar drank greedily, throwing his head back sharply.

Berkan watched. A few drops escaped, sliding down his chin to his neck and settling in the hollow between his collarbones. His gaze followed them on its own, then drifted lower... Dirt, dried blood stains, scratches, abrasions. A shiver ran through the stray, raising goosebumps across his skin. And with it, his nipples tightened, drawing taut, one glinting with that same piercing.

The tension rose again, but this time low in his belly. His body responded faster than thought. Berkan was about to look away but froze. Slightly lower, beneath the chest, were two thin, symmetrical scars with uneven edges. Well-defined. Old. The kind you didn't mistake for an accident or a combat wound. He lingered on them a little too long. Said nothing.

Lar felt it instantly. Berkan wasn't looking where people usually looked out of curiosity or desire. His shoulders drew up on their own, and his fingers tightened around the flask's neck. Something colder than concrete touched him from the inside.

"Quit staring. My eyes are up here," he cut off sharply.

He took another gulp, then lowered the flask and set it aside without looking.

"You're shaking." Berkan didn't even try to pretend he hadn't been caught. He simply lifted his gaze higher. 

Lar blinked. For a moment, he faltered.  "You've got a talent: two words and you're already pissing me off."

"Because I'm telling the truth?" Berkan asked, one brow barely lifting.

Lar narrowed his eyes, as if the words had hit too close. "Or because you're looking in the wrong places... and calling that the truth."

Only a quiet exhale through the mask in reply. Unhurriedly, Berkan shrugged off his pauldron, his vest, his belt with weapons. The jacket fell last. Larikon held his breath, expecting him to remove the mask too, but Berkan stopped at his shirt. A dark, fresh bloodstain was spreading on his side.

"I'm not apologizing..."  Lar muttered, hunching his shoulders and looking away.

"I'll survive. My knees won't, though."

"Hah. Hearing problems?" Lar grinned crookedly. "I can be louder. I'm polite. Unlike some."

Berkan turned back slowly, almost lazily. "Louder?" he repeated, low.

The sound settled deeper than it should have. Only then did Lar realize how that must have sounded. The words lingered between them.

"I... meant..." The corner of his mouth twitched.

"I know what you meant. Just think before you're that polite."

"Listen here, gentleman, I'm freezing my ass off!" Lar snapped. "Either this is your plan, leave me freezing so you can warm me up later, or you're just thick-skulled!" 

"It's easier to say 'please'."

"Why should I? You undressed me, tore my pants, and now I have to ask nicely? I'm not some mutt begging for scraps." 

A muscle twitched near Berkan's eye, though outwardly he remained unshaken. A moment later, Lar's shoulders were covered by the leather jacket.

"Get warm, stray. And stop whining."

Warmth enveloped him at once: heavy, saturated with someone else's scent, smoke, sweat, and metal. Lar froze, gripping the edges with his fingers, and didn't immediately understand why such a simple gesture suddenly made his chest feel too tight. 

"Thanks..." he muttered quietly and heard for himself how vulnerable it sounded.

Berkan glanced back, as if checking whether he'd imagined it. He caught only a glimpse of Lar looking away too quickly. 

There was no reply. The giant turned back and sat down on the stacked pallets. The wood creaked loudly under his weight but held.

The sound cut through the silence. Lar didn't want to look, but his gaze drifted back on its own.  And in that moment, the giant lifted the hem of his shirt above his ribs, exposing his side.

"What's your name?" he asked calmly.

Larikon froze, his mouth slightly open. Not because of the wound, though it was worse than he'd expected. What held his attention were the sculpted muscles, picked out by the flashlight's glow, shifting under the skin with each slow, controlled breath.

"Wh-what?" he blurted, snapping back as if yanked from a distant thought. Only then did he realize Berkan had been talking to him.

"Your name," Berkan repeated calmly. "Or I'll keep calling you 'sharp-tongued pest'."

He extended his hand.

Lar blinked, not immediately understanding what was happening. His gaze dropped to the offered palm, and the first thing he noticed was the deep bite mark. His handiwork. 

"You already know my name. I don't like repeating myself."

"Of course..." Lar pulled his own hand out from under the jacket, also injured, cut by glass, and extended it in return. "...Berky~" he added with a sly grin.

The giant's eyes narrowed ever so slightly. His hand engulfed Lar's completely,  covering it up to the wrist. Firm, but without squeezing.

(Is this a hand or a shovel?!) — flashed through Lar's mind. The contrast hit immediately: his own hand was small, cold, tense. Berkan's was broad, warm, rough, but not in a bad way.

"Berky?" the giant repeated. Without waiting for an answer, he squeezed harder. "I'm not a kitten to be petted with cute little names."

The pressure echoed through his hand and somewhere deeper, in his chest. Still, gritting his teeth, he forced out:

"And I'm not a 'sharp-tongued pest'. My name is Larikon. Or just Lari," he managed a strained smile.

Berkan felt the pulse beneath his fingers quicken. He held on for a few more heartbeats, as if listening to that rhythm, and only then let go.

"Well then, Lar," he said slowly, as if tasting the name. "Since your tongue is so talented, let's see what your hands can do." He nodded toward his side. "You can manage, can't you doctor ?"

Lar yanked his hand back and wrapped himself in the jacket up to his ears.

"It's easier to say 'please'," he shot back, throwing the giant's own words at him.

Only his eyes remained visible above the dark collar, wary and watchful, with a fleeting shadow of confusion that Berkan managed to catch. (Mouse in a bag…) — the mutant caught himself with the odd association. That's what he'd called him the first time, before that "mouse" had started snapping back, baring its teeth, and biting like a rabid stray.

Berkan snorted and leaned forward slightly, studying his face more closely.

"...Please?" The word came out low, almost a rumble, yet unexpectedly soft. 

Lar hadn't expected that response. "F-fine! But don't call me 'doctor' . I haven't decided whether I'm taking the position yet."

"Too late. I've already invested," Berkan stated plainly.

***

They searched floor by floor, checking every room. Sometimes they split up, just far enough to keep each other in sight, but far enough to cover more ground. Maybe half an hour passed like that. The sun had finally set, and now only the flashlights cut through the darkness.

They gathered at the second-floor stairwell, where the hallway split into three corridors, none of them leading where they needed to go. The stocky one was breathing hard, wiping sweat from his forehead.

"Nothing. No trace. Either he's dead in some hole somewhere, or the Rotten are already feeding on him."

"Or someone picked him up," the thin one shot back. For the first time in a long while, there was no excitement in his voice, оnly cold.

"Who? There's no one here but us."

"And what do you call that?"

The thin man aimed his beam at a black puddle spreading from under a pile of bodies. The Rotten lay piled on top of each other, as if someone had dragged them here on purpose. He moved closer and pulled on the respirator hanging around his neck. The stench was unbearable. 

In the flashlight's glow, the Rotten all looked nearly the same: twisted limbs, skin gray as concrete, covered in a thick, tangled web of veins and, here and there, rotting sores. Only the scraps of clothing hinted that they had once been human. One of them had its stomach torn open, swollen black organs spilling out. Another had no lower jaw, its long, bloated tongue hanging down onto its chest. The eyes of a third had ruptured, the empty, sunken sockets crusted over with dried residue. 

The thin man picked up a piece of rebar and prodded a deep gash on one of the corpses. The edges of the wound were clean, almost surgical.

"I don't remember our doctor carrying anything but a pistol."

"Shit. Could be a hunter," the stocky one replied.

"Or something else..."

He didn't get the chance to finish. Somewhere above, a scraping sound echoed, the kind that set your teeth on edge, like claws dragged across plaster, but deeper and longer. All three of them jerked their heads up.

Clinging to the ceiling with claws buried in the concrete, she hung motionless. Long, matted hair dangled downward like seaweed, swaying with barely perceptible movement. Her limbs were bent at impossible angles, elbows and knees pointing in different directions like a spider's, each joint jutting sharply beneath the skin.

"Fire!" someone shouted.

The stocky one shot first but hit the ceiling. Concrete dust rained down like gravel. The monster lunged, too fast for the human eye to follow, and vanished from sight.

"Got him!?""No! Fuck!"

The third man, the one with the burnt ear, died without even realizing what happened. The creature lunged out of the shadows from behind. Claws sank into his shoulders, teeth into his neck. Blood sprayed across the wall in a wide, almost black fountain. The man only managed a choked wheeze, and his flashlight clattered to the floor. The beam skittered wildly across the room, catching flashes of a blood-spattered wall, someone's legs, and the stocky man's face, frozen in terror.

Another shot. One. Two. Three.

The thin man was firing blindly now. Bullets hit concrete, hit shelving, hit the corpse the monster was using as a shield. But not her.

The magazine ran empty. The monster tilted her head to the side. Her mouth was busy, chewing slowly, while her eyes remained fixed on him. The thin man kept pulling the trigger in a panic, click after useless click. Then realization hit him. He spun around and bolted. The stocky one lunged after him.

She had been waiting for this. The moment the thin man turned his back, the monster tossed the corpse aside and lunged at him in one swift motion.

The stocky one heard a long scream. A heavy crack followed. Then silence. He ran without looking back, slipping on broken glass and rubble, gasping for breath. He thought he had escaped. He was wrong.

Just a step from the stairs, where the shelving row ended, a figure emerged from the darkness ahead of him. The monster dropped silently from the ceiling, holding the thin man's ripped-off head by its sparse hair. It swayed lazily in her grip, and blood dripped from the shredded neck stump onto the concrete with rhythmic taps.

The stocky one skidded to a halt at the last moment, nearly crashing into the creature. Her face was too close. He had just enough time to see a mouth stretched into a feral grin, too many teeth, and the yellow eyes devoid of pupils.

He fired almost point-blank. Buckshot tore into her side, and black blood sprayed across the floor, but she didn't even slow down. Her claws drove into the man's chest, punching through his jacket, his skin, his ribs. He let out a choked wheeze and crumpled to the floor. Blood flooded from his mouth, from his chest, from under the fingers he uselessly pressed against the wound.

The monster leaned over him, opening her mouth for the final bite. Then, suddenly, she froze. Her head snapped sharply to the side, toward the dark corridor, toward the place her prey had come from. Something there drew her attention more than the fresh blood pooling at her feet. A low, vibrating growl rumbled from her throat. Not hungry. Something... else.

She straightened up slowly, flaring her nostrils, pulling in the air. She sensed it. Somewhere far away, through concrete, dust, and rusted metal, another scent cut through. Foreign, but achingly familiar. Not prey. Not a victim. A signal.

The creature took a step. Then another. She vanished into the darkness as silently as she had appeared, dissolving into it without a sound. The body left behind twitched in agony for a few more seconds, then fell still.

***

Silence fell again in the storage room. The flashlight was growing dimmer, its batteries fading. In its flickering light, the giant's features grew sharper, the mask casting a deep shadow across his neck, and his eyes looked like two coals smoldering in the half-dark. Berkan sat on the same pallets, the only surface that could bear his weight. Larikon had perched on an upturned tire across from him, putting him at barely half the giant's height.

"Spread your legs. I can't reach," he said dryly.

Berkan shot a tense look at the stray, who was already sitting between his legs. He seemed about to say something, but stayed silent and spread his legs wider. Larikon scooted closer, pushing through the weakness in his thigh, and leaned in almost flush against his side.

"Don't move. Just need to stitch it up."

"I wasn't..." Berkan started, but broke off as cold fingers touched his bare ribs.

Larikon carefully pulled the edges of the wound together. The needle glinted in the dim light and slid under the skin. The giant didn't flinch.

"Good boy..." Lar said softly, without his usual teasing tone. 

But the word seemed to pierce the silence. For a moment, Berkan's breathing faltered. He slowly turned his head, only slightly.

First stitch — done. Second... Larikon shivered. 

"Damn it..." he almost clicked his teeth. "Maybe after we're done, we can start a fire? There's plenty of scrap around, and enough holes in the ceiling for the smoke to escape—" 

"Can't," Berkan cut him off.

"Why not? Fire keeps the Rotten away."

"And draws the living."

A fair point, and Larikon silently conceded it. 

He slowly ran his fingers along the edge of the fresh suture, with clinical, purely technical attention. Berkan exhaled sharply through the mask.

"Hurt?"

"No," Berkan answered sharply. 

"Liar," Lar smiled. "From the very beginning, you've been huffing like I'm doing something wrong. And you've been staring at me so hard even a blind man could feel it. Has anyone ever told you how heavy you are? Not physically." 

"I'm not staring. I'm watching." Berkan frowned. 

"Worried I'll stab you in the ass with a scalpel? Hah. Not a bad idea, actually. But I'd hate to dull the blade. So relax — the needle will get stuck in all that muscle. Or is it that you're... ticklish?"

"Your hands are cold."

"That's it? You can take pain, but cold bothers you? That's oddly selective." A soft chuckle escaped him. "Well then, I'll just have to keep tormenting you. But it's not my fault. When blood volume drops, the body constricts vessels in the extremities, redirecting warmth to the vital organs: brain, heart, lungs."

"And tongue," Berkan added.

"Yes, and tongue," Lar repeated, a little quieter. "Mine's a lot warmer than my hands." He stuck out the tip of his tongue, the piercing glinting.

Berkan's brows shot up involuntarily, then dropped just as quickly. Larikon, pleased with the reaction, smiled and got back to work.

The needle slid under the skin, the thread pulled tight, the knot — last one. No reaction. But the moment he picked up the gauze and began wiping the wound with gentle strokes, Berkan's breathing changed: too quiet, too controlled.

(Interesting…) Larikon watched from the corner of his eye. The giant was staring somewhere into the darkness, as if none of this concerned him. So Lar shifted slightly, just enough for his knee to "accidentally" press against the inside of Berkan's thigh. Berkan's brows knitted together at once, and the muscle beneath Lar's knee tensed. But he didn't look down. Didn't pull away.

Larikon didn't back off either and tried something else... He slowly moved the gauze past the wound — lower, a little to the side, closer to his stomach. The reaction came instantly. His abs twitched faintly, and the warmth beneath the gauze grew hotter.

(Whoa... Looks like he's not thinking about the wound at all, is he?...)

Berkan's skin burned even through the fabric, heat radiating from within. It had nothing to do with pain. Lar knew those reactions well. (How much warmth he holds... I could use this oversized bastard as a heater. And for something else necessary too...)

But the moment he pictured it, he stopped. (Don't tempt a beast unless you're ready to be eaten.) The words snagged between thought and decision, between want and reason. Lar pulled his hand away, set down the gauze, and picked up the scissors. This would be the smart choice. (Don't risk it.)

"Strong immune system?" he asked.

"Better than humans'," Berkan replied.

"Good. Let's hope the infection doesn't leave you with a fever or the shakes." Lar clipped the excess thread. "Done."

"Same goes for you."

Lar raised his brows:

"Whoa… Worried?"

Berkan met Lar's heterochromatic gaze:

"No." Dry. Brief. And he looked away again.

Larikon fell silent for a few seconds. Something inside him gave a sharp twinge, throwing off his train of thought.

"You should be. Pfft-ha!" he forced an ironic grin. "If I die, you'll have wasted your time and effort."

"Your backpack with supplies will cover it."

There it was again.

"Cover it?" Lar let out an irritated snort. "You stubborn horned piece of shit..."

And right there, his smart decision quietly shattered into pieces.

Berkan shot a reluctant glance at the grumbling doctor, and his gaze lingered. Lar's half-lidded eyes were fixed on him directly, with a fiery audacity that hadn't been there a second ago. A palm pressed against Berkan's bare stomach without warningиииииии, sliding along the edge of tense muscles. The giant didn't move. He only went still, as if caught in the act, while Lar's hand drifted slowly, lazily lower. A fingertip traced a circle around his navel and moved down along the trail of hair toward his waistband. The giant exhaled sharply, almost predatory, through the mask. A shiver coursed down Lar's spine at the sound, and he couldn't hold back a quiet laugh.

"I can practically feel you 'not worrying,'" he drawled softly, almost purring. "Want to say that again?" He tilted his head slightly.

A smile spread across his lips, too calm for this game. His fingers slid along the waistband of the pants, brushing against the cold buckle, and paused, deliberately drawing out the moment.

The scent changed. Something sharper mixed with the metal and antiseptic, and Lar caught it immediately. His hand moved lower on its own. And then he felt it: a hard tension that was clearly visible even through the rough fabric. He barely brushed against it, and an impatient pulse shot back in response.

Lar's smile widened just a little.

"Well... that's not just 'a reaction to cold hands' anymore."

Berkan reacted instantly. He grabbed Lar's wrist and squeezed tight.

"Lari." Just his name. But on the edge.

Larikon snapped his gaze upward and froze. Berkan wasn't looking away anymore. His heavy golden stare felt like pressure, something almost physical. Lar swallowed air. The smile fell away like a mask. 

"How long?" he asked, his voice already calm, almost clinical.

"Long enough," Berkan replied.

Both fell silent. The space between them grew heavier. Each understood something. Different things, perhaps, but both equally inevitable.

"Listen," Lar continued, his voice plain, free of any theatrics. "No grand speeches. You pulled a bullet out of me. I stitched your side back together. I can help with this too, if you need it."

(Not "want to." "Need to.") The distinction was deliberate, and Berk caught it at once.

"Are you always this direct?" he asked.

"Only when it's obvious." Lar shrugged. "And when I'm cold."

Berkan hesitated. He could tell Lar was being honest. Yet at the same time, something deep inside him stirred. (Something's wrong.) The feeling lingered for only a moment. The arousal pulling at him had already become unbearable, leaving little room for doubt or reflection.

The grip on his wrist loosened. Berkan released him and moved his hand higher: his thumb brushed Lar's chin, tilting his head up and holding his gaze.

"If you start, don't stop halfway. I don't like things left half-done."

Lar held his ground. Not a single muscle twitched, though his heart, the traitor, skipped a beat.

"Deal," he said evenly. "Though..." The smile that touched the corners of his mouth suddenly turned dangerous.

Lar unhurriedly moved the hand away from his own chin. The giant didn't resist.

"You're going to sit still... quiet... and not move. Like a good boy," Lar continued.

His palm settled without hesitation on Berkan's side, right over the freshly stitched wound.

"You have stitches. I have a wound. Neither of us should strain."

He seemed to turn to stone. One might have assumed the giant had given his consent. Without words. But seconds later, he snapped, like a beast breaking its chain.

A hand fisted in Lar's hair, yanking his head back and holding it rigid. Berkan leaned closer, and a low, muffled growl tore from deep in his chest. It vibrated through the air, a warning.

"Good boy?.." His voice carried something predatory, barely restrained.

The grip on his nape tightened, forcing Lar to raise his head just enough that there was nowhere to escape from his gaze. His pupils shrank into narrow vertical slits, finally betraying something inhuman in the man.

"You're awfully confident for someone sitting between my legs," Berkan said slowly.

Lar had crossed a line. But this time, he had no intention of backing down. The hand still resting on Berkan's side pressed harder. His breathing evened out, as if nothing had happened, and the smile returned to his lips.

"Mmm..." he exhaled, satisfied. "Now that's closer to the truth." Larikon didn't flinch. He only tilted his head slightly within that grip, just enough to make the movement his own, not imposed. "Turns out you're not so calm after all. But I did warn you: don't strain."

It no longer sounded like advice. It was a statement. His fingers traced along the edge of the fresh stitches, where a thin line of blood had welled up.

Berkan didn't move. At this moment, that blood meant nothing to him.

"You can keep saying the backpack with supplies will cover it," Lar said calmly, almost casually. «But a backpack doesn't smell like me. And that's what makes you hard.»

Silence.

The giant coiled himself tight, as if every muscle was held taut. He didn't relax. But his grip wavered, and slowly, deliberately, he released it.

"You..." Berkan tried to say something but found no words.

Lar didn't wait. Craving the feel of those sculpted muscles and that warmth again, he pressed his palm to the giant's abdomen. A wave of heat spread from his fingertips through his entire hand. It was like touching a breathing sheet of molten steel. He slid further, along the belt, and stopped at the buckle. Metal clicked in the silence. Berkan's breathing hitched, and the muscles of his stomach fluttered under the flashlight's glow.

With his free hand, Lar cupped the straining shape beneath the pants. If possible, it looked even more pronounced now. The fabric pulled taut, and when his fingers slipped between it and the hot skin, Berkan couldn't hold back a muffled curse.

"Hush," Lar smiled. "I haven't even started yet."

Through the underwear, he felt the cock: thick, hard, and so hot it snatched his breath. It wasn't fear, not shame. It was that deep, animal awareness: he was smaller, but right now, he was the one controlling the giant.

Lar slowly pulled the underwear lower... and stopped. For a second. Then another.

What stood before him was impossible to ignore, even in the dim light. Berkan's cock rose, pressed snug against his stomach. It was heavy, with thick veins bulging along the shaft. The head was shiny with slick, the clear fluid already soaking the edge of his underwear.

(Holy shit!)

He knew Berkan was big. It was basic logic — everything about the giant was built to match. But understanding it in abstract was one thing. Sitting between his legs and seeing it this close was something else entirely.

Lar wrapped his hand around the shaft, but his grip was too small, his fingers couldn't close. Something in his stomach gave a tight, anxious flutter, and he exhaled slowly through his nose, refusing to let his face betray him.

"Is it... is it always this big?" he murmured aloud.

His hand slid lower, toward the base, and met a dense, muscular ring — firm tissue standing proud from the surface. It was springy, and when Lar ran his thumb over it, the cock twitched, releasing another bead of slick.

"And this?" Lar asked, not removing his finger. A silly, almost juvenile flutter stirred beneath his ribs. 

"Anatomy," Berkan replied. "Not beast. But not human either. Is this a medical exam, or are you just... scared?"

"Me?" Lar raised his brows. "Scared?"

"Then what's the holdup, doctor?"

Berkan leaned back against the concrete wall, slow and easy, opening himself fully, hiding nothing

Larikon didn't ask any more questions. He tightened his grip and moved his hand upward, toward the head, as if testing the boundaries of reality. Slowly, deliberately, he worked his hand along the shaft, feeling the thick veins roll beneath the skin with each pass. In response, the giant let out a muffled growl that sent a hot wave curling through Lar's insides.

"Your hands are cold," Berkan said, his voice husky.

"I know. You told me."

"And you told me your tongue was hotter."

Lar stopped.

He could feel the smirk even through the mask. This horned ox sat there, looking at him like a man who'd just made the perfect chess move. And the worst part was, Lar had actually said it, flaunting his tongue piercing.

"Caught me..."

"Just paying attention," Berkan added.

Lar cursed inwardly.

"Want to test it?" he shot back, trying to regain control. "And my teeth don't worry you at all?" He grinned, flashing his sharp canines, a reminder that they'd already left their mark on the giant's hand.

Berkan tilted his head, studying his mouth with the lazy curiosity of someone in no hurry.

"Are you trying to scare me right now, or just turn me on more?" Berkan's voice held a suspicious softness. Not a trace of concern.

Lar blinked, caught off guard. His mouth opened and stayed open, all his prepared retorts suddenly feeling unbearably stupid. He'd threatened with his teeth, and this mutant just tilted his head like he was facing a playful kitten, not a predator.

"You..." Lar swallowed. "You're a fucking masochist."

Berkan waited, still wearing that same expression, as if Lar's sharp teeth weren't a threat but part of the show.

"Fine. You asked for it."

Larikon exhaled, trying to reclaim at least the appearance of control, and, cursing himself for being so reckless one more time, he leaned down.

The scent hit him immediately. Not just a smell — something thick, heavy, laced with metal, leather, and something sharper, purely male. It settled on his tongue before he even made contact. Lar paused for a second, not out of hesitation, but because of that strange, unfamiliar feeling stirring deep inside him once more. He ran his tongue over his own lips, deliberately slow, giving Berkan time to pull back if he'd changed his mind. But the giant didn't even blink.

(Well, fuck. Alright... I started this.)

Then Lar touched him. Tentatively at first, just the very tip of his tongue, licking from the underside of the head to the frenulum.

In the same instant, Berkan's cock twitched again, hard. Lar's grip slipped, and the heavy shaft sprang free, nearly hitting him square in the nose. Lar jerked his head back on reflex and froze.

"What the..." He swallowed. "WHAT THE FUCK?!"

In Berkan's eyes, something burned between hunger and outright amusement. His shoulders shook. Once. Twice. Even through the mask, Lar could tell he was laughing. Silently. He saw it in his eyes, in the way his chest moved.

"Don't you dare," Lar hissed, jabbing a finger at him. "Don't even think about it." His face flushed red, a mix of shame, anger, and wild embarrassment.

"I didn't say anything," Berkan replied.

"You're laughing!"

"I'm not."

"Liar!"

Lar dragged his palms over his face, as if washing away the awkwardness, and glanced once more at the source of his embarrassment. The damn thing was standing even straighter now.

"Just hold it tighter," Berkan advised.

"I WAS holding it," Lar snarled.

"With both hands."

Lar gathered the last shreds of his dignity into a fist. Literally, because that's exactly what he did, gripping the shaft with both hands this time. So it had nowhere to go.

"That's it," Berkan whispered.

"Shut up."

Lar leaned down a second time and ran his tongue from base to tip, broad and firm and thoroughly obscene. His gaze, full of defiance, was locked on Berkan. He caught every micro-reaction to the spectacle.

Berkan's breathing quickly lost its rhythm.

The skin tightened with each stroke, leaving the musky taste of his arousal on Lar's lips. Somewhere on the edge of awareness, Lar realized he was breathing harder too. The metal stud slid along the heated flesh, leaving a hard, foreign trail, and wherever it touched the most sensitive spots, Berkan flinched, almost imperceptibly. Lar paid special attention to that unusual ridge, too. He dragged his wet lips over it, and the cock jerked, controlled now, just a small jolt.

(Interesting anatomy,) flashed through Lar's mind.

He reached the head. His tongue traced a circle around the ridge, then dipped into the slit where clear fluid had pooled with a sharp, salty tang. Then he opened his mouth and tried to take more.

His jaw immediately informed him that was a bad idea. Lar couldn't even fully take the head: his lips stretched to their limit, his tongue pressed flat against the hot flesh, and as for his teeth, he was trying desperately to keep them out of the way, but even so, they were in the way. The moment he tried to go deeper, his throat seized in a reflex spasm.

Lar pulled back, coughing, and spat out the slick that had mixed with his saliva.

"Fuck..." he rasped.

"Maybe you shouldn't—"

"Don't," he cut him off immediately.

Berkan paused. His smile was hidden behind the mask, but his eyes narrowed, thoroughly pleased.

"You're quite stubborn. I'm starting to like that..."

"I told you to shut up!" Lar snapped, and he felt the heat rush to his face as his heart hammered in his chest.

He didn't want to hear any more. He quickly wiped his lips with the back of his hand and tried again to take this "monster” in his mouth.

Pointless.  He couldn't go any further. Not because he wasn't trying, it just wouldn't physically fit. He licked, sucked the head, teasing the most sensitive spots with his tongue while his hands worked the length he couldn't take in his mouth. Saliva mixed with slick, running down his chin and fingers, adding glide to strokes that grew precise, almost mechanical.

The air around them grew hotter. Berkan breathed in heavy, ragged breaths, and through the mask came faint, low vibrations, something close to a stifled growl. But Lar could feel it: this wasn't enough.

Suddenly, a heavy palm landed on the back of his head. Lar tensed. But this wasn't a grip meant to seize control. The hand settled surprisingly soft, almost careful, and it was so large it covered his entire head. Thick fingers buried themselves in his disheveled red hair, slipping between the strands, stroking gently. A shiver ran down Lar's spine, nearly making him arch his back. Without warning, a low, satisfied moan escaped from deep in his chest.

The sound of his own voice jolted him back to his senses. He stopped and pulled away from that hand, pushing it off his nape.

"Don't get in my way," Lar snapped, irritated.

Berkan's hand obediently returned to the pallet. But his fingers clamped onto the edge so hard his knuckles went white, and the wood groaned under the pressure. Lar couldn't miss that. And he couldn't ignore the dark, gleaming eyes fixed on him with such animal hunger.

(I shouldn't have forgotten: this brute is a mutant, not an ordinary man. And I'm a stubborn little shit who decided to pick a fight with him…)

He glanced once more at the giant's hand. The fingers were still gripping the edge of the pallet. The bite mark was still there.

(And yet... it seems to me that right now, we both crave warmth. Just in very different ways.)

Lar reached for Berkan's hand again, carefully, almost tenderly, and lifted it to his lips.

"What are you doing..?" The giant's voice was hoarse, uneven.

"Shh," Lar whispered. "Don't move. You'll ruin the moment."

The giant reacted before he could hide it. He watched his own thick thumb vanish into the wet mouth of this stray, or rather, this doctor, watched the lips close around it, watched the tongue lave at his skin, leaving glistening trails of saliva. Lar caressed the finger the same way he would have worked a cock. Deliberately showing Berkan the foreplay that could have been, if not for the size difference.

At the same time, Lar didn't stop stroking him. His palm worked along the shaft, rhythmic, in time with the movements of his mouth, deliberately catching that pulsing ridge with each pass. There was more slick now, and the heat rising from Berkan's body had grown almost sticky.

Berkan's pupils had dilated to their limit again: the vertical slits were gone, swallowed by blackness. His finger, still in Lar's mouth, curled involuntarily against his tongue and pushed deeper, sinking in all the way. Larikon let out a muffled moan, but took it without effort.

Following its rhythm, Lar's hand pressed deeper, harder, adding a twist of his wrist that made the giant throw his head back and slam it against the wall.

Berkan hadn't expected that reaction from himself. His stomach tensed and released, and his hips twitched almost imperceptibly forward, though he was trying to stay still.

Control was fraying at the seams.

Larikon saw it, heard it, felt it. And he liked it. Liked it far too much...

"Fuck, Lari..." Berkan exhaled through the mask, the words breaking for the first time.

He was close. So very close.

Lar could have kept going. Could have pushed him right over the edge. But he didn't want to give Berkan that easy victory. He wanted him to remember this limit.

Lar stopped: pulled his hand off the cock, released the finger from his mouth, and leaned back. A heartbeat later, he was steadying his breath, sitting between Berkan's knees, a wicked glint in his mismatched eyes.

"And now, a pause," Lar said, licking the corners of his lips. "I remember: you don't like things left half-done. But I like it when my partner remembers who the doctor is."

Berkan stared at him through the half-dark and said nothing. His chest rose and fell heavily, his cock still hard, still pulsing. But he didn't touch himself. Didn't ask. Didn't take by force.

He waited through several long heartbeats. Then, with a voice thick with fury and hunger in equal measure, he spoke.

"You're a fucking sadist."

Lar's smile was drunk on the victory.

"And you're only just realizing that?"