asconian's blog

They woke slowly, tangled together on the rough wooden floor of the cabin. Morning light filtered through the broken window, soft and grey after the storm. Vlad’s heavy arm was still draped over Pedro’s waist, protective even in sleep. When Pedro stirred, Vlad tightened his hold for a second before loosening it, pressing a rough kiss to the back of his neck.

 “Morning, puppy,” he murmured, voice still thick with sleep. 

Pedro turned in his arms, smiling against the solid wall of Vlad’s chest. “Morning.” They stayed like that for a while, quiet, the new closeness between them settling in. Whatever had started the night before as a fight for territory had become something neither of them wanted to name yet — but both already felt. Eventually Vlad sat up, stretching those massive shoulders.

 “There’s a lake just past the trees. I’m going for a swim. Be back with breakfast.” 

Pedro nodded, still half-buried in the blanket they had shared. 

“Don’t take too long.” Vlad smirked, grabbed his pants, and stepped outside. The lake was cold and clear. He swam hard, washing off the night, then caught a couple of fish and foraged some berries. When he headed back toward the cabin with the small catch, something made him slow down. The door was open wider than he had left it. Voices drifted out. Vlad set the food down quietly and moved closer, staying in the shadow of the trees. 

Through the gap in the door he saw Pedro standing in the middle of the room — and another man. The stranger was roughly Pedro’s size: solid, looking tough, broad-shouldered, bearded, wearing a heavy flannel shirt and work boots. A lumberjack, by the look of him. He was pointing a thick finger at Pedro’s chest.

 “This hut’s mine,” the man growled. “Been using it for years. You two pack up and get the fuck out before I make you.” 

Pedro didn’t step back. His voice was calm but hard. 

“We got here first last night. Storm trapped us. We’re not leaving just because you say so.” 

The lumberjack — Steve — barked a laugh. “You think I care?. You’re not big enough to stop me.” 

Pedro’s jaw tightened. “Try it.”

 Vlad’s muscles coiled. He was ready to step in, to end this in two moves. But something held him back. He wanted to see. He needed to know what his puppy was made of when the fight wasn’t a game. Steve swung first — a heavy, telegraphed right hook. Pedro slipped it and drove a sharp jab into the man’s ribs, then followed with a clean cross that snapped Steve’s head back. Blood started running from his lip almost immediately. That was the last clean moment of the fight. Steve roared and charged like a bull, tackling Pedro straight into the old table. 

The wood exploded under them. 

They hit the floor hard and the real brawl began — no rules, no pause, pure bar-fight ugliness. Fists, elbows, knees, shoulders. Steve got a handful of Pedro’s hair and slammed him into the floorboards. Pedro answered by driving his knee up hard and then clawing for space, rolling them both across the broken furniture. They crashed into walls, knocked over chairs, every impact heavy and desperate. Blood smeared across both faces. Steve’s lip was split and pouring. Pedro’s eyebrow was cut open and bleeding freely. One of Steve’s eyes was already swelling. They traded short, nasty punches in the clinch — body shots that stole breath, uppercuts that snapped heads back. Steve locked Pedro in a front headlock and started raining punches down. Pedro went to a knee, vision swimming, then twisted violently and drove them both into the remaining edge of the table. 

More blood. More curses. Suddenly both men staggered back, chests heaving, blood dripping onto the floor. For a long moment they just stared at each other, completely breathless, hands on their knees. Steve ripped his torn flannel shirt off and threw it aside. Pedro did the same, peeling the bloody fabric over his head until both stood shirtless, sweat and blood streaking their torsos.

Steve spat red onto the floor and snarled, “I’m gonna break you. I’m gonna fucking destroy you. You think you can win this?” 

Pedro wiped blood from his eye with the back of his hand, breathing hard, and gave a bloody grin. 

“Keep talking. I’m still standing big mouth.” They stared each other down for another three heartbeats — then launched at each other again with fresh violence. The second round was even uglier. They crashed into the walls, the floor, each other. Fists found ribs, jaws, soft tissue. Elbows opened new cuts. Knees drove into thighs and stomachs. The cabin filled with the wet sound of skin on skin and the harsh, animal noise of two men trying to end each other. Steve managed to mount Pedro again and dropped heavy punches that made Pedro’s head bounce. Pedro’s face was a mess — one eye nearly closed, lips split, blood running freely. 

But he bridged hard, bucked, and reversed with pure desperation, ending up on top. From there he didn’t stop. He rained elbows and short punches, ignoring the pain in his own hands, until Steve’s arms went loose and his head lolled. Pedro kept one forearm across Steve’s throat, pinning him, and leaned in close, voice raw and shaking with adrenaline. Steve had lost....it was over.

“Get… the fuck… out.” Pedro yelled. Steve’s one good eye stared up, glassy. 

He gave a weak, bloody nod, and whispered: "You will pay for this"

Pedro released him and staggered to his feet. "Any time buddy"

Steve rolled onto his side, coughing, then slowly pushed himself up on trembling arms. He looked wrecked — face swollen and bloody, torso covered in marks, walking with a limp. Without another word he limped toward the door and disappeared into the trees. Only when the man’s footsteps faded did Vlad step into the doorway. Pedro turned, still wired from the fight, chest heaving, blood dripping from his chin onto the floor. For a second he looked almost startled to see Vlad there. 

Then the tension drained out of him and his legs nearly gave out. Vlad crossed the room in three strides and caught him, pulling Pedro hard against his chest. One big hand cradled the back of his head, careful of the cuts. He could smell the blood, the sweat, the sharp adrenaline still pouring off him.

 “You crazy little bastard,” Vlad muttered, half laugh, half growl, voice thick with pride. 

“You didn’t need me at all.” 

Pedro’s arms wrapped around Vlad’s waist, gripping tight even though his hands were swollen and split. He tilted his head up, bloody and cocky. 

“And you better take care of yourself,” he rasped. “If I get really pissed… I can do the same to you.”

Vlad looked down at him. For a second something dark and amused flickered in his eyes — the quiet certainty that Pedro, fierce as he was, still wasn’t any real rival for him. Then he smiled, slow and fond, and kissed him carefully, tasting copper and victory. When they broke apart, Vlad rested his forehead against Pedro’s and murmured, voice low and rough: 

“My tough little puppy.” 

Pedro’s mouth curved into a tired, bloody, satisfied smile. 

“Yes, master alpha.”

 Outside, the forest was quiet again. Inside the cabin, the two of them had already stopped caring who the place belonged to. It was theirs.