Work Text:
He can taste the wind in the back of his throat, heavy with the scent of crushed greenery and earth trampled underfoot, crisp with the bite of snow and thick with fear. Fear, he's found, is an aphrodisiac far beyond any simple human intoxicant, and for as long as he's on this earth and able, he'll drink of it, and drink deeply. The howl of wind is deafening as the horses thunder through the trees, but even so, Mitchell is certain he can hear their quarry's breath, great gulps of air drawn into lungs suffocating in dread.
Mitchell wets his lips, anticipating the first trickle of blood down his throat, the gouts of it to follow, and he knows if his heart could still beat it'd be hammering in his ears. Sometimes he wonders if it lies mouldering behind his ribs, rotting away with the last of his lingering regrets, but the blood of another sings through his veins, well-tinged with excitement that is wholly his own.
He'd bathe in blood if he could. Breathe it in until it bubbled through his lungs.
Once Mitchell pulled up to the alleyway, he could tell almost immediately that it had been another rough night for George. Naked but for a dirty, borrowed blanket, he slunk toward the car, sliding inside without a word. Mitchell knew better than to ask after the scratches and scrapes, the streaks of blood and dirt on his skin. There'd be time enough for that once they were safely home.
Safe. Home. Two words he'd never expected to associate with anywhere, not ever again.
The ride back was a quiet one, just Mitchell and a little Winehouse on the radio, a quick look from George quelling the urge to croon along. More and more, George seemed to need these quiet spaces, a sort of middle ground between beast and burden, a careful slide back into civility. In truth, Mitchell was glad to give them to him; it gave him time to think, and kept him from having to make small talk. After all, what did one say to a wolfman once he'd shed his fur? "Did you see that full moon? Nice night, hmm? I hear deer are almost in season. Would you like me to pick you up a hunting permit?" Shame that it was, even at his most jovial, George never seemed quite settled with Mitchell's penchant for irony.
Mitchell makes a mental note to suggest such ablutions to Herrick; an invigorating constitutional, he'll say, all the rage with the most stylish of demons. After all, bathing in virgins' blood kept the Countess of Bathory's skin supple, her palate pure. It will be another game to whet their appetites, or perhaps a digestif to end a good meal. It isn't as if they don't have plenty of serfs and servants, and there are always plenty more waiting for them, curled up in the dark, withered bulbs and flimsy blessings their only guards against sharpened teeth and sharper wiles. He turns his head, automatically searching out his companion, and is pleased to find Herrick staring back at him, lips pulled back, his grin a rictus of teeth, as if Herrick can read his very thoughts.
Mitchell's not so sure he can't, and the thought brings with it a prickle of dread to twine with desire, pulling at something low in his body with the same strength of that first pull of blood from an open vein.
It was Annie who finally broke through George's silent brooding, as only she could. As they entered the house, she stepped into the hallway and took the both of them in with a look. "I've just put the kettle on," she smiled tightly, "Would you like a cup of tea?"
"Ta," George murmured, and that was that.
The baying of the hounds is closer now, their odour mingling with curdling sweat and pine. Mitchell's fangs elongate and slide against his lower lip, want overtaking sense. The horses round a stand of trees, cutting close with firm jerks to the reins, Mitchell's and Herrick's legs almost brushing, jostling one another as they come to a shuddering stop in a small glade.
Sweat steams off the horses' sides, the bite of winter all the keener as the night deepens. The snow offers some faint reflected light, the moon full and bright in the sky, but Mitchell knows the only beast here that needs the light is their prey. Horse, hound and hunter only need to follow the stench of fright and despair, a beacon bright enough to make mouths water.
Mitchell caught himself testing the water temperature with his fingers before he let George step into the bath. It was strange, even after all this time, even after knowing what horrors lurked under George's skin, how much he was compelled to treat him so carefully. Yet there were worse terrors in the world than werewolves, and there was something to be said for preserving what tiny ribbons of innocence still clung to his friend. Mitchell kneeled up, his spine popping as he straightened, and gently coaxed the blanket away, nudging George forward. They'd have to burn the blanket. Perhaps Annie could do the deed in the yard; the stench would dissipate quickly enough, and a little burning garbage would be the least of the neighbours' worries.
As George sank into the water, he offered Mitchell a small smile, the first of the day. Mitchell smiled back, the curling corners of George's mouth tugging lightly at something low in his body, coaxing the tiniest flare of desire to life.
George grimaced, picking at his front teeth. "A fox. And a badger."
"Hmm?" Mitchell kneeled again at the edge of the tub, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, letting the washcloth in his hand sink, briefly brushing George's leg before he raised it, wringing it out to slide over a swathe of red and brown marring George's skin.
"The blood. Fox and badger." George sighed, compelled to explain, even if Mitchell had yet to ask. "I can still taste the badger in the back of my throat."
Even the drifting snow and decaying greens and browns that mat the forest floor cannot dampen the sharp crack of twigs beneath Mitchell's boots. He chuckles at the soft whickers the sound draws from the horses, the quietest catch of breath from his quarry, now trying very hard to be invisible despite the knot of dogs scrabbling at the bottom of his tree. It is as he suspected, and he finds himself faintly disappointed; they always retreat to the treetops, as if they are facing a bear. Yet that would be a merciful death, even after a mauling, as no bear has fangs like his, and no bear can make a scream sound so much like music as Herrick can.
Herrick is at his side now, a whisper of cloth and death less than an arm's width away. His smile is as wide as the sky, a half-moon promising the fullness of time. He cocks his head to the side, and Mitchell nods, crossing to the base of the tree, the hounds parting to give him space as only well-trained servants can.
Almost as if on cue -- and for all Mitchell knew, she'd had her eye to the keyhole or a glass up against the wall -- Annie opened the bathroom door, a steaming mug in her hand. "A little hair of the dog?"
Mitchell couldn't help but chuckle, reaching out to relieve her of the mug even as George jumped, grabbing for the tiny square of cloth that'd cover his manhood and maybe a little of his pride. "Still haven't mastered the art of knocking?"
Annie had the good grace to look embarrassed, thrusting the tea out in front of her as if to ward off further disapproval. "Um, and by that I mean I've added a little whiskey to take the edge off, not that-- Well, I'm not saying that you're a dog or anything, because then we'd need to get you a little collar, but not with a bell, mind you, and we'd have to take you for walks and let you run in the yard--" Empty of the mug, her hands flapped in the air.
"Thank you, Annie." Mitchell grinned as George's face grew redder, his fingers clutching the washcloth tighter, shielding his nethers as if under threat of invasion from Normandy.
Annie nodded, retreating from the room as if chased by men with sticks, leaving Mitchell to hand George his tea.
"Hello, up there! Hello!" He wets his lips, inhaling the air in a parody of breath. The evergreen has scratched the boy, nicking his skin, a hundred little cuts trickling tiny teases that merely tug harder at Mitchell's baser needs. There is no response, but then, there rarely is. Not yet. "You can come down. The dogs will not hurt you. You've won, young man. You've beaten both hunter and hound, and now you'll be given your reward."
A little rustle gives away a hesitation, a moment of doubt fed by the last vestiges of hope.
Mitchell can always count on a human's capacity for hope. It is the most beautiful of betrayers. A few more pretty words, a handful of empty promises, and the boy will come down.
And then the fun can begin.
Placated, he sipped as Mitchell scrubbed, guilt and filth borne away by soapy lather. "You'll stay, won't you?" George shifted, settled more firmly against the edge of the tub, looking up at Mitchell with bright, full eyes.
"Of course I will." There really was no question to the matter; if George asked, then Mitchell would give. Need was a powerful thing, intoxicating the senses until neither man nor monster could tell desire from love. He was never certain if he was addicted to George's capacity for hope, even in the midst of his own body's betrayal, or if it was his careful civility, a thin veneer of humanity to ruffle the fur of the beast.
He's sure if he arches any more, stretches any further, strains any harder, his spine will snap. The shudders run through him nonstop, now, and he's not sure if it's the coppery taste of the boy's life on his tongue, or how Herrick has him spread open, hips working to press his cock deeper. Every thrust forward has Mitchell bumping against the cooling body laid out on the dining hall's table, the whorls of the woodgrain barely visible under a layer of gore. He drags his fingertips across the surface, trailing up the boy's shoulder, swiping away blood and bile, sucking the mess off his fingers just as Herrick licks at the nape of his neck.
Mitchell can't help but laugh at the feel of skin sticking to skin, the wet slap of Herrick's hips against his arse, covered as they are in the blood of their quarry. He smiles at the memory of Herrick's cock swelling as he drank, an echo of Mitchell's own. He's not sure if it's the blood or the simple rush of power that brings new life to his body, and frankly, he doesn't care, not when it feels this good; not while there are more warm bodies full to the brim with the promise of pulsing heat.
Mitchell rocked against George, the blunt head of his cock slowly slipping deeper, drawing the softest of exhales from George's windpipe, a quiet joy tinging the scent of his breath. They shifted almost in time -- two beasts laid out on two backs -- their movements borne of long practise, learning each others' bodies through hours spent searching for comforting control. Everything in George's bedroom was about control, it seemed; not a book out of place, not a wrinkle in the pillowcases, not a one of Annie's teacups marring the perfect, deliberate order of things. George had not even allowed them to move beyond the bathroom until he was carefully dry, hasty kisses and gentle nips catching what droplets eluded the big terrycloth towels.
Mitchell ran his fingers over George's throat, feeling the beat of his pulse before swiping at the sweat collecting in the hollow, sucking the salt off his fingertips with a delicacy reserved for the finest of flavours.
George shut his eyes tight, his back arching, hands searching blindly for Mitchell's hands, weaving their fingers together, an anchoring touch that had Mitchell studying George's face, searching for the key to such promising bliss. He could smell it in the air, just as he could the mingling scent of crisply clean sheets, the soap lingering on George's chest.
The last thrust is jarring enough that Mitchell bites down on his own tongue, releasing a spray of droplets inside his mouth as if he's bitten into an overripe peach. Herrick roars, his hips jerking as he spills, his fangs sinking into Mitchell's nape not a moment later. The wounds tingle, and Mitchell groans, curling his palm around his own cock. A squeeze, a rough stroke, and most of all, a scratch of nail in place of teeth, and he falls, pulses of pleasure and pain paving the way.
Distantly, he hears a thump, faintly registering the sound of the boy's head hitting the floor, their jostling finishing the job Herrick began when he tore out the throat, nearly severing the spine.
There is nothing like this; nothing in the world that is worth giving this up for. Nothing in the world like the taste of fear and pain.
The thundering beat of George's heart whispered a promise to Mitchell, a rush of blood beneath skin, making his mouth water even as he was overtaken by fear; fear that he'd sink fangs into flesh, fall off the wagon only to fail his closest friend. Fear, he found, was a powerful anaphrodisiac, killing desire in one suffocating stroke of doubt and denial.
Yet George's own gravity was stronger, a tug of the hand encouraging Mitchell's fingers around his cock, guiding him in measured strokes, warding off fear with trust. Monster gave way to man, and soon Mitchell found himself shivering, desire well-stoked, warmed body spilling over with promise and hope.
Distantly, he heard George cry out, a faint register of sound a moment before his own shuddering sigh, pleasure rolling through him in waves. He licked at George's lips, the flavour captured and kept as the moment spun out.
There was nothing like this; nothing in the world that was worth giving this up for. Nothing in the world like the taste of trust and love.