onebehind | making war just for fun (for first

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making war just for fun (for first_rule)

The good news was, at some point before the end of the week, before hurting Jack, before most of the truly terrible thing he'd done, Dylan had realized he needed help. The bad news was this realization had hit during one of the lows, and he'd decided what he needed wasn't to be fixed, to regain his (mostly) moral high ground, but to sink entirely and stop having moments of conflict and hesitation. He also wanted to be able to keep this power, once the week was out, because really, what fun would the ultimate loss of what little light remained in him be if he was left largely impotent again, at the end of it all, half his magic still missing? What point would there be to finally wanting to throw his weight around here, without concern for who he hurt in the process, if he had no weight to actually throw?

And so he'd gone to one of the darker Agents. Attar, Loki -- take your pick, really. He'd made a deal for a couple of favors at a later date, none of which he had any intention of ever actually fulfilling, and after he'd walked away, he'd spent the rest of the week dealing with the final death throes of his morality, desperate flickers of panic and conscious, before it curled up and died entirely. Now, there was nothing holding him back, he had power overflowing at his fingertips, and all was well. Thankfully, he'd also leveled out to a certain degree, but only a little. He wasn't so hellbent on murdering Jack, now -- now, it seemed more sensible to try and turn him and the other Horsemen, first -- but destroying Teleios? Oh, that was certainly on the agenda.

Maybe he'd find Samuel and Bailey and, after making them suffer for the hurt they'd inflicted on him (maybe he'd force them to hurt themselves as he'd hinted at Daniel might be in store for Jack, his voice still and now forever a thing of power), find whatever little doom they planned to use on the city and make it his own. Maybe he'd just see what trouble he could get up to on his own or with the Horsemen. Maybe -- well, there were so many possibilities, really, and he had so many ideas.

Right now, though? First, he was going to have a drink. A toast to himself and to something actually going right in this hellhole for once.

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The moment Dylan had him wait, leaving the room, Daniel honestly wondered ifhe would come back to the room. When he did, despite knowing how many other ways Dylarn had of hurting him, he still tensed. It took everything in him not to back up a step, then another.

His gaze dropped to the gun and back up.

"Uhmmm, no. I get it. You can stop the bullet. I believe that without shooting you," he said, shaking his head. "And I'm a magician and human for all I know. They're possible gods, Dylan, and I'm not sure I believe they're leaving you with the ability to stop them. It would be madness on their part. You're smarter and quicker than they are."

Compliments. That would help, right?

Not as much as Daniel thought it would, if only because Dylan saw through them.

"I went to one of the guys playing the other side," he told him, despite that, despite the scowl that had crept onto his face at the thought of Daniel trying to play him. "So, I'm pretty sure I'll get to keep what I've got, if only because they wanna see this place burn just as much as I do."

A beat. "It also has nothing to do with whether or not I can stop a bullet." Though, all things considered, he probably could if he chose his shift carefully. "It's more about -- well, shoot me and find out. Aim for the head."

This time, he did put power into his voice. This time, Daniel would do what he said without question or hesitation, whether he wanted to or not, and there was something intensely satisfying about that. Even if he planned on keeping the Horsemen close, now, there was something to be said for making someone else's body betray them, regardless of who they were.

Knowing logically that Dylan was strong, magically powerful, and knowing that he was somehow capable of not merely some sort of mesmer ability but to speak like that and despite all of Daniel's desire to do anything but, he found himself already reaching for the gun.

"Dylan, don't make me do this," he said, fingers curling around the stock and drawing the gun to him so he could check the safety, ensure it was off. "I believe you, okay? You are immortal, indestructible. Whatever it is. I believe you."

He spoke in earnest, panic creeping into his tones, even as he raised the gun, leveling it to stare down the site.

"I don't care if you can live through this! Don't make me do it."

Living through it or not, Daniel was going to have nightmares about shooting the man he looked up to, the first role model he could remember truly respecting in his lifetime.

He fired.

Dylan said nothing, just watched him expectantly and with no small amount of pleasure, despite the fact that he doubted being shot in the head would be fun. Just because he could survive being shot didn't mean it wouldn't hurt, though again, there was something to be said for watching Daniel struggle with it. That made it worth it.

He was all but smirking when the gun finally went off, in fact, and then, obviously, abruptly, the expression disappeared. With little more than a grunt, he fell backwards, the thud as he hit the ground more resounding than the gun going off, somehow, and enough to knock the breath out of him if he'd needed to breath. If he wasn't, for all intents and purposes, dead, if only for a moment.

A beat or two ticked by, the silence that followed absolute, and then all at once, he was sitting up as quickly as he had fallen. He exhaled heavily, through his teeth, his canines fangs now, and reached up to thumb idly at his forehead where the bullet was pushing its way out of his skin. It was an inconvenience, itching as it healed, and nothing more. The look on his face probably said that, too, if Daniel wasn't too distracted by the fact that his eyes were blood-black, now, when he looked up at him.

"See?"

Daniel screamed. He wasn't sure he had screamed, but he did. He had expected Dylan to stop the bullet, and while he had, it wasn't supposed to have been with his face!

Shaking so hard his teeth was chattering, he dropped the gun be cause he was no longer under orders to hold it.

"Fuck you! Fuck you, Dylan, or Shrike, or whoever the hell you are. Fuck you!"

He had just killed a man. Sure he was sitting up and flicking the bullet that had done it away with the nonchalance as one would a piece of lint, but Daniel had shot him and killed him and he was a lot of things but not this. He wasn't a fucking killer.

"I see you're acting like a fucking psycho," he said, not thinking about his words or the danger they put him in. "What the fuck was that for? So you're goddamn immortal. Woohooo," he mocked, waving about jazz hands. "You had to make me a goddamn killer to prove it?!"

"You're not a killer if it doesn't stick," Dylan answered with a roll of his eyes. A swipe of his tongue over one of his fangs followed, the faintest of shivers following that -- that felt good, Daniel smelled good -- and then, fairly simply, he continued with, "So calm the fuck down."

Again, it wasn't a command. Yet. If Daniel kept carrying on, or when he decided he wanted to find out what his blood tasted like, then it would be.

He snorted, not looking at all convinced at that. "Calm the fuck down?" He rolled his eyes, folding his arms over his chest as if that would protect him from being ordered to do such as that again. "Really? What reaction were you expecting when the man I look up to, the one I look to for the first time in my life makes me shoot him? Do tell me the proper reaction?" He asked, giving him a look.

He was hiding fear in anger and sarcasm and doing it poorly.

Dylan recognized that Daniel was afraid, didn't really care, except for maybe what it was doing for him, how much more appealing it was making his scent. What he did care about was the fact that Daniel was talking back to him, and if the growl that issued from his throat was any indication, low and unmistakably inhuman, he didn't like it much.

"I said calm down," he repeated through bared teeth, wrapping power around each and every word so that Daniel would. He moved to get to his feet, fluid, frightening. "You can still be afraid -- actually, keep that up, you're doing good -- but just stand still and shut up for a few minutes."

That said, he moved towards him, circling him like a shark might circle a wounded animal. He wanted to savor the fear he had allowed Daniel to keep, even if he had stripped him of the ability to express it.

The growl made Daniel's heart race, peaking in a way that made him worry he was going to lose consciousness. He was pretty sure that would be a bad idea, mostly because he wasn't entirely certain that if it happened, he would ever wake up.

And he did, because he had no choice. Holding still, shaking but unable to do more than that. Caught up in that spell, the magic that held him still despite the raging that went on in his head, the pain and panic that coursed through him.

He stayed still, chin up, not moving though he almost wanted to flee. He was almost glad that Dylan had done something to stop him from doing just that.

"What do you want?"

"Would it be too over the top to go all Bela Lugosi on you?" he asked in lieu of an answer. You know. I vant to suck your blood. Never mind the fact that Lugosi himself had never said that, it was the principle of the thing. He figured Daniel would catch his meaning -- he was a smart kid, when he wasn't running his yap.

And if he couldn't figure it out from just that? Well, Dylan was more than willing to give him a hint.

Pausing in his circle, he stepped up behind him, one hand coming to rest against his stomach, to jerk him sharply back against his chest. A small, pleased sound followed as, this close, it occurred to him that he and Daniel were nearly the same height and he wouldn't have to get clever to reach his throat, and then he was leaning in, nose pressing into the line of his neck. He took a deep breath, practically purred, and murmured, "God, you smell good."

If there was a hint of fangs after that, a ghost of pinpricks dragged over his skin but not a bite, not yet, if this all seemed overtly, disturbingly sexual, despite the old Dylan's usual vaguely homophobic attitude, well. It was part an effort to make Daniel even more uncomfortable, part just another sign of how far he had truly fallen, very little concern for much, including his sexuality, and part the addict in him talking. Where before he might have craved booze, though, right now, he wanted his blood and badly. He held back, though, seeking Daniel's reaction first, even if he was all but trembling with need, now.

No, there was no need for explanations for those words. Not in the least. Not after Daniel had seen that flash of fangs, felt that control that Dylan had exerted over him. Daniel had read enough books, seen enough horror, to know whwere this was going with that damn shark circling because he caught a whiff of blood in the water, and Daniel knew already it was his blood that would end up being spilled.

Okay, and after shooting Dylan in the head, life just got one hundred and ten percent weirder as Dylan's hand ran along his stomach, pulling him back. His mind was racing, thinking of a million ways to get himself out of this and try and get Dylan to back off.

While his body was reflecting on entirely different things. Like the skills he knew those hands possessed, the solid feel of a body larger than his own against him. He felt a stirring and it was almost like a slap to the face, stunning him even as he squirmed, moving to almost try and put imperceptible space between them without upsetting Dylan. Again.

"Okay, Dylan..."

Words, he forgot them then, which was really doing well on Dylan's part, but what the hell was he supposed to say when Dylan said that, sounding like that, and there was this part of Daniel that wanted to give him. He wanted to lean back and can't his head, and if Dylan was giving him this kind of special attention, he was all for going along with it. What was a little blood shared between friends, after all?

Wait, blood. And those were fangs. The dragged over his skin, almost like nails, and it actually felt good. God, but that felt good.

Except it was Dylan. Dylan who would have probably shot himself than cuddling up to Daniel and giving him even the time of day from this close. Dylan who obviously didn't know what the hell he was doing and if Daniel was going to be his friend and teammate, he needed to put a stop to this.

"Dylan, listen. Seriously. I know I'm irrisistable, and really I saw this coming a mile away but, really, I'm not your type and we both know it." Yeah, that was letting him down easy and might not involve violence, right? God, he hoped so.

"I got an idea. Lets get out, get something to eat. Forget the shooting, forget you're spooning me standing up. How about it?"

"Doesn't matter, right now," he answered distantly, distracted by the smell of his blood under his skin, the sound of his heart thrumming along with more than just fear, now. "Doesn't really matter at all anymore. And I'm guessing it doesn't really matter to you, either, if it ever did. You're in to this."

And that pleased some small part of him, the ego under the madness. He slid his hand a little further down his stomach, that in mind, to get more of a reaction.

"But -- yeah. I'm gonna have something to eat." He paused, poking at a fang with his tongue, wet ghosting over Daniel's throat unintentionally with the action. "Just relax while I do it. Don't fight me. I want this to be good for both of us and I won't take enough to kill you. Just -- need enough to take the edge off."

There was power in those words. An order. He wanted Daniel to stand still, without question. It would be better if he did, almost orgasmic. If he tried to fight him? Well, that was when things would get painful, like having part of yourself torn out through your throat. As fun as that might be, later, right now he was far more interested in winding Daniel up in other ways. His "type" or not.

And that said, knowing Daniel would obey, he nudged his head to one side sharply with his nose, buried his face in his throat and bit down. Something that could only be described as a moan followed. Yeah. He definitely tasted as good as he smelled.

Words and actions. They were his enemy right now and what had him so wound up and his body pulling one direction and his mind the other. Daniel never talked about his own thoughts, his sexuality. He was Henleycentric and the world knew it and that was all that mattered. Or at least the Horsemen knew it and that was what mattered. They mattered.

That didn't stop him from reacting, hips moving before he could even catch himself, wanting more, wanting something to ease that stirring that was turning into much more and wanting to even ask for it.

Yet he didn't, his mind catching on reality, on the truth as he thought he knew it, on words. Right now It didn't matter right now. But it would. it would matter to Dylan, and Daniel would ignore if it mattered to him and it would bring hell reigning down on them. He didn't want to ruin what the Horsemen had just because Dylan was going all Fifty Shades of Anne Rice had Daniel found himself more than into it.

Then tongue and dammit, but he was pretty sure that whining sound was him. Fuck, but that was not helping his case. Not in the least. Not that it mattered. Those words went to his brain, eyes partially closing as Daniel relaxed back against Dylan.

Before, with the gun, he had been against it, fighting it. Now though his body wanted it, no matter what the hell his mind thought it was objecting to. Who needed to listen to logic anyways, right? Daniel's body sure as hell didn't, giving into that command with a sigh. "It'll be good," he murmured, endorphins rushing through him, body shifting, pressing back closer to Dylan.

Canting his head, offering his throat at that nudge, and then...

It wasn't anything he could have expected, and if Daniel had known it would be that good, he likely would have offered. His knees went weak, reaching back and fingers catching at fabric, holding himself up and arching against Dylan's touch in the same moment. Trembling as pleasure coursed through him, leaving the magician panting softly, eyes hooded and nearly closed as he made another soft, whimpering sound.

Dylan tightened his arms around Daniel as he felt him falter, supporting him as much as Daniel was trying to support himself and likely doing a better job. He held him there, another soft sound slipping out of him as the blood he took from Daniel carried his pleasure with it, and then, all too soon perhaps for both of them, he was pulling away. He'd meant what he'd said about not taking enough to permanently hurt or kill him.

He stayed close afterwards, however, arm still around him, palm still flat just above his waist, and licked at his lips idly. His fingers brushed just as idly, teasingly, over his stomach. In that moment, he might have been just as interested in something more, but he wouldn't pursue it. Unless, of course, Daniel begged. He still had some morals, however loose.

"See?"

Jesus Christ but it wasn't supposed to feel good, dammit. He didn't care what the movies and books showed. His mentor, his damned friend, had just drank his blood and it should have him whispering softly, not even sure if they were words, asking for more in something that was little more than an exhalation of breath.

Whimpers turned to whining though as Dylan withdrew his fangs, knowing he wanted more. More of the way that felt. More of that gentle touch that had him wriggling slightly, wondering if he moved just right if his shirt would rise, or Dylan's hand would drop further.

Yet his own desires were not nearly enough to blind him to a reality he wasn't sure he could have even fantasized about. Dylan pressed hard against his hip. He had no idea what to think about that, what to even say, though it seemed to clear enough of his mind to come up with a sharp quip.

Or so he thought. It was a lot more like the neediness of the boy he had once been beneath the man he projected to the world.

"Yeah, okay. You were right. It was good. Shame I don't believe that," he said, fighting the urge to grind back against Dylan while he was still feeling the glow of the bite and not letting himself forget reality. It didn't stop him from pressing back against him more firmly. "Was about me and not how good I taste," he said, knowing after the words were out of his mouth he probably sounded pretty needy.

Dylan groaned as Daniel pressed back against him, his eyes fluttering half-closed for a moment. Belatedly, he bit down on his own lower lip in an effort to silence himself, drawing blood. Less than belatedly and almost reflexively, his hips jerked back against Daniel's, leveraging for the friction they both wanted.

"It didn't hurt -- " The way he tasted. " -- but try me and find out," he breathed.

And if Daniel did ask for it, he could give him whatever he wanted. He could be whoever Daniel wanted, even Henley, if that got him off. Not that he figured he needed help, but ah, the joys of being a shapeshifter permanently, now.

Okay. Daniel has come to a conclusion. He is fucked in the head. That's all it can be. Because not fifteen minutes ago he shot Dylan in the head, and now he's moving against Daniel in ways he really wanted to continue, and not just because they felt good but because it was Dylan and he liked this... and if that didn't prove he had totally lost it, he wasn't sure what did.

Encouragement though was all he needed. Reaching back, one hand sliding around to grip wherever he could, hip or waist, he didn't care, just enough to let him rock against Dylan. Okay so it was grinding, wanton and needy. Even as the other hand went up and back, trying to tangle in those damn curls. Fuck logic. Fuck doing the right thing.

Truth was Daniel had been with the Horseman a year, wanting Henley and remembering and not ruining things making that play, and not forgetting his pain in groupies and alcohol and dammit, but he just wanted to feel good and screw the consequences.

Dylan made another small sound as Daniel started rocking against him in earnest and, dropping his head to his shoulder almost helplessly (that would at least make it easier for Daniel to fist a hand in his hair), pushed back against him in time. He stayed like that for some time, occasionally nipping at Daniel's shoulder through his shirt, fingers curling and uncurling in his shirt, his breathing, for as little as he really needed to breath like this, short and heavy, then finally, he raised his head to put his mouth near Daniel's ear.

"I can give you whatever you want," he murmured, trying and mostly succeeding at keeping his tone level despite everything. A moment of pause followed, and then, in Henley's voice, he offered, "Even her. All you have to do is ask, Danny. Beg."

Because if Daniel didn't, he would, and he didn't want that. Not when he was supposed to be the one running the show here, in every sense of the word.

That felt good. Okay, this he could do. Imagining what it would be like, naked, bodies heat, letting Dylan take him, relaxing not because he was told to but because he wanted to, even as he canted his head, offering his throat.

And doing it not just in his imagination, but there with Dylan as he felt that nip on his shirt. Wanting more, wanting him to do it again.

Mouth opening, ready to ask for it, the blood, the naked bodies, all of it. Then Henley's voice.

"No."

He moved suddenly, twisting and writhing to turn and face Dylan, hands clutching at the man's shirt. "I don't want her here. I want you." And he meant it. "I don't want to fuck her right now. I want to be with you," he said, licking his lips and looking at him with puppy dog eyes and desperation. "Please."

it was the hardest word for him, panting as he stared into Dylan's eyes. "You said whatever I want," he said.

Thinking about how he had felt about their mysterious benefactor, developing emotions for an enigma that had offered him everything he wanted. Then learning it was the man that kept him on his toes, the one that had pushed him harder and longer than anyone had ever kept up with him. Always be the smartest man in the room. Maybe Daniel was now. Maybe he wasn't. He did not that he respected Dylan, even after all he'd done to him today, and he had thought about more, late at night, trying to ignore the conflicting emotions and heated hormones.

"I want you."

Even as he said it, he leaned in, trying to claim a kiss, knowing he was likely to taste his own blood there and not caring.

Interesting.

Dylan would have thought Daniel would have appreciated the idea of being to have Henley again -- or anyone else he wanted, for that matter. He would have been all too happy to give it to him, too, just for a chance to watch Daniel squirm, just for the begging, the power trip, all of it. (And maybe he was a little curious as to what it would be like on the other end of things. Not that he'd let Daniel have that, like this. If he had a dick, he was going to use it, thank you.) But Daniel wanted him? Eh, maybe he shouldn't have been too surprised. Kid was always desperate for attention.

Shrugging internally, he darted in to meet Daniel for the kiss, his mouth hungry on his and yes, tasting of his own blood. When he pulled away, it was with a nip, hard enough to draw more blood. He hummed at the smell of it and, of course, at the kiss itself. "Fine by me."

And that, again, was in his own voice.

Another time, maybe. Another time when he hadn't just shot Dylan in the head, or had this chance to be with a man he looked up to like he did Dylan. Physical sex meant little to Daniel. It was about two things. Love, like in the case of Henley, or fulfilling other needs that the magician had. Needs that had to do with feeling wanted, needed, even special. He wouldn't admit to those needs, hated the very idea of giving voice to them. Actions were something else entirely.

Moaning into the kiss, one hand almost clinging to the back of Dylan's neck as if worrying he might move away. Then another bite, the sharper, fresh taste of his own blood and he shuddered even as he leaned in, pressing soft kisses to the line of Dylan's jaw. The sting of stubble was different but not unpleasant, and he thought about it against his neck, his chest. Anywhere that would leave that pleasurable tingling of short hairs on his skin.

"Good." Already his fingers were working on the buttons of Dylan's shirt, wanting to touch him, to feel wanted, to do what he could be amazing for him. It had nothing to do with the shooting, or the blood taken, or even the feeling still of how it had felt to grind wantonly against the other man, and was all about Daniel wanting to show Dylan just how good he could be.

Dylan didn't particularly care about the reasoning -- it was a little hard to, even if he wanted to, what with the kisses, with Daniel's fingers in his shirt. Humming, he tilted his head away, giving him better access to his throat and, perhaps counter-productively, albeit not intentionally so, wrapped his arms around Daniel's waist and tugged him hard against it.

It was a shame, almost, that Daniel wasn't like him, not anymore, that he couldn't grow fangs, bite him, drink from him. Maybe that was something he'd see if he couldn't work out later. Not turn Daniel, if he even could since he wasn't a true vampire, but order him to become a monster in body and see if it worked. For now, though, he made due with pulling up the back of Daniel's shirt, holding it in place with his wrists and digging his nails into his skin as if that would help him pull him closer. As if it were physically possible.

For a man who made his living with the nimbleness of his fingers, he felt actually clumsy in that moment. Feeling it was taking forever to get each button open, taking too much time he could be using for so much else.

Pressing in as strong arms held him tight, kissing and licking and nipping at the planes and lines of Dylan's chest, soft hairs brushing his cheek. Like the stubble it was a stark reminder who he was with, where he was going with each popped button and soft, desperate sound he made. Not even caring how he sound with every soft ground and whimper, even in sex Daniel couldn't just shut up, after all.

Suddenly he arched, crying out with a sound that nearly caught in his throat as he felt nails dig into his skin. It burned and felt good and he shifted so they dug deeper as he found himself grinding against Dylan once more.

Begging. He had mentioned begging in that tone that sent shocks through Daniel.

"Please? Please more. Strip me down. Touch me. Bite me. Please, Dylan? I need you."

Despite his obvious pleasure at the begging and Daniel pressing himself against him again, Dylan still managed a (mostly) dignified albeit amused noise at the bite me comment. Never mind the fact that he planned on it, probably wouldn't be able to help himself once they were going in earnest even if he didn't take much in the way of blood. Just enough to make it good for Daniel. Just enough to make it good for himself with the taste of his pleasure under his tongue and his thoughts in his head.

Either way, that done, he pulled away a little, just enough to plant a hand on Daniel's chest and push him roughly backwards towards the wall. He followed a beat after that, and quickly, inhumanly so, there and then practically on top of Daniel in the span of a heartbeat. He leered down at him for a breath or two, eyes still dark, bloody, and then held up a hand, wincing faintly as his nails split, fell away, shards of bone pushing up from under them. Maybe he'd wait on finding out if he could give Daniel claws, among other things, but he could and would use everything he had at his disposal for himself.

He flexed his fingers once they'd come in, stopped growing, and then reached to lay a single fingertip, clawpoint over Daniel's heart. He held it there for a moment, and then he was dragging his finger down over Daniel's chest carefully, newly grown nails cutting through his shirt as if it were paper. It was easier, ruining his clothes than trying to get him out of them properly, he could always find something new later. And if he complained? Well, Dylan missed it, slicing a thin line across his chest as he finished before leaning in to press his mouth to the wound with a low, pleased sound as blood welled up in it. It wasn't a bite, but it would have the same effect.

All it had taken was a few touches, that insanely good bite, and suddenly Daniel was a mewling kitten, begging for more. He didn't even care that he was begging, that the man he was begging was his mentor, a friend, and now he just wanted whatever he'd give him. Just so that he could feel wanted, special, needed.

So when he was pushed back, he made a sound, a squeak, hating that maybe it was ending. If Dylan laughed, he wasn't sure he could or would ever recover. Not that it mattered. A moment later Dylan was there, looming over him in a way he suspected only Dylan could manage. Only this Dylan could manage.

He gasped as Dylan's nails split, staring at them, stunned. Watching as his nails grew, not sure what to think. "Dylan..."

A shiver of fear running through him, stunned and utterly confused.

Yet then he knew. It wasn't denying him but wanting him. Stripping him down with that exquisite control as his shirt fell open, baring pale skin with that red ribbon where the claw had opened his skin. He didn't doubt it was intentional.

Especially not when he began suckling at the blood. Crying out softly at the sensation. Writhing, trying to get his hands between them, fingers fumbling for Dylan's fly to try and get them over.

"Fuck. That should not feel that good," he moaned, trembling as he fought to try and get to more.

making war just for fun (for first_rule)

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