Title: Dog and Pony Show
Author: leahalexis
Summary: "It sickens you in a way that winds you up, turns you on, makes you want a piece of your own." Missing Josh/Aidan scene from "Dog Eat Dog."
A/N: I . . . don't know where this came from. Especially the second person POV bit. (Also, I belatedly realized I'd managed to remember the cage logistics wrong; we'll pretend it was poetic license . . .)
It's incredible they can't tell, the way his baleful gaze keeps straying to your face, confusion, hurt growing every moment. Almost nothing has ever been harder, looking at him like he's just another piece of meat, cold, disinterested—nothing but your dick as they order him to strip down. Too many centuries of power games, maybe, because it's not like you've never seen him bare before, his chest and thighs, in hospital locker rooms, on laundry day at the house, but there's something about the enforced blankness of your expression, his stupidly ordinary boxers, the gleam of the Star of David at his throat and the Amish bastards bending him over, counting vertebrae, breathing him in like prey—it sickens you in a way that winds you up, turns you on, makes you want a piece of your own.
/
You come back after. The light's dim, the professor's passed out on his books, a pre-slaughter nap.
"Come for another look at the merchandise?" he spits, so much bitterness, and you reach through the bars, grab the front of his shirt and crush his mouth to yours.
He flails, shocked, before his fingers clamp around the cage bars and he's pushing back just as hard, teeth clacking as you try to devour each other, hunger desperation need on your side, anger hurt aggression on his. You suck his tongue into your mouth, graze it with your fangs as your hands wrap over his, and he moans, presses closer. You get a knee between the bars, between his thighs, and he's already rutting against it as it slots into place. The bars are unyielding as they bite into your chest, your hip, his body heat blistering where you touch around the hard cold metal.
He turns into the wolf tonight and you can smell it on him; it's overbearing, so close, clogging your senses. You can feel it, barely leashed, in the way he attacks your mouth, in the growl that rises from his throat as, silent, you swallow as much as you can from him, take your punishment, let him bruise your mouth. His breaths between your mouths are shorter, harsher, and a whine starts in his throat as you force your hips forward hard, thrust your knee higher, feeling like you're throwing yourself at the goddamn cage bars and you cannot lose him as his hips stutter and you can feel the wetness through your pant leg, accusatory, hot.
One moment he's there, riding out the aftershocks, and the next he's six feet away, wiping his mouth, staring at you like you're wearing a different face and you stumble back, hard as a rock, aching, unsatisfied, tormented, and when he opens his mouth to speak you turn on your heel and flee.
You have to find Bishop. You cannot let him die. You have to find Bishop.