Chapter Text
The Drifter has never been a picky eater when it came to prey.
Food is food, violence is violence; it’s a principle of his nature. He’s a vagabond boogeyman who can’t really remember how to be human and doesn’t care to re-learn it. But Mirage was one of the few who were different. He didn’t quiver or back down from the very-real statements the Drifter meant. His head never bowed down unless it was to greet or to give respect. Warm eyes that looked absolutely heavenly when full of rage and dedication to his cause. Blood that rushed the same way wine pours from a fancy bottle. That always smelled faintly of something sweet and heavy.
It drove him insane- more than the usual sweet-scented victim. It made a small, primal part of his brain desire to claim his prey with more than a bite. To wrap his hands, larger and clawed from ritualistic gain beyond his control, around the thin wrists of Mirage and tear his uniform into shreds. To leave bites across a lithe, well-trained body (and to taste the no-doubt delicious copper blood.) To hear Mirage’s sounds reverberate from his vocal chords, to feel the shudder of pain under his nails; he wants to taste Mirage’s tears. He wants Mirage.
The problem was, Mirage is a smart man. Smarter than most, if the Drifter had to give his opinion. Jabs and goading him only ended in Mirage teleporting away with Nashala in his arms. Genuine attempts at conversation (attempt is a broad word) were met with Mirage icing him out. The only times he seems to let his walls down were whenever it was about Wyoming and the Djinn’s cause, or (oddly enough) about the things the Drifter has seen or what Mirage wants to try. Over the weeks of their ‘encounters’, they slowly came to some sort of agreement. With a healthy amount of distance between them, alongside the threat of Nashala’s fire if he got too close, they were something like friends; they would talk about their separate travels, the things they’ve seen and tried. Mirage would sometimes talk about his homeland, and the Drifter would daydream about following him to Wyoming; that if Mirage won the Ritual, freed from his position as an Emissary of the Djinn, the Drifter would follow him and claim him for as long as he could.
Most of that is not important (but the Drifter can be a pondering man when it comes to prey he likes.) Being stuck in a tiny ghost alleyway, one where they are pressed against each other torso-to-torso, is important because the Drifter is doing his best not to drool at how fucking sweet Mirage smells while fighting off getting hard. It isn’t going well, especially with how he’s hunched over the shorter man. (He’s not that short; the Drifter is just unfortunately tall.)
“Stop drooling, vampire,” Mirage hisses, having the audacity (and, in hindsight, the gall) to cover the Drifter’s mouth with a gloved hand. “We’re trying not to get caught.”
Their current predicament was mainly due to their new habit of meeting late in the night: recently, patrols of the Friends of Humanity had hit the streets in lower-class areas, which led to a scramble of the two men trying to melt into the shadows without causing a disruption. If only someone would put him out of his misery now; having Mirage so close but so out-of-reach, metaphorically, was making him hunger like never before.
After a moment, Mirage finally moves his hand. He wipes it off on the Drifter’s shirt, and the impulse grab of his wrist makes the bodyguard still for a moment. “Let go.”
The feeling of Mirage’s gloved hand against his chest.
“Vampire, let go.”
The warmth. The thrum of blood under his skin, in his veins, the scent the scent the smell of honey and spices and gun polish–
“Drifter!”
“Mirage,” he manages out, unable to stop the craving in his tone, but lets go. “You either leave by yourself or I’m not gonna hold back.” The drool is thick in his mouth, and he’s faintly aware of the panting breaths he’s taking. His body might be shaking with energy and desire. The Drifter feels exposed and full of adrenaline: he’s hungry. He’s wanting, and the man in front of him hasn’t fucking moved. “Yer drivin’ me crazy, pretty boy. I’m not-”
“Have you fed?”
“Not yet,” he grunts, a hand digging into the brick behind Mirage. “If you don’t fuckin’ leave—”
And suddenly, albeit hesitantly, there’s the exposed tanned skin of Mirage’s wrist. The sight alone makes his dick twitch. “Feed from me,” Mirage mutters, and oh he’s a fucking degenerate too crosses the Drifter’s mind before the wrist is brought closer to his bared teeth. When did those show? Who cares.
It tastes like nothing he’s had before while being the best thing he’s ever ate. He can’t silence the groan of desire as his fangs puncture smooth skin. The Drifter pulls Mirage closer, reorienting his arm to bite again while removing the glove, and the flood of blood into his mouth finally allows him to give in. “Y’taste sweet,” he manages, although his tongue feels heavy as he laps up the blood oozing from the bitemark. When the Drifter finally looks up, he thinks his body might have twitched from the expression he’s met with.
Mirage is… flushed. Not visible in the dark, cramped alleyway, pressed against him. But he can feel the warmth from Mirage’s cheek, his neck, can hear how the blood is flowing to his face and ears and oh– the Drifter grins wide, blood-stained teeth bare as he licks long up from his palm to where the blood continues to flow down. “Pretty boy,” he murmurs, one hand grabbing Mirage’s waist and the other keeping a tight hold. “Y’gonna scream fer me?”
“If– ah, if you can make me.”
The alleyway doesn’t give them space to remove clothes; rather, the Drifter’s impatience has him claw through the uniform the guard wears. It reveals a chest of peppered hair and faint scars, only visible to him with his enhanced sight, and he can’t help but lift Mirage and take another bite on his shoulder. The sounds Mirage is making– the sensation of his bulge against the Drifter’s is not enough to distract how he desperately tries to remember everything. Panting breath in his ear as his larger hand moves to squeeze Mirage’s crotch. Shuddering skin as he licks from a bloody wound up to his ear. “Vampire,” is breathed out, and the Drifter groans into a blood-stained kiss that ends with Mirage biting his lower lip. He laughs.
“Tryin’ to goad a hungry predator ain’t smart, pretty thing.”
“I am– hah, not helpless,” Mirage manages, the sudden press of steel to the Drifter’s temple startling. “If you feed too much…” the message is clear, but the Drifter could care less by the threat directly aimed at him. It’s more erotic than it probably should be.
The next few moments are a blur of movement, noise, and sensation. When the Drifter feels a little more back in his body, he’s got his hand wrapped around both of their weeping dicks. His hand smears blood and pre over them, and his eyes trail upwards to view the scratches and bites and (good Christ, was he a young man again?) hickeys left in his frenzy. Mirage is panting and his upper lip is bloody, mirroring the Drifter’s lower scabbed lip. “I think I like ya like dis,” the Drifter purrs, jerking them off while he leans in to breathe in Mirage’s scent. “Bloody an’ under me. S’nice view. Sure ya ain’t thought about quittin’ the bodyguard role?”
There’s no response, but the keen from him as the Drifter runs his thumb over the sensitive head of Mirage’s cock is a good enough answer. The two are left breathing and panting in each other’s air until Mirage cums with a broken “Drifter” and digs his nails deep into the vampire’s neck. In a sudden turn, Mirage leans in and bites, hard, and that makes the Drifter cum with a long drawn out groan.
The Drifter and Mirage lean against each other, panting, in the ghost alleyway. Neither say a word as Mirage does his best to fix his uniform, although the annoyance on his face is worth it to the Drifter. “If you need to feast in a dire time,” Mirage mutters, heartbeat racing as he offers. “You can look for me. I… may offer you my blood, if I feel like doing so.”
The Drifter grins and, after tucking himself away and cleaning his cum-bloody hand on his pantleg, presses a bloodier kiss to Mirage’s cheek. “Sweet of ya t’think o’ me, cher. I’ll see yah around, don’t y’worry.” And he means it. The Drifter won’t be leaving him alone anytime soon, even if it means chasing him all the way to fucking Wyoming.
“That is why I will worry, vampire,” Mirage tells him, disappearing in a cloud of smoke and sand. The scent of hawthorn and herbs fills the alleyway as the Drifter whistles out, a new heartbeat hammering like a rabbit a few streets away enticing him to prey he’s only thinking about eating.
Mirage, he’s happy to learned, tastes like honey, cinnamon and something like expensive liquor. The smell of gun polish mixed in with sweat and the undeniable humanity has created a luxury the Drifter will be chasing.
In his subconscious mind, Mirage has moved from prey to mine.