#like sulfer and copper at the same time

[michael-pemulis]

I just need everyone who has never smelled elemental selenium to know it smells so terrible. really awful experience.

[scriveyner]

let it rest in peace 4/4

It was autumn, when they first heard the hounds.

Keith was sitting in the porch swing, reading the particulars on some Blade project he was involved in; which had led to James sticking his fingers in his ears and pretending he had no idea what was going on because he was not going to Japan again, Keith. Keith rolled his eyes and gently smacked James on the head, who laughed, and eventually wandered out to join Keith in the swing, using Keith’s lap as a pillow.

The sun set early, and they could both hear the bay of the hunting dogs, distant on the east wind.

Keith’s arms tightened over James’s chest, as the cries faded into the twilight.

Read on AO3 or 

#

“I won’t let him take you,” Keith said, and James stood at the window and stared into the night. They hadn’t heard the dogs in weeks, but he knew, he could feel the prickle of warning. “You don’t belong to the Hunt, you belong to me.”

James snorted, turned from the window with his arms folded. “I belong to you, huh? Want to try that again?”

“You know what I meant,” Keith said, putting his hand on James’s side and steering him from the window.

“My family’s cursed,” James said softly. “You can’t outrun a curse like this, not forever.” He leaned into Keith. “At least I got to be happy, for a while.”

Keith put his palms on James’s shoulders. “Don’t fucking talk like that,” he said, anger making his voice harsh. “If that… whatever the fuck it was wants to show its stupid face to me I will tear it off before I let you go be a fucking hunting dog.” He caught James’s face with his hand, held it, met his eye. “You’re no one’s dog, James.”

James took Keith’s wrist, pulling his hand up and kissing his palm. “I don’t want you to get hurt trying to protect me, Keith,” he said. “You’re too important to too many people.”

Keith threaded their fingers together, held James’s hand, looked him in the eye. “My husband comes first.”

James smiled sadly against Keith’s mouth when Keith kissed him.

#

The howl woke James from a dead sleep. It wasn’t the bay of the hounds—he could hear that now too, clawing his way to consciousness, alongside the single tone of a hunting horn that reverberated in his chest—but the howl of a wolf, a challenge, a message.

Keith.

James lunged upright—or attempted to, his wrists yanked back and nearly wrenching his arms. He flailed wildly about, heard the scrape of metal against metal and arched his back—to realize that his wrists were cuffed together, threaded through one of the slats of their headboard.

He flopped back into the mattress, staring upside-down in disbelief.

He was going to fucking kill Keith.

The barking, baying, snarling—all passed by outside, out the window and away—toward the taunting howl of a wolf. James balled his hands into fists, yanking the handcuffs so hard they bit into his skin, drew blood. He twisted, didn’t have much leverage at all, but braced his feet on the bed and with one enormous yank, cracked the headboard.

Blood made his wrists slick. He didn’t bother trying to force the cuffs open, the chain gave like it was string. He could hear the howl in the distance still, and the singular notes of the hunting horn. His shoulder bounced into the door that he expected to open, and James rattled the doorknob of their bedroom door for a second as he realized it was locked from the outside.

Oh, he and Keith were going to have some words when James caught up to him…if there was anything left to have words with.

The moon was full and low, amber behind the skeletal tree limbs. James stood on the front porch, chest heaving and closed his eyes, listening to the night.

He’d never noticed it before, the way the trees seemed to line up, to form a pathway. James ran barefoot in the woods, head down; could hear somehow, the snapping jaws and snarling muzzles, he could smell the tang of copper, of blood spilled onto the dry leaves and he ran faster, faster than he’d ever moved before, sinuous, breath steaming from his open mouth.

Fingers curled into claws, churning the loam and there, he could see them now, the spectral white cwn annwn, eyes and ears gleaming red as they circled Keith, growling and biting; the wights on horses in a ring, some holding torches and others swords—and him, the antlered one, a white pelt over his shoulders and a horn in his hand. James was through the clearing, bowling the hounds over, snapping and snarling, fangs ripping through flesh and fur and leaving no trace behind save the sensation of the abyss and the taste of grave-dirt.

And Keith… Keith was alive, still, torn up and limping, stinking of blood and leaves stuck to his fur but he headbutted James, wound around him, watched his back as James turned and stood tall, defiant before the lord of the hunt.

“You can’t have him,” James said, one hand out to keep Keith behind him, panting hard. “You want me, here I am. Leave him out of this.”

The cwn annwn circled them both, growling low, salivating and snarling but now, keeping their distance.

Gwyn ap Nudd lowered his hunting horn, leaned on the pommel of his saddle and looked down at James with coal-dark eyes. “Tell me, Griffin ap Griffin,” he said, “do you know, what ere we hunt?”

“The souls of the damned,” James said softly.

The antlered figured pulled on the reins of his horse and it whinnied, dancing on hooves that left smoke and sulfer behind as he laughed. “Damnation is the purview of gods, faoladh. Only mortal men may join my Wild Hunt.”

Gwyn ap Nudd raised his horn to his lips and blew—and this time, it was silent. James looked around, baffled, as the wights raised torches and swords and circled their horses—before the white hounds took off into the darkness and the mounted riders followed, leaving the lord of the hunt.

“I… I don’t understand,” James said, chest heaving. “The curse…”

“To join the Hunt is no curse, but a privilege bestowed upon the lineage of those who once stood at my side.” Gwyn ap Nudd pulled at the reins and his horse danced back. “Perhaps, one day you will understand what you lost, faoladh, Griffin ap Griffin. Farewell.”

And like that, the clearing emptied of light, of sound—and James sank to his knees, chest heaving. Keith butted up against him, sliding against his side until his hand gripped James’s neck and he touched their heads together.

“James,” Keith’s voice was ragged, from shifting, snarling, fighting, “you, you were a, you—“

He stared at his hands in the dirt, blood streaked up his arms from where the cuffs had been but were gone now, lost along the way. He lifted one hand, gripped the back of Keith’s neck in much the same way, and closed his eyes, laughing desperately. “I know,” he said, could still feel the power in his limbs, the effortless movement, lighter than air. “I know.”

He was free.

#

“Do it again,” Keith said, sitting on the porch and supervising James in the yard below. James groaned and flopped onto his back, staring at the swatches of blue sky that escaped between the cloud cover. “C’mon, I know you can.”

“I can’t,” James said petulantly. “I, I don’t know. I just can’t.”

Smooth as silk, the black wolf glided across to him, circling once and sitting in front of him before resolving into Keith kneeling at his head. “It’s simple.”

“Says the wolf.” James grunted and sat up, rubbed his face with both hands. “I don’t know, okay? It’s not like,” he waved his hand at Keith, who smoothly dropped into a black wolf. “Showoff. Hey!”

Keith danced back on four legs, tongue still out from where he’d licked James’s face. “Get back here, you!”

Shiro’s Jeep rumbled up the dirt driveway, disrupting the two wolves wrestling on the lawn. Shiro was half out of the driver’s side when he saw them, freezing in place—and James came up on his feet, realizing his nudity all at once but Keith took his hand, squeezed it and then waved to Shiro. “Look,” Keith called, and Shiro left the door to the Jeep open, crossing the yard to them.

“Oh sure,” Lance yelled. “Leave me to carry all the shit!”

Three wolves—white, black, and mottled silver—chased each other in the autumn sunlight and Lance, hands on his hips, sighed in exasperation. “Werewolves,” he huffed, and carried the groceries inside.

#

James always loved to watch Keith run.

Moonlight dappling on black fur, snowflakes caught and settling atop his coat, head down and paws churning the ground, moving as fast as a bullet from a gun. He was coiled muscle and unlimited potential, racing the waves along the beach as the snow swirled in the air around him.

He came back around, trotting, chest heaving and breath steaming, before taking off again like a shot. This time, though, James matched him, kept up stride for stride, black and silver in the night.

“Run with me,” Keith said, eyes bright, hand outstretched.

James, exhausted, laughed and took his hand.