12 comments/ 24696 views/ 24 favorites Shapeshifter Ch. 01 By: metajinx ~~~ * ~~~ This story is purely fictional - no shapeshifters, punks, cars or flats were hurt in the process. If you don't like violence, please stop reading right here - there will be weapons, drugs, manhandling and rough sex. Not all of it, not in every part of the story, put you may get hung up once you start! Also, please excuse my English - It isn't my first language. This story will be continued. Have fun! ~~~ * ~~~ I sighed, breathing in the cool spring air. It was one of those nights, the cold, windy ones, which made me restless, made me leave my safe apartment, made me stride into the ghetto. Away, just away from the prickly clean streets of the Central District and down into the abyss of dirt, crime and poverty. I knew I would stand out from the typical crowd as I approached the 'Philtre', one of the few nightclubs near the district borders. The entrance was crammed with waiting people, most of them wearing the typical tattered clothes of the Punk lifestyle, a few black clothed Gothics in between the mohawked folk. My violet leather jacket embossed with snake skin patterns would be the first indication that I 'wasn't from around here', but if someone saw the Versace blend on my skin tight leather trousers, I'd be done for. The ghetto people hated nothing more than the 'rich bastards from Central', and my attire screamed MONEY in capital letters. So why was I here, I mused, watching the busy nightclub from a distance. Was it a death wish? Finally ending my existence of boredom and loneliness as I should have done many times before? Maybe. With flaring nostrils I started walking again, hands in the pockets of my jacket, the teased strands of pitch black hair bouncing in the spring breeze. I had just turned nineteen, a slim, elegant figure of barely male build, as sweet and innocent looking as can be. Some people thought me younger, sixteen maybe, rather a boy than a young man, but didn't all teenagers look the same? My looks had been an advantage before, sparing me from a good few punches when I had hooked up with the wrong crowd, but right now I was pretty sure I'd get into trouble for 'looking too young'. Approaching the bouncer, I fingered for my ID, pulling it out before the man could say anything. A ripped poster at the steel door announced the band 'Angerhammer', a fitting name for the shrieking noise coming from behind the thick felt curtain covering the door frame. The bouncer took his time comparing the ID to my face, and I couldn't help but smile at his guarded facial expression. How often had I seen exactly that look? Finally I got motioned inside, took my ID with a purring "Thank you," and walked through the curtains. The room smelled of sweat, beer and cigarettes, mixed with the still lingering aroma of disinfectants; an artificial, wonderful scent that buried itself deep inside my brain. It was one of the advantages/disadvantages of being a shape-shifter, to have this increased ability to smell and remember scents that made my life a sweet agony of memories and nostalgia; that made it worth living a bit longer yet. Angerhammer still jammed and mistreated their instruments, entertaining a crammed, but small crowd of head-banging drunks, filling the room with the angry sneer of raw emotions. Just a bit too loud, and a bit too tuneless I decided, as I weaved my way through the fixated audience, striving for the bar at the other side of the room. Flashes of blue light danced over my body as I passed the stroboscope, blinded by the intensity of the small gadget. For a second I couldn't see anything but black and white specks dancing in front of my eyes, and when I ran into something solid, I didn't realize it was a person rather than the counter itself. "How about a 'Sorry', scrap?" a slightly hoarse, but agreeable voice growled right next to my ear, while a strong hand grabbed my arm, and made me register my mistake. Slowly my eyesight returned to normal, and I found myself in front of a slender, muscular man dressed in typical ripped black army-pants and a muscle shirt with a band logo I didn't recognize. Piercings of every known flavour adorned his nose, brows, lips and ears, fitting perfectly with the bleached blonde mohawk haircut and the utterly amused expression on his face. It took me nearly thirty seconds to stop staring, and mutter "Sorry." before I remembered how to breathe, and more importantly, how to blush. It wasn't that this guy had THE looks, he didn't act charming or lovely at all. Just shy of 180 cm in height he loomed over me, storm blue eyes staring down at me with a mixture of good-natured humour and just a tic of volatile intent, as if undecided as to whether he should grab me and ruffle my hair, or just break my neck. He didn't even look clean, with his tangled clothes and grazed boots and all, smelling faintly of beer, smoke and just a tickle of Axe. The piercings made him just a bit too archaic for my normal tastes, but there was something, something about the sight of that guy just got me off. Scared with the sudden intensity of forbidden lust I shrank back emotionally and one of the dozens of social masks slipped into my demeanour. A smile, cocky and purely kittenish crawled across my face, and with a good amount of internal horror I watched myself chirp right into the stranger's face "How about you get a beer for you an' me, and I'll pay?" Fighting the urge to run away I watched Mohawk think, returning the solemn look with a purely charming one. I knew myself, knew this state of auto-piloting through socially awkward moments, and I knew that Mohawk there wouldn't see anything that betrayed my seemingly perfect flirtation. Nothing except a young guy, a boy, getting hot over him and overdoing the friendliness just a bit. This was my safety valve, being able to flirt and piss off his chosen one at the same time. Finally, Mohawk seemed to come to a decision, and gestured to the barkeeper who started muttering low voiced complaints about giving away alcohol to minors, but was shut up fast when he saw the large banknote I handed over to my new friend. Money talked, and I knew I'd have gotten the beer even without the help of my pierced companion. This way it was just a bit less awkward, and I wrung out a smile when I reached for one of the bottles. Mohawk seemed to have another idea though, and just before I could grab the bottle, he pulled it up and out of my reach. Well, I could have leaned in and try to snatch it from his hand while pressing myself against the front of my new friend, but the thought alone made me shudder excitedly, so I didn't even try it. Nothing ruined the mood as fast as pressing an emerging hard-on against the knee of a straight guy. "How old are ya'?" Mohawk drawled with a slightly husky voice that gave away the consumption of too many cigarettes and whisky, a frisky smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, as he wagged the upheld bottle a bit. A low sigh escaped my lips, then I smiled shyly and purred "Nineteen. Getting on your moral high ground there, Gramps?". 'Teasing again, are you sure that's such a good idea?' I scolded myself silently, trying not to cringe under the stare of my new acquaintance, but returning it with a seemingly effortless smile. Mohawk frowned, then he broke into a grin and offered me the bottle with a wink. "Can't blame an old man for worrying, can you." I snorted, then grinned back, taking a sip. 'Old, are you kiddin' me? Can't be that much over twenty.' I mused, registering the absence of crow's feet, or any signs of wrinkles. One fast look-over, and I decided on 'around twenty-five'. Not too old, not too young, probably already sexually established, presumably NOT interested in guys. Gay folk didn't dress like this, I thought, and fought to keep my smile in place. 'Such a pity. Time to end this little prank.' I decided, and shot one last smile at Mohawk before stepping back and purring "You can keep the change, as a little thank you for getting me the beer." Inside, I hoped to piss off that decidedly too hot guy and get going. The tightness in my skin tight trousers was killing me, and I pulled my jacket closer around myself to hide the obvious state of my libido without thinking about it. Outwardly I sauntered away like a dancing kitten, without haste or rush, smiling over some private joke. Inside I was running screaming at the mere thought of touching that guy. I couldn't have stopped if I had started. I wasn't gay, I was sure of this. The sight of a nude male didn't leave me dripping pre-cum and drooling brainlessly, and I didn't check out random guys in bars or pubs. Couldn't be gay, having had more girlfriends in my short life than some celebrities. I enjoyed girls, and they enjoyed me. But sometimes, occasionally, I met someone that awakened some deep, dark lust inside me, mostly because of a glance, a special scent, a gesture. It was like a curse, living in this world of permanent temptations, and I had learned a way to deal with this - drugs. I left the main room and headed for the toilets, entering a hallway next to the bar. Here, it was dark, cool, smelling faintly of the sharp pang heroin gave off when heated, cigarettes and vomit. Unclean would have been incorrect, and dirty didn't cover the extent of refuse and dirt covering the floor. The furious whines of Angerhammer were dampened by the whirring of a ventilation system and the bubbling of the busy drainpipes. I took a few moments for myself to enjoy the quietness of this way more rotten piece of space. Out of this quietness the sounds of urgent, hushed copulation emerged, giving me an idea of the multiple ways to 'use' a bathroom. It got pretty clear that emptying the ol' bladder wasn't top priority in this part of the 'Philtre', and the mere thought made my stomach clench in excitement; firstly because I admitted to being a voyeur in relation to every flavour of sex, and secondly because I didn't intend to pay cash for my fix today. With silent steps I paced through the few bystanders - some of them waiting to be able to actually pee, some of them waiting for a customer - intently looking for someone giving away the 'dealer-image'. They weren't hard to spot if you knew what you were looking for, and it didn't take long to find the local one, a thin, unclean looking pale guy with stubble on his chin and greasy hair. His steady fidgeting gave him away as a dealer/user, and made me look for an alternative for a few seconds. Users weren't into sex as payment as much as clean dealers, but the latter were way harder to find. Sure enough I didn't spot anyone else, and finally gave in with a sigh. I approached the weasely looking guy with a small smile, unpackaged my 'nervous, but hopeful'-expression, and started the verbal tug o' war over payment for a simple H-fix. Guys like this dealer did get their claws into some women now and then, but most of them were sick already, or thin like broomsticks, and here I had an advantage - I was beautiful, not handsome, my features a bit girlish, definitely not masculine, and I liked to wear make-up and skin tight clothing. If you went down the drug alley far enough, you didn't care for the gender anymore, as long as you could pretend. Pretending it was a girl sucking his dick was what Joey the dealer did a few minutes later. Leaning against the tile wall of the men's room, trousers open and tugged down enough to expose his lean cock. He had a firm grip on my hair, as if in fear of getting bitten. Joey's crotch smelled of sweat and day old clothes;, and the wetness of the stained floor was slowly soaking my knees, but I ignored those incommodities. The frustrated sexual tension that had built up while dealing with Mohawk before now went into the working of my tongue. I delved into the exploration of Joey's cock, working the tip of my tongue around the small slit on the tip of Joey's prick before sucking him deeper to scan for the bulging veins on the underside of his shaft. Joey purred a coarse, hushed groan, as I put a bit of pressure behind my sucking, and pulled my head into his crotch with a sharp tug that made me gasp. Feeling my own cock twitch in sweet agony against the tightness of my pants I gasped softly, and worked my tongue harder down Joey's length. Slurping, wet sounds filled the bathroom, and even though I couldn't stop and peek, I felt the intense glares of bystanders after a few moments. An audience, perfect! my mind purred in utter delight, and made me ram my head down until Joey's prick pushed into the back of my throat. The dealer uttered a low oath, his shaft twitched one time, then a second time, and then he grasped my head more harshly and bucked into my mouth, hot semen flooding down my gullet. It took him quite some time, giving me the sensation of suffocating before he stopped fucking my head, and let go of me. As he pulled out, a thread of spunk dribbled out of the corner of my mouth, making Joey raise his hand to scoop it up with two fingers and lick them clean. Then Joey seemed to realize we had been watched, swore under his breath and let a small plastic baggie fall onto the floor before fleeing the scene. I picked up the baggie, and shook it a bit to inspect the grey contents. Most of the time you had to be pretty careful on what you injected, some dealers tended to give one-timers unclean drugs to save money, but the powder looked pretty clean. Tasting it with one finger I took a good look around to find a solution for the other small problem that kept me from getting into subspace, someone to inject the H. I hated needles up to an extent where I risked a full-blown turkey before I did it myself. Not that this had ever happened, there was always some junkie who'd do it for me for a few bucks. Right now, two shabby, starved creatures stood near the exit of the men's room and mustered me with the dead eyes of carnivorous creatures. Was I prey? Was I not? One of them eyed the small plastic bag in my hand with an intense glare. He had a green close-cut mohawk, his clothing tangled and dirty beyond wearable, face pale like a ghost, thick black rings around his eyes. His left hand shook with small, hasty tremors, giving away his need for a fix. Before the guy could decide on jumping me and giving me a good whack, I waved him near, and purred "Enough for both of us, mate, what'cha say?" We locked ourselves into one of the cubicles and got the shots ready in no time. My new companion smelled of sweat and dirty human refuse, a fine thread of sickness in the stink that surrounded him. HIV positive, I concluded, while unpacking my one-way-syringe, once again grateful over having enough money to buy such small conveniences. When the other man injected the shot into my arm, I was surprised by the concentrated carefulness the guy applied. He must have been a good-hearted, nice fellow once, I thought to myself, and ignored the pain that thought brought to my heart. No use getting all melancholic over strangers, damn it! I chastised myself, biting my tongue to stop myself from asking questions that were none of my business. Luckily the H started racing through my body, made me gasp softly, cleared my head to the point of burning bliss and let me sink back onto the toilet seat, while my helper injected his own shot, and stumbled out of the cubicle with a grunted "Cheers!". I watched the two junkies go with a trance-like stare, pondering about the fact that I had forgot to ask my fixing partner if he wanted a blowjob. It took me nearly two minutes to realize that someone was leaning against the wall opposite my cubicle-kingdom, staring at me in amused silence. Another thirty seconds went by as I reviewed my guest with crawling-slow thoughts, until I realized that it was the mohawked guy I had been all hot over before. Then my heart started to race, pumping adrenaline-drowned blood into my brain - and into my loin. I gasped, then froze as I realized what the guy held in his right hand. Mohawk had a gun pointed at me, still smiling. ~*~ "Wait!" I cried with upheld hands. "What for? You're a done deal, mate." Mohawk rasped, the corners of his mouth twitching at some private joke, while he armed the gun, taking his time. It was a Beretta, a big, powerful handgun with a chromed muzzle, and it didn't look new or fake. For a second I had to fight against the urge to throw up as my stomach clenched into a tight ball, fighting to get back my voice. "Don't shoot damn it! I've got money, if that's what you want!" I snivelled while gasping for breath, still holding up my hands as if I could summon a bulletproof wall. The sudden fear for my life made my conscience laugh silently, but at the same time it felt intoxicating to drown in this panic. Was it like this when you loved your life? Too tense to even shiver I watched the thoughts work behind Mohawk's eyes, face empty and composed even though he too was aware of the fact that someone would be dying soon. His facial expression made my cock twitch. What would this man do to me if I brought him into my home? Would he even consider the money instead of the kill? Surely he'd been paid to come here and kill me. No one would kill a boy just because he'd been rude, now, would they? "What kinda money?" Mohawk drawled after an eternity, gun never wavering. His steel-blue eyes pierced into mine with an intense gaze. A short pause as my cock tried to pierce through the leather of my trousers, then I estimated the content of my safe, and purred with a hopeful lilt in my voice: "Three thousand dollars." This time I could see something in the eyes of my captor, a short flicker of interest, some small piece of human greed going online in his head. A leverage I could identify, and I jumped right for it. "I don't got more money, but you could have my TV, it's a flat-screen, 36 inches? And maybe, maybe some other stuff? I really don't wanna die here." I whimpered, words tumbling hastily from my lips. 'And security cameras, a team of roughnecks to kick you right back where you belong, and a panic room... All just a penthouse away' my conscience purred, while I blinked rapidly at the black maw of the Beretta. Again I could see Mohawk think, estimate the value against the problems, and then he put up the gun, and took three steps into the cubicle to grab for me. His hand wrapped around my elbow to pull me onto my feet. "You come with me, scrap." he rasped, smiling broadly, as he spun me around and pushed me out of the cubicle without letting go of my arm. A second later I could feel Mohawk's hand wandering beneath my jacket, then the muzzle of the Beretta pressed against my kidney. "Move it, scrap. Time's wasting." We left the 'Philtre' in silence, my captor pressed against my back, mimicking a loving embrace while the gun stayed where it was with iron constancy. I was led on with continuous firmness, getting directions through steady pulls and shoves that went smoothly with our pace. It was a strange, nearly intimate feeling of security to be handled that way, and it left me panting with anxious nervousness and a faint prickle of lust. Angerhammer had stopped shrieking, so the room was quieter than before, but people were still dancing in drunken stupor, shaking their bodies to the sound of the recorded music, making it hard to reach the exit straight away. Time seemed to slow down, then stop, when Mohawk pushed me out onto the streets, shadowing my movements with the slickness of a snake. "Where's your car?" he whispered, his breath touching my earlobe when he wound his body around me, playing the one-night-lover for nosy bystanders, and only the gun pressed against my back ruined my short daydream about getting it up the ass there and then. I caught my breath with a low hiss, trying to make it sound nervous, and failing when I felt Mohawk's crotch pressed against my backside. I felt a definite stiffness that shouldn't have been there, rubbing against me with thoughtless intensity. Then Mohawk bit my earlobe, tugged on it sharply, and reminded me that a question had been asked, but not answered. Shapeshifter Ch. 01 I shivered, gasping for air through clenched teeth, fighting the urge to rub against the hot hardness pressed against my ass with silent fury, then pointed down the road at the sign of a video surveillanced parking lot only a few buildings down the road. "Parked there." I panted, trying to stand very still and ignore the bulge in my own pants. Behind me I heard Mohawk swear silently, then a firm tug set us in motion again. "If you think you can be clever there, I'll shoot you. I will put up the gun now, but there are other ways to kill you. One would be to put my switchblade against your kidney, like this," I felt the gun move away, then being replaced with another metal object, the hilt of a switchblade knife I guessed, "and just pull the switch twice. In, out, dead, no one will see why you toppled over, they'll think I just helped your drunk arse home and had to carry you. Getting my point?" I nodded hastily, trying to pull my jacket around myself more firmly to hide my erection, and the cold metal hilt disappeared from my back, as we entered the parking lot. A warm, muscled arm wound around my waist, pulling me close to an equally warm body, and for the few seconds it took us to approach my Lotus Europa I could pretend we really were a couple, walking home from a night out. The feeling of being pressed against another man's hip bathing in his scent and body heat made my head spin with lust, and at one point I could have sworn that Mohawk peeked down at my crotch after I made another small, humming sound of indulgence. Then we reached the sport's car, and Mohawk whistled in appreciation, as he examined the unique paint job. The Lotus had a magnetic doublecolored 3D-paint, with its pearl silver colour when examined from the front, getting reddish-coppered if you moved to the back. "Damn it scrap, now I DO believe you about the three thousand dollars." Mohawk rasped, then his hand grabbed my neck, spun me around, and shoved me against the side of the car. Just a second later Mohawk pressed his whole bodyline against me, moving a leg between my knees to pin my abdomen against the car, only stopping for the length of a heartbeat when he felt the hard bulge in my crotch. Then his other arm twined around my torso, and I could feel hot, soft lips against my neck as Mohawk bent down his head, and mimicked a kiss, while whispering "Aww, scrap, are you hot for me or do you hide a gun down there?" Any other time I would have laughed at such a stupid joke, but somehow I knew that something would follow that statement and I was proven right. As my neck was released, strong, manicured fingers groped my hard, pulsing cock right through my tight trousers, stroking me slowly and with perfectly measured pressure. My body shivered excitedly, then a slow, huffed moan escaped my lips as I leaned more heavily against my car, closing my eyes to concentrate on the knowing touch. Some of the tension seeped away silently, and just for a few seconds I was able to pretend that none of the things before this moment had happened. I would be able to touch him. I HAD to touch him. The hand disappeared from my crotch, leaving me with a distinct feeling of loneliness. "Get going, scrap. We've got things to do." Mohawk purred, and gave me a good shove. Then he climbed into the Lotus. ~*~ Central District lay in dead silence when I pulled into the parking garage beneath the building I was living in. The street lights shone artificially white over perfectly clean streets, the only sound the distant humming of the highway. My captor rode shotgun, gun at the ready, watching my profile and simply ignoring the view outside the window for most of the ride. When we pulled into an empty parking spot, he held out his free hand, and I dropped the car keys into his palm without saying a word. I would not escape this, at least not alive. The realisation had been seeping into my mind for the whole drive, paralysing my thoughts, unable to find a way out of the mess I'd stumbled into. What use would it do anyway? A few hours back I'd thought about dying out of boredom, die to flee the cage my complicated life had built around me, and now I was afraid of getting shot? Slowly I climbed out of the car and watched Mohawk walk around it with empty hands. Where had the gun gone? Again he lay his arm around my waist, pulled me close, and started walking towards the elevator as if he knew where we'd be going. His calculating, steel-blue eyes took in every detail of our surroundings, scanning for security cameras, exit routes or audiences, as he ushered me into the elevator, and followed me in. Head held low, I waited for the doors to close, then pushed the button labelled '20', and pressed my finger against the scan pad. Desperately I tried to ignore the looming presence of my 'guest', but again, Mohawk seemed to have other things in mind than being ignored. The elevator started to move, and Mohawk looked up at its ceiling, again searching for security cameras. Then his gaze found me, and some kind of dark humour sparkled in his pale blue eyes, bringing them to life. "Any live-in sweeties I should know about? I'd hate to shoot anyone just because you forgot to mention them." His voice sounded hollow in the confined space of the elevator, its usual rough purr flat and without echo. He moved against my back, again cradling me in his arms to press himself against my arse and put his lips against my neck, like a giant octopuss entwining boneless tentacles around its victim. I felt small and very, very helpless against the strength of his arms and the sweet seduction his body promised, always keeping in mind that this guy was armed and would presumably shoot him after robbing me. But then again, there was a thread of loneliness in the way Mohawk kept me near, touching me whenever possible, that made me see a spark of hope for survival. Maybe the fact that I was not struggling made Mohawk get closer to me naturally, but there was also a chance that my captor just felt the same attraction that I myself fought against. "No, I'm alone. No one will come looking for me. No one will miss me. No one will intervene." I whispered, trying hard not to react to the warm, soft lips what rubbed against my sensitive neck. I hadn't tried to move away, I hadn't even tensed, but instead leaned into the embrace that would mean death for me later on, and I could feel Mohawk get irritated about my passive, almost friendly demeanour. Irritated, he grabbed my hair at the back of my head to pull it sideways and get better access to my neck. He was very excited as he pressed his hard-on against my backside to let me feel his own erection. "Good." he purred quietly against the side of my neck, and pushed me through the opening elevator doors, again leaving me with a sudden craving for human touch. The suite was situated right next to the big, luscious Central Park, a vast space of precisely cut grass and trees that stretched around the Main Plaza like a crescent. The view was great at daytime, but at night it was spectacular - at least for those people who liked their surroundings dark and luminous. The lights of the street lamps looked like little fallen stars, huddling around the park borders as if ready to attack the natural darkness within it. Two of the four surrounding walls inside the suite were made of polished glass, dampening the sunlight at days and protecting the privacy of its inhabitant at night. The entrance lead directly into a vast living room, walls covered in shiny white and black wood casing. Two pitch black leather couches huddled around a chrome and glass coffee table, decorated with petite white cushions. The whole room was illuminated by numerous halogen spot lights, setting highlights and darkened places like someone had calculated how they had to fall to look right. A raised area right behind the couches contained the kitchen, complete with a counter to sit and drink flanked the living room like a built-in landscape, chrome kitchen utilities gleaming in the harsh halogen light. A hallway surrounded by opaque glass led away from the living room, leading to an equally vast bedroom with a four post cast iron bed, blood-red bedding covering black satin sheets. The other side of the hallway led into a chrome and white bathroom, big enough to contain another person's whole flat. It looked expensive, perfect, and very artificial. I moved into the suite without looking around, the surroundings all too familiar to spare a glance. Mohawk instead gawked around with a slightly alienated expression, and walked into the centre of the living room to take a good look around. "Damn it, scrap, who paid for all this shit?" he laughed, then dropped onto one of the couches and swang his boots onto it. I took off my jacket and pushed my hand against one of the wall covers. It sprang open with a clicking sound, revealing the wardrobe behind the white lacquered wood. I put the jacket inside, kicked off the boots, and closed it. I turned around and stepped closer, carefully keeping my suddenly darkened mood out of my face. How I hated talking about my family, or my life. "My father paid for it." I murmured, hoping no further questions would be asked. "So, your father's a rich bastard?" Mohawk went on, simply ignoring the implication in my voice, while he started picking his nails with the switchblade. He didn't even look up. "My father is head of Flatlands Inc." I answered again, hands balled into fists, awaiting the reaction that was inevitable. Mohawk stood up like a puppet pulled up by the strings. One second he lay there leisurely, the next second he walked to me, switchblade in hand. His face was astounded, dark, harsh, the piercing gaze of his steel-blue eyes made me shiver in fearful anticipation. "You are DeLargo's brat? THE DeLargo's offspring?" he hissed, and grabbed my hair with his free hand to pull my head back, and press the blade against my throat. All the humour was gone from his face, replaced by something very dark and dangerous, cautioning me to be very careful about what I was going to say next. "I'm his neglected bastard son." I whispered, as I started to shiver under the pressure of the deadly weapon against my throat. I tried very hard not to move at all, not daring to provoke my captor, but at the same time I had to fight against the urge to delve into memories that concerned my father. Memories of pain, of captivity, glimpses of dark cellars, chains and my father's ever present deep and angry voice. I heard Mohawk growl wordlessly, then I was pulled and pushed to the leather couches, and wrestled down onto my knees, while Mohawk sat down, knife still pressed against my throat. The leather protested softly under the weight of his angry, tense body. "You listen now, scrap. Your da' did a shitload of things I'd really love to kill him for. But right now I just got you, so it will be your bloody responsibility to show me, that you're not deserving to be killed instead of him." His grip tightened in my hair, then he moved the weapon away, and pressed the tip against my temple. "You are going to suck me off like you never sucked dick before. Or you die." My hands fumbled with the trouser button, fighting against the soft shaking in my fingers as well as against the fluttering anxiety in my stomach. Cautiously I pulled open the fly of Mohawk's trousers and grabbed inside to pull out his cock, shocked by the level of arousal I was presented with. The fingers in my hair tightened again, pulling me between Mohawk's spread knees, then bent me over, pushing my face down. I took a deep breath, steadying myself by putting my hands on Mohawk's thighs, and gulped down the nausea caused by the simmering fear roaring through my head. I could do this. I had done it right when Mohawk had found me. This was not worse. I had to do this right. Mohawk's crotch had not a single hair to be found there, which made the whole situation a bit less disturbing. A tug on my hair made me gasp, open my lips, and at the same second I got pushed down farther. The tip of his cock tasted of salty pre-cum and soap, reminding me that this man was not one of the dirty old bastards I got my fixes from. Holding my breath I closed my lips around the bell-end, setting my tongue to work. It was as it had always been - as soon as I tasted the flavour of aroused cock, I got fascinated with the structure, the taste, the reactions of the tool to my searching, caressing tongue. It took only three seconds for me to settle into the moment, then, the need took over. With a low, guttural moan I let my tongue glide over the glans, tracing the small slit with the tip, then working circles and caressing the retracted foreskin. I could feel the blood flowing into Mohawk's cock, rewarding my attentiveness in the most honest way I could think of - arousal. As I pushed my head deeper, sucking softly at the hot, silken shaft, I could hear Mohawk's breath speeding up. I didn't look up into the face of my captor, but kept my eyes closed as I nodded my head up and down, slowly working more and more of his thick, hard member into my mouth, sucking and savouring the salty taste of lusty arousal his bell-end gave off from time to time. The knife tip shuddered against my temple, leaving scratches, then blood-filled cuts in my skin, before Mohawk seemed to realize he was hurting me, and pushed it against my neck. The seeping pain of fresh cuts made me open my eyes wide, then push my head down further and harder, until my nose touched his crotch, the thick length buried in my gullet. Shivering violently I started swallowing around the hard rod blocking my throat, silencing me except for the hissing, bubbling sounds my breath made while I tried to gasp for air. Blood dripped from my temple onto Mohawk's thigh, and for a moment our gazes locked into each other, my fearful, dark eyes against the fiercely triumphant steel blue ones of my captor. Then I tried to pull back, gagging and gasping, and Mohawk did the only thing I feared, he held me down, pressed my face into his crotch, and pushed the knife tip a little bit into the side of my neck, sending flickers of roaring pain through my head, making me struggle, gurgle and cry against the pulsing hard-on in my throat. Panicking, I started to swallow harshly against the meat in my throat, feeling the twitching that promised Mohawk's release in just a matter of seconds, before my captor moaned harshly and filled my gullet with hot, salty semen. Bucking violently he released his lust, and only then let go of me, shoving me backwards with a brutal push that sent me flying. Droplets of cum bubbled out of my mouth and nose as I started coughing spasmodically, rolling onto my side. It took me nearly a minute of continued rasping and swallowing before I could take a clear breath again, leaving the floor covered with flecks of saliva and sperm. There was a peculiar silence that filled the room for a few heartbeats, than Mohawk's voice cut through my roaring thoughts. "Lick it up, then lick me clean, little bastard." The sound itself nearly made me cum in my pants. Slowly I came to my knees, bending forward, keeping balance with my hands, while my eyes rolled up and sideways to keep Mohawk in eyesight. My tongue stretched, breaking through my lips to lap up the mixed spunk with unhurried strokes. The cool, wet taste made my cock twitch angrily against the tightness of my trousers. Mohawk stared at me, his breath quickening as his eyes seemed to drink in the abasing situation I found himself in. Desire, hard, breathtaking and dark made his expression twitch, and made my body tighten even more. As the last drop of spent lust disappeared into my mouth, I crawled over to my captor, letting him admire the play of muscles on my lean back, letting him feast on the submissiveness his victim presented him with. Slowly I raised my head enough to reach his spent, softening cock, and started licking him clean with long, sure strokes. I did not leave out his wet testicles, nor did I miss out on sucking his shaft again for a few heartbeats of sheer pleasure. Mohawk groaned softly with the intensity of the cleaning job, letting me have my way until he deemed the job finished. Then he grabbed my hair again, pulled me onto my knees, and growled "If you think I'm finished already, think again." ~*~ We ended up in the bedroom with me sitting on the edge of the red and black bed while Mohawk stared around in awe. Each and every room of the suite seemed to hold new wonders for the tattered punk, and since his hostage - me - seemed to be behaving perfectly, he now dared to drift into sightseeing now and then. I kept staring at my keeper, feeling a strange but pleasant contentment in his presence. Shouldn't I have been scared shitless? Maybe, but even with the switchblade still present I couldn't bring myself to really fear him. Frowning slightly I brushed my fingers over the burning cut the knife had left on my neck, feeling the crusts of blood and the already closing wound. Yes, it had hurt as hell when the knife had broken skin, but I did heal three times as quick as any other human being, and it hadn't been anywhere near fatal. "What's your name?" Mohawk's rasp broke the silence, and I realized that I had been watched for at least thirty seconds while I had been so deep in thought. Again I blushed, fidgeting a bit before I croaked "Kelaste. What do you care?". Instantly I regretted the snapping tone, remembering the position I was in. Blushing even harder I tore his gaze away from 'Mohawk' and glanced down at my own hands. "Well, Kel it is then. Take off your clothes, we don't want them to get shredded, do we?" the rasping purr went on, sending shivers down my spine. I was heavily aroused in spite of my fear, and shook off my clothes without hesitation. My young, silken cock popped out of my underwear like a happy puppy, teetering a bit as if begging for attention. When I shifted around to drop my pants onto the floor kneeling near the edge of the bed, I heard a sharp intake of breath and glanced at Mohawks face cautiously. The slightly older man stared at my lean, milky white body with soft wonderment, drinking in the shape of my sleek thighs, the flatness of my abdomen, the slight goose bumps on my upper arms. He looked like someone had hit him right between the eyes with a hammer, and for those few seconds the dark hate in his eyes seemed to diminish. A hushed sigh rippled through his body, then he snapped "Turn around, wrists crossed behind your back! And stop trying to resemble a kicked puppy!". His anger tasted a tad artificial this time. I turned on my knees, silently obeying while I kept a perfectly neutral expression. The cool satin sheets felt like frozen water beneath my knees, the gleam caught the small lances of light, reflecting it onto my skin. Staring down at the bedding worth two hundred dollar I put my arms behind my back, crossed my wrists dutifully and waited for the inevitable. I heard the jingling chime of the belt buckle, felt the bed move right next to my naked feet, felt the puff of air as Mohawk moved onto the bed behind me. I couldn't suppress a shudder when the heavy woven linen of an army-style belt wound around my wrists, binding them so tight it made my fingers swell - but not too tight I discovered, wiggling my fingers a bit. My hands would hurt afterwards but it was a pain I could live with. With a leering grin Mohawk slapped my upheld ass, making me yelp in surprise. "You have the sweetest ass I've ever seen, scrap. Bet'cha show it around like a prized whore, don't you?" he snickered, kneading my buttocks with both hands, letting his fingers wander ever so often while he waited for the response. Shapeshifter Ch. 01 I had heard my share of dirty talk in my short life, but being complimented in this sort of situation was new even to me. Furiously blushing I stammered "I-I don't show off! That's queer, and I'm not gay!" The burst of laughter behind me made me blush even deeper. "I'm not gay! I like women - LOVE women! I just suck it for hits, nothing more! Why waste money if you can get it for free?" A fingertip pressed against my anus, drawing slow, sensual circles. Gasping I jerked forward, trying to escape the odd sensation, but the only thing I got for my bravery was a hard, biting slap on the ass. "Hold still, you little in-the-closet-faggot! Next time you move, I'll make you unable to sit for a week, you hear me?" my captor snarled, then resumed massaging my most private orifice. The slap shocked me into total stillness, dazed to a point where I forgot to keep breathing. It wasn't so much the pain itself that astounded me but the casualty of the gesture, and my own response. Shouldn't I have screamed bloody murder? The slap had left a nasty sting on my ass, and it hurt as hell, why didn't I jump up, kick, fight? Still the finger rotated, stroked, coaxed my sphincter, brought me back into reality and made me wiggle just a bit, but I was careful not to move away. I didn't want to risk another slap, and it did feel good, in a very disturbing way. "I don't believe you." Mohawk rasped, then pushed his finger up to the third digit into my ass and made me whimper breathlessly. "I think you simply like cock. And I think you like it into every orifice you got. I think you suck off dealers because it's a win-win situation for you, isn't it?" Mortified I jerked at the belt that bound my arms, desperately trying to free himself. "Don't!" I wailed, while I tried to still my growing arousal with pure willpower. I felt my sphincter twitch in euphoria around the intruder, trying to suck him deeper, reminding me of the pure joy of being touched after the long denial. It had been years since I had last played the submissive role or even hit the bed with another guy, and while my mind screamed with disapproval on my own lewd behavior, my body had very different views. "Your body also doesn't believe you." Mohawk purred, und slowly started to move his finger. The delicate touch, the sensual movement stood in stark contrast to his voice and the soft, dry burning it caused in my backside, and made me shudder breathlessly. My spinning mind wouldn't form a cohesive response, but I did gasp a harsh "Oh!" when a second finger joined the game, stretching my hole to the point of real unease. I tightened up and again wiggled forward, but another hard slap stopped my flight immediately. This time he didn't stop at the first one, another row of five smacking, loud blows on my backside made me gasp, then yelp, and finally scream breathlessly. The fingers in my ass never stopped moving, and suddenly I not only loosened up, but also found myself with a raging hard-on. "That's a good boy," the rasping voice coaxed, accompanied by soft, pacifying strokes of his other hand over my burning ass, "just let go. You're mine already, anyway. Give in, show me what kind of kinky whore you are, and I'll be more tender with you, I promise." Burning shame ripped through me, but the more I tried to resist, the more I seemed to lose the battle. When those stealthy fingers found my prostate, the electrifying rush of arousal made me groan helplessly and surprised - that was the breaking point. With a hungry moan I pushed backwards, closing my eyes to the inevitability of the situation, wiped away by sheer lust. What good would resistance do anyways? This way I could at least enjoy my last fuck on earth, and oh, the steady push of fingers felt so good... With each shove of my ass, Mohawk snickered louder, pushed his fingers faster into me, and finally grabbed my cock with a hand around my hips. His fingers tightened behind the tip of my swollen member, moving my foreskin back and forth with small, playful gestures until the bell-end was thick, red and wet with pleasure. Never in my life anyone had touched my cock in such a lustful, skilled way, it had always been me who had given the pleasure, and pleasured myself afterward. The small touches alone almost drove me wild, but when Mohawk dipped his fingers into the wetness that pearled out of my slit and rubbed his moistened thumb over it, I nearly yelled with surprised pleasure. And then I came. I couldn't have warned my captor even if I had wanted to, the orgasm was that sudden and intense it made my eyes roll back. My body shuddered violently while I shot load after load, gasping for air, heaving and whining in lust, barely managing to not topple over. "There you have it. You're gay after all. Just a little slap and tickle, and you're good to go." Mohawk purred, his hand covered with juice. He pulled his fingers out slowly, and opened his pants onehanded. Grinning he smeared the shameful evidence onto his own pulsing shaft, savouring the feeling. However, I didn't get a moment to regain my senses. Right when I thought my twitching, hungering body had stilled, I felt the push of the big, slimy cock-head at my sphincter. There was a split second of hesitation, as if Mohawk waited for me to protest, but none came. Then suddenly there was just the initial burning pain of my anus getting stretched beyond comfort, and the feeling of a hard, throbbing dick intruding my body. My next moan was of pain, a low, harsh groan I bellowed into the bedding, clenching my hands into fists as I tried to swallow down the humiliation. Being captivated, bound and simply taken was so incredibly degrading! But some dark part of my mind made it impossible to withstand the kinky pleasure of the whole situation. Mohawk stopped after the inital push, both strong hands biting into my protruding hipbones, keeping me right where I was. I gasped harshly, then sucked in precious air, just to exhale it with another wheezing sound as he pushed again, penetrating me with his entire length. The burning was excruciating, it roared through my spine and my belly like an electric current, but it also only took a few seconds to diminish. I was shivering violently when I finally managed to breathe again, swallowing down bile. I had the sickening feeling his cock was shoving my intestines up my throat, and that thought gave me such a strong visual that I started crying and shrieking hysterically. I must have looked (and sounded) like a maniac, tugging frantically at the bonds around my wrists. A dry, warm hand clamped over my mouth, another strong arm wound itself around my torso, and then I was pulled up onto my knees, onto Mohawks lap. He pressed my shivering, sweaty body against his front, cradled me in his arms and rocked me softly, making low, soothing sounds against my neck. I was having hysterics, and somehow this rapist was the first person in my life to actually take notice! Patiently he waited for me to calm down, cock still rock-hard and buried deep in my ass, arms around my body. When I finally stopped hiccupping and snivelling he simply let go of my mouth, grabbed my now limp cock, and started slowly pushing in and out of me. His motions were soft and stimulating in the beginning, sensing my need to get aroused first, and while I still had to fight for breath and against my tears, the sudden change of mood did fit well. However, when he felt my cock twitch and swell he pushed me forward again, keeping my ass up with his fingers around my cock and the other hand clutched into my hip. I fell face first into the bedding, moaning softly at the new angle. Every sensual stroke sent jolts of pleasure through my body, heightening the lust and arousal until my lower body cramped in delight. I mewled and moaned, welcomed every blow of his hip with balled fists, but I nearly jumped off the bed when his hand began stroking my cock with his fingers clasped tightly around the base. The doubled pleasure was nearly too much. My back arched up, and I screamed with sexual delight when I came the second time. His pistoning bucks never stopped, and neither did his hand. My moaning sounded like the high pitched keening of a wounded dog when he finally pushed into me one final time, then shuddered and groaned harshly as he filled me with his hot juice. I think I passed out for a few seconds, sinking onto the bedding like a broken doll. I regained conciousness when he pulled out, patted my butt, and stood up to leave the bedroom. I listened to the shower being turned on, to the sound of him stepping under the hot spray of water, and imagined his glorious body nude. I hadn't seen him nude until now, and lying there feeling sore and well fucked, I got very, very curious. When he came back he was down to his trousers, his stripe of hair combed onto one side, hanging wetly over his profile. He smelled heavenly of Hugo Boss, and when he dropped onto the mattress to pat my head I felt another jolt of obscure happiness over him being there. "So, scrap. We're going to play a game of question and answer, and you're gonna do the answering part. If - and only if - I like what I hear, I'll not only let you live, I'll also take you with me, because you definitely need someone to take care of you." he said, smiling proudly at his own plan. "I don't want to come with you, can't I just answer, and if you like my answers, you let me live and disappear?" I griped tiredly, rubbing my head against his patting hand. I heard the safety switch of his Beretta being pushed, a harsh, low clicking that went right into my spine. Then his hand tightened at the back of my head grabbing my hair tightly, and he pulled my head backwards and up to shove the gleaming muzzle of the handgun right into my mouth. "If I like what I hear, I'll take you with me. If I don't, I'll rip you open and spill your guts with my bare hands. You understand me?" he purred with that deadly sexy voice of his, not moving a muscle in that rugged face. I nodded frantically, whining in fear around the weapon. "Good." he smiled broadly, pulled the weapon back, and pushed the muzzle against my forehead, right between my eyes. "When was the first time you had sex?" he asked, tilting his head to be able to look around his weapon. "When I was twelve, with my home teacher." I answered. It was a pretty easy question, and I was so glad about it I nearly passed out trying not to giggle frantically. "Why did you have a home teacher?" he asked, his voice stern and neutral. Damn, I had hoped he would ask the sex of my teacher, which would have been another easy question, but I seemed to run out of luck. "Because my dad saw me unfit for normal school, with my problems and all." I mumbled, looking at his fingers around the butt of the gun rather than at his face. "What kind of problems did you have?" he shot without hesitation, voice staying nicely calm. "I was antisocial, and an addict. I took coke and heroin and had a few nervous breakdowns." I whispered, closing my eyes, ashamed again. "Why did you take drugs when you were that young?" "My father made me. They were prescribed from a private doctor he knew." "You can't get drugs like that from a prescription, scrap. You do know that, don't you?" I stayed silent for a few seconds. He pushed the gun against my forehead, prompting me to answer. "Yes. I know that now. He lied to me, for a long time." "Why did you have nervous breakdowns, and why did your ol' dad make you take drugs?" He did sound fascinated by that thought. "Because he kept me chained to a wall in a cellar for a few years and I kind of got damaged." I bit, sounding spiteful, hateful, and really wishing he'd shoot me right there. Noone ever believed me, and his questions had rekindled that old death wish, making it burn bright. God I so prayed that he'd just finish me! There was a long silence, and I was shivering with anticipation when he finally raised his voice again. "Yeah, that does sound like something that old fart would do." he mumbled, then he shoved the gun into my mouth again, pushing it so deep I had to gag and swallow around it. "You come with me. I'll keep you. You wanna die anyways, so you'll do something useful until you do. Which is giving me a good time for a few days. Nod if you are happy to oblige." I tasted bile on my tongue as I nodded, but I put my heart into the move. I was so afraid I thought I'd blank out again, but he saved me the trouble. I didn't even see his fist coming, it just connected to my head, and suddenly everything went black. Shapeshifter Ch. 02 Sorry for the wait! This is the second part of a multi-chapter story - if you haven't read the first part, you'll most likely be confused by it. If you are just reading this for the hot and bothering bits, sorry. There is some sex included, but most of this story is about a mental component. Don't bother if you are just looking for vivid images of porn ;) If you don't like violence, please stop reading right here - there will be weapons, violence, manhandling and non-consensual sex. Also, please excuse my English - I gave it my best shot, but I'm still learning. My heartfelt thanks go to quite a bunch of people - Talismania, WickedWendyDru and BellaMariposa for being so helpful when I nagged them crying for help, and of course CassieJo, my most revered editor. This story will be continued (at a veeery slow pace). Have fun! ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~ *5 years ago* ~~~ There was a dead, mummified mouse lying next to the steps. I could see its tiny white ribcage poking through the remains of its grey fur. The eye-catching intensity of the small bones' colour caught my attention even in the near-total darkness of the cellar. I scooted over, leaving a thin, clean track in the dust covering the floor. A chain lead from my stainless-steel-collar to a massive steel ring fixed to the wall, jingling softly with my movements. I poked the dead thing with my paw, transfixed by the dryness I felt, the featherweight of the dead creature. It had died down here, and nobody cared enough to remove the corpse. As a little boy I had never been afraid of dead animals. They had fascinated me, but I hadn't spent another thought on their death. But at 14 years of age I had come to understand the meaning of death, and the frailty of life all together -- even I would die one day. I didn't want to die like that mouse, forgotten and lonely, captive in a dark, dank cellar. My sarcastic snort stirred up a spider hidden behind the steps, and raised a small cloud of dust. Wishes of a kitten, those thoughts of freedom. I stretched forward, caught the dead mouse between my fangs, and gulped it down without so much as a second thought. I wasn't hungry -- sheer curiosity made me try to eat things like that small corpse, simply to see what would happen. I was a black leopard kitten weighing 130 lb in my cat-form, a far cry from the full-grown 280 lb of agile muscles and deadly teeth I would be one day. I didn't know my weight when in human form -- I hadn't seen my strained, tired boy-face for two years. Instead of the jaded crystal-grey eyes the boy-body had, there were two yellowish green cat-eyes staring back at me every time I looked into my water bowl. Boy-body and cat-body, that was what my father called my 'phases'. The boy-body, his 'true son' that he claimed to love so dearly, and the cat-body he held caged in his extended wine cellar during its appearance. The 'hiding game' went on for years of my childhood, until one day I simply hadn't changed back. Hadn't been able to do it, no matter how many times he whipped and starved me, or depraved me of sleep. It had taken six months of torture for him to understand that I couldn't. Only then did he start looking for other methods to get his boy back. Until he found a cure to 'heal' me, I was to stay in the cellar like a dog on a leash, because he didn't trust me not to munch on his guests, maids, and business partners. And mustn't forget the sluts. I could hear their groans every Friday night through the heat pipes that led from his bedroom to the cellar. Those pipes didn't stop in his bedroom though. They led straight through the wall next to the desk in his study, warming his back in cold winter nights. And making it impossible not to listen in when he was on the phone. I never told him, and he never got the chance to witness it by himself. Luckily, he couldn't be in two places at the same time. The mouse felt like lead in my stomach, and I learned my lesson from it. I got up and padded away from the wall, deeper into the cellar until the chain stopped me. Then I cowered down and started retching until the dead mouse fell down to the floor again. I was proud of my accomplishment. The last time I had eaten something spoiled I had tried to sit out the crippling pains in my stomach -- after that I had learned how to prevent those pains quickly. "DeLargo?" a muffled, amphoric and barely audible voice sounded from the heat pipes. I spun around and trotted over to sit next to the boiler, staring up at the ceiling full of expectation. My father was on the phone again, one of the very meager opportunities for me to have some kind of social contact. He normally didn't linger for long when he brought me food or water, least of all talk to me. In his world you didn't talk to a big cat chained to your cellar wall, even if it was your son. A short silence, then he huffed, "Yes." and seemed to listen to the voice on the other end of the line. I got all giddy with excitement and got up on my hind legs to put my paws against the wall. I needed to hear more, to get higher up so I wouldn't miss anything. Normally he just yelled at someone, or talked business, but I heard a new nuance in his voice -- a calm submission that promised a whole new world of revelations for me. "Dr. Packard, are you saying that all it takes to heal my son from his-" (a short pause to emphasize his distress),"-his sickness is a good dose of diacetylmorphine hydrochloride?" My father's voice was a mixture of outrage, frustration and joy. He nearly yelled in surprise, but quieted down quickly. "If I had known it would be so easy, so stupid, I'd have tried it months ago..." his voice trailed off, followed by a few affirmative grunts and the click-clack of his keyboard. I settled down again, ears twitching. I didn't know what diacetyl-and-so-on was, but as I understood it, my father had found a cure. I didn't know how to feel about that. Was I happy? Kind of. But it also made me anxious. I didn't know a thing about living as a teenager in a boy-body. The punishments would start all over again, and as a cat I was allowed to dislike that to a point where I wished I could simply stay where and how I was. In a dark, dank cellar, chained to a wall. Oh, wait. ~~~ *Now* ~~~ I woke up sneezing, trying to get the heavy scent of patchouli out of my nostrils. My head was throbbing somewhat fierce, and the right side of my face felt bloodshot and swollen where Mohawk's fist had met skin and bones, but at least it didn't seem like anything was broken. I didn't know where I was, but the smells surrounding me weren't familiar, so I assumed we had left my apartment. Music was playing somewhere behind me, a pretty good recording of The Cramps' 'Faster Pussycat'. I found it to be enormously irritating, but it made me carefully raise my head from the cushion I had been cuddling in my sleep. I found myself lying on a couch right next to a spartanic, battered and old desk that looked like it had been timbered out of fruit crates and pilings, then diligently coated in black and white zebra stripes. The couch itself was covered with a dark grey spreadsheet made of cotton, and the alleged cushion I had cuddled proved to be a pretty big pink plush unicorn with the silliest grin I had ever seen on a stuffed animal. It made me sit up with a quick jerk that brought stars to my eyes and made me gasp softly. No fast motions with a concussion, I reminded myself as I slowly peeled my eyes open again. Right behind the couch table, and a small coffee table with a stereo set, stood a big twin bed with crumpled bedding and a canopy of small bats cut out of foamed rubber. They hung suspended on black yarn of diverse length. I must have stared about thirty seconds before I remembered I had to breathe, the sight was just too tacky to be real. But sure enough, even after blinking and rubbing my eyes the flock of black batman signs still hovered above the sheets. Dark hardwood floor stretched between bed, couch and something that looked like a wooden bannister separating the room from a staircase leading down. A set of three shabby wardrobes covered the opposite wall. The only door -- which was located on the other side of the desk -- smelled distinctly like soap and moist tiles which made me guess 'bathroom', but I didn't dare stand up to have a look yet. Between the wardrobes and the bannister I spotted a huge metal trunk with a digital combination lock, and it made me pause for a second. Nothing in this room seemed to be of any value other than emotional or nostalgic significance, except for that little security vault. I itched to go over there and open it, and before I even realized that I was stark naked, I had already crossed half of the room. My sense of scenting helped a lot as I crouched down in front of the trunk, leaning forward to suck in the air above it. Gun oil, black powder, the sharp pang of smoothed metal blades and something harsh and chemical I had never smelled before and couldn't identify. A weapons chest I assumed, while my fingers scratched and tapped against the display of the combination lock. I leaned down, pressed my ear against the mechanism, and listened intently to the soft clicking and humming it made when I pressed some of the buttons. I must have been totally consumed by my inspection, because when I suddenly felt something hard and cold pressed against my neck, I nearly jumped head first into the wall behind the trunk. "You better not play around with that, scrap. Those things tend to explode." Mohawk rasped amused, tapping the gun against the back of my head. Again he had crept right behind me and pulled a weapon on me, and I felt like a bloody fool. Gulping down a mouthful of sticky saliva I slowly rose, holding up my hands to keep him from putting a bullet into my head. "Sorry, I couldn't help it." I muttered when the cold pressure of the gun disappeared. How was I supposed to explain the intriguing allure of scent to someone who couldn't even smell the tracks mice had left next to his wardrobes? Then again, how could I have missed the strong aroma of fresh hot coffee right behind me? As soon as I didn't fear for my life anymore it hit me like a sledgehammer. He hadn't snuck up on me. He had actually brought two cups of coffee, placed them on the coffee table behind me, and THEN pulled a gun without me noticing him. Jesus, did I feel stupid! Pushing the gun between his belt and waistband he grabbed my wrist, snickered at my sheepish look, and pulled me back to the couch resolutely. "Now don't look so sullen. Your naive fascination was actually cute. But it's just a trunk, and it won't kill you if it gets annoyed, I will. Now sit and drink your coffee like a well-mannered guest is supposed to." Too baffled to resist I let him push me down onto the couch and automatically grabbed one of the mugs, already dreading the possibility of unsweetened hot beverage. I was positively surprised when I tasted a good amount of sugar in the first sip I tentatively took - he did seem to get me quite fast. Nearly purring I closed my eyes, savouring the taste as I sipped and swallowed, feeling more alive with every second gone by. "You're strange, ya know that?" I twitched in shock and nearly coughed out the good coffee when he spoke. Had I spaced out again? "I think I have a concussion." I mumbled swallowing hastily, and set the cup down cautiously, eyes cast down as I blushed. "And I'm not strange, I just like coffee." And scenting, but I didn't say that out loud. He already thought I was nuts anyhow. "You do realise that you are naked and partially hard down there?" he rasped, a small smile tugging at his kissable, pale lips. I jumped and bumped the coffee table in my haste to cover myself, and he surprised me once again by saving both coffee mugs just in time. Grabbing the unicorn to hide my crotch I scampered around looking for my clothes, and my face got red hot from embarrassment. Jeans, trousers, there had to be something I could put on before I died of shame! I heard a clicking sound when the coffee-cups were put back on the table, then a piece of black and white coloured cloth hit my face. "You won't be able to wear that for long, but since I plan to finish my coffee before I jump you, you can put that on - for now." he said. My breath hitched, but I didn't respond to his infuriating calmness. Eyes cast down I simply put down the unicorn and put on the pair of... what in the name of god? The piece of clothing he had given me was some kind of very tight clad denim jeans that sat low on my hipbones and hugged my ass with a loving grip. I had a hard time closing the zipper and the button, but once I managed that, the trousers literally felt like a very tight second skin, everywhere. Either it was at least one size too small for me, or it was meant to show off my body in a way even I found slutty. At least it covered my more intimate parts, but the bulge of my cock showed quite nicely through the material. I didn't dare object to his choice of garment though, so I picked up the poor unicorn, put it back on the couch and sat down next to it. Now that I had at least some piece of clothing on my skin I immediately started to feel better, calmer, ready to do the one thing I subconsciously hadn't dared to do yet - look into his face. I let my shoulders sag with forced relaxation and in return a pleasant tingle marched through my stomach, rewarding me for my bravery. Then I inhaled deeply and raised my eyes to meet his steely gaze. Arctic blue. The colour of glacial ice. A hint of clouds caught in a tempest. His irises had an unearthly draw to them, never wavering, pupils dilating ever so often in time with his heartbeat. Even though his body seemed to be totally at ease, the twitching in his eyes gave his nervousness away, and I felt my own pulse speed up in joy over my discovery. I caught myself leaning forward when I tried to decipher the emotions in his eyes, totally engrossed with their hypnotic qualities. "Noom." His voice startled me once more, and I quickly averted my eyes. "Excuse me?" I mumbled, picked up my cup and took another sip. Everything he said seemed to get me off-balance, and I started to feel pretty stupid. At least my vocabulary hadn't decreased to grunting yet, but if he kept confusing me like this it would happen sooner or later. "That's my name. Noom." he repeated, while his eyes took the grand tour over my body again. The way he ogled me made me tighten up again within seconds. I shifted around restlessly and finally sought refuge in my own cup of coffee, blinking at the milky-brown surface just to be able to avoid his relentless staring. "That's a pretty exclusive name I guess." I mumbled just to break my own stupor, trying to make conversation. A million questions raced through my head, but for the life of me I wasn't able to voice any of them, let alone form a coherent sentence without being pushed first. "Tell me why the Mafia want you dead." he demanded amiably, pursing his lips to take another sip of his coffee. He sounded relaxed and conversational, as if he weren't talking about a plot on my premeditated murder, and it made his question even creepier. My surprise must have shown on my face, because he fired another charismatic, toothbaring grin at me that made my dick throb in interest. "You thought I wanted to kill you? Do I look like a sociopath who runs around killing jailbait for fun?" he purred, and I quenched the impulse to answer 'yes you do' with another mouthful of coffee. Then I started to search for my faculty of speech. I remembered his impatience for unanswered questions all too well, and a small part of me was outraged at the thought that maybe he already thought I was stupid or slow in the head. "I don't know. Maybe they want to weaken my father by killing his offspring?" I offered, keeping my face straight and neutral. "No, they would have threatened him first, and they would have left some kind of message for him if that was the case." he answered. His glare never wavered, demanding more information. "Hey, don't look at me like that," I shot back, "the only illicit thing I ever did was buying drugs and paying with sexual favours. The Mafia don't do drugs." Well, at least that was what I always read and heard. Somewhere through our verbal exchange I had stopped fidgeting, but now I clung to my cup instead as if life itself depended on it. The thought of being wanted by the Babylon Mafia scared me shitless. They had first shown up about 50 years ago, a strange and exotic mix of Indian and Asian culture with a very particular interest for human trafficking, smuggling and black annealing. In the last few years there had been rumours about Mafia members joining the ranks of police and taking over political functions. A dozen people had turned up dead, officials had proudly announced the forming of an anti-corruption squad, and then everything had gotten quiet. Quiet was not good. Quiet meant they had gotten so influential on the city's highest ranks, that no one dared talk about them anymore. They could make people disappear. They could make me disappear. I just didn't know why they would have any interest in me. Noom assessed me quietly for a few moments. I practically felt his gaze travel from my face to my neck, then to my naked, lean chest and further down to my clothed-but-still-in-plain-sight-crotch, before his eyes snapped back to my face, staring at me over the brim of his cup when he took another sip. "I wanna keep you around for a few days, but I don't want to end where you are now, havin' a bounty on your head and what not. They said 'kill 'im where he stands,' and that's what I'd do under normal circumstances." He seemed to want to add something to that, but he didn't, and he stopped staring. It caught my attention. "So why don't you? If you're a contract killer you shouldn't mind who you kill." I griped, unable to contain my grief on the thought of someone - anyone - wanting to kill me. I was used to being hated and rejected, even to threats of violence and of course being subject to corporal punishment, but nobody had ever tried to kill me, or talked about killing me before. "I'm not a contract killer." he snapped angrily, wrinkled his nose in disgust and added more calmly, "I'm a mercenary. Usually I get to hit people until they pay their debts, or blow up something, or deliver packages of dubious origin. I've shot my share of people, mostly armed ones that wanted to shoot me too - until I met ya'. I was ready to blow your brains out when I went into the men's room, but there you were, sucking happily on that darn ugly cock." He drained his cup, swallowing with a contented smile, and continued, "I waited and watched you, and then I started to think. 'Why would the Mafia send a mercenary for a simple kill? He's got no weapons at all.' I told myself, 'maybe they want to set you up.' So when you gave me that kicked-puppy-look I decided to find out more." Noom stood up and walked over to his battered desk to switch the music. "When I saw your penthouse and learned your name, I got even more suspicious of the whole 'Kill him' story. So I decided to take ya' with me. Have a little fun, you know. Find out if they want to get me arrested." His sudden chattiness blanched me. I wasn't stupid, and I had heard and seen enough in my life to know that he really meant to kill me if he told me so much about his work. Up to this point I hadn't really believed he would do it, and the realisation hit me like a freight train. What was I supposed to do now? The music changed to another deathrock song, and I twitched under the sudden blaring of guitars. I licked my lips, feeling numb and slightly panicky. "So, how do you plan to do that?" I croaked, and I felt the mug shake in my shivering hands. "I mean, how do you plan to find out if they want to get you arrested?" I added hastily. I really didn't want to know what he wanted to do to me, or how he was going to dispose of my dead body. Shapeshifter Ch. 02 His grin reminded me of the last view a seal got when a shark moved in for the kill: pearly white and deadly impersonal. "You'll see soon enough." he said. I stared down at the swirling milky-brown surface of my coffee and hoped he wouldn't show me too soon, when I suddenly felt his presence next to me. He stood so close that his body heat radiated against my right leg, and I wanted to coil up because I could imagine how he loomed over me, even without looking up. I knew violent people, and that you shouldn't squirm if they were agitated -- they didn't like it, not at all. I tried to sit still, become invisible, a piece of furniture, but the heat against my body reminded me of the last time he had been that close. I replayed in my head how exciting and intense his touch had been, how he had made me forget my loneliness, and filled me with burning desire for every inch of his body. I squirmed, closing my eyes for two seconds to get the sudden flare of my libido back under control. Then I felt him move again, this time forwards-downwards. His hand appeared in my field of vision grabbing my coffee mug, but somehow I got a feeling that bad things would happen as soon as I let go. I held on to it with trembling fingers. "Let go." he growled, and I ducked under his carefully controlled anger, releasing the cup instantly. The day before I had thought he just got angry pretty quickly, but now I started to get the impression he simply never stopped being filled with a simmering, slow-boiling rage that just erupted very easily. I didn't want to tap into that anger over a mug of coffee, I really didn't. He put the mug aside and fished for my wrists as I instinctively tried to hug myself. "Don't struggle." he rasped, and grabbed my arms to wrestle them behind my back. Did you know that when someone says 'Don't struggle', it's impossible not to? "Wait! What are you doing?" I gasped while he twisted my arms, forcing me to turn and get up to my knees on the couch. My heart beat like a drum solo, not only because I felt trapped beneath his strong fingers but also because I knew I'd make him angry if I tried to resist his manipulations. Still, I couldn't just give in. I tried to squirm out of his grip, using the angle and my body weight to make it harder for him to maintain his grip around my wrists. I felt his fingers slip a bit and then he snarled in wordless anger. He pushed my captured wrists against my back to make me lose balance instead of helping me stay upright. It interrupted my weak attempt to break free effectively and I fell forward with a frightened cry. Without my arms I would hit my head, or break my nose, and he'd just leave me lying there in pain! I felt my body tighten in anticipation of the impact and I closed my eyes. I didn't want to watch when my face smashed into the armrest beneath me. Noom saved me again. Without even loosening his grip he used my body tension to slow my fall, then he adjusted my body until my face met the soft seat instead of the armrest. No pain. I had expected pain, because it was all I knew. Why had he not hurt me? It bewildered me to an extent where I just lay there, stunned into stillness under his hands. When I felt him move behind me I knew he was grabbing for something to tie me. It was my last chance to try getting out of his grip, but I simply let it pass by. Why had he stopped my fall? I heard the clarion sound of a zip tie being pulled tight, and I felt it contract around my wrists, but I still didn't move. Why had he saved me? My brain wasn't going to function right until I figured out what intentions Noom had. Noom grabbed my shoulders to pull me up into a kneeling position, and wrung his arms around me. I felt his hot body pressing against my upper and lower arms, his crotch right there beneath my bound hands, just within reach. It made my breath quicken instantly. "I need to go out for a few hours, scrap. Since I can't -- and won't -- trust you, I'll have you tied up like a pretzel." he purred, while his fingers massaged my belly. I didn't want it to feel good, but as before my body refused obedience even though my mind screamed in outrage. I felt my fingers twitch, and oh boy, he felt it too. "Please stop." I pleaded huskily, but it was of no use. His fingers tightened against my front when he pulled me back against his crotch, hugging me even tighter. I could feel his hard on pushing against my crack. It strained against the denim that separated us like a starved creature. My traitorous fingers twitched again, this time definitely not because of nerves. They seemed to like the cock that was presented to them, and started to move on their own accord. "Want me to help you?" Noom husked against my cheek when he felt my fingers fiddle around with his zipper. He seemed perfectly happy with how things went, and simply kept me where I was. His only courtesy involved nibbling at my earlobe, which didn't help at all. I made no reply to his impertinent question, mostly because I was very busy fishing for his cock through his opened fly. My fingers shook when they touched the hot, steely, silky pole, and I couldn't help but sigh when I finally succeeded in freeing it. Both of my hands wrapped around it greedily, choking off Noom's soft chuckle and eliciting a low moan from him. It felt incredibly good to let my hands go wild on him. The sheer feeling of touching him brought back memories of last night, and how perfect it had felt having him inside me, pounding into me with utter abandon. My own cock went on a rampage inside those uncomfortably tight pants, and it made me growl. "You like my cock, huh?" Noom whispered. One of his hands left my belly, wandered deeper, and rubbed over the bulge in my pants while I jacked him off with needy, hastened movements. When I didn't answer, he grabbed my crotch hard enough to make me moan in pain and pleasure, and sneered "When I ask a question I expect ya to answer, scrap!" "Yes!" I gasped through clenched teeth before I had time to think it through. His grip loosened instantly. "Yes what?" he purred, rubbing my pounding crotch again. His hot breath grazed my earlobe and made me shiver while my eyes tried to roll back in pleasure. "I like your cock very much." I panted, hands speeding up around the object of our friendly little conversation. The movements and the anticipation made me sweat and breathe heavily, even though I had just started my exercise. The soft sounds of my zipper being pulled open made me shiver. "Good boy. I'd like to feel your hot lips suckling me like a hungry calf, but if I let you go down on me now I'll never be able to leave." he whispered into my ear, rubbing his straining erection against my shaky hands. His fingers snaked their way into my now open fly, and since I had not received any underwear he didn't have to fight to reach my leaking cock. His hand felt like molten lava on my cock, fingers smooth and silky, but strong and determined all the same when he started stroking me. "Agh, I so wanted to take my time with your hot little body. But here you are, tempting me like a metaphorical snake." he rasped softly, and I relished the strange softness in his voice and his hands. I was the reason for it, I simply knew that. And I loved it! "Please..." I gasped, unable to utter more than one word but still managing to put all my desire, lust and need into it. My fingers tightened at the base of his cock, pulling upwards to the bell-end and flicking over the sensitive tip with my thumb, then letting go to start the torture again. My hands were wet with his pre-come and I could feel his balls twitching with delight. His lust turned me on even more, so I didn't protest when his other hand grabbed the seam of my trousers and pulled them down to my knees. I bet he would have gotten them off altogether if they hadn't been stuck underneath my knees. "Don't beg, scrap. I'd love to fuck you silly right here and now, more so if you beg, but I can't afford thinking with my dick as long as I don't know who's behind all this." He sounded a little bit desperate now, but that didn't slow his hands. While the one still worked my cock like a demanding drill sergeant his other hand moved between my legs, stroked my sack for a second and then travelled on into the depths of my crack. My thighs parted like a blooming blossom when his fingers reached the tight ring of muscles, and I groaned when the tip of his middle finger breached through the defenses of my body. My bound hands lost their rhythm for a few moments and that made him slow down too. Noom was mocking me with his hands and with my own pleasure, and there was nothing I could do about it but give him more of myself and hope to get reimbursed for it. His finger shoved deeper into me and felt around, shattering any clear thought. "Faster." his voice rasped commandingly, and I obeyed. My inner cat seemed to be content with it, which did irritate me - I just didn't have enough brain cells left to really think about it. Even though my father had abused me for years he never had been able to break the need for independence ingrained into the brain of every leopard. He'd still need to chain me to a wall and even though I had cowered and whined and tried to sink into the floor whenever his eyes grazed my body, I had always felt the irritation and the need to rip out his throat my inner cat experienced. But in just about 24 hours with this guy every cell of my body seemed to be in his possession, even the unnatural bits, and every part of me appeared to be pretty much accepting if not even happy with it except for my conscience. My hands were sticky with his pre-come already. I had to move my whole body to really jerk him off at that point, and he found a new way to motivate me with my own movements. A second finger joined the first, stretching me a bit more, and he felt around again. When he found my prostate he suddenly held still enough to make me fuck myself on his fingers, and that was where I went wild. He didn't even have to do anything, just kneel behind me and let me move. And move I did. I rode his hand like a bitch in heat, moaning and gasping with the little electric shocks that ran through my nerves every time his fingertips rubbed over my prostate. My own fingers were clasped around his cock tightly, Noom's left hand stroked my cock. We must have looked like a Gordian knot, but I didn't care. It worked. Somebody moaned, "Oh fuck, oh fuck!" and it took me a few seconds to realise that it was me saying those words. My balls contracted, the soft skin covering the little globes tightened, and I knew I was a goner. All it would take were a few more strokes over my pulsing cock to make me explode, and it would be glorious! I felt Noom's panting breath against my neck when he leaned forward, and then his lips brushed my neck just below my jaw. "Come for me." he demanded, and then he bit me hard. I tripped over the edge, spewing hot, sticky jism over his hand, the couch and my own thighs. I must have screamed with the intensity of my orgasm, but the next thing I remembered was me lying on the couch and gasping for breath while Noom knelt over my thighs and jacked off like a madman. I heard the wet smacking sound of his working hand and his rough pants, and those noises were enough to get me half hard again. He came with a harsh grunt, his cum hitting my back and my half naked ass like a spray of fiery lava, then he sagged forward and leaned his forehead against my shoulder blades. "Good boy." he huffed, patted my ass and got up. I heard him put on some clothes, then he walked down the stairs and left. The door clicked shut and I closed my eyes. I was tired, tied up, sticky and uncomfortable, but still I had to smile because of the mental purr my inner cat uttered. My conscience despised the feeling of accomplishment and happiness that roared through me, but it was very much alone in feeling that way. Shapeshifter Ch. 03 ~~~ * ~~~ This story is purely fictional. I recommend reading the first two chapters of this story before reading this, because it won't make any sense otherwise. If you don't like violence, please stop reading right here - there will be weapons, drugs, manhandling and rough sex. This part is narrated by Noom. If you think I need an editor you are right. Volunteers step forward please! ~~~ * ~~~ Life is hell. I bet you despise those words as much as I do, I bet you hate people who say those words as much as I do. It's melodramatic, nothing else. Nobody cares, really. Keep your shit to yourself, don't give people even more reasons to laugh at you. I don't whine, I just observe. And I form strong, silent statements out of my observations. No one ever gets to hear them, but thinking them makes me feel all warm and cozy inside. Life is a very tame simulation of hell so you'll be prepared once you die. We're all going to hell. Everyone. Everything. They have Pepsi Cola Light in hell too. When I met him I was prepared. Prepared to kill him, shoot that delicious little creature with his perfect perky butt and those full, rosy lips. I had seen dozens of perky butts and lush lips in my life, and I knew there would be dozens more when I followed him into the bathroom. My head was clear, my conscience without any blemish when I pointed my beloved gun at him. It was my finger that wouldn't move. I knew that look he had on his face when he saw the muzzle pointed at his head. That mix of wonder, panic and slight morbid amusement he had in his unbelievable eyes as he held up both hands to catch a bullet traveling at the speed of sound. It was the look of a pure soul that had been damaged deeply and never been fixed. I knew that look because my girlfriend had had it on her face, painted on there for eternity by death himself. Back then I hadn't given two shits about souls or people or even her feelings, the drugs had damaged me way too far to care. And with the drugs there had been the need to make money, and then the lack thereof, and finally someone had decided to take it out on her. They had left her where I would find her, and they had made her into a spectacular surprise. I never touched drugs again after that; or women on that account. But there was no need for women in my world. I wanted him. I wanted him because there was no hope left in him, no happy future, no bright light at the end of his tunnel, and he knew it. He knew it, and still believed in good people, probably still was able to smile and laugh and relish small things, broken as he was, lost as he was. He was a living 'No Leaf Clover', and it intrigued me to no end. I wanted him because I couldn't ruin him anymore. I could fix him, make things better, but nothing I did would be enough to fuck him up beyond repair, and the possibilities were a siren song in my head. That night I robbed him, debased him, fucked him, hit him, and he took it. He was in constant terror, but he never crossed the line to blind panic. He never lost his nerve enough to forget about the gun and he never fell into that fear-induced stupor some of my victims dropped into. I had never before tried to have sexual intercourse with any of them, mind you, but his spite and outrage against homosexuality had me test the waters before I could restrain myself. And that, too, seemed to be right up his ally. Only when I looked down at his unconscious body lying on my shabby living room couch did my sanity come back to remind me of the deep shit I had just flung myself into. My assignment had been to kill him and bring a piece of his body back to prove it. Taking into account the kind of money I had been offered for this my johns really, really wanted the boy dead, and I had royally fucked up by taking him home. I caught myself stroking his pitch-black hair and jumped back, balling my hands into fists. The way this boy influenced me was more than dangerous, and if I didn't put a stop to it right now I was as good as dead. My fingers touched the butt of my gun sticking out of the waistband at the small of my back, but somehow I couldn't pull it. My reeling consciousness hurried to find some lame excuses, like the riches I had seen in his condo, and how there must be more of it if I just kept him a bit, squeezed him a bit more, but I knew the truth. I was thinking with my dick. Since jumping an unconscious victim was definitely beyond me - even mercenaries have morals! - I hurried to go downstairs and distract myself with the one thing I had kept out of my girlfriend's belongings: Her coffee maker. I loved that damn old thing to death, the brew it spit out was thick enough to stick a spoon in it and have it standing upright. Just as the old kettle sputtered the last drops into the coffee pot I noticed movement from upstairs. The ceiling/floor between the ground level and the first floor was only a few wooden planks and beams, and the gaps between the planks were wide enough to let small clouds of dust pass wherever anyone walking on the first floor set his foot. It was a neat trick to catch a guest unfamiliar with my old hut by surprise. I grabbed two cups of coffee, fixed one up with milk and sugar and silently crept upstairs. It was stupid, having both hands full, but I didn't need to worry. That black haired bastard was so immersed in the key pad on my weapon's locker, he didn't even hear me walk right by him. I would have laughed, but that would have ruined the fun. Instead I put the cups on the small coffee table by the couch, drew my gun, sneaked behind him and pressed the muzzle against the back of his head. His gasp and the small jump were delightful, but I had expected a yelp or a scream and felt strangely disappointed with his self control. He must look glorious when he totally lost it, be it arousal or fear, but somehow he just wouldn't reach the point of total bliss, or total terror. He slowly held up his hands, head ducked, and the one thing that really caught my attention was the relaxed state of his fingers. Slightly bent, pale, hands tilted a bit outward, and no tension anywhere else except for his head and shoulders. I didn't even know why I had picked up exactly that detail and nothing else, but it somehow calmed my frisky, dangerous mood down. I lost the need to play cruel games with him instantly, and for once I wasn't even sad about it. "Sorry, I couldn't help it," he muttered, sounding abashed and coy, words and voice totally out of place. It made me grin and put my gun away. Grabbing his arm I pulled him up and towards the couch where I had left him before, herding him towards Binky, my plush unicorn. "Now, don't look so sullen. Your naive fascination was actually cute. But it's just a trunk, and it won't kill you if it gets annoyed, I will. Now sit and drink your coffee like a well-mannered guest is supposed to." Well, actually the trunk could kill him, but he didn't need to know that. It had a smart bomb wired to the lid, and if someone decided to break it open, the resulting explosion would take down the whole house with everything in it. Paranoid, who, me? Kel grabbed for his mug, face skeptical as he took the first sip. His skepticism quickly turned to bliss when he found the contents to his liking, and I couldn't help watching him devour the coffee like kids devoured cotton candy. There was something entirely odd about my little captive, but I simply couldn't put my finger on it. He talked like a normal person, walked like a normal person, acted like a normal person, but still, something about the way he reacted, the way he moved, the way he seemed to interpret the world around him just wouldn't fit. He stood out somehow, and not just because of his devastatingly good looks or his pricey wardrobe. Like in that moment when he seemed totally lost in the taste of his coffee, humming lowly, eyes closed, head canted in thought, sitting face to face with an armed mercenary who had tried to kill him just sixteen hours ago. I couldn't resist the sweet lure of creating confusion. If something looked harmonic and peaceful I had to poke at it. "You're strange, ya know that?" I huffed, interestedly watching his face contort as he twitched and blinked. He was totally at ease, even though I obviously made him nervous and antsy, but there's a difference between someone constantly fearing for his life and someone being threatened and then left alone to recuperate from the shock. Kelaste DeLargo definitely wasn't feeling the pressure of constant danger. He even made excuses for his spaced out behavior, like any talkative, polite person would. "I think I have a concussion," he chirped, and blushed a beautiful shade of pink. "And I'm not strange, I just like coffee," he added hastily and kneaded his mug a bit. The movement of his elegant fingers around the black clay pottery made me look at his hands, and then my eyes inevitably wandered deeper. I ended up eying his crotch, where an uncut, plump and rosy one-eyed snake nodded overly friendly in my direction. He was getting hard and it made me jealous of the coffee mug. Not wanting to stare like a creep I looked back up to his face to see if he had caught me checking him out, but he still kept his eyes fixated on the table before him like a scolded school boy. He also hadn't made any attempts on hiding his state of lust from me, which did make me wonder if coffee made him that disconnected from the world. "You do realize that you are naked and partially hard down there?" I inquired, fighting down the urge to grin and point at his cock. Instead I just plastered one of my saintly smiles on and watched the show. He hadn't realized as I soon found out. At my remark he looked down, jumped up and bumped into the coffee table, leaving it to me to save both our mugs from sudden death. Strangely enough I didn't feel the need to go for my gun, even though he hysterically grabbed for Binky the unicorn to hide his crotch and skittered away from the couch like a cockroach from sunlight. I still didn't have the faintest idea how he did it, but his body language was an open book for me, nothing hidden, everything crystal clear to see and understand. And right now he didn't pose a threat at all, his body told me in no uncertain terms. I put the mugs back down while watching him scan the room for his clothes, face redder than I had ever seen before. I looked to my bed and remembered the second hand box I had stashed underneath it, filled with old clothes destined to be cut up and sewed into something new. I didn't even know why I bothered with his desire to get dressed and hide his erection from me, but I also didn't stop to think about it much. I just bent over, pulled the box out from under the bed and sifted through the layers of cloth until I found pants. They looked small, but if he didn't fit in them I'd still have a few more layers to go, and probably be able to find something else. I threw the striped pants at him. "You won't be able to wear that for long, but since I plan to finish my coffee before I jump you, you can put that on - for now," I purred, but he didn't get it. I got dead silence for my pun, but it didn't bother me much - nobody got my humor, something I had gotten used to a long time ago. I only realized how bad a choice I had just made when he wiggled into the pants, barely able to pull the waist band over his butt. Damn, I could see everything! Every swell of muscle, every crease and cranny, and when he finally got it zipped up his cock made a tell-tale bulge at his crotch that simply was mouth-watering to see. Luckily he still didn't dare look at my face, so he didn't catch me staring like a love-struck teenager as he sat down, putting Binky back on his spot on the right side of the couch. I forced my eyes to look at his face, and it was a good thing I did, because now I was treated to a show of utter self control. He took a deep breath, then his shoulders slumped with conscious effort on his part. The relaxation made his whole body shudder and go limp, and then he lifted his eyes to finally look at me properly. It felt like a time lapse back into that bathroom stall in the night club. His eyes were breathtaking, a strange, supernatural mixture of gray, white and iridescent silver, big and shiny and hypnotizing. His pupils were the sizes of pinheads, typical for a heroin junkie, but they slowly dilated as he was staring at me. I knew what that meant too: Lust, fighting the effects of the opiate cursing through his bloodstream. He was lusting for me, and he stared at me with that come-hither-look on his face that made my cock go rampage in my pants. I wanted to hear my name come from his lips, begging me for more, moaning in utter delight as I thrust into him from behind, pulling his hair, a tight grip on his wrists used as an anchor against my movements... And then I remembered that I knew his name, but he didn't know mine yet. I had to fix that, it disturbed my daydreaming. "Noom," I said. It made Kel jerk back startled, but it didn't rob him of his politeness. "Excuse me?" he asked confusedly and busied his hands with his mug to hide his shame. "That's my name, Noom," I repeated, and inevitably looked down at his crotch again. Yep, his cock was still hard as a rock. The Old Faithful of abduction victims, and all mine. Of course, Noom wasn't the name on my birth certificate, but I hadn't used my real name in more than ten years. The day I had run away from home had been the day I'd started to use my new name, which I had chosen while gazing at reflections on a shop window in the middle of the night. I had been tripping so bad then I had nearly been run over by a car, but my new nick name had stuck in my head like chewing gum to the sole of a boot. "That's a pretty exclusive name I guess," he offered shyly, and I could see him hesitate a bit. Questions were racing across his beautiful face, but he was smart, and he didn't utter any of them. I liked him more and more, even though I didn't want to admit it. He was exciting and beautiful and sexy and occupied my thoughts with an ease that was frightening. It had been a long time since anyone had last been able to do that, and I didn't want to lose him so quickly. Which meant that I had to get to the roots of our combined problem: the bounty on his pretty head. Instead of griping over my own fate I just got on with finding out what the hell this young boy had done to make someone powerful want to kill him. "Tell me why the Mafia want you dead," I asked, even though I didn't really know who was behind the whole thing. I just knew that my contact, Fredo, was working for them, so I just guessed. He looked surprised enough to be convincing. Either I had guessed wrong and the Mafia weren't after his perky ass, or he simply didn't know their range of influence. They were into drug dealing, though they kept eerily quiet about it. But hadn't he at least figured out that someone wanted him dead? "You thought I wanted to kill you? Do I look like a sociopath who runs around killing jail bait for fun?" I snorted, and felt a little bit of hurt when his eyes said yes and no word came across his lips. I had my pride, and he had just innocently trampled all over it. I wanted him to say no, or anything else to reinforce my ego, but instead he said, "I don't know. Maybe they want to weaken my father by killing his offspring?" It was a nice change of topic, a good guess for a naive rich kid, but it didn't fix my insecurities about my character. I hadn't killed him, had I? How could he think I was a bad guy after that? Still, instead of reprimanding him for thinking so little of me I just went back to the problem at hand. "No, they would have threatened him first, and they would have left some kind of message for him if that was the case," I explained, having had my own experiences with the Mafia. Like a dead, cut up girlfriend for example, but he didn't need to know that yet. Maybe he would never learn about my gruesome past, and maybe it would be better that way. I waited for him to continue, but he just flushed again and grumbled, "Hey, don't look at me like that. The only illicit thing I ever did was buying drugs and paying with sexual favors. The Mafia don't do drugs." He was wrong about that, but I didn't correct him. The Babylon Mafia didn't look kindly on people ruining their secret dealings, and we were neck deep in shit already. No need to shovel more dirt. My time was better spent finding a way to keep the black haired scrap for a little longer, because even though his residency in my hut would cause problems of unknown proportions I had already gotten addicted to his character, to him. The only way to accomplish that was finding out who wanted him dead, and why, and either find a way to fake his death, or buy him off. If the hit order came from someone I knew and had already worked for, my chances at winning my very much alive prize were much better, and buying of would quite probably work. If it was someone I didn't know and hadn't worked for yet, there was no way I'd be able to bring up enough money to buy the hit, and I'd have to fake his death - not an easy task at all. But first things first. "I wanna keep you around for a few days, but I don't want to end up where you are now, havin' a bounty on your head and what not. They said 'kill 'im where he stands,' and that's what I'd do under normal circumstances," I explained to him, scratching the back of my neck. Maybe it was a bad idea to be that open with him, but I always found the truth to be easier to handle than a lie. A lie you had to remember, and build upon, the truth just sat there most of the time, ready to be used like a Russian hooker. Also, with my luck - or lack thereof - he wouldn't survive another week, and whatever knowledge I gave him would die with him, so no need to worry. Kelaste didn't seem to think that way. "So why don't you? If you're a contract killer you shouldn't mind who you kill," he whined, and looked utterly crestfallen. Another enigma for me, as if he hadn't already given me enough to ponder about. That was simply no way to talk to your executioner, but he did seem to sense my reluctance to do him harm just as much as I managed to telepathically guess his intentions. It was strangely cute to see him unhappy like this, not because I relished unhappiness, but because he felt secure enough to do so. With his killer, at that. But me? A contract killer? I didn't look like a Leon, or a Vincent Vega, and though it did flatter me a bit that he thought so highly of me, it offended me at the same time. I was no damn contract killer, thank you very much! I told him as much in no uncertain terms, and just to be sure he understood my profession I explained lengthily. "I'm a mercenary. Usually I get to hit people until they pay their debts, or blow up something, or deliver packages of dubious origin. I've shot my share of people, mostly armed ones that wanted to shoot me too - until I met ya'. I was ready to blow your brains out when I went into the men's room, but there you were, sucking happily on that darn ugly cock. I waited and watched you, and then I started to think. 'Why would the Mafia send a mercenary for a simple kill? He's got no weapons at all.' I told myself, 'maybe they want to set you up.' So when you gave me that kicked-puppy-look I decided to find out more." I had talked myself into one of my Sherlock Holmes-esque moods, and it called for something softer than old school punk music, so I got up and just switched it. It didn't stop me from talking, of course. "When I saw your penthouse and learned your name, I got even more suspicious of the whole 'Kill him' story. So I decided to take ya' with me. Have a little fun, you know. Find out if they want to get me arrested." Shapeshifter Ch. 03 Aah yes, sweet memories. When he'd first told me his name I had known instantly that the shit had hit the fan. Everybody knew about DeLargo senior and his very multicolored business advances, but only the darker throng - like me - knew what a dangerous, despicable man Theodore DeLargo, CEO of Flatlands Inc., really was. I had my own history with Kel's old man, and it was connected right to the darkest hours of my own life. It had been his drugs I had been sucking in like a vacuum cleaner, and it had been one of his goons who had come to pay a visit and reassemble my girlfriend to death. I doubted that Kel knew that side of his father, or that his father knew what his goons were doing to get debts settled with his customers. Old Theo probably never had seen his illegal drug labs in person, he was just the money pot for the cooks. That didn't stop me from blaming him for every misfortune I had ever encountered, of course. I dreamed of shooting him every night. Kel's panicky voice ripped me out of my reverie. "So, how do you plan to do that? I mean, how do you plan to find out if they want to get you arrested?" That was a particularly good question, and one I couldn't answer. But I was already cooking up some ideas on how to go from here. "You'll see soon enough," I answered with one of my hyena grins. Better keep him off-balance, he already looked way to comfortable in my life and on my couch. I decided to get going right then and follow the flow. Getting up I stepped right next to him, trying to get him to back away with pure physical presence, but he didn't budge. He just tried to become invisible by shrinking, but it wasn't good enough for me. On the other hand, he was still clutching his coffee mug, and I didn't want to get brown sauce spilled all over my beloved couch, so that was the first thing needing to be fixed. I grabbed the mug but he wouldn't let go. Clever little scrap, he had guessed already that I was careful with the state of cleanliness of my couch, and he didn't want to lose his leverage on my willingness for physical persuasion. I tried to be reasonable first. "Let go," I grumbled sternly, and he obeyed. I set the cup aside and then grabbed for his wrists, just as he tried to hide them under his crossed arms. He really was perceptive, but he also seemed to cope well with orders, so I just told him what I wanted. "Don't struggle," I barked, and brought his hands behind his back. I needed to make sure he wouldn't run while I was out investigating his case like a private eye, and to be sure he stayed where he was I had to hogtie him. This time though he didn't listen to my command and started struggling like an eel on the hook. I lost my grip for a second and my fingers started to hurt from the awkward angle and supporting his full weight. He nearly slipped out of my hands, but I managed to catch him a nanosecond before his face could collide with the armrest. It was just a lucky catch to be honest, but at least he instantly stopped resisting and just let me do my thing. Actually he grew so still and passive I wasn't even sure he hadn't hit his head, so I pulled him up to his knees as soon as I was done binding his arms. This caused another lovely spin-off, namely being able to touch his naked chest and stomach, and press my own body against his. Touching his skin felt like hugging a ray of sunlight, and for a short moment I wondered how he managed to hold such a high body temperature with so little clothing. Then I felt his hands cupping my crotch. It was horribly distracting, but somehow I remembered that I had to say something. "I need to go out for a few hours, scrap. Since I can't -- and won't -- trust you, I'll have you tied up like a pretzel." As I said those words I did with my fingers on his hairless belly what I wanted him to do with his, stroking and kneading his skin. I wanted to find out how far his instinctual interpretation of my behavior went, because I still couldn't get over the fact that he gave the impression of reading my mind, and that he somehow enabled me to read his, so to speak. His fingers fumbled with the buttons of my pants, even as he pleaded with me to stop and not do this. His actions said the exact opposite as his hands freed my cock and wrapped around it greedily. The steady, demanding pressure made me moan and writhe against him, and he proved to be quite talented even with bound hands. Every touch started right at the root of my cock, pulling upward to squeeze pre-come out of my cock head, only to cover his fingers with it and start all over. My own lips caught his earlobe and I nibbled at it while I stole a glance down his front. I could see his own raging erection dent out his slutty pants and leave wet spots on the denim where his cock strained against the cloth. He obviously enjoyed this just as much as I did, and it gave me an idea. "You like my cock, huh?" I asked, even though the answer didn't really matter to me. I just did it because I knew he wouldn't answer, being too preoccupied with working me to a blasting orgasm. This was about testing a theory - okay, and about me having said orgasm. I let one of my hands trail down to his crotch, cupping it as I silently counted to five, just to give him enough time to react. He didn't. He just sped up his hands on my cock and nearly made me go blind with lust and euphoria. Out of his sight I snarled silently in triumph, and grabbed his crotch hard. I was careful not to exaggerate the pressure though, just enough to give him the kind of pain I liked to inflict on my lovers. His reaction was beautiful and reassuring. "Yes!" he gasped, and for a moment I wasn't sure if that was supposed to be his answer to my question or just an exclamation of happiness. "Yes what?" I whispered gleefully, because I felt that he somehow expected me not to be satisfied with that answer. "I like your cock very much," he gasped, and made a strange sound as I started slowly rubbing his erection through the denim. It sounded similar to a purring cat, and it made me want to draw more of those lovely gasps out of him, so I opened his fly and caught his cock as it bounced out. It was perfectly sized for me, a little under seven inches, silky and painfully hard, and it gave me all the reassurance I needed to know that he loved what I was doing to him. He was a little masochist, that one, which fit me perfectly. I didn't think of myself as a real sadist, but there were streaks of violence in all of my sexual fantasies, and I had always looked for someone who appreciated that. His hands tortured my cock with a myriad of small, clever touches, and though I already reciprocated his efforts he still started to beg for more. I knew instantly he wanted me to fuck him right there on the couch, bound and forced into submission, and I had his trousers down before I could use my brain. I had things to do, important things at that, like saving my life - and his in the process. If we started to fuck now I would never leave the house, because his body held wonders to lose myself in. My self control had its limits, and as he was pushing them mercilessly I had to protect them, for both our sakes. Instead of bending him over and ramming little Noom home where he belonged I breached his anus with a finger. I couldn't stay away completely, he was too luscious for that, but I could restrain myself to a certain extent. Only when he started fucking himself on my fingers, sweating and groaning in utter abandon, did I get jealous of my own hand and started regretting my sense of responsibility. He moved his whole body at that time, riding my crooked fingers, stroking my cock with every movement, and he swore under his breath and between his groans, "Oh fuck! Oh fuck!". I finally was able to see him totally undone. It hooked me instantly, I felt myself get addicted to him right there and then. It should have frightened me, or made me angry, but instead I just felt the warm tingle of an impending orgasm ripple through my lower abdomen. "Come for me," I whispered frantically, because it somehow seemed important to have him come before me, to prove my sexual prowess with holding back my own orgasm. He craned his neck and whimpered, and I couldn't resist. When I bit his neck hard he bucked, shouted and came like a small geyser. It was the hottest thing I'd ever seen. He fell forward onto the soft, sticky couch cushions, blissfully tired, and I stroked myself into a fast, electrifying oblivion of my own, marking his back and ass with my cum. 'Mine,' my brain whispered happily, and I didn't even try to disagree. But if I wanted to keep him as much as I desired him I had to get going now, and not waste another minute. I left him lying there, bound and exhausted, and got dressed. I had to go see Viking Mike. ~~~* ~~~ Viking Mike was the closest thing to a friend I'd ever had, though I didn't call him friend. There was not a single person I trusted on this world, but on a scale ranging from blood lust to sympathy Viking Mike was on the upper part of my personal chart. He lived in an old, small and beautiful detached house in Cat's Cradle Peninsula near Bracket River, just beyond the Southern Ghetto. Though his 1600 square feet of living space didn't trump my own home by much, his was definitely more classy. Dark wooden furniture, gleaming hardwood floors, curtains and carpets that actually had seen a shop from the inside at one point in their life, and of course there were weapons. Not the kind of weapons I carried around, mind you. Axes, swords, crossbows, lances, daggers and knives hung from various contraptions, dangling over my head and from the walls like some kind of private museum. They weren't the main reason for his nickname though. Mike let me in after the second knock, towering over me like a Scandinavian model on his day off. He was about 6'5'', built like a tank and as blond as me. Contrary to me he didn't have to bleach his hair though, and I envied him for that. "Noom, good day to you. Business or pleasure?" he said, and turned around to walk into the kitchen. "Business. The private sort." I closed the door behind me and followed him until we reached his living room, then made myself at home there. I heard him fiddle around with his French coffee machine, a giant hissing monster made of tubes and copper plates. There was no way he would get down to said business without having met his duties as a host, so I just swallowed my impatience and waited for him to join me. A few minutes later he sat down on the other couch and set two Italian Cappuccinos down on the black coffee table. The cream was dotted with slowly melting caramel crumbles, and he'd even bought cinnamon cookies to put next to the cup for decoration. Mike unpacked his cookie, dunked it into the cream and gave me a raised eyebrow. "So?" he said and took a bite. I ignored my cookie and took a foamy sip, licking my upper lip as I played the words through in my head. "I've got an assignment from Franko, but I think he or whoever ordered him to find someone for it is ripping me off big time. I can't shake the feeling they're looking for a scapegoat, and I won't put up with that. I need more information, find out who gave the order in the first place, and maybe who that person is. Can you help me?" Mike inhaled the rest of his cookie, looking thoughtful and focused as he listened. There was soft clinking as he stirred the rest of the cream and the caramel crumbles into his coffee, then he grumbled, "sounds like you want me to spy on your clients. Are you sure you want to do that? We're talking about your reputation here, you know." It wasn't criticism on Mike's part, but I wouldn't have accepted those words from anyone else. I didn't like to explain myself under normal circumstances, but in this case he was right. "Yeah, I know. But I've got a really bad feeling about this job, and it has been itching at the back of my mind for two days. If I need to spy on my client to survive, I'll just have to swallow my pride for once. And if he's trying to rip me off and blame the kill on me he's not worth protecting anyway." His coffee gone Mike shrugged. He didn't really care about my reputation, he knew me too well to give a damn about it. "Fine, I'll do it. You'll need to tell me everything about the assignment though. Can't find dirt without a shovel." ~~~* ~~~ "Hello, Franko? It's Mike Jorenson. I just found your latest assignment offer and wanted to ask if it's still active. Yeah, I know I'm late, but you know how things are. I'm a married man." I sat back and watched Mike do his phone magic. There were dozens of paper stacks covering every square inch of the coffee table and the couches, some even sat on my lap because we had run out of space an hour earlier. Most of them were prints of information we had found on the Internet, but we'd started making notes and mind maps just a few minutes ago, and that stack also seemed to grow rapidly. While Mike talked to Franko on the phone I studied the print of my scrap's vita. I had found it online at one of the student information points for Babylon Central University, even though I hadn't known rich people still did the whole education thing. I'd been really surprised to find Kel's picture there, and even more stunned to find out he was a business studies major. I sifted through my stack of files lazily while Mike went on. "So if he doesn't get it done soon the job will be open again? What's the deadline?" There was a short silence as Mike listened, then he threw a glance at me that didn't predict good things to come. "48 hours? Wow that's a tight schedule. No, no, I'm alright with that. Just give me a holler if anything new comes up. Thanks Franko." Putting the phone back into his pocket Mike sat down again and grabbed his beer can to take a big sip. "Well, that didn't go so well I'd say. Seems to be a Mafia job if you ask me, Franko mentioned something about scag debts that got too high. But your target is filthy rich, there's no reason not to pay for his fixes." I nodded in agreement and put the student profile away. There were some more informations about Kel's family, most of them legally acquired, like financial status of his father, their businesses and corporations and tax payments, but the numbers irked me. I couldn't quite put my finger on what it was though. "Something about this whole thing here bothers me, but I don't know what it is," I mumbled, and Mike scooted closer to grab the papers from me. He was pretty good with numbers and taxes, having to bother with that kind of stuff all the time, and I hoped he would make out what I had missed. He studied the papers quietly for a few minutes, then made a thoughtful sound and started to leaf through the financial history of Flatlands Inc. "There's nothing wrong with those numbers, they're perfect. But the taxes are too high for the profit margin they put on their home page, so either mister DeLargo has some serious private property he doesn't want to talk about, or they're lying about their profits on their official website. I don't think they'd be coy about their success though, but finding out about private ownerships will be quite the work." I frowned as I digested what I'd heard. So daddy dearest had personal articles of value stashed away somewhere, but paid for those with his company. It was quite odd to keep money somewhere where you had to pay taxes for it if there were chances to invest and not pay them, and after more than three hours of investigation I had a quite accurate picture of the deviousness of Kel's family. Theodore DeLargo would never put up with such weak points, never. "Can you do it? I have a premonition that this information here will be quite valuable soon," I asked, and Mike just nodded. Of course he could do it, it would just be a matter of time. "How much?" Mike asked. Nothing was ever for free in my world, and of course I would pay him for his work. It was his business after all, this information gathering. "Five thousand flat premium, and a third of what ever I'll gain through the information you gather for me," I offered and held out my hand. Mike took it without qualms, shook on it and got up to start gathering the papers strewn around. "I'll start today. Finding hidden money isn't as easy as TV makes it look like, but I've got my contacts at the IRS. As soon as I find out something I'll call you, but don't be coy if you stumble across something yourself. The more I know, the faster I'll be." ~~~* ~~~ After leaving Mike's I went for a walk in a neighborhood I'd hoped to never visit again: Irish Town, a conglomerate of small plazas and streets almost exclusively inhabited by Irish immigrants. The majority of those people had either fled when the IRA had been at the peak of their activity back in Ireland, or followed when the IRA had been disbanded a few years later. Now they represented a new form of criminal organization, leasing people to the mafia to work as drug dealers and pimps with no knowledge of the higher-ups whatsoever. This intriguing system was so effective that they had broadened the bandwidth of their illegal skills over the last months to black market trading, extortion and money laundry, while working as subcontractors for the Babylon Mafia. I wasn't interested in their business model though. What I was interested in was the knowledge their dealers had about Kelaste and his habit. There were lots of people wandering the streets, going about their business, and I got a few ugly glances because I was recognized as a stranger to the district. The folks from Irish Town didn't like intruders very much, and they showed it. They only ceased to care when night fell, because every proper person around here would rather drop dead than walk the streets at night. They knew what went on there in the dead of night, but they'd never rat out a fellow Irishman. The police had to blame themselves for that loyalty; when the Irish had started to trickle in they had not treated them well. Having been paid by the Babylon Mafia to keep competition down they had driven many young fellows out of the city, and their corruption wasn't forgotten easily. I tugged down my washed out black hoodie to hide the hilt of my ever loyal Beretta at the small of my back, shoved my hands into the frayed pockets of my skin tight red pants and avoided crossing anyone's path as I strolled down the cobblestoned Grayson Avenue. Looking innocuous wasn't one of my talents, but at least I could manage to look disinterested. As I reached Foster Plaza, a venue that had morphed out of several intersections when city officials had demolished old public buildings, an old lady in black and dark blue smacked my arm with her purse, babbled something in Gaelic and spit on my boots before walking on. Yep, I definitely still hated this place. Foster Plaza was the central meeting point for teenagers, dealers and hooligans on weekdays, whereas on weekends a big fish and vegetable market dominated the open space. If you visited this plaza at night you ran a pretty high risk of being robbed and stabbed, but at daylight it was strangely calm. Since even dealers and addicts had parents, and most of them probably lived in Irish Town too, they actually were well behaved as long as there was light on the sky. "Yo, Noom! Fancy seeing ya' here," a voice said behind me and made me turn around. Crooked teeth were bared by a snarly grin, dominating an even uglier, unshaven face as the guy strolled closer. Thomas, or Tommy for short, had been my favorite dealer in a time long past, but I wouldn't have recognized him hadn't he called out my name. His clothes were dirty and crusty, his hair unkempt and somehow he had lost an eye since I'd last seen him. Shapeshifter Ch. 03 "Hey Tommy," I answered, trying to keep the disdain out of my voice. He'd never done anything to deserve my anger, but I just couldn't stand the thought of talking to a dealer - any dealer - after what had happened to me. "A friend of mine needs a fix, but I don't know which dealer he frequents. Maybe you can help me out?" At first he seemed hesitant, but when I described my little hostage Tommy broke into a huge toothy grin. "What, you're friends with THAT guy? Climbing up the social ladder, eh?" he teased, then shrugged. "He's got no favorite, that one. He tries to pay with sexual favors every time though, and most of us won't go for that. He always got money with him, so I don't know what his deal is, but he's well acquainted with Tony's crew because they cover most of the nightclubs." I frowned at that. If Kel always paid one way or the other, why would anyone want him dead? Maybe someone higher up the ranks had found out that some of the dealers gave out scat for free and wanted to make an example of Kel, but if that were the case Tommy would have mentioned it. I gave him a cigarette for his help, said my farewell and walked on. It took me a little bit longer to find one of Tony's men, but when I finally did I recognized him immediately. It was the weaselly guy I'd seen Kel with the night before, the one with the disgusting cock. He wasn't as ready to talk as Tommy had been, but when I described Kel with as much detail I could muster he finally relented. "Yeah, I know 'im. He's a good sport. Never begs, never makes debts. Either he pays, or he... recompenses, if you know what I mean," he grumbled, then grinned smugly. He did seem more suspicious of me though, so I decided to purchase something for Kel, just to make my point. I was pretty sure the guy ripped me off, but I didn't comment on that. "He got any problems you know of? Any reason why he would send me to buy his stuff?" I inquired, making a big deal of looking around nervously, pretending to be afraid of being caught. The scrawny dealer shrugged and frowned. "Well... No. I mean, there was someone looking for him this morning, but that guy just asked around if anyone had seen your friend, and he wasn't a cop. A guy from the Mafia, if you ask me, but none of us dared to ask what it was about. None of our business, you see." He gave me the small satchel and I shoved it into my pocket, looking around again. I didn't like what I was hearing. Someone was already looking for Kel, probably to find out if he was still breathing, and I had just confirmed that he was very much alive. I had to think quick. "Well, if that guy comes back and asks again, you'll maybe want to keep quiet about me. I've heard some undercover cops are looking for him to get him to rat out his suppliers, and that wouldn't sit too well with your business, would it?" I nodded my farewell and didn't wait for his answer, I just walked away. I felt his eyes follow me until I left the plaza, but I didn't dare look back, because I desperately needed him to believe me and for that I had to look sincere. Now I had a few more informations, some smack I didn't want in my pockets, and more questions than before. I still needed to do something about my job, and since I hadn't been able to find out who had paid for the hit I would have to fake Kel's death to win some time. But how was I supposed to do that? ~~~* ~~~ I still had no idea what to do when I arrived at home. The door fell shut behind me and the slamming sound provoked other noises from downstairs; there was a soft thud, then a low curse, then silence settled over the house. I looked up the stairs alarmed. Had my sexy captive somehow gotten out of his bindings? I didn't take off my boots when I walked over to the stairs. If Kelaste tried to flee I needed to be able to follow quickly, and good footwear was the key to successful coursing. I pulled my gun before I reached the top of the stairs, aiming for the most probable hideouts he'd choose up there. I didn't want to be surprised or jumped, because then I'd have to seriously hurt him. Better threaten him with a weapon he already knew than hitting him, at least that's what I thought. When I reached my living room-bedroom combo and found him I had to snicker. Somehow he'd fallen off the couch and gotten caught under the coffee table, and obviously he hadn't dared to move since the cups from before still sat on it, ready to spill their contents all over my furniture. "Thoughtful of you," I remarked with a smirk, put away the gun and walked closer to pick up the coffee mugs and put them next to the computer. Kel just gave me a dark look, then he wiggled out from under the coffee table slowly. I could see his cheeks and fingers shudder rhythmically and sighed. Grabbing his arm I pulled him up and pushed him back onto the couch. "You havin' the shakes?" I inquired unhappily, remembering the scat I had in my pocket. I really didn't like drugs, but this was none of my business really. If I wanted to enjoy his company, I'd have to deal with this, like it or not. "Sorry," he mumbled, obviously ashamed about his state, and nodded. He was not yet crazed by the cravings, which was impressive for someone who'd been using for so long, but long-time drug abuse didn't automatically mean intense addiction. If he didn't need his high 24/7 he was a highly functioning addict, and I liked people who managed their weaknesses in a sufferable way. Funny how he didn't feel like my hostage anymore. Our new relationship had crept in stealthily and so quickly I had to take a mental step back to even realize it was there. Even then it didn't really scare me, which was even more odd. I even petted his head for a moment, I couldn't stop myself from doing it. "Stay there, we gotta talk," I snapped and turned to go to my weapon's chest. I punched in the code, got out my first aid kit and a Bowie knife and stomped back to where he was sitting and staring at me with his freaky silver eyes. As I bent over his tied back hands I huffed, "If you try anything funny I'll gut you with this," and cut the cable binders to free his arms. He'd need them to prepare his fix, and maybe I'd win brownie points with him for that small favor, who knew. Surprisingly, he didn't even try to move until I took a step back. Only then did he slowly pull his arms back front and massaged his wrists, still blushing from bashfulness and nerves. He didn't say anything, but it felt like I could literally hear his thoughts as I watched him cowering there, too insecure to look at me. "Yes, I was out trying to find whoever put money on your head. No, I didn't succeed. Yes, you're in big trouble," I rattled off the answers, and relished his surprised expression. It was nice being able to impress him with such mundane things, but then he didn't really strike me as the social type or pampered heir I'd imagined him to be. I fumbled for the small satchel in my pocket, pulled it out and threw it onto the first aid kit on the coffee table as I sat down. His eyes followed the gray powder instinctively, then he blinked three times and finally looked at my face. It made me grin how he suddenly tried to ignore the thing he must have wanted most in the world right now, just so he wouldn't seem too desperate. "What happens now? You gonna shoot me?" he inquired a bit hoarsely, but his gaze never wavered from my face. I should have said yes and just shot him. "I want you to be perfectly clear on this, so listen," I said instead, shoved the Bowie knife into my ratty belt and flipped the heroin closer to him. "Somebody out there is willing to spend a lot of money to have you killed. That someone also has people out there asking around for you. We both don't know who is behind this, so right now I'm about the only person you can trust, because I've already got you, I know about the money, I've got no qualms about killing people and I've got the means to do it. That you're still alive should be enough to trust me, right?" I didn't just see him grapple with the meaning of my words, I could also feel it and it nearly freaked me out. I didn't want to show him any weakness though, so I jumped up and busied myself with putting away the knife and rummaging around in the weapon's chest. I nearly missed his answer with all the noise I was producing. "Right," he whispered, and I could feel his gaze drop away from the back of my head. He had a pretty impressive stare, that one. "So what now?" I closed the chest with a loud thud and walked back to the table, fighting down the urge to destroy something. It was just nerves, nothing more, but he was way too talented in keeping me on edge for my comfort. "We're gonna fake your death, you'll get your fix, I'll probably tie you down again and then I'm gonna go cash in some money, because that what I'd do under normal circumstances." My words were curt and to the point, my teeth clenched when I said them, but he still got them right. He didn't even flinch as he thoughtfully snatched the satchel and inspected the contents. Everything went fine until he dropped the bombshell. "I'm afraid of needles, I can't do it myself." I think my jaw unhinged and dropped to the ground. "Are you for real?" I blurted out and stared at him disbelievingly. How could a junkie be afraid of needles? How had he even managed to stay on this habit if he didn't dare to inject himself? At least now the toilet stall show made a lot more sense. He'd needed that wasted punk to help him with it, and - lucky me - now he needed my help. Me, a most vocal opponent to using drugs. Oh, sweet irony! "Fine, I'll do it," I snarled, and this time he did flinch at the tone of my voice. Maybe I was not the only one affected by this strange empathic bond, but that did nothing to reassure me. I really didn't like the thought of having someone besides me inside my head. The thought alone was too odd to comprehend. He did agree to prepare the shot, and soon enough the strangely sweet smell of cooking scat floated through my living room and made me even more moody. Kelaste didn't know my past, but if he'd known he probably would have foregone this opportunity just to be sensible. The lure of heroin doesn't stop with the addiction, you know. Whenever you smell that old, familiar scent your brain does the good-ol'-times routine and beckons you to go back, try it again, just one more time, just a tiny little bit. That was the main reason why I hated addicts so much, they always had that smell on their hair, their clothes, their skin, and it made me angry. With every passing minute Kel cringed more and more, and it was all the confirmation I needed. He definitely felt a hint of what I felt, but didn't seem surprised by it. When he finally had the syringe ready I stepped closer and put the tourniquet on his arm. "I'll pull some blood first, then you get your shit sorted out. I'll be gone for a couple of hours, but if you wake up and leave the house, don't even think about coming back." I stung him with an empty syringe attached, pulled a good amount of blood, then attached the full syringe and sent him to Nirvana. He was out within a few mere moments after loosening the tourniquet, and I just left him lying there happily. My last march for the day would lead me to Franko's, and I'd need to keep my wits about me if I wanted to lie in his face and get away with it. Shapeshifter Ch. 04 ~~~ * ~~~ Copyright by metajinx. Please do not duplicate or copy without explicit permission. This story is purely fictional. If you don't like violence, stop reading right here - there will be weapons, drugs, manhandling, blood and violent death, and also: no sex. I recommend reading all the other parts first, because this is a continued story. This part is narrated by Kelaste (pronounced "Kay-last", the short form Kel is pronounced like "Kell"). ~~~ * ~~~ Something woke me up in the middle of the night. The house was pitch black, the music had stopped, the cum had dried to a crusty, brittle mass on my ass and stomach, but other than that everything was just as before. I felt warm and sheltered, physically tired and hazy, but my heart raced with adrenaline, and each thud pounded nearly painful against my ribs. Too relaxed to move I simply listened into the silence around me, trying to find out why my heart behaved like a frightened bird. Maybe Noom had come back? He had an uncanny talent to surprise me with his stealthy assaults. There was a soft clicking sound coming from downstairs, and this time I was fully awake. The sound itself was so muted and quiet no human ears would have been able to hear it, but even pumped with heroin my senses were keener than any thug could imagine. Someone was picking the lock on Noom's front door. I tried to get up and nearly fell from the couch when the tight pants constricted around my knees. It would be faster to pull them up than to shuck them off, so I wedged my ass into the snug denim, trying not to fall over and not to miss any other noises from downstairs at the same time. It was hard to avoid making any noises since my head still swam with sleepiness and a phenomenal high, but my cat instincts weren't bothered by that as much as my conscious mind. I was used to having to hide quickly and without traces, since my father had never liked to bring home a new lady to find his juvenile bastard son sit at the couch and gawk at them, and automatically I grabbed for my coffee mug to hide it under the couch. It was not the usual routine where I had enough time to hide any trace and disappear into my remote bedroom before visitors stepped into the house, but I still was quick enough with my reactions. They still were fiddling around with the admittedly sturdy lock when I prowled over to the dusty window next to the four poster bed and found it glued shut by a coat of black lacquer. I would not have had any problems forcing it open, but that would have definitely alerted whoever was breaking in to my presence, and somehow I suspected it would end very badly to let them know I was here. My heart was still beating fast and hard when I turned around to look for another place to hide. My instinctual agitation made my fingers twitch and shiver and my spine tingle with anticipation. I knew that my body wanted to change shape so I'd be able to defend myself against any attacker, but as good as my cat-body was in fighting and running, I needed my human shape to hide. There was an old, brittle latch in the ceiling above the weapon's chest. I wouldn't have noticed it under any other circumstances, because it was painted the same strange dark violet color as the rest of the room, but the handle was still attached, and a few holes and gaps between the painted planks let me know that it led to the attic. I scurried over, climbed onto the sturdy chest and stretched upward to press my hand against the latch. It didn't budge. When I pushed harder the paint cracked as the latch swung open. Downstairs I heard the front door being unlocked. I pulled myself into the moldy, dusty attic in a split second, and lowered the latch very carefully, then laid down on it. The utter silence downstairs didn't calm my nerves at all, it only made me breathe harder, made my heart beat faster. I could hear the faint sound of the door closing, then nearly soundless steps proceeding through the ground floor. Cupboards and closets were opened and closed, but not a word was exchanged. I thought I heard two pairs of boots, but I couldn't be sure. When the invaders walked up the steps I could see two stray light cones wander around the room. One of them even grazed the latch I laid on, but didn't stop there. They were very thorough with their search, and very professional. They didn't make a peep until they were utterly sure that no one was at home, and they didn't ransack or destroy anything. Only when they were finished with their search did they start a hushed conversation, flash lights directed to the floor. "Nothing," a deep, unhappy voice whispered, and it sounded like a statement and a question at the same time. "Maybe he let him go?" the other voice answered, and I was surprised to find out that one of them was a woman. A pretty tall, confident woman at that. The only women I had met in my life were trophy wives and housekeepers, all very feminine and demure. I didn't know why the presence of that woman surprised me so much, but it did. The guy switched off his flash light and clasped it to his belt, then dug around in his pants pocket, standing right where I could see him through the gap between the boards. "Nah, never. You saw that guy, the beating he took without a twitch. Maybe he's telling the truth." At that he pulled out a small mobile phone, dialed and held it at chest height. I could hear the hollow dialing tone loud and clear; the call had obviously been put on speaker. I could watch them through the small gap in the floor boards, I could listen to them, and if they didn't get the idea to look for an attic, I was in a perfect spot to spy on them. My heartbeat calmed down somewhat, but my spine still tingled with the latent urge to shift shape. A click indicated the call being answered, and then an unknown, echoing voice huffed, "have you got him?" "No. Not a trace at his home. You'd never believe he lives here, it's all so... clean, and shabby at the same time. The only thing we found is a metal chest, but it's too small to hide a body," man-thug answered, his gaze fixed at his busty comrade's face. There was a soft crackling when their conversational partner kneaded his phone, then a hollow sigh followed. "He has to be there somewhere. Why else would this merch' give us cat's blood and claim it to be that boy's?" The next few words were muffled and blurred, because the recipient had put his hand over the microphone to talk to someone else, then the shuffling stopped and the voice was clear again. "Put a booby trap in the house. If that boy comes back there he'd better not survive it. We'll meet you at the candy factory in half an hour." A sharp click indicated the end of the call, and thug and thugette got going, again silent and professional. Their behavior sent cold shivers down my back, my instincts screaming for me to get out of there. But I couldn't, not yet. I had to find out where they put the booby trap, and by god, I couldn't obey Noom's command to stay put if they'd been talking about him being severely beaten up, even if it felt unnervingly wrong to defy him. I had to find their booby trap, follow them to the mentioned candy factory, find Noom and save him. No running away this time, and no waiting for someone else to fix it. ~*~ The henchmen got to it as soon as the call ended. Again there was the shuffling of feet, the stray light cones and the sounds of cupboards and closets being opened and inspected. One of them even forcibly opened the window I had probed before, then shut it again. "He won't get in through here, it's too high and the wall is smooth. He'd need a ladder, and he won't think that far," guy-thug whispered, and was given girl-thug's humming consent. They gave the bedroom one last once-over and the light cone again grazed the hatch I was lying on, then they walked downstairs to repeat their search. It maybe took them about ten minutes to find a good spot for their booby trap, but it felt like hours to me. I was sweating fiercely, and for the last few minutes it took to set up their bomb I actually feared my sweat would soak through the gaps in the hatch and alarm them to my hiding spot, but of course that never happened. They didn't have my fine sense of hearing, and they were at the front door, too far away from the steps to see small drops of dusty sweat fall from the ceiling. And I wasn't effectively sweating that much, it was just my vivid imagination and the terror I felt. When they finally walked out there was a small clicking sound mixed in with the thud of the closing door, announcing that the bomb was now armed and ready. I didn't move until I heard a car drive away, then slowly crawled out of the attic and jumped down into the bedroom. It was dark, but my eyes penetrated the darkness easily as I peeked down the stairs. I knew there was a bomb, but I couldn't find any trace of it just by looking, and decided against going downstairs to search for it. Who knew how they had set up their little trap? They surely had set up a plan B to cover other possible entry points, and walking down there knowing there was a bomb seemed utterly stupid to me. Instead I decided to look for Noom. The logic behind that decision seemed sound to me. They had beaten him up because of me, he hadn't killed me and I didn't feel like such a freak when I was around him. I liked him in a crazy way, and it felt right to help him. With him I wasn't lonely anymore, and that alone was worth more than anything else. A more reasonable part of my mind still argued with me, telling me what a normal human being would do, but I was being stubborn. I wasn't human, so maybe it was time to stop trying to act like I was. It was a stupid moment to take that step, but any reason was enough for me to hold on to. When I walked to the window I realized my hands were shaking badly. It surprised me because I didn't feel shocky or any more anxious than what I thought was normal for someone in my situation, but my hands told me otherwise. I also remembered that I was nearly naked and would stand out like a sore thumb, so I rummaged around to find something to put on. Every passing minute worsened the shaking, and it slowly engulfed my arms, shoulders and finally legs, until I had to sit down and take a few calming breaths that didn't really help that much. Maybe I was freaking out because I was so afraid to end up alone and miserable again, or maybe it was a reaction to the near-death-experience I had just gone through, but it was bad either way. I had had anxiety attacks before, but I had never learned how to deal with them except for simply ignoring the shortness of breath, the shaking and the innate fear ripping at my mind. Anxiety was weakness after all, and any weakness was punished severely under my father's rule. This time ignoring and hiding my panic just didn't work, and the thought of losing precious minutes just sitting there and being a wimp didn't make it any better. Finally I resorted to slapping myself so hard my teeth rattled, and the pain snapped me out of it. And why wouldn't it? It always worked when my father slapped me, just another learned reaction that now came in handy. My face stung where my hand had left its imprint, but I got up nonetheless and continued my search for a shirt and a sweater, sniffling silently and wiping tears from my eyes ever so often. I told myself over and over that I could cry as much as I wanted after I found Noom, but that also didn't do any good. Finally I just grabbed a black short sleeved shirt and a dark purple sweatshirt, pulled them on and opened the window. I had no shoes to put on, and socks would just get wet and sticky, so I went bare footed, jumping out of the first story window and down onto the unforgiving concrete below. I smashed into the hard floor, rolled a few feet and crashed into a garbage container where I finally came to a halt. A mere human would probably have hurt himself quite badly falling that deep, and even I ached everywhere, but except for a dislocated, slashed open left shoulder I was unhurt. It was not my best jump, but not the worst one either. The pain from my shoulder was fierce and sharp, but I just held my hurt arm against my chest and started limping down the street. It would heal fast enough and without permanent damage, as it had so often in the past, and stopping at a hospital to get it fixed up was out of the question. I was forbidden from ever going to a public hospital, under any circumstances. My father had even gone so far as to tell me I should rather die than let myself get caught by modern medicine, and though that did sound quite cruel, it had toughened me up and taught me a few neat tricks in first aid. For example, the old 'ram your dislocated shoulder against a stable edge' only worked for a very specific kind of dislocation, and only injured you more under any other circumstance. I would need a helper to snap my shoulder joint back into its rightful place, and keep the arm stable and immovable until then. I didn't even think about other potential helpers for this, I just assumed Noom would do it and jogged on. Every step sent shock waves of red-hot pain through my injured arm, making me increasingly dizzy and disoriented. It was dark and cold, the streets were wet from the soft drizzle that had fallen hours before, and dirt and litter were scattered everywhere. I didn't count how often I stepped into shards of glass, dog poop or discarded chewing gum, but by the looks on the faces of people I passed I must have looked like hell. I stopped three times to vomit or fall down and faint for a few minutes before I realized where I was headed: Irish Town. I had never been in this district before, and I didn't know why I instinctively had come here, but in hindsight I guess there was a faint scent trail Noom had left more than five hours ago, and I was following it. "Whoa, boyo, you look high as a kite!" I knew that voice, but I stumbled on for a few feet before my mind could reach my limbs and stop me. When I slowly turned around to face 'Weasel', as I had nicknamed the dealer I had given a blowjob to on the day Noom had captured me, he took a step back and made a surprised sound. "I stand corrected. You look like dead shit," he swore in his this Irish accent, and took a good look at my face. "What's happened to you?" I blinked owlishly, trying to remember why I had come here, but it took a few seconds. This definitely wasn't one of my brighter days. "I need to go to a place they call 'candy factory'. Do you know where it is?" I mumbled, and took a step closer to Weasel. He was still staring at my face, wary and mistrustful of my strange performance, but I didn't miss the soft twitch in his face when he heard the name. He knew where or what it was, and he didn't like it. "What's a nice guy like you looking for there?" He asked, snorting a ball of sputum to the side. "That's a really bad place, kiddo. You're gonna get raped, or worse, is what I'm talking about." At the same moment he leaned to the side and inspected the bloody spots on my sweatshirt hiding the wound on my dislocated shoulder. I could see his eyes get a little wider, then smaller as he squinted at it. "It'd be better if I take you to a hospital, boyo. Free of charge. You're a good customer, and I like you. Don't go to the factory, it's not good." Another wave of dizzyness swept over me and made me stumble to the side, but he didn't grab me, which I was grateful for, and I didn't fall, which was just dumb luck. "I don't have a choice, and I can't go to the hospital, ever. I need to find Noom, and he's at the candy factory, so please, I beg you, tell me where it is. I'll be fine, really." Why had I told him that? My head felt funny, the pain in my arm had quieted down to a dull, intense throbbing, and the world had gotten a cottony edge again, so sat down. If he saw me fall unconscious in front of him he'd probably just grab me and send me to the hospital, and that would be the end of my rescue mission. Weasel was silent for such a long time, I actually looked up to see if he had left. But no, he was still standing there, watching me silently, and thinking very hard. I could see frown lines on his forehead and watched them rise and fall as he fought with himself and finally came to a decision. "Fine. But if you ever tell anyone where you got that information from, I'll rise from the dead to haunt you like a banshee, you hear me?" He gave me another good, hard stare, then looked around and took a step closer. It was obvious he didn't want to be overheard or seen talking to me. "There's an abandoned sugar factory at the Bracket River, down Darcy Road. It's a four mile ride from here, but buses won't go there anymore, and cabs would rather get robbed here than drive you there, because there's more crime than anywhere else in Babylon City. You'll want to follow Wicker Street for five blocks, then turn left and cross the river on the train bridge. Turn right on the first street you find, then take the second right and go to the end of that road. The wall you'll be standing in front of is the back side of the candy factory. If you survive that long, that is." My head still spun a little bit, but the instructions were simple enough. I had never been that deep inside the Southern Ghetto before, so I didn't recognize any of the street names, but I had a very good memory for directions. "Thanks, I owe you. You're a life saver!" I was on my feet and walking in a second. Now that I knew where to head I didn't want to lose another moment. Dizzyness and pain didn't matter. I would go to that godforsaken place, free Noom and take him somewhere safe. I just had to figure out exactly what to do once I was there-- I was but one little shapeshifter going up against at least three armed thugs. ~*~ The air smelled of wet concrete, car fumes, stale urine and old, moldy roses, and it carried a hint of heat the sun had left during the day. Now everything except of the concrete road was cold and uninviting. Combined with the growing darkness-- street lamps weren't working in most of the Southern Ghetto-- the whole area had an atmosphere of impending doom that really creeped me out. Although the way to the factory had sounded easy enough, I soon found out why Weasel had put so much effort in warning me away. Coming from a rich home I always had thought the Western Ghetto was as bad as it could get, but this part of the city was even worse in so many ways. The streets weren't only broken up and full of pot holes, grass and nettles grew out of the gaps between the concrete slabs. Some of the old, decrepit buildings had crumbling veneer and gaping holes where windows had once been. Broken down, rusty cars without tires or seats stood next to pristine classic muscle cars, and while the car skeletons smelled of urine, rats, feces and death, the well-cared-for rides smelled of cologne, gun powder, sex and drugs. Of course, there weren't many cars, not compared to the general population in the area. As soon as I crossed the train bridge I also could see the dark schemes of people lurking at doors and side streets, and I could feel eyes watching me from the dark corners of the desolate buildings I walked by. They didn't feel friendly at all. They also didn't feel neutral or disinterested; their gazes were hungry and aggressive. I usually had several ways of dealing with anxiety, and none of them included 'walking deeper into danger'. But this time I didn't have much of a choice, and I hoped my ragged, bloody, and beaten-looking appearance would surprise thieves and thugs long enough for me to slip away into the darkness before they could recover and come after me. I held my injured arm against my chest, kept my head down and walked on quickly. Nobody was following me yet, but that could change any second. I took a right at the next corner like Weasel had instructed, knowing I'd just have to keep out of trouble to the end of that road. Shapeshifter Ch. 04 I started to feel relief flooding my system when someone suddenly stepped out of the shade right next to me and shoved me hard against the crumbling wall. "Well, well, well. What have we got here?" I heard someone sneer through the thick fog of pain radiating from my dislocated shoulder. "You taken the wrong turn, or the right one?" I knew that voice. It was one of the thugs who had come looking for me. My heart tried to crawl through my throat as I gasped for air and tried to sidestep him, but the man didn't let go of me. For my struggling I got slammed against the wall again, and this time I saw white spots dance through the darkness before my eyes. "Are you deaf? I asked what you're doing here!" the thug hissed, and prepared to slam me against the wall a third time. I squealed, I admit it. "I need to go to the factory!" I hastily blubbered, and it worked. Instead of trying to smash the wall in with my body he just grabbed my collar and pulled me up until I had to balance on the tip of my very naked toes. "And why would a street urchin' like you want to go there, huh?" Oh goody, he didn't recognize my face from anywhere. This was salvagable, at least I hoped so. "I need to pay some debts, they told me to come, they told me the way, I swear!" My voice still shook, but the lie came out smoothly and convincingly. The man, towering over me at least a half foot in added height, sniffed. I couldn't see his face in the darkness, but my oversensitive ears picked up the little huffs of air, the steady, calm pulse on his neck, and the soft rustling of cloth as he felt around the back of his belt. When I heard the metal click of the gun he pulled it was almost too late. "Consider your debts paid," he said, and brought the gun upward, aiming for my head. I don't know what would have happened if he had stood farther away from me. Maybe he would have actually managed to shoot me, but I was lucky. He was standing so close he couldn't aim straight ahead. He had to bend his arm and bring the gun to my temple, and that was just enough time for me to rip his throat out with one hand. I didn't even do it consciously, it just happened. I only realized what I had just done when a spray of sticky hot blood hit my face, and my feet found back to solid ground. The big guy stumbled, tried to hold on to me, and finally fell to the floor in an unceremonious heap. Without thinking I threw the piece of flesh I had ripped out of him to the floor and gasped. The stench of death and meat suddenly filled my lungs to the brim. The scent actually made me hungry, but the sheer violence and the shock following it made my stomach churn angrily and finally made me throw up. When I was finished I stumbled back, grazing along the wall behind me and sliding to the floor a few feet away from the dead man, eyes still fixed on his unmoving body. It had all been over so quick, I just couldn't believe it yet. I still waited for him to jump up and finish me off, but there was no heart beat, no breathing, and no movement whatsoever. I also waited for his colleagues to come looking for him, even though I knew nobody had been alarmed yet. For a few seconds there was dead silence, and the only thing proving that I was still there was my own heartbeat. My stomach churned again. It made me jump up and leap over the dead guy. I had to get distance between me and that horrible, sweet smell, and my brain hadn't forgotten where I had headed initially. When I finally got my senses back I stood at the foot of an eight feet high brick wall. I had reached my destination, and there had only been one fatality. Yay me. ~*~ From what I could see the candy factory was quite big. I was standing at the foot of its back wall, for which I was quite grateful. 'Weasel' hadn't sent me to the front door but to the mostly unguarded back, and I sent a quiet prayer of thanks to him for it. It did put me in a bad spot though, because I was too hurt to climb up and get in, and the wall didn't have any doors. The presence of the dead guy in this back street gave me reason to hope nonetheless. He wouldn't have guarded this place if there wasn't some kind of way into the building. I inspected the buildings to my left and right next, walking back the way I had come as I looked for doors or passages. I did find a wooden door a few feet up the street, but it had a shiny new padlock on it and looked quite sturdy. Biting my lower lip I gazed back to the dead body. If this was the right door that guy had to have a key to that padlock, but the thought of touching his dead but still warm body gave me the creeps. I grabbed the padlock with my good arm and gave it a hearty yank, but besides the rattling of the door and a metallic groan it didn't budge. I was quite strong for a person of my stature, but not this strong. Obviously there was no way around going through the stiff's pockets. Swallowing bile I slowly tiptoed over, eying the body nervously. There were many reasons why I didn't want to touch him, and only one of them was my squeamishness. I had seen too many horror movies and too few dead persons to feel secure around a real corpse, and yes, I did expect him to jump up and grab me just as I leaned over his still form. That damned smell was back as I crouched down to check his pockets, and the still high body temperature made me shiver with nerves and fear. He felt like a living thing, and I found it hard to think of him as an 'it' yet. I tried to touch his clothes as little as possible as I felt around. His jacket smelled of cloves and tobacco, his pants of weed and urine. For a moment I hoped he hadn't peed on the weed because I could really use it, then I felt bad because I didn't feel bad enough about having killed someone. I found a small packet of weed in his pants pocket, took his still loaded gun from his hand, and I felt a smallish bump in his shirt's front pocket when I resorted to patting him down. His chest was blood soaked though, and my hand got wet and sticky as I fumbled the small key out of its hiding place. I was planning to bring as much distance between me and the corpse as soon as I had what I'd wanted, but as I lifted the key to my face the sweet, metallic smell of blood overwhelmed me. My hand was coated in it, and even as it dried it still allured my senses and made my tormented stomach grumble with hunger. This had to be the worst moment in history to get the munchies. I couldn't even think about eating... him. Wouldn't. But somehow my bloody hand found its way to my mouth, and my tongue snaked out between my lips to have a lick. The taste of blood exploded in my mouth like fireworks, and I heard myself humming with delight. Then I realized what I'd just done, and this time I really stumbled back, got up, and jogged for the padlocked door, retching. Luckily there was nothing in my stomach to heave up anymore. The lock proved to be quite a challenge to my one good hand. I had to wedge it between my hip and the door at just the right angle to get the bloody key in, which took a few tries. When I finally managed to open the padlock and with it the sturdy door I was drenched in sweat and my shoulder was throbbing fiercely again. I carefully pried it open, ready to fumble the gun out of my sweatshirt pocket if anyone tried to jump me, but the room behind the door was dusty, empty and dark. It looked like the entry to a larger clean-room-like storage space, but the door between the small chamber in front of me and the larger unit behind it had been claimed by time long ago. There were foot prints on the dusty floor, some made by rats and some made by shoes and boots. The scent of cloves and tobacco hung in the air like a forgotten memory, assuring me that I was following the right route. It would have been nice being just as certain where that route was leading me to, but even plain old dumb luck had its limits. There seemed to be windows somewhere in the bigger room, it would have been pitch black otherwise. My eyes were good enough in near-darkness, but I tried to keep low to the ground as I crept through the crumbling doorway and into the wide, forlorn space. Following the foot prints and the diffusing scent trail of the man I had killed I made a bee-line through the vast room and reached another door, this time made of rusty iron. It wasn't locked, but made a low, groaning sound as I moved it, and I froze instantly to listen for an alarm. I also remembered how these people had booby-trapped Noom's house. What if there were bombs around here? What if I stepped into one? I felt another panic attack bubbling up, but this time I stomped it down resolutely. They wouldn't be stupid enough to trap doors and rooms they used regularly, and as long as I followed the dead man's tracks I was on the safe side. I waited for about a minute but nobody reacted to the sound of the door. The next time I moved it I was very careful to do it as slow as possible. It still groaned a bit, but this time the sound was muted and inconspicuous. Glimpsing out into the open space in between the old factory buildings I scanned the surroundings for any sign of movement, and ducked when I saw someone walking on the other side. There was light in the first story window right across the cobbled yard, and the figure stepped into the door beneath it. I got a short peek on a set of old wooden stairs, then the door fell closed again. To my left there was more cobbled yard, then a big doorway, and in the buildings left and right to it more lights and distant voices. Obviously I had miscalculated the mass of people I'd be up against, but that didn't mean I would have to fight my way through every person in the factory. Being sneaky was my second nature after all. Someone moved up there, making the light flicker when a body blocked it from reaching the window. I ducked again and listened hard, but failed to hear anything but the distant rumble of too many drunk and coked up people. I had to get closer, and time was running out. I couldn't wait any longer. The whole situation was fucked up anyway, and I probably would have to wait forever if I wanted to be safe. There was no safe, not this time. I grabbed the gun inside my sweatshirt and started running across the yard and to the door on the other side. With only one hand I was definitely fucked if anyone saw me, because I didn't have a definitive idea how to use a gun, and as long as I held on to the gun I couldn't do anything else either. Only when I reached the door I took my hand off the gun and opened it. It gave easily and silent on its well oiled hinges, closing as promptly as I had opened it and with no one the wiser about my presence. As soon as I entered the small ground level room I could hear voices I recognized from upstairs. Girl-thug and the guy from the speaker phone were up there, talking quite harshly to each other, but that didn't mean I was at the right place. I had no lust for revenge whatsoever, I just wanted Noom. His scent finally hit me when I started climbing the stairs as silently as possible. His personal note was a mixture of cigarettes, gun oil, patchouly and something more male and musky, and I would have recognized it amidst a million people. Noom was here, just a few feet away! Unfortunately my own euphoria made me run up the stairs— and right into the muzzle of a hand gun. The last thing I saw was Nooms bloody face across the room, then three loud bangs shattered the silence and ripped my belly apart. ~*~ I didn't scream when I was shot, I was just too surprised. The pain was short and dull, then there was only a throbbing, the feel of wetness gushing down my legs and the innate knowledge that something was terribly wrong. A shiver crept over my back and into my lungs, accompanied by a rush of adrenaline that made my heart leap with panic. I grabbed for the guy with the gun, tried to hold on to something— anything—, but my vision blurred and I missed. The thought of dying manifested itself as a giant boulder crushing my chest, and I couldn't even cry for help. Nobody here would have helped me anyway. I only understood the feeling of weight on my body and the rush when I fell down on my knees. I suddenly knew what to do, finally caught on to an instinct that I'd had all this years but never had any reason to listen to. Now I had that reason, and the fear of death made it easy for me to give in to that strange, new knowledge and just do as it told me: change. For the first time in my life the change of my body was fluent and graceful, and not even the blood, the clothes, or my dislocated shoulder could stop me. Fur broke through my skin like a shiny black wave, spreading from my spine to every extremity. There were no breaking bones, no disgusting sounds, no panting, everything in my body, every tiny molecule jumped to the chance to just follow the flow and do what I had always been supposed to do at will. The whole thing didn't take more than three seconds, and only the hissing of fur rubbing against fur and the ripping of cloth mixed with the cacophony of chaos in the room. The screams of panic, shock and fear from the humans didn't bother cat-me as I ripped the last shreds of clothing from my body and jumped the man who had shot me. I had never ever done anything but walk around or try eating stuff in my cat form, but that didn't matter now. I still had the instinct to kill, and it told me where to grab the guy's neck, how to bite and how to twist and tug to kill him. Humans were so fragile when it came to their neck; even small deer had more strength there than them. Only when another shot hit my shoulder I remembered the other two people in the room, and let the dead man's neck go. The woman was nowhere to be seen, but the guy from the phone had a small silver hand gun pointed at me. His hand was shaking so bad, the next shot missed me by two feet, but I didn't want to risk a third shot. I jumped him too, but missed his throat. He smashed the butt of the gun into my face, blinding one of my eyes with the force of the impact, but my claws ripped his stomach open and brought him down. I got his throat just a second later, and even though he hit my head two more times, he stood no chance at all. There was a wet, popping sound when I broke his neck, but even when I felt his pulse cease I didn't let go of him right away. My heart was racing, pushing globs of dark blood out of the fresh shoulder wound, and my long, black tail twitched furiously as I crouched on the dead body, holding his throat between my jaws. It took Noom about one minute to muster the nerve to make a sound, and it didn't make me react right away. Only when I heard the downstairs door thump against the wall and a crash right next to me did I let go of the dead man and turned to the sound. The first sound had obviously been made by lady-thug, who had seen her chance to finally escape the fury of a nearly grown great cat. The second sound had been that of Noom's chair falling and the arm rest cracking, and thusly setting him free. Noom was standing near the stairs, white as a sheet, leaning against the wall, dripping blood from numerous cuts, and... once again pointing a gun at my head. I froze, panting through half open jaws, eying him with my alien silver eyes. They were the only thing that resembled my boy-me, and the only thing separating my cat-me from the real animal. I had survived the several shots, because although painful they hadn't been aimed at vital regions, strictly speaking. But if Noom shot me in the head or broke my neck, even I would stay dead. And that would be a very poor outcome for my rescue mission. "Don't move." Noom's voice sounded like gravel in a tin pipe, but that only made him more convincing, so I slowly sat down. Maybe it would have been cleverer to just morph back to my human body, but I honestly had no idea if I could pull off that trick without another dose of heroin. Before it had been instinct, but now it was gone, and I was quite possibly trapped in 'furball mode' for quite some time. There were 10 seconds of silence in the room, but I could hear foot steps running across the gravel grounds outside. Lady-thug was on her way to get reinforcements, and we didn't have time for waiting games. I couldn't talk, so I pointedly turned my head and perked up my ears, as if everything outside the ratty building was more important than the gun aimed at my head. But Noom was hurt, and it made him slow. "I said fuckin' don't you move, you bastard!" he snarled, and I didn't have to turn to understand the sounds his feet were making. He had pushed himself away from the wall to make his point, ignoring his own blood loss and wounds. I kept staring at the window nonetheless. My concern was much more important than Noom's freak-out over my hellish metamorphosis. Only when the voices on the other side of the court grew louder did he finally understand what I was trying to tell him. "Shit, that bitch got away!" he hissed, and stopped pointing the gun at me. I turned my head back to him, relieved that he finally had caught on, and there was a brief moment of confused eye contact. Noom paused, opened his mouth— and closed it again, hobbling down the stairs instead. I knew he had wanted to talk to me, tell me something, but just as my dad had found it hard to talk to a cat, Noom was having difficulties processing it too. I got up and followed him, limping on three paws. In my cat form pain registered differently, so I didn't feel like crying or fainting, but the shot to the shoulder was still more than painful, and it made walking down the stairs pretty harrowing. There was also a faint pain in my other shoulder and in my stomach, but wounds I had gotten as a human had healed more than half the way when I had changed forms. Another neat trick I hadn't known I could do. When Noom realized I was following him there was another short moment of confusion where he pointed the gun first at me, than at the door, than again at me, and finally decided it was best to get me in front of him. "Move," he said, waving the muzzle at me, so I moved. Luckily the door wasn't closed, so I was able to peel it open without having to awkwardly paw at the door knob. Hobbling outside I scented the air, turned my head to the giant door on the other side of the court, and finally looked to Noom, who was crab-walking out of the door, pointing the gun at the far side of the buildings. Just when he got close to me the door there burst open, and five people with machine guns stumbled into the darkness. It was time to run, fast. I grabbed Noom's ripped shirt with my teeth and pulled, trying to tug him into the direction of the inconspicuous door I had come from, but it just got me another hit to the head with the butt of the gun. I finally resorted to just let him stand there and started limping for the exit. If he wanted to die, so be it, but I definitely wasn't ready as long as there was a way out. I had gotten about seven feet when I heard a soft "god damn it!" and footsteps catching up to me. He kept behind me, but when we reached the metal door he finally got my plan and this time opened it for me. A short volley of bullets rained down onto the yard behind us, but it just made us limp faster. We actually made it out into the night. ~*~ Have you ever tried hiding a 180 lb Panther in any metropolis? It's a complete impossibility. Adding to it was the fact that Noom looked like a dead man walking and was still bleeding when we took a turn into a moldy, wet inner courtyard of one of the big residential buildings. Noom was still clutching the gun, but he hid it behind his crossed arms. His eyes never left me, not even for one second. I saw murder in his face every time I dared look at him. That, and a flicker of madness I learned to dread. Shapeshifter Ch. 04 It definitely was time to try to change back, and now was as good a moment as any. I hobbled a few feet away from Noom and laid down, trying to remember the feeling I'd had when first changing. I even closed my eyes and concentrated really hard— And nothing happened. I tried again and again, but all it got me was pain in my hurt shoulder, nothing more. Minutes passed by with nothing happening, and I was ready to give up, when I heard a dull thud, and then Nooms voice. "I know that you can understand me." It got my attention enough to forget what I had tried to do just a second before. Noom was sitting next to the small entrance to the courtyard, both legs half stretched, one hand pressed against an evil looking gash at his ribcage, the other still holding on to the gun. He looked horrible. "I don't know what kind of game you're playing with me, but if you don't..." for a moment he stopped speaking, obviously fishing for words, then he just finished bluntly, "... if you don't change back to human, I'll put a bullet in your head, just because you creep me out." It hurt in so many ways, I couldn't even decide which one was the worst. I had rescued him and he wanted to kill me? I had killed his pursuers, and he wanted to kill me? I had come for him— There was a click when Noom demonstratively loaded the gun, then he pointed it straight into my face. I couldn't even fathom how he managed to aim that accurately in the pitch black darkness of night. "Now." There was that promise of violence in his voice again. But something in his voice, his face, tugged at my instincts in a way I would never ever feel again. That night it produced a second miracle. It made me shrink, crouch, and then, out of nowhere, I changed back. The fur crawled back into my skin, bones elongated here and shortened there, the tail shrank back into my back, and when I finally laid on the cold, wet concrete, naked and bleeding, I couldn't suppress a moan of enjoyment. The sheer tone of his voice had made me shift, something my father had tried forcibly for years and always failed. If I hadn't been hurting so bad, I would have smiled sated when I heard Noom come closer. My shoulder was still bleeding a bit, my belly was crusty and reddened, my other shoulder swollen, but I was nowhere near Noom's condition. I opened my eyes to look up at him, but my vision was still blurry and one eye swollen shut. All I could see was his scheme stretching upward and plucking something from the black sky. "So, you're cat-boy now. Brilliant." A faceless, emotionless sounding Noom dropped something soft on me, then turned and started limping to the exit. "We're not done talking about this fucked up shit. Put that on and get going." I felt for the cloth he had dropped on me, and discovered it was some kind of corduroy pants from a low hanging clothes line, at least one size too big for me. Since I was naked it had to be enough, and I slowly, hazily, worked my feet into it. What should I do? Maybe if I fled, now that I knew Noom was okay and free... The thought alone was enough to make me jump to my feet and hastily jog after the huddled figure in front of me. Leaving Noom was unthinkable to me, even though I knew he still pondered about killing me. I'd just have to convince him. I didn't know of what or how, but I knew that there was a chance he'd be okay with me. My... species, or whatever I was. I'd just had to convince him. ~*~ "Here, hold this." We finally had found a hiding place in the central control room of an abandoned subway station, 30 feet underground. The ceiling was leaky and dust and mold lay in thick layers everywhere, but it was a safe refuge for the moment. We even had kind of reconciled, meaning Noom wasn't constantly pointing the gun at my head anymore, and even tolerated me being close enough to help him patch himself up. I pressed my hand on the gauze wound pad on Noom's chest as he rummaged through the old, rusty first aid kit we had scavenged in the stair well on our way down. It was the first time he had talked to me since his little verbal spit in the residential courtyard, and the frown lines on his forehead were still there. He also was still angry with me, and I understood, kind of. That didn't mean I had to keep feeling guilty though. Unfortunately he was angry with me for so many different reasons, I had a hard time choosing which one to comment on. I finally just went for the easiest, most harmless one. "Would you rather I let you get killed?" I grumbled, staring down at the contents of the first aid kit. "No," he huffed, and finally found what he was looking for. Pulling out the roll of adhesive tape he ripped off three pieces and taped the gauze in place, hissing, "I just wouldn't have pegged you for the stupid kind. But here you are, showing the world that you're still alive, and that I busted my job. Bloody good work, really." At first I didn't know what to say to that. He was right, my rescue mission had been stupid. But even now I couldn't shake the feeling of satisfaction, and all my instincts told me that I had done good. It was hard to suppress the joy I felt over having Noom here and in one piece, and maybe Noom felt it. Maybe my happiness was what made him stay pissed at me. Or maybe it was the fact that he had seen me shift shape. He hadn't said a word about that after his little freak-out in the factory, and that made me wonder. Were people supposed to act like this? "Yeah, like you have a reputation to spoil. What went through your head when you just left me in your house unrestrained? 'Surely he'll just stay put, out of the goodness of his heart!' Or did you simply forget? Who's stupid now?" I finally bit back. I knew I sounded sullen, but his words stung deeper than they should have. This was, after all, the least of all our problems. Noom's frown got deeper, but he didn't reply right away. He just threw the leftovers of medical supplies back into the kit and grumbled something noncommittal, then finally turned to face me. "Why didn't you run?" I blinked owlishly at him. "There was no time. Some guys woke me up when they broke into your house and I had to hide." Noom sniffed dismissively. "Yeah, but you could have run after that, instead of chasing after me. Why didn't you?" "I really don't know. It seemed like the right thing to do." I looked down at the kit, watching the lid being closed. It was easier to look down than to face him when he stared at me like that, with that look of innate madness lurking behind the piercing blue of his irises. "You know, I could still kill you, save my reputation, and end all this trouble." That tone was back in his voice, the one that told me he actually thought about killing me. He sounded just like on the first day, when he had pointed his gun at my head and nearly pulled the trigger. A chill went down my spine and into my fingertips, so I balled my hands into fists. "But you won't. Just like before. Maybe you can't, I don't know. I do know that you've already invested too much into me, be it emotion or just inconvenience, and you won't let that go to waste so easily." I knew my voice sounded small and hollow, but I just couldn't put more strength into it. I already had to fight the fear of death, because this time he did seem to seriously consider the easy way out. I actually could hear his teeth grind this time, and I missed my moment to react. Hurt as he was, tired as he was, Noom still managed to surprise me when he jumped forward and tackled me to the floor, pressing his forearm against my wind pipe. Soft, puffy clouds of dust rose around us and disappeared into the darkness outside the light cone the small emergency light produced. I struggled against his steel grip, but either I was too hurt myself or just not that into freeing myself, because I just couldn't seem to shake him off. Maybe I didn't want to. When my air supply ran out I definitely wished I'd gotten myself free, because when I looked up at him with blood-shot eyes, gagging, I could see a lust for murder in his gaze I had never seen before. I also saw his face, and found it to be the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, despite the scratches, bruises, and cuts. It was the only thing right in this situation... to see his face, and only his face, when I was about to die. When the world started blacking out at the edges of my vision I stopped struggling altogether. It obviously was all that Noom had wanted, because he instantly let up. As I dizzily gasped for air he grabbed my wrists, pulled his military grade linen belt from his ratty, bloody trousers, and hogtied my arms together. I blinked, coughing, and decided not to provoke him with more struggling. Instead I tried to reason with him. "Please, I saved your life, didn't I? Why would you kill someone who risks so much just to get you out of trouble?" My voice was raspy and didn't sound right, but I didn't dare clear my hurting throat. There were so many confusing emotions on his dimly lit face, I didn't know what would provoke him and what wouldn't anymore. His answer wasn't at all what I had expected. "You're not human. I saw you. What are you? Some kind of mutated freak? A honest to god demon? I didn't even believe in god until I saw you do that." His voice was raspy and harsh, and it vibrated with a rage I couldn't see on his face. His whole demeanor didn't make any sense, and that freaked me out more than the things he did to me. I even tried to answer, though I had no idea what to say, but he beat me to it. "Where did the fur go? You look totally human now. You did before, too, but I saw you. I wasn't hallucinating, damn it! Or was I?" When he ripped the trousers from my body he pulled me with it a whole foot. I whimpered with fear, but he didn't stop to check on me. Instead he leaned forward to muster my crotch. I could feel his hot, moist breath on my balls, and despite my fear my dick gave a little twitch of interest. Not enough to get hard, but obviously his sheer closeness was enough for my body to get hot and bothered. That twitch wasn't enough to catch Noom's interest, unfortunately. "I knew you were too perfect. I mean, look at you, it's ridiculous how good-looking you are, how well shaped your body is, and those eyes? Shit, I should've known you're not real. Maybe I'm still tripping from the stuff they fixed me up with back there. For all I know I'm still in that room with those goons, getting beat into a pulp, and you're just a figment of my imagination!" He had talked to my balls, his hot breath teasing me without him realizing it, but now he crawled higher and trapped me with the weight of his body. My throat still hurt where he had gagged me, but for now he didn't seem interested in harming me any more. He was intent on finding some trace of the great cat he had seen before though, and he was angry, frightened and hurt. Maybe even a little bit high, if what he'd said just now was true, but definitely not murderous anymore. "Please, I can explain everything, at least to a certain point—" I began, stuttering, but Noom clamped a hand over my mouth to stop my babbling. His piercing blue eyes hovered inches over mine, our noses practically touching. His whole body laid on mine, touching every possible inch with his own. His warmth seeped through his clothing and into my skin, and even though breathing was still an ongoing problem, I felt myself become calm and relaxed. Noom was here, and he was alive. And I probably was crazy. "Explain to me, cat-boy, why I simply have to touch you and be near you, even though you freak me out like a bad horror movie." The words, though spoken softly, rang through the silence of the underground control room like a thunder clap. For a second the warm, reassuring weight of Noom's body on mine felt like shackles, like a means to pin me down and stop me from running, but that feeling passed quickly. Mostly because I could feel his cock pulse and swell in response to our closeness until it poked into my stomach like a balled fist. The size of it felt a little disturbing to me, especially since it was still confined to Noom's ratty trousers and would probably grow in length once he whipped it out, but it still quickened my breath and made me remember the first night. How deliriously perfect he had felt inside me. It was my muffled, lusty sigh that gave Noom the idea to take his hand off my mouth and actually give me a chance to answer his question. He swept his hand through my tousled and knotted hair to get the saliva off it, then dug his fingers into my chin-length mane and tugged once. Somehow his face had gotten back in tune with his emotions, making it possible for me to read him at least a bit, and I was able to guess his thoughts again: He very dearly wanted me to tell him that everything in the candy factory had been a dream, that he really was high, and that I was not a so called 'cat-boy'. I was inclined to lie to him for about three seconds, because that was how long I drowned in his eyes. Only when those eyes got impatient did I snap out of it, and grudgingly decided that the truth was necessary. "I've been feeling it since I first met you. You know, this pull. But I have no idea how it works, or why you feel it too... Normally I'm the only one suffering under my curse, and nobody ever felt any— well, pull, or compulsion— towards me. And I really, truly have not an inkling of an idea what I am. This I swear to you. I only know that I was born this way, and that it has something to do with my mother. If I knew anything more, I'd tell you, I swear, because—" I managed to stop myself in the last moment. It was his eyes' fault, this babbling, this, as I had called it myself, compulsion to just go ahead and tell him every fucking thought rolling through my muddled brain, but I was able to keep it in check... for the time being. A part of my brain didn't really understand why I'd want to keep stuff from Noom, but for now it seemed to just go with whatever I decided. It was reassuring to know I still had some kind of control over my actions. The weight above me shifted, just enough to let me breathe easier but not enough to worm my way out from underneath Noom. He was still staring at me, I could feel it burning against my temple, and it made me avoid looking up. A few seconds of silence later he shifted again, this time to reach down and grab my testes in a very tight grip that made me whimper with fear. "If you're lying to me, you little shit, I'll rip off your balls. You hear me?" I nodded furiously. I didn't doubt his threat for one second. Shapeshifter Ch. 05 Noom didn't free my arms, but at least he helped me back into the trousers before muttering something about a call and wandering off. I waited for him for a time, but finally the strain of healing this many wounds caught up to me and I fell asleep. The heroin was probably still working its way through my bloodstream because I only woke up when a blanket fell onto my half naked body, and I suddenly looked up into the face of a total stranger. I squealed. It wasn't my proudest moment, I admit. "Whoa, easy," the blond giant said, taking two steps back and holding up his hands. "It's just a blanket." I tried jumping up, but my hands were still tied together and a wave of dizziness rolled over me, making me stumble into the wall behind me and fall down onto my butt. "Get away from me," I coughed, because I couldn't seem to find enough air for screaming through the renewed pain in my shoulder. At this rate it would probably keep hurting forever. "I'm not— ah, fuck it," the man huffed, then he turned around and yelled: "Noom! He's awake!" Him calling Noom calmed me down, although not much. It might be a ruse to lull me into false security, but since the stranger didn't try to come closer, I didn't try to scream again. He watched me watching him for a moment, then he turned his head to the stairs, making a point of looking somewhere else. I could hear distant foot steps, and they sounded heavy enough to come from Nooms scratched boots, but I didn't relax until he came trampling down the wire stairs and I could actually see him. I sagged against the wall with a sigh of relief, then scrunched my face to bite back a pained groan. The shapeshifting had popped my shoulder joint back into the socket, but even magic could only do so much, and rapid healing didn't mean instant healing. I hurt, although it was dull and more annoying than torturing. "What's goin' on here?" Noom drawled with a sprinkle of annoyance in his voice, but his face never took on that angry look he usually wore when we were alone. "The scrap givin' you trouble?" The giant made an ambiguous gesture in my general direction, shrugging. "I tried to put a blanket on him because it's freezing cold in here. He freaked and started to scream, or tried to scream, so I thought it might be best you calm him down and introduce us." Noom frowned and turned to me. He almost looked normal— as far as normal could be used to describe a tattered, blood-smeared punk with ridiculous muscle tone—, standing there next to the blond giant. And they were interacting like normal people, too! It was fascinating to watch. "Scrap, this is Mike. Mike, this is my scrap. Can I go finish my phone calls now, or am I going to have to baby-sit you two?" he growled, but his eyes were all for me. There was a distinctive warning in them, and it said 'do not fuck this up'. The stare made me nod quickly, more than the words. He was being polite, well, less aggressive than usual, but it was for Mike's sake, and keeping him happy would be my next big challenge. "Kel," I corrected softly, watching Noom clank up the stairs again, then my eyes snapped to Mike. "That's my name, Kelaste, or Kel." He was big, both in height and in girth, though most of that girth looked like muscle mass. He had nice eyes though, and right now they looked overwhelmed and confused. That look on his face calmed me down more than anything else because it showed he wasn't used to situations like these. "I know," he said, finally, "Noom's had me check your background. I know everything about you." This time he sounded proud. I tried to sit more upright and realized I actually was quite cold. "Why would Noom have you check my background?" I wondered aloud, trying to pull the blanket around my naked upper body with bound hands, and failing. This time, Mike pointed at the blanket with a questioning face, and only stepped forward when I smiled embarrassedly and nodded. It was a nice gesture, come to think of it. I just wasn't used to people being nice without expecting something in return. So maybe Mike didn't expect something from me, but that only meant he would get paid by Noom, in whatever currency they had arranged. Stepping forward, he crouched down, picked up the cloth and shook it out before wrapping it around me. His eyes wandered over the belt holding my wrists together, but he neither commented nor tried to remove it, he just tucked me in and stepped back again. "You know someone put a hit out on your head, right?" I nodded, probably looking bored. Having been shot multiple times seemed to have mellowed down my fear and nerves, which was quite remarkable on its own, if not a cure I'd choose again anytime soon. "So you're looking for people who hate me? That's a short list. The only name on it would be my father." "Well, yes, he actually is one of our suspects, but it's not as clean-cut as that. I was trying to tell Noom about some of the things I discovered on the phone, but he told me you two are in big shit right now, so I came to pick you up and get you somewhere less exposed." Mike turned around and went to the other side of the small, dirty room, where he picked up a stuffed knapsack. I watched him open it and start pulling out items that looked vaguely familiar. "So you don't know who is after me, either? You just found more suspects?" I asked, trying not to sound as disappointed as I felt. Again, all I had for comparison were action- and mystery movies, nothing even close to real-life experience, and it bothered me that even two professionals hadn't gotten anywhere in the last two days. Mike laughed and looked over to me. "Hey, my job's not that easy! Do you know how many stuffy files and reports I had to work through to even reach the conclusion that your father might have an interest in being childless?" He turned back to unpacking, muttering, "he's a smart one, your father, hiding his tracks under false information, blind alleys and a few dozen different shell companies. The rich ones are always like that." "Like what?" I asked, feeling stupid the moment I said the words. Mike paused, throwing me a jaded, hollow smile. "Evil geniuses, all of them. I think it's the buttload of money and all the free time that comes with it. They are hard-pressed to do some harsh stuff at one point in their life to keep their money, and after that one first step it's easy to stay on that dark road," he explained, talking to me like one would talk to a small child. It was embarrassing. The bundles he had extracted from the knapsack looked like tightly folded items of clothing to me, but there was the glint of a weapon in between, and some packages of wound dressing, tape and bandages. Since Noom was almost fully clothed— except for the blood-drenched shirt— I assumed the other stuff was for me. On the other hand, Mike had seen the belt binding my arms together, and not touched it, so I was unsure what exactly I was supposed to do. "If we're going to leave this place soon, shouldn't I, I don't know, dress?" I finally offered, licking my lips nervously. Just when I had gotten used to one stranger, namely Noom, he had brought another one into my life. I simply sucked at social stuff, always had, always would. That brought Mike's eyes down to the things he had just unpacked, and he shrugged. "Noom's trying to find out which of his safe houses have been compromised. As soon as he knows where we're going, he'll probably unbind you so you can change." His words left no doubt about the fact that he wouldn't dabble in Noom's affairs, not even to appear courteous to some rich and probably harmless college kid. Against my better knowledge, I had to smile at that. "Good to know Noom has someone at his back besides me," I replied, nodding carefully because my neck hurt just as much as my shoulder, although for wholly other reasons. Mike nodded back with a flashing grin, then busied himself with his stuff once more, leaving me sitting there in silence. The blanket was a nice touch, and I appreciated it. As I warmed up, I kept glancing at the stairs, waiting for Noom to come back, feeling like a nervous puppy dog that had been put in a sit-stay. I tried to imagine how I might look, huddled against the wall of this underground bunker, half-naked and shackled with a belt. The only word that came to mind was 'pathetic'. Was I really supposed to play the hushed kidnappee after having rescued Noom and being shot in the process? Okay, Noom was right to fear me, I guessed, I probably would have freaked myself had I been in his position, but I had risked my life to save him, I hadn't hurt him once, hadn't even touched him, and this was what I got for my troubles? This was all I could expect? Sudden anger boiled up out of nowhere. It bubbled through me before I knew what was happening, having never before experienced anger like this, and I snapped the belt. I didn't know how I did it, and I definitely hadn't known it would be so easy, but I just flexed my arms, and it ripped apart with a dull crack, falling onto my lap. Mike looked over, and although he couldn't see my hands because of the blanket, he blanched and pulled a gun, stumbling back at the same time. "Jesus Christ Almighty," he cursed breathlessly, staring right at my face as he instinctively tried to get more distance between us. "Noom!" When his back hit the wall behind him, he twitched involuntarily and the gun went off, sending a bullet howling into the wall next to my head. It ricocheted and struck a water pipe on the other side of the room, spraying a thankfully unclaimed part of the room with lukewarm, high-pressured rain. I liked his fear, and I liked how he backed away. How much I liked it, I only realized when my hand touched the pile of clothes in the middle of the room. I had somehow moved forward and towards Mike without realizing. It made me hesitate, much more so than the gun Mike now pointed more steadily at my head. I assumed I'd be able to dodge a bullet, at least be quick enough not to get hit in the head. Anything else wouldn't kill me. He wouldn't be able to kill me. A wave of endorphins and adrenaline rolled through my bloodstream, blowing my pupils to the size of saucers. The iron steps groaned and I spun around to meet the new threat head-on. Mike didn't like it, or maybe he simply had a nervous trigger finger. Another shot filled the small room with a mind-numbing bang, and this time it grazed my back. There was no way I was going to stay put, and my instincts told me not to go into the direction where the bullets came from, so I jumped forward and onto the lower steps of the wire stairwell. Noom was standing at the top of the stairs, white as a linen sheet, gun cocked at my head. This time it didn't stop me, though. As soon as I saw him, I thundered up the stairs, feeling hot, sticky blood drip from the wound at my back. Whatever he saw in my face— whatever Mike had seen— made him hesitate, freeze up and hold his breath. I didn't care. "YOU!" I roared, recognizing the rolling, harsh purr in my voice, much like a cat trying to talk like a human, but I reached him before I could finish my sentence. It made me feel off-kilter for a moment, and we stood there, two steps from each other, me staring at him with what must have looked like the face of a devil, and him returning the stare with a shell-shocked expression. The muzzle of his Beretta hovered right in front of my forehead, and the rage sizzled through my body like a flame. I pressed my head against it. "If this is what you want to do, then do it, fucking finish the job!" I roared, again noting how my voice took on a more human note as my rage receded slightly. "I won't fucking live like a captive for the rest of my life, and I won't let you treat me like a freak anymore! Either you trust me, or you don't, but if you don't then fucking shoot and get this over with! I fucking risked my life—" Those were the last words I got out, then Noom gun-slapped me with what amounted to an almost casual gesture. The move still had considerable force in it, my head was ringing and I had to grab the hand rail to hold myself upright, but there had been no malice in it. "Get a grip on yourself," he growled, but his voice was shaking. I had rattled him monumentally, and damn, it felt good! Mike was another story, though. "How the hell did he do that!" he screamed, sounding much more panicky than Noom, waving his gun around. "What the fuck did you get me into! How did he get from here to there that fast, and what's wrong with his bloody face!" Noom holstered his gun, or rather he put it back into the waist band of his pants at the small of his back, and tried to grab me like he had many times before. I was too angry to let him do that, so I dodged his hand just as casually as he had slapped me just a moment before. "I mean it, Noom," I snarled, calmer than before, but no less final. I knew it was a stupid idea to draw a line in the sand with two people more than capable of pumping me full of lead, but I'd had enough. At that moment, I would rather die than keep on existing like this. He seemed to know. I couldn't fathom how, but there was understanding in the way his lips twitched and his cheeks hardened. He didn't pull the gun again, though. Instead he extended one arm and held it right under my nose. He smelled of blood and gunpowder, gutter dust and grime, patchouly, nicotine, coffee and... himself. The scent was mesmerizing, intoxicating, and I pressed my face to his wrist to rub my cheeks and jaw against it. One whiff of that mixture of smells washed all the rage away like a thunderstorm blowing through my brain. The arm moved away and I followed easily, ignoring the angry echoes of Mike's jabbering in my quest to stay next to that wonderful smell. When it went lower, I went lower, coming to rest on my knees and finding something warm and pliant in front of me, so I laid down and wrapped both arms around the source of the scent. "Please tell me that isn't him... it, purring," was the next thing I consciously heard. At least Mike sounded calmer. Not calm, far from it, but not gun-waving-angry anymore. "D'you believe me now?" Noom replied, sounding awfully close. His voice had a note of fatalistic humor in it, and I imagined him grinning his lopsided grin. If I put my mind to it, I could remember every pore, every scar on his face, the spacing between his eyelashes, even the way strands of hair moved in his mohawk when he talked. I blinked. When had I closed my eyes? And when exactly had I lain down on Noom's lap, spread out like a drunk? My arms were wrapped tightly around Nooms arm, my face pressed against the cloth of his sweater. As soon as I realized that, I let go and he extracted his arm and my source of calmness with it. I started to wiggle, confused and flustered as I was, and he put a hand on my neck and started to caress and scritch it. Every brush of his nails felt like a wave of delicious bliss wafting though my body, and I relaxed like he had hit an off-switch. God, that felt good! "Did you see how he dodged your second shot? I've never seen 'ya miss anything," Noom rumbled, and I could feel the fingers of his other hand trace the wound at my back. The pain was faintly unpleasant, but Noom was careful enough not to rip me out of my intoxicated reverie. "And he was shot two, three times a few hours ago, but you'd never know if you look at him," he then added, fascinated like a boy with a new toy. Mike didn't share his enthusiasm. "This is fucked up," he cursed, and I could hear him flip the security switch back on, and holster the gun. "I don't even know where to begin to describe in how many ways this freaks me out right now!" A short pause followed, then Mike huffed. "I really don't get how you can stand touching that thing." I felt more than I heard Noom laugh, it shook his body ever so slightly. "I guess that means you're retractin' the offer to take us in for tonight?" he guessed more than asking, and I imagined him grinning again. "Damn right I am. You, yeah, but not him. It. Whatever the hell he is." "I could chain him up if that would make you feel better," Noom offered. "You didn't see him pop your belt like it was nothing. Nu-uh, he's not coming into my home!" Noom sighed deeply enough to move me slightly, but he never stopped softly scratching the base of my head. Spittle dripped from my lip to the floor, and I didn't care. They could have put a gun to my head and killed me, it would have been a happy death and I would have gone with a smile. But nothing came even close to the feeling of shocked euphoria I felt when Noom said his next words. "I'm not killing him, and I'm definitely not going to leave him behind." That split moment I knew that I was in head over heels in love. And that I was utterly lost. ~*~ After my short burst of temper, Mike wouldn't come close to me, so Noom had to patch me up by himself. Although he had to stop caressing my neck, I held still and let him do his thing, hoping to prolong the moment of peace and contentedness. I would have stayed there for the rest of my time for all I cared, but as soon as Noom was finished, he patted my ass and told me to sit up. Mike handed him the clothes he had brought for me, but I had to put them on by myself. The both of them put their heads together and had a hushed conversation, brooding over a map of Babylon city and pointing to and fro. I only heard bits and pieces of their conversation, but as numb and calm as I felt, I couldn't have cared less where we would be going next. Noom wouldn't leave me behind, and wherever he went, I'd go too. I was happy with that arrangement. Mike had brought a pair of long, black cotton track pants, a black, knit shirt with long sleeves and a wide neckline and a pair of sneakers that were a size too big. I was warm and decent again in it, if still off-kilter and exhausted. I was also feeling increasingly ravenous, but it was different from my usual appetite. My body was quivering with the need for energy, but at the same time I was unwilling to expend any more resources in moving to actually get food. My tummy gave a single, drawn-out rumble, but that was all it did, as if conserving its energy for when there'd actually be something to digest. "So, that's all my safe houses then," Noom grumbled, rubbing the back of his neck with frustration. He straightened up and stretched his rump, totally oblivious to my watching eyes. I stared hypnotized at the small stripe of skin and rippling abs that appeared as his sweater rode up. I wanted to see him in my black satin sheets, naked and only adorned with cigarette smoke. "We could go back to my place," I offered leisurely, following my one-track-mind. Mike grumbled, Noom laughed once. "With all the security cameras and without knowledge who wants you dead? Not gonna happen," Noom said curtly, then went back to stare at the map. He was right, of course. I couldn't go home, not even if I wanted to. Funny enough, I had hated my condo before, but as soon as the possibility to go there vanished, I wanted it back. But if I couldn't go back, where would I normally go? "Maybe we could just rent a room somewhere," I mumbled, feeling disheartened by the prospects of being homeless. "There are some nice hotels next to Central Park." Like all cats, I liked to venture outside of my territory from time to time, but being uprooted and relocated didn't appeal to me at all. A room with a similar view to my own was the next best thing I could think of. This time, Noom just grumbled and Mike perked up. "You know what," he mused, working his finger over the map, following some road probably, "That might just work. I know a bed and breakfast three blocks away from me, right at the edge of the bay, that would fit your needs perfectly." Shapeshifter Ch. 05 I wondered what our needs were, but there would be better moments to ask than this one. Noom was already packing our stuff, for what little we had, and Mike ran up the stairs, mobile phone already at hand. I frowned at Noom, and he answered before I could ask. "He's calling that b'n'b he suggested, as far as I understood they only have two rooms there," he explained, and shouldered Mike's knapsack. He was next to me with three big steps, staring down at my relaxed, exhausted body with an expression I couldn't decipher. Tension ruled his upper body, like a spring ready to go off. "What's wrong with you?" His voice held no emotion whatsoever. I blinked up, following the trail of dry blood, dirt and pain painted onto his tattered clothes, from his scratched boots further up the tight, worn pants and over the ripped sweater, until I met his shock-blue eyes. There was a scar the size of a grain of rice right above his left eye cutting through his eyebrow, and another scar was on his cheek, round and hollow like a cigarette burn. His eyes made me forget that burning hunger and fatigue, and I smiled happily. "I've never changed so many times in one day. I'm so hungry I have a hard time not passing out," I explained with a leaden tongue, then added for good measure, "Sorry." Displeasure lay thick on Noom's face, but he didn't snap at me, which was a first. Instead, he shouldered the knapsack more securely, then bent down and picked me up to throw me over his other shoulder. I could feel his muscles strain under my featherweight, and purred once more. It was impossible to control my cat-self, now that the heroin was out of my system almost completely. I didn't care for the jitters that would soon follow, but right now my body had bigger problems than addiction. "You scared the shit out of Mike," Noom huffed as he carried me up the stairs, "If you ever do that cat-face-thing to me again, I will beat you into a bloody pulp." "I'm sorry," I said again, staring down at his working ass, not feeling sorry at all. Noom talked on, softly and threateningly, but by that time all the blood rushing into my spinning brain made me pass out. ~*~ I awoke to a blaring voice coming from the drive-through speaker. I couldn't have slept through our stint to the drive through, that speaker system was loud enough to make my teeth rattle. It was dark outside the car, and the seats beneath me smelled like Pop-Tarts and kids' sweat, very mundane and non-threatening. I was wrapped in my blanket and I still felt very hungry, but my nerves had thankfully calmed down. I felt serene and safe. Even better, as soon as we reached the second drive-through window, Noom's arm appeared in my line of vision, offering a fat-dripping paper bag. I snatched it out of his hand and dug in, spitting paper pieces here and there whenever I found the time between biting and swallowing. Someone was laughing at me, but I didn't care. I was so damn hungry, my stomach hurt like it was digesting itself. I was halfway through my third burger when Mike and Noom picked up their discussion again. "So, that information you wanted me to get? I found something," Mike offered, his eyes fixed on the dark road. He was a very careful driver, that one. Noom chewed his fries, mumbling, "So you found somethin' fishy in the Flatlands books?" "More like a note in a note in a calendar, but yes," Mike replied. "The old DeLargo appears to have had some court troubles three months ago, enough to rake up quite a hefty sumyer's fees. The only entry I found explaining those fees was 'family court', and since his only living family is your cat back there, it got me interested." Noom shot me a questioning look, but I just shrugged around a good third of my last burger. I had no idea what that might be about. My father hadn't told me anything, and I hadn't been to court in my life. Noom seemed to understand my shrug well enough without words. He turned back around and picked up where they had left off. "And what did you find?" "Nothing. I couldn't get into the court archives because of some bullshit clause about fresh cases, but your cat might. The whole thing is in his family name, so there's a chance they'd be willing to grant him a look," Mike explained, keeping his eyes steadfastly on the road. As soon as I was finished licking fat and cheese from my fingers, I sank back onto the backseats and tried to remember the last three months. Had anything worth mentioning happened? The only difference had been an increase in visits by my father, who usually tried to stay away from me except for family holidays or those checkups on my college progress parents had to do if they didn't want to look creepy. Theodore had been at my place three times in that time span without a good reason, and every time he had sifted through my computer, my phone and my mail as he bombarded me with questions about school, friends and my coping with my 'problem'. His questions had kept me off-kilter enough not to wonder why he had been there, but now I did. Now I wondered. I didn't tell Noom about it, but the thought sat there in the back of my mind, nagging at me. I sniffed. "We could go tomorrow," I offered in an attempt to hide my own curiosity behind theirs, and both of them gave that little jump, like I had caught them doing something naughty. Mike even threw me a shrewd glance in the rear view mirror, but he didn't hold eye-contact for long and he shuddered when he looked away. Poor man. "I don't know," Noom grumbled, then he stuck his finger into the leftovers of ketchup and sucked them clean. "It's quite a risk bringing you out into the open, in day light no less," he explained as soon as the digits left his mouth. "If anyone sees you—" Mike made an obscene sound. "Oh come on, Noom. They already know he's still alive, and I've got the contract for now. As long as they don't see us together, you still got another thirty-six hours left before they'd try something desperate." That didn't seem to console my anger-ridden mercenary, if the expression on his face was any indication. His brows were furrowed and grooves surrounded his nose. For a second, I had the intense desire to lick his face until he felt better. "I don't like it," he proclaimed grumpily and turned his head to stare out the side window. Mike sighed. "Well, you don't have to like it, but we'll need him to get to those files. Either he comes with us, or you'll have to empty your pockets for someone to steal them." At this point, I tuned out their conversation and let myself fall back onto the cushions drenched in kiddy-smell. All three burgers were gone, and I still felt hungry, which was unusual even for me. I always ate way more than anyone else while still staying willowy thin, but this was ridiculous. At least I didn't feel like dying anymore, which was good enough for now. I wasn't tired anymore, but the movement of the car still lulled me into a light nap filled with strange, disconcerting visions of Noom, alwaysThanks to the prominent lines of Noom's lower jaw, I was sporting a quite visible hard-on when a hand finally shook me awake. "Is there anything on your mind besides sex, food, and safety?" an all too well-known voice rasped above me and made me smile languidly. Noom's personal scent wafted down on me like a spring breeze, first there, then not, then there again and I pushed my upper body up to follow it. I reached his lips before he knew what I was planning. His scent filled my mind and the soft brush of his lips against mine elicited a hungry, drowsy moan from both of us. It was all it took to make him forget everything else, and just a breath later his tongue and teeth demanded entrance into my mouth. Noom's mouth was even more incredible than his scent, hot and moist and oh-so-sure of himself as he conquered every square inch of mine, pinning me down with the weight of his muscled body. I knew what he wanted there and then, and although a small voice at the back of my head tried to get my attention, Noom drowned it out more surely than any drug could ever do. I wrapped my legs around his hips, making room for his rump and getting him closer to my throbbing cock at the same time. I wanted to touch him, too, but he wouldn't let me. As soon as my cold fingers brushed his back, he shifted to balance on one arm and used the free hand to grab my wrists and pin them above my head. I tugged at his tight grip, frustrated with the tightness of my pants and incredibly aroused by being controlled in such a way. At one point, Noom ended the kiss with an annoyed hiss and looked over his shoulder, which gave me a front row view of his throbbing aorta. My head whipped up before I knew what was going on, targeting that pulsing, live piece of flesh. As my head moved, my inner voice already screamed with panic, afraid what my instinct was trying to get me to do, afraid I would hurt Noom, like I had hurt the other people, but it was too late now anyway. My teeth scraped his neck, but the angle wasn't right to get a grip, and Noom shoved me down as soon as he felt it. "Down, scrap," he snarled, not even bothering to look at me. My body relaxed, following the order without me having to actively try, just like I had done all those times before. And the best thing was: Noom had obviously not realized what I had tried to do. I bit down a sigh of utter relief. Mike was clearing his throat, something he must have done a few times already by the volume he was using. It probably was what had caught Noom's attention in the first place, I just hadn't heard it. Probably been too preoccupied with being horny. "You're not doing it in my car. Get out," Mike hissed. He probably would have yelled, were it not for the people passing by every so often, but I could hear the anger well enough. Noom did too. He ground his teeth and disentangled from me in a heartbeat. I couldn't read his feelings on his face, but I myself didn't feel ashamed or flustered, which was strange enough. I usually didn't do well in conflicts or when criticized, but this didn't feel personal and left me cold. Still, I crawled out of the car, stomach growling softly with leftover hunger. Noom closed the car door behind me, and I stepped close to his side, all but hiding in his shadow. I also didn't do well in strange places and would have hidden in one of the side streets where I could safely have a look around without being spotted, but Noom's presence was enough to make me feel braver than usual. The sidewalk was paved with big, well-worn cobblestones that had sunk and slipped with the weight of years. Most of the buildings around us had either plaster walls or those wooden panels that made them look like a tourist street in the old part of London, a little dirty, a little discolored, but still charming and cozy. Flower pots big enough to hold olive trees stood here and there, spaced between the small fenced-off areas in front of pubs and restaurants, and there were almost no cars. A few passed by, a few sat in the parking lots between the garden areas, but most of the people seemed to prefer their feet to modern amenities. It was hard not to realize on the first glance where we were: Cat's Cradle Peninsula, home of the hipsters and most of the luckless artists and musicians Babylon City had to offer. It was a cheap, dirty and impoverished area, but it would have been worse if not for its inhabitants renovating and cleaning the area all by themselves. If there ever had been a working hippy community anywhere on the planet, it would have looked bleak next to this place. And right in front of us was our destination. 'Strummin' Joe's' said a hand painted sign above the entrance of the smallish looking pub with lead-glass windows. It looked like a puzzle piece cut out of another century and fit into this spot, squashed between tired looking residential buildings, like it was being constantly pushed deeper into the ground. "I already called ahead, you've got one room reserved in my name," Mike snarled and pointed at the entrance. "You'll get the key in there, but the room is out back with an extra entrance, I've made sure of that. We'll meet tomorrow in front of the court archives, nine A.M., and don't you dare be late!" Mike turned without another word, and Noom didn't stop him. He just stared after what I assumed was his one and only friend with a thoughtful glance, turning only when the car pulled out of the parking space. I looked at Noom's face, feeling guilty. Noom stared back for a few seconds, then he turned to the entrance. "He's got ailurophobia," he stated like it was nothing to bother with and started walking. I followed quickly, keeping close to Noom's calming scent as we entered the pub and the crowd of drunk humans it contained. Mike was afraid of cats? Well, that explained a thing or two. ~*~ The pub wasn't full, but still moderately loud. A cloud of old smoke, beer belches and stale sweat hung in the air like a ghost, but the floors and the tables were clean enough to make me wonder where that smell was coming from. Most of the patrons were in their mid-thirties to mid-forties, with the few drunk exceptions at the bar. In every pub, there is at least one old guy who comes in at noon and only leaves when kicked out, but here, three or four of the guys looked to fit that description. The crowd had an after-hours vibe to them, people coming from a hard day's work to have a nice evening, but the atmosphere had a taste of frustration and broken dreams to it. A nice evening probably meant getting a bit drunk, smoking a few cigarettes and complaining about their jobs, with a slight possibility for crime later on. As I followed Noom to the bar, I had a sudden vision of a bar fight like I had seen in the movies. Guys come in, the people at the pool table don't like their faces, they fight. I cautiously looked around, but found no pool table, only a checkers board in a corner and a dart game in the other. Eyes were following us here and there, but nobody seemed to want to go through the trouble to get up and hassle us. I didn't like the stares, but I preferred them over outright violence. Noom got the room key easily enough, although the bartender— Joe, I presumed— threw me puzzled glances every few seconds because I stuck to Noom's side like a frightened damsel, or a lover, which both fit me in some way I guess. Or maybe he stared at both of us, since Noom's bandages were showing and my face probably still was black and blue from where the mobster had hit me with his gun. At least he didn't comment on it, which was a good start. "We don't have breakfast around here, but the room is meant for working guests, so it's got a kitchenette and everything," he explained to Noom with a drawl in his voice not unlike my mercenary's. "You pay by day and you do your own room service, washer and dryer are in the cellar. And if you bring any trouble with you, you're out the door faster than the police can arrive." Noom jiggled the keys, looping the key ring around his finger. "We won't give you any troubles as long as you don't give us away to anyone," he drawled back, "if you ain't seen us, nothin'll happen." I was fascinated by the way his pronunciation changed, depending on who he was talking to, and I hugged his arm tighter, trying to watch his lips form those dragged-out sounds. Maybe he was trying to sound like a mean drunk or a junkie, something to make them underestimate him. Drunks and junkies had a tendency to get sloppy and careless, but Noom was damn near straight-edge and had senses so sharp he was able to best me in some aspects. Having people think he was weak probably meant he had an even bigger advantage over them if bad came to worse. But was it an act, or was it just a remnant of his youth, a ghost of times past? I was too afraid to ask, so I kept quiet. Joe, if that was his name, showed us the way around to the back of the building and left us to our own devices at the bottom of the stairs leading up to our temporary home. We stood there, staring at it like boys in front of a haunted house as the curiously dry, temperamental spring wind pushed at our backs and tugged at my hair. "It will rain soon," I said, sounding more solemn than I felt. My voice had a muted quality to it, robbed of any echo by the wind and the changing air pressure. Noom nodded. He had hooked one thumb into the rim of his pants as we were standing and staring, and I could feel his other hand moving restlessly, tightening to a fist, relaxing, moving closer to me, moving away, like he wanted to touch me and didn't at the same time. He was nervous, but not overtly so. I had no idea why. Finally, he finished the gesture he had started to make so many times and hooked his fingers into the back of my pants, holding, guiding and shoving at the same time as he moved me towards the stairs. As I stumbled up the steps, I almost didn't hear him mumble, "I'd be very unhappy if I had to kill you," beneath the creak of wood and linoleum. I managed to finish the climb up the stairs instead of jumping into his arms, but it was a close thing. ~*~ The door to our new haven was a deep, healthy red, although the lacquer could have used some brushwork. It was brittle and at some places the cheap wood showed, but it matched the remainder of the building. Noom unlocked it one-handed, his other hand still holding on to my pants. Maybe he was afraid I'd run, but I had no intention to do so. That room— or rooms— was the safest place for me right now, and I was antsy to get inside. The floor was old, sun-bleached and uneven hardwood that creaked beneath our feet as we stepped inside. A small hallway leading into a kitchenette held two doors-one to the left and one to the right. The left one was open and contained a tiny, all-white bathroom, and Noom opened the right one before we walked past it, cautiously glimpsing inside. "Walk-in closet," he whispered and twitched as I kicked the entrance door closed behind us. Huddling together like king penguins on a particularly cold night, we slowly crept into the kitchenette with Noom having a look in every nook and cranny he could find, and me walking with him with a slightly bemused expression on my face. Only when his first look-around didn't provide him with anything to attack or run from did he finally let go of me and pulled the curtains closed. "Turn on the lights and check the kitchen. I'll have a look at the closet and the bathroom. Look for a med kit, I don't want to have to run to a pharmacy to get fresh bandages," he ordered, and off he went. My heart was beating harder and faster than it should, although I couldn't think of a reason why. I walked through the small room like a frightened child, huddled into myself until I reached the light switch. The lights came on blazing, leaving me blind and blinking for a moment, but I instantly felt better. The room matched the front door in its age and simplicity. The floor was hardwood planks nailed to a wooden foundation so that gaps showed between the boards, and they had to have been cut from one single tree trunk because most of them ran from wall to wall. The wood had been stripped and waxed enough times to give it that shiny, used gleam and a slight vertical curve, but they had a homey feel to them. There was a couch with a coffee table that obviously could be pulled out to form a bed, an extra sofa seat next to the window, a TV on a small commode and a dining table with four seats next to the tiny kitchen area. None of the furniture matched, not even the chairs at the table, and it reminded me of Noom's home. He would probably like it here, but I was used to a better living standard and the mismatches itched at the back of my brain. Sighing, I walked from storage space to storage space, opening every drawer and door to examine the contents just as Noom had ordered, but I came up with nothing but a package of pre-baked buns, peanut butter, jam and something that resembled canned breakfast meats. Shapeshifter Ch. 05 "There's no first-aid-kit out here," I finally called, staring hungrily at the buns. I probably could eat all of them with PB and J to help me get through the night, but that would leave nothing to nibble on in the morning. It was a hard decision to make; either be a little hungry when going to bed and be able to quench that hunger in the morning, or go to bed sated and be hungry when I woke up. I only then realized there was no answer from the bathroom. "Noom?" I asked, but got no reply. My fingertips started to itch right where my claws had broken through the skin the last time I changed, and I balled both hands into fists. No, I would not change. I would go to the bathroom, look inside and find out what he was doing, and I would not change. My constant state of panic had already cost me too much time and energy, and I'd had enough of being too frightened to move, damn it! My heavy breath sounded way too loud in the silent room, my steps too heavy and clumsy, and I had trouble swallowing through the dryness in my mouth as I reached the bathroom door and found it open, and the room behind it still dark. I hugged myself as my eyes got used to the darkness, and my own fingers felt small, strange and hard against my hypersensitive skin. This was stupid. Noom had to be there, and I would have heard the door or windows opening. He just had to be there— And there he was, a dark scheme in a dark room, standing next to the window and staring outside intently. I wanted to step forward and shout at him for scaring me so, but the glint of his Beretta made me stumble and shut my mouth before I made a peep. He had drawn back and he was watching the other side of the street, hidden by a flimsy, threadbare curtain and the simple darkness of the room. Shivers crept up my back as my body went into instant alarm mode. All those new clothes would be drenched in fear sweat and I would once more need a new set of garments, and all because of... I tried to finish that thought, but I couldn't. Usually, I found more than enough fuck-ups if I just thought hard enough, but this time, I was at a loss as to what I possibly could have done to justify this much danger and trouble. The stupid idea that maybe whatever Noom saw out there might hold the answer gripped my head and made me creep forward. I didn't stop, once I had started walking, even though Noom would hate me interfering. Was I getting braver, or just more stupid? I didn't care. A smallish sink blocked the space left of the window, and Noom stood to the right side of it, so there was no space for me. I could have pressed against his side, but that would have pinned his weapon's arm against his side. If I was getting dumber, I hadn't yet reached the point where I risked both our safety for a small glance. Good to know. Noom tensed when he felt my presence, tensed enough to make the gun handle creak a little bit, but he didn't take his eyes off whatever he was looking at. I carefully stuffed myself between his left shoulder and the wall behind him, peeking around him to search the back street below us. It was a ratty street, as far as back streets go, but unusually void of garbage containers. The walls of the surrounding buildings were crumbling and wet, graffiti covered the few feet of intact plaster, and the concrete surface itself was full of holes that had filled up with dust, rotting leaves and old papers. A lone man stood down there, leaning against one of the corners, almost out of sight, but not quite. He was just a little taller than me, just a little shorter than Noom, and wore a thin trench coat that hid all other details of his body. It was a normal dress-up for the weather coming in, but he stood out somehow just by how mediocre he tried to appear. He didn't look up as he smoked his cigarette, pulling his flimsy hat down against the first drops of rain. It conveniently also hid his face from us. It may have been a coincidence, but Noom's behavior made me more nervous than usual. I kind of got why he was watching that guy like a hawk. Still, I had to ask. "What is wrong?" I whispered quietly. Noom didn't react, but his cheek twitched with what I knew by now was annoyance. Instead of answering, he tilted his head forward just enough to get a better line of sight. I followed his lead and went back to watching the man. The embers had almost reached the filter, and with a last drag and puff he threw down the stump, stepped on it and walked back towards the point where I knew the bar's back door was. With a sigh, Noom put up the gun and shoved it back into the back waist band of his pants. "I so hope I'm wrong about that guy," he drawled, his street-slur creeping back into his voice for a moment. Then he turned around, gave me a strange look that was somewhere between anger and desire and lasted longer than I was perfectly comfortable with, and wrapped an arm around me. "Come on, scrap. The day has been long enough," he huffed and pulled me to his side and towards the main room. His pulse was utterly calm and his divine smell held just a small trace of fear that could have been there all along, drenched by the much stronger scent of pain. He hadn't showered yet, so I couldn't trust my nose at this. If he was faking this unperturbed behavior, it was an act well done. I was so busy burying my face in his neck to scent him, I only realized where he had dragged me when I bumped into the edge of the couch and suddenly was airborne. I fell onto the couch with a small eep sound I was not proud of, and Noom looked down at me for a heartbeat, then he fell too, forward, onto me, sighing and almost boneless. We both twitched when our bodies met and it wasn't for lust alone; he was wounded and I was just as hurt, and the hard contact reminded both of us that we'd better have a care. I could feel the lines of his athletic body press into me, and I felt soft and wimpy by comparison. I was nowhere near flabby or even well fed, but I felt like skin and bones beneath him. There was a vitality to him that filled me with envy, even as he nudged my legs apart to wiggle between them and press his crotch against mine. No amount of blood, dirt or sweat could diminish Noom's presence; he was a force of nature, like a storm cloud ready to go off and rain thunder, lightning and hail down on anyone stupid enough to step into his path. How could someone like him ever feel more than fleeting lust for a scrawny wimp like me? Noom suddenly went still above me, his hard length still pressed against mine. It was more than distracting, but maybe distraction was exactly what I needed to come out of this self-hating gloom. The tip of his Mohawk was starting to lose its cohesion and it tickled my forehead, drooping down like a decorative feather. In this artificial light, it looked very yellow, not as bleached as in broad daylight. His eyes hovered over mine, vibrant blue from this short a distance, but still hard, still sharp, like he was trying to scrape out my thoughts with a simple glare. "What's wrong?" he asked with a voice so neutral, it held no emotion whatsoever. It was a good question. "I don't know," I answered, although that was a lie. It made me uncomfortable how good he had gotten at reading me in such a short amount of time. Usually, I was the one impressing people with my empathy, but he beat me even at that. "You're suddenly tense," he stated and pushed up onto his elbows to get a better look at my face. I blinked up at him and touched his cheek without thinking. With all his scars and bruises and rough edges, he still filled me with envy of his success. Okay, so he was a criminal, there was that, but he was good at it. Really good. He seemed so in control of his life, so free and self-sufficient, and still he had thrown all of that away for me. What did I have to offer in return, except for my body? Compensating with sex had been well and fine until now, but suddenly, it just didn't seem fair. I had to know what he saw in me that I didn't. "Why are you helping me?" The little scar on his brow twitched as Noom threw me a hard glance. "Because I want to," he replied impatiently and went up to his knees between my legs, obviously not that interested in sharing my moment of doubt. I, on the other hand, wasn't that quick to let go of my train of thought. "Why do you want to help me?" I pressed, grabbing his wrist as he started to fiddle with the cord holding up my sweatpants. Noom stared at my fingers around his wrist with an expression that should have melted steel, but I didn't let go. Something had changed between us in that underground station, and it had finally rid me of that gnawing helplessness and fear. Yes, Noom was still the same intentionally cruel and short-tempered mercenary he had been before, but we were a team now. Partners, for better or for worse. He ground his teeth and the sound went right into my bones, making me shudder. "That's a stupid question," he snarled, then tore his arm out of my grip and pulled down my pants with a swift motion. I suddenly lay there with a bare lower body and the beginnings of a glorious boner. Noom grabbed my hard flesh triumphantly. I shuddered as a wave of lust rushed through my body. His deft fingers always felt so perfect, no matter where he touched me, but this was getting right to the point, no scenic routes necessary. One touch of his could wipe all rational thought from my mind, even when I didn't want to be distracted. "Don't distract me, I really want to know," I mumbled with a voice gone breathy in a heartbeat. My body was already betraying me, writhing and twitching with over-excitement, trying to rub my hard length through his tight fingers as every hair on my body stood on end. Noom grinned evilly and swept his thumb over my swollen, damp tip, making me gasp and groan as my hips snapped upward to follow his finger. "And I say, I don't have a reason. I want you for myself to have fun with, so I kept you," he growled with a low, heated voice. "There's nothin' more to this than that, so stop askin'." Still, there was a twitch in his eyes, very small and almost unnoticeable, that told me he was lying just as much as I had been before. His drawl had come back too, a sure sign he was getting annoyed with me, and just then, as his fingers tightened and stroked my cock from root to tip, I decided my doubts could wait until later. Much later, if I interpreted the look in Noom's eyes correctly. Fine with me. "Fuck me," I husked, relishing the expression of surprise and glee on Noom's face. His grin broadened until he looked like Alice's Cheshire Cat, complete with crinkles around his eyes. And then he let go of me, stood up and walked away, just like that, without a word. For a few seconds, I just lay there and stared after him, stunned. What the fuck? Was he actually going to just let me lie there half-finished and fully aroused? I sat up with a jerk, grabbed the first thing I could— my pants— and threw them after him just as he vanished into the bathroom. "Come back here right now or I'll make you wish you'd never met me!" I barked after him, not caring how indignant I sounded. All I got for my troubles was a dirty snicker echoing from the bathroom. I fell back onto the couch and puffed up my cheeks. My cock was weeping, fully erect like a sad flag pole in a desert of need, and Noom was tinkering around in the bathroom. Sniffing, I looked down at my protesting manhood and weighed my options. I knew if I touched myself, Noom would probably view it as a challenge and do something torturous to me. On the other hand, Noom was taking too freaking long and I had never been good at patience. My traitorous hand grabbed my cock before I could finish my pondering, and it felt so damn good, every other thought was blown out of my mind. I'm not big, never have been, but I'm adequate. My fingertips easily touched as I tightened my grip and slowly tugged towards the crown, forcing out a drop of clear pre-come. I liked that edge of pain, that point of pleasure that was almost too much, almost too intense to endure, although I'd never manage to pass it and keep on going, like Noom could make me do. When my fingers reached the crown of my cock, I rubbed my thumb over my weeping tip just like Noom had done before, then I let go to grab it at the root again, shuddering and hissing through the mixture of conflicting emotions I brought myself. I only used three fingers as I kept on stroking and milking my cock, just to prolong each stroke and the pleasure it brought me, and somewhere along the line I closed my eyes and forgot all about Noom. I had years of experience all by myself, and not much of anything to show in the sex-with-someone-else-department. Oh, I had fucked. Quickies, one-night-stands, sometimes trysts over a few days or weeks, but nothing that demanded more than carnal lust from both of us. With Noom, it was different. Totally different, even though he fought tooth and nail against me. I shivered and my cock twitched, getting ready to shoot. I bowed up my rump with just the shoulders touching the couch, trying to drag out the moment before I came just a little bit more, just a few more seconds,— A strange hand wrapped around the root of my cock, a rough pinky finger brushed my sac, and a thumb and forefinger tightened around my quivering length like a clamp. What had started as an unstoppable rush with a soon-to-come happy end, suddenly was held back by pitiless strength, and it hurt in the most luscious way imaginable. "Bad, bad scrap," Noom growled, and his face was so close to my ear, I felt his breath wafting against my temple. He knelt next to the couch, one hand blocking my orgasm as the other one clutched a pack of lube. I had a short moment to think, 'oh, that's what he was looking for,' then he put the lube onto my chest and slapped my hand away from my cock. "You started without me, and you planned to finish without me?" he hissed with a rough purr in his voice that sounded both aggressive and aroused. And just to drive his words home, he lowered his head that last inch and first bit, then sucked my earlobe. It felt incredible, almost like his mouth was rewiring my body to connect my dick to my ear, and I gasped harshly. Still holding my dick tight enough to keep me from coming, he crawled between my already spread legs, leaned over my prone body and whispered, "use your hands for something I approve of and get my cock out." I did what he asked, but just like last time my fingers shook with excitement, and it took me longer than it should have. Before Noom, I would have called myself suave in the sexual department, but he proved me wrong every damn time. I touched his hard flesh, bathing in its heat and the small twitches that told me he secretly had liked my display way more than he let on. Then I showed him, let him feel what I had done to myself, working his length just like I had worked my own just moments before. The soft gasp, the slight waver in his breathing was gratifying to hear. After a few moments of pleasure, he finally let go of my cock, but my own excitement had simmered down just enough so I wouldn't shoot the second his fingers loosened. "That's better," he whispered and grabbed the pack of lube, unperturbed by my constant and concentrated work on his throbbing dick. With reversed roles, I wouldn't have been able to even stay on my knees, but his self-control was iron. Or at least strong enough to endure a few more moments of sticky petting, if it meant getting inside me. It had to be the thing most important to him, considering he didn't bother to undress more than he needed. For a few seconds, I had the urge to ask why he didn't get naked with me, but his fingers were already leaving a sticky, wet trail between my cheeks, searching and finding the sensitive skin around my entrance. One touch, one finger was enough to leave me breathless and tingling with excitement. Lust swept my questions away, and with them any need for talking I might have had left. "Don't tighten up," he mumbled, and his voice sounded deeper, rougher than before, more intimate somehow. Although I couldn't not react to the increasing pressure against my entrance, when his finger finally breached me, I shivered with the sensation of it delving into the heat that was me. He found all those little spots that made me twitch, gasp, and finally loosen up to the building pleasure in my lower body. I didn't notice my eyes rolling into the back of my head, until Noom kissed me. He kissed me like he was trying to drink down the sounds I made, like he was trying to do with his tongue what he did with his fingers. This time I shoved my fingers into his hair, feeling the brittleness of hair spray and gel crumble beneath my grip and leave nothing but soft, silky strands behind. I held him to my mouth, forced him to keep kissing me, even as he added a second finger to get a better angle, to stretch me more. Only when I almost came, making a keening, muffled sound against his forceful lips, did he pull out his fingers to replace them with his hard, hot length. He said something as he sank into me, burrowing himself inside me to his pubes, and I think it was "I won't last." I couldn't be sure, though, because after that my mind went on a blank. There were hands, tongues, skin against skin in mankind's oldest dance, but there was no thought, no plan, no space to analyze, nothing but him and me. Where the last few times had been rough, quick and angry, this time his slow, luxurious movements were almost lazy. I could feel his length, his girth stroke against all those small and big spots inside me, that made my body tingle with arousal and whenever he found that one spot, I shivered, clinging to him like a drowning man. As the stimulus built like a deep, hot weight inside me, I heard him hiss and then groan with the effort to keep his rythm, to keep moving slowly and in a controlled fashion. Muscles in his body twitched where I hadn't known they could, like a horse trying to shake off flies. I didn't think he would last much longer, but he did. Three, four of those careful thrusts he managed, then the twitching turned into a full-body shudder. When he came, I had a short moment, a split second, to watch his pupils blow out to such an extent, it turned his irises almost black. He gave a low, almost pained shout of ecstasy and finally lost his control. Three more times he thrust into me hard, then I came too, screaming my orgasm against his shoulder as I flailed and clung to him at the same time. My vision went, I think, for a few heartbeats. I just lay there, sticky and fighting for breath, with him as an exhausted weight above me. I heard his voice almost through a haze as he leaned down, kissed me breathless and then muttered: "I wish I could hate you." He would have said more, I was sure of it, but he couldn't seem to keep himself upright any longer. With a soft burst of laughter, he sagged to the side, slipped out of me and wrapped me in his arms. We fell asleep then, sticky and too tired to bother pulling out the couch, a jumble of limbs and clothes and exhausted satisfaction. My last thought was, so, what does he see in me?, but this time I couldn't get myself to worry about it. Whatever made him stay with me, love me, care for me, it was the best thing that had ever happened to me. It would be stupid to poke at something so good.