ɑgɛɳt ɱѳɓiuร (jetskiing) wrote in noexits, @ 2021-12-17 10:09:00 |
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Entry tags: | !log/thread/narrative, marvel (tv/movies): loki laufeyson, ₴ inactive: mobius m. mobius 2, → week 027 (vampires werewolves hunters) |
WHO: Loki & Mobius (the vampire & hunter AU versions - a flashback)
WHAT: One of their cat-and-mouse-games, and then Loki issues an invitation (part 1)
WHERE: Dunwich streets
WHEN: A couple weeks before the Derleth Experiment
WARNINGS: Stabbing. Stabbing-over-the-clothes of the sexual kind. Blood drinking.
STATUS: Complete
Loki’s head cracked against the grimy brick wall of the narrow alleyway outside of the campus. An ever present fog, thick and cool, the kind that often drifted through the Dunwich streets from the bordering forest chilled the air and left a slick condensation on the cobblestones. It would rain later. He could smell it on the night. That sweet scent of ozone, moisture, and darkness. It was one of those aromas that stuck in his memory from life. He didn’t remember much of those days—ancient and nearly forgotten. His mortality was so far in the past that it was little more than a dream. The fleeting image of someone else’s existence. A man with no conception of who he was capable of becoming or of what terrors—and wonders—he would commit. But occasionally a smell, like that crisp scent of oncoming rain, jostled loose a thought. A memory. Like that of a boy standing on a bridge beside his brother and his father, watching as the moonlight shimmered on an icy fjord. He laughed. It was an amused chuckle, full of enticement and relief. The dagger sharp tip of a wooden stake pinched at his chest. It had already broken through the thin cotton of his shirt and cut the skin. All it needed was a push. Little more than a gentle shove, really. A quick but forceful jab of elbow grease. And it would pierce through to his heart. Which, of course, was exactly why Loki was laughing. Because the hunter had stopped. He’d hesitated. And Loki knew why. They both did, although neither of them had ever said so aloud. This was the game they’d been playing for so many years. The chase; each of them sharing the role of cat and mouse. It thrilled Loki more than anything had in these last few decades. Immortality had his downsides, after all. It had its slumps. Boredom was the most fearsome enemy of a vampire and Loki was no exception. That was why he was so enticed by this game. He looked forward to their hunts almost as much as he did his constant search for his next fledgling. It was a romance. A play put on by two people, forever exchanging roles. It was a dance, the partners continuously sharing the lead. It was a drug. And Loki was addicted. “Oh, Mobius. Darling.” Loki’s mouth parted in a taunting gasp as the stake’s point caused a trickle of blood to drip down his chest and along the lines of his abdomen. His canines glistened under the dim lamplight of the alley. His tongue flicked out to lick his lower lip. They were as close as they could be without enveloping each other in an embrace. Loki could practically taste the heat radiating off of Mobius’s body. He could see the sweat dripping down the side of his face. And he could feel the hunter’s heartbeat through his torso, where they were close enough to touch. He looked at Mobius directly. Lips curled into a smirk that played in his eyes. “You’re getting slow in your old age.” Loki slowly turned his gaze downward. It was generally considered foul play among most supernaturals to use weapons. Vampires had natural armaments in their teeth, werewolves in their claws. But Loki had a reputation for not following the rules. And while Mobius had been distracted by Loki’s teeth, and his halfhearted attempts to bite him during their fight, he’d missed the dagger Loki had concealed beneath his coat. The dagger that was now plunged into Mobius’s side. “Tsk, tsk. And that’s the oldest trick in the book, too.” Consider what they were. One vampire, one human. They were not like chocolate and peanut butter. They were not like peaches and cream. To put it in a way that was easy to picture, they were like a redhead wearing the color orange - not at all made for each other. But sometimes the best relationships were forged, and they were earned. Sometimes they just didn't make any damn sense - like these constant games of cat and mouse. These sick, twisted bouts of tag, you're it. The way they infiltrated each other's dreams, their thoughts. Mobius had been a hunter of things that went bump in the night for what felt like his whole life, and he'd lived a long life. He'd mentored some, had others he was close to, and his history as an accomplished hunter was as rich as diamonds - plus, he had a goal. Many goals, actually, ones that he maintained on a list that he'd check off once he satisfied something. It was just that the item 'kill Loki' had lacked a slash of ink through it for a real long time by now. Funny, that, because if he wasn't thinking of the day when he'd finally behead that wretched creature he was thinking of that wretched creature. Poetry often sprang to mind, words he had to scribe in his journal so he’d remember. His eyes lit up a dark room the way a Roman candle might and he stands as tall as a watchtower. He is pale, pale as the very fog that is drawn to him and wraps around him like a ghostly shawl but his hands are smooth as porcelain - deceptive strength found in those fingers... The poetry didn't always fall from his own mouth, however. "You cocky bitch," Mobius hissed - a half gasp of pain because he'd just been stabbed and that damn well hurt. Fire ripped through his veins, up his spine, something aggressive and red and angry. But he didn't push the stake into Loki's chest in retaliation. It wouldn't kill him but it would paralyze him and then maybe, finally he'd shut the hell up. No, Mobius simply shoved away, clutching his side where he was now bleeding. He had a handgun on him too, loaded with silver bullets, and Loki was the wrong type of creature to be harmed by silver but shooting him in the face would be damn satisfying regardless. "At least I don't have to resort to such puny weapons to make a dent." Loki held tight to the dagger when Mobius pulled himself away. The blade ripped out of the flesh as easily as it had slipped in, blood dripping from the glinting steel. He grinned, smug and satisfied, but the sudden separation of their bodies left him with a frustrated yearning to close the distance again. But he waited. Because that was part of the game. Part of the rules. They couldn’t show too much of their desperation. The first to break would instantly lose the game. Then one of them would have to make a decision. And there were only two choices. Death or eternal life. Alone or together. Humanity or bloodlust. “If insulting my puny blade is supposed to hurt my ego then you’re off the mark. It’s not all about size, you know. It’s about how you use it.” Loki brought the blade to his mouth and licked his tongue along the flat edge, blood coating his lips. “And I know how to use it. I could make you love it. Beg for it.” Loki pushed himself off the wall. He knew he wasn’t safe with Mobius even if they hadn’t crossed that one particular line yet. The line that all vampires and hunters were supposed to cross at first sight. The line where one of them killed the other. For whatever reason they’d both avoided going that far, knowing full well that when they weren’t in each other’s proximity they were doing just that. Loki killed other hunters without hesitation. Mobius no doubt did the same in the presence of other supernaturals. Neither of them were safe, but guards were lowered just the same. The twisted part of it was that Loki thrived on the threat of death. Not knowing if this would be the night that Mobius changed his mind gave him a sensual thrill. It was erotic. It filled his cold dead body with a tantalizing heat that boiled beneath his skin. And made his heart ache to beat again. “You should have stuck it in, Mobius. Then you could have finally had your way with me. That’s where most vampires lose their nerve. They’re afraid of torpor. Me? Trapped in a wakeful paralysis while you take your time trying to decide how to torture me? I think that sounds delicious.” Loki licked the other side of the blade before sheathing it beneath his coat. Then he held up his hands in a mocking display of a truce. He took another step forward. A low rumble of thunder echoed in the distance. Rain sprinkled overhead, misting over their faces. Loki shook his hair back over his shoulders. “Are you ready? Because this is when the cocky bitch rips out your throat.” "Torture combined with paralysis ain't my style, honey," Mobius replied, accent a drawl that was a warm blanket. "Besides, it's more fun if you participate. Maybe I'd like to hear you do some screaming and begging of your own." The wound at his side stung, and he pressed against it to staunch the bleeding somewhat - but his heart was still beating and he was still alive, fingers clenched around the stake in a white-knuckled grip. Maybe he wouldn't be alive for long. Maybe this would be the time when Loki would change his mind - finally get a chance to gorge himself on that comforting tonic he wanted, the lividness in Mobius's veins; his heart raced at the thought, palpitating and shuddering. The rain misted - it was a curtain of ashes, dense and gray with phosphorescent spots. Soon it would be hard to see, the more it began to resemble white paint. They’d ended up here, in situations like this, so many times. Mobius wouldn’t know what to do with himself otherwise - a hunt didn’t hold the same thrill, if it wasn’t this vampire he happened to be chasing. "I know what you want - so take it," he taunted. Life elixir. His blood. "Take it already, and trust that I won't stick it in." Or would he? That was the gamble, wasn’t it? His skin is smooth but there’s still something unpredictable about touching him - as unpredictable and ever-changing as he is, like the path of a storm. “Oh? You think you could make me scream?” Loki couldn’t remember the last time anyone had made him yell—either in pain or in pleasure. And begging? It had probably been centuries since Loki last begged. Playfully? Seductively? Sure. Those pleas were a dime a dozen over the years. But the last time Loki was actually on his knees, ache in his chest, desire sucked from his lungs, empty hunger in his belly, pleading for someone else to give him what he wanted? What he needed? Centuries, at least. Maybe even a millennium. Perhaps longer still. Loki couldn’t even remember how old he was. Trying to remember the last time someone made him so desperate? He probably hadn’t felt that way since the last time he’d been in the presence of his own sire. And that was ages ago. But a human? A human had never left him feeling that way. Loki didn’t even believe it was possible. But the idea of it stimulated a tickle in the starving pit of his stomach. Mobius’s heartbeat sounded like it was running a marathon. Loki could hear it as clear as if he had his ear on his chest. Nervous. Scared. Excited. If only his heart could respond in kind. But it had been a few days since Loki had indulged in a real feeding. His heart was still. Stone still. But his bloodlust was on fire. I know what you want — so take it. Loki’s eyes flashed, a predatory glimmer glossing over those red irises. Proof that he’d been doing this for a long time. Too long for most people. Mobius was doing a disservice to humanity by not putting him down when he had the chance. “People are going to talk,” Loki said, his voice barely a whisper in the rain. He backed Mobius up against the opposite wall. A red and yellow graffiti tag from one of the neighborhood wolf packs was streaked across the brick behind him. Loki pressed his palm against the wound on Mobius’s side. The blood seeped through his fingers. It probably looked like hell and the scar would be ugly, but Loki knew he hadn’t hit anything major. He’d been cautious. Loki’s smirk widened at mention of the word trust. That was amusing. So much about Mobius was amusing. Intriguing too. He reminded Loki of that T.S Eliot poem. This is the way the world ends This is the way the world ends This is the way the world ends Not with a bang but a whimper. He brought his opposite hand up to Mobius’s face, the nail of his thumb tracing his jaw, while the other continued to keep pressure to the knife wound he’d caused. Then he brought his face as close as possible without touching. Lips a mere feather’s distance from each other. “Why are you going so easy on me tonight?” "You want me to answer your pointless questions or do you want to just get on with this?" Mobius fired back. He also had no intention of answering - because the reason wasn't one he'd share very easily, or even something that he understood himself. What it boiled down to was this weird sense of jealousy that felt like an immovable object - the idea that Loki wanted other blood and not his, that he would be out there feeding on innocents and... No. Mobius wouldn't accept that. He wanted his blood to be good enough. A sweet prize, a treat for the culmination of their games - and, truth be told, he was addicted to the way it felt when Loki bit him, Mobius's heartbeat and the vampire's teeth walking hand-in-hand down moonlit pastures stained crimson. "Just fucking do it already," he hissed, a snake charming the charmer, beckoning him nearer, nearer. He had the stake in his hand and he returned the favor from before and pressed it into Loki's side - just enough pressure, without penetration (yet), as his thigh followed suit and slipped in between Loki's legs to press against him too. Loki tilted his head to the side as Mobius spoke. He still had the taste of him in his mouth, double metallic from the blade. Sweet, familiar, and forbidden. It broke all of the unspoken covenants between humans and supernaturals. Only one of them should have left this scenario alive. And yet Loki knew from the moment Mobius hissed at him—with violent desperation—that they’d both walk from this again. And again. And again. Despite the fact that Mobius threatened to give him a matching, albeit temporary at best, scar. The game had to continue. Until one of them slipped up. Until one of them went too far. Loki leaned into Mobius’s leg. Physical intimacy wasn’t the same for him as it had once been. As a mortal man his body would have responded immediately. But undeath was a cruel lover. Loki needed sustenance to feel any arousal below his mind. “I’ll do it when I want to do it,” Loki said. He blew on Mobius’s mustache, watching as a speckle of a raindrop trickled down his lip. He turned Mobius’s head to the side and stared at his neck. Hypnotized as the artery pulsed against the skin. He could hear it. It pounded in Loki’s ears like a drum. Da-dum. Da-dum. If he closed his eyes he might be able to imagine it was his own heartbeat. Except he remembered every heart he ever fed from. Including his own. And this one was distinctly Mobius. He was salivating. And the longer he waited the more his bestial instinct wanted to lurch forward and tear Mobius apart. But that was the benefit of being an older vampire. He had patience. He had control. And he had a reason to savor the foreplay. It sweetened the taste. Loki nestled his face in the crook of the hunter’s neck. He licked the skin, tasting the salt of his sweat along with the fresh newness of the rain. Then he pushed himself fully against Mobius’s body. Chest to chest. Pelvis to pelvis. The point of the stake pricked into his side. Loki purposefully leaned into it until he felt the wood break the top layer of skin. Then he dug his fangs into his neck. Mobius dug that stake in, just a bit to add more pain with the pleasure of the bite - it was all happening at once, the more they eliminated any miniscule bit of space between them. Loki's grip was steely and Mobius couldn't exactly break free from it right now, not without literally having his throat torn out - but it wasn't like he even wanted to get away. Instead he groaned, hips shifting, grinding against Loki's leg. "You bloodsucking - " He couldn't think of an insult, not really. All sorts of sensations were coursing through him, like how bubbles floated to the top of a fizzy drink, but words were different. The pain was secondary - he didn't really register it, not much, as pupils oscillated and blood loss intensified and swarmed like a net of cackling bees in his fuzzy head. "Stop," he moaned again, voice muffled as he clutched at Loki and pulled at his hair. "I'll kill you if you kill me." Oh yeah, and if that happened people would definitely talk alright. But he wasn’t thinking of that now - he didn’t care. It was just cold rain that felt like sharp nails and the contrast of being bitten, which was strangely warm. Many vampires were sloppy and reckless when it came to feeding. Loki was neither of these things. His sire had trained him in the art of the bite. The kiss as some of the Victorians called it. That had been from a time when vampirism was as much about elegance and romance as it was death. In centuries past, when travel and communication were more difficult and cumbersome, vampires had to be subtle in order to survive. They needed to have allure and attraction. And they needed to know how to lull their victims into a false sense of safety. They were artists as well as killers. The bite could be painful and violent, but it didn’t have to be. It could also be like a warm embrace. Like a kiss, soft and welcoming. In some cases it could even leave the victim in a daze, like an intoxicated dream state with a blurry memory of what had happened the night before. It depended on the vampire’s technique, their intention, their desire for the person they fed upon. And it depended on the mental strength of the human. Loki wanted Mobius to remember how it felt when his fangs pierced through his skin, both the pain and the pleasure. He wanted Mobius to experience that intimate connection when their hearts beat in tune with each other. That fervid moment when they were connected—blood, mind, body. Technically, vampires weren’t much stronger than humans, but Loki’s grip on Mobius was desperate. His fingers dug into his shoulders, holding him still while he sucked the hot nectar from his neck. Mobius said something, but Loki wasn’t paying attention. Not at first. He didn’t even notice the jab of the stake into his side. He was too busy basking in the warm flush as the blood spread through his veins and brought a more lively hue to his skin. Then Mobius tugged on his hair. Stop. Loki pulled his face away from Mobius’s neck and hissed. Eyes flashed his annoyance at being halted so quickly. His mouth was wet and red, blood dripping down his chin. He hadn’t licked the wound closed yet and the two holes continued to bleed. “You don’t tell me when to stop,” Loki growled. His body was charged now. All of his senses were heightened, intimately attuned to the world around him. Stopping was always hard, no matter how much age or experience a vampire had. It was that lust to have it all. And, on top of that, it was the reawakening of the human arousal—that instinctual desire to be like the living—which made stopping such a challenge. A desire that Mobius would have certainly felt pushed against his thigh. “Don’t worry. I’ll make death worth it for you.” Loki leaned back into the crook of Mobius’s neck. Mobius's head tilted back - neck exposed in an instinctual way, and the pierce of fangs sunk in deep again to give him that fuzzy, lightheaded sensation the more the blood flowed. Stomach lurched, with all of the knife-wielding acrobats throwing blades within, his heartbeat spluttered - dying dancer on a stage, wilting, curtains falling to head towards a lights out. Except, despite the fact that he was already bleeding from a stab wound, Mobius wasn't going to give in that easily. "It's my blood, you greedy bastard - " he huffed, one hand jamming the stake into Loki's side fully (maybe it'd leave a mark, maybe it wouldn't) and the other flattening on his abdomen, sliding down to put pressure on clothed arousal - before shoving him away. Most people didn't shove someone away by the dick, but Mobius wasn't looking for opinions here. The stake into his side, just nicking at his lowest rib, would have been enough to pull Loki away from his feverish gnawing on Mobius’s neck. The forceful shove against his groin was rudely—not to mention painfully—unnecessary. But Loki suspected Mobius knew that. Loki leapt backward with a yelp. His face burned in a rosy blush of anger and embarrassment. If it had been anyone else, Loki would have ripped their head off. No hesitation. A quick vengeful reaction resulting in Loki as the last man standing. But Mobius had earned himself a rare badge of protection from one of Dunwich’s oldest residents. A reprieve of sorts. Because he amused Loki. Because he enticed him. Because Loki wanted something from him. Granted, Loki regretted that at times. And this was certainly one of those moments. Again, he suspected Mobius knew that too. His side silently screamed in a pain almost equal to the throb of his bruised arousal. He clenched his fingers around the handle of the stake and ripped it out in one quick motion. Then he tossed the wooden weapon, stained in his (well technically Mobius’s) blood, behind a large alley dumpster a few feet away. “You ungrateful arsehole,” Loki growled. He lifted his shirt and twisted to look at the wound in his side. It was a considerable hole and he was losing a lot more blood than Mobius’s stab wound, but it wouldn’t take too long to heal. The feeding would see to that. It would just leave him starving afterwards. Thankfully he was old enough to be able to make it until tomorrow night without replenishing his energy, but that wouldn’t stop him from waking up in a foul mood. “I ought to kill you for that.” Mobius smirked, which was a touch triumphant despite how woozy he felt - he needed to pour something strong (vodka, maybe, before drinking the rest of the bottle) in the wound on his side and then stitch himself up with the crude needle and thread method. But first? He’d keep the game going. Always keep the game going - a marathon, a well-oiled machine. A candle flickering proudly even during a storm. “Maybe you’ll get your chance,” he stepped closer, because he still gravitated toward Loki no matter what - and he yearned for another chance to be near to him, to touch him and, yes, to have that intimate connection and the taboo of blood drinking. “Next time.” His hand went to the gun that was tucked away in its holster - it’d just take one swift movement to draw and fire, an automatic reaction since Loki had tossed Mobius’s only other weapon away. “Go now,” he insisted. “I want you to miss me real bad, kitten.” And then they’d do it all over again. How romantic. When Mobius stepped closer, Loki’s instinct was to step back. But he held his ground firm. Or as firmly as he could with a hole in his side. The shirt was ruined. His slacks too. Not that it mattered. He had full wardrobes enough at home. But it was an inconvenience. An inconvenience that left him with nothing to show for his trouble. True, he’d gotten a few mouthfuls of Mobius’s blood. That was a kind of win. And he’d be able to lie in bed at night with Mobius’s taste on his tongue. Perhaps, if he was lucky, he’d be able to reinvigorate his bruised ego and have a sensual moment with his memories of the evening. Before the evening was spoiled by his enemy’s prudishness, that is. If not he could always ravage one of his fledglings. Or pick up some morsel off the street. Someone no one would notice was gone. Someone no one would miss. It wouldn’t fill the gaping ache of a hole that was Loki’s obsession for this man, but it might relieve some tension. “Right. Next time. Maybe next time we should do this at my place. I can’t promise it won’t be wet, but at least it won’t be raining.” Loki winked playfully, knowing full well that Mobius wouldn’t dare approach his home. Or would he? Mobius had an unhealthy relationship with danger, after all. But then Loki would have to explain to his family why he was entertaining their sworn enemy. They might have thought he’d lost his mind. Maybe they’d be right. He watched Mobius’s hand move to his holster and frowned. Well, that was the end of this match. And while Loki had gotten what he’d wanted, he couldn’t help but feel like he’d lost this round. Loki stepped back, pout slowly twisting into a grin. Or a grimace. His side hurt more than he expected. And his face was already whitening back to a dull grey. “Don’t overestimate your sway, Hunter. You’re interesting tonight. That says nothing about tomorrow. One of these nights you’ll bore me and this will be over.” Loki blew him a kiss. “Then you’ll be the one missing me.” He turned and disappeared into the shadows. |