The Phoenix Burns
A spinoff of a story by Alpha_She_Wolf
This project survived many things, including the loss of a friend. I'd prefer not to talk about it. I'll be blunt: This is a story only intended for adults. Younger than 18, move along. For those of you who wish to skip the M/M part, it's between markers [668] and [669]. by Crass ( * * *
) The sound of a shifting step on the sand was enough to bring the she-wolf back to combat strength. A figure tried to dart for the mouth of the cave, but could not match the speed of her pounce; her victim was slammed to the wall and pinned there. A young cheetah, late teens, possibly even early twenties. Cut over the right eye, on the left cheek, bullet wound in the left bicep. Weakened and dehydrated, he was easily blacked out. She let him slump to the floor and shook him gently to bring him to. It was effective in that measure, but as soon as he saw her, his eyes went wide and another attempt was made to escape. Hoarse cries for help escaped his lips, choked thin by the arm she held him with. "Easy! I'm an officer!" she snarled, shoving her badge in his face- it didn't help. She flipped him on his back and grabbed him by his bruised face. "STOP." Eyes still the size of saucers, he stopped struggling and merely stared up at her. "What is with you?!" she hissed. As she let go he spat blood into the dirt and coughed, "I just saw you torture and kill that sick fucker! I don't care what he was! Don't fucking touch me!!" By the time he'd finished that sentence, she'd raised a fist, tight and high... but thought better of it. She stared long and hard into the features so contorted by terror, turned away in anticipation of the pain to come. Letting go of the fury in her palm, she placed both hands on the young man's collar and pulled him up against a wall. "Listen... you're going to be fine," she cooed. "I promise..." Rather abruptly, his vulgar reply was drowned out by the chop of helicopter blades, the tromp of heavy boots, and rapid-fire radio chatter. The cheetah lost touch with reality in relative catatonia, and she let the medic take him away. Is this how she wanted to be remembered? A killer? A harbinger of Hell? No. She didn't want to be remembered at all. That's why Project Nemesis was top-secret. ---1 week later.--- Bloomburg- "the Silver City"- the largest population center for two hundred miles, seemed to have lost its lustrous sheen. Some mere decades ago, towering skyscrapers reached to the heavens, gangsters and cops held each other in respect, and there were still heroes... She shook the stories from her thoughts and eased onto the gas pedal, sliding her sleek blue sports car down the street. The windows were tinted and the lights off, allowing her vehicle to gleam like a sapphire on the asphalt. In short order (it wasn't rush hour yet), she reached 47 Dickinson Street. The building there was the standard gray office block, rectangular, monolithic, and boring. With her car tucked in the parking garage below, the elevator took her to the lobby. "I'm late for a very important date," she told the gaunt-looking receptionist, and was let into elevator two. She stepped in, still wondering why that particular passphrase was chosen, and pushed from her mind. Such things were unnecessary inquiries. There was a momentary pull as the elevator car shot up to the top, a jump as it made an abrupt stop, and a hiss as the doors slid open. A short walk ahead was the wide, mahogany desk- and behind it, someone who equated to her boss. Wide-set and aging, the grizzled hound wore an eyepatch, a greying mustache, and a glinting ring on his right hand. "You're early, Iron," he growled. "That's not like you." "Are you saying I prefer to be late?" she responded quickly, raising an eyebrow. His reply was equally swift: "Not at all," he reeled. "You are always on time. No later, no earlier." With a smooth stride, she closed the distance. "An operative is never late. She arrives exactly when she means to." A tense moment was shared, stretched so tight it could be snapped by a razor's edge. Their eyes met, narrowed... and then laughter. "Good gods, Iron," he sighed, "I thought you were going to kill me." "I did too, Silver," she quipped, taking a seat on the desk. "I did too..." "It's amazing that Ian stays by you," he replied, grinning. Silence. He looked at her with concern. "He's still with you, right...?" She blushed and turned away. "A week ago," she admitted, bitterly. "Said that living in fear was no way to start a family..." He put his face in his hands. "When is it going to end?" he pleaded. "If you want someone in your life, you can't be an operative. You have to be a lover. Hell, a friend, anything!" He stood and straightened his tie. "And you're going to have to fix this... or it's going to make you overzealous. Dangerous. I'm putting you on sabbatical until things pan out. Is that clear?" The venomous look in her eyes told him it was very much so. --- Yanking the stickshift into reverse, Iron leapt out of her parking space with squealing tires. Slamming the stick forward again and her foot on the gas, the sleek vehicle jumped off the line, and roared off into the night. The moment she stepped into her apartment, Iron snatched up her remote and powered on the widescreen TV mounted on the wall. A anchorman started rambling on about conflicts overseas, religious and ethnic cleansing, the usual world events. She'd thrown off her jacket and shoes by the time she reached the bathroom, and stopped to listen to the last item of news. "...and today, after five days missing and two in the hospital, duke-in-exile Anton Pakitska returned home to the Silver City. There have been no public statements to date, but his publicist had this to say-" The video switched to a slightly older man in a heavy jacket, speaking to a crowd of reporters. "Dr. Pakitska will remain at home until the situation has been resolved." On the screen was a flash of a young cheetah's face, cut and bruised. One shockingly familiar. Cursing under her breath, Iron buried her fist in the drywall. The finest contemporary composer in the world- in the middle of nowhere, no less- had to run into a rapist and a murderer. Sick fuck probably made him watch, she thought. The she-wolf curled her hands into fists and stalked into the other room, delivering a vicious hook to the punching bag before her. Anger fogged the clarity of her thoughts. I'll be blamed for the slump, she silently hissed. WHAP. Brought into the public eye. WHAP. The project will go public. WHAP. Everything we've worked for, gone. WHAP. And the only music I like, ruined. Whiff. She looked around her. There was a crater in the floor four feet away, and the punching bag had toppled more equipment on the other side of the room. Above her, the broken chain swayed limply back and forth. Iron decided to head for the bathroom again, this time with the stereo on. A piece called The Devil's Den was the first to play, composed by the youth at the center of all the trouble; a classical quartet accompanied by a twelve-string guitar. It was at once both clever and daring, allegro but with a syncopated beat. The tango-tap rhythm brought memories flooding back of John. Sweet, simple Johnny... lost to reverie. Johnny was tall and handsome, an alpha-wolf like her. His dirt-brown fur hid the flecks of mud only from a distance, and was that was closed his dusty jeans and worn boots told a tale. Of a hard worker, a ranch hand hired out of necessity and kept out of admiration. He would joke about her domineering moods, the sheer fury of her soul. He loved it; he loved her. And she loved him. Death has a way of screwing things up. ---2 weeks following.--- "Dr. Pakitska," a voice sounded from the intercom. "Anton, it's me. It's Barry. C'mon, let me in." The cheetah swung an arm over the side of the bed and hit the buzzer, letting Barry through. A rapid storm of footsteps brought him to the apartment, and shortly thereafter inside. A doberman in a business suit yanked the covers off the bed. The felid retaliated by covering his chilled rear with a pillow. "How long will you cower like this?" Barry pleaded, throwing the curtains back to let in the afternoon sun. "You can't keep it up forever!" He grabbed Anton's wrist and pulled him to his feet, bare against the thick carpet. Ignoring his friend's nudity, Barry ushered him into the shower, turning the water on full blast. The chill elicited a jolt from the cat at first, but as it quickly warmed up, so did the spotted composer. Eyes widened, blood began to flow, and thoughts cleared with remarkable celerity. Once again was the sharp mind of ingenuity, whose thoughts toyed with the essence of sound as easily as a child with his toys. Mathematical insight, rhythm, harmony and disharmony, all at his grasp... but without soul. This was the pattern of recent weeks, and he quickly began to sink into that morose state once more. Barry slapped him. "What was that for?" asked Anton, his voice indignant. "Snap out of it!" Barry barked at him, the cuffs of his shirt already soaked. "There's a world out there that needs you!" His tone turned to plea, his expression of both anguish and worry. "You're like nothing I've ever seen... _ I need you." The doberman stood there in the water, letting it pelt the side of his muzzle as he stared deep into those golden eyes and opened his soul. Anton broke; the two embraced and the feline let his knees buckle, breaking into a heavy sob in the arms of the one person he trusted. What happened next, could've been out of the blue or right in front of them both... but it happened. They kissed. [668] Anton's back hit the tile, Barry pressing him to it. Tongues lashed each other with furious passion, hands roving each others' body as something new. Barry took the initiative to take a hold of his partner's hips, and nip and lick his way down to the hardened member, dragging his tongue across the mildly barbed organ; Anton's breath shallowed, and he threw his head back into the stream of hot water. The feelings racing across his nerves sent his heart aflutter and his brain ablaze. Soon enough, he sank to sit against the wall, both hands on the back of the doberman's head. Barry pulled his lips across the shaft and sucked hard on the head, sending the cheetah into a renewed fit of panting moans and pleasured spasms. [669] Anton rolled over on the bed, chest still heaving. "I.. can't believe... I just did that..." he panted, staring hazily at the ceiling. Barry groaned in reply, "I can't believe I just did that... with _you." The cheetah looked at him, half-serious. "And what's that supposed to mean?" His manager smiled, though seeming a little grim. "Sex destroys friendships. You know it, I know it, everyone knows it," he sighed. "Damn it, you're my best friend. I don't want to lose you." There was a pause. "And thanks to you I won't be able to walk right for a week..." "Hell, I never knew you liked guys," Anton countered. Barry shot a look at him. "I don't." Anton blinked and smiled. "So if two straight guys do have sex, what does that mean?" Barry rolled his eyes and smacked a palm right down on the composer's snout. "Buddy... shut up." They were going to be just fine. --- Iron was easing onto the gas pedal, cruising the streets with a keen, trained eye. However, everyone has their limit. A jacketed figure appeared from the darkness and crashed into her hood, thrown off as she slammed on the brakes. She stepped out to see who'd she'd hit. The profanities balanced on the tip of her tongue let loose when it turned out to be none other than the danger-prone cheetah. Such a string of expletives had not yet been heard by anyone, conscious or otherwise. With a breathing ragdoll in the passenger seat, the engine roared again. It was a short trip and an immediate decision to bring the young man home and deposit him on her couch. Anton woke this time to a bottle of vodka up against his nose- nothing warms the senses as alcohol does, in such a case. Not asking questions, he took it and gulped away at the volatile liquid until whoever it was taken from him. His brain fuzzily recognized "This is going to sting," but the rest was noise. It remained noise until somebody poured the high-proof liquor on his scraped-up shoulder. A piece of metal made its exit, and soon, with it went his consciousness. He would wake up clearer, but drunk. A familiar face was the first sight to greet him. "You ran me over," he rasped. "Didn't you?" She merely huffed. "I wanted to apologize, after all you've been through..." she told him, ignoring the pleasant smells whispering across her nerves. "...but I'm starting to rethink that." Anton looked at Iron and smiled defiantly. "Please, do so. I can't stand people who wish to ingratiate themselves..." he replied, slathering on the arrogance. "But proper introductions are in order, I believe. I'm" "- a major pain in the ass. I know who you are," she hissed, hoisting him to his feet. "But the only name you're getting tonight is Iron." The youth grinned, placing his unbruised arm over hers. Pheromones assaulted her senses. "Tough. I like that. But tell me," he needled, licking his lips. "Is it just an act?" Grinning, he nipped at her nose. She dropped him. Defiantly, attempts were made to get back up- but when you suffer a major contusion to the thigh, it hampers your mobility... just a tad. Iron pulled him up again, this time making a point to slam her antagonist to the wall. "Listen you idiot savant," she growled. "I'm going to do you a favor... whether you want it or not." "Huh?" She kneed him in the hamstring, making his eyes snap wide with pain, gasping long enough for her to make her move. She plunged her tongue into his mouth, where it wrestled his and humped it into submission. A well-practiced grip held him in place and forced him to accept the osculation. It was the first sex she'd had in a while, and being angry sex, was all the more intense. She wanted it, and would have it by any means. One hand was freed to reach under clothing, caress the warm flesh beneath. She threw off her shirt and bra in a single swing, returning the motion to rip open the black oxford her partner was wearing. Buttons clattered to the floor as did various personal effects, leaving a trail of discarded clothing and items on the way to the bedroom. Naked as he limped backwards through the door, she shoved him back onto the bed. He could only watch as the jeans and panties fell from her curvy hips and shapely rump. Every inch of him rose to attention at the sight of her immodesty, and the pace of his heart quickened. She crawled over him, letting her hair fall in front of his face; it secluded the both of them in their own little world. Her powerful beauty and his cultivated handsomeness, there for a split second before she crawled onward. Her vulva drifted across his lips and its scent flooded his brain. Without another thought, his rough tongue dragged itself over her nether lips, slow and agonizingly ecstatic. It wasn't long before the attention intensified, causing her to break into pants, tongue lolling out as the tip of the feline's tongue made the gentlest push against her clitoris. His hands roved her firm buttocks, and he lapped deeper and deeper at her sensitive inner walls. It didn't take much to push Iron over the edge, and she let out a howling moan when the orgasm hit. Her fluids gushed out onto his face and chest, and she sank to lap them off. She traced a pattern down his chest with the tip of her tongue, and stopped to lick and nibble at the head of his sizeable shaft; one hand remained below at her still-quivering sex. Pushing him farther back, she leapt upon the cheetah with renewed vigor, eagerly rubbing the sopping-wet lips of her sex against the underside of his member, lubricating it nicely. She'd need it. With a predatory grin, her growling muzzle went up alongside his flushed cheek. He managed a panting moan, plaintive and submissive. She couldn't resist it. Squeezing the head past her nether lips was a challenge, but she would not stop until every last bit of the meat was firmly lodged within her. The words that left her mouth were not a request, but a statement: "I'm going to fuck you raw." Slamming herself down on the cock was almost painful. He was too big for her, but she dare not slow down now. The she-wolf began to grind her hips on the heavy shaft, inner walls spasming constantly. A heavy, pounding rhythm formed, and the pace was slowly picking up. She placed her hands on his shoulders and ground hard, moaning as she pleased. The light spines under the head of his cock were dragging across her womanhood, and driving her absolutely mad. The rolling of her hips became steady, but quick. The feline's eyes had begun to roll back, lost to the heat of the passion. A vicious left hook to his injured shoulder brought everything back into focus and a tear to his eye. Her tongue plucked it from his cheek, her jaws clamping onto his again in a forceful, demanding kiss. She raked her claws along his sides, undulating her spine and writhing as she rode him. The pace had dropped off, and began anew. Her rear snapped up and sank back down in a steady rhythm, graduating in force with every stroke. Growling in pleasure, her grip tightened and she dug in, bucking and grinding so exquisitely. Biting her lip, eyes aflutter, the fireworks in her skull were dazzling beyond belief. His palms rested on her firm thighs, chest heaving heavily, each breath nearing labored, every sound seemed forcefully pressed from his flesh. His heart thumped against his chest and stars danced in front of his eyes. Lightning shot from his spine to his fingertips. Her tongue lapped across his- and deeper- and made him draw a sharp breath to fill his aching chest. The tempo quickened, the moans turned to yips, and the fireworks in her head only got more intense. It felt good to be Alpha again, in control, taking what she wanted, and taking it by force. Claws extended, she dug them into her partner's sides, only serving to amplify the onslaught on his nerve endings. The bedframe creaked under the stress, the clock fell from the side table, and the noise from both partners picked up, the she-wolf seeking only to impale herself harder on the manhood claimed as hers. Moans had become yells, yips to howls and whispers to cries of pure pleasure. The vice-grip dragging on his cock was too much, seeking to milk him of all he had. The throbbing meat slamming at the limits of her pussy sent sparks flying around her brain with every thrust, and the thrashing came to a stop when she sent her hips crashing down and held them there as her peak rocked her body; in direct response, the throbbing member was already in the throes of blasting her insides with his seed. She screamed, slamming a bite down on his shoulder- and the orgasms intensified to blinding nirvana. Thick fluids oozed from her sex, and she held him there as long as she could. Anton was out cold, and Iron was content to keep him close that way. Drawing the sheets up over them both, she let out a sigh before resting her head on his chest. A new day to dawn, a new chance at life. END (...for now.)